Dead Flies Read online

  Dead Flies

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text Copyright @2017

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

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  A young burglar is surprised to be apprehended, and even more surprised to be assigned an extra task…

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  Dead Flies

  I close the door behind me and stand in the hallway. Listening. There is no sound other than my breathing. It’s been a while.

  In the kitchen I place the birthday cake on the table, and hang my jacket on the back of the chair.

  Walking into the living room I open the windows to let some air in. I count three dead flies in a layer of dust on the windowsill; one for each year that Paul has been missing…

  He’d been drinking with friends on a Saturday night, in and out of the pubs on Southfield Road. He met a woman in The Dickens Inn, and over a few cocktails they chatted and exchanged telephone numbers. At 1 a.m. he walked her to a taxi, kissed her good night and went back to the pub.

  I lean against the windowsill, looking around the room as I listen to the traffic outside on Acklam Road.

  There’s a coffee table with a desk lamp on it, and underneath the table is a cardboard box containing old magazines. But there’s not much else; the police removed most of the furniture for examination. The place seems empty. Jesus – the place is empty.

  The walls are bare except for a couple of photos. One shows Paul on a beach in Greece, laughing and drinking beer with his friends.

  I take down the other photo, wiping dust from the frame. It shows Paul on the day he graduated from university, smiling as he stands in between me and Sandra. Just a kid, really, with his whole life ahead of him.

  He didn’t turn up for Sunday dinner with me and Sandra. He didn’t answer his phone. We came here to his apartment, letting ourselves in with the spare key. He wasn’t here, and he still wasn’t answering his phone. An hour later we called the Police.

  I replace the photo, making sure it’s level. I asked Sandra to come here with me, but she didn’t want to. Her face crumbled when she saw the cake in my hands.

  “We should both go,” I said.

  She sat on the sofa, sipping coffee.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “But it’s his birthday.”

  “I know it is, Geoff. But, I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”

  “But…we should do something.”

  “Do something? Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” she said, then laughed without humour. “What the hell do we have to celebrate?”

  I heard her weeping as I left the house.

  In Paul’s bedroom there is a double bed frame without a mattress, and underneath it is a pair of trainers and a barbell with weights attached. The walls are bare, except for a clock that has stopped.

  I look out the window, thinking that he chose a good place to live; Acklam’s nice and quiet. And he’s got The Bluebell just over the road, when he fancies a pint. Plus, Sandra and I are only a few miles away in Thornaby.

  We last saw him on Friday, the night before he went missing. He came to our house for dinner, then we had a few beers and watched the England game on TV.

  “This guy is useless,” Paul said.

  “The whole team are crap, son,” I said.

  He sipped his pint and said, “They don’t care when they play for England.”

  “Exactly. No pride.”

  Sandra looked up from her crossword. “Why do you two even watch England play?” she asked. “All you do is moan.”

  Paul and I couldn’t answer that one, so we burst out laughing instead.

  In the wardrobe there are a few items of Paul’s clothing. I hold a blue sweater to my nose; there is a mild smell of Paul.

  There is the same mild smell on the shirts and jackets that hang in the wardrobe. I think. I don’t know. Maybe I just want there to be a smell.

  There’s a Stephen King novel on the floor beside the bed. I pick it up, noticing the corner of page 79 turned over. That’s as far as he got. I’ll take it with me and make sure the book gets finished.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I remove a plastic knife and fork from my jacket, along with a paper napkin.

  I cut a small slice from the cake, and place it on my napkin.

  “Well, thirty three,” I say. “Happy birthday, son.”

  I try a forkful - it’s a bit sweet for me, but I don’t mind. I wonder when the police were last here. They did as much as they could, I suppose…

  They’d tried their best. They made a public appeal for information, and the story was in The Gazette and on the local radio.

  They even hosted a TV appeal, and I said a few words while Sandra sat next to me. They questioned taxi drivers, and other Saturday night drinkers – none of it lead anywhere.

  And then there was the mysterious woman Paul had met in The Dickens Inn. She took a long time coming forward, despite many police appeals.

  We thought she might have useful information concerning Paul, but when the police finally questioned her we were disappointed; she was married, and had been reluctant to come forward, not wanting to give to her husband the impression that she’d been unfaithful to him with Paul. One of many dead ends.

  So we waited, not knowing, not sleeping. Days, weeks, months, years dragged by, every moment lasting forever.

  “All gone,” I say when I finish my slice.

  What should I do with the rest of the cake? Leave a slice for Paul? Put it in the fridge? No, there’s no electricity.

  Maybe take some home for Sandra? I don’t really know what to do, as I haven’t thought it through – I just felt like I had to do something for his birthday.

  I remember the last time we sat at this table. We talked about women…

  “You can’t be a playboy all your life,” I told him.

  He laughed. “Playboy? Don’t exaggerate, dad.”

  “You know what I mean, son. You’ve got a different girlfriend every month.”

  “So?”

  “So, what about settling down?”

  “Plenty of time for that,” he said, laughing again. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to grow old and lonely, and start talking to myself.”

  And now, here I am, alone in my son’s house, eating cake and talking to myself. Time to go, I think.

  He sits on the floor, to the side of the ATMs outside the supermarket. He strokes a Yorkshire Terrier in his lap, and on the ground before him is a wooden bowl with a few coins in it.

  He’s a tramp. A homeless guy; I don’t know how you’re supposed to call them these days. I’ve seen him here before.

  He looks at me suspiciously when I offer him the cake, then he smiles and takes it from me.

  “It’s not even my birthday,” he says, as he samples some of the cake with his finger.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m home. Sandra finds me in the kitchen, as I switch on the kettle. There’s a look on her face that I haven’t seen in a while.

  “Good news,” she says.

  We sit down and she tells me. The police called earlier; they’ve received money for a Cold Case Review, and they’ll be getting support from the Major Crimes Unit.

  “And they want to see us tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Stockton Police Station.”

  “Excellent. This is excellent.”

  “I know,” she says and hugs me.

  We hold each other silently for a few moments.
r />   “Right,” I say. “I need to iron my shirt and pants.”

  “Already done.”

  “Really? Thanks, love.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “God! My hands are shaking,” I say. “I’m excited.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “I think we should pour ourselves a large whisky,” she says, “and talk about how we’re going to bring our boy back.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We can do that.”

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  Glenn McGoldrick.

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  Glenn McGoldrick, Dead Flies

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