Tales of Sin and Madness

by Brett McBean

  “Ah,” he groaned. “That’s the stuff.”

  Feeling better now and able to tackle the subway, he shoved the hip flask back into his pocket, then gripped the handle and opened the door.

  He heard screaming outside, lots of screaming, but told himself this was New York, so what else did he expect?

  Crazy bums and their stories, he thought and stepped out.

  Into the waiting darkness.

  NOTES:

  I like ambiguity in stories. If done well, it can add mystery to the story and, hopefully, make the reader think about the story long after they’ve finished reading. As I’ve tried to do with this story. Is this just a simple story about a group of delusional bums? Or is it an apocalyptic story? Or is it about the effects of alcoholism…?

  You decide.

  And let me know, ‘cause I have no idea myself…

  THE GARBAGE MAN

  It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when they arrived at the rubbish tip.

  George Fisher gazed down at his ten-year-old son and whispered, “You wait here. I’ll come and get you once I see that the coast is clear.”

  Bobby, looking the picture of pre-pubescent innocence in his favourite, “I hate hippies,” Cartman T-Shirt and red shorts, nodded. He set the rubbish bag which contained the neighbour’s cat, Mojo, on the ground.

  George stepped up to the ten foot high corrugated iron gates. Nailed to the left of the gates, on the metal fencing that surrounded the rubbish tip, was a sign that read: Private Property. Trespassers will be shot – or worse.

  George swallowed.

  It was an almost perfect summer night – pleasantly warm, no wind, but one glance at that sign turned his body cold with fear.

  George knew the tip’s owner, Edmund Mullroy, well enough – he saw him damn near every day at the slaughterhouse (the tip’s nearest neighbour, about twenty minutes on foot, and where George and his brother, Tony, both worked). He was a quiet guy, hardly ever smiled, was always chomping on a cigar, but he seemed friendly enough. George doubted that Edmund was the type to shoot trespassers unless he had good reason to. The sign on the fence was surely a scare tactic to ward off troublemakers, but that didn’t mean George was any less apprehensive about entering the tip unannounced.

  Located in a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of town, at the end of a dirt road, the tip wasn’t for public use. Edmund happily collected the town’s rubbish once a week, but if you needed to get rid of some unwanted junk in a hurry, you had to get Edmund’s OK first. There was always the option of driving the half hour to the city tip, but most people in town were content to let Edmund run the tip his way.

  They wouldn’t be so content if they knew about Edmund’s other, secret business, George thought.

  George knew, and in truth he wasn’t sure which one terrified him more: the sign on the fence promising to shoot any trespassers (or worse!), or knowing what it was that Edmund kept secretly stashed among the piles of rubbish.

  Cold beads of sweat trickled down George’s face.

  He didn’t want to be here. He wished he was home, relaxing in front of the television, smoking a joint. But he was here for Bobby, he had to remember that.

  At least he didn’t have to worry about some vicious guard dog. After Edmund’s last dog, Funky, died five years ago, he had never bothered replacing the smelly old mongrel. Edmund once told George, in a rare instance of conversation, that he could never replace Funky; had no desire to; that another pup would require too much training, too much time and energy, things he no longer had.

  George had thought it a pity at the time, but now, on the verge of sneaking into the rubbish tip after dark, he couldn’t have been more relieved knowing there wasn’t a dog on the other side of the gates looking at tearing out his throat.

  The gates were shut; locked by a heavy-looking chain. But George was able to force the gates open just wide enough and push through the gap, using one hand to stop the gates from flinging back and crushing him.

  Once inside the rubbish tip, George straightened. He eased out a breath and scanned the property, looking out for any sign of Edmund.

  The tip looked like every other he had been to: mounds of rubbish, like tall, shaggy anthills, were lit by floodlights perched atop the fence. Over to one side of the property was a long, possibly once white trailer house that sat on stumps with steps, as well as a ramp, leading to the front door. Its façade was grimy, ugly and worn, just like its owner. Lights were on inside the trailer though Edmund’s van was nowhere to be seen.

  With any luck that meant he was out and would stay out until George and Bobby had left. But George knew that just because the van wasn’t visible, it didn’t necessarily mean Edmund wasn’t home, maybe he parked his van out of sight, in case some low-life came sniffing around for a quick buck.

  As if anyone would want to steal that piece of shit, George thought, and then metal clanging behind him caused his balls to shrivel to about half their normal size.

  George whirled around and saw Bobby squeezing through the narrow gap between the gates.

  “I thought I told you to wait outside until I said it’s all clear,” George scolded, though he was more startled than he was angry.

  “Mojo got lonely,” Bobby said once he was inside the tip. There was a lop-sided grin on his young face, and his doe-eyes seemed to be boring straight through George.

  “Fuckin’ Mojo,” George muttered. “Well, Edmund doesn’t seem to be around, so let’s get this over and done with, and then we can go home.”

  “It smells in here,” Bobby said.

  There was a particularly strong foulness in the air. Aside from the usual rubbish tip stink – a combination of rotten food and mouldy, long forgotten furniture – there was a horrible sweetness that lingered just below the surface: the smell of death.

  “Try not to breathe in too deeply,” George told him.

