by E. J. Wood
‘Spineless Cu…’
My piercing look can cause serious destruction and my palms slam onto the floor either side of her legs as I inch towards her face.
‘You can see my heart beating through my chest that I am terrified, please don’t kill me,’ she begs. But her words are false and she smirks after her plead. I purse my lips and hush her words locking eyes and plunge the scalpel in watching it cut through her skin. The blood pours freely onto the ground and I savour the look of horror and surprise on her face. As the blade withdraws I wipe its glinting steel edge clean on her clothing. I lean in to her shrivelling body that slowly collapses to the floor as I untie the rope and I kiss her on her temple. Her hand reaches for my mouth as she falls. You want to know what turns a nice little girl into a cold blooded murderer? You want the truth? Can you really stand to listen to the truth? How I can do it, why and how I can kill? Because I like it, it is as simple as that. You are right; I have always fascinated about it, to hold someone’s life in my hands and be in total control. There is always that moment of acknowledgement between a killer and a victim, but is she, Olivia a victim? Instantly her eyes meet mine and she realises the power and pleads, tries to beg for mercy, for her life and for that split second I can decide to save her and give her life back yet risk my own and Guy’s or let her die? That’s something different. Remove her from this planet and take away her life, now that’s real power, look at her a self confessed Femme Fatale, feeding quite literally off her male companions. Never appreciated what she has, beauty, captivating beauty and intelligence. The best but never the smartest, she never fully appreciated what she had, not like me, I have never been content with accepting life is life, you live you die and the world moves on, no not me, something has always been lurking within that would make me great. I will be remembered for my achievements.
As her life slips away I lean in close, grabbing her throat to pull her away as her fingers grip my mouth and I mutter.
‘“Haven’t you ever loved someone so much that you can hardly breathe around them? Your heart missing a beat, you are so beautiful yet scared, apprehensive, defensive and withdrawn. It's like Both Hands by Ani “How hard we tried, how hard we tried and I’m watching your chest rise and fall like the tides of my life and the rest of it all. And your bones have been my bed frame and your flesh has been my pillow and I’ve been waiting for sleep to offer up the deep with both hands, oh with both hands”. It's, for lack of a better word, fucked, yes totally fucked between us. Now take a breath and calm yourself.’
***
The dark night filtering through the top branches of the crackling trees of the forest full of hidden wonders and decomposing green meadow floor full of earthy smells of beginnings and endings failed to frighten me this second visit. Eyes glimmer at me from tree hollows and the wind wails between distorted trunks carrying a sickly stink of wood rot. I ignore the briars that catch my jeans and run fast towards the Jag. I graze my arm on the bark of a tree and wince as I stop to clutch my arm and I look around me and stare at the blood that stains my hands. It’s like a thick gelatinous ruby gem, Olivia’s sweet nectar upon my skin. What have I just done? I quickly draw a misted breath as an owl hoots. The owl is a predatory nocturnal bird with large piercing eyes, a short sharply hooked bill on a circular facial disk. Its long powerful talons sit on a nearby branch glaring at me on this cold winters night.
I sigh deeply looking momentarily at Olivia’s car not giving it a second thought of what to do with it. It is cold and the icy air dances across my skin leaving raised hairs in its path. I just want to get home and as I approach the car my shoes crunch over the first signs of snow and like a rubber tennis shoe on polished flooring, they squeak. The wind picks up as the night prevails and without my scarf it is almost unbearable, the tips of my fingers beginning to pain as I tuck them into a tight fist. The biting wind whips at my face as I hunch my shoulders and climb into the car away from the frigid night with “Shakespeare’s sister - stay” hoping I “make it safe back to my own world.”
***
As I bask in the warmth of the living room, I am calmed and thaw by the hot flames and constant dancing of the fire place. As I look out the window to the bitter cold, I rinse the blood away from my hands. I gasp.
‘Amelia? What are you doing up so late?’
I am speechless and my eyes widen with guilt, horror and shame.
‘What’s wrong?’ Guy questions.
