by Karen Botha
He sails on for a good hour before feeling confident enough to pull over and formulate a new plan. Berating himself for not having prepared for this situation, anger at no-one other than himself rages like a tornado bomber through from his stomach, manifesting out of his mouth in a terrifying roar.
He stands at the wheel, panting, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He stays like that for two minutes before mooring up and pulling out his copy of the waterways map. Laying it on the laminated table in the kitchenette, he plants both hands either side of the paper and hovers, scouring for an area that isn’t overlooked. It’s difficult, there is an array of new houses and flats that have been built in recent years, and if it’s not those, there’s a bunch of supermarkets or their distribution centres.
He slaps his palm down on the map. That’s it. A secluded area in Savile Town.
A few hours later he approaches the spot. The tow path has disintegrated into no more than two intersecting mud channels through a grass track. The other side is overgrown with barren trees, which mask a road. There is a bridge, but it appears mainly unused.
Mitchell sails up to the undergrowth and spots space under there for the bodies he has on board. They’ll likely be discovered by a dog walker, so the issue of giving more dignity to these people in death than they did to others in life is covered. But, it’s not ideal.
In the end, the matter of there being no cameras trumps the deal, and he trundles off to get some sleep before his day starts again in the middle of the night.
Mitchell
Mitchell’s alarm screams at midnight. The siren has him sitting bolt upright, eyes peeled wide open searching from left to right in the dark as his heart races. It only takes a few seconds to realise he’s in the safety of the barge and his rapid pulse slows to a more stable rate.
The barge doesn’t want to start on the first twist of his key. It’s done this a few times in the cold. It stutters, and coughs, but takes a few tries before engaging with its throttle fully open. The inky water isn’t lit on this part of the canal, but by the time he and his boat are chugging down the channel, his eyes have adjusted to the dark.
Being on the placid water is the only place where his senses can relax. Since getting back, everyone is a potential threat. Hyperstimulation of his peripheral vision has him combing every crowd for hidden weapons. He’s learnt from tragic experience to watch every angle and listen to the minutiae of background noises. It's not a skill that he can lose, no matter how much he tries.
Once you’ve lived with your senses on red alert for survival, it’s imposssible to turn them off. It’s like a seventh sense, which drives you crazy and makes it impossible to sleep properly, due to an excess of adrenaline coursing through your veins.
He reaches the spot and shuts off the growl of the engine, then stands on the deck and listens. A car passes on the road next to the trees, branches rustle in the breeze, but that’s it. He’s alone.
Deciding to start with the heaviest, he picks up Okello first. He’s three days old and is a huge, black guy who hid his sexuality from his family, as it was against his traditional upbringing. It’s cold so his decomposition is slow, but up close he smells and, being a lot of him to smell, Mitchell chokes on his way out of the cabin and onto the deck.
The barge rocks as Mitchell heaves the dead weight into the much needed fresh air. His quads and calves strain to hold the excessive load steady. As he tugs, he loses his footing, almost slamming against the deck. Controlling his breathing as he’s been trained, the air sucks in and out of his lungs in a quiet and regular pattern. He straightens before collecting Okello under the armpits and dragging him to the edge.
He lines up the corpse so he can step off the boat and onto the bank, allowing him to stretch over, and drag the load without the fear of falling in. The issue is that the bank is steep. And it’s been raining.
The branches catch in his hair, poking his eyes and stabbing him in his back as he heaves. There’s nowhere for him to anchor his feet and he finds himself sliding down the banking, the heel of his boot sploshing into the canal.
He takes a breath and gathers his thoughts before heading back into his floating home and returning with a rope, which he swiftly ties to the tree. Securing the other end around Okello’s torso, he now pulls the rope like he used to back in the day.
Flashes of memories play in a series of disjointed snippets as he works. Competing in the gunner tug o’ wars in barracks and for entertainment when they were away. Faces, now long gone, giggling at the entertainment they made for themselves, locked back to back with carabiners in a bid to establish the strongest man on base. Or rather, strongest man stupid enough to try out that day. Invariably it ended with a team of guys joining in, pulling for one side or the other to prevent the initial idiot from ending up slamming their head in the dirt.
Mitchell smiles at the memories before re-establishing his connection with the present day. The cruel realisation provides him with an extra bout of enthusiasm which boosts his strength, propelling Okello’s body off the barge and up the slope, just as Mitchell’s foot slips and he lands in dog shit.
‘Fucking brilliant,’ he thinks.
Wiping the crap on the grass, he has to manoeuvre the body to sit under the bush. Rigor mortis hasn’t worn off yet, so if he leaves the wide black body where it is, plonked half way to standing, and the cold further prevents decomposition, some poor passer-by would have a heart attack before they even get to reporting what they found. A naked black man standing on the water’s edge is not ideal.
So, he manhandles the rigid carcass. The branches are tough, though. They don’t want a dead man hiding in their midst and they fight. Mitchell ends up standing over Okello, both hands on his chest, and forces his substantial bodyweight downward to shove the dead man down through the bush. As Okello lands on his left side with the tree trunk behind him, the branches spring back up, hitting Mitchell square in the face.
