Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection

by Craig Saunders

  For some reason the man finds this sad, and a tear trickles down his face. One solitary tear, although if it is of fear or loneliness, sadness or pain, the man cannot tell. He cannot taste his tear to know which feeling it expresses, if it is bitter or sweet. It rolls alone down his face, until it reaches his chin. He does not know where it goes from there. His tear is lost, and he is in pain again.

  It starts in the centre of his head, and courses through his body, stopping off at his lip, which he has bitten through. Taking stock as the pain slices through him, he counts his injuries again. He finds it helps to pass the time. His lip is torn, the pain tells him, like a messenger. His arms are broken, although, he thinks, not as badly as his thigh, where he knows, but cannot see, there is a sneaky bone trying to escape the carnage of his body. The pain traverses up his frame, and finds his chest is crushed, concertinaed like the bonnet of the car, the ribs pushing painfully on his lungs, or perhaps piercing them if he is unlucky.

  When the pain finally reaches the summit of his head, lights explode. This light is purely white, and flashes just once. It leaves an after image upon his retinas, and for a moment he can see nothing at all.

  *

  Staring at the sun, the man blinks and looks away. For a moment he can see nothing, just a dot at the centre of his vision. He blinks and rubs his eyes, and the sights return, from the outside into the centre at last. A blanket, a disposable barbeque, people all around and as the vision of the sun finally fades he sees what he has been looking for all along.

  Dana, sitting cross legged on the blanket. She wears a bikini like a second skin, flesh exposed in just the right amounts, but not a thong. Nobody on this coast wears a thong. It is too risqué, more out of place than topless sunbathing. But Dana never sunbathes, she just reads. She is reading a novel now, as the man watches her while she is unaware of his attention. It is a woman’s novel, full of love and spliced relationships, which is the only way the man can understand it. He reads science fiction to the exclusion of all else, and cannot fathom any other stories. All the relationships in such novels seem to be incestuous, or scandalous. But still he inquires as to how the protagonists of her novel are faring. He wants to seem interested, as she is in his novels. Even though to her his novels are flighty, and full of fluff. Neither understands the others novels, but the man just finds this one more reason to love each other. They are like jigsaw pieces. For all their bumps and crevasses, their mounds and valleys, they fit perfectly to make a whole, a completed picture, or a field flat and perfect like the English countryside, a quilt of complementary colours.

  He looks at her in the sunlight, and she suddenly obscured by smoke.

  The sausages on the barbeque are on fire. He twists his gaze away and rushes to take them off. He burns his fingers, and is reminded of the pain.

  *

  A tingling in his fingers reminds him of where he is, and how he got there. He can feel his right arm, crushed between the door and the steering wheel. He wishes he could not feel it. Pins and needles make him cry out in pain, it is worse than the other pain, that which comes in waves. It is unrelenting, ferocious.

  A muttering comes from a man to his right. He tries to turn his head to look, but that sets of blinding lights in his head and a terrible grinding in his neck. He rolls his eyes instead. That, he can do.

  There is a man beside him, outside the window. This window, too, is shattered. Crazy towers of glass still stand tall in the window frame, the door, and water runs down them like a waterfall. As he watches, two pieces break away as the weight of water defeats their resolve, and tumble onto his right arm. He believes they should make a sound, a plink would be fitting for glass, but this is more of a tush, as they brush the soft fabric of the jacket he is wearing.

  Dragging his gaze back he sees that the man to his right is mouthing something to him. There is no sound but the rushing of the rain. He wants to tell the man that he is alright. He feels that he should be telling him something else, but he cannot remember what it is that he should be saying. There is something at the back of his mind, where the pain does not explode, but it is shrouded in a dim fog, tendrils of mist clutching as tightly as they can, unwilling to let it come into the light. Instead of these words that cannot break free, the man groans, and feels the (fireman, he realises) touch him lightly on the shoulder.

