by Matt Shaw
I do not enjoy driving around in his clapped out banger of a vehicle. The bad paint job, the stuttering engine hacking out plumes of black smoke upon start up - it’s an embarrassment but still better than walking. We’ve had the conversation about changing vehicles in the past but it always ends the same way; he needs it for his work. I can’t exactly go out and trade it in against a new model - more’s the pity. I think if I were to do that, it could well be the final straw for us. A fragile friendship pushed to breaking point. Loves this fucking van as much as he loves children.
I don’t know - part of me thinks I’m going to wake up one day and find his name on some kind of sex register, not that I get to see the news very often. He doesn’t like reading or watching TV, so that means I don’t get to read or watch, either.
“Well, officer, he told me he loved children but I never thought he meant like that…” Of course I’d plead ignorance. No way I want to go down with him. I know what they do to perverts in prison and that’s definitely not for me.
I turned down a quiet alleyway which was only just wide enough to fit the van down, as made evident by the fact I clipped the wing mirror turning in. I’m sure he won’t mind. State of the fucking van, I’m sure he won’t even realise.
My mind keeps coming back to his cancelled party and the poor show he had in the park; if this carries on, I wonder if it means he will start to see the world the way I see it or whether he’ll just throw himself into denial even more? It would be great if he didn’t feel the need to hide himself behind make-up. Great if he’d grow a pair of balls and quit being such a fucking pussy. I don’t know. Knowing my luck he will most likely ruin it for the pair of us and end up doing something stupid like blowing his brains out or hanging himself from one of the rafters in our home. Mind you, if he gets down that route, he’ll have to lose some weight first. Fat cunt will most likely snap the fucking rafter. But then maybe that’s what he needs? A close call with death to show him how much he wants to actually live? Perhaps I could set something up for him? No. I can’t. Knowing my luck he won’t stop me and I’ll end up killing him. Major backfire.
I think half the problem with him is because he enjoys dressing up as a clown. He pretends he doesn’t do - I don’t know - I think he does. After all, why else would you continue doing it, especially when no one really respects you? He pretends it is all about the parties and the entertaining but that’s a thinly-veiled lie. He enjoys dressing up because it gives him a chance to hide who he is. He thinks I do not know this but I do. I think that, if he were not able to wear such an outfit anymore, he might just start to realise who he really is and what is really important to him. He’ll come to terms with all of that and what he really wants to do with his life. This would be great for me because - if he were to do that - well, we both want the same thing.
A check in the rear-view mirror, straightened up after his earlier pathetic outburst, and I was clear from people following me. I killed the van’s lights, plunging us into near darkness thanks to the lack of street lamps down this particular alley, an alley chosen for this very reason along with the fact it was pretty isolated from the main part of the town where the nightclub boys and girls may still be milling about. I opened the door and jumped on down from the driver’s seat. I left the engine running so as not to have to endure the loud backfire when the time comes to start it back up again.
I walked to the back of the van and opened it up. The smell hit me more or less straight away. Leaving this in here during the hot day clearly had not done anything for its freshness. I reached in and took a hold of the black bin liner with a white gloved hand (courtesy of borrowing part of his uniform). As I pulled the bag from the van, a little liquid leaked from a small hole in the bottom of it. My fault. I should have double bagged it. It was obvious the weight was going to be too much for the one bag. I dropped it to the floor with a dull thud and looked back to a dumpster I had seen as I drove down the alley - a large metal can with a lid tucked into the back doorway of what looked to be a Chinese restaurant. I walked over to the dumpster and lifted the not-so-heavy lid. Fucking smell of rotten chicken and other meats hit me. Jesus. Should have brought a fucking nose-peg with me. I lifted the first few bags from the top and put them on the floor before walking back for my own bag. I lifted it and reached under to hold it from beneath. Don’t need the bag splitting all the way.
I staggered it over to the dumpster and lifted it to the edge of the opening. A second later, to catch my breath, and I pushed it in. Easier than I imagined. I picked the bags up from the floor and buried my own bag with them. The fucking smell of this dumpster, I couldn’t have picked a better place to dump my bag. The sheer stink of this dumpster - no one is going to go ferreting around in it. I slammed the lid shut and returned to my van. Despite the problems I’m having at home - with him - I’m feeling good. I always am when I dump the bags off. It’s like a heavy weight lifted from my shoulders.
I leaned down to the radio and turned the dial. Music crackled through the damaged speakers. I half-expected it to be some kind of carnival music, given the look of the van and my ‘sometimes’ friend’s like for all things ‘clown’. Thankfully, it was a standard radio channel - some presenters talking about this and that. Sure I’ll pick it up the more I listen and - until then - I do not care. Homeward bound.
III
I stepped into the shared home and quietly closed the door so as not to wake him up. I don’t want the hassle of having to explain where I’ve been this evening. He’s always so paranoid that I’ve been up to no good and it doesn’t matter what I say to try and appease him; he never believes anything I have to say. I can’t say I blame him, given the fact we both know what I’ve been doing all night. I say we ‘both’ know but he never admits it to me; never lets on he knows what I get up to when the sun goes down and the cover of the night hides my movements.