He’s breathing hard now. He works out, but his body isn’t used to this much exertion. He still has another two bodies to go.
‘At least they’re smaller,’ he thinks. He climbs under the branches and lays the body flat on his face because no-one deserves to be left without a burial. Some unfortunate fucker has to find the bodies, and it’s better for that individual if their features are hidden. But also, because these dick-heads deserve to be face planted in the mud. They lived their lives in bigoted detachment, demonstrating a complete lack of respect for others and what those people have laid on the line to allow them the privileges they enjoy.
Paula
Unable to do anything to further assist the case in Yorkshire, Mo and I are on our way back to catch up with my blooming idiot best friend, until we get a call.
“They’ve found new bodies.” DS Roberts announces down the hands free.
I shake my head and Mo grunts.
“I’m with you Mo. But these are different. We think they’re the same killer, but we can’t be sure. They were left under a bush on the side of the canal.”
“I guess he saw us at the mill and decided to take an alternative disposal route,” I say.
“That’s our thoughts. We need to examine the bodies properly though, but I thought you might want to turn around and take a look yourselves?”
And that is how I ended up, abandoned at a train station in Doncaster.
‘Bloody Lucy.’ I curse under my breath. ‘Who gets themselves attacked in a room full of wannabe gangsters all instructed to watch your back?’
I don’t have a ticket, and because I haven’t booked in advance, the two hour train journey costs more than a flight to Europe. And, of course, I don’t get a seat. So I spend the journey squashed in a small void by the toilets, catching up with the team. It’s awkward. Not just because of the spatial situation, but also, because I can’t speak freely with so many people knocking around. It doesn’t do to alert your fellow passengers to the issue of an unstable psychopath on the loose, somewhere in the country. I’
d prefer we had the case narrowed down a little before we start revealing our position, or lack thereof, to the general populace.
The team have made great progress though. They have established that the bodies were suffocated, and the dental records have confirmed the identity of most.
I think before I speak. “So, he’s not bothered about hiding names then.”
“Yes,” Christine says. “And he’s planned this. If he wanted us to not know who they are, he would have taken measures to hide their identities. I bet he’s capable of that. So, this must be part of his issue. He’s selected individuals, it’s not just random killings.”
“You could have a point there. Let’s not jump to conclusions, it may be that the names were just irrelevant, but hold that thought and we can use it as one of the hypotheses.”
“Sure thing, boss.” She’s always so chirpy, brightening up even the coldest days.
“Anything else?” I ask.
She rifles through some papers, “Oh, yeah. We’re tracking back the names to locations. You were right. They’re from multiple geographic regions, but the general route is all accessible by boat.”
I nod. “Hmm.”
“Yeah, and there’s no pattern to whether they were single. We’ve drawn a blank on dating sites, so far, but it feels like there’s millions to wade through...” She trails off.
“I know, but it needs to be done. How else would he meet so many people willing to put themselves in his hands? No-one has any signs of a struggle, maybe a bit of post-mortem damage as he moved them around, but nothing pre-death.. They must have trusted him.”
“Yeah, we’re on it. Well, Jake is on it.” She laughs. “I don’t think he’s happy about it.”
“Donkey work. The joys of being the bottom of the ladder.” I giggle.
“Indeed, we’ve all been there, but this is a great one to cut your teeth on.” She’s still laughing, meaning entirely the opposite to what her words would suggest.
“I’m not coming in if you don’t need me? I’ll head over to see Lucy, get a run down on Brian and what happened. See if I can’t work out that side.”
“Oh, we have a lead on him too. He disappeared, but we managed to track down his house from the information Lucy gave you. We’re just waiting for him to come home, then uniform will pick him up.”
I hang up and am considering whether to call Lucy before turning up unannounced. I decide to drop her a text. I’m tired and don’t have the energy to conduct another covert conversation on this train carriage, if it’s not necessary. Instead, I spend the time looking out of the window as the countryside speeds past, wondering what could possess someone to embark on such a huge killing spree. For the first time I allow myself to consider whether this has been going on for longer than we realise and we just haven’t found out.
People don’t just wake up one day and start this extreme behaviour, there is either a trigger, or we need to start looking for more deaths.
I kick my legs out, just as some poor, unsuspecting soul exits the bathroom opposite where I’m seated on the floor. I’m greeted with a waft of old toilet juices and a rather handsome man sprawled across my splayed legs.
“Oh, hello.” I grin when really I should apologise for tripping him up.
“Hello.” He laughs back. “I’m so sorry, this isn’t how I usually greet members of the opposite sex.”
“I should hope not.”
He straightens himself, bending on one knee in a manner which, to the uninformed, suggests he is about to propose. Our eyes lock and there’s that split-second when the world slows. I’m not a beard kind of girl, but I’m willing to push it aside for those eyes. They twinkle behind lashes so dark he could be wearing eye liner. And they’re a few centimetres away from my face. It would be highly inappropriate, but I have the sensation of needing to lean forward and kiss him. I wonder if he’s thinking the same, because he pauses that millisecond longer than necessary before standing.
“Bye then.” He turns and heads off down the carriage.
