by Matt Drabble
He pored over the papers and was pleased to find that the man’s will was the sole copy and had yet to be witnessed properly. Given his treatment of his daughter, Dexter wasn’t surprised to find that Cora wasn’t named as beneficiary. But with the sole copy of the will now burning in the fireplace that he had just lit, Cora being the man’s sole next of kin meant that she had just inherited the whole farm and everything in it. His unease at the cooling body downstairs had receded at finding the only copy of the un-witnessed will. Whilst the man hadn’t been cash rich, hence him opening his doors to Dexter, the land that Cora had now inherited must be worth a fortune: 250 acres of prime farmland, not to mention the house itself. Dexter had started the evening with hopes of maybe 20 grand or so; now he must be sitting on the best part of a million.
He sat back in the farmer’s chair and started to tick through the problems in his mind. Firstly, there was the matter of Lacy’s body; next was the power of attorney papers that he would need to have made up transferring all assets to Cora; lastly there was the girl herself.
He used to drink with a guy who knew a dodgy lawyer. The man would draw up any set of papers up for the right price. He figured that the PPI claims would be enough to pay for the paperwork transferring the land and house to Cora so that they could get it all on the market as soon as possible. Cora herself seemed to be quite docile and happy to follow his commands but he figured that the sooner he got a ring on her finger, the better. As for Lacy himself, surely there must be somewhere on the 250 acres that they could bury him where he wouldn’t be found?
“It’ll be time to start the chores soon,” Cora said distractedly, staring out of the window at the approaching dawn poking over the horizon.
“Cora, love, I don’t think that you’re going to have to dirty your pretty hands with that sort of thing anymore,” he said gently. “I know that all of this has been horrible, just awful, but we’re going to have a whole new bright future ahead of us, I promise.”
She turned and smiled warmly at him and he suddenly wondered if he could actually come to love her, for real.
“I’ll have to feed the animals, I can’t let them starve,” she smiled.
“Cora,” he said, just as she was about to leave and an idea made a sudden appearance, “what sort of animals have you got?”
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Chopping up a human body, Dexter soon found, was not as easy as the movies made it out to be. Cora assured him that the pigs would devour her father whole, but Dexter didn’t want to take the chance of the animals leaving lumps behind.
He remembered reading somewhere that pigs would devour a human from the flesh down to the bone and it seemed like his luck was changing as the Lacys kept about a dozen of the beasts.
He had used some of the farmer’s tools from his well kept workshop to hack and saw the man into tasty bite-sized pieces. He told Cora not to feed the pigs before they ate her father, he wanted them hungry.
It was late morning when he finally dragged the body parts out of the workshop. He had made sure to carefully lay down decorating dustsheets about the place to stop the blood from seeping onto the floor and leaving evidence.
He wrapped the lumps up in the dustsheets and placed them in a wheelbarrow before rolling them out to the sty.
Cora stood back with a green but set face as she watched. He didn’t begrudge her not mucking in as he wasn’t a complete monster. As he wheeled the farmer’s remains across the muddy land, he was struck by the man’s last words.
They reached the pigs, drawn by the loud and impatient snorts and squeals of the hungry animals. Dexter parked the wheelbarrow by the fence as the snouts fought for supremacy to be first in line at the trough.
“Do you want to say anything?” Dexter suddenly thought to ask Cora as he was about to hurl in the first morsel.
She shook her head fiercely in reply.
“Look, I know that he was a self confessed monster, but it did seem that in his final moments he was sorry,” Dexter said feeling awkward. “Now normally I’m the most skeptical man on the planet, but looking into his dying eyes I could tell that he was genuinely sorry.”
Still Cora stood rock still and refused to budge.
Dexter threw in the rest of the wheelbarrow’s contents and the pigs were whipped up into a frenzy as they tore into the fresh flesh of the farmer.
Dexter wanted to offer her some kind of words of comfort but this whole emotional thing was way outside of his usual experience. His whole life was built around being fake and deceptive and now he struggled to find the sort of words that people might use in these circumstances.
“I can only imagine what he must have put you through, Cora,” he started. “But I’m sure that he did love you once. I know that you said he blamed you for your mother’s death; maybe grief does strange things to people, makes them act in uncontrollable ways. I’m sure that down deep he wasn’t really a monster.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Cora said strangely. “That wasn’t what he meant. He was apologizing to you; I’m the monster.”
Dexter turned to face her just in time as she swung the shovel hard through the air. The metallic spade clanged off his skull and the world spun dangerously around him. He sagged forwards onto the fence and the pigs charged forwards, eager for more meat now that they had finished the farmer.
“My father was a good man. Even after I murdered my mother, he still couldn’t bring himself to turn me in. I skewered the bitch one Sunday morning for the sheer fun of it,” Cora laughed.
Dexter hung helplessly on the fence as he felt her surprisingly strong hands grab his legs and lift.
“My father kept me a prisoner in that house for more years than I can remember, trapped in a kind of limbo. He wouldn’t turn me in and he couldn’t bring himself to kill me. No matter how hard I tried to escape he was always careful, until you came along. I must thank you for freeing me; there’s a whole world out there full of throats to slit and blood to bathe in.”
