Ugly Puggly 48

I went outside to have a gander at where we’d buried the body. The grass around the decking was overlong, more like weeds. A chestnut tree on the slope had a reddish hue.  I wandered across to the shed. Took a breath and the smell of decay, muck, old grass and petrol fumes met me like old friends. It would be good to do something normal, like cutting the grass. Ugly Puggly probably had a scythe hanging about instead of a strimmer, but it was hard to tell with all the junk.

I pulled at an oily blue tarpaulin and left it lying on the green. An old Flymo was beneath it. Taking off the petrol cap, I gave the machine a shake. There was a viscous movement in the tank, showing there was still some petrol in it. Lifting it out, I didn’t hold out much hope. I gave half a dozen hard tugs on the starter cord to get it going. The last effort made it belch. In the spiralling branches of an oak tree a pigeon swelled and cooed. And a wee blackbird watched me from the loose soil, under the decking. Bounce, bounce, stab, was a poem we’d read in high school about their murderous intent, as it dared to spring closer.

The rattle of the machine when it started surprised both of us. It took off. When something like that happens, I talked to the machine, coax it on. ‘C’mon,’ I whispered. Pulling the machine backwards I cut a stripe of weeds and the engine kicked in and the machine hovered. I pulled it a little higher and closer and swung it like a scythe. ‘Yah beauty,’ I shouted.

I pulled it over towards the path, careful of stones and the soft hump of the grave. The sound of the engine in our garden would have some neighbours looking out with eyebrows raised. The smell of newly cut grass was a tonic to my body. I pushed and shoved, angled the Flymo into the corners, trying to beat the rain.

Ugly Puggly had tried to get me to read a book. He said I might like it. I flicked through the first few pages. It was about some American guy who got arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, in a small town, where everybody knew each other. I tossed it aside. Told him it was too farfetched and boring.     

He told me I was reading with my head and not my heart. All Americans weren’t the same. I told him he was talking pish. But I was really thinking about a cool beer and something to chase it up. My head was full of helium floating about. Being outside brought me back down to earth.

I heard the rain before I felt it. Drops as big as dandelions. Breaking on my head and bowed neck, a slap of Scottish weather. Everywhere it hit sounded a flesh note. The tarpaulin a kettle drum. The trees, the path and grass soaking it in. Darkening. The machine choked and cut out. I hauled it towards the shed, but left it abandoned outside and upright. I was wet enough not to worry about getting wet. My clothes sodden. I tipped my head back and tried catching raindrops in my mouth. I hadn’t done that since I was a wain.

Ugly Puggly was standing in the kitchen peering out at me. He looked to be laughing at me. Perhaps I should grow a beard and be the mad one, I thought. My head wouldn’t let me settle. And I thought when it was all over maybe I could take a drink.

He handed me a dish towel when I went in the back door. I towelled my hair with it, but didn’t know what to do with myself. I looked out. The rain seemed to have slackened. And I’d need to get changed.

‘When you thinkin o daeing this job?’ I asked him.

‘The night, the morrow night,’ he shrugged. ‘Soonish.’

I handed him back the damp rag of towel. ‘The night,’ I grunted. Days and nights were piling in on me and I wasn’t sure how long I could last without taking a drink. Only a drunk could understand that.

‘The night then,’ his lips tightening. Picking up on my seriousness.  

‘I’ll go up and see Molly.’ I was already thinking of arrangements, like a last will and testament, in case we were caught. But I was also hoping she might offer me a can or two.

Ugly Puggly leaned forward and glanced outside. The rain was gone. Heat rose and sunshine glinted in puddles. ‘I maybe make a wee start then. Do a bit of diggin. While the soil is saft.’

I ran the cold water into the sink and drank two glasses of water. ‘That’d be good,’ I said. ‘Whit you gonnae dae, jist leave a coating o top soil?’

‘More or less, we’ll need tae work quick when the time comes.’ He checked outside, stepping outside in his shirtsleeves. Squeaky sandals announced him coming back in again. ‘We’ll wrap the body in that tarpaulin.’

The pain in my guts was kicking in. And I wanted to lie down and not get up again. I forced down another half glass of water. I put the tumbler down carefully on the drying board. ‘Is it too late, just tae leave him there? Tae leave him be?’

He shrugged. ‘I think so. If the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their side of the question. And no side of the answer.’

‘Who said that?’ I asked.

‘Me,’ he replied, grinning. ‘Put it this way. I don’t think so. I feel so.’

‘Whit about me? I don’t feel so.’

‘You can walk away, noo. Nae hard feelings. Straight oot the door, and back tae Molly.’

‘I cannae dae that.’

‘You can. We’ve always got choices.’

I envied him his certainty, even if it was uncertain. ‘I cannae dae that. Leave you in the shit, wae only the playboy tae look oot for yeh.’

‘Thanks Jim, much appreciated.’ he slapped my arm. We were quiet then. He took a long breath. And he burst oot laughing. ‘For cuttin the grass. It fair needed it.’  

‘Shut up, yer fuckin crazy.’