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He chuckles like I cracked a joke, nudging the coaster towards me. I snatch it from his hand, letting go of the glass at the same time.

“Tell whoever answers what you need done. If this bloke can’t help, he’ll refer you to someone who can.”

We lean back from our respective sides of the counter, each happy with the transaction.

“Or you could chop your dead body into pieces, tie it up in plastic bags, and leave each parcel in a different public rubbish bin. Dunk them in bleach first to destroy your DNA.”

He drains the glass while my obviously-not-a-poker-face drains of colour, then taps his finger on the coaster. “This isn’t a good man. The people who work for him aren’t good men. Exhaust your other options first.”

He pushes away from the counter, looking a decade older than his seventy years as he staggers out the door.

“You ready to go?” Mari calls. “I want to lock up.” She’s wiping the tables and setting the chairs on top, eager to leave.

Sundays are good in that regard. When closing time comes, everyone leaves. Unlike Fridays and Saturdays when people bed in, chatting with their friends long after last call.

“Sure,” I reply, and we walk out together, breath clouding in the frigid air. Once she’s chained and bolted the door, I walk to my car, waving goodbye. “See you Friday.”

Friday and Sunday are my regular nights, although I’d work shifts every night of the week if Mrs Singh, the bar owner, let me. There’s never enough money. Get one bill up-to-date and another falls behind, no matter how well I manage my limited funding.

Mari pulls out of the gravel parking lot while I sit, letting the heater warm the windscreen until it clears the condensation. I load the number Richard gave me into my phone, and stare at the screen.

It seems like the kind of decision that can’t easily be reversed if I change my mind, and much as I want to solve my problem, I don’t want desperation to lead me into worse trouble.

This isn’t a good man.

I tuck the phone away, heart thumping loud in my ears. There could be anyone on the receiving end. A gang. A psychopath.A detective.

My small car starts on the third go—not bad for the single-digit temperature—and I drive home, past the fancy townhouses of a new development and into streets of dilapidated rental properties that look set to collapse, finally turning into the worst house on the worst road.

You should follow Richard’s advice and deal with it yourself.

The idea makes me itch all over, but if I reduce the problem to its most basic level, it’s only meat. No different from handling a raw steak.

Defrost it. Cut it into pieces. Dump it some place the wildlife will pick the bones clean or drive to the seaside cliffs and toss it in the ocean.

Easy-peasy.

The lure of having this nightmare behind me propels me to my feet and along the hallway. I stride past the water stains that spread in widening patterns across the crumbling plaster walls, like the house is crying in shame.

At the doorway to the garage, I stop… staring at the chest freezer.

The lid is buried under metre-long plywood offcuts, a stack of bricks dug up from an old pathway, and four tins of paint in varying degrees of half-empty.

Just looking gives me such a severe case of the creeps I want to run, but I can’t afford to give in to apathy. The problem has already festered for far too long.

With decisive movements, I remove the paint cans and bricks, stacking them to the side, and prop the plywood against the breezeblock wall. I rest my fingertips along the indented handle, closing my eyes as I draw in a steadying breath.

One… two… three…

A scratching noise fills the garage, like dry bones scraping on concrete.

I lift the lid an inch, trying to convince myself the sounds are plucked from my memory—they’re notreal—but when the first breath of icy air escapes like a gasp, the image my brain produces is stronger than reason.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I scream and stumble backwards. The lid thumps back into place, the seal closing with a low sigh.

Still panicking, I pile everything back on top and flee the garage for the living room. I bite my cheek, letting the pain steal my focus, and shove my fingertips into my ears until I can’t push them any deeper.