Tales of Sin and Madness (19 page)

“That’s one reason.”

And though that was true, getting rid of Mojo was more of a happy convenience than the actual reason George had made his son hike for miles at night to reach Edmund’s rubbish tip.

Now he had seen how Edmund destroyed the evidence of his secret work, it was better than George had expected. Mojo would find a nice home in one of those pits.

“Why didn’t we just dig a hole in the backyard?” Bobby asked.

“I’ll show you,” George said. Palms sweaty, nerves twisting in his body, George walked over to one of the pits. The stench of death grew overpowering as he neared.

Standing at the edge of the pit, he gazed in. He first noticed the useless bits and pieces of cattle that Edmund collected from the slaughterhouse, some were stripped of flesh, others still retained scraggy bits of hair; all were unrecognisable as parts of an animal. Then his eyes focused on the rubbish bags underneath the sprinkling of animal off-cuts. It was these that interested George.

“It’s just more rubbish,” Bobby said, coming up beside his father.

George swallowed. His mouth was as dry as the soil they were standing on. “That’s not just any rubbish , son.”

In a small voice, Bobby said, “What do you mean?”

George turned to his son. “There are dead bodies in those bin bags.”

Bobby’s mouth popped open and his eyes widened. “For real?”

George nodded. “These pits are full of bodies, left here to rot among the animal carcasses.”

Although “left to rot” was just an expression in this case. George knew for a fact that Edmund burnt the contents of the pits. Working at the slaughterhouse, it was common to see thick, putrid black smoke drifting from the tip (“Looks like old Edmund is smoking his cigars again,” the men would often joke). The blackened ground around the pits was further proof of Edmund’s particular method of waste disposal.

“Where did the bodies come from?” Bobby said, expression still fixed with awe. “Are they Ed’s?”

“Well, not exactly,” George said.

Edmund Mullroy wasn’t your average garbage man. His job of collecting the town’s rubbish once a week, along with the slaughterhouse’s, was his bread and butter, his legitimate work. But Edmund was also involved in more sinister activities.

He collected – and disposed of – dead bodies. The victims of the many serial killers living in the nearby city, and the one lone murderer in town: Tony Fisher.

The killers would call Edmund any time, day or night (usually night) and then he would go to their homes, or some other designated drop-off location, and pick up the rubbish bags containing body parts or, in the case of the slightly squeamish, whole bodies. Then he would take the bodies back to his rubbish tip, where they would be destroyed, no questions asked. Because as long as the means was legal, it was Edmund’s right to destroy the rubbish as he saw fit. So no one batted an eye whenever Edmund lit his fires. They just didn’t realise what else was being destroyed along with the slaughterhouse refuse.

George wasn’t sure of the exact figure, but from talking with Tony, George estimated Edmund serviced close to a hundred killers in the nearby city, those who realised that disposing of bodies the old fashioned way, à la John Wayne Gacy, was too risky and always led to being caught.

George didn’t approve of his brother’s killer ways, but he wasn’t about to turn Tony over to the cops. This was his brother he was talking about, his own flesh and blood.Tony had practically raised George after their mother died when George was eight and his father sunk deeper into the bottle. Still, he’d had many long talks with his brother about why he felt the need to kill people; had even begged him to stop, but like a gambling or drug addict, he couldn’t, despite promises he would.

So George kept quiet about his brother’s nefarious activities. But really, what the fuck business was it of his, anyway? People would always kill one another – it was the human way. What would locking up one more achieve in the grand scheme of things?

George figured Edmund must have a similar philosophy – why else would he have agreed to help Tony (as well as all the other killers) when Tony approached him during a routine collection at the slaughterhouse seven years ago? But after what George had heard – or thought he had heard – tonight, maybe Edmund had a more personal reason to help out Tony and the rest of the murderers.

George learned of the arrangement some time later when Tony spilled his guts one night after they had emptied a bottle of J&B. How Edmund would come and collect Tony’s “dirty laundry” (the code word for a dead body) in exchange for a small cash payment. For that little extra money, the murderer would be alleviated from the hassles of getting rid of the body, as well as have peace of mind that the evidence would be destroyed.

George had to admit, as gruesome as the whole business was, it seemed like a good deal.

Apparently Tony had heard about Edmund’s business through “friends” and thought it a great idea. According to George’s brother, Edmund had been running his successful side venture for close to thirty years, and as far as George knew, the cops had no idea what was going on.

George had promised Tony he would keep quiet about Edmund’s side business, and until tonight he had held true to that promise.

George loved his brother, but there was no way in hell he was going to see his only child follow in Tony’s footsteps.

He was going to show Bobby the reality of murder, what dead, mutilated human remains looked and smelled like. Bobby needed to realise the consequences of such murderous impulses. He needed to be shocked out of wanting to rip the heads off birds and slice open the bellies of cats.

“Throw Mojo into that pit,” George said to Bobby, pointing to the closest neighbouring pit. His mouth was beginning to taste foul, like there was a thick layer of mould on his tongue.

Bobby hurled the rubbish bag into the hole. “Goodbye Mojo.” He turned to George and said, “Should we say a prayer?”

George spat on the ground. “No, we haven’t got time,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The real reason I brought you out here, is to show you what a dead body looks like.”

A light clicked on in Bobby’s eyes. “Yeah?”

George sighed heavily. “Don’t look so goddamned excited about it. Death and murder isn’t something to be excited about. It ain’t cool. Killing someone isn’t fun. It’s messy and nasty and wrong. Just like killing Mojo was wrong.”