  A vast machine is brought forth from the murk of the rain, and rests heavily against the frame of the door. Perhaps this is some new kind of torture. It has a gapping maw, and looks like a beast from some fantasy film, realised in metal and shining plastic. Maybe it is a time machine, that makes him recall his life with bolts of time flooding his brain while he sits unmoving and racked with pain.

  Sparks fly, and he blinks.

  *

  A sparkler in his hand, curving on the air in elliptical circles, then making the name Dana in the darkness.

  Dana laughs in delight as her own sparkler dies without a sputter, like the sun when a cloud passes between it and the eye.

  The man’s hand still waves it, but he sees that Dana wants closeness now, to feel his arms around her. He puts the sparkler to one side, dousing it in earth, and takes her in his arms. She is warm, the evening is cold. It is November. Fireworks bang in the sky above, showering them with sparkles of multicoloured lights. There is no sound in this dream, but feelings abound. He feels an overwhelming sense that he wants to protect this woman, and for her to be proud of him. No matter the chill of the night, with her in his arms, her tight beautiful body to clutch close lest she flit away, he will be warm. If he can make her proud, she will never leave.

  He strives to make her proud this night. Her friends surround her, and he wants them to know that he loves her with all his heart. Stolen glances, fleeting kisses, all add up to love. He knows that her friends are warming to him. She smiles as she breaks away from the embrace, and sound returns, a massive explosion from overhead. He looks away from her for a moment, into the suddenly bright sky, and sees a firework falling from the sky, turned into ethereal light and dying next to the moon’s china glow.

  In that instant, he misses the sight of her. He draws his gaze away from the sky, and looks back down.

  *

  Sound returns clearly and there is the wrenching sound of tearing metal. He remembers what he must say, and through bloody lips mumbles to the man whose head is beside him, doing something to his ruined body.

  Is this his life, flashing before his eyes?

  They were so close. So much love in his life, and he held onto it as they cut away the leg of his soaked trousers, and gentle hands lifted him from the car. There was some kind of brace, holding his swaying head rigid.

  For some reason he found an overwhelming urge to look to the left.

  Lift her out first. Why hadn’t they lifted her out first?

  No more flashes came. The rain pounded on his face, and his breath laboured to reach his lungs. Pain was intense as it ran sprints up and down his body.

  Words would not come. Everyone looked at him with kindness in their eyes.

  Finally, before the memory could take him again, before he was swallowed with recollection, he fought the darkness, and formed the words on his torn lips.

  'Bring my wife out,' he said. 'She’s in the car. Bring her out first.'

  A sad smile, no doubt meant for comfort, was his only answer. Soft consolations washed away in the rain.

  Then he fell to memory, and all he knew was pain.

  *

  I dwell, sometimes, on the inner workings of a marriage. Many of my earlier stories are either studies in that, or insanity. This one's a bit of both.

  Love is Like That

  George shut the door, careful not to slam it, which Mary always chided him about when she had one of her heads. She always had one of her heads these days.

  Quietly, as if afraid of waking a bear, he put his keys down on the table beside the door.

  He needn’t have worried.

  'Hi honey,'


  'Hi babe, I’m home,' he called out, somewhat redundantly. She sounded like she was in the kitchen. She was always in the kitchen when he came home. He liked it. It made the house feel somehow homely, him coming in from work and calling out that he was home, pointlessly, as she always heard him closing the front door, no matter how quietly he did it, her sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him.

  She never had dinner ready, but then nobody is perfect. He didn’t mind cooking dinner. She was always grateful, and he had always been the better cook.

  Walking through the house, touching objects as he went – he didn’t like to leave his hands free, so he touched furniture as he walked through the house – the Welsh dresser, with Mary’s collection of crockery (never used), the large mirror in which he checked the straightness of his tie (after Mary had checked it) and where there was no furniture or hangings he made do with doorframes.

