by Emmy Ellis
Michael held up his hand for the shape to stop. “Yes, yes, I get it.”
“Plus it gave me joy to get rid of them. Significance and all that. I thought doing them in would be scary, but we’re going to make money out of it—on top of a cheque I hadn’t expected finding on one of them. Those people down there, they got on people’s nerves for one reason or another. I liked them well enough otherwise, but there were certain things I just couldn’t let folks tolerate anymore. So there was a chance to play this game, and I took it. One more person to go and I’m done, thank God, because I’m knackered and could sleep for a week.”
Again, that casual way of speaking.
Fucking crazy… Got to be.
“We need to get some mud to cover them. Oh, and throw in the birds afterwards. The night’s work wouldn’t be complete without them.” Robert’s phone was switched off, then tossed into the hole. “There’s only one wheelbarrow and shovel, which is a bit of a shit, but you can use your hands and both of us filling the barrow will make the job go quicker.”
Michael trailed the shape to a stand of trees and watched while a wheelbarrow was wrenched out from a tangle of bushes behind the trunks. A spade was produced, and he was led to more bushes. Down on his knees, he felt for recently dug earth and began putting it into the barrow.
It took several trips back and forth, and he was conscious that time was getting on. He shuddered at the thought of previously sleeping through the night while the shape had been doing this. Not knowing he lived near a—got to be a psychopath, surely—person who was treating this whole operation as though it were nothing more than a trip to the supermarket. Something that had to be done regardless.
The magpies—where they’d come from he hadn’t seen and didn’t want to know—were tossed in. Michael imagined them cawing in life, waking him up like they did every morning, annoying him, but not to the degree they must have annoyed the shape. How had they been killed? How did you get close enough to a bird without it flying off? Did he want to know the answer?
“Gun,” the shape said. “Only a pellet, but it’s enough, if not to kill them then to stun so they fall out of the tree and I can snap their necks.”
Oh, fucking Jesus Christ…
He couldn’t talk anymore tonight. The shape seemed to appreciate that. With his suit trousers and hands filthy with mud, his back and shoulders aching, Michael moved to stand at one end of the hole and helped to heave the log back into place.
The shape, at the other end, said, “We’re not finished. You left quite a bit of mess over there. Something I wouldn’t have done, but ho hum.”
The blood.
“Michael, go home, all right? I’ll deal with this. And remember, we’ve shared our secret. I have one more job to do, then life can continue as normal, okay?”
No, it wasn’t okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
* * * *
Good old Michael. Who would have thought he had it in him?
He might have to be my number five.
I’m not sure I can risk letting him live.
What if he opens his mouth?
Chapter Seventeen
At the edge of the woods, Michael couldn’t believe he actually stopped, contemplating which way to go. What was wrong with him?
Apart from having just killed a bloke?
He wanted to laugh, really laugh, but the realisation that he could be seen and heard stopped him. He’d be insane to use the lane and walk round the front of the houses, risking someone spotting him in bloodstained clothing. So why had he stopped? All he could come up with was his mind was steadily going to mush and he wasn’t thinking straight. He had to get home before he lost it completely. The idea that someone could walk along any moment propelled him into action.
He turned left and made it to the bottom of the lane, seeing no one watching him from their windows, but that wasn’t any guarantee, was it. They could have their lights off and be following his every move, safe in the shroud of darkness their bedrooms provided. He had no clue what time it was—everyone could be asleep, and with no lights on in any of the eight houses in his row, or the five to his right, he guessed it must be well into the next day.
How time flew when you were murdering someone. What had felt like five minutes killing must have been twenty. And what had felt like an hour burying must have been several. He ached, his whole body sore right down to his toes.
He needed to hurry in case dawn showed her glaring arse and revealed him.
He moved down the alley, heart beating hard and fast, a lump in his throat so big he thought he’d choke. He unlatched their back gate, closed it then padded over the grass. The security light snapped on, a blare of brightness that he’d swear was shrieking. Or was that him? He pressed his lips together, dousing a strange whimpering that eventually died in his swollen throat. He hurried to the back door, jumping as a cat yowled and another joined it, imagining two toms circling one another, ready to pounce and fight for the female they hoped to fuck.
Me and Robert all over again.
He took his shoes off, putting them inside the blue recycle tub and covering it with the lid. He’d deal with them in the morning—providing he got any sleep.
As luck would have it he had a back door key, and he let himself in after shaking off his clothing on the patio. Debris fluttered to the slabs, some wet, clumped-together leaves and other bits and pieces. Another job for tomorrow, sweeping up the nodules of mud and whatever else had fallen off him. He went inside, the house silent save for the twang of the fridge element and the white plastic clock ticking away on the wall. He could almost convince himself nothing had happened now he was home. That he had been dreaming, that Robert still lived up the road, could still shag his wife tomorrow when Michael was at work.
How many times had they done that?
And whose house had they fucked in? Whose bed?
He locked the door then resisted switching on the light so he could see the time. His common sense arrived, and he glanced at the microwave.
Three o’clock.