‘It’s Olivia.’ I answer.
‘I thought we discussed this, I will deal with it in the morning.’
‘She is dead.’
His expression is bewildered and wide eyed and he looks like he doesn’t know what to say or do. He looks around as his eyes dart back and forth, raising a hand to stroke his hair and he wipes his lips.
‘Guy, say something, for mercy sake say something?’ I beg as I step towards him.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I just wanted to scare her but oh jesus Harold,’ my hand covering my mouth.
‘What about Harold? AMELIA?’
‘He’s dead.’ The words leaving my mouth as if they were my last.
‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’ He shouts.
‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. It was her, it was all her. You don’t understand.’
‘Then tell me!’ his face creases and his lips peel back and bare teeth. He is mad, he is really mad.
‘I am to blame, no words can express how much I am to blame, forgive me, punish me, make me expiate my fault. I just wanted to scare her but it turned into so much more. She planned it all and we were next her next victims.’
‘You are being ridiculous.’
‘Then you find out what happened to Harold. She admitted to consuming him, she fucking ate him and if I hadn’t done what I did then you, me or both of us were next.’
‘Where is she now?’ he begs.
‘In the cellar.’
‘Jesus Amelia. It’s too dangerous to venture out now, it will have to wait and pray no one notices her missing.’
The blackness of the night is sharp and an unreal contrast as the flakes fall and lie gentle upon the tops of the cars. No creature dared disturb the night, the birds had ceased flying and even the smallest of silhouettes did not grace the piercing light of the half moon.
As I pour milk into the mug I stir in hot cocoa and take it with my hands clutching tightly to sit around the fire and sip it tenderly as I can scarcely contain my mixed feelings. To think, there I was little by little experiencing that, a secret deed, a life long passion. As Guy joins me on the floor in front of the wood fire, blazing cheerily its red reflections, remind me of the crimson liquid in the dim light. Although welcoming and glowing invitingly, the fire is overwhelming and the burning of the huge log sends light dancing all around the room and furniture as the fire cracks and pops with the oak logs burning away to ash.
‘Guy?’ my brows raise and I look at him as I sip my chocolate.
‘Don’t think about it too much,’ he orders.
‘I can’t help it; we can’t just leave her there.’ I’m overridden with guilt. I know if I had let her go our lives could be in possible danger. We could never have gone to the police with her knowledge, but I am scared. I am scared of what is to come.
‘I have a few ideas in mind, tomorrow is a new day.’
‘This needs addressing now; I will get a pen and paper.’ I rise from the floor and grab a notebook on the kitchen counter and my mind races of our plan and when I sit he wraps his arms around me. I can smell his aftershave and my hand rests on his chest to feel his heart beating against his rib cage, it is steady unlike mine but I know I’d be safe as long as he is around me. I can stay like this forever with his slow breaths against my cheek and his hands running through my hair.
CHAPTER 23
‘We need to be smart, right from the off. Do you have any ideas?’ Guy questions and I nod following instruction and give my opinion.
‘Yes, w
e could pulverise all teeth and burn off her fingerprints and disfigure her face? I can easily obtain any tools we may require from work; this will force DNA tests to be virtually impossible if it comes to that. She will be uneasily identifiable.’
‘It’s too risky’ he answers.
‘If we manage to get her back at the lab I can drain all the fluids. If we need to dismember her it could slow the decomposition.’
‘Say we go with this idea; then what?’ his mind races, we are against the clock.
‘I would perforate the body, cut the front of thighs deep and diagonally to slice the femoral arteries and pump the chest. The valves to her heart will still work even after death performing CPR.’ I panic.
‘I don’t like this idea; the risk of being caught is far too high.’
‘We couldn’t do this at home, it would block the drain. I would have to apply a fair amount of bleach; it would help kill the stench but still leaves risk to gutter openings. Controlling odours will be our main task and contrary to belief, burning candles and bowls of baking soda will not do the trick.’ I feel the urge to chuckle but withhold it.
