by Matt Shaw
Bryan seems to be compassionate now. Considering all he has done this week... to try and help me get over the fact Jessica wanted an abortion.... right through to kidnapping his own daughter because he thought it was the right thing to do... is this compassion genuine, I wonder? Or just another lie. Another mask to his many faces.
“You said you’d sort it!” Darren lunged for Bryan, as though he wanted to punch him in the face. Instinct made me react. Instinct pushed Darren back. Gravity pulled him down the stairs. A load crack from his neck, about five steps down and it was all Bryan and I could do to watch. I watched on in horror. Bryan watched on with gleeful satisfaction. What have I done?
“Darren?” I called out to him as he laid at the bottom of the stairs, motionless.
He didn’t speak.
“Bryan?” I turned to him - panic written all over my face.
Bryan pushed past me and rushed down the stairs to where Darren was. A quick feel on his neck, I presume, for a pulse.
“He’s dead,” he said.
Is that a smile on Bryan’s face?
“What?”
“He’s dead.”
“No, he can’t be.”
The angle in which Darren’s head pointed suggested his death was more than possible.
“What have you done?”
“I just pushed him - he was going to hit you.”
“No, he wasn’t, what have you done?”
He was going to punch Bryan. Bryan knew this. The look on his face, as Darren lunged, suggested he knew it. Why would he lie about it?
“It was an accident.”
“You pushed him down the stairs....”
“We need to phone an ambulance.”
“And how do you suggest we explain this?”
Silence.
“He came to see Jessica - she’s not in... a fight broke out and he fell down the stairs...” I whispered. Even I was unconvinced.
“And if they look deeper into what happened? What if they want to talk to Jessica? What if they want to see her? Do I just point them to the other house?”
“They won’t....”
“You know for sure? I don’t!”
I don’t either. I don’t know anything anymore.
“You killed a boy,” said Bryan.
My heart is in my mouth. Tears rolling down my cheek.
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know... Honestly, I don’t know. If we tell someone - they might find out what we’ve done to Jessica.”
“You did it! I didn’t do that to Jessica!”
He knows I’m against what he did to Jessica. He knows my feelings; we should let her go.
“They won’t believe you didn’t have anything to do with it after this!”
He’s right.
“Then what should we do?”
“We’ll hide the body. I’ll take his car and dump it somewhere.....”
“Where?”
“I don’t know! I don’t have the answer to everything! Jesus, woman, I’m a little shocked here - you killed someone!”
“Stop saying that! It was an accident!”
“Was it? I saw your face - I’m not so sure....”
Can’t think - what expression did I have on my face when it happened? Was I subconsciously wanting to hurt him? Did my subconscious think it was a good idea to kill him - one loose end tied up which could unravel everything Bryan has already done. Am I now an accomplice?
“We’ll move him to the garage for now - whilst I think of what we can do with him.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.... I’ve never had to deal with a body before now!”
Shaking, I asked again, “What are we going to do?”
* * * * *
I stood, for a while, looking at the saws which lined the wall of the supermarket store. Saws of different shapes and sizes, next to axes - from small single handed axes right through to the large double handed axe; the sort you’d normally see being swung by a lumberjack. Or a fireman.
Not sure which one to go for.
Never been in this situation before, it’s all new to me.
“Good afternoon!” said a voice from behind. I spun around to see a smiley staff member looking directly at me.
“Good afternoon,” I said - hoping he’d just leave me alone.
“Were you looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
“No, thank you - I think I’m okay.”
I can hardly ask him which of these tools would be the best for cutting up a body - to make it easier to move them from one location to another. At least with Bryan’s body, all I need to do is roll him to the top of the cellar stairs and push him. Darren, I need to get out of the garage, into the car, over to the other house, into the house, down the hallway, over to the cellar door before I can let the gravity pull his dead-weight down the stairs. That’s a lot of humping.
He needs to be in easy to manage cuts of meat.
“Well, if you need anything - just give me a shout.”
The worker flashed another smile before turning back to the shelf on the opposite side of the aisle - where he continued to face-up the stock.
“Thank you,” I said again.
I turned and picked up a small axe.
