EIGHT
“Jesus!” Davis sat up in bed and pulled off his sweat soaked pyjama top. He wiped his brow with the sleeve and tossed it across the room. He instinctively checked his crotch as he always did after the nightmare, just to make sure he was clean. Davis managed the slightest of laughs at the insanity of it all but still raised a hand to his throat all the same, no bruising.
Of course not he chastised himself and then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes with the balls of his hands and just sat there on the bed to collect his thoughts and regulate his heartbeat that was still hammering ten to the dozen in his chest.
He glanced at the bedside clock; 04:15 it was still the middle of the night and despite how dog tired he felt (he’d only gone to bed at a little after one thirty). Davis knew he wouldn’t get another wink of sleep. Not now that Mister Minx was running around in his subconscious again.
Mister Minx. Davis padded over to the table where his lap top was and slumped down in the chair he hit a key to knock it off its sleep mode. It he couldn’t sleep, then why the hell should it? A grainy web cam image flickered into life on the screen. It was a security camera shot of Mister Minx’s crate, still safely shut away in an anonymous storage unit, where they kept the bastard in between shows.
Davis studied the image just to make sure the crate’s lid was still secure, then he hit a key and the picture switched to the warehouse’s security room to show the two security guards stationed there. Davis always insisted on two, just in case Minx managed to get into the head of one, then the other had (unofficial) orders to shoot his unfortunate possessed colleague in the face if needs be.
Not that once he was asleep and shut away, Minx had any chance of escape, but still it made Davis sleep a little better, most nights anyway. And it certainly helped to focus the minds of the guards who drew the short straw that night.
Davis felt every second of his fifty seven years tonight weighing down heavily on his sagging shoulders. He flicked the image back to Minx’s crate. The star of the show, he thought bitterly. A brief stab of memory hit him like an ice pick just behind his eyes. Minx, its face an inch from his, breathing filth into his lungs as he gasped under its deceptive weight.
“What the hell am I doing?” He said out loud. Surely it was time to cut his losses he told himself. Escape to somewhere far away and warm. After all he had all but repaid his debts, monetarily at least.
It was a nice fantasy, but deep down Davis knew that the one thing he could never escape was his own nature. He was greedy, plain and simple. It was a vice that had gotten him into the mess his life had been, but conversely it had also got him to where he was today. Still living a gypsy lifestyle, hopping from one hotel to the next, but these days the room rate had gone from the tens to the high hundreds.
Still in the entertainment business, of sorts. After all, who but perhaps the greatest entrepreneur in the world could turn the tool of his near destruction, into his greatest asset?
Still, he had to concede to himself logic dictated that despite all of his new found success of late. The best thing Michael Davis could do to preserve his life and sanity, if not his bank balance, was to go down to the warehouse were Mister Minx’s crate was safely stored away and put a bullet into its misbegotten brain whilst it slept.
To end its unnatural existence once and for all. Only then could he truly be free, of his past and those crimes he had committed against the countless innocents that lay hidden there. Either that or blow his own brains out. There were times when either option seemed very appealing.
He did his best to shake off that melancholy notion, and as much to take his mind off the nightmare he opened up a file on his lap top and the next contestant (victim, really) of demon time’s dossier came up on screen. It was quite the tale of woe, this Father Ross’ decent into addiction and estrangement from the church. And Davis could only imagine what horrors the demon would create out of that history to taunt and torture the poor bastard come show night.
A show night that promised to be the biggest yet. Only twenty four hours after the new date had been announced, sales had already surpassed the previous best figure by some way and they were rising all the time. Davis logged on to the site and his mood lightened yet further as the latest total came up on screen just over seventy thousand subscribers to the show and still a couple of weeks to go, then on top of that you could add the highlight show subscriptions and lotto ticket sales.
The bank on show five already had the potential to set Davis up for life. That of coursed begged the question. Should this be the last show? Should he take the money and run, end Minx’s miserable existence?
That would be the sensible thing to do, pay off the last of his debts and start life again anew somewhere warm and demon free.
Davis laughed at the notion and set the laptop back to sleep mode. He rose and went over to the large patio doors at the other end of the hotel suite, he slid the door open and shivered as the balmy night air hit his naked top half raising goose flesh on his skin. Outside, the beautiful city centre of Geneva slept peacefully on below him.
Yes Michael Davis thought to himself. That would be the sensible thing to do. Which only meant one thing. He would, as always, do the exact opposite.