I
Thinking of Peter's instability, and ownership of a gun, made Nixon feel particularly uneasy. Then, slowly, a bizarre idea began to form....
Option 2: Why not lose the body ?
It sounded crazy at first, but if he could dispose of the body permanently, then it may provide a solution. Nixon analysed the scenarios, everything was fraught with risk.
Burial, the most obvious option, threw up some difficult choices. He'd need tools, and digging a grave to any decent depth would take time. And where? It was safe to assume, that he probably had only twenty four hours, before Lucia would be reported missing.
They were currently only a couple of miles from her home, and once the usual inquiries were exhausted, then it was logical to assume, that the police may consider her non appearance as suspicious. Lucia was carrying no more than a few personal items, and not dressed in a way that would suggest she was about to travel. It wouldn't take long to figure that bank cards hadn't been used, and therefore clear that she hadn't left the area, or at least, not without some help.
This left Nixon uneasy. It was unclear if Lucia had revealed their liaisons to anyone else. He knew she had few friends. Her closest friend, Rita, was the alibi for their meetings. It was never discussed whether Lucia had revealed his identity to her. What he did know, was that she had explained the situation concerning Peter, and had been offered a room, should she decide to leave. If Lucia had talked of Nixon, then he could be in big trouble. His mind flashed back to their initial meeting, as he tried to piece together how he figured in her life.
They'd met around ten months before, as a result of a work colleague's leaving party, held at the very bar where Nixon was performing. Their meeting was brief, no more than a few moments in a crowded room at the end of the night. Nixon recalled it well. Just as they were getting over the initial exchanges, she was called away for a waiting taxi. Turning to leave, she quickly handed him her business card, and was gone without a word.
Subsequently, it became clear that contact was only to be made through her work number. It was easy enough, a call to work a few days before a local show, and arrange a meet at some point on the walk to her friend's house, who she visited most Sunday afternoons. Lucia lived in fear of Peter, so her number was never revealed. Seldom going out at night, and with only her Sunday afternoons socials, meant that chances to meet anyone new, were practically nil.
From then on, Nixon managed to book extra Saturday shows in the area. He visited roughly every six weeks, and calculated that they'd met, about a dozen times. At first, there was little time for talking, but gradually he'd pieced together her story. Tales of the Pampas in her youth, scant family, and Timo. Then, the move to Spain, where she'd met Peter, a reluctant makeweight on a lad's football beano, trying to piece back his life after the loss of his brother and career.
A whirlwind romance, impetuous proposal, and the idea of taking tea in an 'Eeenglish' rose garden, with her tall blond, soldier man, proved too much to resist. The fantasy of course, didn't last long, and it was clear by now, that she had long wanted out.
Nixon was charmed by her easy manner, and somewhat wistful sense of isolation. Lucia never intimated that she ever needed anything else from him. If anything, the lack of pressure made Nixon feel more connected than he believed was good for him. Maybe it was her predicament, and the ever looming Peter. Although he'd never hit Lucia, Peter was happy to hit out at anything else. He was a fighting man, and known in the town for his occasional nights in the cells, as well as more covert escapades, driving around at night, with the gun at his side. Here was a man who had been paid to kill, and Nixon doubted any bluff. The bear with a sore head was nearing breaking point, and although he'd not crossed the line where his weapon could be removed, Nixon deemed it far too close for comfort.
Any whisper of his wife's infidelity would be enough, and for that reason, it was a fair bet that Lucia had not, as yet, talked. It was now becoming rapidly apparent that Nixon could never risk Lucia's body being found. The burial of a body in open countryside was risky. Even if he could manage to dig a grave, it could take hours, and he doubted it could remain undiscovered for long.
He thought momentarily, of some notorious murder burials. Were the bodies found, or did they tell? He couldn't remember, but it transpired that bodies, or what was left of them, always turned up in the end. They had to be insane, and yes, that was the point, they were, and he wasn't. They'd all practically advertised it. Sure, they could get away with it for a while, but it was never going to last.
People walked dogs everywhere in these parts, wild animals foraged, farm machinery turned the earth. The idea of rivers or canals was ridiculous. Dismemberment briefly raised its head. Again, he would need tools, and there would be blood "Oh God, blood !" and how exactly, does one cut through limbs? It was now nearing seven, Nixon had been driving aimlessly for over an hour. At length, he broke his own rule and pulled into a small lay by. Radio on. He rolled a smoke.
"You gotta roll with it, you gotta take your time...." filled the air, and he grimaced at the irony. What the fuck was he going to do?
II
Tanner Francis took a seat at the bar, and settled down to the arts section of the Guardian, with his now customary G&T. It was a slow afternoon, and except for a couple of punters prowling the pool table, the place was empty. Clifford Cooke busied himself with washing glasses, as the jukebox churned out the hits of seventy six. Smokie, Tina Charles, and David gorgeous Essex.
"Weee, gonna make you....... a staarrr"
After twenty minutes, Tanner looked up from the paper, and leaned back on his stool. Just above Clifford's head, at the back of the bar, he thought he recognised something. A black and white poster, depicting a Baconesque head, glaring out betwixt, what looked like, a riding crop and a microphone. The scrawled legend at the bottom announced that The Belleville Riders, whoever they were, would be performing here, tomorrow night.
'NOT TO BE MISSED !' it yelled..
It was hard to get any idea from the poster, exactly, what one might be missing, but Tanner was drawn by the image. He thought for a moment of asking the guy behind the bar, but no, he'd come tomorrow, and find out for himself.
