The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  He stifled a yawn. He had managed to get some sleep on the train journey, but not enough. The lack of sleep and the stress of the previous night’s events were catching up with him. Hopefully he could have a good sleep at Rob’s house before phoning Pearce and getting his instructions. At least he hadn’t dreamed about the horses again.

  He ran a finger along the cold pane of glass, noting the dried dog saliva with disgust. The windscreen was smeared and grimy with stale cigarette smoke, enhanced by the bright sun glaring through it. Andy saw crushed Coke cans and McDonalds cartons scattered along the floor of the cab. Rob hadn’t changed much, still a slob. And he was aging. A small but noticeable beer gut poked through the webbing of the seatbelt: his three-day-old stubble was grey around the mouth, his shock of light brown hair was greying around the temples, and his eyes were yellowed and bloodshot. The Eternal Student was showing his age.

  He reeked of booze, so had obviously been on some bender last night. Probably another college bar, crashing the end of term parties. Just as they had both done, so long ago during his own, all too brief, student days.

  Seeing the familiar landmarks - the train station, the War Memorial, the shops and pubs along Hills Road-it seemed to Andy that he’d never been away. It was hard to believe that it had been fifteen years.

  “Things changed much?”

  Rob glanced at him, noted that Andy was trying to lighten the mood.

  “Cambridge? Not really. Media attention disappeared after the All Souls event last year…uh, the Poly is now Anglia Ruskin, but you probably know that.”

  “Phil Lotson.” Andy said suddenly. “He still lecture there?”

  “As far as I know.” Rob’s nose wrinkled. “Jesus, that stinks. You just shit?”

  “Blame your dog. I might need to see Phil at some point. Can you arrange a meeting?”

  Rob looked at him. “You serious? You’re the last bloke he’d want to see.”

  Andy smiled. “Don’t think I don’t know that. He’s doing some work on All Souls, isn’t he?”

  Rob indicated left and changed gear, ready to pull into The Paddocks. “He hasn’t updated his website for a while. That guidebook he was working on…knowing him it’ll be either finished or binned. Haven’t seen it in the shops so I’m guessing the latter. Fuck me, that reeks! You sure you ain’t dropped your guts? Either of you?”

  Jasper barked. Andy sniffed the air. There was something now.

  “Christ,” Rob muttered as he brought the vehicle alongside his work place. “Smells like something died in here.”

  “That collision you had yesterday. Any blood might’ve seeped through to the engine block. Hot metal, cooking blood…”

  “Wouldn’t smell that bad, surely?”

  Andy raised his eyebrows and gave Rob a hard look. “Depends what you hit.”

  Rob shuddered.

  Granta Office Supplies was a medium sized warehouse in the centre of the Paddocks Industrial Estate. Most of the warehouse was given over to the storage of stationery and assorted office products, placed on display cases and shelving for retail and trade customers to browse through. A small trade counter faced the machine sales showroom just past the main entrance and as they drove past Andy and Rob could see a large queue of people forming a queue behind the small Christmas tree on the trade counter. In the distance Andy could see shining lights and the glow of computer monitors emanating from the main sales office at the back of the warehouse. Fake snow was sprayed in the corners of the windows. Unnecessary now, Andy thought.

  Rob saw that the double doors of the goods-in entrance were open. He swung the Transit around and slowly reversed in. He cried out as he put his foot to the brake. The wheels spun on what must have been ice.

  “Shit! That was close…”

  “Something wrong?”

  Rob frowned and leaned over the wheel. “Apart from that stink? Yeah, this van’s been handling like a pig this morning. Brakes are for shit as well. Thought it was just the state I was in, but…”

  “You still loaded? I noticed that there isn’t much give in the suspension.”

  Rob shook his head as he pulled the key out of the ignition. He shivered as he opened his door and stepped out onto the snow. “No, all unloaded yesterday. My van was empty when I went to…”

  Andy narrowed his eyes. When you went to All Souls.

  Rob turned his eyes away. “When I parked up. I walked to Emma’s, I’m sure of it…” he patted his thigh, a gesture for Jasper to follow. The dog bounded out hurriedly, skidding on the snow as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the Transit. Rob looked at Andy.

