Garbage Man Read online

  Title Page

  Garbage Man

  Joseph D’Lacey

  Publisher Information

  First published in 2009 by Beautiful Books Limited

  This digital edition published in 2013 by

  Oak Tree Press

  www.oaktreepress.co.uk

  Copyright © 2009, 2013 Joseph D’Lacey

  The right of Joseph D’Lacey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Dedication

  For Iain 1968-2004

  Quote

  “The earth and myself are of one mind. The measure of the land and the measure of our bodies are the same...”

  Nez Percé chief Hinmaton Yalatkit (Chief Joseph) 1830-1904

  Acknowledgements

  With heartfelt thanks for the original edition to: Jonathan Wooding, who ensured my literary tie was straight and my grammatical flies were done up; to Colin Smythe for invaluable experience and advice; David Wendl-Berry for introducing me to the land; Simon Appleby, Mathew Riley and Lee Casey for Reanimating Horror; Bill Hussey for keeping it that way; Katherine Josselyn for weathering endless requests; Simon Petherick for being a gentlemen of the old school variety; Anthony Nott for ideas incorporated in this work; technician Rob Formby who knows what he’s talking about when it comes to landfill; and especially to Karaoke Pete for helping to restart the stalled project that eventually became this novel.

  More personally, very special thanks to the Independent Midwives Association - particularly Jane Buckler and Sue Kinross for guiding us through the birth of our child in the middle of all of this.

  For this new edition, I’m very grateful to all at Oak Tree Press, particularly Matt, Nick, Joe, Sara and Paul. Their combined efforts have reincarnated this novel and given it immense new energy. Thanks also to Michelle Finlay for being so sharp-eyed and pernickety about commas.

  Most importantly, I want to shout out loud the name of my agent, Brie Burkeman. None of the wonderful things that have happened since summer 2012 would have been possible without her. Whoever she’s working for isn’t paying her enough...

  Prologue

  The two figures stood, close enough to touch but not touching, in the midsummer moonlight.

  A man.

  A young woman.

  Around them the bounties of his garden slumbered on the ground or on their stalks or in their pods. Their surfaces shone luminous grey; their bulk cast blacker velveteen shadows on the already black earth. A tiny breeze, barely the breath of an infant, touched every leaf and stem, stirring them to sigh in their sleep.

  There was a dragging ache deep in Agatha’s abdomen.

  ‘Are you certain this is what you want?’ Mason asked. His words made puffs of mist, slow to dissipate. They were so quietly spoken she wasn’t even sure she’d heard them. The vapour from his lungs was the only clue. Yet another chilled English summer, she thought. Another thing she wanted to be free of.

  ‘Yes.’

  A cloud dampened the moon.

  The man watched her. Even by this insufficient silver light, she knew he could see her well enough. Not her face, not her eyes, but what she held behind them. She had to make it convincing. She, in turn, could see his eyes and not much else behind the bramble of his beard. His pupils were black pearls, lost in the deep, dark wells of his irises. She would never see into him, no matter how hard she looked, no matter how long.

  The cloud thickened. Her belly cramped. She hesitated. There was still time to change her mind. All she had to do was walk away. She needn’t even speak. If she turned and tiptoed back up the garden, along the side wall, out onto Bluebell Way and back to the house where her family slept, if she merely did that and said not another word to Mason Brand, he would know what it meant. He would understand. And they would never talk again.

  But she’d come this far, hadn’t she? Risked being caught outside late at night with a man old enough to have fathered her. A few more minutes and she’d have done it, given him what he wanted. In half an hour she could be snuggled into bed. There was no sense in leaving now, was there? It was so nearly complete. She almost had what she’d come for - his promise to give her what she needed most. And once he’d fulfilled his end of their agreement - sometime in the next few days - she would be free. Free of her family, free of the Meadowlands Estate, free of the dead-end town of Shreve and away into a decent future. A real future, not just some girl’s fantasy.

  Perhaps he saw all this and mistook it for commitment and conviction. For a man so awkward and hesitant by day, he was suddenly very direct.

  ‘Good. You have what I asked you for?’

  ‘Y . . . yes.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  She supposed she could have carried it here some other way but what would have been easier than the method she’d chosen? Besides, it would be fresher this way. He’d made it clear that was important.

  She turned and stepped away, far enough that he’d see her shape and movement perhaps, but nothing more than that. She unzipped and pulled down her jeans and used the fingers of her left hand to tug the gusset of her underwear towards her left thigh. It was a cold night and her skin roughened to the touch of the air. With her right hand she took hold of the soft tassel of cotton thread and gently drew the obstruction from herself. Her flow was heavy; the cotton wadding brought partially coagulated strings with it. They struck and clung to her bare thigh, black lightning against a sky of white skin.

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered. She held it out to him. ‘Here.’

  ‘I can’t touch it.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic.’

  ‘No. I must not touch the blood.’