I crept through to the kitchen and dropped the white gloves on top of the rest of the outfit. He’d come in from the park and thrown it in front of the washing machine. Not sure why he didn’t just put it in the washing machine. Probably testing me. Probably wanting to know how long it will be before I put it in there for him. Well - he has a long wait. I’m not his bitch. If anyone is the bitch - he is mine. I froze as I noticed a tiny speck of red on the white fabric of the glove. It’s not massive but I noticed it and that meant there was a good chance he would too. I can almost hear the conversation now, quizzing me over what I’d been using his gloves for. Of course I’d deny touching them at all and try and make him believe it was him who had tainted them. What’s the point? It would only cause an argument.
I bent down and scooped the outfit up before throwing it into the washing machine.
He’d best not get used to it.
I slammed the washing machine’s door shut and turned the machine on.
“What are you doing?”
My heart skipped a beat. Didn’t even hear the bastard coming. Rare for him to make me jump. Usually it is the other way round.
“I’m doing you a favour. Would it hurt you to say thank you?”
“You? Doing me a favour? Why am I suddenly suspicious?”
“If you want, I can turn it off and let you do it yourself?”
“No. It’s fine. Just you don’t usually…”
“Next time I won’t bother. That suit you better?”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t know you were down here anyway. I only came down for a glass of water.”
I didn’t respond. He’d fucked me off. Regardless of why I really put the stuff in the washing machine, the fact is I put it in the washing machine. I saved him from having to do it. He should have just said thank you but - no - he has to question my intentions. He has to be suspicious as to my motives. I’m sick of him looking down his nose at me as though he’s the better person. How he can believe anyone to be better than him - knowing he dresses as a fucking clown for the living - is beyond me. He is the bottom of the food chain. He just doesn’t rea
lise it.
I watched as he poured himself a glass of water. He thinks I am the selfish one and yet he didn’t even bother to offer me one. No that’s fine, mate, you just do whatever you want. Never mind what I may or may not want. Still waiting for my thank you.
“What have you been doing?” he asked me. There he goes again, being suspicious. I watched him take a sip from his cool glass of water.
“Wouldn’t you rather know what I am doing?”
“Do I want to know?”
“Try me.”
“Okay - what are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing, just standing around here waiting for some fucking thanks.”
I leaned down and turned the washing machine back off again. If he can’t even say thank you to me, he can do the fucking thing himself. Before he had the chance to say anything I stormed off, leaving him to it. Even if he did say a thank you now, it would only be because I brought it up. I don’t want some afterthought thank you. A pathetic token gesture of thanks. No. I’m better than that. I’m worth more than that.
Fuck him.
IV
The reaction was typical of him. To be fair, I’m so tired still that saying thank you didn’t even cross my mind. Definitely have the feeling I am coming down with something. It’s like I’ve been running around all night even though I’ve been up there sleeping in the comfort of my bed. Glad I don’t have any bookings this week. At least, glad in so much as I don’t have to get up in the morning. Can stay in bed and try and sleep this bug off.
I leaned down and flicked the washing machine back on. It started through with its spin cycle as I walked back over to the kitchen sink. A twist of the cold tap and I re-filled the glass. I walked back up the stairs towards my bedroom. I put the cup of water on the side and collapsed onto the already ruffled duvet. Can’t believe it’s so cold already. I’ve only just gone downstairs and yet it feels like I’ve never been in here. I pulled the cover over myself and shut my eyes.
I’m tired and yet my brain feels more awake than it has felt for these past few months. What was he doing up at night? What was he doing in the kitchen? Usually he doesn’t disturb me. I very rarely hear him moving around at night even when I know for definite he has been up and about. I come downstairs and things have been moved from where I had left them. Never really know for sure what he does at night and pretty sure I wouldn’t want to know. Not going by some of the things he whispers to me when we’re at the parties. He’s a monster.
I twisted and turned as I struggled to get comfortable, troubled by thoughts of what he had done, or had been doing. For all I knew, I was making a mountain out of a molehill but I didn’t know for sure and it was impossible to ask him outright after he stormed off leaving me on my own. Funny - normally I want nothing more than for him to leave me be. The one time I want him here, he isn’t around.
“I am here.”
“I thought you’d left?”
“Where would I go?”
To Hell.
“What were you doing tonight?” I asked him.
“A favour for you.”
“Before that,” I continued to push him.
“Why don’t you let me show you?”
“Just tell me.”
“No. I want to show you.”
“I’m not sure I want to see.”
“You’re ready to see it.”
“Not sure that I am.”
“Let me show you. I’ll even walk you through it - step by step. It’ll be a good chance for us to bond.”
“I’m not…”
“Stop being a fucking pussy, you snivelling piece of shit. Get out of bed and come with me.”
My heart skipped a beat at the sudden aggression. I should have known it was coming. It didn’t matter how a conversation started with him it always ended with the same amount of aggression. The anger and hostility coming - usually - from him not getting his own way.
