by DH Smith
‘The last thing I expected,’ he said emptily.
‘You came back for pudding,’ she said. ‘I’ve kept some for you.’
‘You’ve killed him,’ he said.
‘He was raping me. I grabbed what I could in panic. And smashed his head in. He stopped at once.’
Jack sank onto a stool, engulfed in weariness. He remembered what Alison had said maybe an hour ago. ‘Are you on a promise?’ Oh yes, a promise, he was on that alright.
She was making the coffee. Instant, stirring the cups, adding milk. Stirring again.
‘We should call the police,’ he said.
She handed him a coffee.
‘No.’
‘No?’ he queried. ‘Not call the police?’
She said, ‘Five years ago, I found my husband dead when I came home. I called the police that time. And I was arrested for his murder. And served two years.’
‘You told me.’
‘So you know why I’m not going through that again.’
He took a sip of coffee. This was limbo. Before life changed irrevocably. He knew what she was going to say, but pressed her to say it.
‘What’s the alternative?’
She was seated on a stool. Their knees were nearly touching. A few hours ago, he’d have found that arousing. Her slim legs, short, sleeveless dress, ripped at the cleavage. But blood spattered, she might have been a flank of beef.
She said, ‘There’s only one alternative.’
He was overwhelmed by all that entailed. The body had to be removed. Dumped somewhere, anywhere. Just not here.
She said, ‘I was hoping you’d help me.’
Here was the Rubicon, he had a foot on the bridge. He could turn about. And go home, or phone the police. But he’d kissed her, she’d made him a meal. She’d invited him in from the rain. He was on a promise.
He said, ‘We could dump him in the canal.’
She nodded vigorously. Took his hands. ‘Please.’
Suddenly he was charged with energy. St George with a maiden to rescue.
‘I’ve got a large builder’s bag in my van,’ he said. ‘We put him in that. Take him to the canal. And drop him in.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘Let’s do it, Jack.’
He went out to his van to get the bag.
Chapter 29
They began at the feet. Taking Frank’s shoes off to make it easier to get him in. His feet were smelly, the socks worn for some days. And then, bit by bit, they dragged the large bag underneath and over the cab driver. Once the legs were in, Jack had to lift the buttocks while Anne pulled the bag under. He lifted Frank’s back up to the seated position and held him, almost like a ventriloquist, and they drew the bag up as if it were a sleeping bag. His head sagged, leaning on a shoulder, lips parted, tongue hanging out. The neck of the bag reached his nose and would go no further.
They began again at his feet, and as if drawing on a pair of tights, eased more bag under the corpse, dragging out the wrinkles, moving them forward, under his legs and buttocks, moving them up the prone and heavy body. Until there was sufficient slack to cover his head.
Anne put his shoes inside the bag.
‘His pockets,’ said Jack. ‘We should empty them.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I don’t know. But let’s do it, in case.’
He hardly knew of what, vaguely thinking of the discovering of the body, delaying identification.
To get to his pockets, they had to draw the bag back down his body, like a film reversed, under his neck and back, and down again to his buttocks. Until his trouser pockets were revealed.
Anne took out car keys, some change, a dirty handkerchief, some screwed up receipts, a betting slip.
‘What do we do with them?’ she said.
‘Don’t put anything in the bag that could help identify him,’ he said, thinking of the cop shows and CSI programmes on TV.
‘I’ll look in his jacket,’ she said.
It was on the floor, crumpled at the foot of the sofa where he’d dropped it. She picked it up and went through the pockets. A phone, a wallet – she hastily looked through, some money, credit cards, odd bits of paper.
‘Leave it all on the table,’ he said. ‘We’ll sort it out later. Let’s dump this body first.’
A pool of his pocket items was left on the table. They turned back to Frank, who was encased in milky plastic, slightly blurry like a fish under the ice.
‘We need to seal the bag,’ said Anne.