‘This is senseless, it is a bad decision and you fail to account for most of the variables in your plan. What about the repercussions?’ Guy grabs the pen and continues.
‘With Cross, the dog had no qualms in consuming the appendage. Scavengers would consume anything small enough before anyone could know the difference. One thing is for sure she needs to be dismembered.’
‘It’s not much different than deboning a chicken. It’s quick, if you know what you are doing.’
‘Fortunately that’s where you come in,’ he winks.
‘And the bones? We would need a hammer.’
‘What for?’ he queries.
‘It would be wise to crush the bones as much as possible to aid in making the body less identifiable.’
‘Amelia, I don’t know about you, but I don’t count on her ever being found,’ he exclaims.
‘Then we shouldn’t return to the site more than once or twice; it will attract suspicion if we are to bury her.’
‘Put it this way,’ as he grabs my hand, ‘she will never be associated with this house and neither your place of work.’
‘But if we crushed her bones and sprinkled them down the drain it would avoid long term risk of her discovery and the bacteria in the sewage would accelerate the decomposition and provides a convenient cover for the odour.’ I can see by the look on his face that I was psyching myself out and over thinking the situation. Perhaps I am obsessing over nothing, but then a murder is not nothing.
‘Grinding down the body is a lot of work and we would run the risk of fouling our plumbing. How would we explain to the plumber about a blockage? I am not sure about you, but my plumbing skills aren’t up there with dissecting drainpipes and removing meat and bones.’
‘Food processor?’ I laugh. I can’t help it.
‘Too noisy, it would attract too much attention. We would have the neighbours round for free lemonade.’ The tension is less between us and we start to think methodically and assess the situation. Unless we were going to purchase several containers of bleach and be prepared to call a plumber, the house was out of the question.
‘I’ve got it.’ I stand in amazement at my sudden revelation.
‘Intrigue me Doctor.’
‘Cross… dog…’ I utter the words slowly and precisely.
‘I can’t keep visiting the dog adjacent to a murder scene and feed it a whole corpse Amelia.’ Guy exclaims.
‘No, but pigs on the other hand… Wild pigs can grow upwards of eight hundred pounds and 4ft tall. They are rampant and a thing to be feared, they will eat anything!’
‘I’m not volunteering to hand feed an eight hundred pound boar as it charges at us at fifteen mile an hour… but hyenas on the other hand.’
‘Hyenas?’ I ask.
‘Yes, we have some at the Zoo. Not holding any prejudice against them, but they too are not well served by their appearance and neither fussy with their food.’
‘Ugly beyond redemption though.’ I grimace.
‘Yes they are a discarded prototype for a giraffe, but they do indeed devour leftovers quickly and efficiently. In the Middle Ages, hyenas were believed to dig up and consume human corpses. In Green Hills of Africa (1935), Ernest Hemingway wrote about “Fisi, the hyena, hermaphroditic self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad howler, stinking, foul, camp-follower, with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves, belly dragging, loping away on the brown plain . . .”’
‘How can you be sure this will work?’
‘Drawings from 12th Century Latin bestiaries portray hyenas scavenging human corpses and I have witnessed it first hand the frenetic energy they display at feeding time.’
***
The abandoned house is exactly how I left it; not a leaf unturned and my gut somersaults as I lead Guy down into the cellar where Olivia waits. The first sign of her presence, a familiar smell, slight waving under our noses tormenting our senses as our noses twitch and as we edge closer I can see Guy instinctively holding his breath.
‘Jesus Amelia,’ he gushes and his hand cover’s his mouth in horror. Lying in front of us is Olivia. Her blood no longer pumping through her body has left it drained to the lower portions through gravity and displays her in a purplish discoloration.
‘She is only a few hours old. She is in Livor Mortis.’ I exclaim.
‘In what?’
‘Lividity, it’s the reason why she is purple. We don’t have long before her muscular tissues become rigid.’
‘When she gets stiff?’ his brows rise in question.
‘You could say that or more commonly know as Rigor Mortis. Careful, she will be cold.’ I warn.
