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Workmen - Three Fat Ladies

Helen opened the front door, and peered out. Thank the lord for the vandal who'd taken out the street light last night. It was quiet as well as dark and their driveway was off set slightly and hidden from view of the neighbours. She slipped back inside and hefted one end of the quilt covered burden under her arm, huffing out a long breath as she did so.

Debs put her back into it and lifted her end and together they struggled out to the car; not for the first time Debs wished she'd splashed out on something bigger than a Fiat Uno.

"Will it fit?" hissed Granny from the hallway.

"It'll have to, Mum," puffed Helen.

"I don't think it will," said Granny, helpfully.

"Then we'll have to make it fit," stated Debs.

"How?" wailed Helen, abruptly coming to a halt, "he's as stiff as a board."

"Just open the door," instructed Debs, backing up slightly.

"I can't hold him and open the door, he's too heavy."

"Granny," called Debs urgently, her voice low.

"Ssssh," hissed Helen, "the neighbours."

"Granny," whispered Debs, "get the door, will you."

"Hurry up, I can't hold him for much longer," moaned Helen.

Granny struggled down from the doorstep and wrestled the car door open.

"You put your end in, Mum," said Debs, "then I'll shove from the back."

Helen did as she was bid, leaning in to the car as far as she could go. Debs' sudden push only succeeded in ramming Wayne's head into the foot well in the back of the car. The quilt fell away, revealing his legs, still sticking out the door, "He won't go any further in," Helen said, her voice bubbling with near hysteria.

"Oh yes he will," said Debs, shoving again, putting her full weight behind it. They heard a crack as Wayne's spine snapped.

"Oh my god!" said Helen, horrified, nearly falling over in her haste to get away.

"Mum," hissed Debs, "he's dead, it doesn't matter."

"But we broke his back, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Mum! Not now, I need you to help me do this." Debs climbed into the car and started to heft
Wayne's top half out of the foot well, ignoring with difficulty the grating sounds of bone on bone. As she lifted his head his legs see-sawed
downwards. "Come on, Mum, focus, alright, we gotta push his legs in."

"I can't," wailed Helen, crumpling to the floor, hands to her mouth.

"Gran, can you grab hold?" Debs asked, turning to the old lady who was standing, mouth open at the back of the car.

She nodded and reached over to grab his legs. She was prevented from so doing by the conjoining of her huge breasts with her monumental stomach.

"Come on, Gran," said Debs.

"I'm trying dear," said Gran, gamely, parting her breasts to try and make the move doable, "but I just can't reach."

"Mum," hissed Debs, "Mum, get up. I need you."

Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath."Okay, okay," and she bent over, ignoring the legs and the dirty workman boots, and pulling on the quilt with shaking hands. Then she took another, stronger hold and together they heaved and shoved but Wayne would not budge.

"What about cutting him up?" offered Gran, reasonably.

"No way am I cutting him up," snapped Helen.

"Might have to if we can't get him in the car," said Debs, eyes sparkling at the prospect.

"Not happening," said Helen emphatically, "besides there'd be too much blood."

"He's dead so not much blood," said Debs, knowledgeably, "and no-one knows he came here."

"How do you know?" demanded Helen, "he might've told a friend. The police always find out."

"They never solve anything, Mum, it's not like CSI Miami or Miss Marple."

"I don't care," said Helen, "I'm still not cutting him up."

"What about the sunroof, dear," said Gran.

"Wow, great idea, Gran," said Debs, "why didn't I think of that? And we can lose this as well." She yanked at the quilt, pulling and tugging, ripping Wayne free of it.

"I'll get a chair," muttered Helen, unreasonably angry with both of them.

Five minutes later Debs was standing on the car, leaning into the open sunroof, the better to direct Wayne's head up and out of the car, the bonnet bending under her weight. Helen was inside, ready to lift his torso, her face was carefully averted and her eyes tightly closed. If she could have held her nose at the same time she probably would have done so. Gran was outside on the driveway; her role was to ensure Wayne's lower legs followed the rest of his body.

"Okay on three," said Debs, "three!" She tugged Wayne's shoulders but nothing happened. "Oh my back, what the hell are you two doing?"

"I thought you were going to count," said Helen, eyes still tight shut.

"You said you'd count, dear," said Gran, observing Debs with her rheumy eyes.

"That's the whole point," said Helen, almost at breaking point, "gives us a chance to get ready and then we all push together. Don't just say 'three'."

