by Heide Goody
The gate appeared strong enough to support his weight, so at least it meant he was only likely to break his bones rather than shatter the gate and impale himself on the wreckage. With a grunt he jumped, surprising his arm muscles by commanding them to support him above and beyond the normal call of duty. He got one leg over before his muscles could make any formal complaint, and rolled to the other side. He snagged his shin on a nail, suppressing a yelp of pain. He really didn’t want to attract attention from the nearby houses. “I’m just trying to get my parcel,” might not wash if he got arrested for breaking and entering.
At the back of the house there was an untidy and poorly tended garden, another bay window and a back door. Beneath the window was a large flower bed. It was overgrown and untidy. Evidently, Oz hadn’t been in the garden today, or for some time. Nick walked towards the window, pushing aside a snaking bramble which threatened to snag his trousers. He peered inside.
Again, there were bars set in the window frame, running top to bottom. This room was full of furniture, cluttered with books, magazines and papers. There was a high-backed armchair near to the window. He edged forward, trying to look down on it, and tapped his head on the glass. A dog leaped up from the seat, paws creasing the antimacassar. It came face to face with Nick. Its intelligent brown mongrel face stared at him for a second before it burst into a fresh fit of frantic barking and jumping.
Nick staggered back in surprise, the bramble caught on his trouser cuff and he ended up sitting in the flower bed. He prised himself out of the mud, scratching his hand on the bramble, and got back on his feet.
The dog continued its alarmed barking: running circuits of the room so quickly Nick half expected it to zoom up the wall. Cursing himself, the filth on his trousers and the dog’s incessant noise, Nick went back to the window. Just inside the shadow of the curtain, on the narrow windowsill, was a package. It was so close he could read the address label.
“That’s my Talisker!”
He felt ready to burst with frustration: close enough to touch it, but on the wrong side of the glass. The dog’s lunatic travels jiggled the chair each time it bounded on and off, knocking against the windowsill, rattling the package. Could the whisky survive a fall – even if it went via the chair? Nick banged on the glass. All that did was send the dog off on another wall of death routine, and smear blood down the glass from his hand. It was, he realised, bleeding copiously from the bramble scratch.
What if he just smashed the window and took his parcel? It was so tempting. The flower bed was edged with bricks – it would be a simple matter to throw one through the glass. The bars would prevent a burglar climbing in, but wouldn’t stop him simply reaching through and taking the bottle. But it was big window; destroying it seemed excessive.
He looked sideways at the back door. It had tiny panes of glass, just like his own back door. He took a closer look. After crouching down and squinting from every angle, he could see there was a key in the lock, on the inside.
What was the point of heavy duty bars if someone could smash the tiny pane and unlock door? It was very tempting. Nick could just…
He shook his head at himself. “You’re not breaking in. Seriously?”
He sighed. He was bleeding, he was dirty, he was not going to stoop to burglary even if it was to retrieve his own possessions. Even if it was possibly the key to a perfect weekend with his dad, the essential seal to their uneasy relationship in the twilight of his dad’s life…
He gazed longingly at the parcel before tearing himself away and returning home for a perfectly miserable final evening before the father-son trip.
9
Outside the Avebury Court nursing home in Birmingham there was silence. At one o’clock in the morning it wasn’t a huge surprise.
“How will we find Doreen Bingley?” whispered Adam, scanning the large, mock-Georgian frontage.
“What details did you find out?” asked Finn, not bothering to whisper.
“Mr Argyll pays her bills, so we know she’s a resident. I haven’t got a room number or anything.”
“Well, we can either hope they are prepared to come to the door and let us in,” said Finn, picking up a brochure from the covered porch, “or we make them all come outside.”
“And how might we do that?”
“We set off the fire alarm.”
“The fire alarm?”
She rolled up the brochure and pulled a lighter from her pocket.
“Oh. Right, that’s a bit...” He pulled a face. “A place like this will have their alarms linked to the fire brigade control room, you know.”
There was a garage attached to the side of the sprawling house: a brick structure with wooden doors, built in an age when cars were far narrower. A shoulder barge broke the wood around the lock. Thirty seconds later Finn re-emerged with a squeezy bottle of lighter fluid, a hi-vis workman’s tabard, and cobwebs all over her Muubaa.
She threw the tabard at Adam. He caught it and held the mouldy item gingerly in disgust. “What’s this for?”
“Looks authoritative,” she said. “Now: back door.”
She doused the edge of the brochure with lighter fluid, lit and carefully posted it through the front door.
They waited on the back lawn. It took three minutes for the alarms to go off: a shrill shock of a noise in the early morning. Lights came on almost immediately. It was another two minutes before the first people emerged.
“This way,” said Adam, waving them over. “Everyone assemble here.”
The residents shuffled onto the lawn, some with the aid of Zimmer frames. Most of them were wet as well. Obviously the building had a sprinkler system.
“Ladies this way, men over there,” Adam called. The hi-vis did indeed give him an authoritative air. “Doreen Bingley?” Adam asked each lady as they passed. He received a variety of responses, from a polite “No” through sleepy (or dementia-fuelled) confusion, right up to shocked outrage from the more security-conscious oldies.
