Page 11 of The Bodies

TEN

Upstairs, Joseph undresses and peels off the blood-encrusted Elastoplast. He showers, redresses his wound and puts on his new shirt. Then he douses himself in cologne until he can no longer smell the ghost stench of the dead man.

With the ensuite door locked, he sits on the toilet and goes back online.

This time he doesn’t check news sites; in hindsight, the police won’t be searching for an adult male missing for less than twenty-four hours.

Nor will any journalist be reporting the disappearance.

If he’s lucky, a missing person report might not even have been made.

His focus, right now, should be appropriate disposal of the body.

The internet, as usual, offers a wealth of advice from people with no clue.

Joseph dismisses almost all of it. He’s not going to build a funeral pyre, pour an acid bath, feed body parts to wild pigs or hire a wood chipper and spray a nearby forest with gore.

His only real option is burial – and for that he needs a suitable location.

Jack-O’-Lantern Woods is a non-starter for obvious reasons. His late mother still retains her allotment in Saddle Bank, but that feels like another short-cut to disaster.

Crompton is reasonably close to the South Downs. It might be his best bet. After another ten minutes of internet surfing he settles on Black Down in West Sussex, an hour’s drive from home. He’ll go tonight, once the barbecue’s over and Erin’s asleep.

Downstairs, making himself useful, he reels out extension cables, plugs in speakers and lights, buffs drinking glasses, makes ice cubes and stocks the overflow fridge with beer and wine.

While he’s setting up outside, Erin prepares four different salads and the same number of desserts. Mid-afternoon she disappears into town and returns a few hours later with styled hair, a new outfit and freshly lacquered nails.

The first guests arrive around five. All are cul-de-sac neighbours: the Robinsons, the Taylors and Ralph Erikson, the insomniac widower whose house was lit up last night.

The Robinsons live next door. Gemma Robinson, a keen runner, is close to Erin’s age. This afternoon she’s swapped her Lycra and running shoes for a floral summer dress and strappy leather sandals.

‘You do scrub up well, Joe Carver,’ Gemma remarks. She breathes deep as she embraces him, clearly another fan of his new cologne.

Joseph mumbles his thanks. Then he shakes Greg Robinson’s hand and welcomes the other arrivals.

With every physical interaction he imagines himself transferring a trace of the dead man’s essence to his guests’ skin.

Quickly the thought grows too much, and he retreats to the safety of his shed on the pretext of fetching charcoal.

When he turns to shut the door, Erin is standing on the threshold, so close that he lurches backwards, nearly colliding with the lawnmower.

‘Whoah, there, Jumpy,’ she laughs. ‘Here, I got you a present in town. Now’s probably a good time to give it to you.’

She hands him a black box, long and narrow. It looks, to Joseph, like a miniature coffin. For a moment, he’s too disquieted to open it – worried, irrationally, that it’ll contain a tiny replica of the dead man, complete with a tiny caved-in face.

Clenching his teeth, he prises off the lid. Inside is a seven-inch Victorinox meat cleaver with a polished maple-wood handle. Carefully, he removes it from the box. The blade gleams when he angles it.

‘I know you’ve always wanted one,’ Erin says. ‘It’ll go through ribs, beef bones, you name it.’

Joseph looks past her to his neighbours drinking and chatting on the lawn. He imagines a journalist interviewing one of them a few weeks from now:

When did you start to suspect Joseph Carver?

When I saw him prowling around his garden party with a meat cleaver, that’s fucking when.

He hears himself tell Erin he loves his present and feels himself cringe-grin his thanks.

‘I got you this, too.’

Her second gift, wrapped in tissue paper, is a brown leather apron. Branded across the front are the words: WORLD ’ S OKAYIST COOK .

‘I’ll be honest,’ she says. ‘I mainly bought it to cover up whichever gross old T-shirt you’d chosen to throw on. And then, against all expectations, you suddenly discover an interest in fashion. It’s a shame to cover up your new shirt, but at least this way you won’t ruin it.’

Erin touches his shoulder, then flicks it, as if removing lint. ‘Joe?’

He braces for another question about last night. ‘Yes?’

‘I’d really like to get back to the way we were.’

Joseph lifts his gaze to his wife’s face – and is surprised by the fragility he sees in her expression. Fine lines have appeared around her eyes, almost as if she’s in pain. ‘The way we were?’

