Burial

36

He parked outside Bob's house. He sat at the wheel, wondering if he could go through with it. On the radio, they were playing songs from the 1980s - Rick Astley, Mel Kim. It was stuff he'd despised at the time, but now it filled him with acute and painful nostalgia. He wondered how he'd come to be here, in this car, tonight. He listened to the beginning of the 7 p.m. news bulletin. He looked at his wristwatch.

At best, his timings were approximate. At worst, they were arbitrary.

Justin would have called what Nathan was doing 'winging it'.

Bob answered the door. He'd shaved, but his hair was a tangled mess, greasy at the scalp.

Clutching his briefcase, Nathan allowed himself to be led inside.

He trudged down the hallway in Bob's heavy, flat-footed wake, saying, 'Have you even left the house recently?'

'To get milk. Why?'

'You need some fresh air, mate.'

Bob snorted like a bull, and they went downstairs.

The bedsit was different. All the clutter had been pushed to the edges. So had most of the furniture. The carpet had been ripped up and dumped, half-rolled and folded, in the kitchenette. Bob had taken up the grey underlay. Patches of it still adhered to the concrete floor. On the concrete, Bob had drawn a large chalk circle. Outside the circle he'd etched a series of glyphs. They were elaborate, possibly zodiacal. Into the circle he'd moved a sofa and the television.

Nathan said, 'What the fuck is this?'

'It's protective.'

'Do I have to do anything, before I can step into it?'

Bob contemplated Nathan as if he were an idiot.

'No.'

'Okay.'

Nathan opened his briefcase, taking out a bottle of Laphroaig. ['Drink?'

'We need a clear head.'

He showed the bottle to Bob.

'This is fifteen years old.'

Bob considered it.

Nathan said, 'I can't do this without a drink, Bob. So please yourself.

; He walked to the counter. Earlier that day, he'd dissolved thirty tablets of temazepam in the whisky. Then he'd gone to a great deal of effort to hand-solder the bottle's metal seal, working on his knees in the front seat of his car. He now saw the job was not a good one: large globs of solder were visible at the joins. But he wanted Bob to hear the faint crack as the seal broke, so he turned to face him as he twisted it, like people do when opening champagne.

'There's no ice.'

Nathan poured Bob a tumbler, topping it up with a dribble from the tap. Then he poured himself a tiny measure. He filled the glass to the brim with water.

He stepped into the circle and passed Bob the glass.

'Cheers.'

Bob downed half the drink. He was surly and red-eyed. Nathan took the tiniest sip possible. He held it in his mouth. When Bob looked away, he spat it back.

'This tastes weird.'

'It's the peat. It's a very peaty whisky.'

Bob swirled the dregs in the bottom of the tumbler.

'It's got an aftertaste.'

'It's fifteen years old.'

'Whatever.'

Once again, Nathan spat back into his whisky as Bob drained his drink and set down the glass.

'Right. Let's get this over with.'

He walked over to the filthy bed. Stooped down and rooted around underneath. From underneath, he dragged an old Samsonite suitcase.

'You're going to put her in a suitcase?'

'What do you suggest?'

Nathan couldn't think of anything. A suitcase was the least suspicious thing in the world.

He shifted his weight a little and fished in his pocket, making sure the latex gloves were there, balled up. He took out his pack of cigarettes.

It was empty.

'I'm out of cigarettes.'

'Smoke mine.'

'I'll be back in five minutes.'

'We need to do this.'

'I can't do it without cigarettes.'

'Fine. Whatever. Hurry the fuck up.'

'Five minutes.'

'Okay. Whatever.'

'Lend me your keys?'

'Leave the door on the latch.'

Nathan clenched his teeth. Then he made his fists relax.

'Fair enough. See you in a minute.'

He walked upstairs. He left the front door on the latch. At the gate, he lost control. He began to shake.

He sat on the low wall until it had passed.

He walked to the corner shop. He fought the urge to hurry, even to run. It made his legs hurt.

He wondered how he'd ever get hold of the keys.

At the corner shop, he bought two packs of Marlboro Lights. He noticed the security camera, in the corner above the counter. A small monitor showed him in black and white, foreshortened. It exaggerated his little bald patch. He hoped the shopkeeper erased the videos overnight.

Outside the shop, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Bob's, as slowly as he could make himself-to allow the temazepam to work, the effects greatly amplified by the alcohol. It was a cold night. He was glad that The door was still on the latch. He closed it properly, then walked down to the bedsit.

He walked in and closed the door.

Inside the flat, Bob was on the sofa. The suitcase was open at his feet. He was finishing another drink, and reading the laminated note.

'About time.'

'Sorry.'

Holding the note by the edges, Bob polished it clean of fingerprints then placed it, without ceremony, in the open suitcase.

Then he said, 'Why did you break into the garage?'

'I thought you hadn't left the house.'

'I knew you'd do it.'

'What can I say?'

'How can you be unconvinced? She's here. Right now. In this room.'

