the tenancy agreement: chapter 13

2005

November

Back in their seats Greg and Jonathan both lit cigarettes. Comforting routine of slow death unaccelerated by violence or accident. Tom had his head hung, probing nicotine fingers into his eyes. Rich yellow penetrating fingers. Called them his Shane McGowan’s. Scrubbed them raw with wire wool and washing up liquid every couple of months over the kitchen sink to etch the yellow off. Like varnish off a sideboard. Restoring his own antique – twenty four year vintage! – appendages. Left the skin feeling thin and tender but alive. Not deadened by the weight of casual addiction. Ezra strode the room. His long legs made it feel tiny, structurally vulnerable to his every move.

“So let’s think about this smartly,” he said. “Where could the body be?” He pointed, gestured when he spoke. Product of his notably amateur dramatic training. His nightmare of inexpressive self.

“I guess...” said Jonathan through smoke.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Right.”

Ezra looked to Greg, hoping for reason.

“I honestly don’t know Ezra,” he said. “If he was dead...”

“He was dead.” Ezra leaned in about twelve inches from Greg’s face when he said it. Slapped the back of his right hand hard down into the palm of his left. There were these faint strands of spittle stuck between his lips when he opened his mouth wide to speak, which he often had when he was excited.

“Well if he was dead he should still be there,” said Greg.

“Exactly, and he’s not. So let’s think about the evidence. If he wasn’t dead, hypothetically” –

“I thought you said he was dead,” said Joe. Running his finger around the saucy bottom rim of an eaten Pot Noodle. Chunklets of freeze dried soya texture congealed in cooled stock powder still granular from poor mixing. He fingered one out of the plastic and into his mouth.

“He was. Is. Hypothetically I said. If he wasn’t dead, which he was, but if he wasn’t, hypothetically, if he had by some fucking miracle regained consciousness, despite the smashed head and slit throat, where would he be?” They all just looked at him. Stood there in the middle of the room with eyes kind of manic like he’d been awake too long. Rosy wet pools shot through with fine veins. He shrugged. “In the basement,” he said, like he’d told them their own birthdays. “Even if we hadn’t killed the bastard, if he was still alive, and it’s a fucking big if, he would still be in that basement. He was wrapped in a rug; he couldn’t have just walked out of there. And if he had there’d be a trail of blood from there to fucking there. Can we agree on that?”

“I suppose so,” said Tom, tired with it. What terrible moments in life ruin everything in an instant. He had to go to lectures.

“Good,” Ezra went on. “So if he was alive, which is completely impossible, he would have been too weak and too confined to get out of here without us noticing. So he’d still be in the basement, right?”

“Okay,” said Greg.

“Okay. So then the second possibility is that he is dead. We killed him.” He looked at their four faces. Killing already sounded so tasteless. Lucas’s death was an occurrence already assimilated into their lives, divorced from the visceral emotion and morality that the word implied. A passive unfolding, a routine happenstance. He sounded impatient when he spoke again. “Fuck, he is dead, we did kill him. And so I’m not a fucking scientist but can a dead body move itself, with or without the presence of a rug?”

“Well, no,” said Tom, shifting in his seat to get his phone out of his pocket. Thought he felt his thigh vibrate.

“Yes, no,” said Ezra, “and there are no buts. A dead body cannot move. Lucas is dead, we left him in the basement and no one’s been in here except the six people who live here. Now could that body have upped and moved?”

“No but...”

“But the fuck what?”

“But it did.” Tom held onto his phone in the quiet. Greg flung a leg over the arm of the chair. Knocked an ashtray over. The grey stain embedded in the carpet from previous spills invited you to keep on doing it. They’d sweep up the butts but the stain never shifted. Along with the bloodstain it was like a birthmark, integral to the personality of the carpet.

“Look, that’s just it, no it didn’t. Bodies don’t move. There are six people living in this house and only five of them are here. Did any of you move it?” Everyone shook their head no. “Okay, and I didn’t move it.”

“Which leaves Conor,” said Jonathan.

