The Dead Weight

by Zia Black

A world without her.

  The sun shone a little brighter, the breeze was a little cooler, the town was so peaceful. He could hear himself think, but not about her. He thought of a future without her, one where he could do whatever he liked without a care in the world.

  No more interest-only mortgage. He'd let the bank take it back. All he had to do was clean up. Then the estate agent would do enough redecorating to cover his tracks. They'd tear out the carpet where he'd almost stabbed Bonnie to death. Gut the bathroom where Jayne's bloated body had floated. Toss out the bed where he and his ex had had sex. And then there would be nothing left of that horrible day.

  His mind was buzzing, but his body was lagging.

  Every move made him ache. His chest hurt where the seatbelt had saved his life. The ear ringing was louder since his head had hit the window during the tailspin. As the adrenaline wore off, his body became heavier. On the last stretch to his street, he had to shuffle his sore feet. Passersby gave him funny looks, but he shrugged them off. His street was ten shuffles away. Then he'd be homefree.

  A siren.

  It was getting closer. Louder.

  Was it a fire engine?

  When he had burned her artwork, did he forget to put out the fire? He couldn't remember. He didn't want to. He was too preoccupied with the thought of his house burning down, taking the evidence with it. The bank wouldn't get a penny. Not from him, anyway. The insurance would take care of that.

  Was it an ambulance?

  He thought of the accident by the forest. The blood splatter. The bent lamppost. The shattered glass. Someone must have seen something, but no one had come to help.

  Or the ambulance was for Bonnie. The coastguard might've seen the whole thing. Neil rubbed his stubble, wondering if he should grow a beard. Going bald would also help. He'd do anything to keep himself out jail.

  Was it the police?

  And who had called them?

  Only two other men had seen inside the boot that day: Eddy and Greg.

  He called the Franklins. The phone was engaged. He tried again, but it went straight to answering machine.

  "It's..." He ended the call, the nerves increasing as the siren grew louder and louder.

  His right hand redialled, but his left snatched the phone away.

  He was waiting for Cheryl's call, he thought. Why's he not answering?

  The left hand scrolled through his contacts and called Greg. The phone rang for so long it cut to the answering machine. He shoved the phone into his pocket.

  Why's he not picking up? he thought. That knife really shook him...

  Now the siren was so loud it drowned out his tinnitus. Not that he minded. The noise was a welcome distraction from the bad feeling creeping over him. The feeling made him sweat, made his teeth chatter, made him wish he'd gone over the edge with Bonnie. At least it would've been over.

  Greg called the police, he thought. They're coming.

  The betrayal was like a knot in his stomach. He tried to massage it out, but it just released more tension into his muscles. He seized up, gritting his teeth. Eyes straight ahead, he waited for the inevitable.

  A white police car raced towards him, the siren still blaring, the blue lights flashing. Inside were two white women he didn't recognise. Within seconds the car would pass his street. He prayed it would, and prayed harder when the car started slowing down. The driver pointed his way and the passenger spoke into her walkie talkie, a frown on her face. Neil thought about running. His feet stayed put.

  The car indicated left. Then right. Then left. Finally, they swerved right and shot off down his street.

  This time his feet moved, and very quickly. They took him after the police car. He almost banged into a lamppost because his eyes were shifting between the car and his house. Each second took the car another foot closer to his house. Now his car was gone, they had the perfect place to park.

  "Keep going," he huffed. "Please! Let me have this moment!"

  The car slowed down as it approached his house and skidded to a halt. The officers jumped out and raced up his garden. The driver banged on the door and rang the doorbell. She motioned to the back, so the passenger ran round the house.

  The driver turned around.

  Neil fell against the fence, feeling light-headed. The driver's auburn, sleek locks, her blank expression, her confident walk as she approached him shook him to the core. He had to stop himself from reaching for the gun on her holster.

  "'ello, sir! You live 'ere?" He nodded. "Better talk to your wife quick before he gets away."

  "My girlfriend. Ex."

  "...You're Edward Franklin, right?"

  "No, silly woman," Eddy said. He stumbled down the steps, his wife in tow. "Me! And Cheryl!"

  The passenger led the couple back to their house. Eddy nodded at Neil before ushering the women into the house.

  Neil hurried up the garden path and pulled out his house keys. Her heavy footsteps stopped by the broken glass before treading over them. Her finger tapped his shoulder. He turned around, the keys shaking in his grasp.

  "Your neighbour reported a disturbance. Know anything about it?"

  He said, "No" but nodded.

  "Okay...Yes or no?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes?"

  "No."

  "Sir, your neighbour was mugged last night.”

  He nodded.

  “He was seen hanging around in the neighbourhood." She looked over both shoulders. "He could be watchin'. No time for games. Any info?"

  He nodded, but he didn't know why.

  “Poor woman hid in the bushes all night. He didn’t come back, though.” She eyed up his gloves. "He wore somethin' like that."

  His eyes shifted to her gun. Hers followed his.

  "Just a taser," she said with a smirk. It only lasted a moment before her blank look returned. She turned on her heel and strode away, just as Bonnie had the night before.

  She knows, he thought. She'll be back.

