‘Fuck off, Carl,’ Lynk snapped. ‘The guy was murdered.’ He turned and glared down at him. ‘I know what you’re fuckin’ thinking, man. Go tell the cops. Go say: Hey, look, we found this drowned guy and we think he’s somebody important, so here, take him. And then they pat our heads and off we go. Little Carlie’s got a big silver halo and a gold star beside his name, and maybe Daddy won’t—’
‘Shut up!’ Roland shouted, suddenly on his feet and facing Lynk. His hands were balled into fists and he was shaking. ‘Shut up, Lynk, or I’ll pound the shit out of you.’
Slowly, I got to my feet, stepped back to watch.
To my amazement, Lynk seemed unfrightened by Roland’s threat. ‘Like to see you try.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, Roland, I know all about you. My old man’s friends with your old man’s insurance agent.’ Lynk smiled, then turned his back on Roland, who had suddenly gone pale.
Baffled, I looked at Carl, but it seemed that he was as confused as I was. Insurance agent? So what? And yet Roland looked deeply shaken. Slowly, he returned to his seat on the mud, sat hunched over with his head lowered on his chest, and resumed building his wall of twigs.
‘Betcha that shitface is laughing,’ Lynk said into the silence.
‘Looked like me,’ Roland mumbled.
‘He hasn’t got a face,’ I said in exasperation.
Glancing over his shoulder at me, Lynk grinned. ‘Roland’s right. He’s got a face, all right, and it’s laughing. Laughing at all of you sucks. Laughing his face off, hah!’
‘He’s not,’ Carl asserted. ‘He’s dead.’
Lynk whirled, took a threatening step towards Carl. ‘You sure about that?’ he asked softly. ‘Maybe he’s just faking it. Maybe he’s coming after you, eh, Carl? He’ll get you when you’re sleeping, Carlie—’
‘Stop calling me that!’ Carl shouted, his face reddening.
‘Carlie Carlie Carlie – he’ll come when you’re sleeping, Carlie. And what’re you gonna do? Sit up and say: You’re dead. Go away? When he’s reaching for your throat?’
‘He’s shitting you,’ I told Carl. ‘The guy’s dead.’
Lynk swung his burning gaze on me, grinned. ‘Fuckin’ Mr Cool talks, fuckin’ whoopty shit. Poor Mr Cool can’t sleep nights, poor boyyy! Bet he just crawls in bed with Mommy and Daddy, I bet. Sucks Mommy’s tits—’
‘Keep it up, Lynk.’ I took a step towards him, a strange calm flowing through me. ‘I’ll bash your face in—’
Lynk’s mouth curled into its usual sneer. ‘Sure, motherfucker.’
I grinned in reply. ‘And I haven’t got an insurance agent to stop me.’ I moved another step closer. ‘Care to try me, Lynk?’ I asked softly.
‘Maybe I will.’
Slowly, I dropped into a crouch, then waited.
Lynk’s gaze flicked to Roland, and then to Carl. ‘The city boy wants to take us on,’ he said. ‘He thinks he can take us—’
‘Not “us”,’ Roland said. ‘Just you.’
There was a flash of anger in Lynk’s eyes. ‘Sure thing, old buddies. Just what I figured.’
‘Lynk thinks he needs help.’
He glared at me. ‘Fuck you, Owen. Just fuck you.’ Again he turned his back, faced the river.
Laughing, I relaxed my stance and stepped away, carefully watching Lynk’s back for any sudden movement, but after a moment it was clear that he didn’t want a fight. Still, I remained standing.
‘We don’t tell anyone a fuckin’ thing,’ Lynk said.
I met Roland’s gaze, then nodded. He hesitated, then returned it and looked to Carl.
‘Okay,’ Carl mumbled.
‘School’s over in three weeks.’ Lynk slowly turned around.
I waited, then asked, ‘So?’
Looking away, Lynk shrugged. ‘So nothing.’ He swung a glare on me. ‘All I was saying was that school’s over in three weeks, for fuck’s sake.’
Roland rose to his feet. ‘His face was mine,’ he repeated slowly, meeting my eyes. ‘Only I wasn’t laughing.’
‘He had a different face,’ Carl said. ‘A stranger’s face, but it doesn’t matter, ’cause he’s dead, and now his face is gone.’ Rising as well, Carl gazed steadily at Roland. ‘Gone.’
Roland seemed unconvinced. With a shrug he turned away and began walking inland. ‘I’m going home,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ I said, falling into step behind him, and in moments Lynk and Carl followed. We threaded through the shadows, not speaking.
