Primitive: All Tied Up With String #5 Read online

  Primitive

  All Tied Up With String #5

  By

  Stuart Keane

  Copyright © Stuart Keane 2017

  Published: 26 June, 2017

  Publisher: Stuart Keane

  The right of Stuart Keane to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  All Tied Up With String #5 – Primitive is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information about the author, please visit www.stuartkeane.com

  Nev Murray – Come On Down

  In Yo-Yo, the previous entry in the ATUWS series, I confirmed that I had written the zaniest story in the collection so far. It only took the next story to render that a thing of the past.

  I mentioned that we had more to come. Therefore, I give you – Primitive.

  But first, a little background.

  When I conceptualised the All Tied Up With String series, I knew one or two of the proposed stories might present a stiff challenge. From the outset, when Nev detailed his requirements, I knew Primitive would be the unique specimen, the story that would need me to go outside the box and create something magical. Sure, Yo-Yo was fun to create, and I like to think all of my short stories have helped me develop as a writer, but how does a horror author write a horror story – an interesting one at that – about Turkey Dinosaurs?

  With much trepidation, is the answer.

  The simple route would have been easy; food poisoning, or something along those lines, but I’m not a simple author. Food poisoning is simply commonplace; to use this in a horror story … scratch that, to use this in such a unique horror story, would be a total cop-out, a waste of a great opportunity. From the outset, I wanted to make Primitive stand out – Nev Murray, the man and horror reviewer, gave me a superb opportunity to create something different, and I wanted to live up to this premise. Thus, after much reading and doubt, Primitive was slowly born.

  To say much else about the plot would be encroaching on major spoiler territory, but needless to say, this story required some heavy research and some severe tweaking to get right. It’s also the first story where I have used the interesting premise of an alternate reality. I have a slight obsession with this horror trope – and more titles will feature this in the distant future – but Primitive allowed me to utilise this in a very specific way. As a result, the story became unique, very quickly.

  Which is apt, considering the contributor.

  To my recollection, I first met Nev Murray in 2016 during a convention, but this was more than a simple author-reader interaction. This meeting was preceded and weighted by months of admiration and shock (the latter on my part) that Mr Murray had read and adored Grin, a previous title of mine, and my bestselling novel to date. Whilst reading Grin, Nev had consumed his favourite meal of Turkey Dinosaurs, chips and beans.

  Now, for those who don’t know – some vital context. Turkey Dinosaurs are a dinosaur-shaped turkey product smothered in breadcrumbs that continues to thrive in the increasing junk food culture of the UK. Nev cites them as his favourite food, and I’m a huge fan of the product myself. Let’s just say that this side of the research was … fuck it, there was no effort involved. Yum!

  Anyway, reading the content of Grin actually put Nev off his favourite food. For a while, anyway. Aside from a huge smile at this news, I was a little surprised too. I’ve received a lot of generous feedback on Grin, but none that tickled me so pink. This soon led to much communication and banter between Nev and me, conversation that continues to this very day.

  On meeting him in 2016, I had a perception that this man was welcomed amongst his many peers, a valued reviewer, and a true legend in the horror community. Not only was I proved to be correct on each count, thus increasing the mild unease about being in his presence, but I found out he was a great guy to boot. Now, I’m proud to call him a colleague and a friend. To write a story for him was a true pleasure, and to feature his favourite foodstuff … well, it only added to the creativity.

  Nev, this story is for you. I hope I did the topic justice. Just a word of warning; you might want to avoid eating Turkey Dinosaurs while reading this one…

  Primitive

  Subject: Turkey Dinosaurs

  Turkey Dinosaurs: a fun, fast and fabulously delicious treat … but scary as hell with an imagination like mine!

  – Nev Murray

  We are using the same water that the dinosaurs drank, and this same water has to make ice creams in Pasadena and the morning frost in Paris.

  - Rose George

  “I’m reporting live, from outside Wembley Stadium, and I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s absolute pandemonium here. I can hardly hear you back in the studio. People are running in all directions, screaming. Mass hysteria is consuming the ninety-thousand-strong crowd that packed into Wembley Park to see the Emirates Cup Final.”

  “What’s happening down there, Bethany?”

  “I … I have no idea … Jesus … what the hell was…”

  “Bethany? Bethany? I do apologise, I think we lost our live feed. We’ll try to stay with this breaking news.”

  *****

  The navy Brooks Brothers suit was crisp, lightweight, and suitably perfect for any occasion. The man felt a deep surge of confidence warm his insides, one that ushered a smirk onto his clean-shaven face, and he glanced down at his front, imagining what lay beneath the immaculate white Ralph Lauren shirt. He remembered the morning reflection of his barrelled chest and washboard stomach.

  Impressive. Especially for a man on the precipice of fifty.

  He brushed at the fabric with a weathered hand and swiped away nothing at all. Once, his midriff had bulged with a stubborn paunch, excess weight obtained through his love of Guinness and other sub-par delicacies. The man chuckled to himself.