Jack put the jacket in the bag, pushing it well down, while Anne took some string and scissors out of a drawer. She brought them over and tied the neck of the bag, going round and round many times then tying excessive knots.
They stood, looking at each other, undecided what to do next. The body was in a bag. The easy bit done. And then? It had to be taken away, Jack knew.
‘Before we go out,’ said Jack, ‘you’d better wash and change. You look like a butcher.’
She left him.
Jack looked about the room, considering what had to be done. The bag had to be taken out of the flat and put in his van. And then driven off and dumped wherever. But the first step was, get it out of this room. He began making space to drag it, moving the coffee table and armchair aside. He needed a clear run to the door.
That done, he rolled Frank off the sofa and onto the carpet. He took the legs and tried pulling but his hands kept slipping off the plastic with little forward motion. Frank would have to be rolled.
Fingerprints, he suddenly thought. All over the bag. His. They’d have to wipe it before dropping the bag in the canal. One thing at a time. Get him there first.
The furniture had to be moved still further back to make room for a rolling body. Then he began the roll. It worked, after a fashion. Though it was more a lift and drop than a roll. He traversed the body over the carpet, stopped at the door. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, this was hard work. Next problem was how to get through the short section of hallway to the front door of Anne’s flat. Too narrow to be rolled.
This was Jack in work mode. A problem to be solved. In this instance, an inanimate, slippery lump to be moved from A to B. What would a builder do?
It would have to be pulled, but not on the slippery plastic. He took the scissors and cut a line in the plastic by Frank’s feet. Then putting his hands through the plastic, grasped Frank round his ankles, and pulled the corpse out of the sitting room door. As he’d hoped, the bag stayed on the body. And he drew the corpse along the hallway to the flat door.
Anne appeared. She was washed, and in jeans and an orange long sleeve top.
‘Open the flat door,’ he said.
She edged past the corpse, keeping to the wall, and opened the door. The light was on in the hall. He’d have preferred it off but better to see what they were doing and get the body out of the house quickly.
The bag and contents snagged on the raised wood at the door threshold, the legs and buttocks outside, head and torso in the flat.
‘Can you get your hands underneath where it’s sticking?’ said Jack urgently. ‘Give him a bit of a lift, so I can pull him through.’
Anne crouched in her flat hallway. She managed to get her hands partially underneath, but was shoved into a corner and the body couldn’t get past her. The more Jack pulled, the more he pulled the body over her, as if Frank was trying again to rape her through the plastic.
‘Stop, Jack! It’s stuck on me,’ she cried, pushing at one of Frank’s arms.
‘Shh!’ hissed Jack. ‘You’ll wake the house.’
He stopped pulling, and lifted the body off Anne. She shuddered and rose. And came out into the hallway. There she leaned against the wall, catching her breath. The body was still half out of the flat, bent into an L-shape.
‘Are you alright?’ said Jack.
‘OK now,’ she nodded. ‘Let’s get it out and away. I can do more from out here.’
She got down on her knees and
put her hands under the centre of the body. ‘There, he’s lifting. Pull now.’
They were interrupted by a yelling from the back door, heading their way. Bessie was running in full panic, Tickles in her arms, the cat gurgling and frothy, legs and paws outstretched.
She saw Jack and screamed.
‘Save him! Save him!’
Her face was dirt covered, smeared in tears. She stood before him with her offering. Nancy was padding down the hallway, her stick clomping the floor.
Jack stood helplessly by the bagged corpse, the legs and buttocks in the hallway, one glance in the flat would reveal the rest.
Except Bessie was only interested in the choking cat in her arms. Jack at once understood the problem.
‘Open its jaws,’ he said. ‘Wide as you can.’ When she hesitated, he ordered, ‘Do it.’
She lifted the jaws with the cat stretching and convulsing.
‘More. Wide as you can,’ exclaimed Jack.
‘I’m hurting him,’ squealed Bessie.