  “You coming in, or d’you want to wait while I load up?”

  Andy regarded Rob steadily. “I think I’d better come in.”

  Following Rob and his dog into the despatch area Andy saw a small, wrinkled man in black overalls, a fleece and a woollen beanie cap with the Granta Office Supplies logo. He was knelt in the loading bay, hunched over various sealed packages scattered on the concrete floor which he half-heartedly attempted to sort into some form of a delivery route.

  Andy looked around him. This area of the warehouse was small and crowded. Pallets of photocopier paper, shrink-wrapped filing cabinets and boxed segments of office furniture were pushed against the walls. At the far end Andy could see metal racking, each bay containing various items of stationery and office supplies waiting to be wrapped and despatched. In front was a pair of empty two-sided cages, each bearing a laminated label stating RETURNS, next to a yellow Hyster counterbalance forklift truck connected to the battery charger. It hummed contentedly to itself, a strange accompaniment to the Christmas songs playing on the battered radio Andy turned his attention back to the gnome-like figure on the floor,

  A scowl that looked like it was a permanent fixture, maybe even a trademark, creased up his face and made him look older than his forty-four years. Despite the non-smoking signs scattered throughout the despatch area, a thin black roll-up smouldered between his lips, the scent of Drum Gold mixed with liquorice paper filling the air. Flecks of ash fell on the warehouse floor like snow from a nuclear winter.

  “Andy, meet Jim Maskell, Granta’s Chief Elf.”

  Jim looked up from the packages and straightened his back, groaning. His scowl deepened when he saw Rob.

  “Less of yer bloody lip, boy,” he spoke in a broad Fenland accent. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.”

  “You never are, you miserable old fucker. What’s up? Santa knocked you off the good boy list?”

  Jim spat out the dog end and crushed it under foot. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Andy.

  “More bloody passengers, Robbie? You might as well start up a taxi service. And since you ask, I ain’t in the mood ‘cause of what young Harrison promised his new client.’

  Rob wandered over to the despatch desk and was sorting through the delivery notes. He grinned at the mention of Terry Harrison .

  “Oh yeah? What’s Kiss-arse been up to now?”

  “He’s arranged us to - get that fuckin’ dog away from them chairs!”

  Andy followed Jim’s wrathful glare to see Jasper’s leg cocked against one of the more expensive high backed executive leather chairs.

  Jasper froze, a thin stream of piss halting in mid flow. He looked warily at the warehouse manager. Then he sniffed at the small puddle, wagged his tail in self-approval, and scampered off to Rob.

  Rob sat down in Jim’s chair and helped himself to Jim’s pouch of tobacco as Jim scuttled off to the executive chairs, growling and muttering obscenities. Andy turned to Rob.

  “How long have you had that dog, anyway? Never took you for a pet fan.”

  Rob lit his roll-up and shook his head. “Not mine. He’s Geoff’s dog.” Smoke clouded above him as he leant over and fondled the dog’s ears. “Of course, now it looks like he isn’t coming back, I guess I’m a full time caretaker, eh boy?”

  “Did you say Geoff?”

  Rob looked up, visibly surprised at Andy�
��s terse reaction.

  “Yeah. Geoff Michaels.” His eyes narrowed. “Name familiar to you?”

  Andy walked forwards. His hand reached into his jeans pocket. Jasper’s ears flattened and his lips drew back.

  “Steady, Jas,” Rob laid a hand on the collie’s head. “He might have a sweetie for you. Andy, if that came from an advent calendar I hope it ain’t been in your pocket for too long.”

  Andy didn’t smile. He took out the photo, unfolded it and handed it stiffly to Rob. “Geoff Michaels. Is that him?”

  Rob almost swallowed the roll up. “Fuck, yeah! That’s him - and that’s a more recent photo than the police released.” He turned the photo over, frowning when he saw the address written on the back.

  “His last known address. Yeah, my house. He was lodging there.” He handed the photo back. “Care to tell me what your involvement with him is?”

  Andy didn’t answer. He glanced at the scrawled address on the back of the photo, folded it up and returned it to his back pocket.