“Who are you?” demanded one feisty old biddy.
“We’re here for your safety,” said Adam.
“Has Audrey signed you in?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“We know what elder abuse is. I’m not afraid to call Esther Rantzen.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” said Adam.
Finn left him to it and moved through the crowd. “Where’s Audrey?” she asked. A damp and scowling crone pointed out a stout woman in a towelling gown, pushing a white-haired man in a wheelchair.
“Audrey?” called Finn.
“Yes?” The woman squinted. “Who are you?”
“You see this?” asked Finn. She held up the lighter fluid so Audrey could read the label.
“I struggle without my glasses,” said the woman, squinting. “I—”
“You see this?” repeated Finn. She squirted a good quantity of fluid into the white-haired man’s lap.
“My pyjamas are leaking again!” he declared.
“See this?” Finn pulled out her lighter.
“You’re crazy,” said Audrey, finding her voice. “The police are on their way.”
“Not soon enough. Where is Doreen Bingley?”
Audrey’s brow creased. She was having trouble understanding.
Finn flicked her lighter. The little flame brought the woman’s attention into sudden focus. “Doreen’s dead.”
“Dead? When?”
“Been a week or more now. It was her heart in the end.”
“Oz? Her son?”
“Yes?”
“Seen him?”
“He’s been in a couple of times to sort out her stuff. He said he was staying at her old house. Please put the lighter down. Rob here hasn’t done anything to deserve this.”
“I need new pyjamas!” announced the old man.
“Where is he?” asked Finn.
“Who?”
“Oz.”
“I don’t know! I think he’s staying in his mom’s old place
. You know, making arrangements.”
“Do you know the address?”
“Yes, it’s Langford Drive or something like it. I—”
Finn took her picture; Audrey blinked at the flash. She tried to rub her eyes, but Finn grabbed her wrist, twisting it in a subtle but wonderfully agonising way, and marched her round to the driveway and their car. Finn whistled and waved for Adam.
By the time the blue lights of the fire engines appeared along the road, they were accelerating away, a discarded hi-vis tabard left on the pavement.
10
On Friday morning, Nick put his bag in the boot of his red Cadillac before crossing the street.
He rapped the lion’s head door knocker violently even though he knew it was hopeless. The knocker echoed through an obviously empty house. No lights had shown during the night and there had been no movement around the house all evening. Nick had watched it near constantly from his living room window, fuelling his vigil with a plate of three-day old chicken from the fridge, and a party tub of twiglets.
Now, with his guts churning in protest at last night’s poor dinner offerings, Nick stood outside number forty-two, shuffling from foot to foot. Inside, the dog was still barking. It was almost certainly hungry; starving even. There was also the strange background noise: a machine buzz he could hear through the front door.
He looked at his phone. Seven twenty. Forty minutes until his father arrived.
He considered his options. He could nip to the Londis round the corner, buy a bottle of generic whisky (or, worse, whiskey) and try to pass it off as a superior blend. The end result would inevitably be the look of disappointment on his dad’s face. Not displeasure, no – that would be easier to contend with – but the everlasting disappointment a father felt for his second and second-best son.
The alternative was a little light burglary. A quick in and out. He might leave Oz a note with an apology and an offer to pay for damages. He could even feed the hungry dog, which would surely count in his favour in whatever skewed system of karma ruled the universe.
No contest really.
Nick went round the back of the house, through the now unbolted gate and selected a loose brick from the edge of the flowerbed. He whacked it end-first into the back door’s little glass pane nearest the lock. It smashed first time. He used the brick to knock out the jagged pieces of glass remaining, reaching through and unlocking the door.
He was inside the kitchen – it was that easy! He hurried through the kitchen, pausing by the table. There was a half-eaten bowl of cereal and a hand-written letter. Oz must be an older guy – who received hand-written mail these days?
He opened the door to the next room, and the dog barrelled into him. A split second of fear followed by relief as the hairy mutt nuzzled and licked his hand.
“Hello there,” he said in his best talking to dogs and babies voice. “You been left on your own, huh?”
It jumped up, placed its paws on his chest, unsuccessfully tried to lick Nick’s face before dashing into the kitchen. Nick heard something sounding very much like a dog jumping onto the table and slurping the remains of breakfast cereal from a bowl, but chose not to investigate.
The parcel was still in the window, just behind the armchair. Nick picked it up, feeling its wonderful weight, the rich heritage and supposedly delicious flavour of a high-end Scottish whisky. He was Indiana Jones holding a golden idol; he was Carnarvon in Tut’s tomb; he was Pickles the dog recovering the stolen World Cup. He held the parcel in both hands, knowing he was grinning like an idiot, and turned to go.
The dog was back again. It pawed at the room’s other door, barked and spun in a circle.
“What’s that, Pickles? Has Timmy fallen down the well?” grinned Nick.
Another bark, another pirouette.
“No, don’t try the Lassie routine on me. I’ve got to go.”
The dog whined and fixed Nick with expressive, soulful eyes.
“What? Is your dinner through there?”