  Delicacies.

  I knew nothing back then.

  Nothing at all.

  The waiting room was comfortably silent. A semi-circular reception desk adorned the left side, while the right wall consisted of one curved sheet of glass, floor to ceiling. Three precise rows of immaculate seats sat in the middle, surrounded by plush grey carpet and overlooked by a large balcony with no visible access point. Aside from the glass, the tall, spacious area was structured entirely from sleek metal. Greys and blacks merged effortlessly to create a look of unparalleled professionalism and bottomless wealth.

  He looked right and observed the private jets and luggage carriers outside, going about their unending work on a sleek cream airstrip, their noise imperceptible to the human ear. Several people milled around; those he believed to be staff members. No one wore a suit or carried a briefcase. He studied the glass, marvelling at its grand presence and unique sound barrier, one that bathed the seating area with dazzling sunshine and warm reticence. He inhaled deeply, drawing a look of curiosity from the receptionist off to the left, and sighed.

  He could smel
l the heat. The summer. Brilliance.

  The dry smell of success.

  For a tenth of a second, an electronic blip broke his patient musing. He lifted his head, knowing it was his cue. After all, he was the only person sitting on this side of the reception desk. He brushed his chest again, and tapped the top of his briefcase.

  The receptionist looked over. “Mr Murray? Mr Banks will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  Murray rose to his feet, buttoned his suit jacket, and walked to the black double doors hidden beneath the balcony.

  The receptionist didn’t watch him go.

  Murray paused, opened the left door, and ambled into the vast office beyond.

  “Mr Murray. It’s been too long.”

  It’s only been six weeks. “Yes, we should do this more often,” he replied, with absolutely no intention of fulfilling his suggestion. He eased the door shut behind him. “How have you been, Richard?”

  The grand leather chair behind an overly long mahogany desk swivelled, and Richard Banks appeared. Despite bearing witness to this theatre on numerous occasions, the slow movement and subsequent reveal always sent a chill down Murray’s spine. He forced a wide smile, pushing all thoughts of Mafia crime bosses and the Corleone family, and everything that came from such deadly association, from his overactive imagination.

  Richard, almost buried in the leather chair that supported his tiny frame, smiled. “No matter how many times I do this, people still seem freaked out.”

  “It’s impressive,” Murray interjected. “It speaks to your power.”

  “So … what brings you back to Africa after a mere matter of weeks?”

  Murray swallowed. He sidled to the desk, never removing his eyes from his business partner, and lowered into a diminutive leather chair, one dwarfed in every category by its opposite number. It squeaked and wobbled as he balanced and lowered his weight into it. Richard interlaced his fingers, placed his elbows on the desk, and waited.

  “You said … once, before, in another meeting, that if I wanted … needed to go to the next level on our agreement, that I have that option.” He paused and wiped the sweat from his brow. Once you’re there, that’s it. No going back.

  Richard nodded. “Straight to business, huh? I like it. Please, go on.”

  Murray swallowed and continued, “I wish to go to the next level.”

  “You know what this means?”

  Murray nodded. “I do. Yes.”

  “Another fifteen percent of your profits. A minimum ten-year contract. And you have to sign a waiver of absolute secrecy. After all, only three people in the entire world know of the … shall we say, exclusive side of my business.”

  “I understand.”

  Richard smiled, his lips pulling back over exquisite porcelain veneers. In the subtle light of the luxurious office, their hypnotic glow seemed almost magical. Images of Count Dracula flickered across Murray’s vision. He blinked, his gaze returning to the steady eyes of his business partner … and soon-to-be part-owner in all things financial.

  Richard leaned back, pushed on the arms of his chair and stood up. “I was hoping you’d come to me. Your success has been extraordinary in your field, a miracle of sorts in business terms, and totally unparalleled. I prepared for this eventuality on that basis, and when you booked this meeting, I knew why you were coming. I didn’t become a billionaire by lacking observation and missing the obvious.” He walked away from his desk, stepped to a beautiful shelving unit, and opened a small black cupboard. A jaundiced light bathed the man’s suit, and a plume of white mist rose around him. He closed the unit and returned.

  Richard placed a small black box on the desk. He gestured to it with an open palm. “A sample.”

  “Really?”

  “Before you sign any paperwork, you should try the merchandise.”

  Murray leaned forward, placed his fingers on the lid of the metal box, and waited. Now or never. You haven’t signed anything yet.

  Richard chuckled. “Go on, it won’t bite. Not anymore.”

  With trembling fingers, he lifted the lid and whistled.

  Two glistening slices of white meat battered in golden breadcrumbs sat on a tiny, red velvet cushion. Murray felt himself salivating. The succulent smell rose to his nostrils and consumed him. Richard certainly knew how to impress a business partner.

  Murray narrowed his eyes. “Turkey?”