The last thing that Dexter heard, as sharp teeth tore the flesh from his face and swallowed it greedily, was Cora’s roaring encouragement and applause as the pigs devoured him, stunned but alive.
TALE 4.
“PETARD HOISTING”
Doris Cassidy hung up the phone, still in a daze.
“Well? What did they want?” her agent Taylor Quinn demanded impatiently.
“They want me to work on a case,” Doris answered as her mind still reeled.
“Which one?”
“The Dahlberg,” Doris whispered.
“YES!” Taylor screamed in delight. “I knew it, what did I say huh? What did I tell you?”
Doris sat down in the chair that was thankfully close by. She was 47 in real life but Taylor had insisted almost on their first meeting to push that age up to 55. Doris was a naturally slender woman with narrow hips and a flat stomach but her “costume” consisted of many layers to bulk her up and out. She had a short bob cut styled to fit under the wild grey wig. Her eyes were a dark brown that bordered on black at times which Taylor just loved.
Taylor had reshaped her appearance to better fit with the public’s perception of just what a professional medium should look like. Many was the time that her agent had tried to get her to take up heavy smoking to prematurely age her but Doris had managed to resist the more extreme requests, at least so far.
Where Doris was a pussycat, Taylor was a pit bull with snapping jaws that once clamped on, refused to let go. The agent was a loud and excitable woman with expertly colored blonde hair that was normally scraped back into a painful looking ponytail. She favoured loud and brash makeup and had vivacious talon-like nails honed into sharp points. Doris had never discovered her age but Taylor had been fretting about turning 40 for about the last four years now.
Doris had been working the old folk’s homes along the small coastal town of Shipney. The residents were always in need of reassurance as they circled the drain and the darkness closed in. Doris saw herself as someone
capable of offering counseling and reassurance to the needy and often neglected. Taylor had been visiting an elderly relative when she’d spotted Doris working and had positively chased her down the high street trying to sign her on the spot. Doris had little interest in promises of riches and stardom. As long as she could pay her bills without worrying too much, she was happy but Taylor had been relentless. Eventually, Doris had been swept up into the whirlwind of Taylor’s personality and aggression and before she knew it they working on the right look and act to make them both rich and famous.
Doris hadn’t been born with much in the way of internal drive or strength and she had been helpless in the tidal wave that had engulfed her. She was a shy woman, devoid of personality and incapable of intimacy. The only times that she had ever felt truly in charge of herself was when she was working. There was only one real problem: she was a fake. Sure, she had a natural empathy with people that made them open up and - more importantly - believe. She had an ability to glean information by probing with gentle questions and steering the conversation in such a way as to lead clients to revealing far more about themselves than they realised.
Taylor had never bothered to check the veracity of her ability and Doris didn’t think that the woman really cared either way. Doris apparently possessed a natural innocence and radiated a trustful aura that the public bought into. Her mother had always sworn that the Cassidy women were blessed with the gift and included herself amongst that number. Doris had gone along with her mother’s inclinations as she had been born and raised with a desire to please those around her. It had been her mother that worked the end of the pier shows back in the day before slowly drifting out to the fairground tents.
When her mother had passed, Doris had wondered if her gift would now take shape but nothing had happened. There had been no flash of lightning, no grasping hands from the netherworld, no glimpses from beyond the grave; just the usual monotony of the everyday passing world.
Doris had wound up working in a care position at one of the local retirement homes and she had soon discovered that the Cassidy name was still remembered amongst some of the older residents. It wasn’t long before some of them were inundating her with pleas for help, to talk to the recently departed and check on their wellbeing. At first she had declined but then she had crumbled before the sad desperate faces. A word or two of comfort here and there soon ballooned into long drawn out discussions and sessions. As word spread, she was soon submerged with requests. It had never been her intention to ask for money but soon notes were being thrust upon her. Whilst the extra money was certainly useful, it was the joy in their faces and the relief that she undoubtedly brought them that infused her soul.
She had been with Taylor now for a little over three years and the days of the retirement homes were far behind them. Now they played on small theatre tours to more active and affluent older audiences. But Taylor was always pushing, always wanting more, always talking about the next level. It seemed that Taylor was always pushing for the next level whilst Doris wanted nothing more than to help alleviate some of the pain and confusion that people held on to after a loved one had passed.
The Dahlberg case had been all over the news for the past 24 hours or so. They were a wealthy and powerful family in the world of media. Marcus Dahlberg was a domineering man who ruled the airwaves with an iron fist. He was rich and charismatic and was never afraid to use his long reaching influence for his own benefit or that of his friends. Word was that Marcus Dahlberg had been personally responsible for selecting the last Prime Minister.
As befit a global media mastodon, he had chosen a suitable wife who just so happened to be the nation’s favourite pop star and some 15 years his junior. Together they had produced a daughter, Ivory, who soon adorned the covers of every magazine, newspaper and media outlet that Marcus owned. The Dahlbergs tragedy had become a national obsession when their beautiful two year old had been snatched from her bedroom and a ransom note had been left in her place.
