This Book Is Full of Bodies

by Rick Wood

  My toast pops and I place it on a plate. It’s a little too burnt, but that’s fine, it’ll do. I spread some jam on it and the jam is supermarket own brand and I cannot wait until I replace and restock every item of food in here.

  “I have a secret,” I tell her.

  She lifts her eyes in my direction again, but still doesn’t look at me.

  “I am rich.”

  She scoffs.

  “I am being serious. I always hid it from your mother as I didn’t want her to have the money, but I inherited more than ten hugely successful businesses from my father, and I have so much money that we need never make ourselves food again. We can eat out, or, even better, hire a chef. We can get a bigger house, you can have your own quarter, it will be… magnificent.”

  She doesn’t believe me. I can tell.

  I suppose that’s inevitable. It’s got to be quite a shock.

  “One more thing,” I say. “The police will be here shortly.”

  Now she looks at me.

  Now she drops her spoon and meets my eyes.

  “Are you turning yourself in?” she says, and I’m not sure if I detect a modicum of hope in her question.

  “Gosh, no,” I say. “I am going to report a missing person. That way no suspicion will be on us.”

  I am careful to say us, instead of me. After all, she aided and abetted. She helped me transport the body, she helped me be rid of it, and she has said nothing. She is now more than just an accomplice. She is part of the murder.

  And I hope she knows this.

  “I need to you to pretend like you are sad,” I tell her.

  “I am sad,” she says through gritted teeth. I feel like there’re things she wants to say and she’s either too fearful or too embarrassed.

  “What are you so sad about?”

  Her jaw drops and she doesn’t answer.

  She starts crying again.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I can’t deal with this anymore. I wave my hands in the air.

  Then I think – is this acting for the police? Is she getting ready?

  If so, wonderful.

  If not…

  I don’t have time to ask as there is a knock on the door. That was mighty quick!

  I open it and welcome the police in. My performance has resumed and I imitate how I see people act. There is a twitch in my eye, I fold my arms, retracting my body language. I hunch my posture and I shorten my strides. I am devastated, as far as they are concerned anyway, and that is the most important thing.

  They see Flora crying and I watch her, looking for any looks she gives them or messages she tries to pass. To her credit, she does not. Maybe I can trust her.

  We go through the routine of the situation. When I last saw her, whether she’s done anything like this before, whether I’ve tried calling her, and so on and so forth.

  They say that they will begin their search and put out a description, and that will get things started, and they will be back in contact soon.

  Then, just as they go to leave, Flora ever-so unexpectedly says something.

  “Have they found Mark yet?”

  The officers pause, exchange a look, and turn back at her.

  “Excuse me?” one of them says.

  “My friend from school, Mark Stevens. Do you know whether they found him?”

  “Do you know Mark?”

  “I…” I see her decide what to divulge, and I am impressed that she chooses to be prudent. “I am his friend.”

  “We are still looking for him,” the other officer says.

  “That’s been two nights now, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have no idea where he is?”

  “At the moment, we are looking everywhere we can. We have a group of volunteers. Maybe after school, you could help them.”

  I have a sudden idea – an idea of how to both appease my darling Flora and demonstrate my wealth.

  “What if you were to have more funding for the volunteers? Would that help?”

  “That would certainly help more people come forward, yes.”

  I open a drawer and take out my cheque book.

  “I would like to make a donation to the effort, if you please.”

  “Really? That is very kind.”

  “Not at all. Would thirty thousand pounds help?”

  They exchange a glance.

  “Really, Mr Brittle, if you cannot afford that…”

  “Oh, don’t judge me by this house. It’s only temporary. I assure you I am quite wealthy.”

  I hand them the cheque.

  “Well, thank you. We will be sure to pass this on to the volunteers and see what we can do.”

  “And we will get back to you about your wife as soon as we’ve found anything,” says the other officer, though I honestly couldn’t care less.

  “Thank you,” I say, as is customary when someone offers to do what they believe is a favour. When they have left, I return to Flora and look at her.

  She looks back at me and I honestly cannot read her expression.

  “That’s a lot of money,” she says.

  “It’s less than pennies to me, Flora,” I tell her, and lean across the kitchen side. “We can have the kind of life that people only dream of. If you let us, that is.”

  “Yesterday you said you would kill me.”

  “If you breathe a word of what happened, yes, I will. In the most invasive and violating of ways. But that isn’t going to happen, is it?”

  She doesn’t react.

  “Is it?” I repeat, painting my voice with anger.

  “No,” she answers.

  “We are going to be happy, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” she finally replies.

  “Good. Now come back from school straight away.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I mull over the question.

  “I would not even wish to entertain the thought.”

  “And if I do? What then? Are you going to hurt me again?”

  “Again? What is this again? I have never hurt you!”

  She looks to wipe away tears again. She looks down and does not look up, and I reach across and wipe the tear away.

