Insulation (A Horror Suspense Novella)

by Saunders, Craig

  He’d checked one of her books on Kindle when he’d heard she was moving in. 'Throbbing manhood' seemed to feature heavily, and 'love triangles', and some piss-pot crime, like the theft of a rubber plant.

  ‘Please accept my apology. I like quiet, too. I’m just putting in a little extra noise proofing. I’ll try to keep it down ‘til...what time’s good for you?’

  And so, he put it back on her.

  Let her feel like she’s taken control.

  He figured she’d go for one, two pm.

  ‘Two? Maybe...two ‘til four.’

  ‘Well, there,’ he said with a winning smile, ‘That suits us both.’

  He knew his smile could’ve been better, full of yellow teeth as it was, and on a small young man with nasty stains on his underwear. But then even when you've got yellow teeth and stink a fair bit, a smile often seals the deal.

  ‘Ah...’ she said.

  He guessed she was thinking of saying nice to meet you, but wasn’t really sure it was. He did it for her and stuck out his hand to shake. On the offensive, all the way.

  She shook.

  That was how it always started for Simon. On the offensive. Break them down, then own them.

  Most of the time.

  The other tenants weren’t Yvonne.

  *

  V.

  Sometime later, Yvonne ventured into Brighton for the first time, to a teashop and a fairly regular chat with her agent. The door was old, wood and glass and a black iron handle and lock. Studied in style, like most teashops or bistros she'd ever been in.

  She took a seat at the back where it was darkest, and found it mostly clear of old ladies and tourist. That suited her fine, and Terry would know to look for her there.

  Confirmation came when she heard Terry call out from the door, his heavy voice booming.

  ‘Evy!’ he called, arms spread wide, like he loved her. Like he hadn’t seen her just a week ago.

  ‘Terry,’ she said, smiling despite herself. He was a damn good agent and a friend.

  Kind of.

  ‘How are you my girl?’ he said, threading his way through the other customers like he was a sloop slicing through the ocean waves and paying them no more mind than the sea.

  ‘I’m fine, Terry.’

  ‘Anything good here?’ he asked, lowering himself into a seat.

  ‘It’s all good. Same as every other teashop in the country.’

  ‘You never can tell, can you? Out in the country.’

  ‘Terry, it’s not the country, it’s Brighton. In meant country as in 'England'.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know, but it’s not London.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose not. Well, if you’re frightened of the local food, you could try the London cheesecake.’

  ‘Cheese? Good God, no. Just coffee.’

  ‘There isn’t really any cheese in it.’

  ‘A cheesecake, with no cheese? I dread to think. No. Coffee, just the same.’

  He lounged in the small chair and waved the waitress down like he was gentry and the waitress a humble peasant, though Yvonne happened to know he came from Croydon.

  The waitress granted Yvonne a subtle smile which she returned with an added dash of sheepish.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you have coffee?’ said Terry.

  The waitress smiled again, but it was so shallow you almost couldn’t tell it was there. But Yvonne was good with people.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Freshly ground?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then, what are we waiting for? Coffee! Coffee!’

  ‘Alright, Terry,’ said Yvonne. ‘Sorry,’ she added for the waitress, ‘He doesn’t get out much.’

  Terry laughed, and Yvonne wished she hadn’t made a joke of it. His laugh was a thing of marvel. Every single person in the tea shop turned to look.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘How’s it coming?’

  ‘Ah, the needy writer finally shows herself.’

  ‘I’m hardly needy. I’ve been waiting a year for this.’

  ‘Ha. Evy, I’m ribbing you. The publisher will run this hardback.’

  Yvonne sat back in her chair and smiled. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes. Three book deal, hardback and trade paperback. Next, the world! Big time, honey.’

  He was smiling, too. Then he told her the figure. There were six of them.

  ‘What!?’

  Then he was laughing again. That massive boom of a laugh, like humour breaking the sound barrier. She could have sworn a few teaspoons rattled in their saucers.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You’re worth it.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s too much. It’s...’

  ‘Just go with it. Make the most of it. It’s a good thing. Make hay and all that.’

  The coffee came and Terry made a great show of sniffing it, though Yvonne knew he would drink it just the same.

  His face turned serious, for a moment, when he'd tried the coffee, and he studied her face.

  ‘Had another migraine, Evy?’

  ‘So transparent?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve bags bigger than Gucci under your eyes and you wince every time I laugh.’

  ‘I had a doozy over the weekend.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. How are you now?’

  ‘Tender,’ she admitted.

  ‘Bit quieter here? I trust your new apartment suits better than the last on that front?’

  ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful, in fact. I’ll show you next time. But not much quieter.’

  ‘Shame. Noisy neighbours, is it? Have you met them?’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘One. I met one. The landlord. I think. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know. It’s a bit odd. He’s so young. He lives in the apartment downstairs. Said he owns the whole building.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘A cock.’

  ‘Not much to redeem there, then.’