Public speculation was already starting to run rampant with eyes being cast doubtfully towards Marcus and his wife. Tongues were wagging and fingers were starting to point and the constant news coverage seemed to be drawing as much suspicion as sympathy.
Taylor had been dating an ex-police officer on and off for the past year or so and the guy now worked security for the Dahlbergs. Doris’ agent had told her that she been pounding away in all senses of the word on her occasional lover to get Doris attached to the case. Doris had been horrified at the very suggestion, as sweet talking old ladies was one thing, but parading herself as some kind of psychic detective was quite another. Unfortunately, Taylor had dug her teeth into the idea and refused to let go and now the call had come.
“I told you I could get Dave to work you into the case,” Taylor said, bouncing off the walls with unbridled excitement.
“I don’t think that this is a good idea,” Doris tried.
“Nonsense,” Taylor said cutting her off and flapping a hand dismissively. “Just think of the exposure; just think of what this will do for us, for the Doris Cassidy brand.”
“I just don’t know how much good I can do here,” Doris whispered.
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Of course it is,” Doris said, close to tears at the thought of offering false hope to grieving parents.
“Oh sweetie,” Taylor said in a kind voice as she knelt down beside the chair. “It doesn’t matter what help you are or aren’t, there’s only one thing here that matters.”
“You think that I could bring them some sort of comfort?”
“Fuck no,” Taylor laughed. “The only thing that matters here is getting you onto the next level. If they stumble across the kid whilst you’re in the picture then great; if not, well then we’ll just say that they never listened to you and if they pull a small corpse out of the river then they’ll look like the shitheads and not you.”
Doris wondered just what sort of a monster she had saddled herself with and just how low Taylor would stoop.
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Doris stepped into the Great Hall of the Dahlberg Estate with a churning mess of emotions poisoning her system. She still couldn’t believe that she was walking into the lion’s den armed with nothing more than a sympathetic shoulder.
Mr. Dahlberg had sent a car for them in a show of good faith. The driver had been silent the whole drive over and Taylor had been the one impressed by the luxury vehicle. The black limousine probably cost more than any house that Doris could ever afford and she felt uncomfortable in such opulence, but her agent seemed to the manor born.
Taylor was, as ever, by her side or, more accurately, leading her by the hand. Doris wanted little more than to run away as fast as her legs could carry her under the bulky outfit that she wore. She had pleaded with Taylor not to wear the silly “medium” outfit as it seemed perverse given the circumstances, but her agent had not been for turning. As far as Taylor was concerned, the whole image was needed to sell the brand and Doris feared that her agent now saw nothing but pound signs in front of her increasingly beady eyes.
They had been guided into the Great Hall by a man who had merely introduced himself with a curt nod as Albert. The Dahlberg home was a monstrous beast of a building that Doris thought could hide more secrets than the Tower of London. There were antiques and artwork that lined the hallways like a time tunnel through history and even Doris’ amateur eye struggled to comprehend the value on show.
As they walked into the Great Hall, she was terrified to see that the room was full of serious looking men and women of varying sizes and all wearing suits of varying quality. They were all gathered around a large dark oak table that dominated the room and Doris didn’t need to be psychic to feel the tension of conflict in the air.
Some of the people, she guessed, were in the employment of the Dahlbergs in one guise or another; some were large men with hard faces that stood silent guard, others were smaller and weedy looking with accountants’ gla
sses and lawyers’ dead eyes. The remaining group looked at Doris as soon as she entered with undisguised contempt splattered across their expressions; these she guessed to be the police.
“Ms Cassidy?” a man said, standing up from the large oval table.
Doris immediately recognised Marcus Dahlberg from his public image. Under the harsh bright lights he seemed far older and withered than his projected profile. He had always appeared a tall man, exuding a healthy outdoor sportsman glow, but now he seemed pale and diminished.
“Yes, this is Ms Cassidy,” Taylor interjected brusquely, ignoring the harsh glances from the gathered audience. “I understood that this would be a private meeting?”
“I’m afraid that we’re not about to leave our clients at this very vulnerable time in the hands of…, unknown quantities,” a smart suited man said coldly.
“Well I’m afraid that Ms Cassidy isn’t here for a group audition,” Taylor answered surpassing the man’s coldness.
“Unless she’s being paid, no doubt,” one of the men that Doris pegged for the police positively spat.
“Well then, we’ll leave you to it,” Taylor said curtly before taking Doris’ hand and leading her back the way that they had come.
“Please!” a woman cried out.
Doris heard the anguished plea and had to turn back. A frail looking woman stood up from the table. Her tiny frame had been hidden by the gathered men and Doris now recognised her as Mrs. Dahlberg. She had seen the woman on the cover of umpteen magazines looking glossy and polished to perfection but now she looked like a shadow that a stiff breeze could blow away.
“Please, Ms Cassidy,” she positively begged, “don’t leave.”
For the first time in their relationship, Doris showed some defiance and pulled her hand away from Taylor’s. “Mrs. Dahlberg,” she started, ignoring her agent’s unhappy expression.
“If you want to talk to my client then I think that we should clear the room,” Taylor announced loudly.