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NOVELS
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Reclamation
Chapter 4
Dean gazed down at the soil, wondering if - as his dream last night had predicted -
it could possibly be the place he had buried the person he'd supposedly killed.
But the ground didn't look like it had been disturbed. At least not recently.
It looked more like clay right now, hard and tightly packed, flat and smooth.
Which was exactly how he had expected it to look really as he knew it hadn't been
touched with a spade for months. Or at least not by himself.
He hadn't needed to venture far either; the dream had revealed that he had
buried the body in the narrow soil bed that ran along one side of his house. Not
some dark, sheltered woods nor lonely field miles away from base, where the task
of disposing of a body was perhaps a more likely choice for a murderer trying to
cover his awful crime, but here, right on his own doorstep. Literally.
A detached dormer bungalow, the dwelling was surrounded on all four sides
by either earth, grass or flora (and a fair compliment of weeds), but it was to this
area in particular - an unkempt, long gone to rot flower bed - that the guilty finger
in the dream the night before had pointed.
He had witnessed the event from a mixture of viewpoints as was common in
the surreal world of dreams: one second he was looking down with his own eyes in
first person viewpoint as he had shovelled the soil back from the mound that he had
piled up at the side of the grave (he had seen nothing more than what appeared to be
a few strands of hair before the next shovelful had covered it) ; the next instant he
was watching from an invisible third party's eyes, sometimes from in front, just a
few feet away, then from further away, then from the side, the back, overhead - in
close, then faraway, like a briskly edited 'jump-cut' film sequence. Most disturbing
of all though, had been the viewpoint from the grave itself: he had looked up at
himself - at his sweaty, ruddy face - flushed due to the physical exertion of the dig
and the adrenalin coursing through his veins. He had seen a mixture of fear and
determination in those wide eyes as he'd watched himself shovelling soil
frantically. The last thing he had noticed, before the final shovelful of earth was
cast, was a large droplet of sweat form on the end of his nose... and then drip off -
falling towards this low viewpoint, hitting and splashing, blurring the scene...
before mingling itself with the soil.
And that's where Dean stood now, looking down at the earth at his feet, as if
expecting the dirt itself to give him an answer - confess to what it concealed a few
feet beneath. To what he, Dean Holt, had buried there, once upon a time. But when
exactly? And just who had he killed and perhaps even more importantly why?
Of course, again, the rational part of his mind told him that he was being
absolutely ridiculous. He had neither killed nor buried anyone. He was either
starting to confuse his dreams, for whatever reason, with reality - the lines between
the sleeping and waking hours becoming increasingly blurred and interlaced for
some reason, or - and the second possibility was perhaps even more disturbing - he
was losing his mind. Pure and simple. An unpleasant thought but nonetheless a
perfectly acceptable answer to why he was becoming increasingly convinced that he
had killed someone.
'Hiya.'
Dean almost jumped as the nearby voice yanked him from his tumbling
troubled thoughts.
He looked up to see a smiling face peering over at him from only a few feet
away. It was quite a pretty face and the broad smile, revealing white teeth, was
obviously a sincere friendly one. Yet despite the fact that this was the face of his
next door neighbour, she was only somewhat familiar. Although the young woman
had been living next door for more than a couple of years now, Dean had hardly
ever seen her at all; testimony to today's more insular lifestyles, where neighbours
hardly ever clapped eyes on one another for days, weeks - months, or even years on
end. A far cry from the days when a daily chatter and gossip over the garden fence
or over a cuppa at the kitchen table were commonplace. It was pretty obvious why
things had changed: more people - and more women in particular - were out
working dawn to dusk. Quite simply: not as many housewives and therefore lots
more empty houses during the daylight hours.
For a moment Dean felt guilt sweep over him and consume him - felt 'caught
in the act', but then his rational (sane?) mind quickly reassured himself that he had
absolutely nothing to feel guilty of.
'Gardening. Don't you just love it?' she said, jerking her head back and rolling
her eyes to exaggerrate the fact that she meant the exact opposite.
'I'm Sorry?'
'Or are you one of those green-fingered types who just love doing it?'
Dean suddenly realised what she was talking about. She couldn't have said it
in any clearer English of course, but he had been so far away in his thoughts that his
brain had delayed processing the words.
Oh,' he smiled. 'No. I'm wondering where the hell to start. Or whether I can
even be bothered making a start.' He nodded down to the soil bed. 'Ground's like
concrete; I'd probably break the spade... not to mention my back.'
She laughed.
Lonely housewife, Dean thought to himself, and almost smiled......
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