'I know she is.'

He threw Bob a cigarette. Bob went to catch it. Missed. He fumbled for it, almost fell from his chair.

'Jesus,' he said. 'What do they put in this stuff?'

'It's fifteen years old.'

Nathan glanced at his watch. It was 7.40. He thought of the cold layer of air that blankets a river at night.

'In a way,' he said. 'I suppose I should be thanking you.'

'For what?'

'For my life.'

Bob's face went sour with derision.

'I'm not joking,' said Nathan. 'I like my life. And it would never have happened, if you hadn't . . .' He couldn't say it. 'If you hadn't done what you did.'

Bob saluted him with the glass. 'Good for you.'

'And I've been thinking. The thing about the afterlife: if there is one, we all end up there, sooner or later. And if there isn't, what's the difference? We'll never know.' He gestured at the volumes in Bob's clammy, swollen library. 'So what's the point of all this? What's the point of wasting your life on death?'

'What's the point of anything?'

'Life is the point.' Bob was sleepy like a lion. He stared at the glyphs on the floor, and into the open suitcase. The laminated note. Nathan watched him for a long time.

Then he said,'Bob?'

Bob was shocked, as if he'd forgotten Nathan was there. He stared '-him full in the face for a few moments, as if trying to place him.

He said, 'Right,' and tried to stand.

But he couldn't stand. He fell back, on to the sofa.

Nathan looked at his watch.

Then he took the latex gloves from his pocket. He'd bought them in a box from the chemist. He snapped them on. There were two little puffs of talcum at his wrist. He removed from his pocket a blister pack of temazepam and began to pop the little maroon jelly beans into his palm, one by one.

He walked into the circle. His air of purpose made Bob try to rise.

but he fell back again, looking befuddled, as if he'd misplaced something.

Nathan pushed him deep into the sofa.

Bob said, 'What are you doing?'

He sounded disconnected and confused, like one of the voices on the tape.

Nathan put his hands round Bob's throat. Bob grasped his wrists and struggled for a while, he was strong but the

strength was leaving him. He was breathing through his teeth. He made exerted, snivelling sounds.

Nathan dug a thumb into Bob's eye.

Bob opened his mouth to scream.

Nathan crammed a handful of temazepam into Bob's mouth.

Then locked an elbow around Bob's throat. Bob wouldn't close his mouth. The flexing of his tongue forced a few pills to rain down on the sofa, bouncing on the hexed concrete floor.

Nathan hit Bob's jaw with the heel of his hand. There was a loud click.

There was blood on Bob's lips. But he wouldn't swallow. His face was a deep plum; a broad delta of veins on his forehead.

Nathan pinched Bob's nostrils.

Bob struggled. He bucked and thrashed, but weakly, like someone dreaming.

He made panic noises, whimpers, deep in the back of his throat.

He tried to stand.

Nathan bore down on him. The sharp smell of green tomatoes and cigarettes and stale clothing. Bob's skin and bristles and hair in his face.

Eventually, Bob swallowed.

Then gasped at the ceiling like a drowning man. 'Oh Jesus, what are you doing?'

Nathan picked up the spilled temazepam, as many as he could find, and crammed them again into Bob's mouth. There was a lot of dark blood in there -- and something brighter red. Bob had bitten off the tip of his tongue.

Nathan squatted, putting his face close to Bob's. Bob's eyes were hooded and heavy. The hot whisky breath, harsh and slow, like a tranquillized animal.

Nathan glanced into the corner.

Then he stepped outside the circle.

He went to Bob's computers. He removed the tape from the reelto-reel recorder. It was a fiddly job and his fingers were clumsy. He slipped the tape into his briefcase.

He returned to Bob, taking the empty blister packs from his pocket. He closed them in Bob's fist. Then he opened Bob's fist and removed the blister packs, tossing them in the kitchen drawer.

By now it was 8.15.

He'd told Jacki he planned to meet Bob at 8.30. Fifteen minutes to go, and Bob was still alive. From his throat emanated an unpleasant "wheezing.

Nathan couldn't phone Jacki much later than 8.30. She knew him to be a punctual man. It was his salesman's training.

He said 'Fuck' and laid an ear against Bob's chest. It rose and fell, like low tide lapping at a sea wall. Nathan wished he'd done some proper research. Winging it like Justin just wasn't his way.

He held his breath, like a man about to dive, and slipped his hand into Bob's greasy pocket. He fished round. He could feel the soft, firm Badulations of Bob's cock and balls.

The keys weren't there. He looked at his watch. He went to the sink and poured a glass of water. He tried not to panic. He counted down from twenty. Then he went to Bob's overcoat, hung behind the door, and searched its pockets. The keys were not there either.

He began to search the flat. In minutes, his determination to be methodical had dissolved. He raced up and down, looking behind chairs, in kitchen drawers, under the bed. He searched beneath corner keyboards. He searched in the bathroom, in the cistern, the medicine cabinet. He checked the back of the sofas and between the sofa cushions. He re-checked the places he'd already checked. He stopped, infuriated. He looked at his watch.