  No, wait, we’re here to make sure the kid doesn’t turn into a psychopath. This is like smoking, right? Make ‘em smoke ten packs, one after the other, and then they’ll never want another smoke again, isn’t that the idea? So I should be encouraging him to breathe in deeply, until the stink makes him ill.

  “I don’t mind the smell,” Bobby said, casually.

  A picture flashed through George’s mind, of Bobby sitting cross-legged out in the backyard, gore-soaked knife in one hand, eviscerated cat in the other.

  “Well you should mind,” George said. “It’s a horrible smell. It should make you sick.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Why are we here? Is it to bury Mojo?”

  George sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough. Come on.” George started forward. Bobby followed, dragging the lumpy, increasingly wet bag across the ground with all the care of a sack full of rocks.

  George scanned the piles of rubbish, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. All he saw were mountains of junk, piled high with an assortment of items such as old chairs, toasters, lamps, a few worn sofas, smashed television sets, and, of course, hundreds upon hundreds of rubbish bags.

  Is that them? George wondered. He didn’t think so. He doubted Edmund would risk leaving them out in the open for all to see.

  From behind, Bobby said, “Do you hear that?”

  George stopped, listened. All he could hear was the thump thump thump of his heart. He turned to his son. “What do you hear?”

  “Someone crying. Sounds like it’s coming from over there.” Bobby raised an arm and pointed.

  George followed the line of his son’s finger – straight to Edmund’s trailer over on the other side of the property.

  George listened again.

  He thought maybe he could hear something: a soft whimpering. Sounded like a female crying. But Edmund lived alone, and he had no family.

  It’s just the wind howling (but there is no fucking wind). Or…

  “A television,” George finished. “Probably just old Edmund watching a movie.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it
,” Bobby muttered. “Can we go over and see?”

  George turned back to his son. His lop-sided smile and wide eyes were reminiscent of Christmas morning and how he looked upon first setting eyes on the presents sitting under the tree.

  “No. We shouldn’t even be in here. We’re not gonna go spying into someone’s house and risk getting caught.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. You’re not to go near that house, you got me? You’re to stick with me and do what I say, or else you’ll be sorry.”

  Bobby’s face turned forlorn, dark. He cast his gaze downward.

  “Come on, I wanna get this over with,” George said and started walking.

  When he heard no bag scraping along the ground, he stopped and turned around. Bobby was standing with his head still bowed, the rubbish bag no longer clutched in his tiny hand but sitting on the ground.

  “Pick up the bag and let’s go.”

  Bobby didn’t move.

  “Get your arse in gear!” George growled, his voice coming out shaky rather than the sternness he was aiming for. “You’ll get a good arse-whooping if you don’t pick up the bag and start movin’ those skinny legs of yours.”

  With a sigh, Bobby bent down and snatched the rubbish bag from off the ground. He began shuffling forward.

  George turned and continued walking.

  Soon Edmund’s house was behind them and the crying merely a ghost in George’s fragile mind (had to be the TV, definitely had to be, couldn’t have been anything else…could it?).

  As far as he knew, Edmund wasn’t like Tony, but knowing what he did about Edmund’s secret work, he had to wonder.

  Jesus I hope I’m doing the right thing by Bobby here. I hope I don’t make things worse.

  But what else could he do? He didn’t exactly have a myriad of options at his disposal for dealing with his son’s problem.

  Bobby Fisher wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t soft in the head or anything like that. He was quiet, always had been. Even as a baby he hardly cried.

  Concerned with the kid’s apparent lack of verbal skills, George had taken him to the doctors when he was five. Nothing wrong with him, the doctors had said. He wasn’t mentally handicapped – far from it. He was, according to them, bright for his age. He was just an inordinately quiet kid.

  An inordinately quiet kid who likes to snap the necks of cats and then see what their insides look like.

  As Bobby got older, things got progressively worse. He remained socially awkward, an outcast, without friends (not that he seemed to care). But the real concern started when he took to lighting fires in the backyard, and the startling number of dead birds and other small creatures he left lying about, usually with their heads pulled clean off.

  George had wanted to believe these were just the actions of a normal pre-teen boy.

  Is that another beheaded bird lying in the grass? Chalk up another casualty in Bobby Fisher’s war on all things avian. Another small, but potentially hazardous fire in the backyard? Oh well, boys will be boys.

  But George knew the signs. If he wasn’t so heavily into reading true crime books, in particular the ones written by the FBI guys, he wouldn’t have picked up on them. He would’ve just smacked the kid, told him not to do those things again, and that would’ve been the extent of his involvement in the matter.

  The cat was the final straw. After discovering his son playing with Mojo’s intestines in the backyard after dinner, he had to face up to the truth. And in doing so, he knew he had to do something to stop Bobby from going down the same murderous path as his uncle. The first thing that came to mind was the old smoke-till-they-choke routine.

  George’s parents had forced him to smoke until he puked when they caught him sucking on a cigarette when he was around Bobby’s age, hoping against all hope that by doing so it would put him off the habit for life. And it worked – for about six months. He started up again (the first couple of times he lit up his stomach had revolted, but that soon went away) and had been smoking ever since.

