This Book Is Full of Bodies Read online

  And again, on the hour of eleven.

  At this school bell, hundreds of disgusting teenagers, most of which are covered in untreated acne or ill-fitting blazers or are wearing skirts that are way too short and way too enticing for their age (not that I actually think they are too short, I quite enjoy it – but society says so, and me asserting it is simply part of my fancy dress I keep frequently referencing.)

  Amongst these many young, inexperienced, foolish faces, I do not see my Flora or her Mark. I watch the bike sheds as another couple move to the wooden confines and start to engage in some kind of sordid activity that one may interpret as kissing but would more aptly be referred to as eating each other. Honestly, if one of them was a zombie eating the other I would not be surprised. Their mouths are open wide and are munching and are all teenagers this bad at kissing?

  God knows Flora isn’t.

  The bell goes at twenty past eleven and a group of haggard looking adults usher the children back inside.

  I curse my luck for not seeing them, citing break time as the ideal time for Flora and Mark to appear. Just as I consider driving away, something catches my eye, and Flora you little minx, she appears with a boy and she is truanting.

  Oh my, you are naughty, aren’t you, Flora?

  Except, they aren’t quite going at it the way the other couple were.

  Flora is grabbing hold of his arm and she seems to be dragging him, pulling him as hard as she can to a place behind the bike sheds, where he is reluctant to go. She looks like a ravenous little minx with her top few buttons undone and her tie too loose and her skirt riding up and settling just at the base of her dainty buttocks.

  But he is resisting.

  This boy, skinny and lanky, with a scruffy, greasy hairdo that would look better placed atop a mop, is resisting this woman who is a far better catch than his. She isn’t just out of his league, she’s in a whole different sport.

  She tries to be seductive, bless her, but she wasn’t always that great when not taking direction. She places a hand on the side of his face and tries to lean in and he pushes her off.

  He pushes her off.

  My hand grips the side of the door as I ready myself to burst out and go after the little prick right now, but I remind myself, do not be foolish, do not engage in another crime of passion. I must not get caught.

  He says something then storms away and leaves Flora alone.

  Flora remains, covering her face, and her body starts convulsing. She seems to be crying. Her whole body is moving with her tears. This isn’t just a little cry; it is a full attack of sobs and moans.

  She takes out her phone.

  Looks at it.

  A few seconds later and my phone buzzes.

  I check it.

  Please be at home after school X X

  She puts her phone away and wipes her eyes. She gathers herself, checks herself in the mirror and scoffs at the smudged mascara. She charges away, perhaps to find a toilet.

  There is no doubt in my mind now.

  Mark needs to die.

  Sorry, Flora, but I will not be seeing you after school today. As much as I will miss your precious breasts and quivering lips, there is something I must do on your behalf.

  No one rejects my Flora.

  And, most of all, no one pushes my Flora.

  I drive away and spend the afternoon readying my car boot and my utensils. Weapons that help me kill and help me deal with the body afterwards. I choose things I know will hurt, assured that I will be causing as much pain as I can.

  And humiliation.

  I want him to feel humiliated, just as Flora did.

  I drive around the school a few times, looking for the CCTV cameras. There are only a few on the school buildings, and a few in the nearby streets, but none in the alleyway leading to a football field.

  Next to the field are trees with no path leading to a secluded wood.

  Not a place people will happen to be walking.

  The wood is large and vast, and veers away from any homes. So long as I take him deep enough into it, it is unlikely we will be disturbed.

  Unlikely is still not good enough, however – but there are positives in everything; if I am discovered, that just means another person gets to die.

  I pop into Carluccio’s for the afternoon, just to remove any suspicion. They are all happy and friendly and no one seems to have noticed their boss has not shown up for work. I have the salmon, but it doesn’t taste as good when another chef does it.

  I return to the field where I wait until 3.15, when school ends.

  The masses of students walk past. Bustling as they joke to one another and show off in front of their peers. Some smoke; a disgusting habit, particularly for people so young. A girl walks alone with her head down. A couple passes with their hands intertwined.

  Then nothing.

  Absence of life proceeds to fill the field for the next few minutes.

  Then he appears.

  Alone. Away from the crowd.

  Friendless.

  Probably hung back at school to avoid the bullies that pick on him all the way home.

  I’ll be doing him a favour.

  He doesn’t know who I am, which means he isn’t looking for me.

  He doesn’t see me coming as I approach.

  He doesn’t feel the stub end of the axe as I strike it into the base of his skull.

  Or maybe he does, but he is already too unconscious to do anything about it.

  I check around me.

  I am blissfully alone.

  I drag his body into the woods, and I keep dragging until all I can see are trees and I can’t hear any cars anymore and I can’t see any paths or people and I know that we are totally, completely, unequivocally alone.

  14

  He comes around with his head lulling and his eyes flickering and he isn’t tied up. He could run if he had the ability. He could even fight me should he feel he had the strength.

  But I know this type of boy.