V
Fisk stood behind the screen door and watched Sten’s truck pull into the driveway. He laughed. ‘I told you,’ he whispered. ‘I knew I’d hold you back.’ He flicked his gaze to the field, then grinned. Yes – the worm-heads were sinking back into the black mire.
Hearing the truck door open, Fisk turned his attention to the man clumsily climbing out from behind the wheel. He scowled. ‘Bloody drunk,’ he muttered. Look at him, already dead. Just doesn’t know it yet. A dead man, stumbling around looking for a hole in the ground – look, he’s even got his shovel, hah. Fisk pushed open the door and stepped on to the porch. ‘G’afternoon, Sten,’ he said. ‘You bring some garbage bags?’
Sten stopped, ran a hand through his greasy hair. ‘Forgot,’ he mumbled.
Fisk shook his head, inwardly gleeful. ‘Well,’ he said, descending the porch steps. ‘Guess you’ll just have to use the flatbed, wash it out later.’
Looking lost, Sten nodded.
‘Pile’s over here.’ Fisk pointed.
Hefting the shovel, Sten walked over to it. He stared down at it, did not move.
‘Don’t smell bad yet,’ Fisk said. ‘Should be safe enough.’ Christ, the guy’s already sweating a river. Wait till he’s been at it half an hour. ‘Tell you what,’ Fisk said, walking over to the truck. ‘Just drop the back. I’ll get a plank and my wheelbarrow.’
Slowly, Sten turned to gaze at him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I ’preciate it.’
Fisk lowered the gate. ‘Nothing to it,’ he said. Though sure as hell you wouldn’t’ve thought of it. Mush for brains – nothing left in that skull. Dead man. Hope he knows how to use that shovel. ’Course, if you’re dead, that’s one thing you’d better know. ‘I’ll go get the wheelbarrow and plank.’
‘’Preciate it,’ Sten repeated, wiping his brow.
Fisk walked to the back of the house. ‘With luck,’ he said under his breath, ‘he’ll roll his truck on the highway and bury himself. They’d find him and wonder, “What in hell was he doin’ with five hundred pounds of mink guts?” And I’d walk up and say: “He thought they were sausages, Officer.”’ Fisk laughed. ‘“Was gonna have a barbecue, Officer. Was gonna invite everyone!”’
He righted the wheelbarrow and found an old weathered board that would serve as a plank, laid it sideways across the wheelbarrow and then walked it back. Sten was still standing beside the mound, his face white as he stared down at it.
‘You all right?’ Fisk asked as he came up beside him.
After a moment, Sten nodded, glanced at the wheelbarrow, then lifted the shovel. ‘Well—’ He turned a yellow grin on Fisk. ‘Here goes.’
Not trusting himself to speak, Fisk took the plank and brought it around to the back of the truck, where he propped it against the tailgate. He turned to find that Sten had begun. Grunting, he dumped a shovelful of entrails into the wheelbarrow, which promptly fell over, the intestines flopping out to rest against the truck’s front tyre. Sten stopped, stared at it for a moment, then laid down the shovel and righted the wheelbarrow. He then picked up the shovel and worked its blade under the slippery ropes until the iron edge abutted the tyre. Slowly, he lifted the load, stepped back and dumped it in the centre of the wheelbarrow.
Fascinated, Fisk continued watching as Sten returned to the mound, filled a second shovelful. The air was filling with the buzz of flies – Fisk hadn’t noticed them before, but now he saw the black clouds rising up around Sten, who had fallen into a slightly arrhythmic
pattern of inserting the shovel, straightening, swinging, then flipping the entrails into the wheelbarrow. Already, Fisk saw, the man’s clothes were soaked in sweat.
‘Christ,’ Fisk said with a shake of his head. ‘You’ll be here for ever. I’ll get out my shovel, give ya a hand.’
‘’Preciate it,’ Sten gasped.
* * *
It had been on his mind all through the hour he’d spent helping Sten load the truck, and now, as he watched the man drive away, it rose up like a black-headed serpent in his thoughts. His loins stirred and he drew a sudden breath. Maybe, he thought. Maybe this time.
He walked the wheelbarrow around to the back of the house, then turned on the water hose and washed it out. The cage rows were alive with sounds: scratching, skittering, gnawing – eternal music, echoing the rush of his own blood in his veins, animal whisperings that, at times like these, seemed to caress his soul. Such beautiful music, he thought, as he walked over to the water tap and shut it off. He turned, placing his hands on his hips, and gazed, with satisfaction, at the three rows of cages arrayed before him.