When tomorrow came, in a spartan, upstairs function room, he discovered a group of around twenty, young, garishly dressed rocker types, huddled around the front of a tiny stage. The focus of attention, amidst the fury of the music, was a small, wiry knot of energy, spitting out almost impenetrable English into a mike, gripped tightly by a leather clad claw. He was flanked by two, stone faced guitarists, barely looking at their instruments, instead, fixing their stare straight ahead, whipping up a fury of jagged chords, punctuated by theatrical, split second pauses.
The drummer, who Tanner now discerned, was the guy who'd served him the day before, conversely never looked up. He seemed entirely fixed on the space in front of his knees, as if in some deep personal trance.
The overall effect of the musicians lack of interaction with each other, or anyone else, focussed extra attention on the front man, who's eyes never strayed from his transfixed prey. Tanner immediately connected with the poster image he'd seen yesterday. Marrat was a blur of movement, prowling his little space from side to side, unable to stay still for scarcely a moment.
The music itself, as well as being extremely loud, had an identity all its own. The moment he heard a phrase he could relate to, an unexpected chord change would yank the song away from anything he'd heard before. Lyrically too, things were different. Hard to make out completely, but it was evident these guys weren't preaching love and peace, rather, it struck Tanner, as a frenzied, evangelical rant, but with God removed.
Then, before anyone expected, it was over. Tanner checked his watch, he'd been there thirty minutes. As the last stabbing chords rang out, the band, without a word, disappeared into a back room, and the DJ, at the ready, quickly had his opening disc spinning. That was the last anyone would be hearing from The Belleville Riders tonight.
Tanner felt as if he'd been hit by a train. For a good few moments, nobody in the audience moved, although it was obvious they'd be getting no more, it was also clear to Tanner that they wanted more, and so did he. Eventually, the small crowd began to disperse towards the bar. Tanner followed suit, and as he did, he glanced over to the back room. The door remained closed.
III
Option 3: Get out of this town
At just after seven, the sudden, disturbing sight of a passing police car, finally shook Nixon from his speculation. Starting the van, he headed towards the motorway. As he drove, a semblance of logic started to piece itself together. It was obvious now, that whatever he was going to do with the body, it wouldn't be in the area. The greater the distance he could put between himself and 'the incident', the harder it would be for any evidence to be found.
Twenty minutes later, he'd reached the comparative safety of the motorway for his journey home. Before the junction he spotted a newsagent, the kind of establishment that could sell you practically anything. Mags, tobacco, cheap booze, and yes, even something to bag up a corpse.
Nixon parked up, took a breath, got out of the van and made to enter the shop. It was the first time he'd been out in the air for nearly five hours. It had begun to rain, and the drizzle felt cleansing upon his face. The shop was empty, except for one young woman at the till. Nixon hovered near the news stand, just inside the door, still uncomfortable at leaving the van unattended. The customer made to leave, and Nixon stepped aside, casually watching her walk onto the street. As she drew alongside the van, she stopped, and Nixon froze. Three hundred milliseconds passed as the woman reached into her bag, pulled out a lighter, lit a cigarette, took one draw, lifted her head as she exhaled, and walked on. The smoke trailed out above her, like a steam train at full tilt, whilst the ghost of Lucia in her cargo bay nearby, remained dutifully silent.
“Can I 'elp yoou ?”
Nixon glanced around towards the woman behind the counter. Round faced, Indian perhaps, one eyebrow gestured for a response. Nixon, flummoxed, looked back towards the news stand, and tried to act natural.
“Umm, something I was after.....ahh....” Nixon tried to focus on anything he might actually want.
Car magazines, football.......gardening, for God's sake, and then up, up, up to the top shelf. A sumptuous array of tits and bums, pristine, behind their cellophane covers, stared down at him. 'Rammed with hardcore action!'
Nixon glanced back to the blank face of the woman at the counter. A nonsensical vacillating soundtrack was gently wailing away in the background. A shrill falsetto, evidently professed undying love and devotion to anyone who believed. Despite his tension, he couldn't help but acknowledge the absurdity of it all. He quickly grabbed a music magazine, then walked deeper into the shop, as if for cover. On another day it would have been amusing, but not today.
The thought did calm him, however, and after realising that he was by now, rather hungry, he picked up some things to tide him over, until he was back home in London. Then, nearly at the till, he realised that he'd forgotten what he'd come in for in the first place.
“Do you have any bin liners...aah, strong ones ?”
A hundred or so metres further on from the shop, was a long lay-by, separated from the road by some trees and scrub. It was a place where fast food vans would set up to serve the stream of traffic on their way, to and from, the motorway. Now, at a quarter to eight on a Sunday evening empty, and likely to remain so. Long enough at least, for Nixon to, as it were, put Lucia to bed.
In the back of the van, her body had already started to stiffen, and most surprisingly, he thought he detected some whiff of odour. Maybe imagined, it didn't matter, now that he had his 'top quality all purpose refuse sacks' that Mr Ahmed, had brought from the back storeroom.
“Very good sack, sir. You could put big dog in that, yes”
An odd statement, but yes, it was perfectly true. For sure, a five foot four, slim build Argentine, gaffered into foetal position, fitted neatly into two, one from each end. Nixon banded the two bags with gaffer tape, repeated the process, thereupon wrapping the body with the rest of the roll, bandage fashion. The whole bundle was then taped top and bottom; Quite neat, in a way. A sort of olive coloured......body in a bag. Who was he kidding? this would stop any smell, but he would still need to disguise it some way later. Nixon realised he had little choice, until he got home, by which time he hoped he would have found a solution, but for now, and for the next three hours on the road, he felt he could, at least move on.
Comments