  I went to school with this type of boy. They were always called Roger or Phillip or Simon or Keith. I remember one Roger in particular, and he was never hurt in a way that would be obvious to an onlooking teacher – it would always be subtle, such as a quiet name-calling or barging in the corridor and being left out of social activities.

  It was all so… tame.

  I once stole a frog’s eyeball we were dissecting during science class, snuck into his lunch box, and spread it across his egg mayonnaise sandwiches. The teacher searched for ages and kept the class behind, demanding to know where the eyeball had gone, but she never found out.

  I had to wait for hours until lunch, sitting alone in the cafeteria, watching, waiting until he took his first bite and gagged. He opened the bread to find a smashed pupil staring up at him, and I chuckled as he threw up in front of all those who so poorly tormented him.

  To this day he never knew it was me.

  And this boy is so alike to that Roger or Phillip or Simon or Keith. If I were him, I would ready myself for a fight, for a chase, maybe even a barrage of abuse.

  But he will do nothing but beg.

  Meaninglessly, monotonously, tediously beg.

  His eyes look up at me and there’s that puppy dog look, that dawn of realisation, that onset of intimidation as he realises his predicament.

  After he’s done gawking at me, he looks to his right, to his left, and sees how much wood there is and how much room he has for running. He sees that his hands are free, and his legs are moving with liberal ease.

  But, just as I foresaw, he does not try to fight, and nor does he try flight.

  He tries the third option.

  Cowering.

  Almost accepting his inevitable fate.

  Compromising with himself, a mental monologue that allows him to adjust his expectations until he is comfortable with death, okay with being murdered after an average day at school.

  After rejecting my Flora.

  “Please…” h
e whimpers, again, as I expected. “Please… don’t hurt me…”

  I smile, spreading my grin wide, knowing it will mortify him further. His arms are shaking so hard and if his eyes weren’t staring at me so widely I’d think he was having a seizure. In fact, his entire body is convulsing, similarly to how Flora’s did when she cried because of him, because of Mark.

  Fucking Mark.

  “I… I don’t know you… I haven’t done anything…”

  His first instinct is that he’s done something to upset me. Such a sad sack of shit, so sure he’s warranted this death, that he believes he’s done something to prompt me to do this, that he tries to tell me he hasn’t.

  Imagine having such low self-esteem that you automatically assume you’ve upset everyone you meet. Given, yes, a man standing over him after taking him captive is a bad example, but still.

  “I – I won’t tell anyone… I swear…”

  No, Mark, of course you won’t.

  Because a corpse can’t talk.

  I reach down and he flinches away, his voice quivering with his shudder.

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  Why doesn’t he run?

  Why doesn’t he fight?

  Why does he just get so consumed with fear?

  I do forget, of course, that he is just a boy. That he is still, technically, a child. Although now he’s a teenager, his teachers will insist he is a young adult which I always thought was nonsense. It’s like they have all the responsibility and none of the power – how can you be a young adult when you can’t even vote?

  Anyway, I digress.

  Where was I?

  Ah, of course.

  Fucking Mark.

  “Please, I don’t–”

  I’m growing tired of his begging now. I reach down and grab the back of his hair. His arms stick close to his body, rigid, tight, but his palms turn upwards, as if his terror is making him retract in on himself, but he wants to show the surrender sign with his hands to show me he means no harm.

  Means no harm?

  Please.

  He’s upset Flora. He caused harm.

  Not that I actually care all that much – it’s just a good excuse.

  Now…

  How should I do this?

  I’d decided not to plan, leaving it to whim. Now I wish I had considered it more. That I had come with some itinerary, or initial starting stages at least, just so I could be mentally prepared.

  “I haven’t hurt you, I don’t know you, please, I’m no one, just let me go, just let me go!”

  He’s crying now.

  And his grey school trousers are soaked around the crotch. It stinks, and it makes me despise him even more.

  “Oh, Mark,” I say, and tut.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry!”

  Sorry for pissing your pants?

  “I assume it was an involuntary reaction.”

  He hesitates, no doubt considering what the correct answer is, and he nods.

  “Then why are you apologising? Stop apologising.”

  “Sorry!”

  Now he’s apologising for apologising and he realises his mistake as soon as he says it. But he can’t help himself. Why? Because, as I have pointed out, he is a sad sack of shit who has no self-esteem and needs to get some confidence and oh my god I feel that rage intensifying, soaring through my veins, consuming my body, and I am ready.

  I am ready.

  Oh, I am ready.

  I drag him by the hand and he kicks his feet a little bit but still doesn’t put up that much of a fight, he doesn’t want to upset me of course, to put up a fight would upset me further and the more he upsets me the angrier I get and the more likely I will do what I am going to do and Jesus Fucking Christ Mark you are a sad sack of shit.

  I retract his head, pulling my arm back, getting a large swing, and I soar his head through the air and collapse his face into the tree trunk.

  I hear the satisfying crack of his nose and honestly it gets me a little hard.

  I do it again and his face is smeared with blood.

  I go into my duffel bag and pull out the axe.

  Yes, I think I will use the axe.

  I hack on the underside of his knee cap.

