217 Babel Street | Apartment 19
Bzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Heston kneels and shoos the flies away.
Shoo. Fuck off. Shoo.
They buzz around the body, around the crusty brown blood on its face. They feed off the wet patch on the carpet where fluid has leaked.
Heston has been indoors for a week, since the day the person became a corpse.
Six days ago he measured the corpse and found that it was too big to go into the fridge, even if he cut its head off.
Four days ago he managed to haul it to the window and was going to tip it out but people were eating fish and chips below, so he didn't.
Two days ago he thought of dragging it down to the boiler room but then he thought how much worse the smell would be when the corpse got warm.
Last night he planned to pull it downstairs and roll it into the sea but the taxi driver was out there. Anyway, the body is just too heavy, and that little girl is always somewhere near, hanging around.
He could call the council. Hello, could you come and collect a human body from my flat? It's unhygienic and getting somewhat puffy. A murder, yes. Tuesday morning? Perfect.
Silly.
On the other days, he has slept. And it’s been a week and all he has eaten is cornflakes and Marmite and black bananas. And the body is still here. Will he have to die, here, with it? Is this revenge?
Shoo. Shoo.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.