This Book Is Full of Bodies

by Rick Wood

  “Is there anyone you would like us to speak to? Anyone else you would like us to contact on your behalf?”

  “No, no thank you.”

  “We may need you to confirm her identity. Would that be okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, I guess.”

  Urgh. I don’t want to see her again.

  One of the officers puts a leaflet entitled Grief on the kitchen side. The image is of a young black man in a shirt and wearing glasses with his hand on the back of some white woman with her head in her hands.

  “There are some numbers here you can call, should you need it.”

  They do that sad smile people do and turn toward the door.

  And then they stop.

  Turn and look at me.

  “Is everything okay, Mr Brittle?” one of them asks.

  “Well, it’s sad news…”

  “I mean, that noise. It sounds…”

  Now I hear it. Clanging against a radiator and banging against a wall.

  Flora.

  “That would be my stepdaughter. She’s sorting out some things in the basement.”

  It continues, constant clanging.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes, I will go see to her now.”

  “Do you need us to help with letting her know–”

  “I am her legal guardian, thank you, I am sure I will be quite fine.”

  It’s getting louder.

  They pause and hold my gaze, and for a moment I think they are not going to leave.

  Then they do.

  I wait for their car to go, listening to the constant wave of noise, then I charge to the basement door, down the stairs, and find her banging her chains repeatedly against the radiator.

  I put my hand around her neck, pick her up and shove her against the wall.

  I look into her eyes, deep into them, and I see dread, I see fear, I see spite and anger and, worst of all, I see her mother.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Kill me. You may as well.”

  Is that what’s happened?

  I’ve made her life so unbearable that she is now not scared of the threat of death.

  She hates me now, I can tell.

  But she loved me once, and she will love me again.

  What I need is a house where she can roam free yet have no way of escaping.

  A mansion with means of trapping her inside.

  Somewhere she can remain unchained, but I will know she will not run from me.

  I do not wish to kill her, and I am desperately looking for alternatives, and I just hope my options do not run out.

  Maybe we just need to be rid of this house, be gone from the place where we were both repressed by that dreaded woman.

  And the sooner I find us a new home, the happier we’ll be.

  26

  I use Lisa’s old laptop to scour the internet.

  I despise the internet, and I despise computers, and I despise technology.

  Actually, that may be a little hasty.

  Today’s technology, I despise.

  If it were up to me, I’d take all technology back to where it was in 1995 and freeze it. That was the optimum time for technology. We had computers, and they had an operating system that allowed us to type on a word processor and we had phones that you connected to the wall and used to communicate with people.

  Nowadays we have computers that can run tasks that people would be better off doing in person.

  We have emails that you will send across the office to a colleague working metres away instead of getting up and entering conversation with them.

  We have self-service machines that say the same thing every time I use them and have an extreme dislike for any unexpected item in the bagging area that is entirely expected as I damn well put it there.

  And we have social media, a drain on the human soul, an ADHD-fuelling fad that involves people posting pictures of food instead of eating it and getting involved with people they don’t know.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wilfully go along with advancements that helps me avoid interaction with inept idiots every moment of my day, but this has gone too far.

  And, before you say it, yes, social media would be a perfect way to find prospectives to help me engage with my burning needs, the needs I embrace and you deny. But there’s always a damn trace on everything you do.

  Google should help solve all problems, but if I type into Google how do I dispose of a dead body, then there’s solid evidence that would damn any testimony I may give to the contrary.

  But, alas, it has its use for my current needs, and that allows me to find it a little more tolerable. After all, I have just discovered a house that seems perfect, and I would not have found it had it not been for this inducer of catatonic teenagers we label a machine.

  So here I stand, a break from the banging and the shouting in the basement – honestly, that girl has a set of lungs on her; which makes me wonder why she never used those lungs to scream while I was fucking her and whether I was not quite doing enough to make her scream but, then again, maybe she’s just not a sex screamer, after all, they say the louder the gobshite the worse they are at night, not that we ever fornicated at night because of Lisa’s unwelcome presence – anyway, I digress, and I forget where I was.

  Ah, yes, I was taking a welcome break from the chaotic noise from beneath me. I decide to leave in order to view this house I have just discovered that may just be ideal.

  I drive down the road and it’s like a road I didn’t know existed. Houses of various sizes, and by this I mean various sizes of huge, and a nice, wide, vacant road to peruse them.

  I pull up outside a large set of gates. I can barely see the house it is that far back from the road, which is damn near perfect – no one would hear Flora’s screams, and she can exercise that set of lungs however much she wishes.

  I step out of the car and a tiny woman with a brown ponytail and glasses half the size of her face walks up to me.

  “You must be Mr Brittle,” she says, and her voice sounds far too big for such a tiny body.

  “I am.”

  “Lovely to meet you, I am Mary Lamb.”

