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How to dispose of Mitchell.


I weigh up the possibilities and come to a decision.   I stand up, stretch, shut the door behind me, and go take a nap.

When darkness comes, things seem to have quietened down a bit next door.   Comparatively, mind you.

Anyway – time to get going.

The kid flails and flops about again as he hears me approach (ears being the only sense organ currently unhampered by Py’s neat lengths of black tape).   I haul him to his feet, pull up the hood of his jacket around his face, and half-drag him, half-carry him downstairs.   Out the backdoor (I always keep the yard overgrown for easy entrances and exits at the best of times), down to the hole in the fence (I kick out an extra board to push him through).  

Those fairly flawed human survival instincts kick back in about now, and Mitchell scrabbles about on his knees for a minute in a blind and dumb escape attempt.   For fuck’s sake, kid.   Hoist him up, hand at the scruff of his neck now, and gripping one scrawny arm.   Say low in his ear, from behind his right shoulder: “Walk”.   And he hears the menace and walks.

Fast and fucking quiet.   Down the side of someone’s yard under cover of trees, turn left into the back alley, cut through the dumpsters behind the convenience store, one lit but deserted road to cross, through the kindergarten playground, across the factory lots.   Through the gap in the wire fence – out into trees and undergrowth and big echoing silence.   No-one to disturb us here – this has often been a useful place.

We stop.   Mitchell sinks to his knees, his hoodie falling back, breathing heavily through his nose and sucking at the tape on his mouth.

The time has come.

I grip his hair with one hand and pull back his head.


And punch him.   Out like a light.   Rip off the tape on wrists and ankles, peel it off face.   Stuff it into a pocket to take with me – no evidence.

Jonathon heads for home.




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