  He thrust the key into the door and fell inside. He kicked the door closed and curled into a ball. A puddle of tears pooled beneath his head. He bawled until his stomach ached, and kept crying until his well of tears ran dry.

  The shakes took over him. Trembling from head to toe, he convulsed. His head banged into the wall, making the tinnitus switch to a higher pitch. The pitch pierced through his head like it was drilling into him. He gritted his teeth, but the tinnitus spike grew louder. It sprouted fists and bashed his brain into mush. He screamed for help, his voice echoing.

  He lay still, frothing at the mouth. His eyes twitched. He ground his teeth until they cracked. The blood pumped so hard his veins tightened as if they'd burst. He clutched his heart, feeling the racing pulse. He willed it to go faster and faster. His life flashed before his eyes.

  His parents, wherever they were. His sister, whoever she was. His first girlfriend, now deceased. The others who followed in her footsteps, but never filled her shoes. The love he felt the day he met his ex. The pain when she never loved him back.

  For a brief moment, he pictured the children they would have had. Then he remembered the eleven men and one woman who had stopped his children from existing.

  Then he thought of her.

  "The wall's so bare," she'd once said. "I think red would look great here."

  He tore the mirror off the wall and smashed it into the floor. His left hand grabbed a shard and stabbed the wall before his right hand tore off the red wallpaper. Behind it was plasterboard. The shard tore through that too, leaving a gaping hole. He grabbed the edge of the hole and tore off piece after piece. Insulation flew about, dust covering his face. He coughed up dust, his throat burning. He dropped the knife, blood trickling down his arm.

  "The Franklins are too loud," she'd moaned one evening. "Double glazing should do the trick."

  He grabbed the mirror frame and shoved it through the kitchen window. Then he ran upstairs and kicked out the bathroom window. He barely looked at the bath coated in Bonn
ie's dry blood. His bedroom was next. He threw the fan through her window and his laptop through his. He rushed downstairs and picked up his games console. That got a kiss goodbye before it ended up in the front garden, taking the living room window with it.

  "Your cooker's so busted," she'd said on their second date. "They've got a nice one on sale...My treat."

  She never did pay him back.

  High quality electric hobs that heated within a second. A double oven big enough for two Christmas turkeys. An easy-clean grill with a free set of matching silver prongs. It was everything a girl could want, the saleswoman had said. Everything she could want, and possibly more.

  He yanked off the prongs and smashed them through the oven door. He pried off the grill, hobs and tore off the oven door. He couldn't remember when he'd picked up the box of matches, yet there they were.

  His left hand plucked out a matchstick while his right turned on the gas. He stuck his head into the oven, and watched the white spark taunt him. His fate in its hands, he begged it to stay. His fist punched in the gas button, lodging it inside.

  His hands brought forward the matchbox. The stick to the box, he closed his eyes and waited for the gas to work its magic.

  "This is it," he whispered. "It's over."

  Ding dong.

  His vision blurred. The fuzzy gas billowed around him, making his eyes sting. He coughed out the remaining air and sucked in a mouthful of gas. He retched. His hands clung to the oven and held him inside. Wheezing, he closed his eyes and prayed for death.

  Ding dong. Ding dong.

  There wasn't far to go now. His body felt heavier, his eyes sank into his head, and his lungs trembled, at war over the last breath of fresh air. Nobody won. His vessels pumped the gas around his body. The convulsions started again, shaking his hands free. He fell out of the oven and lay sprawled on the floor tiles.

  Ding dong. Knock knock.

  The police? Did Bonnie's double call for back-up? The Franklins? Cheryl just had to know what the racket was. He wished he'd killed her too. Greg? Greg and the cops?

  It didn't matter. Nothing did.

  The gas had filled the room. The hallway was next. Then it'd be everywhere. Only one matchstick stood between him and freedom. Where he was going, no one could catch him.

  No one could stop him.

  The letterbox popped open.

  He could see her lips. Was that a whiff of strawberries? He couldn't help but smile.

  "Neil? Neil, it's me. You still angry?"

  He grabbed the counter and pulled himself up. Covered in dust, he patted himself down. He opened the back door and forced the oven door back on. The gas kept hissing at him, so he whistled a merry tune to block it out. On the way to the front door, he picked up a mirror shard and smoothed back his hair. Then, after checking his breath was fresh - it wasn't - he dropped the shard and opened the door.

  Baggy, dark eyes behind cloudy glasses. Dry, cracked lips she'd bitten to pieces - one she was chewing on right now. Her hair was full of neat plaits, ruffled twists, and tangles she'd have to cut out. Her chocolately skin had faded into a drab, greyish brown. The swagger when she'd walked out on him was gone. Hunched over, frowning from ear to ear, she was the beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  "Neil, what's going on in there?"

  "Partied too hard." He shrugged. "I had no idea who half those losers were."

  She laughed nervously, glancing at the shattered glass all over the garden and driveway. "You should've called me. I would've come."

  "Forgot. Sorry." He yawned and rubbed the sting out of his eyes. "You need something?"