  His favourite part of the day was when he turned the corner of the last door, and Mary was sitting there, looking at him expectantly. Then he didn’t need to touch things anymore. It made him feel safe. He knew it was just anxiety, and that she was his anchor, stopping him from working himself into a state, floating on stormy seas, but it didn’t matter. She was there, he felt safe. It was all he needed to know.

  He smiled at her and kissed her on the cheek.

  'How was your day, then? Tell me all about it.'

  'How’s your head?'

  'Fine, darling. I’m having a good day today.'

  'That’s good. Shall I put the kettle on?'

  'That would be nice. Now tell me about your day.'

  'OK, but I don’t want you to get too excited,' George said, as he filled the kettle from the sink tap, watching the level. It wouldn’t do to get water over the edge. He was always worried about excess water leaking into the electrics and shorting out a fuse. It was summer now, but Mary always hated it in the winter when the power went out. George had to admit, too, that since they had moved to their new house he was a little afraid of the dark. There were no street lights, and he’d put up motion sensitive lights around the house, but when there was a power cut it was pitch black. It played his anxiety up and that made Mary nervous. No, careful in all things, George would not short the electrics, even if it was a glorious summer evening.

  Mary just smiled at him. 'I’m not some Victorian lady, you know, prone to fainting at the drop of a hat.'

  'Well, it’s exciting news.'

  'Now you’ve built it up it had better be good.'

  The kettle was bubbling gently in the background, and the birds were singing in the trees outside, the leafy trees protecting them from the intrusive stares of their neighbours with their summer growth. In the winter they would have to pull the blinds. George didn’t like the thought of people looking into the house. He liked his privacy when he was at home. Sometimes he liked to sit at the kitchen table in his pyjamas, and he didn’t want the neighbours to think he was a slob.

  'It is good news. Are you ready for it?'

  'Oh, George, just spit it out would you?' said Mary, playfully. He could tell she wasn’t really annoyed. She only got angry when she had one of her heads, and he had known as soon as he got home that she was having a good day today.

  'Alright, Alright, I’m just building up to it, you know, like a verbal fanfare.'

  'Consider the fanfare redundant, sweetheart. Now tell me, before I kick you in the shin.'

  George laughed. He knew he could rely on Mary to make him feel light.

  'I got promoted today!'

  'Oh, George, that’s wonderful news!' exclaimed Mary. 'Come and give me a celebratory kiss.'

  'Now Mary, I don’t know if you’ve got the clearance necessary to kiss the Head of Appropriations.'

  'Give me a kiss or suffer my wrath!'

  George laughed again. He liked the sound of it. It was a mover’s laugh, an easy laugh, confident and ripe.

  He kissed her on the lips, wrapping his arms around her. Eventually, when he broke away, she said, 'Somehow I feel special, being kissed by such a powerful man.'

  'Now, Mary, don’t let it go to your head. It’s not like I’m a VP yet. I don’t get a company car or anything, but I do get to travel more, and they give me a car allowance. I’m thinking I might buy a new car anyway.'

  'Oh, George, that would be wonderful. If we get a new car, perhaps you could take me away.'

  'Now, darling, you know travelling brings on one of your heads.'

  'But I’d so love to see the coast.'

  'Well, we’ll think about it.' The kettle had boiled. 'For now, let’s have a cup of tea to celebrate.'

  'Can’t we stretch to champagne?'

  'Well, a cup of tea first, I’m gasping, then maybe I might just have brought something home with me for a special night.'

  'You didn’t!!'

  'I did! I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so I left it in the porch. I’ll put it in the fridge in a minute. We can have a little tipple after dinner.'

  'You rogue! You’ve been stringing me along ever since you got home.'

  'I’m entitled to a bit of drama now and then, aren’t I?'

  Mary just laughed. 'I suppose you are, my handsome man. I’m so proud of you, George. You’ve really worked hard for this. It’s somehow made all the late nights, all those sleepless nights, worth it. It must be nice to be rewarded.'