"One, two, three," said Debs, too quickly for Helen to respond, or for Gran to register.

"Give us a chance," hissed Helen, opening her eyes and glaring up at her daughter, "It's always like this with you, it always has to be done your way. It was the same when you were a baby, always bossing me and your Gran around. You wouldn't even wear the clothes I put you in. I'd dress you and you'd go and change, you were five for Christ' sake."

"God, mum," wailed Debs, "you're doing this, now?"

"Ssssh, Debbie," said Helen, crossly, "the neighbours."
Debs grabbed Wayne by his Mohican, paused and stared at it, "what did you think of his hair?"

"What?" said Helen. She was getting hot in the car and sharing such a confined space with a dead body was seriously messing with her head.

"The colour of his hair," said Debs, "I liked it."

"Oh, so did I, dear," said Gran, "and I liked the Huron thing he had going."

"Mohican," said Debs.

"Actually, I think you'll find it was a Huron," said Gran.

"In the film..." started Debs.

"Chingachgook had long hair and he was the last of the Mohicans," stated Gran with great and solemn authority, "the bad Indians were Hurons and they just had the spiky bit in the middle."

"Can we get on with it?" said Helen, shrilly, "I can't take much more of this!"

"It's a fucking Mohican," spat Debs, annoyed and confused.

"Deborah, do not speak to your grandmother like that," ordered Helen.

"Sorrreeeee," said Debs.

Gran smiled but said nothing.

"Now can we please just do this," said Helen.

"Alright mum!" moaned Debs, far too loudly for Helen's comfort and for Gran's sensibilities, "ONE!"

"Ssssh!" said Helen, "quietly."

"Two," hissed Debs, "three," and they all pulled and shoved simultaneously.

Wayne's feet slid in faster than Gran expected and she fell backwards, tripping over a bit of shrubbery and ending up against the wall, catching her head on a protruding nail. She was silent, a small trickle of blood running down her neck.

As Wayne rose up at speed through the sun roof Debs, precariously balanced as she was, on the bonnet, fell off the car and landed on Mr Tibbs, the neighbour's cat, who'd come across the road to check out the commotion.

Helen scrambled out of the car, first checking her mother for concussion or worse and then looking up to see Wayne staring down at her, pink hair glinting in the moonlight, "For Christ's sake," she hissed, "cover his head."

Debs struggled to her feet, cursing volubly then disappeared into the house. Granny groaned and Helen leaned over and patted her hand then she went indoors to get a cold flannel for the back of her mother's head. Gran was left looking down at poor Mr Tibbs.

"Oh God," said Helen, re- joining her mother, and sharing in the silent contemplation, "what will we tell the neighbours?"

Debs reappeared carrying a large lamp shade which she plonked on Wayne's head, the pink spikes of his Mohican protruding out of the top. She glanced down at Mr Tibbs. "Just bung him further into the road, they'll think he was run over."

"I can't do that," said Helen, "it would be wrong."

"Oh for fuck sake," hissed Debs, "give him here," and she snatched the lifeless Mr Tibbs by his tail, marched down their back garden and swinging him over her head launched him in the direction of the main road that ran past the rear of their house.

Mr Tibbs landed on the windscreen of a passing van. The driver; whose name was Alphonse, had been on the road for a solid twelve hours without a break and his eyelids were drooping. He almost leapt out of his skin when a flattened black cat, limbs stretched out, splatted onto his windscreen. He careened about the road, crashing firstly into a small Corsa, which went into a spin before stopping in the centre of the road. Then he bounced into a BMW, the driver of which compensated wildly, careening onto the grass verge whereupon it tipped onto its side and rolled down the gradient back into the road.

Alphonse himself carried on 50 yards down the road before his van finally flipped over; thirteen vehicles were unable to stop in time and smashed into the wreckage; the dual carriageway rendered impassable.

"Right," snapped Debs, returning to the car, "let's just get out of here, shall we?"

"Are you coming, mum?" asked Helen, looking down at her mother, who was still trying to stem the flow of blood from the back of her head.

"No, she's not," stated Debs, "no room."

Helen conceded the point and squeezed into the passenger seat. The Uno sighed as their joint weight bowed the front axel.

"Belt up and let's get this thing done," said Debs.
She revved the engine and edged the car, squeaking and groaning, down the drive.
 
Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Murder, Mayhem & Money

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