  She offers a hand and I reluctantly shake it, as is the bizarre custom.

  I mull over the words to Mary had a little lamb in my mind, wondering if that was the inspiration for such a ludicrous term for a person.

  “Shall we?” she says, and she is too smiley and too happy and I know she’s trying to sell me something, I just wish she knew her clientele. Yes, if I were a young couple in their twenties buying their first house then wonderful, you are smiling just the right amount.

  But I am not.

  I am a murderer with little patience and a detest of people that comes out of a lack of ability to understand them.

  Adapt, you wretched beast.

  “It’s quite a long driveway,” she tells me, and on the one hand I’m thrilled as I want a massive drive, on the other hand I’m disappointed as this means she will force small talk as we walk down it.

  “So did you find the place okay?” she asks, and what a ridiculous question.

  Of course I have found it okay.

  I would not be here if I had not found it okay.

  I would still be out there looking for it, you fool.

  “Yes,” I say without looking at her, hoping that she takes the hint.

  She seems to.

  The driveway is wide and surrounded by lavish bushes perfectly cut and overarching trees decorating the drive. It will need a gardener, but that’s okay – it’s not like the money’s going anywhere.

  When we eventually reach the house, I cannot help but be impressed. Seven floors high and so wide I cannot see one end from the other. It is not a new build – in fact, the architecture is rather classical. As we walk inside, I can see that whilst the grand staircase and a few pieces of furniture retain that classical look, the living room and kitchen space is quite modern.

  And that’s just the first floor.

 
“There is something I do need to show you,” that Mary Lamb woman says, interrupting my moment of ecstasy as I marvel at this perfect dwelling.

  She takes me to the back door and to a switch.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “The last person who lived here was an army veteran, and he suffered quite severely with post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”

  Yes, of course I’ve heard of it, you quisquilian.

  I allow my silence to confirm, and she continues as if it didn’t even matter.

  “He ended up paying a lot of money to have shutters installed as a result of his paranoia. He very much believed someone was going to come and attack him.”

  “Show me,” I say, too eager to see.

  She presses the switch and metal shutters descend around every window, and I can hear them throughout the house, blessing it with darkness, an impenetrable fort.

  As soon as they are down I open a window and try to batter at it, but it is solid, unbeatable.

  It is perfect.

  And I can’t quite believe my fortitude.

  How I managed to find such a place…

  Maybe that computer does have its uses…

  How wonderful. Magnificent. Awe-inspiring.

  A figment of imagination that even my wild imagination couldn’t conjure.

  She must think my open jaw is negative shock, as she starts to say how they are prepared to remove the shutters for any prospective buyers.

  “You will do no such thing,” I say.

  “The reason I show you this,” she continues, and I’m not really listening, “is as an explanation for something we have to be honest with. This ex-soldier did kill himself in this house. He–”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  She is momentarily stumped, but the incessant smile returns.

  “Would you like to see the other floors?”

  “No. I’ll take it.”

  “You mean you’ll put in an offer?”

  “I will offer you twenty percent above asking price.”

  “Well… are you sure? Do you not wish to think it over?”

  “I just said I wish to purchase it.”

  She looks gobsmacked, and I’m not quite sure she believes me. I look at her and show her how serious I am, and I believe it starts to register.

  “Well, we can put you in touch with our financial advisors, and we can start to get the mortgage–”

  “I don’t need a mortgage.”

  She is stunned again.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I don’t need a mortgage. I will pay cash.”

  “Cash? Do you know how much–”

  “I will pay cash. I can transfer it now if you wish, or in notes if you have enough space to store it. Either way, I wish to move in by the end of the week.”

  She says she is not sure if that’s possible but, within the hour, I have sent her the money and we go back to her office and sign all the appropriate papers.

  A sure sign that, as I am about to learn now I can truly flaunt my wealth, money can buy just about anything.

  27

  When I get home – though it will not be my home much longer – I go onto the internet and I order my next essential purchase and arrange for their delivery the day after we move in.

  A group of four healthy adult pigs.

  Animals to dispose of Fucking Mark’s body, and of any further bodies that may be created.

  Although I fear that waiting until Friday will be quite a challenge. My car and my garage truly are starting to stink now. What’s more, it may be noticed by the removal company that I also order via the internet.

  It has been quite a few days since Mark’s living body ceased to live and his corpse was created. It’s as if there is rotting meat getting further and further past its expiry date.

  Which it is, I suppose.

  What’s more, there are various forms of life crawling over him and growing inside of him now. And he keeps releasing gases as his body decompresses all the air it previously held inside.

  This is the not-so-fun part, I must admit.

  The part I do wish I could do without.

  But, alas, even after a wonderful session of sex one must get a tissue and wipe up the remnants.

  The same goes with this.

  Unfortunately, every act of bliss is followed by the act of cleaning up.