  'I do feel like I deserve it. I don’t want to sound too big headed though.'

  'You don’t sound big headed at all. You sound like a man who’s proud of their achievement. You’re worth it, darling.'

  'My, Mary, well thank you for saying so,' said George, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. His contented pose.

  'Don’t go getting comfortable. You’re still making the tea.'

  'Alright, woman, let me gloat a little.' He sighed.

  Mary was silent for a minute.

  'Gloat over. Now, tea.'

  George grumbled good-naturedly and got up, his knees cracking. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. He’d spent the best part of his early years chasing promotion within the company. He was comfortable there. He would never risk trying for a new job, not with his anxiety. Instead of moving on to newer pastures, and perhaps making more money, he had scrimped and saved during the lean years, and made do. Now he could afford a new cooker, a new fridge. Maybe some air conditioning to keep the heat away during the summer months. A new television would be nice. One of those flat screen things wouldn’t be too far of a stretch when he got his bonus. Perhaps one that hung from the wall.

  He made the tea while Mary waited, and thought about dinner. There were steaks in the fridge. He didn’t know if steak went with champagne. He was more used to eating nibbles at work do’s than having champagne with meals. He didn’t think it would matter. Mary would think she was the queen, getting champagne with her meal. It would be good enough.

  He put the tea down on the table in front of Mary, for which she thanked him.

  'I’m just going out to the porch to get the champagne. I’ll get it chilled and we can have some with dinner.'

  'Oh, are we posh? That’ll be lovely.'

  'Won’t be a minute.'

  George walked to the porch. He felt better now. The anxiety had faded, and he didn’t feel the need to be in touch with everything as he passed. It wasn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t lose the house if he didn’t touch it. Everything was going to be fine. He would have enough money, Mary was with him, and they were alone together. Nobody would come round and spoil it for him. Just the two of them. It was perfect.

  He shut the door quietly, champagne in hand, and returned the kitchen, hands resolutely away from the walls and the furniture. He saw marks there, where his hands had touched them before. Dust lay on top of the Welsh Dresser, and covered the face of the mirror. Mary hadn’t been doing the cleaning lately. He would have to do it himself. But he didn’t like to change things, and he was getting used to the dust. It was just s
omething else that became habit, and he knew instinctively if he changed it, it would play him up. He couldn’t do that.

  Returning to the kitchen, he saw Mary hadn’t touched her tea.

  George felt his anxiety returning.

  'I feel one of my heads coming on,' she said.

  His head was swimming. Suddenly he felt like the carpet was pulled from underneath him, that he was standing on ball bearings, or at sea. His vision wavered for a moment and his heart started racing.

  'I’ll…I…I’ll put some dinner on, then.'

  'What’s the matter, George? You look quiet pale.'

  'Nothing, darling. I just feel a bit faint.'

  'Come and sit down. It’ll pass. Tonight’s a good night. Let’s not let anything spoil it.'

  She was right, of course. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t drunk her tea. He didn’t know why such an inconsequential thing would set him off.

  'I’m fine now, really. Do you want some tablets for your head?'

  'Yes, thank you.'

  'I’ll just get them.' George went to the pantry, where the medicine tin was kept, and took out two tablets. He noticed there weren’t many left. He would have to go to the pharmacy soon, and pick up her prescription. The tin rasped as he replaced it on the shelf, and that old familiarity made him calmer, somehow. He felt strong enough to walk again. His legs felt solid. Nothing to worry about.

  Breathing deeply, counting his breaths as his doctor had told him to do, he returned to the table and placed some tablets before Mary.

  'Do you want some water?'

  'I can take them with my tea, thank you.'

  'OK.' He waited for a moment, watching her. Then he waited some more. No conversation passed, and for a moment he thought she must have forgotten. Sometimes she forgot to take her pills, usually when she had one of her heads. Perhaps this was one of those times.

  Gently, he touched her arm.

  'Why don’t you take your pills, darling? You know they make you feel better.'