Stories From The Edge

By James Sherwood

A collection of thirteen short stories and a novella.

A woman flees her abusive husband to start a new life.

A veteran detective hunts a phantom serial killer.

A young man on death row revisits his life.

Two detectives investigate the abduction and mutilation of a food critic.

A man impersonates a dead body at a funeral.

 

In the novella, William Bunsen enters hospital for a routine operation and wakes to find his life changed forever.

 

These stories explore the deark side of humanity, often with a humorous or macabre twist.

 

82000 words.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Sherwood
• Release date: Jun 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393511847

James Sherwood

James Sherwood lives and works in Adelaide, Australia

Book preview

Angela

The phone rang twice and stopped.

Angela put down her book, got up and walked to where her mobile phone lay on the kitchen table. Unknown caller the screen displayed.  She frowned and bit her lip. The third such call that day. On each occasion the call had disconnected before she had time to answer. Angela went to sit again, hesitated and moved to check the door and window locks instead. She set the curtains to make sure the inside of her small flat couldn’t be seen from the outside. Pop music came softly through the wall, from the flat next door. It was a comfort to know that the neighbours were close.

She put water in the kettle and switched it on, going over in her mind a list of who had her mobile phone number. She had been in her new job only a few weeks. She had been careful, or at least, she thought she had. The phone dated only from when she had returned to Adelaide to reclaim her life. Of course, one of her new circle could have given her number away, but she couldn’t think why. She wouldn’t give another’s number to anyone without checking it was okay first. She would ask the others at work tomorrow, trying to appear unworried. It was probably nothing. Someone kept dialling a wrong number, that was all. She poured the boiled water into a cup and added a teabag. It was unsettling, though. Not the sort of worry she wanted weighing on her mind. She had, after all, only six months ago, killed her husband.

THE seagulls had saved Angela's life all those months ago.

The birds had gathered around her, flapping down to the sand from the sky, eyeing her and hopping closer, hopeful for some morsel. She sat alone on the beach, down from the house where Warren would be pacing and brooding following their furious argument. Her anger was subsiding; the beach had a calming effect on her. She sighed, knowing how the evening would go. Warren would follow her to the beach, apologise in a hollow, plaintive voice and make the usual empty promises to treat her better. He would cajole her to come back to the house, open a bottle of wine and make elaborate plans for their future while she cooked dinner. Later, there would be cold love-making that would leave her feeling alone, and he would sleep and snore as she lay awake.

She would ask herself how she, a grown woman in her forties, came to be in this situation, hundreds of kilometres from the city, with a man she no longer loved - no, with a man who wasn't the person she fell in love with. She thought of the charming man who had changed her flat tyre and then courted her, all those months ago, then married her and persuaded her to leave her office job in Adelaide and move to a remote beach. Not charming, after all, just controlling. The over-attentive, chivalrous carry-on had been a front. Not so much a wolf in sheep's clothing as a python, squeezing the life, and the love of life, out of her. Not completely, though. Lately, as she lay awake at night, she had been making plans and during the day she had been, like a magpie, collecting things she would need to live on and hiding them in her underwear drawer, where Warren never looked. She had found out, during a drunken argument, where he had hidden her driving licence and birth certificate. She picked up change he left lying around, the odd note from his wallet while he was asleep or in a drunken stupor. She bided her time.

The seagulls fluttered and she heard the irregular fall of Warren's footsteps in the sand. Her gaze lingered on the waves, the sea beyond and the reddening horizon, as she waited for him to speak. He stopped behind her, kicking little sprays of sand against her back as he approached. She could hear his heavy asthmatic breathing. There was silence, as if he was watching her. This was odd, and she felt a tremor of anxiety. Then his voice came, not cajoling but thick and ugly.

Goodbye, Angela, followed by a sharp metallic click.

This wasn't the way it usually went and a warning intuition sent a pang of alarm up her spine. She twisted to look up at him. Her sudden movement startled the seagulls and one flapped into the air, toward Warren's head. He threw up his right arm and turned his face away from it. As he did so, there was an ear-splitting bang. Angela sprang to her feet and looked with horror at the gun in Warren's right hand.

Bloody shit birds, he said and turned his gaze back on her. She saw the same hatred that etched his face on the occasions he hit her. He was bringing the gun level again, the muzzle pointed at her. She knew he intended to kill her. He must have seen this in her eyes and he paused and laughed, enjoying the moment. There was nowhere on the open beach to hide. The house was fifty metres away. Almost without thinking, she squatted, grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at his face. He cried out as sand went into his eyes and he clapped both hands to his face, still holding the gun.

