He lowers himself gently on to the sofa between his lovelies, and slips a hand into one of each of theirs. Rests his head against the cushions and looks from one to the other, captivated by their quiet beauty. It’s shaping up to be a wonderful summer.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When they open the boot, the smell – shit and Camembert and nail-varnish remover and toasted durian – explodes from the confined space as though it’s alive. It wraps itself round them like a fog, makes them gasp and choke, hands over their mouths to force the sounds back in. Collette’s eyes blur with tears. She looks wildly round, sees that they are pouring down Hossein’s face, too. Thomas has taken his glasses off, is polishing them, ferociously, on the hem of his shirt. Only Cher remains impassive. Just stands there with something akin to a sneer on her face. She jerks her head impatiently, steps forward and takes hold of the plastic sheet.
He’s crammed into the small space like batter. This afternoon he was rigid with rigor, but twelve more hours of sweaty heat in the airless shed, and it has passed. He slid in bonelessly, and settled like cake mix into a tin.
But getting him out is like wrestling jelly. Limbs and hair and belly, great slabs of thigh and lolling head sliding about in the confines of the boot, refuse to afford them any traction. They struggle for a minute, silent for fear of waking the neighbours, elbowing each other and tying their arms in knots like the Keystone Cops, but the Landlord is stuck fast.
Thomas lets out a tiny hiss, grips Collette by the upper arm. He shakes his head and gestures to her to move back. She obeys, meekly. She’s amazed and relieved by the way Thomas has taken on authority, delegated tasks – just known what to do while the rest of them were floundering in panic. She taps Cher on the elbow, jerks her thumb towards her chest to tell her to move.
Thomas stands with one hand on the boot lid, looking down at the body as though it were a logic puzzle. Then, with a single, smooth movement, he lays his hands on one corner of sheeting and hauls upwards. Like an extra in The Walking Dead, Roy sits up in his plastic wrapping, turns and flops over the lip of the boot, like a jack-in-a-box. Slowly at first, then faster, as his centre of gravity shifts, he slithers over the lip and on to the tarmac, like a great blue maggot.
They bump him down the steps, each crackle of plastic and scrape of a sole jerking them to a silent stop. We’ve come so far, now, thinks Collette. Please God don’t let us get caught now. There’s nothing we can do but go forward. She wishes they could hurry, but they can’t afford to get careless. Four people and a stinking corpse: there’s no way you can talk yourself out of that one. By the door, Thomas shuttles through the bunch of keys they fished from Roy’s damp pocket, looking for the one that opens it. Collette climbs back up a couple of steps and scans the street. Any moment now it’s going to fill with a posse of torch-bearing householders, she knows it. A light will come on, then another light, then a voice will ask what they’re doing, and…
And then the door is open. Thomas bends and starts to drag Roy through. Collette rushes down the steps and joins the others.
It’s a night of smells. She can feel that they’ve come straight into a room; a stuffy, hard-surfaced room that smells of frying and onions and sweat and stale alcohol, just like the Landlord himself before other, stronger, smells took over. Laminate floor beneath her feet, some sort of storage unit to her right; nothing that soaks up sound anywhere near, just the dull echo of their panicked breathing, the shuffle of their feet.
The weight dragging on her shoulders gets suddenly heavier, and she realises that Thomas has dropped his share of the burden. She does the same, hears the Landlord’s skull crack against the floor. The door closes.
‘Where’s the lights?’ hisses Cher.
‘Hang on.’ He’s speaking normally now, confident that they’re not overheard. She hears him feel his way across the room to the window, and they are plunged in darkness as a blind is drawn down.
A hand slips into hers and squeezes. Over the smell of the room and the smell of the dead man, she catches a slight whiff off the clean, sandalwood scent of Hossein. He doesn’t say a word, but she feels comforted, suddenly safer. She waits, calmer now, as Thomas works his way back to the door and feels around for the light switch.
He hits it, and they are bathed in light so bright that her hands fly to her eyes. When she opens them, she sees her three companions blinking, their features washed out, pale with fear and tiredness, eyes wild as they check out their surroundings. Cher still holds on to her corner of the plastic. Lets go as she realises that she is the only one. She looks around her, at the lair of her tormentor, and voices her judgement.
‘Fucking hell. What a shithole.’
Collette looks around. It’s quite a large room, the width of the building and probably half its depth. Walls that were probably once magnolia, favourite choice of property developers everywhere, but which have started to turn sepia with age, greasy black marks all around the light switches where he’s groped around in the dark and never used a wet wipe.
A featureless, joyless room. She guesses, from the lack of embellishment, that it was converted at the height of the 1980s extra-dry Chardonnay boom, when everyone liked to think that they craved a minimalist lifestyle and forgot that they would need storage to achieve it. It’s a bachelor pad, she thinks: a real one, not the style palaces you’re supposed to imagine when you hear the phrase. A place that’s lived in by a man who’s never bothered to make it attractive, because that’s what women do. He’s just bought things as he’s gone along and dumped the old ones in the corner.
There’s barely a thing in here that a normal person would call furniture. Her small bedsit is opulent by comparison. How long’s he lived here? she wonders. It could be any time at all, but judging by that pile of stereo equipment over where the fireplace must have been once, it’s decades. He’s bought stuff and put it down, and never thought about finding something to put it on.
In front of her stands a sofa. Tubular legs and black leather, the chrome chipped and smeared and the cushions sagging deep in the middle, the imprint of ten thousand nights watching one or other of the three televisions that sit opposite, wired up, it seems, to a DVD player, a video player and a Sky box. Why a man would need more than one telly, she’ll never know, but she’s not a man. Between them, with just a foot-wide gap from the sofa so that no one on it would have to stretch to reach it, there’s a black-painted MDF coffee table with a smoked glass surface. Yes, the 1980s, she thinks. He bought the flat off the developer, went to MFI and got some man-stuff, and hasn’t done a thing since. The walls are lined with a hotchpotch of storage: metal shelves of the sort you find in a garage and those dark-veneer dressers that were all the rage before IKEA invaded with its palette of birch. A few cushions that he’s used for comfort rather than decoration on the sofa, and a polyester blanket, also in black. In the gaping space where a table should be, an exercise bike and what looks like it might once have been a rowing machine; souvenirs of moments long ago when Roy Preece thought he’d get fit and find a wife, but has long since adapted into laundry storage. On the shelving, row upon row of media. Videos, furthest away, then piles and piles of DVDs, no pretence of order or caring how they look. Most of the cases are blank, but she can see from the glimpsed covers of the few pre-printed ones that the Landlord hasn’t been watching chick-flicks as he’s lain on that sofa. She can see cocks and breasts and buttocks from where she stands. Mostly breasts.