This Book Is Full of Bodies

by Rick Wood

  “This can go one of two ways, Flora,” I tell her. “Either we are happy. We deal with this and ride off into the sunset. You cooperate and do as I say and we get out of this safely and nothing needs to happen that I will regret.”

  I take a moment to let the first option sink in, then I continue.

  “Or I will kill you. If you run, I will catch you. If you freak out, I will catch you. I know you dote upon me and do not wish to upset me, but at the moment you are acting really odd. So, do as I say, and I won’t have to do with you as I did with your mother. Understand?”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Nod for me, Flora.”

  She nods.

  Her face seems to have changed from a glare to that of dread. I can’t understand expressions very well, but I can feel her body shaking, I can see the wide-eyed sting of fear in her eyes.

  That’s fine. She needs to be scared at the moment.

  “Get in the car.”

  This is the first test.

  I get into the driver’s seat.

  She could easily run back into the house, or she could push open the garage door. She could make an attempt to get away from me before I get out of the car.

  But she doesn’t.

  She heeds my warning, and she gets into the passenger seat.

  “Good girl,” I say, and I pat her leg, and it’s still bare and I can still feel her skin in my palm and it angers me when she flinches away.

  I remind myself that her behaviour can be erratic. It will pass.

  I drive and we remain in silence. One of the first times I haven’t had to hear her yattering in my ear, and I enjoy the peace. Maybe she is trying, after all.

  After an hour of driving we make it to the lake.

  This is where Lisa’s suicide will take place.

  A death by drowning.

  We are surrounded by woodland and there will be no camera to pick us up as we walk our way to the nearest taxi rank.

  We have left our phones at home, quite intentionally.

  “Get out,” I say, and Flora does as I tell her.

  I move to the boot and open it.

  Lisa looks at me. That same judgemental, incessant stare.

  I want a memento.

  Something to remember each kill.

  I take her wedding ring and place it inside my pocket. I then drag her to the ground and pull her to the driver’s seat and prop her up.

  It’s dark now and there’s no one around. I check multiple times for prying eyes, but we are safe.

  “Come here.”

  Flora does as I say.

  I put my hands on the back of the car and begin to push. I indicate for her to join me. She does nothing.

  “Flora,” I prompt her.

  She still does nothing.

  She stares at the car, away from me, and there are tears in her eyes.

  Gosh, I forget – this is the first time she’s disposed of a body. She must be worried it won’t work, that we’ll get discovered.

  Maybe I should be more understanding.

  I move toward her and I put my arms around her.

  She does not reciprocate, but that’s okay. I just hold her for a moment, pressing her head against my chest.

  I kiss her forehead.

  She still doesn’t look at me. If anything, she’s crying more.

  We don’t have time for this.

  We can deal with it later.

  “Whatever is going on, save it,” I tell her, more assertive and less sympathetic. “Deal with it later. Right now, I need you to push the car.”

  I move to the back of the car and get ready. She still doesn’t join me.

  “Flora, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  This seems to work, as she reluctantly takes her place. We both push – not that I notice a difference, but she is young and small and weak, so it’s not surprising.

  The car rolls quicker and quicker, gathering speed.

  “Let go,” I say, and the car plummets forward, and sails off the end across the small pier with a splash.

  It is submerged within seconds.

  And she is gone.

  Lisa is gone.

  I am free.

  Liberated.

  Void of my figurative shackles.

  I lift my head to the sky and feel a drop of rain. I relish it. I take a big breath in, hold it, and release.

  I can’t help but smile. I even laugh a little.

  I feel giddy.

  I am free.

  Flora watches me, but she doesn’t join in.

  She will eventually. Just give her time.

  I finish my celebration and I look at her, wondering when I will see her smile again.

  “You did well,” I tell her. “I’m proud of you.”

  She cries harder now. It’s most perturbing.

  “Please,” she says beneath the sobs. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Well this is unexpected.

  Firstly, that she would wish to be let go. I thought she was obsessed with me.

  Secondly, that she wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course she would. If she doesn’t wish to be with me, she would inevitably be on her mother’s side and want her killer caught.

  I get angry but I quell it.

  Now’s not the time.

  I grab her hand. She tries to pull free, but I grab harder because dammit we can finally hold hands and we are going to do so.

  “I did this for us, Flora,” I tell her. “I did this for us.”

  I guide her through the woods, and it’s almost midnight by the time we emerge, wet from sweat and rain. We find a taxi who returns us to our home.

  Our sweet, empty home.

  Where we can share it together without interference.

  Alone.

  Where we can fuck all day long.

  WEAKNESS IS

  Weakness is saying no and doing it anyway.

  Weakness is submitting when you refuse to submit.

  Weakness is as weakness does because weakness is…

  Who cares?

  Who really cares?

  You’re not reading this to hear the lament of the victim. You’re reading this for the entertainment of the perpetrator’s violent descriptions.