Bitch, he said.

In desperation, she threw herself onto him, reaching for the gun with both hands, intending to turn it away from herself and twist it from his grasp. He was stronger than her and he tried to push her away, swinging his arm out as he shook his head and wiped at his eyes with his left hand. Angela had his right hand, which still gripped the gun, between both of hers and she jumped, putting all her weight onto him. With his eyes closed, he lost his balance and they both fell to the sand. He squirmed, attempting to roll onto her and he pulled his arm down, bringing the gun into contact with his chest. They struggled, Angela pulling at the gun to get it out of his grip, when another crash deafened her and he slumped down onto her and lay still.

She panted, waiting to see if he would move but nothing came. His face was in her left neck and she felt no breath against her skin. She pushed the gun and his right hand away from her and looked down. The left side of his shirt was wet and red. She gave a cry of horror, rolled out from under him and stood up. His blood was on her T-shirt. He lay in an unnatural pose, like he often did when he was unconscious from drink, but she knew this time he was dead. She felt faint and slumped to her knees putting her head down on the sand.

Oh my God, she said. A wave of nausea passed over her and she thought she might vomit. The sand was gritty under her forehead. Her heart beat against her chest and she fought to keep her breathing steady. When she was able, she sat up. Warren lay still, sprawled, like a puppet released from its strings. She put her head back, face pointing to the sky and let out a cry of anger and frustration. Tears erupted from her eyes and she grabbed handfuls of sand and threw them at Warren's body. The seagulls had regathered and they scattered in alarm. Her mind raced. What should she do? Her immediate instinct was to run to the house and call for help. But what then? How would she explain this? Would anyone accept her version of what had happened? Would the police? It would be her word against a dead body with a bullet wound and a gun possibly bearing her fingerprints. She groaned, thinking of what could be ahead of her. A police investigation. The media publicity. Perhaps a trial. She could end up in prison. Even in death, Warren could ruin her life. More, even, than when he was alive.  In a rage, she grabbed more handfuls of sand and squeezed them through her fingers. She shook her head, steadied herself and took a deep breath.

No, she said aloud. Damn you, no.

She stood and brushed the sand from her hands. Warren was gone and with him her marriage. She bit her lower lip. She was free. As she stood there, the path ahead, her plan of what to do next crystallised in her mind. She had no intention of calling the police. The beach, as usual, was deserted. No one came here, which Warren had liked. There were the Franks, a kilometre away, but even if they heard the shots, they wouldn't come to investigate. Warren often went shooting rabbits in the neighbouring countryside. It was one reason they kept their distance. The gun lay in the sand next to Warren. She bent and picked it up. She found it repulsive, even more than Warren's dead body. She walked to the edge of the water and tossed the gun, overarm, as hard as she could and watched it follow an arc high into the sky and fall into the water with a splash. She wiped her hands on her shorts.

She walked back up the beach and looked down at the body - she had ceased thinking of him now, only it - and saw two years of being ground down, of having her life stolen. Well, she wanted it back and if that meant becoming a criminal in the eyes of the law, so be it. Fate had presented her with an opportunity and she wasn't going to let it pass. Besides, she would only be a criminal if she was discovered. In her own mind, she had done nothing wrong.

She was thinking quite forensically now, which, when she reflected back later, surprised her. She knelt next to the body and went through the shirt and jeans. There were keys, which would open his filing cabinet where he kept money and other documents. She pocketed them. The body was lying with the head toward the house. She took hold of both arms at the wrists and pulled. It shifted a little. This was going to be hard work, she realised, but there was nothing else to do.

As the sun slipped behind the low hills to her left, and the light shifted into dusk, she took a deep breath and pulled the body, inch by inch, up the beach, her feet digging into the sand. When she reached the harder ground, it became a little easier. She stopped twice, thinking she heard a car approaching on the road and looked, her heart thumping, but it was only the echoing surf. Then she was on the wooden boards that lead to the veranda and finally, the concrete floor of the veranda itself. She stopped and sat in a deck chair, panting. Her muscles ached from the unaccustomed effort. The light was failing now and she would have to wait until morning to complete the task of disposing of the body. Then she had an idea. She hurried to the shed nearest the house, where she knew Warren kept his camping gear and found his rolled up swag. She lugged it back to the veranda, opened it out, rolled the body into it and zipped it up again. There, she thought, that would keep the body out of sight for now. Before going inside the house, she took off her blood stained T-shirt and her bra and shoved them into the swag.

