by Alan Baxter
“Two?”
“They will keep indefinitely,” Dace said, grimacing. What were the bodies even for? Would anyone need more than one?
The caller was silent again for a moment, then he said, “I’ll have to call you back.”
He hung up without waiting for a reply and Dace held the inert phone for several seconds, breathing hard. Eventually he hung it up and went into the lounge, sat heavily on the couch, and waited.
It was an hour later when the phone rang again. Dace jumped up to answer it. “Hello?” In his excitement, he forgot to use the Macedonian accent.
“Mr Nikolov?” That same gravelly voice again.
Dace sucked in a breath. Don’t blow it. He could use this. “Just a sec.”
He took the phone away from his ear, half-covered it with a palm and called out, “Grandpa! Phone.”
He paused another few seconds, rubbed the handset like one person was passing it to another, then put it back to his ear. “Hello, is Nikolov here,” he said in his terrible accent. He thought he sounded like an Arnold Schwarzenegger parody, more like bad German than anything. He needed it to dial it back.
“Mrs Blumenthal has considered your offer. You say it’ll keep? After all, it’s potentially a long time between rituals.”
“Of course. Stay in the box, keep somewhere cool and dry, no problem.”
“How long will it keep?”
“Indefinitely.”
“And sixty for both, you say?”
“Yes, yes. Special, for your inconvenience. To show I’m so sorry.”
“Very well,” the man said. “I will come at noon tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your understanding. One other thing.”
“Another thing?”
“A small thing, nothing to worry about. The young man who answered the phone, my grandson. He will be here to complete the transaction. I will be organising trip, for our emergency. So sorry, but everything will be ready for you to collect. You give him the money, he gives you both, yes? All okay?”
“What’s your grandson’s name?”
“D... David.”
“David Nikolov?”
“In English, yes. He prefers David. That’s it. He’s a good boy. Well, a man now, I always think of the boy he vas.” Jesus, keep it simple, dickhead!
“Very well. We’ll see David tomorrow.”
Dace went and sat back in the lounge, almost vibrating. He’d done it! He would have sixty grand by noon tomorrow, nine hours before Carter’s deadline. No, better than that. He’d found eleven grand already and he’d get to keep that. He would be out of trouble with Carter and eleven grand up on the whole debacle. That made it all worthwhile.
Killing two people? Was it worth that?
And Baby, driving that wire through her eye in suicide. Was it worth that?
He took a deep breath. He couldn’t change anything that had already happened. He could only keep moving forward. He needed to pay Carter to save himself and his family, simple as that. And he had a little less than twenty-four hours to get organised. He needed to get those bodies down from the attic and put them in the boxes Nikolov had prepared. He looked down at his baggy Freddie Kruger jumper, saw it had brown stains on it, no doubt Nikolov’s blood. He needed to change. But he also couldn’t risk being seen coming and going from this place. He would need to stay until everything was taken care of, then slip away with the money, never to return. Let anyone find it later, or not. He didn’t care.
Bracing himself, he went back into Nikolov’s room. Already the stink of death was beginning to rise from the two bodies he’d stashed there. He lifted the old man, still rolled in the rug, up onto the bed next to his wife. Then he dragged the doona out from under them and laid it on top, then added a blanket he found in the wardrobe, covering them both as thoroughly as possible. He only needed to mask the smell of their decay until after the pick-up had been made the next day, then he’d be gone.
“You two got what you fucking deserved,” he said to the lumpen bed, and turned away.
Nikolov was taller than him, but not by much. His pants and boots were okay, and if there was blood on either, he couldn’t see it. He pulled off the Freddie jumper and stuffed it into his backpack with the rubber mask, then rummaged in Nikolov’s stuff until he found a black woollen pullover. He put it on. It was a little long in the body and the sleeves, but not ridiculous. It made him look smart enough.