Anne came to help, yanking the jaws wide in spite of the thrashing cat. Jack put his fingers in the animal’s throat. The cat was gurgling frantically, desperate to pull away. Jack pushed his fingers further in, grazing the razor edged teeth. And grasped it. With a tug, the obstruction came out. A long tack.
He held it up for the others to see.
‘Thank you, thank you!’ exclaimed Bessie. She stroked Tickles. ‘Oh, you poor thing. He’ll be alright now.’
She put down the cat, who circled his head round and round, spat and hissed. And walked over to Nancy. And rubbed his back against her leg as if to say here was one at least who wouldn’t force open his jaws and put fingers down his throat.
Bessie threw her arms round Jack’s waist. ‘I’ll be your friend forever.’
Anne was holding the tack.
‘What’s going on down there?’ came a call from above.
They all looked up. There were David and Maggie in their dressing gowns, leaning on the banisters.
‘It’s alright, it’s nothing,’ Anne called up. ‘Emergency over.’
Bessie saw the bag at the flat door. Jack saw her looking and waited for her reaction. Tickles was licking the bag end where Jack had cut the hole and a little blood had collected.
‘It’s him!’ she yelled. ‘Nancy, it worked! I told you. Look, there. It worked!’
She was dancing about and pointing. Jack was frantic to hush her, but it was all too late. David and Maggie were coming down the stairs. Anne there, Jack, Bessie and Nancy all staring at the bag and its contents.
‘It’s Frank,’ said David, turning to his wife. ‘All bagged up.’
‘What’s he doing in there?’ said Maggie stupidly, peering in disbelief, half asleep.
Jack and Anne looked at each other. Jack blew out his cheeks, Anne threw out her arms in dumbshow.
Jack said, ‘He’s dead.’
That was obvious enough, but the obvious often needs to be stated.
‘I killed him,’ exclaimed Bessie, biting her lip.
Anne and Jack looked at her in puzzlement.
‘He deserves everything he’s got,’ declared Nancy.
‘I’m in the dark,’ said Maggie, pulling her gown round herself. ‘All I know is Frank is dead and in a plastic bag. Would someone care to explain?’
Anne said, ‘Let’s go inside. And I’ll give chapter and verse.’
Chapter 30
They assembled in the nursery, the sitting room being unfit for company. A chair was found for Nancy and for Maggie, the others sat on the floor in the story area, making the best of the carpet and cushions. At the back was a low shelf of children’s picture books. Jack left Anne to explain while he made coffee.
‘I did it,’ said Bessie for the umpteenth time.
Anne sighed and said, ‘You did not, Bessie. I hit him with a vase. He was trying to rape me.’
‘On my calling,’ said Bessie, ambiguously. She would not be trumped.
‘Congratulations,’ said David to Anne.
‘Three cheers,’ said Nancy.
Anne had her arms round her knees, she was looking at the carpet a few feet in front of her. ‘It was self preservation. I lashed out with the vase to get him off me. And that was that.’
‘You don’t need to convince me,’ said Maggie. ‘That vermin was capable of anything. I’m sure it was self defence. But I don’t understand what the body is doing in a plastic bag in the hall…’
‘Work it out,’ said David with a yawn.
‘Give me your managerial expertise,’ she said.
‘They’re removing the body.’
‘I got that far,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s the why of it I don’t get.’
‘Why I haven’t called the police?’ said Anne helpfully.
‘In a nutshell, yes. You didn’t murder him. It’s what’s called – manslaughter, self defence or something.’
‘It’s called whatever they choose to call it,’ said Anne.
Jack came in with the coffees on a tray. He placed it on the carpet and handed the mugs round.
Anne said, ‘I have an aversion to cops.’
‘Explain,’ said David.
And she told her tale. Tickles was sitting on the rug and purring while Bessie stroked his back. It was story time. It might have been three year olds listening to The Tiger Who Came To Tea, but with coffee instead of juice. Jack crept off and got biscuits, feeling very much part of the hosting team. Chocolate fingers, part of the leftovers from dinner.
