Figgis 9: Body Disposal

Body Disposal

BODY DISPOSAL

   
   "So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
   Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
   "I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
   Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
   Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
   "Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
   Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
   "I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
   "And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
   Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
   "Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
   "So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
   It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
   The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
   "Do you do wine?"
   "Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
   "What sort do you have?"
   "White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
   "White please," Theresa said.
   They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf.  The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
    "There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
    Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
   "Well, this is nice," Bel said.
   Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty.  "So what now?" he asked.
   "Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
    Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
   "Oh fuck."
   Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.