  “That would be telling, but we’ll get to that. All in good time,” Richard replied. Murray stared at the meat for a moment longer. Richard continued, “For a man like yourself, I assume these are to your liking?”

  Murray lifted a slice, studied it, and placed it gently on his tongue. The crumbs brushed his lips, lacing them with a fine golden dust. His teeth bore down, chewing into the chilled meat with delight. It melted in his mouth. The savoury taste was sublime, phenomenal. His eyes closed as he was immediately transported back to his childhood, upon the first taste of such a glorious food. He knew, as hindsight had a way of revealing, that the foods he ate as a child were processed, disgusting in ilk, and events had transpired since then that had changed his outlook on the simplicity of his former life, but the memory was still fresh, vivid and nostalgic.

  The taste was unique. It conjured fond memories.

  The sign of a promising career move.

  He swallowed. Backed away, not wanting to ruin this special moment with a second bite. This unique product was miles away from his current fare. Richard’s turkey was the best in the world, only the first level of their agreement, but this? He wanted it … no, he needed it. The next level would turn him into a millionaire overnight. Imaginary pound signs bounced before his excited mind’s eye. Richard waited.

  “Where do I sign?” Murray asked.

  “Not so fast. As only the fourth person to take such a venture with me, you need to see the entire package first. Follow me.”

  *****

  “Today, our final story centres on Castletown Primary School in the north of England. A new craze has hit the supermarket shelves, and schools are lining up to take advantage. Parents can’t get enough of it, either. Healthy junk food for children? Social media are calling it ‘hunk food’. You have to see this to believe it. Hash-tag hunkfood for more information.”

  Bethany shook her head. The red light on the camera disappeared as she gestured ‘cut’ with a slicing palm. Her bony fingers thrust into her brown hair, and pulled the lustrous tresses hard against her scalp. She tossed her script to the floor and groaned. “This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t news.”

  Matthew sighed. “Game face, Bethany. We have some kids to interview. It’ll all be over with soon.”

  Bethany turned and glanced at the children on the playground. Covered her ears at the persistent screaming, the wailing. Several boys chased one another across the battered asphalt, mimicking whichever film their undutiful parents had let them watch. A small group sat alone and played with their mobile phones. Others kicked a football on a small field in the background. A girl spun, fell onto her knees and started crying. Bethany saw her playground years relived in the adolescence of today, and closed her eyes, forcing the memories from her mind. She chuckled and toked on a cigarette. “Fucking kids. Why would anyone put their body through that?”

  Matthew steadied the camera on his lap. “This coming from the person who has a cancer stick between her lips. I’m sure there’s some irony in that. Besides, it’s their choice.”

  “After seeing some of these disgusting sprogs, they should have their choices revoked.”

  Matthew chuckled. “Harsh. Also, you can’t smoke here. It’s a school.”

  “If people can use the word hunk in association with a child’s dietary requirements, then I can smoke a fucking cigarette. There are no rules anymore. Society is nothing but a cowering thunder dome full of pussies. It’s my choice.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Matthew and Bethany grimaced and stared at the running, sp
rawling children, their innocence abundant, their energy unrivalled. The mesh fence that lined the playground strobed the movement of its inhabitants, and added a little flair to the proceedings. The screams and joyous shouts floated on the air and pierced at Bethany’s eardrums. She dropped her unfinished cigarette and stamped it out. “Let’s get this over with.”

  *****

  Murray followed Richard down a long, winding hallway. Black-framed plaques and business awards lined the pristine white walls on either side. It took immeasurable willpower to continue the walk, to not be distracted by the impressive collection of accolades. Murray couldn’t be certain, but he could feel the gradual slope and decline of the floor beneath his feet, as if they were heading to an underground location.

  After a moment, they arrived at a large steel door with a platinum safe handle. Two muscular security guards armed with H&K MP5 submachine guns flanked it. Neither broke their infinite gaze as Richard opened a slim drawer in the wall. Murray swallowed. He didn’t like this.

  Richard held out a steel clipboard with one sheet of paper on it. “Your waiver, as discussed. Also, I need Bill and Ben here to pat you down. No recording devices, no wires. I trust you understand.”

  Murray chuckled. “Bill and Ben?”

  “Aliases, Mr Murray. I cover all eventualities. I care for my employees; these people keep my business running, thriving, and they are treated with absolute respect, even if I have a little harmless fun at their expense. Now, I need you to sign. Please.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Richard. You don’t need to search me.”

  Richard eyed Murray with disdain, just as the guards looked in his direction. “I pay these guys a hundred grand a year to stand here and do nothing but watch this door. This door alone cost me fifty-six thousand pounds. What lies behind it … this is my business secret; it goes beyond any law and treaty, and will certainly see me ruined, blacklisted and facing jail time should it leak in any manner. You’re right, I’m a billionaire, I have nothing to worry about, but I’ll be the sole judge of that. And I certainly won’t take a stupid risk at the expense of my business. So … Mr Murray, please, put your fucking arms up.”