He’d checked one of her books on Kindle when he’d heard she was moving in. Throbbing manhood seemed to feature heavily, and love triangles, and some piss-pot crime, like the theft of a rubber plant.
‘Please accept my apology. I like quiet, too. I’m just putting in a little extra noise proofing. I’ll try to keep it down ‘til...what time’s good for you?’
And so, put it back on her. Let her feel like she’s taken control.
He figured she’d go for one, two pm.
‘Two? Maybe...two ‘til four.’
‘Well, there,’ he said with a winning smile, ‘That suits us both.’
He knew his smile, full of yellow teeth as it was, on a small young man with yellow stains on his underwear...could’ve been better.
But then even with yellow teeth and stinking, a smile often sealed the deal.
‘Ah...’ she said.
He guessed she was thinking of saying 'nice to meet you', but wasn’t really sure it was. He did it for her and stuck out his hand to shake. On the offensive, all the way.
She shook.
That was how it always started for Simon. On the offensive. Break them down, then own them.
Most of the time.
The other tenants weren’t Yvonne, though.
*
V.
Yvonne took a seat at the back of the tea shop, where it was darkest. Terry would know to look there.
Confirmation came when she heard Terry’s booming voice from the door.
‘Evy!’ he called out, arms spread wide. Like he hadn’t seen her just a week ago.
‘Terry,’ she said, smiling despite herself. He was a damn good agent and a friend.
Kind of.
‘How are you my girl?’ he said, threading his way through the other customers like he was a sloop slicing through the ocean waves and paying them no more mind than the sea.
‘I’m fine, Terry.’
‘Anything good here?’ he asked, lowering himself into a seat.
‘It’s all good.’
‘You never can tell, can you? Out in the country.’
‘Terry, it’s not the country, it’s Brighton.’
‘Oh, I know, I know, but it’s not London.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose not. Well, if you’re frightened of country food, you could try the London cheesecake.’
‘Cheese? Good God, no. Just coffee.’
‘There isn’t really any cheese in it.’
‘A cheesecake, with no cheese? I dread to think. No. Coffee, just the same.’
He lounged in the small chair and waved the waitress down like he was gentry and the waitress a peasant, though Yvonne happened to know Terry came from Croydon.
The waitress granted Yvonne a subtle smile which Yvonne returned with a dash of sheepish.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Do you have coffee?’ said Terry.
The waitress smiled again, but it was so shallow you almost couldn’t tell it was there. But Yvonne was good with people.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Freshly ground?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, what are we waiting for? Coffee! Coffee!’
‘Alright, Terry,’ she said. ‘Sorry,’ she added for the waitress, ‘He doesn’t get out much.’
Terry laughed, and Yvonne wished she hadn’t made a joke of it. His laugh was a thing of marvel. Everyone in the tea shop turned to look.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘How’s it coming?’
‘Ah, the needy writer finally shows herself.’
‘I’m hardly needy. I’ve been waiting a year for this.’
‘Ha. Evy, I’m ribbing you. The publisher will run this hardback.’
Yvonne sat back in her chair and smiled. ‘Honestly?’
‘Yes. Three book deal, hardback and trade paperback. Next, the world! Big time, honey.’
He was smiling, too. Then he told her the figure. There were six of them.
‘What!?’
Then he was laughing again. That massive boom of a laugh, like humour breaking the sound barrier. She could have sworn a few teaspoons rattled in their saucers.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Seriously?’
‘You’re worth it.’
‘I don’t know. It’s too much. It’s...’
‘Just go with it. Make the most of it. It’s a good thing. Make hay and all that.’
The coffee came and Terry made a show of sniffing it, though Yvonne knew he would drink it just the same.
His face turned serious. ‘Another migraine?’
‘So transparent?’ she said.
‘You’ve bags bigger than Gucci under your eyes and you wince every time I laugh.’
‘I had a doozy over the weekend.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. How are you now?’
‘Tender,’ she admitted.
‘Bit quieter here? I trust your new apartment suits better than the last on that front?’
‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful, in fact. I’ll show you next time. But not much quieter.’
‘Shame. Noisy neighbours? Have you met them?’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘One. I met one. The landlord. I think. I’m not sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t know. It’s a bit odd. He’s so young. He lives in the apartment downstairs. Said he owns the whole building.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘A cock.’
‘Not much to redeem there, then.’
‘Yes. For a while, there, I thought...I thought maybe he wasn’t. But I trust my first impressions. I didn’t like him. Something about him. He was dirty. I mean, filthy. But it wasn’t that. Just felt like something was wrong, you know?’
‘You sure you’re not turning into a horror writer? Some kind of Psycho trip? Been at the old whacky backy?’
‘No, but he had. I’m sure of it. You know what, Terry? The more I think about it...do you still have the number for that researcher?’
‘Francis Wayne?’
‘That’s her. I used her before. She was good.’
