“It’s all right for you, eh? Not a care in the world,” Alex said, grabbing a fold of his coat and giving it a shake.
Bentley opened his eyes momentarily, then closed them again. Alex took a sip of beer and thought briefly about life with Suzanne as the sole breadwinner but dismissed it just as quick. He knew it would put too much strain on her. She was still coming to terms with their latest loss, they both were, and Alex feared more bad news might just tip her over the edge. And she had just taken a pay cut to work longer hours. It wasn’t an option.
He needed to find something else but he had no idea what. He began as he always did in situations like these when things seemed bleak. He concentrated on the positives. They were blessed enough to own the cottage outright with no mortgage to worry about. The same cottage that Suzanne grew up in as a child, left to her when her father passed away four years earlier.
From the front, the cottage had a cosy, ambient feel about it. The white stone walls contrasted nicely with the pastel-coloured hills that appeared to merge above the roof. The inside needed a bit of work but it was still a cosy space. The decor of varnished wood, bare, stone walls, wood-burning stove, and sunken upholstery of charcoal grey gave the living room a rustic feel that led neatly through the arch into a reasonably sized open kitchen with hardwood countertops, a wooden table and six wooden, high-back chairs. There were exposed areas of copper piping in parts, the floorboards along the hall and to the entrance of the bathroom were in need of repair, and any newcomer to the cottage would have to watch their step at the entrance. The bathroom was impressive with the walls, floor, and a deep bath fashioned with mosaic tiles in shades of blue that the Turks would be proud to call their own. Suzanne made good use of the space.
An acre of largely unused land sat around the back where he now sat. He imagined himself tilling the land with his shirt off in bright sunlight, surrounded by an impressive array of fruit and vegetables that would make any farmer proud. It was something they had talked about, being self-sufficient, but like many things, never got round to. Maybe he could suggest it again now. It just might be the kicker needed to soften the blow of bad news.
And that was as far as he got when he realised what he was doing was just wishful thinking. There was no way he could sustain a decent living off an acre of land.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said with thoughts of how Suzanne would react to the news. He raised the bottle to his mouth and absently scanned the land with his eyes.
Unless he came up with a realistic approach to making money, anything else would prove little comfort for Suzanne. He shook the frustration from his head and let the beer fill his mouth. He almost choked. Some of the fizzy liquid found its way down the wrong track, forcing the beer out in a fine spray. Some spilled from his nose. Bentley raised his head and waited for the coughing to stop before resting back down. Alex finished off the dregs from the bottle.
Having sat on the veranda for the guts of an hour and unable to think up anything of substantial value, he decided to have one more beer before Suzanne got home. He got up from the bench and entered the back door to the kitchen. Bentley jumped up just as quick. He took a third bottle from the fridge and re-entered the porch with Bentley by his side.
Alex leaned over the rail, holding the bottle in both hands, and looked out to nature for some much-needed inspiration. The scene in front of him was one of true beauty and reminded him again that there were still things to be thankful for in tough economic times. The silvery light of the moon shadowed the hedgerow of trees and brambles that partitioned the land from the surrounding countryside and the sound of the stream just beyond the hedgerow added to a tranquil atmosphere.
One dark silhouette suddenly caught his attention, discreetly tucked in behind the hedgerow toward the end of the plot near the brook. There stood a disused septic tank. It had fed from the cottage before the main sewage pipes were installed.
Had the beer gone straight to his head? Hardly, after two bottles and one mouthful of the stuff, but Alex had a clear perception of how he might save his business.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. What do you think, Bentley? Shall we give it a go?” He looked down at his dog.
Bentley barked once due to Alex’s fingers tickling him behind his ears and then rubbing his face.
“Good boy, Bentley. Let’s just keep this between you and me, eh?”
If Suzanne knew what he was thinking about doing she would go ballistic, saying he had lost his mind. If anyone else found out he would surely lose everything and probably face a prison sentence for breaking every environmental law in the book, and then some. Desperate times called for desperate measures so long as the measures taken did not hurt anyone, and Alex had no comprehension that what he was about to do could hurt anyone.
Forty-five minutes after leaving the hospital, Alex rolled the van down the side of the cottage. He took the verge at the far side of the cottage to hide the line of tyre tracks that stopped metres from the stream. Alex parked up the van at the end of the tyre trail and double-checked that the handbrake was on before getting out. As he moved to the back of the van, he noticed the tyre tracks becoming more prominent, the grass was disintegrating and patches of dirt were visible on the surface. It was just a matter of time before Suzanne noticed the tracks and became curious.
If Suzanne came down and passed around the hedging bushes she might only discover the pit and the burnt-out oil drum, and Alex could probably talk his way out of trouble, promising not to do it again. However, depending on what way the wind was blowing and if she decided to follow her nose then she would discover that the disused septic tank was no longer a disused septic tank. Then he would have some explaining to do.
He opened the back doors and took a set of overalls from the shelf he’d installed, slipped them on over his clothes and began to unload the van to his relatively new waste disposal site.
