Stuart James - Apartment 6

The sentence replayed over and over in his head: “ You need to finish what you started .” Maybe that’s it, kill Rob, be done with it, then move on.

He woke just after 7pm. The room was dark, the curtain blowing from the slight breeze pushing its way inside. A chill ran through his body; his legs were numb with the cold air, his heart racing.

He glanced over at the bedroom door. The glow from the hallway seeped through to his room. He’d shut the bedroom door, he was sure. It was cracked open three inches or so. Oliver pushed the blanket back and turned on the lights. The cold air from outside caused an icy chill to race through his body.

He closed the window tight. A noise from the kitchen startled him. Was that a light? A voice? Two voices?

He carefully opened the closet door, reaching for something, anything, to protect himself with. The first thing he found was an old slipper. Oh great, beat whoever had broken into the apartment with this. To the left side of the cupboard, he felt a long rubber handle resting against the shelf. It was a nine iron; strong and robust. He gripped it, holding it by his side, then walked towards the kitchen.

The voice was more evident; someone discussing a political matter. Oliver turned on the light, relieved at seeing the small radio on the shelf close to the fridge.

He backed out into the hall. He was uncertain if he’d put the radio on earlier. He stood in the empty hall, eyeing the locked front door. The security chain was still in place. He felt relief, satisfied he was alone.

He needed to take a quick shower and get ready to go to the reservoir.

The drive had taken him around forty minutes. He struggled to concentrate on the road because he couldn’t stop thinking about the past week’s events.

He was running the scene through his head: meeting this stranger, agreeing to join her for a drink, stunned by her beauty and vulnerability, then equally stunned by her demands. Oliver had been brainwashed, hypnotised, possibly both. What was it about her? The grasp she seemed to have over him?

As he drove, he fought the bitter taste in his mouth, wishing he could be more assertive and positive. Why did he take instructions? Why did he agree to things so easily? Was he incapable of putting up a fight?

No is no; I’m not doing it. Why should I? If only I could say what I need without worrying who I might offend.

Now he had no choice: he had to get the body out of the water.

He steered the car into the grounds of the reservoir, cutting the lights and rolling the vehicle into the far corner of the car park. As he stepped out, he could see his breath; a dim, hazy fog with every gasp he let out.

Oliver was shaking; he struggled to curb the anxiety. He stood for a moment, peering into the stillness. The grounds were quiet. At any other time, Oliver would appreciate the isolation. It would be a place he’d visit, to rest, recharge, and contemplate life. Now, it was sombre, formidable and lonely.

He locked the car, placing his keys into the back pocket of his jeans, then went through the long, wet grass to the spot where they’d dumped gloved-man. The leather trunk wouldn’t be hard to find: he could recall the outline as it sat in the water. He just hoped no one had been down here since. The area was overgrown with nettles and shrubs. It was littered with dumped mattresses, wine bottles and empty condom wrappers. It wasn’t a place you’d go for a romantic walk.

He approached the water, swiping his torch to help navigate through the darkness. He thought he could hear someone behind him. He glanced back. Fear took over his body, making his legs weak. Oliver paused, slowly turning, looking behind at the grass he’d trampled seconds ago. He could see a shadow. Is that someone watching?

The sky was almost pellucid, the moon hidden by a haze of cloud. He shone the torch, aiming it at the shadow in the distance, wishing now that he’d brought the nine iron from his cupboard.

‘Hello. Is someone there?’ Oliver waited for a response, unsure if the darkness was playing tricks. ‘Is someone there?’

He moved back slightly, edging to his left. Pull it together, Oliver. Get the job done. End this.

Oliver waited in the same spot for a few seconds, then went to the shore of the reservoir. The water was still.

He looked into the water, preparing himself for the freezing plunge. Oliver took one more glance behind him, removed his trainers and socks, then emptied his pockets, placing the contents on the muddy bank.

He stood on the edge, then jumped off the concrete ledge, landing into the water, the bottom half of his body immersed. It was colder than he’d expected, the water was muddy, the bottom thick and congealed. Oliver went under the water, trying to open his eyes, pawing around him, then coming up, gasping for breath, pleased to find he could stand.

He ducked his head under again, swiping the water with both arms, holding his breath for what felt like minutes. He grabbed clumps of mud, dirt and weeds. He came back up, spitting out the taste of oil and rotten plant life.

Oliver waited, standing in the icy reservoir. His body was numb, his hands ached and his face stung from the severe cold. The water seemed stained, soiled.

He counted to ten, then went back under. His lungs were heavy, like they were going to explode, his eyes were itchy, his arms weak from pushing against the weight of the water. Finally, he felt something underneath where he stood. He reached for the object as he struggled to keep himself under the water. He felt the rough leather, the thick chain, the straps.

It was the trunk, lying on the bottom of the reservoir.

It had taken Oliver almost an hour to heave the trunk out of the water, onto the bank and through the woodland to the boot of his car. He’d stopped numerous times, struggling to drag his soaking wet burden. The weight was enormous. His hands were raw, his biceps throbbed and his legs were sluggish as he stumbled over himself several times.

Oliver opened the boot of his car then hoisted the trunk upwards. He shut the boot as quickly as possible.

He had another look around, got into the driver’s side and headed out of the woodland.

He checked the time. 9.30pm. He needed to keep driving, away from the reservoir, possibly to the coast, a quiet place where he could dump the body and forget about this shit. There wasn’t enough time this evening, as removing the body had taken longer than he’d expected.

He drove along the A406, heading towards Hanger Lane. The road was practically empty. Oliver kept below the speed limit, driving on the inside lane to avoid attention.

His head was fogged, addled with the image of gloved-man lying motionless in his boot. He thought about dumping the body outside apartment six, letting Meagan clean up the shit. See how she likes it. He could text her over and over, “ You need to finish what you started .”

Oliver found himself missing her, wanting to be with her now, their arms around each other, planning their future, a future without Rob, without the shit he put her through day in, day out. He thought about the first time he met her at the station as he caught a glimpse of her bruised face, so troubled and disorientated. God, she was beautiful.

He needed to be strong. She was messed up and the baggage she came with would fill a jumbo jet.

It was better this way; do what he had to do, then move on. Simple.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. He was still on his own, the road empty behind him. A couple of lorries hauling long, heavy trailers passed on the other side of the central reservation, keeping to fifty-five miles an hour. He pictured the drivers, stamping their feet in the cab to keep themselves awake, opening the window for fresh air and blasting old-school rock music.