There’s no point going for the bigger one. I might be able to swing it once or twice but.... I don’t think I could manage swinging it right through to when the job is complete. I threw it in the trolley along with the other goods I’d already chosen; a strong padlock - the biggest they had on the shelf - a bolt action lock, which I could fasten to the outside of her bedroom door, rolls of wallpaper and some boards of wood.
I wish Bryan was still alive.
He always was better at these kind of things.
I pushed the trolley towards the check-out.
I think I have everything I need.
I can’t be one hundred percent positive, though. This isn’t the usual sort of situation I’ve found myself working through. Worst case scenario - I’ll have to do another shop trip later on.
END OF PART FIVE
PART SIX
1.
The television is on, in the corner of the room. More rubbish day-time television. You’d think she could have at least brought me a tape-deck with the occasional video, from the store, to help alleviate the boredom. But no, just the same four channels - day in and day out.
I used to enjoy sitting around watching television all day, on the weekends. Now - now I hate it. Especially as a lot of it seems to be re-runs. Tedious re-runs of the same old shows.
Shows which I used to enjoy.
Now I’ve grown to hate them.
I hate the silence of the house more, though. I hate not having friends over. I even hate not being able to pop downstairs to chat with mum and dad whenever I felt like it too.
I hate them.
Mum and dad?
What a joke.
Who are they anyway? These people. Who? And who are my real parents? Why was I not wanted, when I was younger? Given up.
I can’t criticise my real parents too much.
As soon as I get out of here - out of this fucking house... I’ll end up giving this baby up. Demon fucking child dwelling within me. The size of the bump - the only point of reference I have for how long I’ve actually been stuck here, in this house, now.
When I first got here it was just a small pot-belly.
Now it’s fucking huge.
And I still hate it.
I blame it.
I forced myself off the bed and waddled over to the television - switching channels again. You’d think mum would have got me new batteries for the remote by now. All these weeks and it’s as much as she can do to say hello to me when she brings me my food.
Three meals a day. She walks in and plonks the tray down, on a small table, by the door and expects me to say thank you to her. I have nothing to be thankful for. Given where we’ve ended up, I can’t eve
n be thankful for the pair of them rescuing me from whatever orphanage they dragged me from.
I’ll never be thankful.
I threatened not to eat, once, and she said that was my choice. Starve myself. I’m sure the baby would die before I would - not that I’d care if I went first. This baby has cost me everything. Mum..... no.... Fiona.... She’s not my mum. Fiona threatened me with being put on an intravenous drip if I did stop eating, though. Given her background, I don’t want to call her bluff. If she did do that, it would mean being put back on the bed again.
I might be trapped in the one room, at the moment, but it’s still better than being on the bed for the remainder of the pregnancy.
Pregnancy.
She caught me, once, when I had a clothes cupboard in the room. A cupboard filled with various clean clothes which helped me feel more human. She caught me with my legs apart, a coat-hanger in my hands. A look of nervous determination as the thoughts flashed through my mind to scrape this thing out of me.
I knew it would hurt but I figured the short-term pain would be better than the long-term suffering I was to endure.
She took the coat-hanger away from me.
And the cupboard.
Now I only get clean clothes every couple of days when she feels I look as though I need perking up.
I’d probably be a little perkier if she’d do something about the smell from the cellar. Dad’s....
Bryan’s rotting corpse stinking out the house.
Occasionally I can hear her spraying some sort of air-freshener downstairs but that only fights the smell a little. Soon the rotting flesh over-powers the sickly-sweet scent she tries to mask it with. When the air-freshened scent is at it’s strongest, I’m often left wondering whether the flesh smell would be better.
Probably not.
The smell of his corpse also serves up bittersweet memories. On the one hand I’m fucking glad I killed him. But then, on the other hand, my memories betray me and I can’t help but think of the good times we’ve had together.
I wonder whether he’s still lingering in the kitchen.
She must have moved him - on the off-chance someone came by the house unexpectedly. She couldn’t have just left him there. And, even if she doesn’t think anyone would swing by.... it can’t be pleasant having his body in the middle of the kitchen - especially when she’s trying to cook supper.
No.
She must have moved him.
Days and nights blend into one - nothing changes apart from the size of the bump. The ever-changing bump being the only clue I have that time is, indeed, passing.
The bump....
I wonder what will happen when the baby does come. I can’t picture us all living under one roof, back in the old home....