‘Why?’
‘Just...a new book.’
Terry laughed. ‘Come off it. You’re doing some sleuthing. Your landlord.’
‘Well, yes,’ she said. It didn’t matter if Terry thought she was nuts. She could afford to be a little eccentric. He didn’t care. He was a friend, of sorts, but also an agent, and a hell of a lot friendlier when you’d just made a three book deal.
‘I’ll get her number. A bit of research should give you something to do when you’re not writing your bestsellers. Keep the old arm in. Plus, you might find some sordid details.’
She laughed.
But something niggled, even with the sun shining outside. Her landlord. Little creepy guy. She thought about Terry saying she was on a Pyscho trip. Somehow, that rang true.
*
VI.
Yvonne risked a trek out in the evening sun, worse because it slanted, slicing through the buildings, catching her out as she moved from shadow to light and the sun lanced into her eyes round the side of her sunglasses.
On the way back from the shops she met her downstairs neighbour for the first time as he slammed his car door and clicked his fob.
'Beep beep', said the car. The owner was more forthcoming.
He saw her coming and nodded.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You must be the new tenant.’ He walked over and stretched out his hand, shook hers.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Yvonne.’
‘David. How are you settling in?’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’ he said with a smile.
‘How did you guess?’
He waved his hands. ‘Educated. Canadian?’
She didn’t know if he meant he was educated, or that it was an educated guess, but she made an educated guess that he worked as a salesman, or some kind of executive, used to
fast paced conversations, that feeling you got when someone’s time was more valuable than your own, like in meetings sometimes with senior editors.
‘Yes. Long time ago, seems like. I was in London for nearly twenty years. Some of the edge has gone.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘London?’
‘No, where in Canada?’
‘Saskatchewan,’ she said.
‘Lovely there. Only been once, skiing. Loved it.’
‘Thank you?’
He laughed. ‘Have you met the landlord?’
‘Yes, I have...I...’
‘Don’t want to talk out of school?’ he said, interrupting ‘It’s alright. Everyone thinks he’s a weirdo. Hardly ever comes out. The hall smells of weed sometimes. It’s a wonder he manages to run the building. He can’t even manage a shower.’
‘Well...that was pretty much my line of thinking. Although I don’t think I would have been quite so candid,’ she said with a smile.
‘Oh, I’m nothing if not candid. He’s always complaining about the beep, but I’ve got to set the alarm or some bastard would nick that in an instant.’
He indicated his car, parked in his spot in front of the building. It was a big car, but then David was a big man. It’d have to be for a comfortable fit. A BMW, she knew, but that was about it.
‘It’s nice,’ she said, for want of anything sensible to say.
He nodded, obviously proud of his car.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet the neighbours. I’d better get in and feed myself. Early to bed, early to rise.’
‘Nice to meet you, too. See you around?’
‘I’m sure,’ he said, and shook her hand once more, before they went their separate ways.
*
VII.
‘Hello,’ Yvonne said into the phone, tentatively. ‘Mrs Wayne?’
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, this is Yvonne. I don’t know if you remember, but you worked for me on a book before...’
‘Oh, hi. I remember. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Things are going well. You? How are you?’
‘Pretty good. Still getting work, which is more than can be said for a lot of people.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Yvonne, never knowing what to say when people made definitive statements like that. Do you just agree, or get into some kind of discourse, or just ignore it and move on? It didn’t sound like it needed any input from her.
‘Anyway,’ she said, scooting over the statement. ‘I’ve got some work for you if you have the time.’
‘I can make time,’ said Francis.
‘Good. Good. It’s...ah...not really related to my work.’
‘Research, though, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, that’s what I do. I don’t mind what it is.’
Yvonne sighed in relief. She hoped Francis didn’t hear it.
‘I wanted you to look into my landlord...it’s...I don’t know if you can do that kind of thing...’
‘Up to a certain point, I can. I’m a researcher, though. Not a private detective, you know?’
‘I know. Just wanted a bit of background. I...suppose I’m curious and...something...’
‘Something ticklish?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘That’s exactly it.’
‘Well, it’s not really my field, but I’ve got a few places I can start. You sure you want me to do this? I can look into him, but...’
‘I don’t mind how much it costs.’
Francis made an embarrassed noise down the phone.
‘No, I was going to say, I can look into it without him knowing, but if I’m going to look a bit deeper, I’d need to take a couple of risks.’
Yvonne thought about that for a second.
‘Don’t take any risks,’ she said. ‘Not yet. OK?’
‘No problem. Do you have a timescale?’
‘Soon. Soon as you can?’
‘OK. You want to give me the details?’
When it came down to details, Yvonne wasn’t so sure she wasn’t being mental about it. But she gave Francis all the details she had.
‘I’ll get back to you by the end of the week.’
Yvonne put the phone down. She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. Coffee didn’t bring on migraines, just the right combination of light and shadow.