‘OK,’ said Maggie, when Anne had told her tale, ‘It’s clear why you don’t like cops.’
Her feet were bare and she was massaging one in her lap.
‘Do you want a blanket?’ said Anne. ‘And you,’ she added to Nancy whose hands were going blue.
‘I’m alright…’ began Maggie, but Anne was already up and crossing the room.
‘There’s a body in the hallway,’ said David, thinking aloud.
‘I did it,’ said Bessie. ‘I called for his death.’
‘Why did you?’ said David to Bessie, putting up a hand to stop others intervening.
‘Because of what he did to me,’ she said.
She picked up Tickles and held him to her.
‘What did he do to you?’ said David.
‘Nasty things.’
She said no more, intent on stroking Tickles. David didn’t press it. They all knew of the beatings, and might surmise the nasty things. Anne returned with two blankets. She gave one to Maggie and helped Nancy spread it over her knees and legs.
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘Does anyone want to speak up for the bastard?’ said David.
‘He was a thorough going rotter,’ exclaimed Nancy.
‘He put tacks in meatballs to get your cat,’ said Jack.
‘I’d have killed him!’ cried Nancy, ‘if you hadn’t.’
‘He won’t be missed,’ said Maggie, looking like a passenger on a boat deck with the blanket over her knees.
Anne was back in the story seat, her legs bent under her.
She said, ‘It’s all up to you now, what to be done. He’s lying in the hallway, awaiting your decision.’
‘We either call the police or take him somewhere else,’ said Maggie.
‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘One or the other.’
‘Do any of you think the cops will believe me,’ said Anne, ‘in view of what happened last time?’
There was silence. The chocolate fingers were almost gone.
Bessie said, ‘Get rid of the body.’
They looked to her, a little surprised at the vehemence.
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ she said. ‘I brought it on.’
This was not one to argue with. Not now.
‘It’d be easy enough,’ said David. ‘Just take him to the forest and bury him.’
‘I was thinking the canal,’ said Jack.
David shook his head vehemently as if he were an expert on body disposal. ‘He’ll
surface too quickly. Bury him in the forest, and he might never be found. Have we got any spades?’
‘Two in the shed,’ said Bessie.
‘There you are,’ said David. ‘You game, Jack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Settled,’ said David rising. ‘Let’s get on with it. Whose car?’
‘I was thinking of my van…’ began Jack.
Anne interrupted. ‘No. Take his. We’ve got the keys.’
‘Yes,’ said Maggie excitedly, seeing a way of getting in on the game. ‘I follow you in my car. You leave his in the forest, much better than outside here.’
They were all on their feet.
‘You alright here?’ said Jack to Anne.
‘Yes, lots of cleaning up to do in the sitting room.’ She turned to Bessie. ‘Will you help me?’
‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘Let’s scrub him away.’
Chapter 31
In the hallway, Maggie tied string round the head and feet of the parcelled corpse. At each end she bound the plastic bag with about a half-centimetre thick coil, then securely knotted the ends.
‘Girl Guide stuff,’ she said. ‘You can lift it now with the string as handholds.’
Maggie went out in the street while David and Jack watched from the front door. There was a bright moon, lowering in the west of the sky. They had perhaps four hours of night. She opened the boot of the Aurora, and then stood on the street as lookout. There was little traffic and no pedestrians.
She nodded and raised a hand.
David and Jack picked up the body using the handholds. A good idea of Maggie’s; the string cut into your fingers but the bundle was liftable. A glove would be better for a longer portage, Jack thought. He, being in front, had to walk backwards, out of the hallway and into the chilly night, slowly down the steps and onto the ceramic tiles of the path.
‘Stop!’ hissed Maggie.
They brought the body to the ground and ducked down. A car came past. They let it die away.