Closet Case

Pop goes the cherry...

I haven't done any writing in ages, which is probably reflected in the quality of this; a quick, dirty and dark piece based upon a couple of ideas that have been floating around in my head.

I don't think it's up to much, but would appreciate comments all the same.

Joey @ Junt.co.uk

(Contains strong language and possibly NSFW)

Edit: I've just noticed how much it's been censored. For a non-censored version please go to my blog at Edit [Moderator]: Blog removed


Closet Case

"The moment you start giving a **** is the moment you quit. Sounds harsh but it's true. There are two types of people who work here; those who can handle it and make it their living, and those who can't and don't. You look like one of the latter."

That was my introduction.

"How long have we got mate?". The contrast between his common accent and the vicar's silver spoon dialect was evident as his metallic tinged voice carried from the mobile phone.

He hung up and turned towards me in the passenger seat.

"******* hell. It's gonna be a bit tight. One to two hours tops. The full monty as well. Takes the ******* piss."

"There might not be too much to do though, might be a quick one."

"Bollocks. This guy's got something to hide. Dirty ******."

"You say that about every job."

"Yeah and I'm usually right."

I didn't bother to reply, and instead followed him to the house, leaving the unbranded van parked in the street. Elliot opened the front door, and entered the dingy hallway.

There's nothing on earth that smells like a dead body. We arrived too early on a couple of basic clean up jobs last year. At the time it seemed like an accident but with hindsight Elliot probably did it on purpose. Test the new boy so to speak.

Imagine bloated roadkill on a summer's day. Then multiply and restrict that smell to a confined space. Maggots gorge themselves and grow fat on the decomposing flesh. The carpet and the floorboards wick away and impregnate themselves with greasy fluids; nature's final act of marking it's territory. Like working in a chippy's, the smell clings to you, permeating your clothes and skin. It takes days to convince yourself that you're clean. The only way to remove the stench of death is to drown it. Cheap perfume from the car boot combined with industrial cleaning agents. Doesn't do the asthma sufferers any good, but it's the lesser of two evils.

Elliot's right though, a couple of jobs and you become numb to it. Bodies soon become meat. You respect the deceased's wishes but don't give a **** about their life, or lack of.

I took a deep breath as I passed through the doorway, and waited for the stagnant atmosphere to surround me. Smelling without breathing; the air would snake it's way upstream, evading the synthetic Vick's mask, and engulfing your nostrils. Take the first wave of nausea head on and you'd soon recover. Attempt to fight the intake and you'd be back out the front door.

Only this time it didn't. There was no smell. I looked up at Elliot and noticed he wasn't wearing a mask.

"Nah the guy died of cancer or something. Departed in hospital I think, ain't gonna be no mess here. I ******* told you in the van, don't you ever listen?"

"I thought you said this was a big job."

"It is. Like I said, we've got to check the whole place, the dozy ****** never told us where to look. He got ill suddenly, and didn't have time to sort his **** out. He then panicked and told the vicar to get someone to get rid of it. Hence why we're here to clear it out."

"Well what are we looking for?"

"Anything dodgy. Anything that might shock his dear old friends and family. Just pile it up by the door and we'll carry it out at the end."

The living room was fairly minimalist, showroom-like; in the style of those happy furniture adverts on the TV. The expensive matching leather sofas and pristine glass coffee table were an attempt to buy into that lifestyle, and judging by the sparsely filled address book by the cordless telephone, compensation for a social life. Neat shelves filled with bland bestsellers decorated the walls. The kitchen and bathroom followed suit, filled with possessions devoid of sentiment. Despite apparent innocence on the surface, each drawer and cupboard had to be thoroughly checked for incriminating evidence.

We left the bedroom until last, as this was typically where our work would begin.

A double bed with crisp sheets filled the centre of the room, with two bedside tables either side. Inspection of both proved fruitless.

"This guy is gay for sure. Closet case if ever I saw one."

"Why's that."

"Well he ain't got a missus has he?"

"What's that got to do with anything? Neither have you at the moment."

"Yeah but check how the bed's positioned. If you're a straight guy living alone in a bachelor pad you lay your furniture out practically, with your bed against the wall. It's easier to kick the dirt under. It's women who want the bed in the middle with the spotless floor, wasting the space and making it awkward. Women and gay guys. This place is way too tidy for a straight guy."

Elliot's amateur psychological theories. He regularly diagnosed fucked up elements for the most stable of individuals, basing his judgement solely on inanimate objects. Occasionally he was proved right.

"See what I mean. Dirty bastard! What did I ******* tell you?!"

Elliot opened the wardrobe doors only to be confronted at eye level with a large quantity of homosexual pornographic material. Behind that a row of coat hangers were equally spaced along a rail, and from each hung a shadowy garment. A thick leathery odour wafted out, mixed with the musty scent of the well thumbed magazines.

"Bloody hell, kinky little bugger ain't he?! Wait til they hear about this down the pub later! Someone's been making a lot of guilty trips to the top-shelf!"

We both paused for a minute to assess the contents.

"It's true though ain't it, you only really get to know someone when they die. His family are probably at the funeral right now wondering who the **** all these well dressed effeminate men are on the other side of the grave. Bit ******* sad really…"

Elliot cut me off.

"C'mon, let's get all this lot shifted and we'll be out of here before anyone's noticed."

I fetched some boxes from the van, which we filled and brought outside.

I waited at the door for Elliot to grab the last box from upstairs.

"Didn't take too long in the end; a lifetime's dirty secret sorted in twenty minutes…"

I paused as I caught movement at the end of the pathway out of the corner of my eye. Two figures dressed in black stood by the open gate.

"**** Elliot, hurry up mate, think they might be back."

"Can't hear ya mate, won't be a minute. Here. Check this out. I might keep this. Be good for fancy dress at New Year's. Ha ha."

The figures approached the doorstep as Elliot came into view, carrying a box of magazines. He was wearing a gimp mask.

"What do ya reckon mate? Does it suit me?"

Upon reaching the hallway he stopped abruptly, as the front door opened simultaneously beside me.

I turned and looked at the visitors, who returned my gaze, before engaging on Elliot. An elderly man stood besides his veiled wife, her smudged make-up diluted by freshly dried tears. A look of confusion reigned on their aged faces, their concentration focused on the masked intruder.

Another set of eyes stared accusingly upwards from the front cover of the uppermost magazine, daring Elliot to try and talk his way out.

Silence prevailed for a matter of seconds. It was broken by me. What started as a snigger increased in volume, and set Elliot off; his laughter somewhat muffled by the constricting head gear. His bulky frame spluttered as he struggled to breathe and laugh concurrently. The couple stood, dumbstruck by the situation. Half a minute had passed by the time I was able to restrain myself, by which point dribble had forced it's way through Elliot's partially unzipped mouth opening. His neck was a shade of red, and I could sense that his face was a lot darker.

"******* run!"

Elliot took off, skillfully sidestepping the couple in the doorway but failing to evade the dustbin outside. He stumbled without falling, spilling the top few magazines, before regaining his balance and reaching the van.

I walked past the bewildered couple, calmly stooping on my way to recover the fallen goods. The engine was running by the time I reached the van, and we took off before I could close the passenger door.

"You get it all?"

"Yeah. Yeah I've got it here."

"Best not tell the boss about this one. Hahaha what a **** up! Did you see her face? Thought she was going to ******* die or something! I might do and all if I don't get this bloody thing off me."

He turned down into an empty side street and pulled over.

"Give us a hand with this, the ******* buckle's stuck."