He went to the bathroom, stripped everything off and had a hot shower, trying to feel vaguely normal again, then redressed. In the spare room, he lay the two boxes on the floor side by side and found their matching lids. Then he put aside a drill and screws to secure the lids on. He looked at his hands as he moved these things around and realised he’d need to take off the gloves when the buyer arrived, or he’d look suspicious. He’d have to be careful not to touch anything, or remember what he touched, when that time came.
He went back up into the attic and stood beside the corpses. He didn’t want to handle them but had no choice. He glanced back at the attic hatch and wondered how the hell to get them down. The hatch was large, but not huge. Maybe a fireman’s carry over his shoulder? They were young, and rail thin. Swallowing, he slipped his hands under the first one and carefully lifted her. She weighed very little and seemed stiff, rising in his arms like a plank of wood. As he turned, she sloshed gently. Dace froze, bile rising in his throat. He tipped the body left and right and felt some liquid shifting back and forth inside her.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, but tried not to think too hard on it.
She was too stiff to lay over his shoulder, but he managed to hold around the hips with one arm, pressing her against his body, and use his free hand to carefully descend the ladder. He kept his face away, though her cold, white flesh pressed against his cheek. She smelled musty, but spicy. Some almost enticing odour. He hurried to the spare room, laid her in a box, then returned for the other. In a few minutes he had them both down, the ladder folded back up and the attic hatch closed.
He stood with the drill in his hand, about to secure the lids, when he imagined the buyer asking to see the merchandise. It wouldn’t be an unreasonable request. He put the lids on loosely, and left, closed the door behind him. Now there were bodies in all three bedrooms of the house. What an absolute fucking nightmare.
It was a little after three in the afternoon and he was finished. All he could do was wait until noon the next day, in a house with five corpses. He desperately wanted to leave, go home, go anywhere. But he didn’t dare. So he went into the kitchen, found cleaning products and took care of the last bit of Nikolov’s blood on the floor and coffee table. He saw his kitchen knife just under the edge of the couch, forgotten where it must have been knocked in his struggle with the old man. He took it to the kitchen and put it on the table with his backpack, so he wouldn’t forget to take it when he left by the back door again after all this was over. He thought about going outside to feed the numerous guinea pigs, just for something to do, but even being spotted in the garden was too much of a risk.
He watched TV instead. As his hunger grew, he searched the kitchen again. He found some frozen fish fingers in the freezer compartment of the old Crosley Shelvador and grilled them, ate them with the last of the Wonder White bread. Time rolled on and he watched more TV. He discovered some half-decent whiskey, a Glenlivet 15, that was a little more than half full and he made the most of that. By a little after ten he was asleep on the couch.
He dreamed of the fall again, bodies twisting as they tumbled down, some thrashing their many limbs, some inert, seemingly already dead. He stood on a slick beach, watched the red hole in the sky vomit forth multitudes. He turned, saw more falling over the thick vegetation of gum trees. He saw a large curved back rise and fall in the trees, like a whale cruising the ocean. Sasha, his dream-self cried weakly.
He woke with a hangover a little after eight. The dream was gossamer, fleeting as consciousness returned. How could Baby have the same dre
am? Why did Nikolov want her to open herself to it? He shook his head. Some questions didn’t need answers. Maybe the answers would be more disturbing.
He found coffee grounds and a stove-top percolator in the kitchen and made strong coffee. He drank the whole pot, felt jittery but better for it. He was hungry again, but there was nothing else in the house except the guinea pigs. He didn’t feel like boiling up vegetables for breakfast, the only other option. He stood before the rack of roasted rodents, grimacing. They ate these in South America, didn’t they? Was it really so weird?
He reached out and plucked a chunk of meat from one small, rounded thigh. It was a little grey in colour, more oily than he had anticipated. The skin and the texture of the meat reminded him of Cantonese duck dishes he’d had on a trip to Sydney years ago. The taste wasn’t dissimilar to duck either, rich and slick, but chewy. So little meat to the thing, all close to the small bones. Despite his distaste, he ate about half of one, left its denuded bones on the rack and turned away. Appallingly, it had settled his stomach from the previous night’s excess of whisky. He supposed any greasy breakfast sufficed as a good hangover cure.
