by Jamie Bowers
Getting out of the hole, Joe grabbed the shovel and scooped up dirt from the side, throwing it over the bodies. He began to cry as he heaped the soil back into the hole and stopped as he stared down at the tarpaulin covered mostly with dirt. Thinking only briefly, he ran into the house as quickly as his leg would let him and up into the spare bedroom where he found the money. He grabbed the metal box and the note it contained and went back outside. Taking the money from his pocket, Joe put it back inside the box with the note. He placed it between the bodies and pressed it into the dirt as far as it would go. Getting back out of the hole, he proceeded to throw in the dirt with the shovel, until eventually it was filled. Going back into the barn he managed to find to sticks of wood that he fashioned into a home-made cross and a tin of white paint. Painting the words “Eleanor & Hank” the best he could, he took the cross outside and drove it into the ground. Stepping backwards, Joe held his hands in front of him, in a moment of silent prayer for the two people he didn’t know outside of death.
Joe went back inside the house, through the back door and into the dining room. Slowly taking off his trousers, trying not to aggravate his injury, he slipped on a pair of black dress trousers. As he pulled them up they felt a little tight, but not too much that he couldn’t fasten them. Rummaging through the other clothes on the table he picked up a cream shirt, short sleeved with a brown edging on the collar. Putting the shirt on and doing up each button, he walked into the hallway and looked at himself in the full length mirror at the bottom of the stairs. As he stared at his reflection looking back, Joe saw how smart he looked, with the exception of his face. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the scars and dirt all over his unwashed skin. He limped up the stairs and into the bathroom, opened the cabinet with the mirror and took out a razor. Mixing the foam in a small tub and running it into his chin with the brush he began to slowly shave his face, getting rid of many days’ worth of growth. As he finished, he grabbed a bar of soap and rubbed lather all over his face. Rinsing of the blood and dirt Joe could finally see his true face in the mirror, a reflection which he thought he would never see again. He dried his face with a towel and slicked his hair back with a comb from a cup on the sink. Smiling at himself looking back, he was happy that he could feel normal again, if not for long.
Bundling the clothes and a box of shotgun cartridges together, Joe put them into a leather travel case from one of the bedrooms. He tossed them onto the backseat of the car underneath a blanket along with a few bars of chocolate and the shotgun the old man used to kill himself and his wife. Going to the prison van, he unlocked the door, opened it and threw in one of the chocolate bars.
‘Eat that before you starve to death,’ he said to the man before quickly closing and locking the door again. The man wasn’t given time to respond to Joe before the door was quickly slammed shut. Joe walked over to the Chevrolet and opened the door, taking one last look up at the house and barn; he got in, started the engine and drove down the driveway.
It was late and dark but Joe didn’t have a watch or any other means for him to know the exact time. Driving down the dirt lane that led from the house and onto the main road, Joe looked back in his rear view mirror, the site of the country getting smaller as the bright lights of the city lay in wait ahead of him. He was determined to go somewhere and find out the truth.
Chapter Nineteen
As he drove towards the glow on the horizon, it seemed bigger than Joe remembered, the traffic became thicker and there were many people walking on the streets, even in the middle of the night. He saw a couple arguing on the side of the road and another man further on being kicked out of a bar, possibly too drunk to remember it in the morning. As he drove over the bridge and into Manhattan, he was getting closer to home, closer to where it all began. He pulled the car to the side of the street in an empty space close enough so he could see the entrance to the alleyway where his apartment is, but not too close that he will get spotted. For several hours he sat and watched the street, people coming at going at all hours, a man setting up his newspaper stand for the day and a businessman arriving home drunk to his unsuspecting wife. A police car sped past with its lights flashing, Joe turned his head and pretended to be waiting for someone to come out of a nearby building but the car didn’t stop, it seemed to be on other business. As the sun started to rise over the horizon, it blinded Joe making it hard to see. He tipped his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, hoping it would pass soon. Not knowing how tired he was, Joe fell asleep, upright in the driver’s seat as the sun got higher in the sky.
Startled by a tapping sound on the window, Joe quickly awoke to see an elderly woman standing outside the car.
‘Are you still alive?’ she said as she continued to tap the end of her walking stick on the window. Squinting his eyes as he awoke, Joe stared at the woman who seemed to be more nosey than concerned.
‘Yes, I’m alive,’ he said gesturing his hand for her to leave, ‘go away.’ The woman just muttered to herself as she walked away, unhappy with Joe’s rude response. The sun was now high over the streets and Joe could see the bustling life of New York once again. The streets were busy with people doing different things and going to different places. He watched the alleyway that led to his home, constantly monitoring every person who entered and exited. For hours, he saw nothing that drew his attention until he spotted a man leave the alley and get into a car. He was tall and broad, with jet black hair, just as Francis had described. Joe quickly got out of the car as he saw the car drive away. Limping across the street and along the sidewalk, Joe went to the alleyway as fast as he could. As he turned the corner, he faced the front of what was his home, every brick and window looked the same as he remembered. The door sat flush against the wall, red, with a brass number four in the centre. The building leant against the back of a row of shops; it was a tall structure that would usually have been the home of a shop owner and their family. To any passer-by the building would just blend in with the others, but to Joe this was home, his home that he made with his wife and daughter.
