The Woman Next Door(48)

I knew she would make much more of a fuss than I would. With difficulty, I crawl into the back of the van and yank a piece of plastic sheeting over his head, trying to tuck it in. But I don’t manage to do it in time to prevent a glance of what lies beneath. His skin has taken on the waxy pallor of cheap cheese.

Melissa makes another funny little sound. I glance at her and see she is biting down on her hand, eyes huge and shining.

‘Melissa!’ I say sharply. ‘Get a grip. This is no time to fall apart! Come up here and help get this onto the ground.’

Still making small noises deep in her throat, she clambers into the back with more grace than I managed and then presses herself back against the wall. She stares down at the wrapped body and a few tears snake down her cheeks.

‘Focus, Melissa!’ I say. ‘We are almost on the final straight now! We can do this. I know we can! But we need to work together.’

She gazes at me and swipes a hand under her nose, her nod almost imperceptible. I must remind myself of the great stress she is experiencing. This girl simply isn’t as strong as I am. I didn’t even know how strong I was until today. As I glance down again at the bulky shape in its opaque plastic, I offer a little prayer of thankfulness to the man himself for giving me this gift of self-discovery.

Together, we haul the body to one side so we can get the trolley down onto the ground. It is very heavy and, when Melissa climbs down and takes the far end, I accidentally lose my grip and it pushes into her tummy.

She swears viciously and repeatedly. This is a very bad habit and I sincerely wish she would stop doing it.

‘Are you all right?’

To her enormous credit, she doesn’t complain further, just nods, tears slipping down her cheeks, unchecked now.

Once the trolley is flat, we push and pull until the body slips off the edge of the van’s interior and lands, somewhat awkwardly, across it. I am interested to see that the effects of rigor mortis seem to have worn off and a certain floppiness has returned. Although I had been hoping for this, it strikes me now that it would actually have been helpful had we been able to prop him up vertically and push the trolley that way.

Then we huff and puff, push and pull, until the body is sitting upright on the trolley, back against the handles. Melissa is very red in the face and her eyes shine with fear and exertion. She looks very pretty, despite everything. A hank of bright hair has come undone from her ponytail and my hand itches with a sudden desire to gently tuck it behind her ear.

Being the taller, younger, and stronger of the two of us, Melissa takes the job of pulling the trolley backwards. My job is to try and prevent the man from falling off. He keeps slumping to the side.

Honestly, it feels as though he is deliberately trying to make things difficult for us.

We inch along, making the very slowest of progress. Every time we cover the slightest distance, the trolley catches on a stone, or the man starts to fall to the side again. Looking out for rocks, we only find a couple that would be of any use. I wish Terry’s van still held some full paint cans. They would have done the job nicely. But as I said to Melissa, what other choices do we have now?

To make things more difficult, the rain has become heavier. It’s that miserable, mizzling sort of rain that chills you to the core. I find myself thinking, ‘I’m too old for this,’ and then realize the idiocy of such a statement. As if there would ever have been a right time for dragging a dead body into a river! It’s quite comical.

Then I wonder if I am going a bit mad because of all this. But that’s not it exactly. There is something else. A strange sort of … happiness.

Despite the risk of being caught, despite the exhaustion and the wet clothes clinging to my cold skin, despite my grumbling tummy and the desire for a cup of good, strong tea, I feel more alive than I have for years. I’m aware of my body in a way I’d quite forgotten. It’s as though I have shed ten years since yesterday when I was baking those scones.

It’s Melissa who has brought me back to life. I glance gratefully at her as we trundle a painstaking foot forward but then I see her face is now scrunched in discomfort.

‘What is it?’ Alarm flares in my chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m about to wet myself. Can we stop for just a moment?’

I sigh. Sometimes Melissa is a bit like a child.

‘Well, can’t you hold it in?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she breathes again and gently drops her end of the trolley before shuffling off into the trees.

The cumbersome plastic larvae immediately slumps sideways and I am suddenly quite overwhelmed with irritation. Bloody man, I think, even though I don’t normally use language like that. Muttering to myself, I try to heft it back onto the trolley but it’s too heavy for me and I have to leave it lying at that odd angle.

I look around, wiping rain away from my face. Thank goodness for my Pac-a-Mac, although inside it, I feel chilled and clammy at the same time.

Where has Melissa got to?

I spot her coming through the trees then, shoulders hunched and arms folded across her chest. She looks cold and young and, well, quite lovely.

Looking up at me her eyes go wide and she makes a frantic flapping motion with her hands. I turn round slowly to see what she is looking at and horror fills my veins.

Our camper is awake and heading this way.





MELISSA