He killed more time watching television, made another pot of coffee. As the time drifted around towards noon, he became more agitated, more nervous. At twelve on the button, there was a rapid knock at the door.
Dace sucked in a breath and jumped up, turned off the TV. A mirror on the wall in the hall showed his pale, stressed face as he glanced at it in passing. He took another moment, composed himself, forced his shoulders and jaw to relax. A shadow outside the frosted glass remained motionless. Broad shouldered, similar in height to Dace.
He slipped off his gloves and opened the door and smiled. The man was maybe in his fifties, close-cropped grey hair, receding a little from a high forehead. He had a square face, strong jaw, brown eyes. He wore a neat suit, shirt but no tie, shiny shoes, and carried a smart leather attaché case. He smiled and seemed immediately harmless and friendly. “David Nikolov?”
“That’s right. Grandpa said to expect you. Everything’s in order.” Dace stepped back, gestured inside, eager to close the door.
“I’m Talbot, Mrs Blumenthal’s representative.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr Talbot.”
“Just Talbot, thanks.”
“Sure, okay.” Dace closed the door and stood a little awkwardly.
“Nikolov has never mentioned you before,” Talbot said, the smile fading.
“No, he wouldn’t have. He keeps his business entirely to himself, even though me and my father are always around to help out. These are unusual circumstances for us.”
“The family emergency.”
“Yes. Grandpa asked me to offer his heartfelt apologies.”
“Your father is here too?”
“No, just me.” Don’t say too much, Dace told himself. The best lies were simple. If you loaded a lie with details, you made obstacles that were liable to trip you up.
Talbot stared, unblinking. Dace became uncomfortable again.
He swallowed. “Grandpa said you’d agreed on two for sixty?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, cool. You want to see them? I didn’t seal the lids yet.”
“Of course.”
Dace nodded, forced a smile. He gestured into the spare room and followed Talbot in. The man crouched, put his case on the floor beside himself, and looked carefully at each girl’s body. Appallingly, he reached between their legs, forced his hand in and leaned close to look. Dace grimaced but held his tongue. Who knew what the fuck the man was checking for.
Talbot nodded, picked up his case again and stood. “Your grandfather is offering us a very good price here.”
“He feels terrible about the change of plans and the position he’s put you in. He’s a proud man, values professionalism, and wants to make it up to you.”
“Hmm.” Talbot stepped aside and gestured at the boxes.
Dace took up the drill, reminding himself to take it with him when he left, as he’d removed his gloves. He set the lids, quickly drilled screws into each corner, a couple more evenly spaced along each long side. Then he stood and smiled. “I’ll help you out with them?” This was the part he’d dreaded, where he might be seen outside, even recognised.
“Not necessary, thank you. My driver will help me.”
Dace nodded, tried to keep the smile from his face. He could stay indoors, after all.
“But in a moment,” Talbot said. “The paperwork first.”
Dace paused. “The... paperwork.”
“Yes. They’re useless without the incantations.”
Dace laughed, heart hammering. His mind raced. “Of course, sorry. Grandpa left that stuff in the kitchen. This way.”
Talbot frowned, but followed him from the room. Dace’s head spun, the jitteriness from the coffee redoubled, he was lightheaded, dizzy. What the hell could he do? This close, there was no other choice. He had mentioned the kitchen before his conscious mind even registered the plan.
He walked directly up to the kitchen table and closed his hand around the handle of the knife. Without pausing to think further, he turned. Talbot was a few paces behind, paused in the doorway.
Talbot frowned, looked down at the knife in Dace’s hand and said, “What–” then Dace slammed the blade into his chest, right to the hilt.
Talbot managed to get one hand half up to block the blow, but it wasn’t enough. He cried out, blood bubbling over his lips, but his eyes went wild, his expression feral. He thrashed Dace with both hands, the blows battering into Dace’s face and head. A whistling whine curled in through Dace’s left ear and his vision crossed, darkening from the edges, as one of Talbot’s hands cracked into his jaw.
