Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

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.