‘Maybe this time,’ he repeated softly. After a moment he turned back to the house and ascended the steps. ‘Make you sing one last time, eh, Bruise?’ He entered the house, strode down the narrow hallway to the cellar door. His hand closing on the latch, Fisk paused, glanced back down the hallway.
Flowers. The word seemed to burst in his mind. His eyes narrowing, he stared at the wallpaper lining the hall. Flowers, faded now, the paper yellowed at the edges and peeling away. Wrinkles and blisters, smudged with dirt. Dorry’s wallpaper, once as bright as her smile the day she’d picked it out. Fisk’s breath caught as he heard a sound from the kitchen. She’s back, he thought, his heart pounding. She’s gonna walk into the hallway and see me standing here, one hand on the door latch, the other gripping my crotch. She’s gonna see me, and her smile will die, and she’ll fade away – fade away like the flowers.
He opened his suddenly dry mouth, then shut it again. No, he couldn’t call her now, he couldn’t let her see him. But she is still there – I can hear her. She’s laughing now, that soft warm laugh she saves for me. He frowned. But no, she’s not saving it for me – she’s laughing. Now. In there. He lurched forward, reached hands out to either side for support. She’s with someone! A snarl curled Fisk’s lip, and he pushed himself forward.
The laugh deepened, and it was the voice of sex. Someone’s in there, and he’s having her! His hands bunched into fists and they travelled the walls on either side as he strode forward, his steps jerky and mechanical. I’ll kill them, he hissed to himself. I’ll kill them both.
Vision blurring, Fisk reached the end of the hallway and staggered into the kitchen. ‘God!’ he croaked. There she was, her smiling face resting on a strange shoulder, arms wrapped around a strange body. Their eyes met, and her smile widened. Tears filled Fisk’s eyes, and he reeled to one side, his shoulder striking the wall. ‘No,’ he cried softly.
Dorry stepped back, and the man turned at Fisk’s words.
With a wordless bellow, Fisk stumbled backward into the hall. He spun around, stared wildly down its shadowed length. The flowers seemed to be falling from the walls – bleached and ragged, they fluttered down like a swarm of dying butterflies. At the far end the cellar door was open, and white light poured from it. Fisk’s gaze fixed on that light. A gasp breaking his lips, he staggered forward.
Blossoms pelted him, each touch like the sting of a wasp. Flinching, bunching his shoulders and ducking his head, Fisk ran towards the glowing white light. He ran on and on, hands out before him, his eyes squeezed shut. But the hall seemed to go on for ever, and he was now wading through flowers hip deep. Fingers groping, he wailed, flung himself forward with all his strength.
He struck the wall, his hands and arms unable to stop his momentum. An explosion of colour filled his head and a loud crack sounded in his ears. Head snapping back, Fisk crumpled. Pain radiated in waves from the bridge of his nose, from his forehead, and, as if from a great distance, he followed the sudden warm flow of blood down through his nose until it issued from his nostrils. Numbly, he licked his upper lip, drew into his mouth the bitter blood. His eyes snapped open, and he looked back down the hall.
Empty, dark.
The stings prickling his flesh began to fade, leaving no mark. Drawing in ragged breaths, Fisk leaned his back against the wall, glanced at the closed cellar door. No white light. Nothing. His head was buzzing. He reached up and pinched his nose, winced at the stab of pain. ‘Christ,’ he mumbled, ‘I ran into the bloody wall.’
Shivering, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. No one’s in the kitchen, he told himself. Some kind of hallucination. She’s gone – she was never there. And that man – his face – it had been Fisk’s own, years younger, smiling, eyes afire with lust. ‘For Dorry. For my wife.’ He shook his head. ‘But that’s all right, isn’t it?’ He nodded, wiping at his eyes.
The tears wouldn’t stop, nor would the shivering, and soon he was bawling uncontrollably, his whole body heaving.
Hours might have passed – Fisk wasn’t sure, but when the crying stopped and he uncurled himself from the corner he had crawled into, his joints cracked painfully and his feet were asleep. Exhausted, feeling washed out, Fisk slowly climbed to his feet, leaned against the wall. ‘Dorry?’
He glanced at the cellar door, then, with a gasp, he pushed himself down the hall. ‘Dorry? I can explain.’ He staggered into the living room and sat down in the chair, drew his legs up against his chest. ‘Please, Dorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I can explain.’ As he spoke the blood that had dried around his mouth and in his nostrils cracked, making him wince as it plucked whiskers. ‘Please.’ He sucked in a lungful of musty, cool air, then croaked, ‘I’m scared, Dorry. I’m scared. That’s all.’
