A Heart in the Right Place

by Heide Goody

  The place was hardly busy; it was unlikely he’d be disturbed. He would just have to brazen it out if anyone came in. With some relief he peeled away the outsized, inside-out sheepskin coat. Drying blood had mixed with his sweat, making dark patches on the coat and dyeing his t-shirt an unpleasant brownish-pink.

  He gagged in revulsion. As he put the coat aside, a pocket rattled. He instinctively felt inside and withdrew a bottle of tablets with a child-proof lid. The label read, Argentum nitricum, take as directed.

  Were these the pills Oz had overdosed on before getting physical with a Black and Decker workmate? Nick didn’t want to think about it. He put the tablets by the basin and wondered about dumping the coat.

  The bin by the door, though entirely empty, was too small to take the bulky sheepskin. Nick hung the coat on a cubicle door, removing the bin’s white liner to put his own soiled clothes in. He stripped off his t-shirt, grimacing as it unavoidably brushed his face. He pulled down his trousers.

  “Ah, for f— Jesus!”

  They were even worse than he’d imagined. The increasingly sore chafing had rubbed poo into every seam and crevice of both his trousers and skin. It was like a tribe of bored toddlers had been let loose with henna dye on his lower body. He pushed the trousers into the bin bag, taking a flannel from his travel bag. He ran the hot tap and soaked the flannel thoroughly.

  Ordinarily, Nick liked to use a hot flannel as part of his shaving routine, draping it across his face to open the pores. He was never going to use this one anywhere near his face again.

  He started on the relatively safe zones: his chest and arms. Blood swirled down the drain; he felt the guilt and anxiety subside as he cleaned up. He tackled his legs and groin next. The filth came away in dried flakes and clumps. Fresh wafts of Nick-stink rose from his wet body; he told himself this was just the crap waving goodbye. He washed his groin repeatedly; each time more shit came out with it. His meat and two veg had been stewing in gravy for nearly eight hours and there was seemingly no end to the stuff. Maybe he’d need to shave his pubes off to be rid of it all. He wasn’t going to get lathered up and shave himself now but…

  “Hang on,” he said to his poor and mistreated genitals.

  He went back into his bag and found his nail scissors.

  “Yes!” he hissed in triumph, and attacked his befilthed man-garden. He cut savagely and threw each clump into the sink. This was aggressive deforestation, just short of a slash and burn policy.

  He knew he was taking longer than he should but each step towards a cleaner body was a step towards bliss and normality. Nick went back to the flannel and sluiced himself down before getting out a towel and starting on the drying process.

  Towelling himself down like a normal man – a normal man who wasn’t covered in shit and didn’t have a corpse in his boot – felt so wonderful, felt such a relief he let out an gigantic sigh. At that moment the door opened and another man entered the toilet. Nick tried to turn his sigh into a cough, suddenly conscious he was making semi-erotic noises while standing stark naked in a public toilet. The sigh-cough wasn’t his greatest work, sounding more like a lascivious “Woof!”

  The stranger, an immaculately presented young Asian man, stared at him. What should have happened was the smart young fellow stared briefly at the nakedness and the pube-filled sink before quickly backing out. Instead, he stayed immobile for an unnerving beat.

  Nick gave a pointed cough: the ultimate English act of disapproval.

  The man didn’t flinch. With a sigh, Nick carried on. If the guy wanted to feast his eyes on his naked loveliness, then Nick was in no position to stop him. The stranger turned to the cubicles. Nick averted his eyes to the mirror above the basin and finished drying his lower half.

  When he looked up he saw the stranger standing by the hanging coat, a piece of paper in his hand. The paper was crumpled, covered in handwriting and, Nick realised with a jolt, quite familiar. It was the letter he’d picked up in Oz’s house, and popped into his pocket.

  Had the man gone through Oz’s pockets.

  Nick coughed again. “Can I help you? You seem to have my letter.”

  “Oh,” said the man. “It was on the floor.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “I didn’t realise it was yours.”