  Either way, I am very much concerned that my car is going to pick up the odours and I will never get them out. For such a wonderful car – it has Bluetooth after all – it would be a shame to wreck its wonderful pristine interior smell. I worry, in fact, that the odour has already worked away at it quite considerably, and I doubt that the boot will ever be the same.

  So I wonder where to store the body.

  And the answer comes to me quite clearly. It’s obvious really, isn’t it?

  Flora cared quite deeply about Mark. Evidently, from her excessive reaction. Maybe she would like to spend some more time with him. Maybe she would like a chance to say goodbye, to confess her last confessions.

  I will be doing her a favour, and hopefully this will reduce the chances of me having to kill her, because, really, she is starting to make things look that way with all the banging and the screaming.

  I ensure every curtain of the house is closed without any gaps, so all actions are obscured from the neighbours.

  Then I take Mark, place him in a large black bag I would have previously used for the dustbin, and tie the bag up at the end. This ensures that I leave no evidence on the tufts of the carpet or the cracks of the kitchen tiles.

  From there, I drag him through to the basement door, and I pause.

  It’s like delivering a birthday cake. You know you’re about to sing Happy Birthday and that the child will be all surprised and they will blow out their candles.

  I can’t wait for her to see what I have!

  I open the door and I call down to her, “Flora! I have a surprise for you!”

  She goes silent. Her screaming and banging seems to cease, and I can suddenly remember what it’s like to enjoy quiet again.

  I drag the bag down the stairs to the basement.

  She backs up against the radiator, and she stares wide eyed at the bag. There is a stink of piss and her skirt is stained and I realise I forgot to get her a pot.

  Ah well, this will make up for it.

  “Now, I know you cared for Mark,” I say, grinning wildly, bursting with excitement. “And you know I am going to have to be rid of his body. Ooh, that reminds me! We are moving to a new house this Friday, one where you can roam around without the chains. Of course, you will be trapped in, but there’re seven floors and plenty of space.”

  She looks at me like I’m taking gibberish.

  I ignore it.

  “Anyway, until then, I was trying to think of what to do with Mark, and I thought, you might like to spend the last day or two with him. Would you like that?”

  She gags.

  It’s the smell, I know.

  But it’s fine.

  I open the bag and take his face out and she more than gags: she turns and retches and vomits blood and bile all over the basement floor.

  “Oh, Flora,” I say. This isn’t very attractive.

  But I must be understanding.

  I step toward her, going to reach my hand out, to make an effort, and she recoils. She actually flinches away, has the audacity to move as far away as the bicycle chain will allow.

  “Well, really,” I exclaim. “I do this for you! I am understanding about your affections toward another man, and… Flora, I do not understand. What is it you want?”

  “Please do not leave that in here with me.”

  “That?”

  “Please just – just – just take it elsewhere.”

  I am stumped.

  I thought she’d appreciate it…

  Oh, she is a complicated one, my Flora.

  “Well what should I do wi
th it?”

  “I don’t know, just… please… take it…”

  The only other option is if I take it to the farm like I did Carluccio, but first I will need to hack him up.

  “Fine, give me a minute,” I say, and I go and retrieve a saw and an axe.

  I would ask her to help, but I’m not quite sure I trust her with the weapons yet.

  So I hack and saw and hack and saw and it’s quite tough, you know.

  Flora looks away for the entire time. I think she’s sick again, but I ignore it, and as I go about my activity – on her wishes, don’t forget – I wonder about her.

  And I contain my annoyance that my gift was rejected.

  Maybe she just wanted to leave Mark in the past.

  After all, I want to forget about Lisa. So why shouldn’t she want to forget about her ex?

  And, with that thought, I realise just how selfish and inconsiderate I’d been.

  So, once I have the pieces hacked up and in the bag which takes me well over the hour, I move them into the boot of my car for transportation. I get a cloth, return to the basement, and I stand before her.

  She looks up at me with that face and I’ve never seen her looking so vulnerable.

  I walk to her and she tries to flinch away, but she needs me, and so I grab her, and I pull her close, and I dab at the loose strands of sick that remain on her chin.

  She stares up at me with wide eyes, though not quite as wide as Mark’s, but more alive, and I look back at them and think about how much we have to look forward to.

  “I wasn’t lying about the new house, you know,” I tell her, keeping my voice lucid and mellow. “It’s got seven floors, a large driveway, gardens, it’s wonderful. And it has shutters that block any escape, so I can leave you there without having to worry about this silly little chain. Would you like that? To be able to run around a bit more?”

  She doesn’t say anything. Just continues that stare.

  I forget, I should perhaps apologise.

  It is one of the few customs of society I actually think serves a purpose.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t think. I want to forget my past, and I know you want to forget yours, and start anew, and I shouldn’t have brought Mark down here. It doesn’t help, and I know that now, and it will never happen again.”