  “Now we’ll have none of that,” I tell her, and though my voice is comforting it is not, and she knows that. “By the time you get home I expect you to be grateful, to be happy for the life we are going to lead.”

  She cries harder.

  “Flora, stop it.”

  She doesn’t.

  “Stop it!”

  She wants to cry some more, but she stops and holds her breath, scrunches up her face, does all she can to cease her grief.

  “That’s better,” I say.

  She stands. She still hasn’t eaten her cereal.

  “Are you not going to finish your breakfast?”

  Her body retreats in on itself and she shakes her head.

  “I’m going to go to school,” she says with minimal assurance, yet she doesn’t move. She just hovers.

  “Okay.”

  “If I didn’t tell anyone…” she says, her voice muffled and small. “If I was to keep it to myself… then… would you… let me go?”

  Let me go?

  The question incenses me. It implies I am keeping her captive, and I am not, we are having a wonderful life, and I am looking forward to living it dammit!

  “I would not let you go, Flora, as there is nothing to let you go from,” I say with as much calmness as I can, but I feel my hands tearing up a kitchen roll I have somehow acquired.

  She takes a big, deep breath, and nods timidly.

  “Have a good day,” I tell her, slowly and methodically, deep and gravely, ensuring she knows that I am not happy with her implications.

  She walks with small steps and her head down, so different to the confident, sexy sway she normally has, and as she disappears out of the door. I wonder whether she is still the same Flora I have come to feel so close to.

  Or whether
she is someone else altogether.

  Someone who I will come to detest, rather than care for as I do.

  And I hope, for her sake, that this is not the case.

  22

  I stop off at a hidden away, high-class restaurant named Gustuchio’s, a few miles off junction seven of the M5.

  I engage in a rather triumphant mackerel with pesto and garlic and herbs. It may not sound delightful, but believe me, it is.

  I send my empty plate away and request a dessert menu just as my mobile phone rings. Normally I would not answer it, but on this occasion, it is Flora’s school and my mind begins to race.

  Did they see me loitering around the other day?

  Have they linked me with Mark’s disappearance?

  Or, God forbid, (even though I am not a believer in an omnipotent, higher being fabricated from unintelligent human minds, I feel this is an appropriate turn of phrase in this scenario), has Flora told them?

  Has she betrayed my trust?

  But if she had, why ever would they call me?

  Unless it was some kind of trap. A setup I will step into believing that I am unfounded only to be led away in handcuffs, disgraced before I am fully able to enjoy the benefits of my wealth.

  Realising the phone is about to ring out, I put it to my ear and, despite how much I detest people talking on their phones in restaurants, I answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is that Mr Brittle?” asks a stern female voice that I imagine being attached to a stern overweight black woman.

  “Yes…”

  “This is Flora’s school calling. We have been unable to get hold of Flora’s mother, so we’ve called you, I hope that’s okay.”

  No, you haven’t.

  And it doesn’t sound like you know why.

  “Yes, that is absolutely fine. How can I be of service?”

  It’s best to remain jovial and not force yourself to presumptions in situations like these.

  “Well, Flora has been a little… off, today. Her behaviour has been unacceptable and a little alarming, to say the least.”

  “How so?”

  “It is best if we speak face to face. I have Flora working in isolation with me, are you able to come in now?”

  Oh, what has that dreadful girl done now? All I have done for her and she repays me with futile distractions.

  “Is it really necessary?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’m afraid so, Mr Brittle.”

  Oh balls.

  “Fine, I will leave now.”

  “I appreciate that, we will see you soon.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye and look over an exquisite dessert menu that has just been handed to me.

  Crème Brule, Tia Mesu, profiteroles draped in chocolate and honey…

  There is even an option to have a tray selection of desserts, a smaller portion of each rather than having to choose one in particular.

  I curse this menu for temptation, for showing me what I am now unable to have. I do not hide my irritation as I hand the menu back and request the bill.

  “Are the options not to your satisfactory, sir?”

  Oh, stop calling me sir, I hate it. It’s such nonsense. I am no more a sir than you are a madam; you only call me this because you get paid to do so rather than any kind of real formal respect. Just talk to me normally and be done with it.

  “It’s not that, it’s just something has come up and I need to go.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.”

  No, you’re not; again, stop it.

  I do not tip, and I leave with haste. I return my car to the road and drive up the motorway, wondering what she has done now. This is a time to be avoiding distractions, not a time to be attracting all the unwanted attention you can.

  When I arrive, I am led to the headmistress’s office, and the corridors are just as depressing and hopeless as the ground outside them. Corridors lined with lockers and classrooms with teenagers sat in lines feels too much like organised punishment, as if they were incarcerated rather than learning about the world.

  The woman is not black, as I imagined, though she is stocky. She has red cheeks and curly hair that waddles from side to side and I cannot figure out how someone could physically have sex with her.