It was dark now and she checked that all the doors and windows were locked before putting on lights. She went into the main bedroom, stripped off her remaining clothes, examining them for blood before dropping them into the laundry basket and showered. She sighed as the hot water ran over her. She washed thoroughly, then dressed in track pants and wind-cheater, which Warren always disliked, saying they made her look dumpy. The face that looked back at her in the mirror as she brushed her short brown hair was tense and her eyes were red. She doubted she would sleep much that night. In the meantime, she would force herself to have some food.

While she ate, she worked in her mind at what she would do. In the morning she would bury the body - she may as well leave it inside the swag - and she knew this would likely be difficult for her to accomplish, but it had to be done. If she pushed it into the surf, even with weights attached, it might resurface sometime in the future. Warren had a small metal dinghy and a boat but she doubted she could handle them and the body together, on her own. There was a furnace, which Warren used to burn rubbish, but it wasn't big enough. No, burial was the only practical way. She would attempt to use the digging machine she had seen Warren using.

She suddenly felt very tired and looked up to see the clock on the wall showing it was 8PM. She stretched her back, sore from dragging the body up from the beach. Well, she would be a lot sorer tomorrow. She bent and held her head in her hands, daunted by what was ahead. She was alone. The nearest other house was a kilometre away. Could she cope with this? Shouldn’t she have called the police? Was it too late? She could say she had tried to revive Warren. In a moment she dismissed this thought. They wouldn’t believe her. No, this was the only way.

And Warren? Would he be missed? She remembered him talking about some cousins in country NSW, but no one ever called or came to visit. He had no friends to speak of, and socialised, as far as she knew, only with men he drank with at the pub. She decided to say, if anyone asked, that they had had an unhappy marriage, he had abused her and this had culminated in a row after which she had packed some things and left him. She would say she had no idea what happened to him after that.

She sat up. She needed to try to sleep, or at least, rest. Tomorrow would be a long day. She checked again that all the doors and windows were locked, went into the main bedroom and undressed, propped a chair under the door handle for good measure, climbed into bed and switched off the light. 

THE months had passed with much hard work and effort, leaving Angela feeling years older. Is this what it’s like to be a criminal? she would think. What she had done on the beach, aeons ago, it seemed, wouldn’t leave her mind. Would it ever?

Angela arrived at work, a real estate business, early. It was her third job since coming back to the city, and although it involved routine office duties, it was reasonably well paid and similar to the work she had done before meeting Warren. Better than stacking supermarket shelves, as she had done previously, while sleeping in a hostel bed. Her small rental flat was heaven compared to that. And the agent had put her onto this job.

Gladys, the receptionist, was already there. She stood, arms on her ample hips, a frown on her face.

We’ve had a break-in, said Gladys. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the alcove where the filing cabinets were kept. Angela looked. Drawers had been forced open and papers lay strewn on the floor.

Didn’t the alarm go off? she said.

It did. Stopped them doing more damage, at least. Alex was phoned by the security company at 3AM Sunday. The police were here most of the morning yesterday and are coming back today. I haven’t touched anything yet.

Angela saw that one of the drawers prised open was the one in which her own rental paperwork was stored. A coincidence, she said to herself. Surely this is just a coincidence, like the phone calls. Still, she felt shaken as she stepped over the mess and went to her desk out the back. The senior agent, Alex, looked up as she passed his office. She put her handbag on her desk and took off her coat. She ran her hand through her hair. The police would probably want to speak to all of them. She must compose herself. The Law would be coming uncomfortably close.

Gladys had proved to be a great source of support since starting work at the office. A large woman with a loud laugh, Angela had at first found her a little overbearing, but now appreciated the interest Gladys took in her. They caught up on weekends and Angela had been invited to Gladys’ house for dinner. They talked about the break-in and by the time it was Angela’s turn to be interviewed, she knew what she would say. She must, she thought, tell Gladys about the strange phone calls.

THE day after Warren’s death, Angela awoke well after sunrise. Daylight edged the window curtains and the boom of the surf was the only sound. She rolled onto her back, sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked at the empty bed beside her and remembered what had happened the previous day. She sat up, suddenly overcome by conflicting emotions. She was complicit in the death of her husband and was in the midst of concealing it. At the same time, her old life beckoned. Warren had basically killed himself, in the process of attempting to kill her. She shook her head. She was in the right here. The sun streamed into the room as she opened the curtains. She had a lot to do and there was always the possibility of someone dropping in. Unlikely, but not impossible. A salesman or tradesman Warren had organised to meet, perhaps. She decided to shower later and opened Warren's clothes cupboard. She found a pair of overalls, which she swam in, but a belt around the waist held it all in. Two pairs of work socks made his boots fit reasonably. She looked to see that the swag and its contents were still on the veranda - where else would they be - and then she made herself some breakfast.