  Nick gave him a look containing the right proportions of polite acquiescence and stern disbelief. He held out his hand.

  “Sorry—” said the stranger, twisting his head to look at the paper, “—Oz.”

  Nick snatched back the letter and swept it, along with the bottle of pills, into his bag.

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, in a tone he hoped conveyed it most certainly was not.

  29

  Finn tackled the car first. She’d never had to disable a Cadillac before, but it was an old model. She imagined there would be plenty of straightforward ways she could prevent them from going too much further. Sure, she could just stick something sharp in the tyres, but there was no finesse, no challenge in that.

  She sauntered over, scoping out the local area for onlookers. The car park was pleasingly empty. A stiff, near-Arctic breeze ran over the place and she turned up her coat collar against the chill. She peered in at the oddly-coloured upholstery. There were blood stains on the back seat. She wondered why a top killer like Lupo would favour such an obviously old-fashioned and unreliable vehicle, even in retirement.

  “Sloppy,” she muttered.

  She crouched by the front wheel arch and felt around inside. Her fingers brushed the smooth curve of the metal-braided brake line. She unzipped a waist pocket on her Muubaa, unfolded a multi-tool, and snipped the cable. She went to the other front wheel and repeated the process.

  As she stood, she noticed a damp scuff mark on the knee of her Zara jeans. She brushed it, but the mark wouldn’t lift.

  “Damn.”

  The car wouldn’t be going far now. If Oz tried it, he might just end up as an entertaining smear on a Scottish mountainside; one which she could swiftly dissect to remove its heart. As for the older looking chap: he was making a circuit around the car park on a cordoned-off trail just behind the line of the trees. He held the lead of an exuberant dog which pranced and pulled in every direction, apparently overjoyed to be outside. Finn walked directly towards them, multitool still in her hand.

  As Finn got closer, the dog paused for a toilet break and the old guy produced a small trowel to bury the dog’s poo. Finn was silently impressed – anyone who had a folding trowel about their person was prepared to take on the world. Her respect for Oz’s nameless friend shot up, not that it would stop her killing him. She might despatch the man with his own trowel. She’d never killed anyone with a trowel before.

  The man patted down the earth and turned his attentions to a large board with a YOU ARE HERE map on it. Finn stepped through between the trees and onto the dirt path. She took out her Polaroid and snapped a picture of the man.

  “Excuse me,” said the man, frowning. “Don’t you know it’s polite to ask if you want to take someone’s picture?”

  Finn made a vague head gesture, an acknowledgement of the question, not an answer. She wafted the picture dry and took out her Sharpie.

  “Name?”

  The man looked confused. He looked down. “Pickles.”

  She had written the P before she stopped herself. “Your name is Pickles?”

  The man looked even more confused. “My name? I’m Tony. The dog’s name is Pickles.”

  “Why would I want to know the dog’s name?” she asked.

  The man, Tony, ruffled the creature’s ears. It barked happily. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you, Pickles? You like dogs?”

  Finn wasn’t sure what the answer was to that question. She’d never owned a dog. Her parents had never bought her one.

  “I take it you’re on holiday,” said Tony, pointing at the camera.

  She shook her head. “Work.”

  He sniffed and nodded. He gestured at the cold and
mostly brown landscape around them. “Yes, I can’t quite imagine why anyone would want to come here on holiday. I’ve been dragged up here from the south by my son.”

  “Oz?”

  Tony laughed. “No, not that far. Birmingham. Might as well be Australia though. It has been a—” He exhaled, as though there were a lot of emotions going on beneath the surface and he was struggling to keep them in check.

  Finn hoped he did. She was okay with blood and organs spilling out of people. She wasn’t a fan of emotional outbursts.

  “You know, travel with someone and you learn a lot about them,” he said. “Or how little you know about them. You with someone?”

  She nodded.

  “Course you are,” he said. “Nice girl like you.” He gave her a momentarily worried look. “Didn’t mean anything by that. You seem like a nice person.”

