Savage Night (21 page)

When the limo arrived, Effie couldn't face it. A car journey, even a slow one, was going to make her sick.

She walked. Arm in arm with Martin, who looked smart and sombre.

The rain was just a drizzle. Still, should have worn a hat. But she liked the spongy-damp way her hair felt when she touched it.

She walked slowly, hoping she'd never arrive.

But the church was local, and they got there in under ten minutes.

The service was weird. Seeing people you never see otherwise. Cousins who only appear at weddings and funerals. Aunt Joyce, who Effie thought had died long ago. Everybody promising to stay in touch and everybody knowing they never would.

Singing hymns, for Christ's sake. Dad really blasting it out.

Listening to a man you've never met sum up your brother's life. And doing a better job than you could have done yourself.

Dad's speech.

He didn't say much: "Grant was a well-loved son and brother. He was a good lad. He was good to his mother. He was making something of his life. He could have been somebody. Now he'll never have the chance. I'm gutted. We're all gutted. Whoever did this, they're going to pay."

As he returned to his seat, she started clapping. Martin joined in. Before long, everybody was clapping.

Only the minister didn't seem too enthusiastic.

And then the burial. Not a cremation.

"No member of this family," Dad said, "is going to burn."

Dad was something of an expert on burning, so she let him have his way. She wasn't looking forward to the burial, though.

At the graveside, sliding the coffin out of the back of the hearse, she had to concentrate.

Six pallbearers. Only just enough. The coffin was a fair weight, and the path was slippery. The graveside grass even more so. She imagined stumbling, falling to her knees. Imagined Dad laughing fondly at her clumsiness. Imagined laughing along with him.

Mum in the small crowd. Moira, the nurse from McCracken's nursing home, looking after her for the moment. She was okay, Moira. She'd brought Mrs H along and Mrs H had hugged Mum and said, "
Gesundheit
."

Effie managed to stay on her feet. Laid the coffin to the side of the grave, grabbed hold of a cord. The hole was deeper than she'd thought. Narrower too.

Just the right size. Snug.

Moved into position and the funeral attendant said, "Take the strain."

They did, and there was a surprising amount to take. The cord unravelled and her brother dropped into the ground.

***

SHE LOOKED AT the hacksaw. Across at Martin. He'd picked up his, too. "You want to …?" she said.

"No way." He shook his head and blood flicked off his hair like paint off a brush. "Fraser's yours. I'm going to have a fag." He held up a hand. "I'll be careful, not leave any stubs lying around. Make a cup of tea while I'm at it. You want one?"

She gave him a nod.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and returned seconds later.

She looked at him. "Problem?"

"Effie, babe," he said. "You'll think I'm losing it."

She carried on looking at him.

"I swear Phil Savage is staring at me," he said. "Through the bag."

She said nothing.

After a bit, he nodded and went back into the kitchen.

***

EFFIE PAUSED TO take a sip of her tea, even though it was cold now. Wasn't that nice to begin with. Martin hadn't put sugar in it, but that was deliberate. He had a thing about sugar, how it was poisonous and all. He'd read about it in a magazine, done some research of his own and decided the article had been right. So, no more sugar. At least, not till the next article came along stating that sugar was good for you.

Truth was—and it was admittedly a little odd given what they were doing at the moment—Martin didn't have much of a sense of adventure. But she wasn't convinced she liked too much excitement either. She much preferred to live life— what was the word?—vicariously. That's why she liked listening to Richie's stories.

God, she missed him. Spent years missing her dad, then Richie got locked up too. Pair of bastards. Christ knew what Richie'd been thinking, helping some stupid loanshark prick set up a guy for the murder of his wife. Then Effie's mum got brain-damaged. And to cap it all, her little brother decided to run into a plate glass door.

Effie's life: one almighty laugh after another.

She put the cup down, carried on hacking away.

"Hand sore?" Martin said.

She was getting back into the rhythm, and grunted in reply. A constant flow of blood dribbled into the tub. At least there was no arterial spray. Just what was in Fraser's veins.

"Probably not something you'd want to do every time," Martin said. "Cutting them up. If it was a regular job, you know."

She grunted again. He didn't realise how right he was. It was cutting up Martin's dad that almost got Richie caught.

Martin looked towards her cup of tea. "Going to have to cut out the milk, too," he said. "Cows get pumped full of antibiotics. Can't be good for you. Unless it's organic."

If he wasn't naked, she might have found him annoying. But she couldn't. Not when he looked like
that
. He really did have a gorgeous arse. In fact, he had a gorgeous body, not conventionally gorgeous, but it worked for her. Shame he was so uncomfortable with his clothes off. All because of that rope burn on his neck.

Another case of her having to protect him.

She glanced at the mantelpiece, trying to spot her dad's handiwork. But there was no sign of anything unusual.

Still, she had to concentrate on sawing to keep the guilt at bay.

The head was nearly off. In fact—
there.
A slap as it dropped into the tub.
Blood splashed up the side, threatening to spill over onto the dropcloth. "You got another carrier bag?" she asked.