It was a fine morning, with a clear blue sky and the sun was warm as she walked around the house and the sheds, of which there were three. The closest housed Warren's four door Ute and his motorbike and boat. In the second was a workshop with tools of various kinds and storage for his camping gear and in the third was his petrol driven machinery, including a space for the digging machine. She found this outside, at the back of the third shed, not visible from the house. As she walked toward it, she stopped and gasped. The digger stood at the head of a rectangular opening dug into the ground, six feet long and at least four deep. Angela approached the edge and looked down, stunned. She knew then that Warren had definitely planned to kill her. It was no act of impulse. This was to be her resting place. The shock was replaced by anger. Well, the tables would be turned on him. How thoughtful of the man, to dig his own grave. If she had any compunction about what she was doing, it was now gone.

She donned a pair of Warren’s work gloves, found a wheelbarrow and managed with some effort to put the swag with its contents onto it. The body was stiff now, like a plank of wood, which made it easier to handle. She pushed the wheelbarrow, taking a circuitous route to avoid ditches that she might get stuck in and made her way to the waiting grave where she toppled the cargo off onto the ground and pulled it to the edge of the grave. She remembered the T-shirt and bra, unzipped the swag and retrieved them. Warren’s face was the colour of clay and one eye was open. She shuddered and zipped up the swag, then rolled it sideways into the grave. The swag and body landed with a thump. Warren had calculated the length of the grave for her and he didn't quite fit, with head higher than his feet, but no matter.

She examined the digging machine. There was an ignition slot but no key. Warren's heavy key chain was in the pocket of her overalls and she pulled it out and tried the keys until one slid in and turned. The digger was at one end of the hole, with a mound of dirt next to it. Surely, she thought, she could work out how to operate it. Otherwise, it would be a long process with a shovel. She climbed into the seat and started the engine. There were control knobs with rudimentary instructions, some of which had worn off, but with trial and error she worked out how to control the arm with its bucket at the end. She nearly fell off the seat as the bucket jerked under her control and at one point it slammed into the side of the shed, leaving a dent in the iron wall. Angela smiled. What would Warren think of such damage to one of his beloved sheds? She continued and a lot of the dirt ended up where she didn't intend it to be, but soon the swag was covered. With satisfaction she kept going, getting better at controlling the machine, piling more dirt on top, until it was level with the surrounding ground. A bit more for good measure and then she shut off the machine.

She climbed down. The mound looked like a grave, but then, that was because she knew it was one. Nonetheless, she got a rake from the shed and levelled it out, then disguised the site by dragging two corrugated metal sheets that lay nearby onto it. She was careful how she lifted them. On one of her evening walks around the property a while ago, she had seen a snake in the undergrowth.

She sat down on the ground, tired out but relieved. Now if anyone did arrive unannounced, she could say Warren had gone off somewhere. She got up, went inside the house and had a drink of water, then walked to the beach with her T-shirt and bra in a plastic bag, weighted with a paving brick from the veranda. She tossed them into the water. The tracks in the sand where she had dragged the body were still visible and she used her feet to obliterate them. On the way back to the house, she saw bloodstains on the wood of the boardwalk. She fetched a bucket of water, bleach and a scrubbing brush and washed out the blood from the wood. Faint marks remained, but they could be anything. Satisfied, she tossed the brush into the surf, returned to the house and stripped off the overalls, throwing them onto the laundry floor. That was all Warren ever did with his dirty clothes, she thought bitterly.

Angela sat in the kitchen, drinking a coffee. It was a ten-kilometre walk to the town, which would take at least two hours. The bus to Adelaide came from Ceduna at 10 AM, so she would have to stay at the hotel overnight.  She ate something from the fridge and showered and dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt. She took the cash she had accumulated in her underwear drawer along with more from Warren’s cash box, and got a small suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe in her bedroom. She stopped to think, picturing herself having a row with Warren and walking out on him. What would she take? Toiletries, a few clothes but not too much, to save weight. She opened Warren's filing cabinet with his keys and found her driving licence and birth certificate and put them in her shoulder bag, along with her best pair of flat shoes. She looked at the marriage certificate and decided to leave it.

About to shut the drawer, she stopped. Warren had always been coy with her about his source of income. He had hinted at a redundancy payout from a Government job but she could never pin him down on that. She searched through the other papers, about bank accounts and share-holdings, things he had assiduously kept from her view. She frowned. No sign of ATM or internet passwords. A wife might be reasonably