Read by Lois Tucker
We’ve aw been there. A nicht oan the tiles. Dancin shoes oan. Tarted up like a Gregg’s donut at the front o the display. An innocent enough wee swally - or so ye hink. Then, a few hoor later, yer poundin heid goes: ‘Whit the puck did ye dae last nicht?’
The Fear. It’s a well-kenned phenomenon. But seriously whit could ye really dae and furget aboot it? It’s been playin oan a loop in ma heid aw mornin.
Ah wis at ma pal Jamie and his burd’s last nicht. It wisnae a big wan. Three drinks. Max. Then ah callt a taxi hame. Lassies cannae be too careful and aw that. Plus, the tube’s probably hoachin wi the Rhona, never mind the vomit-stained nicht bus.
Ah’ve texts oan ma phone. It couldnae huv been mair than ten minutes between leavin their hoose and gettin in the taxi. But that’s still enough time tae kill somewan and bury the body. Sweet Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey.
Ah dinnae ask fur these thochts. They’re like maggots. Ye spot wan and the next hing ye know ah hunner appear, wrigglin and squirmin their way intae yer brain flesh. Somewan tellt me it kin be an illness, but it’s no. Ye dinnae jist get maggots in yer heid. There’s gat tae be rot somewhere.
‘Shut up!’ ah shout back at the bastartin thocht.
Ah look at ma phone. Ah must o gone tae bed as soon as ah gat in. But whit if ah did even mair damage before then?
Ah feel sick and stand. Ah wander aimlessly aroond ma flat, and there it is. Oot the windae, a big owergrown gairden that’s under lock and key belongin tae the neighbours. That’s the perfect place tae plant a body if ye want tae be discreet.
Ah look oot the windae, searchin it fur any sign o a recent disturbance. There’s nought. Magic. Then ah mind the park up the road.
It’s awfae dark at nicht. Landan twinkles in the distance, the buildings filled wi mair CCTV than ye kin shake a stick at. But that doesnae exist in zane three. Ye could dae jist aboot anyhin here and naewan would be any wiser.
Ah huv tae check that wee park. Later.
Ah walk intae the bathroom at the thocht. Ah’m no a violent person, ah dinnae hink, but ye dinnae huv tae be wan tae kill.
***
Ma pal works oan death row in Egypt. She’s a psychologist there, and ah should o known better than tae ask hur whit kinda bugger kills.
‘They are all normal,’ she says. ‘When people kill, they just snap.’
***
Ah’m as white as a ghost, and ah fear there’s wan at ma shoulder. Ma eyes fall oan ma arms. Wi’oot hinkin, ah start tae take photies o them. Ah’m ainlie a wee hing. If ah’ve toapped somewan, there will be signs o a struggle. It looks clear. Magic.
Ten minutes later, ah’ve photied every angle o ma body. Fanny and bumhole incuded. Ye cannae be too careful.
Ah sit doon at ma desk, ignorin the unread messages fae work. Dodgy internet connection. That’s been ma excuse whenever sommat comes up.
Ma heart droaps intae ma stomach when ah scroll through the photies. No so magic. There’s bruises oan ma arm. Twa. Finger-print sized. Ah hink the game’s a bogie, and ah should haun masel intae the polis.
Ah find the non-emergency email address.
‘Hello,’ ah type, before hinkin as quickly as a can oan ma feet.
There’s got tae be security cameras near enough ma street. If ah kin jist get the footage, ah kin check if ah’ve toapped some poor bugger. They’d huv tae pass at least wan camera tae get tae the area. Ah kin narra doon ma list o potential victims.
It’s a big puckin game o Guess Who? and ah’ve nae idea if ah’m even a player.
Ah open another tab.
‘How many security cameras in Clapham Junction,’ ah type intae the Google.
There’s nae answer. Ah go back tae ma email tae the polis.
‘I was out last night and someone spiked my drink,’ ah write. 'I’m scared someone assaulted me on my way home. I live at 8, Brown Park Lane. Can you check the CCTV in the area?’
Ah hit send. Magic. That’s well believable. The polis will feel sorry fur me and wave their wand tae sort this.
Ah force masel through ma work.
Ah need tae check everywhere fur this body the nicht. There’s ainlie so many places it could be buried. The polis can gie me CCTV as a backup.
Time passes as slow as a day in the jail, which is sommat ah may need tae get used tae, but ah’m eventually oan the train tae Jamie’s estate.
Ah’ve nae idea whit ah’ll dae if ah find a body. Ah’d be as surprised as the next person. Ah’m five fit four and no the strongest o the bunch. Ah couldnae kill a man. It would huv tae be a wean or a slichter bugger than me. There couldnae huv been many - if any - weans aroond at midnicht.
Ma magic keeps me safe. Every thocht hus a bit o truth tae it. Why else would it pop intae yer heid? Maggots. Pourin oot o every vein and artery.
Adrenaline focuses me. Ah film every possible burial location efter ah step aff the train. Gairden efter gairden efter gairden.
Ah’d be jist as upset if it turns oot that ah’ve toapped some poor cat or dug that gat lost in the middle o the nicht. Dugs huv bein goin missin a plenty since the Rhona dropped the hit naewan and their granny asked fur.
‘Have you seen this dog?’ wan poster reads. ‘Did your family get a new pet during lockdown? Reward for safe return of Sparky.’
Poor Sparky.