“Progress,” said Ezra. “Where is Conor?”

“He’s not here,” said Greg. Not sharing Ezra’s certainty. Doesn’t add up. No one would have moved it on their own. They all had to deal with it. Responsibility.

Ezra snatched the phone out of Tom’s hands and started jabbing at the buttons with uncoordinated thrusts.

“Then let’s call him and sort this out,” he said, holding the phone up to his ear. “That’s the logical approach. Deduction. If something can’t move itself then it can only be moved. Acted upon. By something else. We didn’t touch it so that leaves Conor.” He had a smug look on his face. Certain and comfortable. “You know what Conor’s like. Gets things done. He’ll probably be coming through that door any minute, wondering what all the panic was about.”

A phone started ringing. Sounded like it was coming from the next room. Conor’s room. Ezra stormed out saying fuck.

“I don’t think Conor has anything to do with this,” said Tom, standing up and wringing his hands, looking at the floor. Interior monologue externalised. Happens in close-knit groups.

“Cunt’s right though,” said Greg. “A body doesn’t just disappear. Someone must have moved it.”

“That’s what worries me,” said Tom.

“Exactly. Was it one of us?” said Jonathan.

“There’s no other reasonable explanation,” said Greg.

“Shit this isn’t a very reasonable situation,” said Tom. “There’s nothing fucking reasonable going on here.”

Ezra stormed back into the room. The breeze from his body made the carrier bag of beer rustle. His cheeks were flushed red and he waved Conor’s phone in the air in front of him, threw Tom’s phone onto the table.

“Typical fucking Conor,” he said.

There was a knock on the door. Shit that fucking door. Greg lurched out of his seat instinctively. How easily door knocks had become the sound of the end. The ominous sound of failure. The rapping force of authority. Fucking raven. Fucking Poe. Gently rapping at my glass fronted door. Ringing through skulls like unanaesthetised dental work.

“Ha,” said Ezra, a proud snort, still clutching Conor’s phone. “Expect that’s him now. Probably forgot his fucking keys as well.”

Ezra walked out into the hall and pulled open the inside door and took a step into the porch. Cold tiled floor. He spoke as he opened the front door up.

“Where have you been Conor you bastard?” he said, door swinging inwards towards him. Eyeing the sight before him his smirk dropped like a cold cock. “Oh Jesus.”

It was Tanya.

Her nose was bleeding from both nostrils. Her face beaten up, cheeks and chin. Shallow cuts over her chest just above the weight of the tits. Half her clothes were torn off. And hung limp like history. There were patches of bruised flesh through the gaps in her clothing. He couldn’t help looking. Saw a line of blood in a path to her navel. Curve of her hips red-bruised in finger shapes. Old arm scars cut back open straight through the shitty tissue. Her bottom lip was shaking and she was sobbing drily on the doorstep. Ezra noticed how thirsty he was. Swallowed and reached towards her. Took her arm softly.

“Tanya. My god. What happened to you?” She didn’t respond. Just cried out nothing. Oh sweet nothing. Easier than even something. “Tanya? Who did this?”

She clutched onto him. Fucked face buried in his fibrous dress.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Piercing, hysterical, ecstatic pain. Voiced so racked it felt distant like another world. Inconceivably shattering. “I’m so sorry I’m so sorry.”

“Jesus,” said Ezra, holding her head into him. “You’re okay now.”

“I’m sorry I’m so sorry.” Must have been the shock. Made her repetitive.

“What’s happened to you, to your face?” he said. “Come in, please. Come in.”

He led her through the door, wrapped his arm around her stripped bare carved shoulders. Her blood smeared down the front of his dress like mascara on a heavy night. He looked out into the street over his shoulder, kicked the door shut with his foot.

Tom and Joe were standing up when they went in the living room. Greg had had the foresight to throw a blanket over the bloodstained carpet. They had already dumped the wheelchair in the back garden, thrown it over the white-painted iron banisters, left the leather seat to rot. Ezra sat Tanya down in an armchair and knelt on the floor next to her, one hand laid on top of her own.