‘You must know what I’m talking about. Sometimes it feels like we’re two strangers living in the same house. I know it’s partly my fault. I’ve been spending far too much time at work. But being married to you – it’s been lonely at times, particularly these last six months. I mean, we don’t even …’

She sighs. ‘Are you happy, Joe? With me and with Tilly? Do you still want this?’

Joseph stares at her, dismayed. In the space of a few breaths, another crisis has blindsided him. He has a sense, suddenly, of something incredibly delicate balancing between them – a crystal vase teetering on a high shelf.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he says. ‘And yes, I still I want this, of course I do. I always will.’

Has it taken the horror of his current situation to show him that?

Perhaps it’s only natural to crave most intensely what’s most in danger of being lost. Last night, in the kitchen, he’d feared that the last safety line tethering him to his son had been severed.

Now, it seems the rope he’d known was fraying is down to its very last thread.

But just as he can’t share with Erin the events of last night, nor can he share the depthless chasms of guilt into which his heart plunges each morning when he wakes; the increasing reserves of energy he expends daily to separate the before from the now; the crippling shame he still feels for his abandonment of Max in the early stages of his new relationship.

To love someone completely, perhaps one needs to be complete. He loves Erin, but only with what’s left of the man he was five years ago. Increasingly, that feels like not much of a man at all.

Although he’s tried to hide it, this year has been one of the most difficult he’s faced.

Max’s departure date has felt like an enormous black hole, creeping inexorably closer.

Focusing all his attention on his son, he’s deliberately turned his back on his wife.

He need look no further than Erin’s face for evidence of the pain that’s caused.

Her lungs fill. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me, Joe? Nothing else at all?’

‘Only that I’m sorry. And that I’ll try harder.’ He returns the meat cleaver to its box. ‘Thanks for this. It was a very romantic gift.’

‘Maybe you could butcher something for me. Reconnect with your inner caveman.’

‘I’ll work on that.’

Back outside, and with the barbecue coals lit, Joseph rejoins his guests. More people are arriving, now: the Cheungs, who live next to Ralph Erikson, others from further up the street.

Someone hands him a beer, which he drinks far too quickly and vows is his last. He might wish to take the edge off his anxiety, but he needs to keep a clear head.

Soon, he finds himself among a group gathered around Owain Dart, the cul-de-sac’s newest resident. Owain is finishing a rambling anecdote that grows more grotesque each time Joseph hears it.

The gist is that after burying his dead guinea pig in his garden, Owain had been presented with it a few weeks later, courtesy of his grave-dirt-spattered miniature schnauzer.

In this retelling, Owain has nearly coaxed the carcass from his dog’s jaws when the Schnauzer bites down hard and showers Owain in rotten guinea pig.

Everyone in the circle cries out in pantomime horror, including Gemma Robinson, who catches Joseph’s gaze and grins.

He looks past her, tunes out, sweeps the garden for Erin.

He spots her near the gazebo, clutching a white-bearded man by the shoulder and doubling up at something he just said.

The old man laughs too, delighted by her response.

Erin excuses herself with a squeeze of his forearm.

Then she moves on, effortlessly joining another group.

Joseph watches, newly captivated by his wife.

She’s a fairy presence among their guests, sprinkling magic dust. Her gift is in forging instant connections, in making each person she greets the centre of her world.

She listens, really listens. And she touches constantly – a nudge here, a press there, a squeeze or a tap or a gentle stroke.

She communicates with her eyes and her fingers, with her body posture and her laugh.

The combination is bewitching, intoxicating.

In her wake she leaves people smiling, then flinching as if waking from a dream – and discovering that the reality to which they’ve returned isn’t nearly so pleasurable as the Erinland they’d briefly inhabited.

Joseph should have been celebrating, every day, the miracle of her love for him. Instead, he’s made her miserable. However desperate his current situation, he sees now that it’s not just Max he has to fix.

‘And how’s life treating you , Joe?’

His name is a hook, yanking back his attention to the group. Quickly, he replays Ralph Erikson’s question. ‘Pretty good,’ he says. Then, because everyone’s still watching him: ‘Pretty tired, I guess. But you know what’s it like, living with teenagers.’

Obviously, Ralph doesn’t know that, because his late wife couldn’t have children and Ralph never remarried, facts known by everyone in the circle. Embarrassed by his gaffe, Joseph swigs from his beer glass before remembering it’s empty, proving that he’s a moron as well as a shit.

