A Plague of Sorts
by A.D. Dawson

*Death rode through our town tonight - and he wasn't sat astride a white charger.*

   I am feeling more than wretched this evening. My shoulder aches like the devil - I've recently had a growth removed there from, and I have the beginnings of a head cold - as the contents of my handkerchief can testify. I have just drained the last of my stout and am heading for an early night, when a tall man happens into the bar. Without an introduction of any sort, he orders me a refill and ushers me over to the quiet corner next to the seldom-played pool table. He has a pleasant and somewhat familiar face. He carefully places my drink down onto the table next to his short.

   "Well?" I inquire of him, arching my eyebrows for intellectual effect.

   He quickly looks about the empty bar and sips nervously at his drink before retorting. "St Peters & St Pauls church yard, there is someone - a friend - awaiting your company there."

   He stands, empties his glass, bids me good evening and is gone without further explanation. Because of my maladies, I am loath to venture very far out tonight. However, and which is my curse, I have the curiosity of the proverbial cat - although, unfortunately, at this moment in time not the constitution. I pull my collar about my raw throat and venture hesitantly out into the dark and chill streets of M____ and towards St Peters & St Pauls. A church yard in the evening, as you rightly assume, Dear Reader, may be a strange place to meet a friend. In my line, however, it is not all that an unusual meeting place, as you will discover - if you stay very long with my narrative.

   I push the wrought iron gate open and step into the quietness of the churchyard. The grave stones stand at odd angles in the shadows, as I make my way mindfully along the serpentine path. A graveyard cat rolls playfully about a sepulchral mound, offering up its furry belly for my caress.

   "I knew you would come, my friend," utters a kindly voice to my rear - the cat arches up its back and shoots off into the darkness like Beelzebub himself had come for its tiny soul. I turn around to face - my heart pumps furiously into my wheezing chest.

   "Is that who I think it is?" I ask towards the portly figure stood before me.

   "It is so," He replies in a familiar although hushed voice. "Come, around here, we must talk." He continues in the same tone as he indicates towards the back of the church.

   He takes my arm in his and we head towards the back of the church - I can detect the strong smell of whiskey upon his breath as we make our way along.

   "You will help me." He states confidently as we arrive to the rear.

   "How can you be so sure of my assistance?" I ask.

   "Need I remind you of my position?"

   "I have no care for your position," I let out abrasively, well irked by his uppity manner. "Like most people hereabouts, I have no reverence towards your *position*, as you call it. It is of no consequence... it is your bank account that is the attraction." I continue bluntly. "Never fool yourself..."

   He laughs out loud and drowns my candid remarks - his belly, fattened by the rich meat of the City, shakes with awkward mirth.

   "What is it you wish me to attend to?" I shout out into the still night. "Have you fallen foul of another... indiscretion, should we say?"

   He drops his chin down onto his chest. "I'm afraid it is more serious this time, as the fee will certainly reflect. You will be at my house at the early hours - use the back entrance, I will be waiting."

   "I'll be there at two."

   He nods his accord.

***

   The house is in darkness when I arrive, early, at one. I sit in my car a while as I survey the surrounding properties. There is little movement around hereabouts- most people were either in their beds or snoozing in front of their television sets. Bored of my surveillance, I climb over the wall and creep across the lawn towards the back of the ____'s house - although avoiding any security lighting that may light up my presence. ____ is in the kitchen sucking at an empty whiskey bottle - a single malt without a doubt. He is dressed in a blue cardigan and with a loosened tie - his attempt at casuality, I suppose. I look about for a vantage point from which to observe the household - there is still thirty minutes to lose before I would be tapping gently at the back door. I notice a garden shed at the back of the property and make my way silently towards it - d____m it; I have stumbled against an upturned barrow! The door to the shed is unlocked so I step inside - rubbing at my sore shin as I do so. I can feel blood trickling down my leg, so therefore I light up a vesta to investigate the wound. *H____s B____s!* I ejaculate, for not a foot away from myself is laid someone... a very dead someone by my first inspections. Her rived throat makes any further examination unnecessary. The match burns at my fingers and I drop it to the floor. I take off my jacket and throw it over the middle-aged carcass laid at my feet - ____ will foot the bill for a new suit to be sure.

   Oops, sorry... I do apologise. It appears, Sir/Madam, that I have upset your sensibility, with my flippant manner in the face of expiration. You must understand, however, that I am no stranger to Mister Death and do not find its function overly distressing. As a boy of 7, I went to the fairground at E_____e, with my grandfather. Thereat, he took me for a ride on the ghost train. He put his arm around my young shoulders to protect me from the darkness and I stuck my nose inside his foul smelling jacket. When we came back into the light after the ride, he was as dead as a dormouse. Notwithstanding that he was my favourite Grandparent and I had suffered a terrible ordeal, I shed not a tear - or have I since. Death... He comes to us all one day.

