The Good Kind of Bad (25 page)

The knife was unreachable, he couldn’t hurt me anymore, and now he had something to tell me. Reluctantly, I knelt down by his quivering arm.

Watching him suffer was stark and real and jagged, something I knew I’d carry forever. I watched him fade as the breathing stuttered, as with each passing second, his breaths became less. The blood still poured, doubling in volume as it crept over the tiles and coated my hand like hot tar. Then three words came in earnest, whispered to me alone.

Before I realised what was happening, it was too late. His fight waned and the breaths became shallow nothings until everything grew limp.

I rose to my feet and gasped, my bloodied hand rising to silence the scream.

The apartment slumbered as I awoke into a haze of sepia. The air was like lead, cumbersome, cold and clammy on my skin.

Looking down, I found myself strewn over the bed, still in my ripped dress, like I’d fallen unconscious where I’d lain. And then it came, the night before, the scenes flickering like some low-budget Grindhouse trailer without the grind. I recalled the shouting, the shock, the blood, and then the part about the body on the kitchen floor.

The next thing I remembered was being grabbed by Evan. He’d wrestled me against my will into the bedroom before assuring me he’d fix it, he’d make it okay. There’d be no police, no investigation, no questions; Evan said he’d make Joe disappear. All I had to do was stay in the bedroom, shut my eyes and wait.

But they hadn’t stayed shut. I’d never seen a dead body before, not even an aged grandma or long-lost uncle. With Joe’s corpse barely visible through the bedroom door slats and Evan pacing in circles, his face as white as the dead, I’d felt the major urge to puke, though only made it as far as the room sink. Evan soon heard me. I was brought a glass of water, his eyes wild and panic-filled as he handed me the glass with a quivering hand, instructing me to drink. I should get some rest, lie down and then . . . I awoke, over the covers, in my dress.

Making it to my feet, still in my clumsy heels, I slid open the bedroom doors, staggering to the congealed pool in the centre of the kitchen floor, the one without Joe beside it. For a moment I wondered if Joe had survived, if Evan had rushed him to the hospital and . . . Evan. There was no Evan.

Alone in the apartment and now facing the bathroom mirror, I forced my chin up from my breastbone. A defiled reflection awaited, the green dress barely clinging on. It’d torn at the knee and hung off the shoulder, the mud and blood woven within. Palm side up my hands, too, were glazed ‒ dried blood painted into the ridges and furrows of my fingertips.

The sickness lodged in my throat like a rock. I dropped to my knees, heaved into the toilet, grasped the bowl and then pulled away ‒ my own homage to Joe’s alcoholic-induced suicide. Drawing in my knees, I cried, long and hard, until there was nothing more to give. Then I returned, to stare at the tiles. What felt like hours passed; time all-encompassing in its repulsiveness, its pure, thick red mass.

Then I heard it, the jangling of keys on the other side of the door. Looking up, I watched the door creak open as again Evan stood before me, this time with a shirt stained with more than Earl’s tomato sauce. Like a flick knife had been thrust in his stomach, the blood crept out along the shirt fibres; an intricate network of arteries and veins, though I soon realised it was Joe’s blood I was looking at, not Evan’s.

His eyes were much too tired, his face drawn and grey. The panicked look of the night had been replaced with one remorseful and confused. I detected a hint of anger now the frisson had passed, a potent mix of resentment and sorrow. Maybe it was because I’d gone to Joe’s side after the gunshot, though whatever terrible things my husband had done in life, he hadn’t deserved to be alone at the end, or maybe he had; I guessed it was too late to go changing now.

‘Where’d you get those?’ I asked, my voice alien in my throat. A bunch of keys dangled from his busy fingers, jangling and jostling and making too much noise.

‘I took them from Joe, so I could get back in the building,’ Evan mumbled, his voice barely registering.

‘Why? Where have you been?’

Evan pointed through the wall like he was directing traffic. ‘Outside.’

‘Why have you . . . where’s Joe?’

