Another story

NO REST FOR THE WICKED

 (Part one)

When I’d walked so far into the wood that if I’d gone any further I’d have been walking out again, I stopped and took the head out of the bag. A red stain was starting show through the tablecloth in which I had hastily wrapped it. I found this somehow quite distasteful.

I rummaged in the bottom of the bag and found the small shovel. I began to dig in the soft earth. It was surprisingly easy. I began to hum a tune – people say I have perfect pitch. Soon I had a hole about a foot and a half deep, plenty big enough. It had never occurred to me before to wonder how big a human head was. Actually they are quite small, when detached from the body – even HIS head. And he was a big man. Of course he’s nowhere near as big now, without his head.

A train hooted in the distance. I like trains. there’s something romantic about the hoot of a train. Melancholy  and yet somehow romantic.  Especially at night: Adventure. Excitement. Lovers fleeing from their families, to spend the night in the ‘Railway Hotel’ in some anonymous city. Of course there is also sadness: Parting. Separation.

I unwrapped the, now sticky, tablecloth. I thought it perhaps best to bury that in a separate place, to be on the safe side. Although the police aren’t that smart; I’ve had dealings with detectives before, and from my experience, you practically have to draw them a diagram before they can ‘detect’ anything. Anyway I lifted the head out by the hair. The eyes were open – staring at me. And I thought how often I’d said to him: why won’t you look at me when I’m talking to you. And here he was, staring at me, and I wasn’t even talking to him.

You might be wondering why I didn’t just leave the head by the railway line. With the rest of him. I’m not religious, but I thought that at least a part of him deserved a decent burial. Perhaps I’m just old fashioned.

It was his own fault, you know. I’d given him every opportunity. I really had. But he could be so obstinate. Well, his mother said he’d always been like this – even as a lad. Oh yes, I had spoken to his mother. On several occasions. Nice woman, his mother. She had one of those little shopping trolleys on wheels. Tartan it was. I’ve seen men using them too.  I hate them. I’d never use one, no matter how elderly I was. They’re so naff. Anybody pulling a little tartan shopping trolley behind them looks silly. But, apart from the shopping trolley, Elsie was nice woman

I dropped the head into the hole. It made hardly a sound. Shovel, shovel, shovel, and soon it was lost to view. I patted down the fresh smelling earth - I remember thinking, it wouldn’t smell that fresh for long. Not with his head in there. As I gave the little mound a few last thwacks, it took me back to when I was a kid making sand-castles on the beach at Southport. I loved Southport. It’s funny, isn’t it; you think back to your childhood: happy, innocent days. Or do they only seem like that now? Could anyone have foreseen, then that things would go the way they have? Was my future written in the Southport sand? 

... to be continued