  Fucking Pearce, holding out on me already. He must have known Michaels’ last address was Rob’s house. He must therefore have known that Rob was the old college friend Andy had spoken about.

  He knew and said nothing. So why was that? Was Rob involved in this in some way?

  “Rob. I’m going to come clean with you. I’m look - ‘

  A door slammed shut. All heads in the warehouse turned to face the newcomers.

  “Ah, shit. Kiss-arse and The Fat Controller.” Rob stood up and crushed his roll up underfoot. “Tell me later, Andy.”

  Andy could see why he was called The Fat Controller. Mark Higgins was wheezing with the effort of walking from the main sales office into the warehouse. His hair was greying but his features were youthful. His chubby face was red, as though someone had given both cheeks a good slap. Or perhaps he’d seen the state of the van.

  At the sight of Rob he scowled and waddled over to the despatch desk, the open jacket of his cheap grey suit flapping as much as the piece of paper he brandished in his hand.

  “I want a word with you, old sport!” His voice was high pitched, almost a squeak. He halted at the sight of Andy. His watery grey eyes flicked over the cold, unsmiling visage of the nightclub bouncer, a brief appraisal. He gave Andy a look that said I’ll worry about you later and then held the paper in front of Rob’s face.

  “A letter of complaint, Robert! The second one this week. Your dog seems to have bladder control issues.”

  “Oh Christ, not again. Where was it this time? ” Rob took the letter gingerly. “Bloody hell. Thought we’d been discreet…naughty boy.”

  Andy saw that Rob was trying to keep his face away from his boss. It was down turned, facing the dog with a glare. He was trying to stop Higgins from smelling the booze on his breath.

  “Discreet?” The cheeks were getting redder. Andy could have sworn that there was more heat coming off them than the fan heater beside him at Jim’s desk. “A leak behind the skips of the college kitchens! You call that discreet? We were lucky not to lose that account. If it happens again, old buddy, the dog goes! Why do - what’s that smell?”

  Andy saw the relief in Rob’s eyes when Higgins turned his attention to the floor. With a sigh, Higgins bent down and picked up the dog end. “How many times do I have to tell you, old sport…”

  “The bloody dog should go regardless. You know the company’s policy on animals in the workplace. And this waste of space should go as well.”

  All three men were silent at these words. They turned their heads to watch Higgins’ companion, who had been inspecting the front of the Transit, walk towards them.

  So this is Terry Harrison, the man Rob calls Kiss-arse, Andy thought. He was young, early twenties at the latest. Good looking, and he obviously knew it. Visibly self-assured to the point of arrogance. A frown and a sneer that looked like it came on automatically whenever he was talking to those he considered underlings. Fashionably scrunched and gelled blonde hair, stubble on the designer side, a kid who believed that image was everything. The three-piece suit was an expensive and classy wool mix, the shoes were neatly polished and buffed, Italian leather by the looks of them, and the silk tie alone would have cost Andy two nights’ wages.

  “Talking of animals…who’s your new friend, Benson? Still collecting the waifs and strays of Cambridge, are we?” He looked Andy up and down, his lips drawing back in distaste. “Where did you get this one? Looks like he should be in prison, raping blokes in the showers.”

  “Keep your sordid little fantasies to yourself.” Andy smiled mirthlessly. “And for your information…yes, I have been in prison, and no, I had no fun and games in the showers. Don’t judge me too harshly, sunshine. After all, we can’t all be Apprentice rejects, can we?”

  Harrison’s eyes flashed in anger.

  “That was a long time ago,” he hissed. “Even Lord Sugar admitted he’d made a mistake in sacking me.”

  “All right, all right,” Higgins flapped his hand irritably. “Robert, I believe there’s been a change of plan with the new account. Terry wants you to take the furniture today.”

  “I know it was arranged for January,” Harrison stared at Rob with greater disdain than he had given Andy. No love lost between these two, he thought, watching Rob grudgingly take the delivery note.

  “But I thought it would make a good impression if we got this done today. Hopefully they won’t see the impression you made on the firm’s van.” He glanced at Higgins, a sly smile on his face at this new dig at Rob. “Have you seen the dent on it?”

