Eyewitness Description: “David looked at the strange boy. His eyes were wide and fixed intently on the screen, and bis lips were moving unconsciously with the words. David felt queer. He knew now very strongly that he didn’t want to watch the film at all . . .”
Author: Philip Pullman (1946–) is the author of His Dark Materials (1995–2000), the biggest-selling and most controversial trilogy of modern times in which he has challenged Christian faith and attacked the constraints of dogmatism. Born in Norwich, but educated at Harlech and Exeter College, Oxford, Pullman says that he started telling stories as soon as he knew what they were and formed a lifelong fascination with the supernatural. He recalled recently, “I used to enjoy frightening myself and my friends with the tales I read and I liked making up stories about the tree in the woods we used to call the Hanging Tree. My friends and I would creep past it in the dark and shiver as we looked at the bare, sinister outline against the sky. I still enjoy ghost stories, even though I don’t think I believe in ghosts any more.” Pullman began writing while he was working as a teacher, but the popularity of his children’s titles such as Count Karlstein (1982), Frankenstein (1990) and the Sally Lockhart series of modern “penny dreadfuls”, followed by the phenomenal acclaim for his trilogy, has enabled him to devote himself entirely to the art of storytelling. “Video Nasty” is one of his few short stories, contemporary, unsettling and, as the title indicates, dealing with something very unpleasant.
It was a cold grey afternoon in November, and the three boys had Ibeen hanging around the shopping precinct since mid-morning. They’d had some chips at midday, and Kevin had nicked a couple of Mars bars from the newsagent’s, so they weren’t hungry. And until they were thrown out of Woolworth’s they weren’t cold either; but by half-past three they were cold and fed up, and almost wished they’d gone to school.
“How much longer we got to wait?” said David, the youngest boy, to Martin, the oldest.
Martin was fourteen, thin and dark and sharper than the other two by a long way. He looked at his watch. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Let’s go and see if it’s ready.”
He hunched himself inside his anorak and led the way out of the precinct and down one of the old streets that led towards the canal. The cold wind blew crisp packets and old newspapers around their ankles. The boys turned around two corners and stopped outside a little newsagent’s, where one of the windows was filled with a display of video cassettes.
“See if there’s anyone in there, Kev,” said Martin.
Kevin opened the door, which jangled loudly. The street was empty, apart from an abandoned Datsun without any wheels that stood in a scatter of broken glass half on and half off the pavement. After a few seconds Kevin came out and said, “’S okay.”
The other two went in. The place smelled like all newsagents – a bit chocolatey, a bit smokey, a bit like old comics. There was nothing unusual about it, but David felt his stomach tightening. He pretended to be unconcerned and picked up a paperback that said AQUARIUS: Your Horoscope For 1994. He didn’t know if he was Aquarius or what, but he had to look cool.
An old man had come out from the back. He was carrying a mug of tea, and sipped at it before he spoke.
“Yes, lads?” he said.
Martin went up to the counter. “You got that video in yet?” he said. “The one you told me about last week?”
The old man took another sip, and narrowed his eyes.
“What one’s that? I don’t remember you.”
“You said it’d be in today. Snuff Park. You told me about it.”
Recognition came into the old man’s eyes, and he smiled carefully.
“Course I remember,” he said. “You got to be careful, that’s all. Wait there.”
He put his mug on a shelf and shuffled out. Kevin’s frowning, short-sighted eyes flickered to the sweets, but Martin put his hand on his arm, and shook his head. No-one spoke.
After a minute the old man came back with a video cassette, which he put in a brown paper bag. Martin passed over the money; David put back his book and opened the jangling door.
“Bye, lads,” said the old man. “Enjoy the film.”
“Let’s have a look,” said Kevin, once they were outside.
Martin took out the cassette, but there was no picture. There was just a plain white label with “SNUFF PARK. 112 mins” typed in the centre.
“What’s mins?” said Kevin.
“Minutes, you berk. That’s how long it lasts,” said Martin, putting it back. “Come on, let’s get a cup of tea. I’m perished.”
“Can’t we go to your place?”
“Not yet. I told you. They ain’t going out till six. We got to hang about till then.”
As they walked past the abandoned Datsun, one of the doors creaked open. David jumped back out of the way. A thin boy of about his age, wearing torn jeans and trainers and a dirty anorak, was sitting in the driver’s seat, with his feet on the pavement. He said something quietly and Martin stopped.
“What?” he said.
“What cassette you got?” said the boy. His voice sounded like the sound your feet make in dry leaves.
“What you want to know for?” said Martin.
The boy shrugged. David thought he could smell him: sharp and dirty and somehow cold. Kevin had his hand on the car door.
“Snuff Park,” said Martin after a moment. “You seen it?”
The boy shrugged again, and said “Yeah”. He wasn’t looking at any of them, but down at the pavement. He scuffed the broken glass with one foot.
No-one else spoke, so Martin turned and walked off. The other two followed. David looked back at the boy in the car, but he hadn’t moved. Just before they turned the corner, he shut the car door.
In the cafeteria, Martin paid for three cups of tea and brought them to the table by the window where Kevin and David had found a place. David didn’t know where Martin got his money from; he assumed Martin’s parents gave it to him. He always seemed to have plenty, but he never boasted about stealing it, as Kevin would have done.
He stirred sugar into his tea and watched his reflection in the glass. It was nearly dark outside already.
“What’s it about, Snuff Park?” said Kevin. “Sounds crummy.”
“Well it ain’t,” said Martin. “It’s a real snuff movie.”
“What’s one of them?”
Martin sighed. “Tell him, Dave,” he said.
David felt a glow of pride at being called Dave.
“It’s where they kill someone,” he said. “Ain’t it, Martin?”
Martin nodded and sipped the hot tea.
“What d’you mean?” said Kevin. “I seen plenty of them.”
“No you ain’t,” said Martin. “They stopped ’em years back. You can’t get ’em no more. ‘Cept if you know how.”
“I seen all sorts,” said Kevin. “I seen Forest of Blood and Sawmill. You seen Sawmill?”
“That ain’t a snuff movie. You’re a berk, you are. This is real. There’s someone really killed on this. You see it being done. You ain’t never seen that.”
David again felt his stomach lift. He hoped desperately that he wouldn’t be sick in front of Martin when the time came. Even thinking about it . . .
“There’s that kid again,” said Kevin.
He pointed to the brightly-lit doorway of an electricity board showroom opposite. Sandwich-makers, microwave ovens, cookers, heaters, freezers, and in the doorway gazing in, the thin huddled figure from the car. As they looked he wandered away from there and stared through the window of the supermarket next door.