Chapter 20

Gerald had not slept well. The cat would not stop purring around him and the worry of the day before had not gone away. That stupid man's body was heavy. Not getting any younger, it had been incredibly hard work to dig a big enough hole and bury it. It was not as deep as he would have liked, although the rain had thankfully made the ground easier to dig. He also made sure to throw the bloke's keys and pocket debris back in with him. He was almost caught with them in his possession by PC Plod yesterday. His body ached from the exertion. Muscles he had not used for ages cried at him to remember they were no longer supple and well-maintained.

His back pain was bad today. It had become increasingly problematic over the past few months, not that he really did much in the way of gardening anymore. That job, now unpaid, had fallen by the wayside. He just liked being outdoors in the fresh air, especially now the house was getting less fresh by the day. Sitting in the shed, he looked at the blood-stained shelf. The policeman had told him about that, but cleaning blood from old wood was an impossible task. He pulled a crowbar from the bag on the floor and wedged it between the shelf and the wall. A few firm cranks and the shelf was free. It landed on the compost bags and slid onto the floor. At that moment, he noticed the blood on the ground, too. Circular drops of red, making an abstract smiley face, mocking him from below. Using the end of the crowbar, he scraped away at them, roughing up the soft wooden boards in the process. He took the shelf out to a large, metal bin and threw it inside. It would need to be burned.

Back inside the house, he started opening and closing kitchen drawers, looking for some matches and lighter fluid. He had definitely seen both in the house before. Typical, that now he needed them, he could not remember where they were. Anger flashed through him and he slammed the drawers shut. He needed to keep a lid on his anger. It was his constant downfall. The bang alerted the cat, whose presence had gone unnoticed until now. It flew out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and ran upstairs, probably worried that it might be the next target. Cupboards and drawers continued to bang, but no lighter fluid magically appeared. An old book of matches was sat next to some tea bags, which was a relief. He took the matches out to the shed with some paper. He poured oil from the lamp onto the paper, turning it into a semi-transparent sheet of grease. Dropping more paper into the bottom of the metal bin, followed by the oil-soaked sheet, Gerald watched the flame spark to life as he slid three of them together across the coarse striking surface.

As they fell into the bin, igniting the oil and spreading a flame across the paper, he was reminded of his childhood. In those days, before health and safety laws, he had enjoyed playing with friends in the woods near his home in Birmingham. Together, they would build makeshift sheds and tree houses, none of which lasted long when the rain or wind came and turned them back into useless, individual pieces of timber. Nevertheless, it was a time in his life that was not all negative. The outdoors, he knew, was the only place he wanted to be. Home, school, and later, work, were all too restrictive and full of arbitrary rules. In the woods, he could be himself, almost.

Even as a child, Gerald was not 'normal'. He did not really have the same emotional reactions as the other children. He never owned a pet, and never understood why the children cried when Robby the rabbit or Tiddles the cat died. He saw the animals in the same way he saw toys: to be played with until they got broken. Granted, the cat currently setting up home in Neates House was a bit different, as it was currently his only source of companionship. And, as a companion, it was perfect. It never talked, rarely made a fuss and certainly never told him what to do. He was happy to sustain it until it decided to leave of its own volition. When it did, he would not be sad. His friends, as children, were far too emotional. They always cried. They cried when their parents shouted at them. They cried when they hurt themselves. They cried when they argued.

Gerald did not understand it. He felt pain when he fell over or got into fights, of course. But, when the blood inevitably camefrom a cut knee or bashed nosehe enjoyed it. It smelled like rust and was sticky. He actively encouraged more by picking scabs before they were ready, watching the dark, viscous liquid form lines down his leg. He tasted it. Never did any injury pass him by without tasting the blood that flowed. Other kinds of pain were less enjoyable. Burns, for example, were not fun. He had been burned by his mother's iron when he was small, although he could not remember much about the incident. He was not even sure if she had burned him on purpose. He did not really care if she did. She was probably dead now. What he did care about were the blisters. The memory of those white mounds on his skin, full of pus, with a heat that never seemed to end. He could not help himself, though. Just like the scabs, he would pick at them until they popped, flattened, and the pus leaked out. Quickly, he learned that this was a very different sensation. First, the pus tasted awful, and picking the blisters did not ache like a scab. These hurt like a razor. The pain lasted too long, going on for days before he could use his hands properly again. No, no, no. Blisters were bad, and were not to be encouraged. He had what doctors called 'a phobia' of burning himself. Not of fire, per se, but the idea that he could get burned was a trigger for a severe over-reaction.