  ‘I need to get myself sorted out.’

  She heard him take a few steps away and quickly return. He held out his palm to her. On it was a runner bean leaf. She dropped the tampon onto it. Steam rose from it like Mason’s breath, adhered to the platinum-edged shadows of his garden. When she’d cleaned herself up with a tissue as best she could and renewed her protection, she pulled up her jeans and went to stand with him. He returned her offering. It warmed her palm through the delicate leaf.

  ‘Over here,’ he said. He knelt on a patch of recently dug earth. When she didn’t follow suit, he took her wrist and pulled her down beside him. ‘Dig,’ he said, pointing to a place in the centre of the bare earth. ‘Right there.’

  Aggie looked around for something to use.

  ‘Have you got a trowel or something?’ He turned to her slowly.

  ‘Use your hands.’

  She placed the blood-burdened leaf to one side. Disgusted that she would get muck under her manicured nails or chip the varnish off, she fingered the grainy soil, brushing it out of the way. There was little progress.

  ‘If you’re not serious, there’s still time to forget all this. You must act willingly or not at all.’

  Aside from her blood and this midnight tryst, Agatha Smithfield didn’t intend to keep her side of the bargain. Not the commitments he wanted later - not a chance. No matter how much what he’d asked her to do in the future frightened her, no matter how much gravity he’d attached to her ‘responsibility’. She wou
ld go through with the actions he demanded right now, detached and cool. And that was all. She would give nothing more of herself after this. When she possessed what he promised her - just a few hours of his expertise - she would be long gone and he would never find her.

  ‘I am willing,’ she lied.

  ‘Then dig the earth like you mean it, girl. Like you love it.’

  Her anger flared unexpectedly, fuelled by her passion to escape Shreve.

  I’ll show you some fucking digging.

  She heaved at the earth, scooping up double handfuls of Mason’s loose, fertile soil and dumping them to one side. If he was impressed by her endeavour he didn’t show it. He merely knelt there, nodding solemnly. Her fingers struck something smooth and yielding in the dirt. She brushed away some granules and recognised pieces of an image she’d seen before. Just like the one she’d seen on the wall of his stairs.

  ‘Hey . . . Isn’t that the pho -’

  ‘Put your blood into the earth.’

  ‘I was only as -’

  ‘Do it now.’

  I’m not going to miss you at all, Mr. Mason Brand. I’ll take what I need from you and you’ll get nothing in return. When I get out of this town, I’m never going to think about you again.

  She dumped the leaf and tampon into the hole. The blood-logged cotton stuck to the matt photographic paper with a damp thud. She tried to cover it all over but he stopped her.

  ‘One last thing,’ he whispered.

  He was holding out an index card. There was writing on it. Right in that moment the moon pulled free of the clouds, illuminating them and their midnight labours in mercurial brightness. Years later, she would often think of that moment, how the moon had showed her the words, conspired to make them clear and give her one last chance not to go through with it. Of course, in the actual moment that it happened, she merely cursed the moon for assisting Mason in his madness. She was suddenly more than able to see what he’d written:

  I, Agatha Smithfield,

  - thank God he doesn’t know my middle name -

  give my word that I will study the ways of the Earth from Mason Brand. In time, I too will find a student and pass the knowledge to them.

  Signed,

  The index card awaited her touch.

  ‘In blood, I suppose?’ she asked. He passed her a pen.

  ‘Biro’s fine. Make your mark.’

  She hesitated again when the tip of the pen touched the card, and almost as quickly dismissed her foolishness. All of this was bullshit. Mason was full of lies and neuroses. The

  Earth was not alive and the moon was not their witness. There was no creator to keep a tally of deals done, deals broken. When she had what she wanted, she’d be free.

  She had one final point to make. Might as well pretend to be part of his delusion.

  ‘There’s no time limit.’ She said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what happens if you die?’

  ‘I’m not going to die for a long time. But whatever happens, you must fulfil your promise before that day comes.’

  ‘What if you . . . you know . . . have an accident or something?’

  He reached into his trouser pocket.

  ‘I’ve already thought of that. This is the key to my back door. If I drop dead or get hit by a bus, go up to the cupboard in the spare bedroom. In there you’ll find a small pine chest about the size of picnic basket. In it are my papers. They’ll tell you eighty percent of what you need to know. The rest you’ll have to learn without me.’

  He handed her the key, still warm from his thigh. She slipped it into her jeans pocket. Before she could give the whole stupid issue any more thought, she signed the index card.

  ‘Put it in the ground,’ he said. ‘Bury everything.’

  ‘Can’t you get your hands dirty for a change?’

  ‘It has to be you who touches the Earth.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Testily, she pushed all the excavated dirt back into the small hole and patted it down. She brushed her hands off against each other and began to stand. Once again, Mason pulled her to the dirt. He held her there while he whispered among the cool silver shadows.

  ‘Great Mother, we thank you for your gifts and comforts.