I threw the covers off and slowly climbed out of bed.
“Yes, that’s it,” he sneered. “Grow a pair of balls.” He laughed. “You need to put your shoes on. We’re going out,” he continued.
“Where are we going?”
“Hurry up. We don’t have much time left before the sun will start to come up.”
“Just tell me where we’re going.”
“I can’t. You need to see for yourself. Trust me; I think it will be good for you.”
I felt uncomfortable. I was the one who usually kept the control. I was the one who decided what we did and didn’t do together and yet here he was, dictating to me what was to be done. It didn’t feel right. I didn’t like the feeling of not being in control. Just to get to the end of the evening though - and find out what he did - I walked from the bedroom, down the stairs and to where I’d kicked my shoes off earlier. I slid them on and tied the laces as he watched. I could hear him breathing. He sounded excited. A feeling of dread washed through me. Where were we going?
4.
I watched as he drove my van. He seemed at ease behind the wheel which didn’t surprise me. Had he not driven it before, he’d have probably been a little nervous about driving it. It was, after all, quite a bit bigger than a car - the sort he’d possibly be used to driving. He’d driven it before, though, despite his protests. I’d get in after a good night’s sleep and the driving position would have changed. Or I’d go to get the keys from where I’d left them and they wouldn’t be hanging there - or they wouldn’t be hanging on the exact peg I’d left them on. It was the little things, the little details he thought I didn’t notice but I did. I always noticed.
“Where are we going?” I asked him again.
“You’ll see,” he said.
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Even if I did, you wouldn’t be any the wiser. You need to see for yourself.”
I looked out of the window and didn’t recognise where we were and yet there was a strange feeling that I should have known. I was sure I hadn’t been there before, yet…A nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I had. It was weird. We turned down another unknown-to-me road. I wasn’t sure where he was taking me and yet I already knew I wasn’t going to like it. The fact he wasn’t telling me where we were going - keeping it secret - just made me feel that little more uneasy about it all.
“How far is it?” I asked him.
“We’re nearly there,” he said. His eye caught mine via the rear-view mirror. There was a glint there which cemented my feeling of uneasiness.
“How’d you even find this place?” I asked him as he turned the van down another quiet road.
“Exploration.”
“What were you even doing out here?” I asked.
He turned the van down a tight alleyway, clipping the wing-mirror in the process. I stared at the rear-view mirror in the hope he’d see my disapproving look. He didn’t.
“Well,” he said. He pulled the van to a stop with a judder.
“What? We’re here? There’s nothing here.’
“You wanted to know where I went this evening - get out.”
“Is this where you drive off?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I opened the van door, as did he, and climbed out. I closed the door.
“This way,” he said. He walked us to a dumpster.
“What is this?”
“This is a dumpster,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Open it.”
I looked at the dumpster. Even from here - a few feet away - I could smell it. The contents, whatever they were, were clearly rotting. Hardly surprising given the daytime temperatures recently.
“Open it,” he repeated, his voice showing a brewing irritation.
I hesitated. “Not sure I want to,” I told him.
He sighed. “Are you ever going to grow any fucking balls?” he hissed.
“It’s a bin. You want me to go rooting around in the bin?”
“Sooner rather than later,
if you could. Day is coming.”
“Look - it’s not my business what you do in the evening. If you’re happy - it’s fine…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in…”
“Open the fucking dumpster. You need to see this. It will do you some good. It’ll make you realise what you need to do with your own life.”
“I just…”
“Get the fuck out of the way.”
II
I pushed him out of the way. He didn’t take much to move. He was just standing there, watching, as I stormed over to the dumpster. Fucking stinks. I lifted the lid and pulled out the first few bags - the ones I’d used to bury the bag I had thrown in there. I dropped them at his feet and couldn’t help but laugh as a little (I guess) chicken juice splashed him.
“Is this entirely necessary?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Honestly, it’s fine if you don’t want to tell me…”
“Shut up and give me a hand.”
We both reached into the dumpster and pulled out the heavy black bag, carefully placing it on the floor.
“What is it?”
“It’s a fucking bag, what do you think it is? Open it.”
III
He wasn’t going to let me not open it. Not after dragging me out here and fishing it out of the bin. I was nervous. I guess because I already knew what was in there. He’d whispered it enough to me during times when he thought I was asleep. He told me of the things he yearned to do. My hand was shaking like a leaf as I tugged at the knot.
“Hurry up,” he rushed me.
“Just…Shut up!” I hissed back at him. I didn’t need him getting in my face right about now. I didn’t need him pressuring me into this. More to the point - I just didn’t want to hear his voice right now as I continued to struggle with the knot. I just wanted silence. I needed silence. Needed to mentally prepare myself for what I was going to find.
The knot came apart in my shaking hands. This is it. Slowly, I pulled the two parts of bag away from each other and peered in. The contents were hard to see, not helped by the fact that the moon was hidden behind a multitude of clouds. Didn’t keep the smell away from me though and I couldn't help but gag.