He had to be up in three hours.
After removing his clothes and gloves, he put them in the washing machine and set it on a high heat setting. As well as using washing detergent he added a hefty dose of bleach. It didn’t matter that his suit would be ruined—he wouldn’t be wearing it again, even if his life depended on it. He just wanted it clean, all traces of blood removed so that when he dumped it he’d feel safer. He wished he could climb in there with his clothes, be swilled and swooshed around, the nasty redness removed and, wonder of wonders, his mind uncontaminated, free of every memory he’d added to his mind over the past few hours.
He sighed and walked through the living room, out into the hallway then started up the stairs, remembering in time to dodge the creaky step that tended to wake up his girls. In the bathroom, he finally allowed himself to bring light to the subject, blinking and squinting at the dazzle that was intent on singeing his retinas.
The mirror revealed an unforgettable, horrific sight.
How had he not felt the warm splash of blood on his face, neck, and hair? He was clean except for those places, a pin of a thin, weedy body with a red face, blond hair that was matted and half dry with pink goo, and eyes that stood out like two halves of a boiled egg on a bed of beetroot, the yolk dark brown not yellow. His mouth dropped open, and his teeth added another disturbing aspect, a white Stone Henge.
He turned away, disgusted with himself, thinking that no matter how much and how hard he scrubbed, that blood would always be there. Invisible to the outsider but glaring to him. He switched on the shower, grimacing at the exuberant sound of the motor as it ripped through the quiet. He placed bleach on the side of the bath, and, careful not to touch anything, stepped inside and got under the spray, closing his eyes and mouth so diluted blood didn’t get into them. They had a shower screen, glass, and that would save him having to detach a curtain and get it cleaned. He watched TV, he knew how blood, even t
he smallest speck, could be found and analysed. Even the drains weren’t safe from inspection.
Michael stood there for a long time.
He opened his eyes to check what colour the water was. Very faint pink. He reached for the shampoo and soaped his hair—five separate washings—scrubbing at his scalp in case some of the blood had dried there. Then he put the bottle to one side so he could dispose of that too. The same went for the shower gel—he used every squeeze of it—and once the water ran clear, he set about cleaning the bath, screen, plughole and its surround, the tiles, and his skin with bleach.
He couldn’t breathe for the stench that mixed with the steam. His eyes watered, his face and eyes smarted, but he didn’t stop until he was satisfied he was as clean as he could get.
Out of the shower, he dried, wrapped the empty bottles in the towel, then took them all downstairs to place them in the recycle bin with his shoes. The washing machine had finished—he’d been in the shower for an hour, then—so he added the suit to his pile and locked up.
He didn’t want to go to bed. Going into any of the bedrooms meant tainting his girls, that side of his life, with what he had done. He couldn’t face them until he’d thought about his actions and how they would affect their future. He opted for the chair by the window, taking the furry throw off the sofa to cover his naked self. The leather was cold on his skin, no more than he deserved, and he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
There was movement from somewhere upstairs. One of his girls turning over in bed? Getting up for a drink? How could he act the same now? How could he continue as normal after what had happened? The shape—yes, there was the shape to deal with too—and what if the bodies weren’t discovered but the police came back about Ted while Michael was home? Sarah had told him why two police cars had been parked in the street. What if he let something slip, acted oddly and aroused the police’s suspicions? What if they believed him that he’d been away from the area when Ted had gone missing, but that his twitching eye and shaky voice meant he had something bigger to hide?
God, it seemed so long ago now, him finally realising what Sarah had been doing behind his back. After seeing the way Sarah had been looking at Robert as Michael had turned into the street, the way her face had shown shock and fear at him spotting her talking to her lover—openly for once—everything had slotted into place. Oh, Michael had known for ages, deep down. Had kept it quiet because he’d only suspected. And suspicion wasn’t the same as truth, was it. Once you knew for sure, though, it appeared, in his case, that all bets were off.
But that look had told him all he’d needed to know. She’d stared at Michael that way once, after their first bout of lovemaking, and you never forgot that first gaze of adoration from a woman.
So he’d known for sure, earlier, that she’d fucked another man.
And he’d taken that man out of their lives.
But could they move on? Could he get past the fact that she’d strayed in the first place? Forget that the man’s cock had been inside her? That his lips and tongue had possibly been in places Michael had thought only he’d get to touch and taste?
Robert being gone might not make a blind bit of difference.
Michael broke down and cried.
* * * *
He woke to a pale shaft of sunlight creeping across the room from a gap in the living room curtains. It didn’t give him any idea of the time—the fog out there from Mo’s fire had screwed with his perception. He glanced at the DVD player, relieved to see it was six-thirty and he could get up for work as usual.
Things had to stay as usual.
He rose, spread the throw back on the sofa, then forced himself upstairs for another shower. Not only out of habit but to make doubly certain he was clean. The blood was still there as an invisible cowl, burning now, letting him know it had been there—would always be there.