Nick sighed and opened the door. The dog barged past, into the hallway, pushing the door wide.
Nicked looked out into the hall. He stopped breathing for several long moments, and closed the door again.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d just seen. He stared at the white paintwork of the door. Pure white, like he’d pressed the reset button on his vision.
He opened the door again and stared. He didn’t know what to think. He was very sure he was in terrible trouble.
In the middle of the hallway was a Black and Decker workbench. He recognised it because his dad owned one just like it. There were several power tools clamped to the workbench. Nick wasn’t sure what they all were, but knew his dad would not only know what each was called, he’d also know how to operate them and what sort of job they’d be used for. Nick was pretty sure the scenario in front of him was not one recommended by any of the manufacturers. Each of the tools had its gouging, drilling, sawing bits turned upwards, and the mutilated remains of a man’s body lay face down on them. The whirring sound Nick heard from outside was made by several tools which were running. Some of them stuck out from the back and side of the man’s body. There was even a lengthy drill bit, still spinning, poking out through the skull.
“Oz?” asked Nick. He felt like an idiot. He felt sick.
Oz was in no state to confirm or deny his identity. Chunks of his body had splattered the walls. Blood had pooled on the hall rug, seeping through and spreading to the skirting boards. The parts left on the bench juddered with the tools’ movements, as if Oz was having sex with his workbench. The dog was licking at the dead man’s dangling hand. Perversely, Nick thought this was particularly wrong.
“No. No. This isn’t right?” he heard his mouth say.
The tools were plugged into a multi-socket extension lead. Hurriedly – like acting swiftly would make any difference to this scene of butchery – he reached under the workbench. He grabbed a cable and pulled the extension lead towards him. As he closed his fingers around the socket strip, something tugged at the body, shifting its weight. Both body and workbench toppled sideways and onto Nick’s legs; dragging him down, entangling him.
“Fuck! Fuck no!” he yelled. He flailed. If he ever recalled the moves which got him out from underneath and across the floor, he’d have invented a new swimming stroke. As he lay panting a few feet away from the tangle of workbench and body, Nick realised two things: he was plastered from head to toe in Oz’s blood and brains, and his churning guts had, during the crisis, made a unilateral decision to order a complete evacuation. Nick had shit his pants. In fear. He had no idea people could actually do that.
He stood on wobbly legs and wondered what he should do. Actually, he tried to marshal and gather any thoughts at all: he currently felt as brainless and insensible as poor dead Oz.
Obviously, the correct thing to do would be to call the police, tell them everything and rely on justice finally prevailing. He pictured how that might go. It didn’t make a pretty picture, from the trail of evidence he’d left outside, to the breaking and entering – obviously done by him as he’d left blood on the window yesterday and probably elsewhere. The police were good at finding spots of blood. They’d go all CSI on his ass.
The incriminating icing on the guilt cake was him standing over the corpse, dripping with Oz’s blood. Could he seriously imagine anyone not thinking he’d done it? Even the power tools and the extension lead now bore his finger prints.
He needed to get out of there and somehow get rid of the evidence. All of the evidence.
The dog bounded up to Nick, capering joyfully. Why did it look so pleased? It had blood on its muzzle.
It was chomping on something. The dog’s jaw worked. It looked like a sausage. It wasn’t a sausage. Nick didn’t need to do a digit count on Oz to know it wasn’t a sausage. Nick reached out to take the finger from the dog. It growled at him in an amiable enough manner and trotted away again.
“This all needs to go away,�
�� he said firmly, as though a helpful genie might be passing and offer to magically fix things. “This needs to…”
Nick was finding it difficult to concentrate with the load in his pants. Even the slightest movement squirted it sideways, upwards and out. He needed to get rid of the appalling mess.
He slipped off his trousers and removed his sticky, heavy underpants. The smell was overpowering. He searched for a clean corner to wipe himself with, but every inch was thick with the stuff. He looked around; there was only one thing available. In a piece of decision making which would give him cause for some serious introspection later, his need for cleanliness completely overrode any squeamishness he felt.
“Sorry, Oz,” he said as he backed up, felt behind him and pulled out the tails of Oz’s shirt from his waistband. Don’t think about it, just do it. He could put his trousers back on with no pants. Or he could get another pair from somewhere. His eyes slid over to Oz, and he briefly considered whether he might be able to remove and use Oz’s, but a thought tugged at him. Did people shit their pants when they died, or was it an urban myth? He decided today was not the day to find out and put his trousers back on. The stink seemed to rise up from everywhere. With a brief yipping bark, the dog ran past and grabbed his pants, whipping them away with enough force to send a backsplash up the wall.
“No! Jesus! Pickles!”
Nick chased after the dog. It ran into the front room, the one with the net curtains. By the time Nick got there, the dog had run round and coated nearly everything with smears and daubs of poo. Still the pants sagged heavily in its jaw. There was a lot of stuff to go around. Nick lunged in desperation and grabbed the pants. He needed to get them out of here. He went to the bay window. He fumbled with the latch on the upper pane. He lobbed the pants outside, lobbed them far and hard, and shut the window. He stepped back and saw he’d managed to get streaks down the net curtains.