He waited – for her soothing words, for her calming touch, but the house remained empty, the air touching his flesh with cold, careless hands. Fisk rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m scared,’ he said stiffly, opening his eyes and looking around, his eyes fixing on the dull details of the room. ‘Does anybody give a damn?’ he asked, his voice lowering to a rough growl. ‘That’s all I wanna know, now. Anybody?’
Faintly he heard the muted madness of the mink in the back yard. He nodded. ‘Somebody, eh? No, just nobodies, lots of nobodies.’ He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. ‘One thousand, six hundred nobodies – all singing. Listen to them.’ His eyes flicked open, his lips peeled back. ‘Listen to them!’ he hissed. ‘So satisfied! Sure, won’t be long now, they figure. Bunchin’ together, now, ready to crawl.’ He barked a savage laugh. ‘Crawl outa this mouth.’ He pushed his swollen tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to remember what it felt like the first time.
VI
In the shed, Sten giggled. He looked down into the stained ceramic sink, watched the last of Elouise’s jam swirl down the drain, then turned off the water tap. On the table-top all around him sat empty jars. ‘Fifty,’ he said aloud, filled with glee. Fifty jars, twenty filled with jam and preserves, thirty waiting – waiting for this year. ‘Not any more,’ he laughed.
Sten turned and walked to the back of the room. He bent down and gripped one handle of the aluminium washtub. He paused to let a moment of dizziness pass, his eyes fixing on the ground meat that filled the tub, then, grunting, he began to pull the tub across the earthen floor. He rested three times before finally managing to drag the tub close enough to the jars and the table. Straightening, he frowned. ‘Suppose it would’ve been easier to carry the jars over,’ he mumbled, then shrugged. ‘No matter. Next load.’
From the table-top he took one of the jars and Elouise’s hand shovel. ‘Tools of the trade.’ Sten giggled again. He began filling the jars one by one, muttering between harsh breaths. The room reeked of blood and bile, and the hot air seemed laden with steam. Laughter filled Sten’s skull – the monsters. And yet, suspended somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, remained a detached awareness – a
small piece of sanity looking outward into the maelstrom, offering comments every now and then with a voice cold and sardonic. Of course they’re laughing, the voice told him now – look around you, Sten, smell the air, taste your lips. It’s reality that’s all around you now, Sten, and it’s no different from this pleasant little house that’s in here – right inside your head. You’ve done it, Sten. You’ve achieved the dream of a million philosophers. You’ve shaped reality to fit your ideal, to a tee. Aren’t you proud? You should be. Sten’s breath caught, then he shrugged. ‘Tools of the trade,’ he mumbled again.
Grind the meat, fill the jars. ‘It’s my house,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I can do what I want.’ He continued filling jars, his motions becoming mechanical. ‘Sweat it out, who cares what she thinks? Who cares? Grind the meat, fill the jars, who cares?’ He noticed that blood had dried on his hands, turning them black – he thought of lepers, he thought of flesh rotting and falling away, revealing twisted, stained bones. ‘It’s my house, smells fine. I can do what I want. I can sleep during the day, I can make my eyes glow at night. Grind the meat. I can drink all I need. Fill the jars. I can feed my dogs. Who needs garbage bags?’ Stained bones, go crunch crunch in the grinder, and what about her? Wearing those t-shirts. No bra, no, never a bra. Strutting it, pushing it, shoving it in my face, what’s she trying to prove?
‘And what about the other one? Hiding there, nice white room, nobody sending flowers. Think I’d send flowers? Hah. Fuck, I put her there, hah. Tyres grab dogs, didn’t grab her, no, she’s not six feet under in some rotting garbage bag – she didn’t even care, just a dog, eh. Fuck. More than just a dog, but what does she know?’ The voice in his head spoke up: right, more than just a dog – we know that, don’t we? Sten nodded. ‘Damn right. The dog’s a – a…’ He frowned, then the voice finished it for him: an excuse, Sten, the dog’s an excuse.
That’s right, Sten, the voice continued. Not all monsters are laughing. After all, there’s me.
Sten shook his head. Six feet under, frozen snarl in the dirt. It’s all black down there, black as my hands. My hands, what does she care? Hate me, they hate me. Grinding me, always. Over and over again. Making jam, filling jars. I’d never fit in a garbage bag. Besides, they want to preserve me, hah. Fifty jars, almost all filled. I don’t care. They can’t touch me. They can’t touch me because I don’t care, hah.