Showered, he shuffled into the bedroom, his body heavy, his mind weary, and stared at Sarah as she slept. Her hair was splayed on the pillow, one leg on top of a quilt she’d bunched close to her body, as if she’d needed someone to hug.
He’d been that someone once.
Could he be again?
He dressed, quick and quiet, returning downstairs to make breakfast—toast, coffee, multivitamin—and moved about as normal. In the garden, he stuffed his items in a large carrier bag, less suspicious than a black refuse sack, and swept up the debris from the woods. That, he tossed over the rear fence, something he’d always done when doing the gardening. Nothing out of the ordinary there.
He took the bag inside and locked the door, went to the hallway with his bag and briefcase, and stood for a moment to take a deep inhale then blow it out slowly.
He could do this. Had to do this.
He opened the door.
Where was his car?
A sinking dread that felt like his body innards were being evacuated encompassed him. He’d left the fucking thing outside Mo’s. He cursed, and, glad that it was so early, walked up the street and round the corner. In his car, the carrier bag on the passenger seat, his briefcase in the back, he fired up the engine, peeling away from the kerb, moving forward so he could take a peek down the alley beside the end house. The top of the lane, the post box, looked the same as it always did. He did a three-point turn and drove away, taking his usual route and having a fight with his mind. It kept wanting to think, and he didn’t.
What would he usually contemplate on the way to work? Lately? Tormenting himself with images of Sarah and Robert fucking. He didn’t have to do that anymore, yet they cavorted in his head anyway, the pair of them gasping and groaning. Sarah was shouting Robert’s name, her legs spread obscenely wide, digging her fingernails into the man’s back. She bucked and writhed, and Michael grew uncomfortable in his trousers. Images of her with someone else shouldn’t have turned him on. Being turned on after what he’d done to her lover shouldn’t be happening either.
It sickened him so much he had to pull over, throw open the door, and retch into the gutter.
No, Robert being gone wasn’t going to change anything at all.
He continued his journey. Traffic was light, and even though no other cars were around when he approached a traffic-light-operated crossroads, he started to slow out of habit as the lights switched from green to amber. Something in him rebelled, and he glanced as far right and left as he could to check for other vehicles. Glanced at the lights too—still on amber. And sped up, passing the painted STOP on the road just as the red light made an appearance.
The HGV came out of nowhere.
Chapter Eighteen
Sarah rolled over. Michael was gone, and she was glad. She’d had a feeling he’d suspected something yesterday, about her and Robert, but hadn’t been able to put a finger on why. Instead of tormenting herself with it, she’d thrown herself into work. In the zone, that’s where everything fell away and she was able to just be. No worries, no nothing, just getting the job done.
She sat up, determined to get back into that zone and stick to her hours as she usually did. No more interruptions. Yesterday had been a nightmare, what with the police visit, Robert coming home, and whatever else the day had decided to throw at her. She was tired, grumpy, and in need of normality. And coffee.
A sharp rap at the front door had her bolting out of bed. At this time of the morning it could only be the bloody postman. She’d ordered a cheeky little red corset a while back, black laces, a pretty frill. Maybe it had finally arrived, something she’d planned to put on for Robert when he’d last been here. His birthday treat. Too bloody late now. As she slung on her dressing gown and rushed downstairs, she contemplated either sending the parcel back or keeping it for another special occasion. She’d have to hide it in case Michael found it, though. She didn’t want him getting any saucy ideas. The thought of doing it with him now made her go cold. A shame, some would say, seeing as they’d been quite rampant when they’d first met.
How times changed. How feelings changed.
>
It was weird, wasn’t it, how people could fall so madly in love then just as easily fall out of it. They looked back and wondered why the hell they’d found that person attractive, why their mannerisms had been so cute, when, after time had ravaged the relationship, those same things produced vicious thoughts. Sarah didn’t think she was alone in that, either. She’d seen chat shows where people had confessed to wanting to smother their other half with a pillow as they’d slept, just to stop the exasperating snoring or heavy breathing that had become so obnoxious the sound of it had skewed their minds. That the very presence of them, anywhere near you—anywhere at all—had visions of knives and guns swimming through your head, the result: your partner dead or at least injured and running a mile, never to be seen again.
If only she were so lucky.
On the last step, she paused to sigh at the fact that she wasn’t and never would be lucky enough to get rid of Michael. He’d hang around if she told him she wanted a divorce, stay in the house, a moping wretch that cited he wanted to watch the girls grow up in the same household as her, not be some out-of-the-way father who only saw his kids on weekends. Well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it; she was fucked if she’d share a house with him any longer than she had to.
Where had that thought come from? Why was she now so certain she definitely wanted him out of her life? Because yesterday he’d revolted her, that’s why. Yesterday, when he’d come back with all that guff about leaving his briefcase at home, she’d seen him for what he was. An insipid, dreadful little man who did nothing for her anymore. Nothing but infuriate the shit out of her. The love was well and truly gone, replaced by the need to get as far away from him as she could.
Opening the door, she peered around the edge, hiding her pyjama-covered body even though whoever was knocking had probably seen her state of dress a million times over.