It was 9.05.

Then he noticed the corner of Bob's briefcase. It was half-hidden by the hastily rolled-up, torn underlay that had been stuffed beneath the lowest bookshelf, the one that ran the length of the longest wall, next to the greying, disordered bed. Nathan ran to it. He waited, made himself calm; it would do him no good to empty the briefcase in haste. He went slowly. There were papers in there; Bic pens and two broken halves of a safety ruler. A pair of leather gloves. Buried in one corner were Bob's keys. The key to the safe, bigger and heavier, hung upon it.

Nathan went to Bob.

Bob wasn't breathing.

Nathan looked at his watch. Then he speed-dialled Jacki's number.

The line rang.

'Nathan?'

'Jacki, something's happened.'

He heard her standing up. She was at home. The television was on in the background.

'Where are you? Are you okay?'

He spoke too fast. He had to pause to catch his breath. He stopped and started again. He looked at his watch.

'I got here. I was late. I just got here. And Bob . . . I think he's done something stupid.'

The sound of a door being closed. Jacki, at home, moving into the hallway. Her husband was called Martin. Nathan had met him once or twice.

'Nathan, now be calm. This is very important. Be calm. What do you mean?'

'I don't think he's breathing. I think he took something.'

'Do you know what he took?'

'No.'

'Are you able to induce vomiting?'

'I think he's dead.'

'Do you know CPR?'

'A bit. I'm the sales floor first-aid supervisor.'

'Then keep calm and remember what you were taught. I'll have an ambulance there as quickly as possible.'

'Okay.' Nathan gave her the address and hung up.

He walked to the safe. He squatted, put the key in the lock.

On the sofa, Bob snorted.

Nathan nearly pissed himself.

He hurried over to the sofa. He looked into the cold, far corner, where the shadows were deepest. Then he took a greasy pillow and pressed it down on Bob's mouth and nose. There was no struggle. But -. Nathan pressed down until he could be sure.

His mind drifted.

He was awoken from this stupor by the distant wail of an ambulence.

He wiped the slobber-wet cushion on Bob's chest, propped it behind his heavy head, then hurried to the safe.

He stooped. He turned the key. The door was three inches thick, It was constructed of cold, solid metal. It swung open with satisfying weight. Inside the safe was the plastic-wrapped parcel, of the plastic, Elise's skull showed its teeth to him, missing the lower mandible. Bob had snapped the long bones to make them fit.

Nathan took out the parcel. The safe was empty. He examined the parcel from all angles, rapidly, rotating it in his hands like a basketball.

But

nowhere did he find the wrapped-up old carrier bag that contained Elise's rotted clothing, and his rotted DNA.

The sirens were appreciably closer now. Two or three of them. A chorus of emergency.

He stuffed the parcel back into the safe. He locked it. He put the keys in Bob's trouser pocket. He looked round the flat. He remembered that he had searched the bedsit once already. The clothes would not be where he had already looked.

A vehicle drew to the kerb outside. The flashing lights drew patterns on the ceiling. He heard car doors opening, hasty footsteps.

He said, 'Fuck.'

The doorbell rang.

He wondered how long it would be, before they broke down the door.

He called out, 'I'm coming!'

He looked at his drink, on the work surface of the kitchenette.

No ice, Bob had said.

Bob always had ice.

Until Nathan broke into the garage.

He ran to the fridge. He had to force back the rolled-up carpet to open the door, revealing the linoleum beneath, a layer of grease and crumbs. He went to the little freezer compartment. It was frozen shut. He forced it. It opened with a sharp crack. Fragments of dirty ice fell to the floor. He kicked the biggest of them beneath the fridge.

The remnants of Elise's clothing were inside the freezer compartment, still stuffed into a brittle, frozen Sainsbury's carrier bag, itself forced into a Ziploc freezer bag.

He ripped the bag free and forced it into a ball. It crackled like a campfire. He shoved the balled-up bag into the pocket of his raincoat.

The bag was cold and wet against his thigh, and it made a bulge in the lining of his coat. Already it was beginning to melt. He looked down at it.

There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. Somebody must have opened the front door, or the police had forced it.

Nathan ran to Bob's side, removing the latex gloves, bundling them up and shoving them, too, into his pocket. He dragged Bob off the sofa - the fall punching the final breath from his lungs.

Nathan climbed on top of him and began to administer what looked like CPR.

The door exploded in its frame. He looked up and over his shoulder Three paramedics were running in. They carried heavy shoulder bags, a portable defibrillator.

He shouted to them.

'I think I got him breathing'

He was told to stand back. He stood back. He retreated to the far wall and stood there. He said, 'I'm sorry,' and kept repeating it, though he wasn't sure if the paramedics could hear.

But they must have, because one of them directed him to the kitchenette, safely out of the way.