  Flora is sat outside the office, and she glances at me, sitting there all slouched with her arms folded, but the woman suggests we speak alone.

  “Please, allow me to get to the point straight away,” she says, and I’m not stopping you, you daft mare. “A student earlier on was asked to read out a poem in class that she had written about her mother. In the middle of this poem, Flora stood up and stormed out with her face in her hands and tears streaming down her cheeks. She refused to tell a teacher why this is.”

  Annoying, yes, that she caused such unnecessary attention.

  But, good girl for not telling them why you felt the need to have such an outburst.

  “It’s not all,” the woman says, pulling a concerned face like those teachers who pretend to be all caring do. My best teacher at school was an arsehole who spent most of his time belittling those that refused to do what he said. I liked him though, it built character. “Flora was sat in my office crying, again refusing to tell me why, then the girl who read the poem came in to check if Flora was okay.”

  There is a long pause and I feel as if I’m supposed to interject.

  “That was… nice… of her…”

  Is that what I’m supposed to say?

  “Yes, yes it was,” she says, as if she is a detective who is suspicious of something, and not the failed Master of Education she always wished she was. “But then Flora attacked this girl.”

  “Attacked?” I repeat. Flora has never so much as slapped a girl, despite many times when there have been some nasty pieces of work well deserving of it.

  “She pulled her hair, slammed her head on the table, and attempted to put her head in the sink where she tried to pour water on her. It took six teachers to intervene and stop her.”

  Well, well.

  My Flora.

  Who’d have known?

  “Do you have any idea why she may have acted in this way?”

  “Her mother,” I reply, as matter-of-factly as I can manage, “did not return home last night. She is still missing.”

  “Ah,” the woman says, sitting back like it all makes sense. “We were not aware of this.”

  “No. No, you were not.”

  “Is it the best idea her being in school during such a terrible time?”

  I sigh, annoyed at the impudence.

  “I feel it necessary for her to continue as normal, and I do not feel it necessary for you to give me unsolicited advice.”

  “Forgive me, I am just trying to think of what’s best for Flora.”

  “I will talk to her.”

  “I really think further punishment is needed for what she did to the girl. She only came to apologise.”

  “Why?”

  The woman looks stumped.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  “I said I’d talk to her.”

  “But we need to do something our end.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I have a duty of care to my students to make sure they are safe, and if someone attacks someone so violently, then we have to make sure it’s known that it is not acceptable.”

  “I said I’d talk to her.”

  “I am aware of this, but I believe a five-day suspension will suffice, then we will have a meeting before she returns.”

  I am stunned.

  Gobsmacked, astonished, and dumbfounded.

  How on earth am I going to eat where I wish to, and go about my business as I like, with her in the way?

  Then I realise it may not be so bad to show Flora the lifestyle that she will now become accustomed to.

  Once she tastes that mackerel and sees that dessert menu she will forget all about her stupid mother and pledge herself to her new life as a rich who-gives-a-fuck w
oman.

  “So be it,” I say, and rise as I decide this meeting is over.

  She rises too and I’m already at the door when I realise she is offering to shake my hand, so I ignore it.

  I step outside and I look at Flora.

  She looks up at me, still crying.

  I don’t know whether to tell her to get a grip or to hug her with pride.

  Instead, I just say, “Get in the car.”

  I walk and she follows, and we drive away from this wretched place.

  23

  We begin the car journey in an equanimous silence – or, at least, I do.

  Flora, however, is stewing. I can feel the heat of her anger glowering at me. She sits low in her chair with her arms folded, all negative body language if my reading is correct, and her face is something to behold; dragged downwards so much she looks like that old cartoon character I used to watch as a child… who was it… ah, yes. Droopy.

  She looks like Droopy.

  I chuckle to myself and feel her scowl, and even though her scowl is not in my direction, I still feel like it’s a scowl for me.

  “We were supposed to be avoiding attention, weren’t we?” I say, finally terminating the silence as we pull up at a red light. In the lane to my left is a man with glasses from the eighties and a tie from the future. I admire how he dresses, then I don’t. It seemed interesting at first and it made me inquisitive, now I feel it’s a droll attempt at being original. I decide that I dislike this man.

  My inner dialogue ceases as I realise Flora has not answered me.

  “Flora, it is not kind to ignore someone.”

  She says something, and her voice is so small and so tender it’s like she’s a timid little girl hidden away in a box, and she’s not a timid little girl, she’s a fiercely wild sex-craving minx.

  I stare at her to indicate that I did not quite catch what she said, and she repeats with a voice just about audible for my ear’s perception.

  “Do you even feel bad?” she asks.

  Feel bad? What, about picking her up from school? It was what I was requested to do by her headmistress. I don’t quite know what I would feel bad about.

  I decide to inquire further.

  “About what?”

  “You know what.”