‘For fuck’s sake, her skin looks blistered.’
‘When the heart stops, blood is unable to supply oxygen and remove carbon dioxide. The body decreases in PH and the cells lose integrity and begin their breakdown, it’s called Autolysis, and it can cause blistering to the skin.’
‘Let’s just get on with this,’ he gags.
The entry wound has congealed blood that has pooled onto the concrete floor. Olivia’s eyes are cold like coffee stains and a faint smell of bad eggs waver now and then under our noses; I know it wasn’t long before she stiffened. Her skin once glowing is now a waxy complexion and I look at her eyes remembering John that lay upon my slab and it reminded me of my conversation with Cross about corpses with names. I turn my head and see Guy opening the duffle bag and watch as he withdraws a saw. For a brief moment I am astonished at his courage it takes from someone with little to no experience to be in this environment. The whole situation seems like something from a horror film from the early days where perpetrators dissected bodies that they had taken from fresh grave sites in the early hours of the morning and carted half way across a mountain. Fortunately, I am not superstitious, but I am wondering what comes next in this mastermind plan and freak show of a Frankenstein movie.
‘Fortunately Olivia has stopped bleeding and we are less likely to leave evidence and a trail,’ Guy adds.
‘Not that anyone would notice with all the blood stain down here anyway.’
‘No, but it’s the small mistakes that get you caught. Look at “Dennis Nilsen; he managed to rack up double figures, but in the end he still got caught. Why? Although his meticulous dismembering and dumping down the drains with lime initially thought to be a good idea, just didn’t work, his plumbing overflowed.”’ Guy winks and a smile lifts in the corner of his mouth.
‘That’s how you know it wouldn’t work?’ I ask.
‘It’s not worth the risk, and boiling bodies is what got Jeffrey Dahmer caught.’
‘Yes they stink when boiled down to the bone.’ My face crumples from a not so fond memory.
‘And only two tiny teeth fragments and few strands of hair put Richard Craft
s inside, never use a wood chipper.’
‘Who would of thought we could pursue a career as criminal masterminds? You aren’t doing too badly.’ I whisper as I watch Guy dismember Olivia.
‘Some things stick and watching the people of the house clean their wild game in preparation for food was a very powerful memory and a sense of curiosity and sacredness overwhelmed me; one of my few memories from before,.’ he answers.
I look back at Olivia’s face and I feel sad knowing that she represented a human life. A life that I took. I guess we all become corpses at some stage, but I can only hope that someone, some day, who loves me will be there to tell my story.
‘That should do it, let’s bag all the parts before suns up.’
***
The ugliest and meanest dog looking creature I have ever seen is inches from me. Its thick neck and high shoulders slope to its hindquarters just like Guy described. “A discarded prototype for the giraffe.” Its coat is shaggy patched together from leftovers and its colouring is a mix of tan, black, grey and yellow with spots having none of the classy ostentation of a leopards rosettes and more like a skin disease combined with a virulent form of mange. As it laughs an evil snigger I am more aware of his broad head and high forehead suffering from a receding hairline. Its ears are ridiculously small, round and mouse like. Its mouth opens and pants with open nostrils shaking as its gait shambles back and forth along the wire fencing.
‘I have never seen a hyena in the flesh,’ I whisper disgustedly.
‘Most people consider them dog like but no dog that anyone would want as a pet I can assure you.’
‘It says here,’ as I point to the description table; “When a group of hyenas is feeding upon the prey you hear a lot of these giggles, especially during conflict between two individuals.” I shiver as their spine chilling laughter grates my skin, the only sound in the dark desolate zoo. Three adult hyenas according to Guy are all high ranking and stand before us and wait for their tasty morsels to be lunged over the fencing. As the poet Tennyson puts it, nature really is “red in tooth and claw.” As each piece is hurled over the fence the younger cubs arrive closer and closer, over-whelmed with nervousness and excitement and obvious in their bodily postures with their bristled tails and vocalisations as they grovel at the finds. One large female starts giggling and is chased by another who wants her piece.