Redcar Collector Read online

  Redcar Collector

  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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  Redcar Collector

  The foot rested on the sand, exposed as the tide rolled out. Looking up and down the beach, I saw nobody. Kneeling down, I removed my jacket, wrapped the foot inside it and headed home.

  I sat at the workbench in my shed, examining the foot.

  It was from a white male; there were black hairs on the toes and the instep, so I assumed that the foot came from a male. About a size eight, the same as me. It was unevenly severed just above the ankle; there were no bruises or markings.

  But why was the foot on the beach? Whose foot was it? And what was I going to do with it?

  I wrapped the foot in an old towel, placing it in the bottom drawer of the metal filing cabinet which I used to store tools. After locking the shed, I decided to pay my son a visit.

  Jason opened the front door, looking surprised to see me. He wore ripped jeans, and a T-Shirt with the name of a Rock group on it.

  “Hi, son. Have you got five minutes?”

  He checked his watch, then stepped back to let me in. “Yeah, OK, Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But we’ll have to be quick. Mum’ll be back in an hour, and she’ll go mad if you’re here.”

  We went to the living room. He turned off the TV and sat beside me on the sofa as I told him about the foot.

  “Where is it now?” he asked.

  “In my shed.”

  “And you found it on the beach?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just near the Stray Café.”

  “How come you were out there?”

  “Just taking my usual walk.”

  “Usual walk?”

  “Yeah, I walk right down the beach to Saltburn,” I said. “Gives me chance to think.”

  “What? All the way to the pier?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. If the tide’s out.”

  “That’s a decent walk,” he said. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

  I shook my head. “Not after last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “Yeah, the guy who was taking clothes off people’s washing lines?”

  “Right,” he said, and scratched his thigh through a hole in the jeans.

  “I went to the station to tell them about it, but they didn’t believe me. A couple of them looked like they found it very amusing. Bastards.”

  “Amusing?”

  “I told them that I’d spotted the guy with my binoculars, as he passed through the gardens. That’s when they sniggered, when I mentioned my binoculars.”

  When he didn’t answer, I said, “You’d think they’d be grateful for my help, but, no, apparently not. They probably think I’m a Peeping Tom or something. Bastards.”

  “But, surely, if you show them the foot – they’ll have to believe you.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “What?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe I’ll look into it myself.”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know. Check the newspapers? Maybe the internet?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Then I can solve it, hand them the whole thing, wrapped in a nice little bow, and see who’s laughing then. Bastards.”

  He exhaled deeply, running his hand through his hair.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  After chatting with Jason, I picked up the Evening Gazette from the newsagent on Park Avenue and went home.

  I made a cheese and pickle sandwich, eating it while I read the paper at my kitchen table. I couldn’t find anything about the foot.

  I made a coffee, grabbed the paper and went to the shed. Sitting at the workbench in my plastic chair, I sipped my coffee and re-read the paper. Nothing.

  Moving the paper to one side, I took the foot from the filing cabinet and placed it on the workbench. I tapped my fingers on the side of the cup, staring at my mysterious discovery.

  “What’s your story?”

  Why was it on the beach? Where was the body? Was the guy still alive? Did the man go into the water? Cutting his foot off first? No way, surely.

  My coffee was cold when I put the foot away, locked the shed and went back inside my house.

  Unable to find anything watchable, I switched off the TV at 10 p.m. and returned my empty cup to the kitchen. I looked at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, making a mental note to wash them in the morning.

  I took my laptop to bed, checked the internet, but found nothing about the foot. After switching off the bedside lamp, I lay awake in the darkness and considered possible explanations.

  Had the owner of the foot been murdered? It was feasible.

  Maybe he was a crew member on one of the cargo ships heading into Teesport? Murdered, cut into pieces and buried at sea? But the foot broke loose from the other body parts and washed ashore? Jesus. But, still – why wouldn’t the guy have been reported as missing?

  I thought about this and other grisly scenarios, eventually getting to sleep before dawn.

  My advisor sat across the desk from me, checking through my paperwork. Without looking up, he asked me questions about how I’d been trying to find a job.

  He was about thirty years old, with glasses and a goatee. Three plastic pens sat in the pocket of his shirt, and I hoped that one of them would leak.

  When he first took over my case, he said, “Hi, Mr Wilson. My name’s Ben, and I’m going to find you a job in two months.”

  Three months had since passed. Now he couldn’t wait for me to get out of there. Bastard.

  When I left the Jobcentre I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head; I’d been going there every fortnight for six months, and it was usually a draining experience.

  I thought about my last job, working in Surveillance for the Borough Council. Most of it was long hours spent watching CCTV. The other analysts worked in teams of two, but I mostly worked alone.

  One day the manager said, “We’re downsizing, Gordon. Sorry, but we’ve got to let you go.”

  Downsizing? Why do people talk like that these days?

  And why was it me who had to go? Probably because I didn’t socialise with the others too much. The bastards gave me a decent severance pay-off, so I didn’t mind.

  I wondered if they’d got somebody to replace me as I walked home from the Jobcentre.

  I was watching a shark movie. It was quite silly, but just as I was about to switch it off one scene caught my attention.

  A shark with three eyes attacked a scuba diver, and following the frenzied attack there was a shot of the diver’s severed leg drifting to the bottom of the ocean.

  Could that explain the foot in my shed? A scuba diver killed by a shark? Or a surfer? Attacked, torn to pieces, but only the foot washes ashore?

  After a quick internet search, I realised my scenario was unlikely. There were up to thirty species of shark found in British waters, but only a few shark attacks had ever been recorded.

  Apparently, it was statistically more likely to be killed by a bee sting. And if it was a shark attack, then surely somebody would have reported the missing person?

  “Where the hell did you come from?” I said, pouring myself a large whisky in the kitchen. I took a gulp, topped up the glass and went ou
t to the shed.

  What do I do now? I’ve checked the papers and internet. Nothing.

  What else can I do? I can’t keep the foot, surely. Maybe I should just throw it back in the sea? Yeah, maybe.

  Or should I take it to the police? I could say that I’ve just found it today. But what if they don’t believe me? What if they find out I’ve had it for two weeks? I could be in trouble.

  Or the bastards might just laugh at me again. It’s not worth the risk.

  I’d better get out to the shed, and give it a clean. It’s turning a weird blue-green colour. I should do some internet research, figure out a way to preserve it.

  Maybe I should get one of those jars. The big glass ones. Then I can put it up in the loft with my other specimens.

  Thanks for reading!

  I hope you enjoyed my story.

  Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts.

  Until next time.

  Glenn McGoldrick.

  If you enjoyed reading this story, then you might like to try a collection in the Dark Teesside series:

  UK: http://amzn.to/2ArCP96

  US: http://amzn.to/2hbkogy

 

 

  Glenn McGoldrick, Redcar Collector

  Thanks for reading the books on GrayCity.Net