Evan paused for a moment, like he wasn’t quite sure. ‘He’s outside too.’

‘Outside? Where outside?’ Though it felt like I’d asked a hundred times, no answer came. ‘Jesus Christ, Evan. Where the hell is Joe?’

With hands clenched in prayer, he spoke. ‘He’s in the car. He’s outside in the trunk of the car.’

‘What’s he doing in the trunk?’

‘Well, not sleeping it off, if that’s what you mean.’ He spat the words like he was chewing on grit. Defensive. Scared.

‘That’s what you meant by taking care of him?’

‘There was a roll of carpet. I found it behind the sofa. It made transportation . . . easier,’ Evan said after a time.

‘A carpet? Are you saying you wrapped him in a carpet? How is this even happening?’

‘I should’ve dragged him out by his balls then, is that what you mean?’

‘No! I just . . . he’s dead?’

‘Yeah. Joe’s dead.
Real
dead.’

I almost threw up in my mouth. I reached for the kitchen counter to steady myself, like Joe once had. ‘And you think nobody saw you haul a
body
down the stairs?’ I panted.

Evan stepped towards me. ‘Shit, will you keep your voice down? No, nobody saw me. I took the elevator. It was night, it was dark. I got him to the street and I put him in the trunk. I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘The elevator’s broken.’

‘Well, it’s working now!’ he snapped.

My legs were about to give way. ‘This is . . . I can’t . . . The neighbours didn’t wonder what you were doing? Even crack heads know the difference between a body that’s breathing and one that’s not.’

‘We’re in the USA murder capital here. You think guys loading rolls of carpet into cars is a
new
thing? I panicked. I just killed someone. I just . . .’ Evan looked ready to faint. ‘I have a dead body in my trunk, and now we have to get rid of it. Of him.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police, Evan?’ I was pacing the kitchen now, tearing at my hair. ‘No, we can’t do this. We have to report it, explain what happened. They need to know it was self-defence! Do you know what this looks like? I’ll give you a clue, and it starts with
murder
.’

Evan crossed the floor and shot out an arm, purposefully grabbing my wrist, his face now flushed with blood. ‘No. No cops. Besides me.’

‘Why?’

‘Are you crazy? How am I supposed to explain that the guy I just killed in self-defence is in the trunk of my car?’

‘Then why did you put him in the
trunk of your car
?’

‘Like I said, I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted rid of him. He kept staring at me. His eyes were . . . Besides, you think they’d believe me? You think they’d believe Joe came at me with a knife? I wasn’t on duty. I’d have to explain why I was here, why I shot the abusive husband you’d reported to me. That’s not just murder, that’s goddamn pre-meditated revenge. Look, we go with my plan. That way there’s still a chance I can fix this, a chance I can spare both of us jail. Plus, he set the gun down then
I
shot
him
. He wasn’t armed. I shot an unarmed man in his own apartment.’

‘Not armed? He had a knife!’

‘We don’t call the police, not ever, and not unless you want me lifting weights in the exercise yard ‒ or how about not lifting them at all after they make an example of me. Come on.’ Evan pulled on my wrist. ‘We have to get this done, and before I lose my nerve.’

Whatever Evan’s plans were to disguise
murder
, I knew it wouldn’t work. All this pleading and explaining and reasoning, for the bullet and the blood and the body in the boot, it wasn’t going to wash, or wash out.

As we ventured out into the hall, Evan turned to me. ‘I’m only trying to help. You know that, right?’

I could tell the words were choking him, that however much he thought he had a plan, he was as scared as I was.

‘Maybe it’s best you wash the blood off your hands and change your shirt. Anyone would think you’d wrapped a body in a carpet and put it in your car,’ I snapped back. My offerings were coarse nothings, my anger misdirected. I didn’t know where we were going and why we hadn’t formed a better plan than escape in all our infinite wisdom. I just understood something had to be done ‒ that standing around in the apartment while Joe was lifeless in the back of Evan’s car wouldn’t solve a thing.