“But it was fun,” Bobby said, softly, and started rubbing his bottom. There was probably a nice bruise on his cheeks by now.

George gazed hard at Bobby. (
“There’s nothing wrong with your son, Mr. Fisher. He’s a normal, healthy boy. In fact, he’s bright for his age. He’s just…inordinately quiet, that’s all.”
). “You stop that kind of thinking right now. I’m going to show you just how ugly death is. By the time we get home, you’re never going to want to see another dead human ever again. Got me?”

Bobby nodded reluctantly.

“Good. Okay, wait here.” George turned to the pit. His stomach did flip-flops at the thought of hopping down into that mess to retrieve the rubbish bags.

He was used to blood and bone, but being elbow-deep in dead cows and pigs was a world away from dead human body parts.

Just remember, this is to help Bobby
.

Instead of hopping down straightaway, George sat on the edge of the pit, legs dangling, like someone testing the waters before jumping into a pool. Finally, he took the plunge and stepped down.

The smell, already strong and caustic, hit him like a speeding locomotive: a combination of cooked meat, old flesh and other foul odours that George didn’t want to think about. As it was he struggled to keep down the two hotdogs and three beers he had had tonight for dinner.

He stepped over animal remains. The lumpy rubbish bags underneath made it difficult to get a steady footing. Once he had steadied himself, George bent down and seized one of the rubbish bags near the top of the pile. He yanked it free.

Whatever was inside the green rubbish bag was heavy and bulky, and strained the bag to almost breaking point. Blood, looking dark purple, sloshed around inside the bag as George started to heft the human remains out of the pit. He glanced up at Bobby. He was looking down at George with wild anticipation.

You’re gonna see what death really looks like, kid. Up close and personal. Ugly, filthy, smelly…

The grumble of a van’s engine was like a knife slicing up George’s spine.

His body went cold.

“It’s Edmund. Hide!” he barked.

“Why? It’s just old Ed,” Bobby remarked.

“We’re breaking and entering, remember? It’s against the law. He won’t be too happy if he finds us here. So hide!”
 “But…”

“Hide, dammit!”

“Where?”

George, his mind drowning in panic (
I didn’t even hear the gates!
), struggled to think of an answer. “Behind one of the rubbish piles,” was all he could offer his son. “Go, hurry, I’ll be right behind you.”

Bobby shrugged, turned, and was gone.

George dropped the rubbish bag, reached up and, resting his hands on the rim of the pit, started hoisting himself up. But as his feet left the floor of dead things, his right foot slipped, he lost his grip, and he fell backwards. He landed on an uncomfortable and wet bed of both hard and squishy body parts. “Fuck,” he whined.

Quickly picking himself up, he gripped the edge of the pit again and, with the sound of the van getting louder by the second, eased his head up. He caught a glimpse of headlights pushing through the night. He popped his head back down.

“Fuck,” he whined again, voice sounding an octave higher this time.

He was trapped. He would be discovered for sure. And then what would happen? Would he be shot, like the sign promised? Taken inside Edmund’s trailer and tortured? Would he be driven to the city and be delivered to one of Edmund’s clients as a present? Maybe he would be spared. Maybe George could claim to have been drinking and had wandered to the tip, fallen into the pit and drifted into a drunken sleep.

Sure, he’d believe that. Face it, if I get caught, I’m screwed
.

And if that were to happen, George just hoped that Bobby would be okay. But with no one to look after him, to try and keep him on the right path in life, George doubted he would be.

Holy Christ, you’re not dead yet! Just get your head together and think of a way out of this!

But with an extremely limited choice of places to hide, and with his time running out, George didn’t fancy his chances of surviving to see the morning.

Think, think, think…

The idea struck him like a hammer to the back of the head.

It was a sickening thought. George couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it, but it was the only idea he could come up with.

He lay on top of the dead animal parts and rubbish bags. With gritted teeth, he began scooping the various odds and ends over his body like a skin and bone blanket.

After covering his head with a sizeable bit of animal carcass, he laid still, hoping he blended in with all the junk around him.

Lying among the human and cattle remains, keeping his eyes and lips firmly closed, George listened to the guttural noise of the van, its engine popping and spluttering and getting louder.

When the van sounded like it was right on top of him, the engine dropped to a low, steady hum and then George heard a door open.

He waited. There was a period of long silence.

Something brushed against his hand and he very nearly cried out, but he managed to swallow the scream.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever and George started to wonder if Edmund had left. Maybe everything would be okay after all, he thought.

Then he heard talking: faint, muffled.

George’s first thought was that Edmund was chatting to one of his client’s victims that he had brought back with him. Perhaps a friend for the one already in his house.

But the more they talked, the more it sounded to George like a friendly conversation.

Not a victim, then.

Had to be a friend.

But Edmund didn’t have any friends; at least, none that George knew of. Then he thought, with a cold, sinking feeling – maybe it was a killer from the city, one of Edmund’s clients.

Oh Jesus
…

“This one?”

It was Edmund’s slightly muffled voice – worn, grizzled, like a much-loved leather jacket.

“Yep, that one.” This voice was softer, higher.

Bobby
?

That second voice had sounded remarkably like the kid’s. But it couldn’t have been.

Suddenly a great weight was dumped on George.

He fought hard to stop himself from crying out in pain.

Another object was heaped onto George; this one thankfully wasn’t as heavy.

Christ I’m being fuckin’ buried alive here!

“Are you sure you want to watch?” Edmund said, his voice now even more muffled. “It can get very smelly. All that dead flesh cooking…”