  Would a similar experiment result in a similar outcome for Bobby?

  George hoped the more extreme situation would elicit a more extreme – and permanent – result, but Christ, he still couldn’t stop himself from wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing by his son.

  They passed mound after mound of rubbish, the smell of things rotten and burnt thick and growing stronger. Finally, rounding a large pile of trash containing mostly rubbish bags and stacks of white-goods, George saw it.

  He knew straight away he had found what he’d come for.

  “Over there,” George said, pointing to ten or so holes in the ground. Most were wide enough to fit a large bull.

  Bobby looked up. He frowned. “Are we throwing Mojo in one of them?”

  George nodded.

  “Is that why we came out here?” Bobby didn’t sound too impressed.

  “That’s one reason.”

  And though that was true, getting rid of Mojo was more of a happy convenience than the actual reason George had made his son hike for miles at night to reach Edmund’s rubbish tip.

  Now he had seen how Edmund destroyed the evidence of his secret work, it was better than George had expected. Mojo would find a nice home in one of those pits.

  “Why didn’t we just dig a hole in the backyard?” Bobby asked.

  “I’ll show you,” George said. Palms sweaty, nerves twisting in his body, George walked over to one of the pits. The stench of death grew overpowering as he neared.

  Standing at the edge of the pit, he gazed in. He first noticed the useless bits and pieces of cattle that Edmund collected from the slaughterhouse, some were stripped of flesh, others still retained scraggy bits of hair; all were unrecognisable as parts of an animal. Then his eyes focused on the rubbish bags underneath the sprinkling of animal off-cuts. It was these that interested George.

  “It’s just more rubbish,” Bobby said, coming up beside his father.

  George swallowed. His mouth was as dry as the soil they were standing on. “That’s not just any rubbish , son.”

  In a small voice, Bobby said, “What do you mean?”

  George turned to his son. “There are dead bodies in those bin bags.”

  Bobby’s mouth popped open and his eyes widened. “For real?”

  George nodded. “These pits are full of bodies, left here to rot among the animal carcasses.”

  Although “left to rot” was just an expression in this case. George knew for a fact that Edmund burnt the contents of the pits. Working at the slaughterhouse, it was common to see thick, putrid black smoke drifting from the tip (“Looks like old Edmund is smoking his cigars again,” the men would often joke). The blackened ground around the pits was further proof of Edmund’s particular method of waste disposal.

  “Where did the bodies come from?” Bobby said, expression still fixed with awe. “Are they Ed’s?”

  “Well, not exactly,” George said.

  Edmund Mullroy wasn’t your average garbage man. His job of collecting the town’s rubbish once a week, along with the slaughterhouse’s, was his bread and butter, his legitimate work. But Edmund was also involved in more sinister activities.

  He collected – and disposed of – dead bodies. The victims of the many serial killers living in the nearby city, and the one lone murderer in town: Tony Fisher.

  The killers would call Edmund any time, day or night (usually night) and then he would go to their homes, or some other designated drop-off location, and pick up the rubbish bags containing body parts or, in the case of the slightly squeamish, whole bodies. Then he would take the bodies back to his rubbish tip, where they would be destroyed, no questions asked. Because as long as the means was legal, it was Edmund’s right to destroy the rubbish as he saw fit. So no one batted an eye whenever Edmund lit his fires. They just didn’t realise what else was being destroyed along with the slaughterhouse refuse.

  George wasn’t sure of the exact figure, but from tal
king with Tony, George estimated Edmund serviced close to a hundred killers in the nearby city, those who realised that disposing of bodies the old fashioned way, à la John Wayne Gacy, was too risky and always led to being caught.

  George didn’t approve of his brother’s killer ways, but he wasn’t about to turn Tony over to the cops. This was his brother he was talking about, his own flesh and blood.Tony had practically raised George after their mother died when George was eight and his father sunk deeper into the bottle. Still, he’d had many long talks with his brother about why he felt the need to kill people; had even begged him to stop, but like a gambling or drug addict, he couldn’t, despite promises he would.

  So George kept quiet about his brother’s nefarious activities. But really, what the fuck business was it of his, anyway? People would always kill one another – it was the human way. What would locking up one more achieve in the grand scheme of things?

  George figured Edmund must have a similar philosophy – why else would he have agreed to help Tony (as well as all the other killers) when Tony approached him during a routine collection at the slaughterhouse seven years ago? But after what George had heard – or thought he had heard – tonight, maybe Edmund had a more personal reason to help out Tony and the rest of the murderers.

  George learned of the arrangement some time later when Tony spilled his guts one night after they had emptied a bottle of J&B. How Edmund would come and collect Tony’s “dirty laundry” (the code word for a dead body) in exchange for a small cash payment. For that little extra money, the murderer would be alleviated from the hassles of getting rid of the body, as well as have peace of mind that the evidence would be destroyed.

  George had to admit, as gruesome as the whole business was, it seemed like a good deal.

  Apparently Tony had heard about Edmund’s business through “friends” and thought it a great idea. According to George’s brother, Edmund had been running his successful side venture for close to thirty years, and as far as George knew, the cops had no idea what was going on.