  “I try,” she said. She looked back at the car park. No sign of Adam yet. This guy didn’t appear to be the kind to hang out with a retired contract killer. He certainly didn’t appear like a retired contract killer’s dad.

  Finn joined Tony at the map. It was a fanciful cartoon rendering of the small wood at the back of the café. It claimed a nature trail ran through the wood, featuring wildlife such as red squirrels and deer, which were illustrated on the edges of the board. Finn was fairly certain she would be able to spot any wildlife from here: it would be hard-pressed to hide in this handful of spindly trees.

  “Nice trowel,” she said. “May I?”

  “Sure,” he said and handed it over. She unfolded it and wanted to test its sharpness on the soft tissues of his neck.

  “Sheffield steel,” said Tony proudly. “Before everything was made in China.”

  She nodded. She was thinking. “I don’t actually like the guy I’m travelling with,” she said.

  “No?”

  “He wants to control everything. It’s all lists and ETAs and schedules and he wants to tie me down to, you know, his plan.”

  Tony nodded. “I know the type. Don’t tell me. He’s a corporate business type.”

  She thought about it. “Yeah. That’s it. It’s all business. Flies in from Dublin with a list of instructions and bag for the—” she gestured vaguely “—the, you know. And because he’s got his schedule I’ve got to dance to his tune. And then his handler, Col, phones up and we’ve got to dance to his tune. And that’s not how the world works.”

  “It isn’t,” agreed Tony emphatically. “Some people just live in a bubble. No concept of the real world.”

  “Right!”

  “My lad. He lives life in a dream. No, he thinks his life is a dream. He has this idealised view of how things are and how they should be and it’s never going to work out that way. Oh, his heart’s in the right place but… this weekend…” Tony sighed deeply. “He wants to have a so-called special weekend with me so he can put me in some metaphorical box.” He chuckled without humour. “And then put me in an actual box and bury me.”

  She gave him a sideways look. “You’re going to die?”

  Tony hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of conversation people had with strangers. Finn wasn’t sure.

  “Yes, I’m dying,” he said. “I have stage four cancer.”

  “Stage four?”

  He nodded. “Means I’m definitely dying. I’m still on my feet but that’s about it.”

  “And you’re okay with it?” she asked.

  Tony opened his mouth to say one thing and then seemed to change his mind. “Of course, I’m not,” he said bitterly. “I’m … I’m fucking livid. I’ve not smoked a day in my life. I barely drink a drop. And certainly not whisky. I’ve kept myself active. I’ve worked hard my whole life and done everything to care for my family. And I’m dying.”

  “Everyone dies,” said Finn.

  He studied her face. “I can’t work out if that’s profound or the most stupidly trite thing I’ve heard all day. And I’ve spent the day in the car with my son.”

  She ran her fingers along the edge of the trowel and flicked crumbs of dirt away. “Everyone does die,” she said. “We don’t get to pick the moment. And when people die, nine times out of ten, it’s in a lot of pain. Animal pain – you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “And … how old are you?”

  Tony smiled. “Old enough. I’ve had my allotted three score years and ten. Doesn’t stop me getting angry. What’s that line? Rage against the dying of the light? I’m dying and I want to stand on a mountain top and scream at the world. Look at me! Really look at me! I’m here! This is who I am! And then I can die.”

  Finn shrugged and took a good grip on the handle of the trowel. “We’re not quite on a mountain top here, but if you want to start screaming and shouting, I can do the rest.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said.

  There was a movement from the car park as she drew back her arm. A police car had just pulled in. It came to a stop behind the hired BMW, blocking it from pulling out. A woman cop stepped from the police car.

  Finn weighed options up in her mind. Slowly, reluctantly, she put the trowel back in Tony’s hand. “Nice trowel,” she said and walked away.

  She took her phone out to call Adam but it was already buzzing in her hand.

  “It’s him,” Adam whispered. “Definitely. Saw some ID. He confirmed his identity.”