“Shit,” said Greg.

“Shut up,” said Ezra.

“What happened?” said Tom. “Oh god.”

“Is she okay?” said Greg.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Greg walked over to Tanya. Rested his hand on her shoulder, squatted in front of her, next to Ezra.

“Tanya,” he said. Spoke softly. As if in a romance. As if a love had passed between them. The softness he couldn’t find for anyone else. Manufactured beautiful broken romance from fantasy and skewed cleansed memory. “Who did this?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. Painted blood over her features. Thick on the philtrum it dripped onto her lips.

“Who did this Tanya?” said Joe. Sounded angry. He stepped from one foot to the other. Face pinched into action. Nostrils flared.

“Please,” she said.

“It’s okay,” said Ezra. He could sound assuring. “We’re here for you. We’re going to help you but you have to tell us what happened.”

“It’s Jack,” she said. Hyperventilating, hysterical, blood snorting, still poured out of her nose, real steady. And into her mouth. “My husband. Jack.”

Ezra looked to Joe, whose eyes had narrowed like an animal.

“Did he do this?” said Ezra.

“He went mad. He just... oh my god I’m so sorry.”

“Right,” said Joe. Yanked the door open so hard it hit the armchair. They heard the front door open. Didn’t close it. Could be forgiven in the circumstances.

“I couldn’t stop it,” she said. I tried but I couldn’t. He went mad. I tried to stop it. I was so scared.”

She clutched her fingers down into Ezra’s and started screaming. Like it had just sunk in. Like it kept sinking in.

“Oh Jesus no he’s got my baby. Oh god please help me he’s got my baby. I tried to stop it. Oh god please. My husband. It’s my husband. Oh please god help me.”

Ezra got up and put his arms around her.

“Everything’s going to be okay now. Joe’ll get your baby. It’s going to be okay.”

Tom and Jonathan were stood back. The look in their eyes more verbose than a thousand books. Explicit uncertainty in every imperceptible dilation. Greg squatted next to her. Ezra on his feet, arms around her. Comforting himself with the warmth of fear. Something wasn’t right here. Tom felt it in him. Nothing was.

*

Joe was running around the corner to where he knew Tanya’s building was. She lived on the top floor of a four-storey Victorian terrace. Not sure which one exactly. Coins hummed in his pockets. Hasty clipping of his running Cuban heels was weirdly archaic. There was no one about but it wasn’t that late. The slow grumble of bus engines drifted up from the main road. The constancy of transport kept the organs of the city alive. A black BMW had knocked one of their friends over a few weeks ago when he’d been fucking about at a bus stop. It just drove off and left him but he was okay. Cuts and bruises. Made his face more sheer. Joe stopped in front of the house he thought was hers. Tried to remember how he knew where she lived but couldn’t. The next house along had an open front door. Heavy wood painted bright red. Stained glass window at eye level. Supposed to be an orchid or something. Ornate knocker. That must be it. She left in such a state. Door would be open. He ran through the front door and straight up the stairs. Two at a time. Smelt like incense. Fabric softener. Boiled rice. Past the other flats. There was an electric stair lift running along the banisters of the three flights. Paid no attention to it. Tanya’s flat was at the top. Her door open as well. Streak of blood on the white gloss. He pushed it right open with his fingertips and edged into the hallway. Heart beating like fuck. Trying not to pant too loudly. Have to sneak up on the fucker.

There were family photographs framed and hanging on the walls all the way down the hall. Tanya smiling in all of them. Her husband too. Some had Lucas in, in the wheelchair. Big fucking smile. What a happy life. Left a bad taste in Joe’s mouth. He wanted to turn the pictures around. He peered into the first couple of doors off the corridor. Cursory inspection but there was nothing in them. Guy’s probably long gone. Wouldn’t hang around after what he did. Joe pulled the knife he used to slit Lucas’s throat out of his inside jacket pocket all the same. Extracted the blade.

“Jack?” he said.

