Stuart James - Apartment 6

‘You broke in earlier. Do it again. You get your car, then we lift the body downstairs, load it into the boot, drive and dump it somewhere, that’s how.’

‘You’re crazy. We’ll never get away with it. We’ll be seen. You know it.’

‘Not if we’re quick. The hardest part will be getting it outside; the rest should be straightforward.’

Oliver thought. He could run, get out now and never return. Leave Meagan to deal with the shit. He could disappear and she’d never find him.

‘Oliver. Are you hearing me?’

‘Yes. I hear you. Let’s do it then.’

Oliver removed from his wallet the card that he’d used to gain entry earlier. Placing it into the side of the door, he slid it, pulling up and down, forcing the lock.

‘Hurry up,’ Meagan demanded.

‘I’m doing my best here.’

He wriggled the card, pushing it hard against the Yale. ‘Come on.’

‘Where did you learn to do this?’

‘My granddad was a locksmith. When I was younger, he took me out on Saturdays. I carried his tools mostly, but every so often he let me have a go. I guess it’s like riding a bike.’

The door opened. Oliver entered and Meagan followed. ‘Hello. Is anyone here?’

‘Oliver, for Christ’s sake. What are you doing?’

‘I have to be sure. What if he has a visitor, or someone else lives here with him?’

Meagan suddenly had a flashback to when she’d called Oliver. ‘Shit, the girl in the bath. This is gloved-man’s apartment.’

Oliver climbed the stairs, trying to ignore what Meagan had said. He couldn’t deal with this now.

Using his phone torch to light the path, he went upstairs to the bedroom. Meagan shut the front door and followed him.

They looked at the body, the guy lying on his stomach, motionless.

‘There’s not much time,’ Oliver announced. ‘We need to get him out of here.’

‘And how do you envisage doing that? We can’t just walk out of here with him, wandering around in the hall with a stiff and risk being seen. Use your bloody head, Oliver.’

‘I’m thinking. How can you expect me to do anything when you’re shouting? You’re making me panic. This isn’t my fucking fault.’

Meagan stared across, wanting to shake him, make him realise the seriousness of the shit that had gone down and what he’d done. Now wasn’t the time to curl up in a ball and pass the blame back and forth. They had to act fast, hide the corpse, move it out of there to somewhere safe – someplace it would never be found.

‘Wait.’ Meagan had a plan. ‘Here’s what we’ll do, Oliver. It might just work.’

Oliver watched as she paced around the bedroom of apartment seven, her brain working overtime.

‘Rob has a travel trunk; a large leather container where he keeps his paperwork, all sorts of shit from the club he owns. He hasn’t opened it for ages. It’s lying in the spare room downstairs under the bed. He shouldn’t miss it. Come and help me get it, and if anyone sees us, we can make out we’re helping a friend move, storing junk, anything, but it won’t look suspicious.’

They found the trunk exactly where Meagan had said it was. Oliver lifted the bed while Meagan slid it out into view.

Oliver crouched beside it, feeling the top, blowing off the dust and sizing up the container. ‘It’s perfect. Quick, let’s get it out and move the body. We haven’t got much time.’ He opened the leather flap while Meagan ran to the kitchen, returning with a handful of carrier bags.

Oliver lifted the paperwork out in bundles, flicking through the contents.

‘What are you doing? We’re on a fucking deadline here. Dump everything into the bags and let’s go. Jesus, Oliver.’

Once everything was neatly bagged, Meagan slid the contents under the bed. There were four carrier bags that Meagan would have to explain the next time Rob came looking for the trunk. But she didn’t care to think about that at this moment.

Oliver felt the weight of the trunk, thankful it wasn’t as heavy as it looked.

Meagan came out from under the bed. ‘Okay. Let’s bring the trunk next door, get the body into it and go.’

Oliver lifted the trunk, trying to balance it while Meagan guided him, making sure it was safe. He struggled, unable to see in front, because the large trunk was pushed against his face. He was trying to get a grip, his arms wrapped around it in a bear hug, and he was banging into the walls on the way out.

‘You need to be careful, Oliver, someone will hear. That’s it, move along, no, no, back up a little. There you go, that’s it.’

Oliver struggled to squeeze the trunk through the front door and out into the communal hallway.

Once inside apartment seven, he laid the trunk on the ground and Meagan moved around the side, gripping the handle. They pushed it awkwardly up the stairs. It was much easier to move now that the two of them had a hold of it.

‘Okay. You lift him, I’ll grab his legs. On three.’ Meagan was standing in the bedroom, with Oliver just in front of her. They were staring at the body.

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘What are you talking about? Hold him, Oliver. This is ridiculous. Or shall we leave him here? Is that a better plan?’ Meagan asked with a hint of sarcasm.

‘What if he moves? He might jolt or something. What then?’

‘Oliver, you’ve been watching too much shit on the telly, just carry him.’

He moved forward, his arms placed in front, steadying himself in case gloved-man shifted suddenly. He slowly edged forward, his head aching with stress, wanting to be anywhere but here. He began humming a tune in his head as a coping mechanism. He counted backwards from 100 but was unable to get the numbers in order. He saw a haze of digits as he struggled to think straight; a mass of confusion which steered his thoughts away from what he was doing.

Once at the bed, he grasped the body under its belly with both hands, then lifted. Meagan took the legs. Oliver was struggling to move the blanket which was coming away from the bed, aware he could be leaving fingerprints, saliva, DNA.

As he moved the body to the end of the bed, Meagan pushed the trunk across the carpet and Oliver dropped the body inside. She quickly shut the flap, securing the leather straps.

Meagan had a plan. ‘Here’s what we do, Oliver. Go and get the car. The straps of this trunk are too flimsy and we can’t risk it opening while we move it. Rob has a strong chain in a drawer in the kitchen. He used to cycle occasionally and used it to lock his bike. He sold the bike recently so he won’t miss it. We can wrap it tightly around the trunk.’

Oliver took gloved-man’s phone from the bedside cabinet. ‘We need to dump this as well.’ He went out onto the street, leaving Meagan to clear up his dirty work.

While Oliver was gone, Meagan went into apartment six, frantically opening cupboards and pulling out drawers in the kitchen, scrabbling through the junk and tipping all the contents onto the floor. She found the chain under a pile of papers, checking its strength by pulling it tightly, pleased to see the key was still in the lock of the barrel.

It was sturdy enough and would definitely be secure.

She quickly placed everything back as neatly as possible, turned out the kitchen light and returned to apartment seven and the trunk with the body.

Oliver returned to apartment seven forty minutes later. He’d parked around the back of the building.

Meagan had managed to secure the trunk with the chain. Her face was flushed, her breathing heavy. She looked exhausted. ‘Let’s just get him out,’ she commanded.

‘Go and open the door, Meagan. Make sure the hall outside is empty.’

Meagan stood by the front door of apartment seven, keeping a lookout, making sure the communal hall was deserted. ‘Come on. It’s clear.’ She looked inside. Oliver was struggling to pull the trunk, crouching low. One end of it was trapped at the bottom of the stairs.