  She placed a hand on his jacket, caressing the leather. Her finger slipped into a tear on his side and stroked his stomach. "Haven't seen you in this for ages? One day I'll find out where you hide it."

  "One day."

  She stepped aside, showing the two suitcases and hand luggage behind her.

  "Not right now," he said. "I'm redecorating."

  "Again? How many times you gonna gut the place?"

  "How many times you gonna cheat on me?" He smiled when she frowned. "It was a joke. I just need a fresh start, that's all."

  She pulled him closer and let her lips brush over his. The sweet smell of strawberries was no match for the sweet stench of death. He shook her off and waved at the Franklins' house. Their living room curtains stopped twitching. The ones upstairs started.

  "You're still pissed."

  "No. I sobered up."

  "You know what I meant...You're still angry about the affair."

  "Your fling? I'm over the whole episode. He's not the first. He's not the last." Each time he said "he's", she looked away.

  She huffed and crossed her arms. "You don't want me?"

  He yawned again, stretching his mouth much wider than necessary. "Yeah, I guess...I'm not sure, really. The place is better without your negative energy. No offense."

  She mumbled, "None taken."

  "Stay with Bonnie." He pulled out the key from his pocket. "She left that last time she stayed."

  She snatched it and shoved it into her handbag.

  "He meant nothing to me," she said. "It was just sex. No emotions. No feelings. One quickie at the pub. That was it."

  "Nice to hear that." His brain fought out the image of her and a stranger having sex in a public toilet. "I'll need time to think."

  She nodded. "It will never happen again. I swear I'll never see him again. Or anyone else!"

  "This is your last chance. No more secrets."

  She frowned.

  "What?"

  "Jayne ran away. Bonnie got all mad. She blamed you. I didn't."

  "Doesn't it feel good being honest?" She nodded. "That's a start." He smiled, showing teeth. She flinched when she saw his gap tooth. Her face turned pale, and she placed a hand on her stomach.

  "I think I'm gonna puke."

  She stepped into the house but he gently pushed her back. He wagged his finger in her face and tutted.

  "One step at a time," he said. "Let's start with a date. How about a picnic on the beach?"

  She clapped her hands and squealed with delight, her colour returning. "Dinner? Tomorrow at seven? We could watch the sunset?"

  He nodded. "Breakfast.Tomorrow at four will we watch the sunrise."

  "It's early..."

  "Then don't come."

  "See you there." She blew him a kiss and struggled to push her luggage back down the pathway. For a moment, she looked over the empty space in the driveway before walking away, her luggage in tow.

  Neil pulled out his phone and called the plumber.

  "You again?" the plumber cried.

  "Cash. Plus extra. Just like last time."

  "I'm not complaining..."

  Next, he surfed online for a new trunk. He found one big enough. It had holes for not one but two heavy duty padlocks. He also ordered a new jacket, gloves and boots - he'd be burning his tonight.

  He sat on the front step, watching the street come alive. The postgirl rode by and tossed the local paper. He watched her toned leg muscles as she cycled off. The young milkwoman pulled up and waved, knocking over a crate of milk bottles. She cursed and dabbed the white stain on her damp breasts, the cold milk turning her nipples hard. A group of middle-aged women laughed as they strolled by. He assessed each one, settling on the one in good shape. His eyes were glued to her pert bottom in those too short for any age shorts. And then there was Cheryl Franklin, who was still watching from the bedroom window.

  "So many women, so much temptation." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Whenever, wherever, whoever she is...I'll be ready."

  ####

  Dear Reader

  Hello, I hope you enjoyed my work. Now the story is over, here are three things to consider. It'll only take around five minutes, and I'd really appreciate you taking a look.

  1. An honest review.

  Could you do me a favour? I'd really appreciate a review. Whether you loved it, hated it, or thought my b
ook was just okay, it doesn't matter. Just be honest. It doesn't have to be a long review, just a brief summary of what you thought. Thank you very much!

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  3. Keep reading!

  If you enjoyed this book, why not try another? Here's what I recommend:

  Death Trap

  Don't Run. Don't Hide. Just Die...

  The Death Trap trilogy starts with Death Trap, a twisted European thriller with a dash of crime. Wren Ives' holiday is over. She's in a packed train 400 feet below sea level with no end in sight. A cloaked figure lurks outside, the third rail is live, and air is running low. Someone wants them dead, but why?

  About the Author

  As the daughter of Stephen King’s biggest fan, it felt natural when Zia Black drifted to the darkness of crime and thrillers. Since childhood, her stories have shown the world’s twisted side. Against the predictable and mundane, she loves to be shocked and be shocking. People say it’s all been done before. Zia disagrees, and she’s ready to prove it. On most days, you’ll find Zia lurking in the shadows of her mind, fighting to bring the darkness out…

  Pen Names:

  Zia Black www.ziablack.com (crime and thrillers)

  Zhané White www.zhanewhite.com (fantasy and science fiction)

  Zada Green www.zadagreen.com (sarcastic self-help and general fiction)

  Zuni Blue www.zuniblue.com (children's books)

  Dedications

  Thank you to my family. I appreciate all the love and support you have given over the years and in the future. To you, the reader, drop the weight before it's too late.