He put the yellow containers comprising of shards, etc., into a pile and tossed a shovel in its general direction, away from the stream where the soil was too moist to dig. Next, he unloaded a canister of petrol and the yellow bags containing the infectious waste. He squashed the bags into the oil drum, doused the bags with petrol and set the drum alight. It would take roughly two hours for the contents to burn down, plenty of time before Suzanne got home. Satisfied that the fire was doing its job, he put the yellow containers into a couple of black plastic bags and buried them two feet deep in the soft dirt. It was a temporary measure until he came up with a more innovative solution to the problem. He didn’t like the idea that he was turning their land into a shard and drug-infected landfill site but for now it was out of sight and out of mind. He turned the radio on when he put the shovel back in the van, in the hope that some good music would distract him from the final phase of his waste management programme, though any music would do.
He covered his nose and mouth with a dust mask before unloading the dreaded red bags, the ones that contained the anatomic waste or body part bags as Alex viewed them, given the stench of its contents.
He brought the bags over to the septic tank and retrieved a stepladder, which lay up against its side. He climbed the stepladder and squeamishly detached the lid on the top of the tank, holding his breath in anticipation of the pungent smell. With the lid off, he grabbed the first of the red bags and ascended back up the ladder. He held the bag carefully at an angle over the opening, took a carpet knife from the back pocket of his overalls and exposed the blade half an inch. Then he stabbed the corner of the bag. Maroon dots splattered the surface of his disposable gloves and the sleeves of his overalls as he cut into the bag to widen the tear. The lobulated liquid spilled and plopped into the opening, producing a splash that echoed throughout the tank. Some of the spill trickled down the body of the tank to the underneath and dripped to the ground in prolonged intervals, cultivating a dark discolouration of the soil
beneath.
With all the bags finally emptied into the tank (some spilling down the outside more than others), he put the stepladder back in its place, gathered up the empty bags and tossed them into the burning drum. He watched the flames flash in colours of orange, blue, green, and red to the sound of hiss and crackle. The job was almost complete. He hastily wiped down the side of the tank with disposable cloths from a bag he kept in the van and tossed them into the fire. He then went round to the far side of the tank where he had made the only alteration to its structure.
Knowing that the tank would eventually fill, he had installed a drain valve, drilling a hole in the bottom left side of the tank close to the ground, using a core drill bit two inches in diameter. To that, he fitted a lever-type open and shut-off valve with a piece of piping directed into a furrow, dug two meters long which ran down to the stream. He never considered something would clog up the hole and had had to punch another one in less than a foot above the first.
Alex opened the valve but had to wait a couple of seconds before the dark liquid seeped from the pipe and into the furrow. He watched with antipathy as the slurry slowly rolled over itself, picking particles of clay from the sides of the furrow and turning it over as it made its way slowly into the stream, not unlike lava coursing to the sea. He left the valve open for a further few minutes while he got out of his plastic overalls and burnt them, too. He went back and turned the valve off with his foot, careful not to get any of the seepage on his shoe, then reversed the van back up to the cottage. He looked forward to taking a hot shower and getting the dinner started before Suzanne came home. He also considered how he might go about relaxing her.
29:
“Something holy this way comes.”
Tanya Tate walked her six-year-old son, Aran, by the hand after his swimming lesson at the local leisure centre. He had a bag strapped over his shoulders with his towel and swimming stuff in the pack. It was a twenty-minute walk to reach the top of their road in the quiet cul-de-sac suburb of Farnham.
The end of the cul-de-sac, where Tanya’s house was situated, arched in a semi-circle, spacious enough for cars to turn without the use of reverse, provided no cars were parked on or near the curb, a rare occurrence. A short lane divided the cul-de-sac that led through to a main road, a handy walk to the church, the local pub, a convenience store, a few fast food outlets and a bus stop that provided frequent transport to the city centre. Aran’s primary school was a five-minute walk in the opposite direction to the local amenities, one of many reasons why Tanya had bought the house. She still pinched herself every time she thought about her unexpected good fortune.
Hers was No. 98, the second house to the left of the lane. It was one of six well-spaced detached houses that surrounded the circumference of the semicircle development. A further twenty semi-detached houses lined either side of the road up to the T- Junction where Tanya and Aran had just turned in. The total number of houses on the estate numbered two hundred-sixteen.
Tanya loved where she lived; she felt safe there. It was a community made up of mostly young families, which meant plenty of friends for Aran to play with. The cul-de-sac provided a safe environment for the kids as evident from a scatter of children’s toys left out at the end of driveways and on the grass verges of the path, certain to remain untouched come morning. A plastic picnic bench, a couple of go-carts, a few footballs and two scooters were some of the abandoned items left out on the street. By nine the next morning they would all be on the move again. Saturday’s were always a hive of activity that time of the morning.