  The blurb did not tell you you’d have to read my useless diatribe, did it?

  Skip it.

  Go ahead, swipe the Kindle or turn the page or do whatever you must to avoid my useless ramblings.

  Weakness is going on and on about your misfortune and doing nothing about it.

  He said he did it for us.

  For us.

  Weakness is being responsible for your mother’s death.

  Weakness is forcing yourself to be numb so you can survive, so you can endure, so you can try to make some kind of effort to see it through until…

  Until…

  Until weakness is no longer all I am.

  Weakness is this constant moaning and whining and going on and on about oh how bad my life is how bad everything is how bad how awful and I hate it because I AM SO FUCKING WEAK.

  Why did I have to be this way?

  Why did I have to be the person who moans about my supreme weakness in never doing anything that matters about anything that affects me?

  I am too young to be strong.

  Strength is something my mother should have taught me.

  Weakness is all she has left behind.

  20

  I know that if Flora is to live, I must trust her.

  But, given her unsettling reaction this evening, you can understand why it may be tough for me to do so.

  I decide to be kind, to try the nice tactic, to try to provide to her the warming sensibilities her inept mother seemed to be so successful with.

  I run the tap to ensure it is cold, then fill a glass. I transport this glass into the living room where Flora sits.

  She looks empty. Like she has deflated against the cushion. Her wrists point upwards and her eyes stare at something in t
he lower corner of the room, but when I look there’s nothing there, and I can’t understand what she is doing.

  “I brought you some water,” I tell her.

  She says nothing.

  I reach the glass out to her, but she doesn’t take it.

  She doesn’t even move.

  She remains, statically immobile. If it weren’t for the faint rising of her chest, I would wonder whether she was dead.

  “Flora, I brought you something.”

  Nothing.

  “Flora, I have done you a favour.”

  Still nothing.

  “Flora?”

  She ignores me.

  I launch the glass across the room and it smashes against the wall which makes her body flinch and damn, finally, we have a reaction.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, clenching my fist, trying to contain the anger. “I just really dislike it when someone ignores me.”

  She turns her eyes to me and she has the same stink-eye as her mother. It’s a glare, and I can see it’s a glare, I may not be able to understand much, but that I can be sure of.

  I take to my knees and waddle toward her, taking her hand in mine, but she pulls it away and pushes herself further against the seat, further away from me.

  “You can move your stuff into my room,” I tell her. “Would that make you happier?”

  It doesn’t.

  Maybe I’m rushing this.

  “Fine, I won’t force anything, not quite yet. It’s been a busy night, and we both have things to think about.”

  She still looks at me that way.

  “Flora, if you do not talk to me then I feel it will be necessary for me to become violent.”

  “What do you want me to say?” she says, and her voice is low, husky, venomous.

  “Well, I need to know I can trust you. I need to know that, should I let you go to school tomorrow, you will not say anything.”

  She doesn’t answer me.

  “Flora, really, it is essential that you remove my doubts. I don’t want to be forced to kill you.”

  “Forced to kill me?”

  “No, that’s not what I, I mean, Flora…”

  I drop my head and shake it, but only for a moment, then I pick my head up and look at her and she is really taking some patience today.

  “I need to know I can trust you. I need to know that, the minute you’re at school, you aren’t going to go babbling to someone.”

  She goes to answer, but she doesn’t.

  “I need to hear you say it, Flora. I need to hear it from your lips. Repeat what I say – I am not going to tell anyone.”

  She doesn’t say anything and I am forced to put my hand around her throat and squeeze just enough to temporarily cut off her breath.

  “Say it,” I instruct her. “I am not going to tell anyone.”

  “I am not going to tell anyone,” she replies, and boy what a little threat does to get you talking.

  But it’s not enough. I still don’t trust her.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Not enough.

  “I want us to be happy, Flora. Really, I do. But I am prepared to do what I have to in order to protect my innocence. So, know this – if you say anything to anyone…"

  I lock eyes with her and I turn deadly serious.

  “You saw what I did to your mother, didn’t you?”

  Her eyes widen and I can see true fear in them – now that is an emotion I do know.

  “Answer me!” I bellow, impressed by the power of my own voice.

  She nods vigorously.

  “I made her death quick, didn’t I?”

  She hesitates, then nods.

  “That was kind of me wasn’t it?”

  Another hesitation, and she nods. She does so not because she agrees, but because I am accessing her terror, and that is what I need.

  “Your death will not be quick, will it?”

  She stares at me then shakes her head.

  “I will hack you up into pieces and make you watch until the very last moment that I snatch your life away. You can go to the police station and they can try to protect you, but I will find you whether now or in twenty years or however long it takes. You will always be looking over your shoulder, won’t you?”

  She nods.

  “And if you even mention or hint at anything I will be there to end everything. Won’t I?”

  She nods.