***

   "Do you know you've got a dead body in your garden shed, ____?" I say at 2 as I step indoors.

   His face reddens and he falls into a swoon - it is only the doorframe that holds him erect. I laugh myself to distraction and his wife shouts from upstairs that ____ ought to be more quiet and not disturb her slumber - the drunken little b____d! I help him back into the kitchen and he slumps back into a chair.

   "What *is* occurring, my friend?" I ask with glee.

   He is a longwinded fool and begins, "I was called back from London..."

   To make a long story short. It appears that he was called back from the City because of the health of his two brats. The dead woman - you will be bewildered when you discover what that is all about.

   "I suppose you want me to rid you of the body, or do you not?" I tease.

   "Please, please do, I will pay you whatever you ask."

   "Dead bodies are quite easy to get rid of hereabouts."

   "Really?"

   "Yes,"

   "That is a terrible thing to know."

   I continue. "I know a butcher who has a big boiling vat and blender - generally it is used for animal waste, such as beaks and hooves. However, he is quite flexible, for a price, about what he throws into it. All of the bones etc. are chopped up by the blending blades and then boiled. The fat, of course, floats to the top and the waste to the below. The fat is scooped off and is sold as dripping about the town - jolly well flavoured too!"

   ____ begins to retch and he holds his handkerchief up to his mouth. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom.

   When he returned to M____, he found that his children had been stricken by some kind of terrible malady - indeed they are still bedridden as a cause. If that was not enough, the eldest, in his hysteria, leapt from his bed and ripped out the saggy throat of the housekeeper with his teeth as she fussed about him. According to ____, she didn't die because of the bite, but of a heart attack. I suppose that make it alright then - nevertheless, who am I to judge these people?

   ____ returns - he looks dreadful.

   "I haven't felt well all day," He moans as he dabs at his moist brow with his handkerchief. "Something must be going around."

   "Did you get the doctor to take a look at you?" I ask.

   He shakes his head.

   "I'm not feeling too good myself this evening..."

   Bother... a sudden thought hits my brain like a steam hammer - I've left my mobile phone in my jacket pocket - which is covering the face of the crone. Still it is no worry, I will use ____'s telephone to get in touch with Spike. Spike is my... helper, should we say - my disposals expert if you like. I ring his number and his wife answers.

   "It's no good, Mr. ____ 'e ain't out the night that's for sure," She states crudely in the vernacular. "E's been bad all day - spewed all over my best nightie 'e did...blah blah de f____ blah."No help there then.

   Strange though, I have known Spike upward of 20 years and not a day's illness has ever stopped him before. I'll 'ave... have to dump the body myself - I've done it before.

   ____ suddenly falls back into his chair with a thud. His eyes roll back and he vomits down his front.

   "Shut up," yells his beloved from upstairs, "Don't you know I'm not feeling well?"

   He makes a peculiar rattling sound from his throat and then goes limp. I put my fingers expertly at his throat - there is no pulse. He can forget the kiss-of-life too - with all that gunk about his face. Still, worse things could have happened - no one has seen me here. I'll get my jacket from the shed and get off. I'm just about to leave when I hear a voice to my rear.

   "Don't think you are going to leave him for me in that drunken state," rages Mrs.____. her face as ashen as my grandfather's (after the ghost train ride). "Gadzooks, the shed is on fire." She suddenly screams out to my horror.

   It is too; the blasted shed is on fire - my discarded match must have started it. I need to get out of here quickly before everyone arrives. I get a strange urge... It would be hard for you to believe that I have never, ever, hurt a woman in all of my life before, if you could see me now ripping into her throat with my bare teeth. She falls limp to the floor - died of a heart attack - not the bite of course! I hoist her up onto my shoulders and make my way outside - she will burn well next to the crone. Fortunately I am able to salvage my jacket before the flames devour it. I wipe at my bloodied face with ____'s nightwear and throw it on top of the blaze. I make it back to my car just as the emergency services arrive - the sleeping neighbours haven't even stirred despite the wail of the sirens.

   Town is as quiet as the grave as I drive through the deserted streets to my home. Just as I pull into my driveway, I am nearly sent into a paroxysm as someone utters from the back seat of my car - a skeletal hand grasps at my aching shoulders. I turn to see it is the man with the pleasant face from earlier this evening.

   "You nearly did for me then," I manage breathlessly.

   "I will do one day, my friend," He returns as he steps to the curb. "Take a care."

©2004 A.D. Dawson

A.D.Dawson writes from the heart of the Sherwood Forest. However, do not be fooled - no Robin Hood in Lincoln Green is he. A.D conducts The Dodsley Pages - an unedited international forum for writers.

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