Ugly Puggly 31

Jeff put the suitcase he was holding on the table. He edged forward and tapped at Harry’s leg with the toe of his shoe. ‘Fuck sake,’ he said, ‘he’ll kill me if he’s no already deid.’

‘I’ll think you’ll be quite safe then,’ said Ugly Puggly.

‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘This cannae be happenin. We’ll need tae get an ambulance.’

 Ugly Puggly glanced at the blood on the floor coming from the back of Harry's skull. ‘We could take him to hospital. Roll him oot and say we found him wanderin in the street. We thought he was drunk and brought him in.’

‘That’s a fuckin stupid idea,’ Jeff replied. ‘Any fuckin half-wit would see through that in a minute. And I’m tellin yeh,’ he stabbed at Harry with the toes of his boot again. ‘He’s a cunt, but the guy behind him is a bigger cunt. And the guy behind him makes that pair look like a pair of Scout daeing bob-a-job and running away sniggering wae the money to prove their criminal credentials.’

‘I know it was a stupid idea, but it wisnae my idea.’ Ugly Puggly nodded in my direction.

‘I didnae say that.’

‘Aye, yeh did. You said get an ambulance, which is the same thing, but just gets us into the shit storm quicker. You need to start thinking like a crazy person.’

‘Like you?’

‘Well, I huv got an alibi. I um crazy. There’s probably some psychiatrist already writing a report about how the murder of a corrupt cop was an infringement of my mental health. And I’d need to be locked up in Broadmoor forever, although by the time I get there it’ll be closed. And to cut costs they’ll begin shackling patients to beds again and call it a rest-cure. I’ll probably be oot in twenty year, but you’ll get about ten years as an accessory. And they’ll add another five years onto the sentence because he was the police—and they’ll make him seem like Mother Teresa.’

‘My life’ll be finished,’ wailed Dave, slumping down in the bench and holding his head in his hands.

‘Don’t talk pish,’ I said. ‘You’ll be inside wae hunners of sex starved young guys sleeping head-tae-toe, makin their own hooch and daeing drugs every night. You’ll no even need to use yer phone, they’ll be bangin on yer door. It’ll be like goin tae live in Butlins, but wae better food. But whit about me? I fuckin hate Butlins.’

‘Hi,’ cried Jeff, crouching over Harry. ‘I think he moved—we might need tae finish him aff.’

I waved a hand, ‘I’m no daeing it.’

Dave bit down, his lips a tight line. He glanced at Ugly Puggly. I nudged the chopping board towards him. The chopping board was living up to its name.

Jeff shuffled out of the way. Ugly Puggly did one of those Star Trek moves where Spock puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder and nips it. And the guy crumpled to the ground. He stood up and we waited to hear what he was going to say. ‘He’s deid.’

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘But whit did you dae there? He wisnae deid a minute ago.’  

‘Aye, he was. Whit you think I done?’

Jeff cut in. ‘Nah, I seen him move.’

‘You know whit that is?’ Ugly Puggly asked. ‘Shock. That’s good. We’re thinking like crazies noo. We’re on the right track. A million species of plant and animal life will die in the near future, but all that concerns us is the life of one corrupt cop and how our future has suddenly turned to dust. We’ve never been more grounded and livin in the here-and-noo. I’ll make us some herbal tea.’

‘Whit the fuck’s he talkin about?’ asked Jeff. ‘We need tae have some kinda alibi and get rid of the body.’

‘Och, jist leave him, he’ll get back to normal in a minute.’

‘Shock does strange things,’ said Ugly Puggly. ‘At the beginning of the nineteenth century, a 64-year-old woman named Joanna Southcott claimed to be pregnant with the baby Jesus. She gave birth right on cue, on 25th December 1814. She died that day. An autopsy reviled nae pregnancy and nae Jesus.’

‘Maybe it’ll take him a bit longer to get back tae normal,’ I said. ‘Or maybe Jesus is still oot there wae Spock.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ cried Jeff, grabbing the suitcase. ‘Your aw as fuckin crazy as each other. I’ll take my chances elsewhere. I’m oot of here.’

‘Maybe we could bury the body under the patio,’ Dave said in a small voice.

‘Brookside,’ Jeff nodded in recognition. He smiled like an estate agent, rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath and put the case back on the table. ‘I thought you were too young for that. The body under the patio. And that lesbian kiss!’

‘I watched the box set my phone. It was really good.’  

‘It was aw shite,’ but I conceded, ‘Apart fae that lesbian kiss’.

‘Thanks,’ Dave smiled. ‘We’re all gay lovers really.’

‘No, we’re no,’ I reminded him. ‘No in the real world. Everybody hates yeh, even yer ain Ma.’

‘It could work,’ Ugly Puggly stepped over the body and pulled a box of Camomile and Green teabags out of the cupboard. He put the kettle on. ‘But I think it would be better if we used decking. I could tuck the body in near the wall. Cover it oer wae rubble. Decking’s normal. It’s like they trampolines. Everybody’s got tae have one rustin in their garden. And I could put some nice lilies in there. White, pinks and yellow hybrids. It’s a bright spot at the back, full sun most days. And of course there’d be a nice wee touch of lilies being the flowers of the dead. Masking the smell. But when they’re in full bloom it’d be sacrilege the tinges of colour on the petal edges. That’d be like defacing an Old Master.’

‘Old Bastard, mer like,’ I thought Jeff was going to stick the boot in again. ‘But will people know wonder whit yer daeing?’

‘Fuck no,’ I said. ‘That guy made a windmill oot of shite that was lying about. A piece of decking wae ramparts would be nae surprise tae anybody.’

‘But didn’t they get caught in Brookside?’ Dave asked.

‘Whit about the cash?’ I said what was on my mind too.