I just let him go. I allowed him to walk out of my life. It was one of those moments that has the power to change the course of my entire life and I let him leave with a wave and a wan smile.
I can’t settle after that. All thoughts of dead people swim merrily on their way, making room for dark eyes, a quirky smile and, now that I think about it, an amazing musky smell.
Darn it!
I jump up and head down to the refreshments cart. Buying a warm white wine and a can of beer, I set off to find him. My heart thumps. “Sorry, sorry,” I say as I hit one passenger after another with my thick winter coat and overnight bag. “I’m so sorry.”
He’s there. Facing me.
Sitting with a girl.
He’s spotted me, and smiles.
Oh, that smile again, lighting up those eyes - and my nether regions. I smile back. Caught. What to do? He knows I’m not sitting down here and I’m carrying two different drinks. Shit!
I continue to walk down the aisle. As I approach him, I say, “Hi again.” Jeez, I’m making a fool of myself and we’ve said no more than hi and bye. “I thought I’d get some drinks and move to a less smelly location to enjoy them.” I raise my one hand containing two drinks in a cheers salute.
“Good move. This is who I was telling you about Amy, the one I literally fell for.”
Whoosh. My head spins, my pulse pounds and I grow a little more excited below. He’s still talking, I struggle to focus. The girl has her hand outstretched. “This is my sister, Amy. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name?”
I clear my throat. Sister! “I’m Paula, and you are?”
“Ed.”
“Sorry, I’d shake your hand, but I don’t have one spare.” I shrug.
“Well, how about I help you with that? I could use a drink.” He stands.
“Sure, if you want. It can be my apology for tripping you up.”
“Perfect! Now take my seat, I’ll sit in the aisle. That can be my apology for landing in your lap.”
Normally I’d decline, say of course not. But I’m not about to look this gift horse in the mouth, so, without further ado, Amy has shifted to a window seat and I plonk down side on with half my back to her. The old couple, sitting at the opposite side of the static table, nudge each other and smile.
Lucy
I’m on the warpath. Brian has pissed me off. There was no need for that complete overreaction on his part. I was only speaking with my friend on the phone. And what was he doing following me, anyway? Jerk!
And so, I am pleased when Paula tells me that they have found his address.
“Of course, I’ll identify him. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say when she asks.
“Oh, I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. You’ve not been keen on getting involved and now, well, I don’t know, you seem different.” Her voice is tinny but her shock is unmistakable.
“That was before he attacked me for no good reason. I’m out to get him now. Whatever his involvement with this case, it’s no excuse for attacking me like that.”
Paula remains silent, so I take the opportunity to rant a little more. “He must know he’s done wrong, so what’s the big surprise in people looking for him?”
“Yes, but before you didn’t want to go because you thought the situation was dangerous, and now you’re outraged because he attacked you. I hate to push the point when I was the one who was keen for you to go undercover, but isn’t that what you were afraid would happen in the beginning?”
“Paula, a girl’s entitled to change her mind and I’ve changed mine. That no-good loser could have added my name to the body count and for what?”
“Well, for threatening his freedom. But listen, I’m not going to argue with you. I like this fire in your belly so I’m not knocking you, I’m just a bit shocked that’s all. Anyway, listen, I can’t stay on the line.”
Come to think of it, I can hear a lot of background noise, “Why, where are you?”<
br />
She relays the chance meeting with the mysterious stranger on the train. “His sister has headed off home, and so, he was left with a few hours to kill, so we decided to grab a drink.”
“Whoa, now that’s not like you. What’s going on with us both?”
We laugh, a collective brightness in a dour day. “I don’t know.”
“Blame it on the moon,” I say and she chuckles in a way that makes me think of her skipping in a field. Not an activity I directly associate with my strict best friend. “Don’t you have to get back to the station?” I suddenly realise: she came back on her own from Yorkshire because she couldn’t stand to leave the case alone for longer than necessary. But now she’s met this bloke, she’s all in for drinks in a champagne bar.
“Well, I caught up with the team’s progress on the train on the way down, I can finish off anything I need to from home later. I need some head space if I’m honest, Lucy. This whole case is messing with my head.”
“Hmm, first one back on the job you mean?”
“I’m not sure, possibly, but I think it’s more to do with it just being a mess. I feel like we’re missing something. And this chap, he knows what he’s doing. He’s ahead of us every step of the way. I just need to take a step back and gather my thoughts. You know how it is by now.”
I do. From bitter experience and from watching Paula solve one messy case after another over the years. “Well, shout if I can help with the head space, but it sounds like you’ve got it covered,” I tease.
“I hope so. Listen, I have to go, he’s back from the bar. I’ll see you soon.”
“OK, sweetie, and let me know if I can do anything to help with Brian.”
She hangs up and I wander around Adam’s place, picking up artefacts from his travels and pictures from his life, then make a cup of tea with his kettle. A feeling of not belonging anywhere is starting to churn in my stomach. I pretty much live here now, but it’s not my place, and the house that I pay the mortgage on is home to a bunch of strangers. I can’t settle, I put the TV on, but there’s nothing worth watching.
