Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [54]
Effie's life: one almighty laugh after another.
She put the cup down, carried on hacking away.
"Hand sore?" Martin said.
She was getting back into the rhythm, and grunted in reply. A constant flow of blood dribbled into the tub. At least there was no arterial spray. Just what was in Fraser's veins.
"Probably not something you'd want to do every time," Martin said. "Cutting them up. If it was a regular job, you know."
She grunted again. He didn't realise how right he was. It was cutting up Martin's dad that almost got Richie caught.
Martin looked towards her cup of tea. "Going to have to cut out the milk, too," he said. "Cows get pumped full of antibiotics. Can't be good for you. Unless it's organic."
If he wasn't naked, she might have found him annoying. But she couldn't. Not when he looked like that. He really did have a gorgeous arse. In fact, he had a gorgeous body, not conventionally gorgeous, but it worked for her. Shame he was so uncomfortable with his clothes off. All because of that rope burn on his neck.
Another case of her having to protect him.
She glanced at the mantelpiece, trying to spot her dad's handiwork. But there was no sign of anything unusual.
Still, she had to concentrate on sawing to keep the guilt at bay.
The head was nearly off. In fact—there. A slap as it dropped into the tub. Blood splashed up the side, threatening to spill over onto the dropcloth. "You got another carrier bag?" she asked.
She'd take a moment before starting on the hands.
That's what you did if you wanted bodies 'vanished'. They were going to do it properly. Impress Richie. Lose the heads and hands, burn the torsos. Had to knock out the teeth at some point, which wouldn't be much fun, but they'd have time to do that later.
Martin returned from the kitchen with an empty carrier bag. Knelt beside her and opened it.
Effie picked Fraser's head out of the tub. Held it at arm's length. "He doesn't look his best," she said.
Martin moved to the side, fidgeted with the bag.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Put it in the bag."
She lowered the head inside. "Okay now?"
He nodded. His hands were a little shaky.
***
THEY TOOK THE tub to the bathroom, upended it, poured the contents into the bath. Turned on the taps, flushed the muck away. Some bits got stuck in the plughole, so she picked them out and stuck them down the toilet. She rinsed the tub quickly—didn't need to bother about sterilising it; they'd be dumping it, anyway—and took it back downstairs.
She placed it by the front door, next to the bodies, both of which were now wrapped tightly in Fraser's sheets—one white, one pale blue, neither smelling spring fresh any longer.
While Martin ran a bath upstairs, she bagged the dropcloth in the sitting room, dumped it in the metal tub and fetched the carrier bags from the kitchen. The heads and hands were divided between three carriers. She added them to the tub.
Now she was exhausted, sweating, covered in blood, badly in need of a bath. The sound of the water running reminded her of Mum in the kitchen, in happier times, humming along to the radio, rinsing the dishes. Couldn't abide washing up liquid. Made everything taste of lemon, she said. So the tap ran until everything was spotless and sud-free.
Fraser's house was very different from the one Effie had grown up in. Fraser had money. A lot of money for someone so young. Had a nice office job, but Effie guessed that Daddy had helped him out. Took a shitpile of money to afford to live in a modern villa, detached, with its own driveway. Effie could have guessed, even before she'd set foot in the bathroom, that the taps on the bath would be gold-plated. And she was right.
Martin must have turned them off. The thrum of running water had stopped. He was calling her.
He flung open