  “Van?” Higgins scowled at Rob. “Explain yourself, old buddy.”

  “Coupla pissheads had a pop at it last night when it was parked up.” Even Andy was impressed by the speed and ease with which the lie slid from Rob’s lips.

  “Nothing major, just a crease in the bonnet. I’ll fill out an incident form before I shoot off.”

  “A couple of drunks, eh?” Harrison sneered. He sniffed theatrically, the implication clear. Then he frowned. He could smell something far worse than stale alcohol.

  It was a stronger, more powerful version of the stench Andy and Rob had smelled earlier. Andy’s eyes followed Harrison’s, turning to Rob’s Transit. Whatever it was, it was not coming from the radiator. It was coming from the rear of the vehicle.

  With a hard look thrown at Rob, Harrison walked to the back of the Transit. Higgins and Rob watched intently and Jasper was suddenly motionless. Andy knew then something was wrong.

  Jasper’s ears were flat on the top of his head, his whole body stiff. Hackles were raised and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. A growl.

  Fear. The dog was all too aware of the source of the smell. And he was terrified of it.

  Terry Harrison had the rear doors of the van open and stared in horror at what lay within. He turned away as the stench hit him, doubling up and retching.

  Andy moved slowly towards the vehicle. He shook his head in disbelief at what his eyes were telling him. Well, that explains the smell. The next question is: how the fuck did it get there?

  The wooden floor of the cargo hold was coated in dried blood. Sticky pools had congealed around the huge, black-furred mass that lay on its side. Its shattered abdomen continued to seep dark, rank blood that coated the stinking mass of entrails coiled alongside it. Its mouth was open, blackened lips parted in either a silent scream or cry of rage. Its eight inch tusks were yellowed but wickedly sharp. The glazed, dead eyes of the boar were open, and seemed to be staring directly into Rob’s eyes in silent accusation.

  * * * * *

  It was an hour later, van emptied and then loaded again, that Andy Hughes, Rob Benson and the dog Jasper left the warehouse of Granta Office Supplies and set off into the snow covered streets of Cambridge. This time, Andy was driving.

  They had switched seats just before leaving the industrial estate. At Andy’s insistence, and Rob was happy to oblige. A pounding headache and nausea from his hangover and the fee
ling that something terrible had happened last night - all these were hard enough to handle. But this was something else. He’d hidden his reaction well enough in the warehouse, managed to stop himself from passing out as the concrete slab of the floor swayed under his feet and bile rose in his mouth. The others were too busy holding onto their breakfasts to notice.

  But no way was he fit to drive. For the first time since he’d arrived, he was glad of Andy’s presence. He glanced down at Jasper, curled up on the middle passenger seat, still trembling. Then he looked in the side mirror as the warehouse disappeared from view. The dead boar had been safely dragged into the loading bay, away from curious eyes, while the management figured out what to do with it.

  It was nice to have seen The Fat Controller and Kiss-arse sweat, to do some real work for a change. The boar must have weighed over four hundred pounds, and they’d all had a merry time trying to roll the thing off the van and onto a pallet. It was Andy who had suggested they use the forklift.

  He had leapt into the seat of the Hyster, effortlessly manoeuvred it around the tight confines of the warehouse. Even Jim Maskell, who had spent a few years working at the Pet Crematorium, had looked sick as Andy slid the tines into the gaping belly of the dead beast. A quick adjustment of the forks with the side shift, and then he raised it, pulling the carcass out of the van and onto the pallet.

  Most of it, anyway. A few small pieces of putrefying flesh were stuck to the wood panelling, and a length of intestine remained attached to the left tine as Andy reversed the vehicle. The other end remained embedded in the boar’s innards, the length of intestine stretched taut and then snapped, spraying Harrison with its semi-liquid contents.

  It had taken Rob half an hour to hose out all the blood and stomach contents. Even then the cargo hold still reeked. It would take weeks for the smell to fade completely. God knew what the customers would think when they received their orders today. Yet another thing Higgins hadn’t been happy about.