  ‘Yes. For a while, there, I thought...I thought maybe he wasn’t. But I trust my first impressions. I didn’t like him. I still don’t. There was something...wrong. You know what I mean?

  'Yes...some people you just don't take to...I know.'

  'No...it wasn't that I just didn't take to him. He was dirty. I mean, filthy. But it wasn’t that, either. Just felt like something was wrong, maybe. Oh, what do I know?’

  ‘You sure you’re not turning into a horror writer? Some kind of Psycho trip? Been at the old whacky backy?’

  ‘No, but he had. I’m sure of it. You know what, Terry? The more I think about it...do you still have the number for that researcher?’

  ‘Francis Wayne?’

  ‘That’s her. I used her before. She was good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just...a new book.’

  Terry laughed. ‘Come off it. You’re doing some sleuthing. Your landlord...you're thinking you're Columbo? Maybe more Monk...’

  ‘Shut up,' she said, but smiled. 'And, yes,’ she added. It didn’t matter if Terry thought she was nuts, not really. She could afford to be a little eccentric. He didn’t care. He was a friend, of sorts, but also an agent, and a hell of a lot friendlier when you’d just made a three book deal.

  ‘I’ll get her number. A bit of research should give you something to do when you’re not writing your bestsellers. Keep the old arm in. Plus, you might find some sordid details.’

  She laughed. 'Sordid?'

  'Maybe he wears ladies' undies?'

  'Maybe,' she said.

  They drank, her tea and him coffee, in the nice, quiet teashop with the bustle of Brighton outside. As settings went, it was serene enough. It could have been a scene in some soft murder mystery show on the television. But something niggled, still, even with the sun shining outside and the gentle clink of teacups on saucers. Whatever that hunch was, it tickled away at the back of her mind. Her la
ndlord; a strange, rude, little, creepy guy. She thought about Terry saying she was on a Pyscho trip. Somehow, that rang true.

  *

  VI.

  Yvonne risked a trek out in the evening sun, worse because it slanted, slicing through the buildings, catching her out as she moved from shadow to light and the sun lanced into her eyes round the side of her sunglasses.

  On the way back from her meeting she met her downstairs neighbour for the first time. He slammed the door to his car and clicked his fob.

  Beep beep, said the car.

  The owner was a little more forthcoming when he saw her, both on their way to the security door that protected their apartment from robbers and drunks. He nodded to her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You must be the new tenant.’ He walked over and stretched out his hand, then shook hers.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Yvonne.’

  ‘David. How are you settling in?’

  ‘Well, I think. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  He waved his hands. ‘Educated. Canadian?’

  She didn’t know if he meant he was educated, or that it was an educated guess, but she made an educated guess that he worked as a salesman, or some kind of executive. The kind of person used to fast-paced conversations, and she had that feeling like he thought, perhaps, his time was more valuable than hers. She'd been in meetings like that before, sometimes, with senior editors.

  ‘Yes. Long time ago, seems like. I was in London for nearly twenty years. Some of the edge has gone.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘London?’

  ‘No, where in Canada?’

  ‘Saskatchewan,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely there. Only been once, skiing. Loved it.’

  ‘Thank you?’

  He laughed. ‘Have you met the landlord?’

  ‘Yes, I have...I...’

  ‘Don’t want to talk out of school?’ he said, interrupting ‘It’s alright. Everyone thinks he’s a weirdo. Sits in there all day. Hardly ever comes out. The whole hall smells of weed sometimes. It’s a wonder he manages to run the building. He can’t even manage a shower.’

  ‘Well...that was pretty much along my line of thinking. Although I don’t think I would have been quite so candid,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m nothing if not candid. He’s always complaining about the beep, but I’ve got to set the alarm or some bastard would nick that in an instant.’

  He indicated his car, parked in his allocated spot in front of the building. It was a big car, but then David was a big man. It’d have pretty large to be for a comfortable fit. A BMW, she could tell, but that was about it.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, for want of anything sensible to say.

  He nodded, obviously proud of his car.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet the neighbours. I’d better get in and feed myself. Early to bed, early to rise.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, too. See you around?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said, and shook her hand once more, before they went their separate ways.

  *

  VII.

  ‘Hello,’ Yvonne said into the phone, a little tentatively. ‘Mrs Wayne?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, this is Yvonne. I don’t know if you remember, but you worked for me on a book before...’

  ‘Oh, hi. I remember. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Things are going well. You? How are you?’

  ‘Pretty good. Still getting work, which is more than can be said for a lot of people.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Yvonne, never really knowing what to say when people made definitive pronouncements like that. Do you just agree, or get into some kind of discourse, or just ignore it and move on? It didn’t really sound like it needed any input from her.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, scooting over the statement. ‘I’ve got some other work for you if you have the time.’

  ‘I can make time,’ said Francis.

  ‘Good. Good. It’s...ah...not really related to my work.’

  ‘Research, though, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I do. I don’t mind what it is.’