Lockdoon wis safe. Ah grew tae love the wee prison that wis ma bedroom. Hings could ainlie go so wrang then, and ah didnae huv tae use magic fur anyhin but the net. Ye kin dae a lot o damage oan there if yer no careful.
It’s a hot day. Ah wis in such a rush tae start searchin that ah didnae put soacks oan. Ma sweaty feet rub against ma boots, but ah cannae stop filmin.
Ah kin see Jamie’s hoose. He’ll hink ah’ve lost it if he sees me wanderin, but it’s no like ah’ve gat a choice. Ah cannae risk it. It’ll go doon as manslaughter. It hus tae.
Aw Jesus. The park’s hoachin wi weans, and here ah am wi a camera. Ah keep it fixed oan the ground. That’s aw that matters. The dirt. The magic.
The park’s bigger than ah mind it bein. Ah walk up and doon, avoidin other folk as much as ah kin. The ground is soft enough tae bury a body.
There’s mounds o owergrown grass. It’s hard tae tell if the soil below’s been touched. Ah feel sick.
Ah cast a brief glance at Jamie’s flat. Ah swear the curtain moves. Maggots. It’s jist the maggots.
Flashes o ma other kills go aff like a paparazzi camera in ma heid. Aw those nichts oot ah’ve hud. Ah could o done anyhin.
He said ah’m violent.
Ah shake. Ma feet are blistered.
‘It was self-defence,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t stop hitting me.’
It wis jist a nudge. Ah wis upset. But there’s violence in me efter a drink. That’s a fact. It wis mair than jist the magic voice. The maggots. Ah didnae hink ah could hurt a big man. But he said ah did. Ah wish ah could remember.
***
‘What dae ye mean that folk jist snap?’ ah asked ma pal o death row.
‘People here, they don’t do white collar crimes. They don’t kill because they want money or anything like that. It’s crimes of passion.’
Passion. That’s why ah hit him, or so he said. Again and again and again.
***
Some man’s clocked whit ah’m daein, but he looks away when we make eye contact. Landan’s full o mair nutters than ye’d catch oan Sauchiehall Street at 5 am. Ah hudnae worked oot hoo tae use magic back then.
Ah mind back in Glasgae a couple huvin a domestic ootside St Enoch’s station. She gat hur tits oot when he said naewan else would want hur. Big, droopy lang hings. Indecent exposure. A crime if ah ever saw wan.
But she wis three sheets tae the wind and hud nae idea. She said she wis goin hame. The moment the bus wis trundlin away, hur man tellt the hale street that she’d gat the wrang wan and laughed.
The park quietens as the sun begins tae set. Ah speed up. Ah’ll need tae finish soon if ah’m gonnae huv a chance o checkin the wan near ma hoose an aw.
Ah run, powered by this weird magic that makes ma anxiety wash ower me like a wee beaten pebble oan a beach.
Ma phone runs oot o storage jist before ah’m finished round wan o Guess Who? Ah take a deep breath. There’s lots o folk aroond. It’ll be okay. Ah delete photies o ma Granny that ah know ah’ll never get back.
Turns oot ye’ll dae jist aboot anyhin tae avoid a life sentence.
Somewan taps oan ma shoulder.
It’s the polis.
They gat tae the body before me.
The maggots squirm, and ah’m oot like a licht.
***
Ah come twa in the back o a polis car. Ah start hyperventilatin. There’s sweeties poppin oot the glove compartment.
‘Ah didnae mean it,’ ah pant. ‘Ah dinnae even ken who it wis. Ah’m so sorry.’
The polis’ eyes widen. Ah look at their handcuffs. At their knives.
‘Your friend’s really worried about you,’ wan says. ‘What’s going on?’
‘So there’s nae body?’
The polis look at each other.
‘A body?’ wan asks.
‘Aye. A body. Please help. Ah’ve nae idea who they are. Jist lock me up.’
‘No one is missing,’ the other says. ‘You can’t have a crime without evidence, you know.’
Ah start greetin. The maggots pause.
‘He said ah wis violent,’ ah say, the truth spillin oot o me. ‘He said ah hit him, but ah dinnae mind it. He hit me, ah mind that, and he said it was self defence. And ah’m scared. Whit if ah really am a monster? Ah wis jist bein careful. Ah’d a drink in me last night, and ah cannae mind everyhin.’
‘We’re going to get you the help you need.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t want to waste your time.’
‘It’s okay,’ the other polis smiles. ‘If we didn’t help people like you, we’d just be sitting around eating donuts all day.’
‘It’s okay,’ ah repeat.
Ah’ve no said those words since he put his hauns roond ma neck.
Donuts. Mibbie wan day, when magic is jist a memory, ah’ll get tarted up like wan and no get The Fear.
(c) Emma Grae, 2021
Emma Grae is a Scottish author and journalist from Glasgow. She has been writing in Scots since she was a student at the University of Strathclyde, tipsily coauthoring poems with fellow writer Lorna Wallace before moving on to write fiction in the language. She has published fiction and poetry in the UK and Ireland since 2014 in journals including The Honest Ulsterman, From Glasgow to Saturn and The Open Mouse. Her first novel, Be Guid tae yer Mammy, was published by Unbound in August.
Lois Tucker has done various bits and bobs and will probably end up doing more. Previous stuff includes penning and performing three solo shows as her silent comedy alter ego ‘Lois of the Lane’ and releasing the MissLLaneEous EP on Bandcamp. More details at: www.loistucker.net
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