At forty-three, Tanya was a single mother and the successful author of a series of five children’s books. The books were about a cheeky little boy called Oliver who finds a magic flute in the attic of his new home. He then sets out on a spree of mischief involving oddball characters who lived and worked in a small rural village called Tickerdick. The books appealed to children and adults alike. Pages of magic filled with bold, colourful pictures excited the kids, while the splattered folly of sexual overtones and innuendos appealed to the adult sense of humour.
No one was more surprised than Tanya when her first book, Oliver Toute and his Magic Flute, reached the number one spot in children’s literature and remained in the top ten for a further thirty weeks. She started writing because she got bored with reading the same stories to Aran and thought it would be amusing to create an adult friendly bedtime read and have a quiet giggle. Tanya incorporated four short stories for each book; each verse was allocated one page to allow plenty of room for illustrations to visually represent the action.
In Oliver Toute and his Magic Flute Go to School, Tanya writes:
It was the first day of school for Oliver Toute, who sat at the table and ate his food.
He had porridge with milk and pieces of fruit; Mummy said school would be a hoot.
Oliver, he just couldn’t wait to get to the school and say bye at the gate.
“Please, Mum, can I take my flute?”
“Okay, my dear, but we mustn’t be late.”
The school was nice, the other kids great, Oliver, he just couldn’t wait.
The teacher came in, her name Ms Crow. She had grey hair and a big bulbous nose.
She looked quite scary when she entered the room. Oliver was relieved not to see a broom.
Her dress was long, her jumper woolly, she looked too old to be a mummy.
Ms Crow told the class to shush. With some creepy stern looks, she said Take out your books!
All the kids did as they were asked. It was very quiet throughout the class.
No one wanted to make a sound, for old Ms Crow would surly scowl.
Oliver didn’t think school was much fun, when old Ms Crow made them do their sums.
Mummy said school would be a hoot. Oliver thought about his magic flute.
He wondered what his magic flute might do. Perhaps turn Ms Crow into an old rotten shoe.
What about a dog, a hog, or a slimy green frog, a bat, a cat, or a big hairy rat.
But what if it turned her into an ant, then they could play and do what they want.
Oliver stealthily took out his flute, gazed upon it thinking “What a beaut.”
A magic toute would see him right, until Ms Crow caught line of sight.
“Oliver Toute, I want you to stand.” Oliver Toute had his flute in his hand.
“Put it away this instant, Oliver Toute,” Miss Crow bellowed about his flute.
“There is a time and a place to play with your flute, to play with it here is just plain rude.”
Oliver did as he was told, not wanting to appear so bold.
Oliver went to tuck it away, but his magic flute had something to say.
Just one toute on his magic flute, will stop old Ms Crow being such a brute.
Oliver put the flute to his lips, blew it hard, a screeching pitch.
All the children turned to see, old Ms Crow fall down to her knees.
And right before their very eyes, old Ms Crow turned into a swarm of flies.
The flies they scattered this way and that, it was much better than a dog, a hog, or a slimy green frog, a bat, a cat, or a big hairy rat.
They opened the windows and the door. All the children began to roar.
They laughed and jumped around with glee as old Ms Crow was soon set free.
Mum was standing at the open gate, hoping Oliver’s first day was worth the wait.
Oliver came out with a smile on his face, lots of new friends running about the place.
“How was your day?” Mum said with a hug. Oliver looked so very smug.
“The school was nice, the other kids great. We get a new teacher tomorrow. I just can’t wait.”
Aran was the welcome result of a one-night stand. Tanya met Aran’s father at a hotel while attending her b
est friend’s wedding. They met in the residents’ bar and got talking. He was on business and staying at the hotel for one night only. She had no idea if he was married and did not care to ask. He introduced himself as Bo, both parents Jamaican, said it meant handsome. Tanya didn’t doubt him. He worked as a quantity surveyor, a very active one by the look of him. He had a fit body that got fitter with every glass of wine. As soon as Tanya made up her mind to sleep with him, she switched off and stopped listening. She asked for his room number and when he told her she took him by the hand with a seductive smile. It was her first time to sleep with a man of Caribbean origin or any colour other than white. She wondered if he might be too big for her and secretly hoped so.
After a night of pure lust, escalated by the fuel of alcohol and gratification, Tanya left him asleep in his room without so much as a note or number. After what she had allowed herself to do and partake in, it was impossible to see him again. Saving face was much too important for Tanya and she hoped he would have checked out by the time she awoke with her hangover. She also hoped the discomfort between her thighs would disappear in time for the afternoon trip into the local town; it hadn’t, but the remembrance of events left a smile on her face for the rest of the day.
Tanya decided Aran’s father was going to be whoever Aran wanted and frequently told him exciting stories of how they met. She thought fondly about her naughty encounter with Bo and regularly thanked him in her prayers for providing her with a small piece of heaven. Part of her felt sorry for him that he would never get to know his child and see for himself what a beautiful little treasure they had made. Aran was her whole world and she was his. She was slim and attractive for her age but wasn’t much interested in finding a sole mate once Aran was born. There was always something about the men she dated, none of them quite good enough.
The Ice Scream Man Page 19