It was almost like we knew each other better. I hid behind my tongue, our heated exchange more Joe’s style than Evan’s. We’d never talked like this, never fought this way, and I didn’t like it.

Outside the city reeked of death. Refrigerator trucks stood on the block corners, collecting the dead before they piled up in the streets after another strike. With the early dawn light pouring from every orifice of the dry, barren city, this wasn’t the same town I’d fallen unconscious in. Last night Evan’s MKS was the fastest on the Formula One racing track, chasing Joe before rescuing me, but now the wheels felt clumsy under the weight of the chassis, the car surely closer to the road with a body in the boot. Looking again, the sky wasn’t as clear as I’d thought. On the horizon rainclouds waited to roll in.

Evan and I sat so far apart I was hunched up against the window, searching for a hint of salvation while he chanced the occasional glance at me. Opening his mouth, Evan soon thought better of his words, distracted by the commotion ahead. Following his gaze, I saw movement, people and police. Flashes of blue pierced the cool matutinal air as up ahead a convoy of cop cars blocked our path from the city.

An officer in a sky blue shirt and chequered cap marched to the centre of the street and signalled us off the road. It looked like Evan had been recognised. My stomach sunk to my knees. There was a dead body in the boot and we were being flagged down by a police officer. If I hadn’t thrown up in my mouth before, I was about to now.

‘Shit. Keep your head down and don’t look at anyone,’ Evan murmured, incessantly tapping his ring on the steering wheel as he swung it to the right. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

I glanced down at the foot well as the officer appeared, all handcuffs and radio pouches and peculiar little pockets. He looked like he should’ve been out on patrol in Helmand Province.

‘Detective Thomasz, I thought it was you. Isn’t it your day off? What’re you doing out so early?’

The officer leant on the open window as Evan gripped the wheel, blood peppering his fingertips. I tried sending a psychic message:
move your hands, clench your fists, notice the blood before the officer does
. Maybe it worked. They were soon wrapping his suit jacket closer to his body, disguising the blood on his shirt too.

‘Lenny Lawrence, how nice to see you out of the station for a change,’ Evan fired back.

‘And what brings you out pre-breakfast, Evan?’

‘Thought I’d drive out to the country and bury a body. What do
you
think?’

They shared in the forced laughter as I hunkered further into the chair. Maybe if I sank low enough I might feel it, hear it: the heat, the screams . . . the pit where all murderers were dragged eventually.

Evan pointed to the partially cordoned off street where a dozen squad cars lined the road, and even managed a guarded glance at the shovel on the back seat. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his voice laced with forced ease. ‘I guess it’s not drill day.’

What was Evan doing? He should’ve been making his excuses and wheel spinning out of there. And where did he get a goddamn shovel from?

‘Some random got himself killed last night, and with the graduating class of boots on patrol the chief thought it was an idea to send them all down here, to tick homicide off their list. It looks like someone’s shoved a firework in the guy’s face but it’s a street robbery gone wrong, one of the local sidewalk inspectors. Sammy Young, you know him? There’s even bits of his nose on that store window over there. We’re going to need a shovel to get him into the body bag. Oh, excuse me, ma’am.’ He tipped his hat to me. ‘I didn’t mean to be so graphic.’

The longer Lenny spent at the window, the more volatile the situation had the potential to become, though Lenny didn’t seem interested in the shovel, only in me. I let the knotted hair fall over my face as I waited for the officer to radio in for backup. He’d smell the guilt on Evan, notice the traces of blood and clock my ripped and tattered party dress. Next they’d force open the boot, unravel the carpet and discover the dead body with a bullet in his chest.

‘Ma’am? She all right, Evan?’

‘Uh, migraine. She gets them real bad. Coupled with panic attacks, this isn’t the best thing for her to see right now. So . . .’

Lenny released his hands from the window, resting them on his belt while tilting his head sideways, the way cops did in the movies, right before they asked the guy to step out of the car, to read him his rights.