Has anyone even noticed we aren’t there anymore? Has anyone even gone looking for dad - and me? Both of us have been expected in work or classes.... someone must have noticed we haven’t been around. Surely someone, somewhere, is concerned by our lack of presence.
Maybe they’re out looking for us.
Me.
Maybe they’re looking for me. Any day now they’re going to find me, in this house, and rescue me - take me away from the nightmare.
And straight to prison for killing Bryan.
I don’t care. A real prison would probably be better than this one anyway. At least they’d be the chance of making some friends there. At least they’d be company in the form of other prisoners and I wouldn’t be alone anymore. And they could take the baby - take this thing from me and get rid of it, send it to an orphanage.
Would I even go to prison?
Given the circumstances, maybe they’d let me off. Maybe they’d let me go. Maybe they’d even help me on my feet and send me off somewhere new to live with some money in my back pocket so I can start a new life. Become a new person.
Stupid girl.
I realise I’ve got my hopes up and come crashing back to reality with a bump. A real bump, at that.
I don’t have that sort of luck.
I’m not the sort of person who gets away with things or gets given things for nothing. If anything, I’ll be rescued from this hell-hole and sent to prison. Or, if I do get out - I’ll end up imprisoned in my own home - too scared to go out because of people coming up to me to say how sorry they are, for what happened.... their pity and questions forcing me to relive what I’ve been through.
Or they’d come up to me to say how cute the baby is and ask it’s name, as I push it in it’s pram. Well, that wouldn’t happen. The only times I’d be pushing it in the pram are when I’m either going to the orphanage to hand it over.... or when I’m running towards a cliff - ready to let go of the handle at the last minute.
My mind plays through the last scenario and I see the baby, in the pram, fly off the cliff. Standing at the cliff-edge, I watch as it crashes down the rock-face into the murky waters below.
“Fuck you,” I mutter as I wave it to Hell.
Jesus.... what’s happening to me. I’d never hurt a baby. Why is my mind even thinking like that. My mum and dad wanted me to keep the child.... they have gone about it in a fucked up way but I’m here thinking about pushing it off a cliff.... smashing it’s tiny little head into the rocks before watching it drown.... am I worse than my parents?
No.
It’s their fault!
Before all of this, I would never have had dark thoughts such as that.
Never.
It’s their fault!
Slowly, they’re turning me into a monster.
My real parents obviously felt as though they couldn’t raise me, for whatever reason and I certainly don’t blame them considering I don’t want this child in me, but.... I can’t help but think they’d have done a better job raising me than Bryan and Fiona. Sure, I can’t grumble about my childhood - the things I was given, the love, the days out.... but this kind of ruins all of that.
Where is Fiona now? My loving mother....
2.
Bags and bags of various baby outfits already loaded into the car. I didn’t think this through, as I leave the shopping centre with large, soft-toys and various items of baby furniture - all stacked neatly on the shopping trolley.
I have no idea how I’m going to fit it all in.
If I were sensible, I would have done a little today and a little tomorrow. But, I don’t like leaving her on her own for very long - just in case anything happens. It looks as though she is ready to drop now, any day... and, even if she doesn’t.... I can’t risk leaving her alone in case she manages to get out of the room. Although, having said that, and especially in her condition - I’m sure she wouldn’t be able to.
And if she did - so far from civilisation, out there in the country, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t make it far anyway. Not in her condition.
The thought of her wandering aimlessly through the woods freaks me out a little. I best get home soon.
“Fiona?”
Shit.
I know that voice. Ignore it. Keep walking.
“Hey, Fiona!”
The voice is closer. Suddenly I feel a hand touch me. Can’t ignore it now.
“It is you!”
I turned around to see my neighbour, John.
“Oh, hi! Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I said. I lied.
“Really? I was shouting pretty loudly.”
“Just lost in my own little world,” not really a lie.
“How have you been? We’ve been wondering about you guys....”
He turned and noted the contents of the shopping trolley.
“Jesus, someone’s expecting then?”
Can’t think of a quick enough lie, “Yes, Jessica’s first...”
“With Darren?”
“Yes.”
“Is he with you? There’s been leaflets up around the town about him - he seems to have vanished from the face of the planet too....”
“Not with us, no.”
