Stuart James - Apartment 6

As the kettle came to a boil, the cloth began to drip with the steam. Droplets of hot water fell onto the worktop. Drip… drip… drip… counting down the seconds as time ran out.

There were two things on Oliver Simmonds’ mind as he woke, three if you count the sickie he had to pull again. He made the call to his boss, telling him he had a stomach bug, putting on a croaky voice. He was dangling on a string himself and didn’t know how much more his boss would take. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault, none of this was. He had to deal with it, then move on.

Next, he remembered gloved-man, the rotting corpse lying in the boot of his car; that was a priority. He had to deal with it straight away. Then, he thought about Claire. The unexpected visit. She wanted him back. She had looked beautiful, captivating, and Oliver needed her now more than ever. Fine, she’d made a mistake, God knows Oliver had made a few of those lately. Once the body had been dumped, he’d get back with Claire.

Meagan would eventually give up. She would either learn to deal with her husband or run. It was her choice and nothing to do with him anymore.

Oliver threw the sheet back, manoeuvred his body out of bed and made his way out to the kitchen. He eyed the two coffee cups still on the breakfast bar, the chairs pushed back.

At the window he pulled the cord, summoning the light from outside and instantly brightening the kitchen. There was a stale smell of alcohol, a musty odour. Oliver reached up to the window handle and pushed, letting in some much-needed fresh air. The sound of Monday morning traffic hit him, causing instant anxiety.

He looked down towards the car park, seeing his vehicle parked alone. People were already in suits, dresses, scurrying like a box of ants that had been turned upside down, embracing the morning. He suddenly felt nauseous and raced to the toilet, heaving. He crouched over the bowl until his stomach was empty.

Once he’d showered, Oliver switched off the lights and went to the car park. He kept low, inconspicuous, holding back and making sure it was safe to move into the open. He couldn’t be seen this morning. Claire had almost blown his cover last night. God knows how he’d explain pulling the body out of the boot and his ex standing there.

What ya got there, Oliver? Looks like a dead body.

Oh no. Just a work colleague who’s had too much to drink, you know. He’ll be fine, he just needs to sleep it off.

You sure he’s not dead, Oliver? He looks dead to me.

Quick, get his head, help me get him out of the boot. The stench is a little overwhelming, Claire. I’ll explain it later.

He needed to move quickly, get the job done.

Oliver got into his car, checking over his shoulder, then pulled slowly out of the car park.

He would keep driving, find someplace quiet, dump and run. The body had to disappear. And then he’d move on to a life with Claire and forget about this.

Oliver was heading towards Tilford, Surrey. As good a place as anywhere to dump a body, as it was relatively quiet, suburban. On a good day, Surrey was around a ninety-minute drive, this morning, however, it could be at least double that time.

He fought through the London traffic, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach in full force as he jabbed the brake and clutch. He opened the window, gasping for air, closed it, then cracked it slightly open again, playing with the controls like a baby in a crib.

Sweat formed on his brow and he furiously wiped his forehead with the back of his hands, his arms like wiper blades in a storm. Meagan’s voice played in his ears, over and over as he drove: “ You need to finish what you started.”

Fuck you, Meagan. This is on you too. Thanks for the help. Next time I won’t bother.

He saw gloved-man’s corpse lying in the trunk, the image flashing in his head like a bolt of lightning.

Oliver reached the M25 at 9.23am according to the clock on his dashboard. The traffic was unusually light, just the tip of the rush hour remaining. The only people left were either running late or going to mid-morning meetings with their lattes in tow.

He glanced at the traffic on the other side. Vehicles were practically reduced to a standstill. He watched a couple of the drivers, pushing their hands through their hair, leaning backwards in frustration, a guy with a phone balancing on his shoulder and pressed to his ear, his voice raised as he rolled his vehicle forward, forcing another driver out of his lane as they tried to get into the string of traffic.

He wondered if anyone suspected what he was about to do.

Forty minutes later, Oliver drove along the M3 following the signs for Tilford.

It was just gone 10am. The roads were quiet, his surroundings comforting.

A mile past the Tilford sign, Oliver swung a left, driving along an old dirt track. The lake was to his right. A couple of cottages appeared on the left side of the road. Oliver noticed a clothesline crammed with jeans and T-shirts. A kid’s slide was in the front garden and there was a fountain on the go, pumping water around a large rock.

The second house had a jeep in the drive and all its windows were curtained.

Further down, an elderly man walking a dog stood aside on the grass verge, beckoning him to pass, waving with his right arm. Oliver wasn’t in the mood for niceties.

The road narrowed with sharp bends and potholes causing him to swerve. He slowed, finding an entrance to his right leading along to the water. Oliver quickly glanced in the rear-view mirror and pulled over at the opening of the path. He killed the engine, opened the driver’s door and stood outside.

The tranquil silence was welcoming. The sky was a dull grey and thick, deep clouds were forming above, ready to burst at any minute.

Oliver stood for a moment, immersed in his surroundings. He took a deep breath, moving to the boot of the car, working out a route. He eyed the path leading to the water and was pleased to see it was slightly downhill. Manoeuvring the trunk shouldn’t be too much of a problem, as the terrain was stony, and the grass was longer by the water, which would hide Oliver slightly.

He knew the water was shallow where he stood; he’d worked that much out. While looking for a place to dump the trunk, he read that Tilford Lake boasted a small café, occasional activities and a boat hire. He’d need something robust enough to hold the trunk. He didn’t need anything flash. A small boat on an hourly charge would be perfect.

He made his way to the small wooden cabin by the lake, keeping watch, sizing up the area. From what he could tell, the place was perfect to trunk-dump.

As Oliver approached, he saw a plastic window at the front; the lights were off and the front door chained. The cabin was shabby, in need of wood-staining.

He cupped his hands to the window, peering inside. There were a couple of canoes neatly stacked on a shelf towards the back, a small reception with a till, papers, a cup filled with pens and a roll of Sellotape.

Shit, don’t do this to me, please.

Oliver went around to the side of the hut. This door was also locked with a security chain fastened across the entrance.

Then he saw a sign: Opening hours 10am–2pm.

Wow, what a grafter. This person’s a real high flyer.

He noticed a phone number for general enquiries underneath.

Oliver called the number, and a guy answered on the third ring, sounding like he’d been up all night. His voice was rough, deep, and by the sound of his telephone manner, he wasn’t used to calls. ‘Tilford Lake.’

‘Hi, I was hoping to take a boat out for an hour or so. Would it be possible?’

The guy paused – Oliver thought he’d hung up – then he spoke, unenthusiastic and sounding like he couldn’t be bothered. ‘It’s the middle of winter, mate. The boats were chained up weeks ago.’