‘Not sleeping?’

He shrugs, forces a grin. ‘Erin hauled me out of bed last night to confront a burglar. An imaginary burglar,’ he adds hastily, when everyone reacts. ‘I think she’s been watching too many true crime shows on Netflix.’

‘Ouch – my ears are burning,’ Erin laughs, appearing at his side. When she slides her arm around his waist, Joseph tries not to stiffen. ‘You haven’t just revealed my dirty secret?’

‘Oh, God, you’re not alone,’ Gemma Robinson tells her. ‘You start watching and suddenly an entire evening’s disappeared. The American ones are the worst because they’re so extreme – and so addictive . But I always feel mucky afterwards.’

‘What time did she haul you out of bed, Joe?’ Ralph asks.

‘Must have been around three,’ Erin says, before Joseph can move the conversation on. ‘I’m so cruel.’ Gently, she squeezes his ribs.

‘And the burglar turned out to be Max, right?’ Ralph says.

Joseph flinches at that. He studies his neighbour more closely.

Ralph Erikson, in his late sixties, is always eccentrically dressed. Even on this late-summer afternoon, he’s wearing a thick alpaca-wool poncho, brightly coloured, as if the blood flowing through his veins is cellar-cool.

‘Wow, Ralph,’ Erin says. ‘Where did you learn your detective skills? I don’t believe for one minute that you’re as mucky as me and Gemma, debauching yourself on true crime.’

‘I don’t believe for one minute that anyone’s as mucky as Gemma,’ Greg Robinson says of his wife, and takes an elbow jab to the midriff. He spits beer, sniggers.

‘No detective skills required,’ Ralph says, addressing Erin. ‘My doorbell camera is motion-activated. It records whenever it’s triggered – and sends an alert to let me know. I can view the live footage on my phone.’

‘Sheesh. Well, I’m sorry if Max’s homecoming woke you,’ Erin replies – as if it’s their fault Ralph Erikson aimed a camera at their house that buzzes him every time someone farts.

‘Oh, I wasn’t asleep. I hardly seem to sleep at all, these days. Seems like you couldn’t either, Joe, after your scare – judging by your early morning bike ride.’

Joseph opens his mouth, closes it.

‘A bike ride at three a.m.?’ Gemma asks. She looks at Erin and tips her a wink. ‘Now that’s suspicious.’

Ralph smiles, clearly enjoying the attention. ‘More like four a.m. by the time he and Max returned.’

Gemma sips from her wine glass, giggles. ‘Wowsers – I predict a Channel Five four-parter in all our futures.’

Joseph’s fingers twitch. Right now, he’d quite like to throttle Ralph Erikson. ‘I never realized you watched us so closely,’ he says.

Erin flashes him a look. Then she touches Ralph’s arm and rubs it appreciatively. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I feel a lot safer knowing that you’re looking out for us.’

‘You don’t feel safe with me?’ Joseph asks, regretting the question even as he voices it. Again, his mouth seems to be working faster than his brain. But Erin, albeit accidently, has just pressed her fingers into his deepest wound.

Greg Robinson grins. Then he shakes his empty beer bottle. ‘Going to hunt out another of these.’

‘And I’ve got to pee,’ Gemma adds.

Joseph watches them go. Then he returns his attention to Ralph.

If the widower saw them return home on bikes last night, presumably he also saw them leave on foot.

Did that anomaly escape his attention? Or did he leave out that part deliberately, to see what Joseph would say?

Had he noticed what they’d been carrying or had the darkness saved them?

‘You know, I’ve been meaning to get one of those doorbell cams for a while,’ he tells the widower. ‘Maybe if you have time, over the next few days, I could drop by for a quick tutorial.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Ralph says. ‘We’re lucky this is such a safe area – there’s been one burglary on this street in the thirty years I’ve lived here – but I do enjoy my doorbell cam. With the sensitivity dialled up, it captures all sorts of wildlife I might never see.’

Her hand still around his waist, Erin squeezes Joseph again: Well done, Carver , her touch seems to say. For a while that was kind of awkward, but now your tram wheels are firmly back in their tracks.

Joseph looks around the garden. Tilly and Drew are in the gazebo, helping themselves to drinks. Max is standing near the kitchen’s bifold doors, watching them.

‘Time to start burning the meat,’ Erin says.

Sweat, cold and oily, flows down Joseph’s back.