“Fuck!” Dace yelled, and his voice was slurred.
Talbot pushed away from him, the knife sliding free with a wet suck. Dace staggered back as Talbot made a burbling cough then came at him again. The man swung large, strong arms, raining blows again.
“Fucken die already!” Dace screamed, raising the knife and plunging it down again and again. He felt it hit Talbot’s arms, the blade grate along bone. The man roared in pain and anger, but still fought.
Dace backed into a chair and it folded the back of his knees. He went over, the chair tipping with him, grinding painfully into his arse and the back of one thigh. Talbot fell on him, slamming elbow strikes with one blood-soaked arm into the side of Dace’s head. Something cracked like a gunshot near his eye. Consciousness was fleeing, the blackness closing in on Dace’s vision like twin tunnels of night. The man’s blood was hot all over his face, his hands were slick with it. But he still held the knife. He raised it and stabbed it down into Talbot’s back. The man arched away with a roar and Dace stabbed again and again.
Finally, Talbot fell still, collapsed limp on top of Dace as he lay bent awkwardly over the chair. He gasped for breath, desperately trying to stay conscious. His head rang from Talbot’s blows, from the exertion.
He heaved, the chair grinding into his lower back as he forced the dead man off him.
“Fucking hell!” Dace said, though the words were mostly sobs.
He was soaked in Talbot’s blood, and more spread in a rapidly widening pool across the black and white kitchen floor.
Dace staggered to the sink and ran the taps hard, washed his face and hands. He pulled off the jumper and shirt, left them in the sink as he rinsed his neck and shoulders. His head ached, all around one eye and cheekbone hurt like hell, made him hiss at the slightest pressure. His vision was blurred that side.
“Broke my fucken face,” he said. He wondered if it was his cheekbone or the orbit of his eye that had fractured. It felt like both. But a kind of elation coursed through him. That was some fight, and he’d won. It felt good.
He found a black plastic bin liner under the sink and put his blood-soaked clothes in it. He’d worn them, there might be DNA evidence, so he had to take everything with him. He rolled the kitchen knife up in them t
oo, then stripped naked right there at the sink. He put all the clothes in the bin liner, left it on the kitchen table.
Talbot had dropped his attaché case in the kitchen doorway during the fight. Dace crouched, grimacing at a stab of pain in his butt and upper leg from the bruises the chair had left, and popped open the clasps. It was crammed with neat wads of bright green one hundred dollar bills. A quick count confirmed there was exactly sixty thousand dollars. He whooped. “I fucking did it!” he yelled, then winced at his throbbing face.
An icy pulse in his chest accompanied a sudden memory.
Not necessary, thank you, my driver will help me.
Dace licked his lips, mind racing once more. He hadn’t noticed a car or anything when he’d let Talbot in. He took the case with him and limped into Nikolov’s bedroom, found shirt, trousers and shoes. They were all a little too big, but they’d do. He jammed Nikolov’s drill into his backpack, took out the eleven grand he’d found and stuffed that into his pockets. He pulled out the Freddie mask and striped jumper, put them aside. Then he jammed the pack into the bin liner. He put his gloves back on and wiped the front door handle, the bedroom door, the wooden caskets, then the taps in the kitchen. Sure he’d covered all his tracks, he went into the bedroom with the caskets and cautiously lifted the edge of the curtain, peeking out into the bright daylight.
A large white van was parked at the kerb right outside. In the driver’s seat was a tall, thin man, skin white as toothpaste. His face was long, his toothless mouth slack as he stared directly ahead. He wore overalls with a huge baggy jumper underneath. The sleeves stopped before his thin wrists, his strangely long-fingered hands resting on the steering wheel. He sat stock still, waiting.
“You have to be kidding me,” Dace whispered.
Sasha’s story, in the boat before everything turned to shit.