The day was overcast enough for her to take her sunglasses off and sit in an armchair she’d placed in front of her big windows. Sipping her coffee, she stared out at the sea, trying to still her racing heart.
What the hell was she doing? Just because he smelled?
No. Because the apartment smelled.
No, it didn’t.
It didn’t.
She thought about phoning Francis back, cancelling the whole thing.
But she didn’t, and it wasn’t because the apartment smelled. It was because of a memory.
A memory long ago, just resurfacing, of some research she’d done when she wrote her first novel. That novel was now a trunk novel, but back then she’d been eager, wanting to be a crime writer. She’d wrangled a visit to an undertaker’s. She hadn’t had the stomach or the clout to get into a morgue, but the undertaker had been willing.
It was the smell of death. Not quite rot, not quite like the undertaker’s preparation room, where there’d been a hint of preservative – formaldehyde? Maybe something else these days.
But the smell of a body was distinctive. Like flesh, but with the absence of a spirit, that scent that let you know a person was alive more, maybe, than even breathing and speaking. Life wasn’t just about movement.
The embalmed there had smelled slightly different to this smell. But under it?
Yes. Death. Not rotten, but death just the same.
*
VIII.
Simon shoved hard, but he couldn’t get any leverage to force the fat insulation into the gap he’d built. To reach his ceiling, even the though floor was raised and the ceiling lowered, he still needed steps.
The insulation was pretty heavy, and by the time he’d managed to stuff what he could into the gap between the old ceiling and his new, lower ceiling, made of wooden boards, immensely strong, formed with woodchips and layers of glue them compacted under vast pressures, most muscles in his small frame ached and cried out for a rest.
In a minute, when this last piece was in, he’d take a smoke break. Smoke, can of Coke. Shower. Game. Porn. Maybe that order, maybe not.
He was pretty horny right now, though.
It didn’t have anything to do with the insulation.
He laughed. That’d be fucking weird. Getting turned on by a bit of insulation. He remember a story he’d read about some gay guy, picked men up. Killed them. Stuffed them in his walls.
That was a man with issues.
Simon didn’t have any issues. He was confident, strong for his size, moderately (maybe a little more than moderately) rich.
He bought the best quality items when he shopped. His rare food, his tools, the wood he’d used to lower the ceiling.
The ceiling wouldn’t come down. He was sure of that. None of his other ceilings had even bowed, despite the weight.
But he hadn’t cut the insulation to the right size, and David had been a big man. His torso was giving Simon problems. Too fat for the gap, bones too big to squeeze.
He gave one last heave and heard something crack in the ceiling. He couldn’t do much about it.
He wasn’t worried about the smell. All the body parts were in tight plastic airlock bags. He supposed with the force he pushed, he might rupture a bag.
But fuck it.
‘Fuck it. Fuck it. Fatty fat, fat fucker!’
He yanked the torso back from the gap with a grunt and it fell with a heavy thud on the floor. Some of the innards sloshed about within the pack. He’d already cut the head off and removed the torso from the hip. The guts were loose in the bag, but most of the fat bastard’s organs remained teth
ered.
Ignoring the body part on the floor, he headed into his game room. He thought about a quick team match on Call of Duty, but took a ready-rolled joint from a long narrow ashtray instead. He’d made a fair dent in it after a couple of minutes.
He thought about a Coke, but decided against it.
Jobs first. Drinks and maybe a wank after, he thought, and laughed.
Looked at the corpse. Thought about having a wank right there. Laughed again, because when you came right down to it that was pretty fucking inappropriate.
Simon wore coveralls when he worked. When he did his cutting it was just easier all round to work naked.
He finished the joint with a sigh. His arms ached, down his triceps and into his latissimus dorsal muscles, through the rear deltoid. He’d had to saw some of the bones, and do some work with the cleaver. He ached already. He didn’t want to do any more. But the cutting wasn’t done.
He dragged David’s torso into the bathroom.
In a way, this part was easier than the killing. Bits squirmed, but at least the work was quiet.
*
IX.
The following day Yvonne dropped the corner of her couch while she was moving it and the floorboard beneath her snapped in two. The floorboards were bare. One end, three feet away, pulled loose from its flat nails and stuck up a couple of inches.
‘Arseholes,’ she said.
She undid the three locks on her door and padded out into the hall. Then, hating herself, went back in, took off her slippers, and put some sensible shoes on. Only then did she head downstairs to her landlord’s apartment.
She checked her watch, too, and hated herself a little more.
But she knocked just the same. She waited a whole minute until Simon came to the door.
‘Afternoon,’ she said.
‘Hi. Problem?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, but I was moving my couch and I...ah...broke the floorboard. It could probably be nailed back down again...’
‘Got some experience of DIY?’
She ignored that. ‘Ah, I wasn’t sure how it works...you know...if you do the maintenance, or if you get someone in...’
Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection Page 14