  Daily we serve and respect your ways. Witness our offerings and oaths to you this night. May we fulfil them honourably. Blessed be.’

  When he let go of her hand she ran from his garden, not caring how much noise she made, not caring who might see a schoolgirl running home through the streets of the Meadowlands estate long after midnight.

  Part I

  ‘The Earth can heal you . . .’

  Statement taken from Mason Brand’s journal, dated 27th April, 2001

  1

  Tamsin Doherty took a taxi back from the clinic knowing Kevin wouldn’t be around when she arrived home. She’d memorised the advice leaflet so there was no need to hide anything when she got through their front door.

  Expect slight bleeding to lessen over the next few days. Cramping was normal - painkillers had been provided and she’d already chewed two of them down. Anything out of the ordinary (what the fuck was ordinary about this?) and she should contact her GP. Emotional fluctuations could occur. That she could handle. If there was one thing she was glad about, it was her almost sociopathic self-control. No one - no one - would have any idea what she’d done. Especially not Kevin. Even though all this was his fault, she would never say a word about it. Not even on her deathbed. And if it happened again she’d do exactly the same thing. Oh, she’d find ways to hurt him, of course. Kevin Doherty was not a man, he was a representation of a man. She cared about her two Staffies more than she cared about him. And, whether he was aware of it or not, she would humiliate him, belittle him behind his back at every turn.

  Marriage was like everything else in the World. It revolved around money and power. Kevin had the money, she had the power and ever more it would remain. There was an adjunct to that. Whoever was the best keeper of secrets had the most power.

  Christ, I’m a bitch. A hard-faced taker.

  No, not a taker, Tam. A winner. Life is short, beauty doesn’t last. Take what you can get while you can get it. Make the most of every moment. Smell the fucking roses.

  Who was that talking? Her mother? Probably, God rest her. She was a woman who’d had everything a man could provide. She’d lived like a queen to the end of her days. Tamsin planned to do the same.

  Smell the roses? Oh, she smelled them alright. Nothing was sweeter.

  The taxi’s motion made her nauseous. The drugs still in her system, she assumed.

  ‘Slow down, would you? It’s not a fucking track day.’

  The driver glanced in his rear-view. She saw his eyes assess for talent first, danger second. If only he knew. The ride got smoother and she relaxed a little. Once she was through the door of her house all this would be behind her. Life, her blissful suburban wet-dream, would continue. She smiled. Satisfaction. Anticipation.

  The smile fell away, though. She had questions. She could fend them off and distract herself eternally but she knew the questions would never leave her alone.

  What would they do with it? Experiments? It was such a tiny thing - more like a rat or a mouse than a human. Would they burn it? Perhaps it would be buried. She imagined there was a job in the hospital for some minimum-waged minion who did nothing but burials. Judging by the number of women in the recovery room, both too young-looking and too old-looking, her fantasy interment worker would be kept very busy.

  Yes, burial.

  That was what happened. It was the proper thing, after all. Bury it. Let it rot. Let it be forgotten forever in the earth.

  Her smile returned and she slumbered slightly, still drugged and comfortable. Her dreams were snippets of manipula
ted chaos and well-planned destruction. So much to look forward to.

  ***

  Richard Smithfield sat in front of his computer and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. Moments later the slick had returned. The computer’s drive whirred and ticked. His wireless router whined at the edge of his hearing. An LED flickered, suggestive of the high-speed transfer of information. The fan kicked in to cool the circuitry.

  Pam and the children were asleep and the house was quiet. It was three am. His study door was locked from the inside. But still. He was always like this. Heart rate elevated. An untrustworthy sensation in his guts. Breath caught at the top of his lungs.

  He swallowed loudly. The download continued. This was the last one. He swore it to himself.

  When the download was complete his media program opened the new file automatically. He turned the volume down to the lowest possible level, expanded the footage to full screen. He watched, an audience of one, the rush of blood inside his head louder than the grunts of satisfaction and the cries of denial and pleas for cessation. He didn’t understand the language but he didn’t need to. The tears were real. The contact was real. No make-up, no CGI. No actors.

  He could not take his gaze from the salacious thievery in front of him. Didn’t want to blink when the surface of his eyeballs dried and demanded it. He was there with them; hurting, taking. And soon enough he used his own hand to give himself the release he so terribly wanted to experience, not in fantasy, not on the screen, but in real life.

  Richard Smithfield couldn’t drive past a playground or school without giving them a sidelong glance. Sports days and matches had always been the most exciting and most testing times for him. Pam thought he was a proud father, watching Agatha swim and Donald play soccer but he was only ever on the lookout for that one opportunity; the one he most wanted but would never, ever take. Like a lion assessing a herd, he was waiting for an unusual animal to separate from the others and make itself known to him. It was a game, of course, and games needed more than one player. He watched for the ones who recognised themselves in him without even knowing that was what they saw.