  I don’t want to finish it just yet. I want to relish it.

  Carluccio was so quick.

  This time, I want to feel it. I want to experience the boy’s pain as I inflict it. I want to taste his sweat, feel his blood as it splatters on my skin. My sleeves are rolled up and I put an apron on and I hack away again and again and again and he’s screaming and he’s screaming and eventually I have to gag him.

  We’re in the middle of nowhere but I don’t think I should push it too much. You could hear that scream a mile away.

  Eventually I sever the muscles, but his bone is a little tougher. I have to really put some strength into the swing, into hacking away, into forcing the axe through. He must eat a lot of iron this boy because the bone is strong.

  I make a few dents and the muscle is falling away and shit he’s passed out.

  Well, that ruins that.

  Play time is over.

  No more fun.

  Fuck’s sake, Mark. I was really hoping to relish this one.

  I grow more and more annoyed with him, and it makes it so easy just to slice down upon his neck with the axe.

  He still breathes and I haven’t got him fully with the first swing. This is to be expected. Contrary to what the movies will tell you, it isn’t that easy just to chop into a throat and kill a man. You don’t just slice with a knife and expect it to be done. It takes a few goes.

  That’s why I’m so proud when I get him with the second swing.

  He splutters blood and he coughs up some fluid I don’t recognise but he isn’t breathing anymore.

  His eyes open just as the last moments arrive.

  I look into them so I get to enjoy it.

  I watch that final moment where he realises it’s all about to end and there’s nothing he can do about it.

  I can’t quite put into words that expression, you will just have to experience it for yourselves.

  And then he’s gone.

  No more Mark.

  No more annoying text messages.

  No more irritating giggles.

  No more no more no more.

  Fucking Mark.

  Fucking dead Mark.

  Fucking murdered Mark is fucking dead and I did it, and it felt so fucking god damn fucking sodding bloody fucking good.

  I take a piece of carpet from the duffel bag and I place it beneath him.

  I take out a bin bag that would fit a large dustbin.

  I take out a spray.

  I use the spray to wipe down the tree.

  I gather all the leaves that were beneath him when the blood was splattering and, whether there is blood on them or not, I put them in the bag. This is important, so I spend my time doing this, as I would rather have an excess of leaves than miss any.

  I put him in the bag with the leaves, then put the carpet in there with him. It is now covered in his blood, and it was a good idea for me to bring a bit of old carpet to catch it all on.

  I drag the bag to my car which I parked off-road just before the trees were too thick. It’s a few miles and it takes me a while but I don’t mind. I shove him in the boot, and I honestly cannot believe how easy this was.

  There was no one around anywhere.

  No witnesses.

  No one to know.

  And I disposed of the evidence – not that they would realise which part of the vast, vast wood he died in, if they realise it was in the wood at all. Maybe the sniffer dogs could find something, but hopefully the elements will take care of any lingering remnants.

  I close the boot and I pause.

  I breathe in the clean, country air.

  I love that air.

  Fresh. A hint of manure from a farm somewhere near.

  I wonder if that farm has pigs.
>
  Never mind, I will deal with that later.

  For now, I am going to enjoy this feeling.

  There is no feeling like it.

  The power, the rush, the adrenaline.

  You really are missing out by trying to fit in with society.

  Honestly, if you are not willing to experience this high, then you are the crazy one.

  I get into the front of my Mercedes and I blast some music through the Bluetooth. I go for some chaotic jazz by some artist I don’t recognise but is somehow on my phone.

  In minutes I turn onto an empty country road, and drive into the sunset.

  15

  I arrive home at something past seven, and I can see from Flora’s face that she is seething. Her mother doesn’t notice, but Flora has gone red and her fingers are gripping her skirt and curling it up and her leg is twitching. I don’t particularly recognise when someone else is angry that well – or when they are happy, or sad, or forlorn or giddy or even horny – but with Flora I can always tell all those things. I know her inside and out.

  Which is why I knew, before I even saw her, how angry she’d be.

  It isn’t like it’s the first time I’ve not turned up for one of our little sex sessions. There have been many times my other whims have distracted me, or I’ve enjoyed a lovely meal so much I’ve lost track of time or I’ve frankly found a prostitute that takes my fancy slightly more on that particular day.

  But she was rejected today.

  By Mark. Fucking Mark.

  And I could tell from those tears, from how much she cried when he said no, that it hurt her. That she needed to feel wanted. That, even though she wasn’t old enough or mature enough to recognise the subtext to her own mood swings yet – that she needed to be fucked by me, and fucked proper, to get him out of her system. That she needed me to fuck her so she could feel like she was desirable, sexy, and wanted.

  And now that she didn’t get it…

  Her breakdown seems like it’s in full swing.

  “Oh, Gerald,” says Lisa as I walk into the living room. She purses her lip in this way she does when she’s about to say something she thinks is important.

  “What is it?”

  “Flora has not had a good day.”

  I look at Flora. She looks at me. Something passes between us that Lisa will never know about. Something that she sees but does not understand.