Another part of the series, a gift from me to you… enjoy my friends and fans! Gx
Brian the maker
Part two of the blog series
Mrs Sebahat had called the police five days after he had just upped and left in his car. He had looked panicked and drove away ay great speed. He wasn’t carrying much in the way of luggage, a large holdall over his shoulder and what looked like a football under his arm.
She had a key to the flat, but didn’t want to go down there on her own, it hadn’t been the same since her husband had died.
It was the smell. It had started to come up through the floor several weeks ago, that paired with the weird sounds coming from Brian’s rooms, sawing sounds, machine sounds, sex sounds. She had no intention on walking in there without big, burly policemen in front of her.
The police car arrived around 4pm, and the officers took the keys from Mrs Sebahat. She explained about the smell and the sounds and how the tenant had fled in the night at high speed. They wrote down a statement and headed down the concrete front stairs to where Mr Brian Exeter lived.
The smell was heavy as the opened the door, the thick, sickly sweet scent of putrefaction., one of the officers throw his partner a knowing look. They entered with caution to be met with, what looked like at first glance quite a normal living room. TV, coffee table, bookshelves, X-box, stereo cabinet, sofa… ah the sofa. There was something amiss about the sofa. Something odd. It was covered with a large Indian throw over, decorated with a print of a multi-armed Asian goddess.
But the sofa underneath was odd. The officer nearest took a corner of the throw and whipped it back. The both stood agog in shock at what was underneath.
A mass if tangled limbs and metal rods, fashioned into the shape of a large two seater couch. Hands and feet planted firmly to the floor, rows of thighs as seat cushions, arms upright as back support. Thick wire stitching holding everything together. There where also two severed heads, eyes and mouths sealed with red wax and arranged like scatter cushions.
“Fuck, is this thing real Mark?”
“I’m calling this in, this is rough.” his radio crackled and beeped.
Its seemed like a matter of moments before the house was crawling with officers and bathed in bright flood lights intermixed with the flashes of blue light and radio pips. Officers buzzed around, tapping off this and sealing off that. Holding back the crowd of neighbours that had started to accumulate outside, a barrier of yellow tape keeping them at bay. The sound of an officer vomiting could be heard over the clamour of police work.
Men in blue chemical suits hauled out black, heavy bags to a waiting private ambulance. A skinny, pigeon like man in a white overall to cover his cheap, Primark bought suit jotted down notes and ID numbers from the bag tags on a clipboard, stopping every now and then to shake his pen or push up his glasses.
He tapped his pen on the top of the clipboard to the beat of some tune that floated around his head, his internal radio, the radio that always gets stuck on some cheesy 80’s station. “Don’t save a prayer for me now….” he mumbled under his breath in an off key.
Another black bag, this time the shape of a pyramid was presented to him. He glanced at the tag and jotted the number. “where was it?” he asked.
“Kitchen, was some kind of wine rack made of arms.” came the reply through a white dust mask from an officer in full, blue hooded attire.
“Wine eh? No doubt those bottles will make their way into the staff canteen down at the morgue, ha.” He raised an eyebrow to the man in the mask.
The officer lugged the bag back up to his chest, and trudged towards one of the privet ambulances. He threw it in the back with the several other that had been tossed in like mail bags. He took out a packet of fag’s from his pocket and made his way towards a makeshift buffet table that was really an old bit of wood and a few beer crates that had been knocked together by some of the WPC‘s, but there was coffee, that was good. He pulled the mask over his head and the hood of his dust suit with it to reveal the face of detective inspector Simon Jennings.
He poured a cup of lukewarm dark liquid in to a standard issue white mug and lit his cigarette. “So Mr Exeter, we like to make things out of young girls, do we,“ he said under his breath, exhaling a thick line of smoke into the air. “Hmmmmm…“ It was going to be a long night.