Joe hobbled down the alley to the front door and tried to look through the window upstairs but his view was blocked by the partially closed curtains. Looking up at the fire escape ladder he could see one of the windows had been left ajar. He would be able to get in if he could make it up the ladder and onto the ledge. Hobbling back to the car, Joe bundled the shotgun up in the blanket and placed a handful of cartridges into his pocket before returning to the alley. As he stood with the gun wrapped in the blanket under his arm, Joe looked up at the ladder out of reach and the fire escape ledge outside the open window. He grabbed a small wooden box that was once used for carrying fruit and placed it on the floor. Standing on the box and reaching up, he could touch the bottom rung of the ladder but couldn’t get a grip to hold his weight. Scouting around the alleyway, still holding the gun in the blanket, Joe grabbed a few more boxes and piled them up against the wall. Ascending the containers he gripped onto the ladder with one hand and pushed the gun up onto the fire escape. With a leap as hard as his legs would allow, Joe jumped up the rungs and pulled himself higher as he kicked the boxes away from below. Lifting his legs, he managed to hoist his body up the ladder and onto the fire escape. Leaning onto the railing to gain his composure, Joe was relieved that he didn’t fall, as his leg probably wouldn’t be able to take anymore.
As he turned and faced the window, Joe recognised everything including the curtains around the window and figurines on the sill; it was identical to when he lived there. He lent forward to look through the window, not a thing had changed; Joe was confused as he thought someone else would have lived here now. Even the pictures in frames were the same; one was him the day he got back from the army. This didn’t seem right, and Joe wanted to know more. Sliding his hands through the gap in the window, he pulled the casement up, all the way to the top of the frame. Keeping the shotgun wrapped in the sheet, Joe gripped it under his arm and stepped through the window. Placing his foot o
n the armchair he balanced himself before stepping onto the carpet.
The lounge was small but adequate for Joe and his family, it was their perfect home. Joe would send money home whilst he was away to make sure Gina could pay the rent and keep Mary fed and clean.
Taking the gun from the blanket, Joe propped it against the arm of the chair before looking around. He stepped into the kitchen and could see this room was also exactly as he last saw it. Joe remembered what the newspaper article said about the murders, it described a bloodbath in his home that resulted in the death of his wife and daughter. He couldn’t see any evidence of this so went to the other rooms to see if he could find out. Joe went into the bathroom and the hallway, but saw nothing different. Seeing the bedroom door closed, he slowly turned the handle, thinking that what lay behind might be a repeat of what he found in the farmhouse. He took two deep breaths to prepare and pushed the door open. The carpet had clearly been washed several times, but the dark red stain of blood was still apparent. Everything else in the room had clearly been cleaned, but is still being used by whoever now occupies the apartment. Stepping around the clean bed, he walked over to the bedside table where he spotted a pocket watch. His stomach turned as he picked it up and sat on the bed.
‘Who are you?’ He said as he watched the hands turn around the dial. ‘What kind of a sick bastard would live in another person’s home as if it was his own? I will find you and I will get my answers.’ Tears started to fill his eyes as the ticking sound from the mechanism seemed to get louder. Wiping his face he tried to gather his composure. On the other side of the bed was another table, with Gina’s perfume and necklace. It was a gold crucifix on a matching chain, Joe had sent to her as a present for the birth of Mary. Placing the watch in his pocket, he leant over the bed and carefully grabbed the necklace. He delicately hung it from his fingers as the pendant caught the sunlight shining through the window. As he watched the gold pendant as it hung from the chain Joe could still smell Gina’s perfume on it, the sweet smell of jasmine reminded him of happier times. He curled up the necklace and placed it in his pocket alongside the pocket watch.
Joe stood from the bed and took another look around the room; everything was just as he remembers it, right down to clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Was this man trying to live Joe’s life or was Joe simply mistaken, he might be a man sent to clean the place out, but what Francis said made it sound like he now lives here. Joe walked back into the living room and picked up the shotgun, taking two cartridges and loading them, he quickly snapped the barrel back, locking it in place. He sat in the armchair facing the front door and waited; he wanted the man to come back and for Joe to be the first thing he saw.
As he sat and waited, Joe rubbed his stomach, realising he hadn’t eaten in more than two days and needed to get some substance, especially if the man returns and decides to put up a fight. He lay the shotgun on the floor at the side of the chair and went into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator we has greeted with an aroma of various Italian style meats, still wrapped in paper, fresh from the butchers. He grabbed as much as he could, peperoni, salami, Parma ham along with others and ate at least twenty slices of different meats before even stopping to take a breath. It was so delicious to Joe, he couldn’t savour any of it and he just wanted more. Before he knew it, it was gone and his appetite was a little more satisfied. He took a bottle of milk from the fridge and drank what was left of it without even thinking how it tasted.