  Finn found that surprising. Everything about the old guy Tony suggested they had been tailing the wrong people all day. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” he hissed.

  “The cops are here.”

  “What?”

  “Out front. Looking at our car. We can’t let Oz leave at all. Where are you?”

  “In the toilets.”

  “Then keep him there.”

  “How?”

  “Improvise,” she said and ended the call.

  30

  Nick was half-dressed. He really wanted to get away from the creepy stranger. The guy had shut himself in a toilet cubicle and was whispering urgently to himself.

  The man clearly had some interest in Nick, and Nick wasn’t deluded or optimistic enough to think it was sexual. Cottaging was, as far as he understood, a dying art and, even in the wilds of Scotland, public toilet sex aficionados would draw the line at a man recently smeared in his own crap.

  Maybe the man was a policeman? He seemed very interested in Oz’s letter. But why hadn’t he just put handcuffs on Nick and dragged him away?

  Whatever the case, Nick felt the man meant him harm. He was going to have to make a run for it at some point.

  The whispering conversation came to an end. The cubicle door unlocked and the stranger stepped out. He stared at Nick and went to the basins, barely pretending to wash his hands.

  Nick was out of time. He decided he would go without putting his trousers back on. He was wearing pants and a T-shirt. He could leave the bin bag of filthy clothes. He just needed to pick up his bag and trousers and run. It was a rubbish plan, but it was a plan. He made a big show of rifling through his bag while discreetly sliding on his trainers. He turned to bolt for the door.

  The stranger reached out and snatched his trousers, holding them up in the air, out of reach.

  “Hey!”

  “Just wait,” said the man.

  “Give them back!” demanded Nick. He had no idea whether this was a fight. Was he in a fight? He gave the man an experimental shove in the chest.

  “Ow!” The other man swung Nick’s trousers round. The button on the waistband caught Nick’s cheek. He hissed with pain.

  “Right, that’s it!” Nick swung a punch at the man’s face. An instant later he was nursing bruised knuckles while the other man roared and grabbed the wash basin. Oh Lord, this was the bit where he would tear the basin off the wall and smash it over Nick’s head.

  Nick flinched; the basin seemed to be still firmly attached to the wall.

  Nick tried to dart past. The man reached out to block him.

  The t
wo stumbled together into a cleaning cart in the corner. The man grabbed the mop from the wheeled bucket and swung it at Nick. The cloth head slapped Nick across the face.

  “Plah!” spat Nick. He grabbed a bottle from the upper tray of the trolley and squirted bright blue gloop into the man’s face. The man screamed and clutched at his eyes. The stuff stank of bleach. Nick glanced at the label and saw a skull and crossbones, and the diamond symbol which meant it was poisonous to aquatic life. If it was bad for fish, it couldn’t be great for eyes.

  Panicked, Nick snatched back his trousers and ran for the door.

  The man voiced a wild yell and blundered after him.

  Nick dodged between the neck pillows and camping supplies in the shopping area. He deliberately knocked over a large display of stacked cool boxes and watched as his pursuer stumbled and fell.

  “Oi! What you doin’?” yelled a shop assistant.

  Nick paid no attention and ran on, trousers in hand. He saw the hi-vis uniforms of two police officers by the building entrance and skidded round into the café.

  The few diners watched as Nick ran through.

  “Donald, where’s ya troosers?” someone shouted.

  “Here!” replied Nick, breathless, waving them above his head before charging out through a fire exit.

  He stumbled over a grass verge and onto a dirt path. The path! He spun round. Through the twists of the path and the obscuring cover of trees, he could see someone. A man with a dog?

  “Dad,” he breathed and ran on.

  There was the slam of the door behind him.

  A glance over his shoulder told him the other man had made it out of the building and was running blindly after him. Over to his left was the car park and, there, by the entrance some distance from his Cadillac, was a police car. Was the pocket-rummaging trouser-thief with the police? He’d hardly acted like an officer of the law.