Course it’s silent. Cunt wouldn’t answer. Stupid. At the end of the hallway Joe went through the door into the living room. Nicely decorated. Felt yellow. It was a good feeling. Shame about the domestic abuse. As he went further in he saw the mess. Ruined the ambience. Smashed glass, broken furniture. Looked like their house. A shit load of blood. Joe knelt down by a thick pool of it. The warm light made it a strange colour. Black pudding. There was something in the blood; he prodded it with the tip of the knife blade. Teeth. Whole fucking teeth. Root to crown. Bits of bloody periodontal ligament still fresh and attached. Joe recoiled, even with the knife. There were other blood patches around the carpet and on the sofas. Spatters up some of the walls.

“Fuck,” he said.

He stood up and looked back around the room. No one there either. Only one more room in the flat. Nothing to be scared of. He wasn’t going to be there anyway. Like he said: long gone. The door led off the living room. He could see the light was on in there from the crack at the bottom of the door but it didn’t mean anything. Probably just left it on like the dirty fucker left the front door open on his way out. Joe turned the handle slowly. Went in. Surveyed the scene at head height. There was no one in there. He let out a breath of relief. Gaze fell with it to the bed. He jumped back, screamed out “Jesus”. Ah fuck. Spread eagled naked on the bed. It was Jack from photographs, Tanya’s Jack. But this face was bare exposed flesh. Raw muscle. No smile. Skin peeled off like a blanched tomato. His lips had been removed. It made the gums look tall, tightly drawn back around half smashed out teeth. Scalp hacked, it had been cut and torn back in a thick wedge. The white of the skull bone flashed beneath the blood. Eyelids cut off left his eyes hauntingly open. Perpetually awake. Looked fucking massive. Golf balls. Face a mess of blood. Fucking flayed him. Huge wound running all the way down his chest from collar bone to cock. Countless stab marks cut into the flesh. Legs decorated with burns and incisions. Cock was gone though. Left a kind of bloody hole. The baby was laid next to him on the bed. Throat slit, soft head smashed in. Would have given out easily, like pushed meringue, like a damaged basket. Fingers cut off of its tiny hands. Father and child laid out together. Drenched in the blood of the other. Joe felt tears streaming down his cheeks. The sheets were sodden scarlet. The lamp cast a red light on the room from the blood splashed over its once white shade. Joe’s eyes blurred from crying but darted between them, the bodies, trying to take it in, or not take it in, to process something out of it. He squeezed his eyes closed but it was all still there when he opened them. Tanya. What the fuck had she done? He looked again at the baby. Tiny little baby. The sharp edges of its shattered skull torn through its skin. He threw up mercifully. Staggered backwards towards the door, tripping over fallen furniture. Couldn’t tear his eyes from the death. Or too afraid to. He felt the cool wood of the door pressed into his back. Managed to turn to it and pull it open. Get the fuck out. He knew it. Acid from the puke made his nose run. Rubbed his eyes dry with the sleeve of his jacket. Fucking hell the baby just a baby. And the face stripped like the ribs from a hog roast. Oh god the baby. He puked again. Looked up and saw the wheels. Gloved hands. It’s not. Face pale, loose flesh cut and hanging. Flaccid eyes loose in their sockets. Knife wound around the throat. Blonde hair blood-matted. Oh fuck. Flesh on the arms rotting off, from the wrist of the gloves upwards. Teeth yellowed stumps he was smiling head cocked, smiling at Joe.

It was Lucas.

Joe screamed. Lucas plunged a kitchen knife forwards and clean through his throat before he could take a step backwards. Scraped through the larynx. The tip jutted out the other side. Knife piercing the neck Joe twitched his life out, straight and vertical before the wheelchair, held upright by the wide metal of the blade. Fluttered convulsive. Dancing dead. Blood bubbled from the throat, from the mouth, right down his shirt front. The jerking feet made a terrible noise on the wooden floorboards. Cuban heels. Lucas was still, watching, one hand holding the knife. The twitching went on. Persistently trying to grip at life. The body couldn’t help it. It would stop eventually.