  “I will take that metal bed frame and ram it up you until it comes out of your mouth, won’t I?”

  She nods, now with tears in her eyes.

  “I will shatter the window into tiny shards of glass and make you eat them until the inside of your throat bleeds, then make you eat them some more, won’t I?”

  She nods. Tears are dribbling down her cheeks, her vision is obscured by them. They are cascading and running and bombarding her shoulders with their salty taste.

  “I will cut your breasts off and force feed them to you, and you will eat them, and taste them, won’t you?”

  Another desperate bout of sobbing as she nods.

  She understands.

  She won’t do anything.

  And now is the time to be a good stepdad.

  I pull her in close, holding her to my chest, and I let her cry.

  “Now don’t ever make me say those things again, all right? I do not want to hurt you. We can be happy, can’t we?”

  She nods but I want to hear her say it.

  “Can’t we? Tell me.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  And that answer is like a sweet symphony. It is a delight to my ears, ecstasy through her fragile voice.

  “Now kiss me,” I tell her.

  She lifts her head to mine and I don’t wait.

  Her lips are wet from those tears and I can taste her running mascara.

  We won’t have sex tonight.

  There is too much to take in, too much to consider.

  But I keep her close. I sit next to her and hold her to me as I put the television on.

  She convulses with tears every now and then, sometimes she shakes with what I presume is fear, and sometimes she just stays completely stiff.

  Either way, I do not let her go until it’s time to say good night, at which point I take her phone and send her off to the warm protection of her duvet.

  21

  When I awake, the birds seem to be singing a more tuneful song, and the sun seems to be shining just that little bit lighter. My bedsheets smell fresh in a way they never have in the morning, and the bed feels big; so big I can stick out my arms and wave them like I was making a snow angel and there would be no one there to moan and bitch at me.

  I wake up and I use the bathroom and I don’t wipe the rim afterwards.

  My towel is alone on the drying rack and it is dry, actually dry, and do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a dry towel?

  Normally it would be two towels shoved onto the same rack all scrunched up because they don’t both fit and it’s only fair that we share yet now, now, right now – the towel has spread out across the rack and is crispy in a way that will dry my body so sufficiently when I come to use it.

  And it dawns on me… I can buy a new house.

  I have the money to go out today and pay cash for as big a house as I want.

  And I could do all kinds of things to that house. It could be set up with rooms I will never use and would take officers ages to search and you would get lost in and, oh my I just had the best idea – it could have shutters.

  So, if there were an intruder, or an unwelcome guest, or someone who has run loose of my captive, a flick of a switch or the push of a button and shutters could fall down around the outside and they would regret the moment they fell prey to me.

  I can stop wearing mediocre suits and start wearing fantastic suits. I could go today, in fact, to the tailor and get a whole new rack of them.

  I am filthy fucking rich and it doesn’t matter who knows it.

  I hear Flora downstairs. She is up. T
he crispy rattles of a cereal box tell me that routine has been restored.

  There is still one task I need to perform, something I need to achieve before I can remove all suspicion from me.

  I pick up the phone and dial 101. The non-emergency line.

  It rings and I get ready. I jump up and down a little bit, make myself out of breath, and ready my performance.

  Right, here goes.

  “Hi? Hi! Yes, I didn’t know whether to ring you or 999, I don’t know, is this the right one? It’s just, I’m so scared, but… Yes, it is my wife… My wife, she didn’t come home last night… No, it is not like her, not like her at all, she is always home in time for dinner and me and her daughter are so worried, it’s just not like her… Yesterday, when she left after breakfast… Yes, thank you, thank you so much.”

  They say they will send the police around right away.

  Marvellous.

  I leave the pleasure of my bedroom for the delight of the hallway. Soon, I will have a huge bedroom and a huge hallway and multiple sets of stairs, all with fantastic architecture.

  For now, I make my way down the delectably small set of stairs and mosey into the kitchen.

  And there she is.

  Like a ray of warm light, sat at the kitchen side, a bowl of cereal before her. She doesn’t smile as she greets me, but she doesn’t flinch or sneer either, so I guess that’s progress. She doesn’t look at me and her spoon hovers in the cereal that she doesn’t eat.

  But nothing can ruin my mood.

  Not even this irritably sullen performance.

  “Good morning,” I say, and place two pieces of bread in the toaster. Normally I don’t like toast, but today, I am feeling like a spot of jam.

  She doesn’t reply, so I lean on the side and look at her expectantly, and eventually, I get a marvellously insincere, “Good morning.”

  “How are we today?”

  She looks in my direction but does not look at me.

  “I’ve been better,” she says, still so grumpy.

  She misses her mum. That’s it, surely. Maybe I underestimated their bond. I always supposed that if she was willing to fornicate multiple times with her mother’s husband then she can’t particularly care that much for her. But, as we have already established, my understanding of human behaviour is quite limited, and Flora is a complicated person at best.