by Amy Cross
“Can we get out of here?” Nina asks. “I don't like it.”
“Hang on,” he replies, hurrying around the side of the house.
“What are you doing?” she calls after him.
Still amused by his girlfriend's reluctance, James reaches the back door and gives the handle a turn. To his surprise, the door clicks open and he leans through into a fusty-smelling kitchen. Dust particles are drifting through the air, picked out by the light from the window.
“Hello?” he calls out.
Silence.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nina asks, hurrying around to join him.
“It's gonna piss it down any minute,” he replies, stepping into the kitchen. “There's probably no-one who comes here anyway, and if there is, I'm sure they'll understand. We either take shelter in here, or we drown out there in a field. What kind of person would begrudge us a little sanctuary, eh? If I had a house like this and I wasn't using it, I'd be totally happy if a charming pair like us took advantage. Share and share alike, yeah?”
“You're trespassing!”
“So?”
“So it's illegal!”
“So the door was open,” he points out. “Come on, it's our duty to check the place out and make sure no-one's hurt. It's not our fault if the weather turns bad and we end up stuck here.” He picks up a newspaper from the table. “This is dated 2009,” he tells her. “Seriously, I bet no-one's been here since then.”
“It smells bad,” Nina replies, following him into the room. “Like... rotten.”
“We'll open a window,” James tells her. “There's just -”
“Oh fuck!” Nina shouts suddenly, stepping behind him as if something has scared her. “Jesus fucking Christ, over there!”
“What?” James asks with a smile, before he spots a pair of legs sticking out from behind the dining room table. The legs are wearing dark trousers and large, rugged boots, and they're ominously motionless. The smile fades from his face as James realizes that something might actually be wrong.
“Oh, no, fuck,” Nina continues, hurrying back out into the rain. “James, no way, please tell me that's not what I think it is...”
“Hang on,” he replies, making his way around the table until he can see the body's face, which is dried out, almost mummified as it stares up toward him. Its mouth is slightly open, exposing two rows of dirty teeth. “Jesus,” James continues, transfixed by the sight for a moment. “It's some guy.”
“He's dead, isn't he?”
“Uh-huh,” James replies. “Looks like he's been gone for years, too. He's all shriveled up like a prune.”
Spotting a piece of paper on the table, he picks it up.
“This is an old phone bill,” he mutters. “It's in the name of someone called Andrew Renton.”
“Can we please just call the police and get out of here?” Nina asks, standing outside. “There's a dead body in there, for God's sake. What if he's been murdered? We can't start moving stuff!”
“Sure,” James mutters, reaching into his pocket for his phone, while still unable to stop staring at the corpse. “Sorry, it's just that I've never actually seen one before. It's kinda gross and fascinating at the same time.”
“Come out,” Nina pleads. “James, there might be, like, disease in there or something. Please, don't poke the dead body. Please please please, James, just get out of there!”
As James heads out to join her in the rain, he dials 999 and waits to be put through to the police.
On the floor, the dead body has the hilt of a large knife sticking out of its chest, directly above the heart. Nearby, a small dresser has been tipped over, and by the door there's a broken chair. Partly upturned, the chair's broken leg sticks up into the dusty air; the wood is ragged and sharp, and at the tip it's stained with blood, left over from the time many years ago when it tore open the arm of a young girl who was fighting for her life.
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