  Yvonne sighed slightly, in relief. She hoped Francis hadn’t heard it or read anything into it if she had.

  ‘I wanted you to look into my landlord...it’s...I don’t know if you can do that kind of thing...’

  ‘Up to a certain point, I can. I’m a researcher, though. Not a private detective, you know?’

  ‘I know. Just wanted a bit of background. I...suppose I’m curious and...something...’

  ‘Something ticklish?’

  Yvonne nodded. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really my field, but I’ve got a few places I can start. You sure you want me to do this? I can look into him, but...’

  ‘I don’t mind how much it costs.’

  Francis made an embarrassed noise down the phone; a kind of nervous laugh.

  ‘No, I was going to say, I can look into it without him knowing, but if I’m going to look a bit deeper, I’d need to take a couple of risks.’

  Yvonne thought about that for a second.

  ‘Don’t take any risks,’ she said. ‘Not yet. OK?’

  ‘No problem. Do you have a timescale?’

  ‘Soon. Soon as you can?’

  ‘OK. You want to give me the details?’

  When it came down to details, Yvonne suddenly wasn’t so sure she wasn’t being mental about the whole thing. But she gave Francis all the details she had.

  ‘I’ll get back to you by the end of the week.’

  Yvonne put the phone down, then made herself a cup of coffee. Coffee didn’t bring on migraines; just the right combination of light and shadow.

  The day was overcast and fine enough for her to take her sunglasses off and sit in an armchair she’d placed in front of her big windows. Sipping her coffee, she stared out at the sea, trying to still her racing heart.

  What the hell was she doing? Just because he smelled?

  No. Because the apartment smelled.

  No, it didn’t. It didn’t.

  She thought about phoning Francis back, cancelling the whole thing.

  But she didn’t, and it wasn’t because the apartment smelled. It was because of a memory.

  A memory long ago, just resurfacing, of some research she’d done when she wrote her first novel. That novel was now a trunk novel, but back then she’d been eager, wanted to be a crime writer. She’d wrangled a visit to an undertaker’s. She hadn’t had the stomach or the clout to get into a morgue, but the undertaker had been willing enough.

  It was the smell of death that had always stuck with her. Not quite rot, not quite like the undertaker’s preparation room, where there’d been a hint of preservative – formaldehyde? Maybe something else these days. But the smell of a body was distinctive. Like flesh, but with the absence of a spirit, that scent that let you know a person was alive more, maybe, than even breathing and speaking. Life wasn’t just about movement.

  The embalmed there had smelled slightly different to this smell. But under it?

  It was death, she thought, and knew she was right. Not rotten, perhaps, but death just the same.

  *

  VIII.

  Simon shoved as hard as he could, but couldn’t get any leverage to force the fat insulation into the gap he’d built. To reach his ceiling, even the though floor was raised and the ceiling lowered, he still needed steps.

  The insulation was pretty heavy. By the time he’d managed to stuff what he could into the gap between the ceiling and his new lower ceiling, most of the muscles in his small frame ached and cried out for a rest. The lower ceiling he'd made of wooden boards, formed with woodchips and layers of glue them compacted under vast pressures. It was immensely strong.

  'Meh,' he said t
o himself. Half a job or not, it wasn't coming down. He was sure of that. None of his other ceilings had even bowed, despite the weight. In a minute, when this last piece was in, he’d take a smoke break. Smoke, can of Coke. Shower. Game. Porn.

  Maybe that order, maybe not. He was pretty horny right now.

  Nothing to do with the insulation.

  He laughed at that. That’d be fucking weird. Getting turned on by a bit of insulation. He remember a story he’d read about some gay guy, picked men up. Killed them. Stuffed them in his walls.

  That was a man with issues.

  Simon didn’t have any issues. He was confident, strong for his size, moderately (maybe a little more than moderately) rich. He bought the best quality items when he shopped. His rare food, his tools, the wood he’d used to lower the ceiling.

  But he hadn’t cut the insulation to the right size, and David had been a big man. It was his torso that was giving Simon problems. Too fat for the gap, bones too big to squeeze.

  He gave one last heave and something cracked in the ceiling above, just below the new woman's floor. He couldn’t do much about it.

  He wasn’t worried about the smell. All the body parts were in tight plastic, airlock bags. He supposed with the force he pushed, he might rupture a bag.

  But fuck it.

  ‘Fuck it. Fuck it...Fuck it. Fatty fat, fat fucker!’

  He yanked the torso back from the gap with a grunt and it fell with a heavy thud on the floor. Some of the innards sloshed about within the pack. He’d already cut the head off and removed the torso from the hip. The guts were pretty much loose in the bag, but most of the fat bastard’s organs remained tethered.

  Ignoring the mess on the floor, he headed into his game room. He thought about a quick team match on Call of Duty, but took a ready-rolled joint from a long narrow ashtray instead, which he flicked alight and puffed at on the way back to his bedroom, where he stared at the lump of flesh, then, back to the ceiling.