She'd take a moment before starting on the hands.

That's what you did if you wanted bodies 'vanished'. They were going to do it properly. Impress Richie. Lose the heads and hands, burn the torsos. Had to knock out the teeth at some point, which wouldn't be much fun, but they'd have time to do that later.

Martin returned from the kitchen with an empty carrier bag. Knelt beside her and opened it.

Effie picked Fraser's head out of the tub. Held it at arm's length. "He doesn't look his best," she said.

Martin moved to the side, fidgeted with the bag.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Put it in the bag."

She lowered the head inside. "Okay now?"

He nodded. His hands were a little shaky.

***

THEY TOOK THE tub to the bathroom, upended it, poured the contents into the bath. Turned on the taps, flushed the muck away. Some bits got stuck in the plughole, so she picked them out and stuck them down the toilet. She rinsed the tub quickly—didn't need to bother about sterilising it; they'd be dumping it, anyway—and took it back downstairs.

She placed it by the front door, next to the bodies, both of which were now wrapped tightly in Fraser's sheets—one white, one pale blue, neither smelling spring fresh any longer.

While Martin ran a bath upstairs, she bagged the dropcloth in the sitting room, dumped it in the metal tub and fetched the carrier bags from the kitchen. The heads and hands were divided between three carriers. She added them to the tub.

Now she was exhausted, sweating, covered in blood, badly in need of a bath. The sound of the water running reminded her of Mum in the kitchen, in happier times, humming along to the radio, rinsing the dishes. Couldn't abide washing up liquid. Made everything taste of lemon, she said. So the tap ran until everything was spotless and sud-free.

Fraser's house was very different from the one Effie had grown up in. Fraser had money. A lot of money for someone so young. Had a nice office job, but Effie guessed that Daddy had helped him out. Took a shitpile of money to afford to live in a modern villa, detached, with its own driveway. Effie could have guessed, even before she'd set foot in the bathroom, that the taps on the bath would be gold-plated. And she was right.

Martin must have turned them off. The thrum of running water had stopped. He was calling her.

He flung open the bathroom door. "I said, bath's ready."

She started up the stairs, each step a strange, sticky sensation as her plastic booties creased under her weight. They'd been Martin's contribution. Put these on and if you did happen to spread any blood around, at least you wouldn't leave footprints.

Martin ran towards her, the bathroom door open, steam lazing around inside.

At the top of the stairs, they met. He wrapped his arms round her, buried his face in her neck.

She said, "You okay? Martin, baby?" She cradled the back of his head in her hand.

"Not really," he said.

His breath tickled her neck. She stroked his hair. "We'll be gone soon enough."

"Something's wrong."

"Everything's fine. It's all going to schedule. We're good."

He lifted his head, stared over her shoulder. She turned, followed his gaze. He was looking at the carrier bags in the tub by the door. He said, "They're watching us."

And Effie experienced a moment of terror. Or panic. Or something similar. For just a split second, she believed him. She became acutely aware she was naked, which she thought she'd forgotten about. Hell, no she
had
forgotten about it.

But what did it matter? She knew the last thing on anyone's mind was her scrawny body. She still felt uneasy, though.

Martin stepped back. "You feel it? Eyes on us?"

She looked at him, realised she'd put her hand to the back of her neck. She rubbed it. How could he know about the camera? It was tiny. No way he could have spotted it. She knew where it was hidden, and even she hadn't managed to pick it out. This was freaky.

"Shhh," he said.

She listened. Now that the taps were off all she could hear was the low buzz of the central heating.

"What is it?" she said.

"I don't know," he said.

Over his shoulder, down the hall, light spilled out from the bathroom. Ghostly shapes swirled inside. Steam. Nothing but steam. There was nothing there. Not even a shadow.

But there was something. A smell. A smell of roses.

Her muscles locked. She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even blink.

Eight years old. Waking up one morning, sunk into the mattress as if a fat man was sitting on each of her limbs, another couple weighing down her stomach and chest. There was a smell like somebody had emptied a bottle of Mum's most expensive perfume on the pillow. Took a little while to realise what had happened.

Then she understood. She was paralysed.

She tried to cry out for help, but the sound stayed inside her. Knew she'd just have to lie there and wait until her mother came to wake her up for school. Hoped she'd be able to carry on breathing till then. Her throat felt tight, the walls of her windpipe thickening.

She lay in the dark, dizzy, occasionally willing a leg or an arm to move, trying to dislodge the invisible fat men. But nothing happened. Not so much as a twitch.

Got so that she was convinced she'd never move again. She must have broken her spine during the night. Yeah, that was it. Rolled over in her sleep, snapped something, and it didn't hurt cause she was paralysed. She'd live the rest of her life being shunted between her bed, a wheelchair and the bath with one of those hoist things she'd seen them use on her grandfather after he got all weak and started to shrivel up like a walnut.

Eight-year-old Effie had cried. Soundlessly. She didn't want to be like her grandfather. Everybody felt sorry for him and secretly hated him cause he was a burden.