Throwing the rubbish along with the empty bottle into the sink, Joe looked out of the kitchen window, down to the alley. He could see a man walking towards the front door, with a brown paper bag held tightly in his hand. Joe panicked and went back into the lounge; he leant forward to grab the shotgun but froze in place. The pain in his abdomen had returned and this stopped Joe in mid movement, causing him to drop instantly to the floor like an animal that had its throat cut at the slaughterhouse. Lying on the carpet clutching his stomach in pain, he could feel the beads of sweat pouring from his face, going into his eyes and blurring his vision. As the pain got worse everything became dark for Joe before he eventually lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty
Still lying face down on the carpet, Joe struggled to open his eyes. His vision a blur, he was blinded by the sunlight shining down on his face.
‘Sit up!’ shouted a loud voice from across the room. Startled, Joe tried to turn over but he couldn’t raise his leg. Widening his eyes to try and see what was stopping him, he could see a pair of handcuffs attaching his right ankle to the pipes of the radiator.
‘What the hell?’ Joe said as he turned over onto his back, trying to pull his leg free. He slowly lifted his head and pushed his upper body from the floor, pulling harder on the handcuffs restraining him.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ said the voice from the kitchen, ‘not unless you want another broken leg.’ Joe tried to look around the corner into the kitchen but was too far away to see who was speaking.
‘Who are you?’ Joe said, reaching his hand to his ankle to examine the soar, red marks around his leg. The man didn’t respond, Joe could only hear him moving around in the kitchen.
‘What are you doing here?’ Joe shouted, wanting to get a response.
‘What am I doing here?’ the voice said with surprise, ‘You break into my house with a shotgun, eat my food and you have the nerve to ask me what I’m doing here.’ Joe was shocked by the man’s statement and didn’t know what to say.
‘What do you mean your house? This is my house, with my wife and daughter. Everything here is mine. The pictures are of me and my family. Please, tell me what is going on.’ Again, the man did not respond.
Joe lay on his back and clasped his face with his hands; he couldn’t believe what was happening. He could hear footsteps walking across the kitchen floor, getting closer with each stride. Joe quickly reached out to his side, franticly he searched for the shotgun that was beside him but it was no longer there. As he looked across the floor, he saw a pair of black shoes come around the corner, followed by the man carrying the shotgun down by his side. He stood at the edge of the room looking down at Joe, frozen in fear against the floor with nowhere to go. Staring down at Joe, the man stood with the shotgun in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His muscular physique was complimented by a crisp white shirt which clearly showed the contours of his torso. He looked smart, even with the sleeves rolled up, along with black trousers and polished black shoes. Stepping towards Joe, he offered the glass of water.
‘Here. I guess you probably need this.’ He said as he walked around Joe to the armchair opposite. Sitting down in the chair he placed the shotgun over his lap. ‘What are you doing in my house?’ the man said as he sat with his hands resting on the gun, ‘you don’t live here anymore, Joe. You’re supposed to be in Hampton prison for many years.’ Joe looked at the man with a sense of shock.
‘Who are you and how the hell do you know my name?’ he said as he tried to get as comfortable as possible whilst his movement was restricted. ‘This is clearly my house. Look,’ Joe said pointing at the picture of him in his army uniform, ‘that’s me, the day I came back from Laos. How can you say this house is yours when it’s clearly mine?’ The man took the shotgun and stood it up at the side of the chair, still holding onto the barrel.
‘Do you know why you are here, Joe?’ He said as he ran his finger around the end of the shotgun barrel, ‘You have come here because you want answers, but you don’t know the real question, do you?’ Joe was more confused with every word, not sure what to say. The man leant forward to Joe, making sure he had his full attention, ‘I know who you are, Joe, and I know that this is my house, not yours. You killed your wife and daughter in these very walls and because you’re ill, you don’t remember a thing.’ This instantly grabbed Joe’s attention.
‘How do you know all of this?’ he asked, ‘What have you got to do with all of this?’ Still leaning forward, the man matched Joe’s gaze and responded.
‘You don’t recognise me, do you? I suppose I do look different now the beard is gone.’ Joe squinted his eyes to try and get a better look at the man.
‘Gordy?’ he said, trying to recollect, ‘Gordy Andrews? But what are you doing living in my house? And with my stuff?’ Gordy grinned and lifted the shotgun off the floor. Pointing it at Joe, he rested the stock against his hip.
‘Well done, Joe. At least your mind isn’t completely messed up. Remember, I own this place and when there was nobody here to pay the bills I took matters into my own hands. Now then Joe, I want to know why the fuck you want to break into my house. What are you looking for?’ Joe sipped the water and placed it on the floor.
‘I want to know what happened to Gina and Mary.’ he said rubbing his hand across his stomach to try and ease the pain.