The Gorko Gazette

Body in the Bin

‘You’re just a freakin’ psycho!’

It’s what his wife said. Maybe she was right. She accused him of having the emotional range of a gnat, the communication skills of a wombat.

She screamed at him, ‘You have no soul, no compassion. Gary, you’re dead on the inside.’

Maybe it was true, but he wasn’t 100% sure he knew what she meant. He was who he was, and that’s all he could ever be.

‘Only psychopaths show no feelings, no remorse,’ she added.

Gary shook his head. He didn’t get it, but it didn’t matter. She was leaving him. Leaving their home, ‘never coming back’, she said. She was off to live with her sister, Claire. There was nothing he could do to make her stay—nothing else for him to do but go to work.

He peered into the bin again. She was dead alright. Head down, tucked in tight toward her chest, naked and still, stuffed into a wheelie bin like sausage meat in a roll.

He closed the lid, wondering what to do.

If she was alive, she’d be bloody cramped, he thought. Probably still moaning.

He opened the lid again and reached in. He felt her skin – cold. Yep, she was dead alright.

He closed the lid again and looked about. No one was around. Too early in the morning. Time to think about what to do. Not too long, though. He couldn’t afford to be late again. He was already on his final warning.

‘Why’s it always you, Gary? If anyone’s going to be late, it will be you. I’ve told you so many times, told you till I’m blue in the face—you must stay on schedule! Don’t delay, don’t dawdle. Get the job done, get back to the depot.’

Gary wished his supervisor was blue in the face—blue in the face and not breathing. Maybe even shoved into a wheelie bin of his own! That would shut him up and get him off his back. Stop his constant moaning.

What was he to do?

He could leave the body in the bin right here. Carry on as if he didn’t know anything about it. Just leave the bin. But then someone else would find her. He would be in trouble, big trouble, no doubt about it. And, by chance, if no one found her, the smell would quickly become horrendous. He knew this from experience. Bins became bloody high in the summer sun – gross. And, when they turned, they stunk like hell. Someone would complain. Regardless, he’d get into trouble.

A jogger panted around the corner. Gary decided to wait till she’d moved past. Some women should only wear lycra in the dark, he thought. She was one of them. He presumed her early morning jog was more a demonstration of self-awareness than fitness. She slowed as she approached. Gary hoped it was the slope, hoped she wouldn’t stop. Breathless and sweaty, she slowed and stopped next to the wheelie bin.

Gary left his heavy hand on the lid, clamping it shut.  

‘Phew,’ she gasped, ‘it never gets any easier.’

Gary released a timid smile. ‘You’ll get there!’ And if you leave now, you’ll get there sooner, he thought.

With a great puff, she folded over, hands on knees. Her movement was something between a mock stretch and an exhausted slump. ‘I’m too old for this, you know.’

Gary ignored her, not wanting to engage.

‘You must start work early,’ the woman stated, straightening, arching her back, and looking at her watch.

Gary ignored her.

‘I’m not getting any faster,’ she said. ‘God, it’s so frustrating.’

‘You don’t mind if I rest here?’ She asked, now plopping her elbows on the wheelie bin lid.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you married?’

Gary hesitated; what the hell? He thought and after a moment, replied. ‘Yep, well, sort of… no, not really, not anymore.’

The woman looked at him sceptically. ‘Either you are, or you aren’t?’

‘My wife has left me,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Please forgive me for asking.’

‘It’s alright,’ he grunted.

Gary looked about nervously.

‘Anyway, my name is Tracy. Am I holding you up?’

‘Yes, sort of,’ Gary said, becoming impatient.

‘Well, let me give you a hand,’ Tracy said, ‘some of these bins weigh a ton.’

‘Yeah, this one does. But no need to give me a hand. I got this. Don’t get cold, Tracy. You don’t want to catch a chill.’

‘Oh, I don’t live far from here. I’ll be right. People always tell me I’m a nosey old cow, so getting straight to the point, tell me about what happened with you and your wife.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Fair enough. Sorry, what’s your name again?’

‘I never gave it,’ Gary sighed. ‘Look, I really must get going.’

‘My husband was having an affair,’ Tracy blurted a little too loudly, bursting into tears. ‘The dirty bastard. Rotten liar. I soon put a stop to it! Why the hell would he do that to me? He told me I’d let myself go, said I was fat and unattractive. He told me I’d gone funny in the head! Can you believe it? Me, for God’s sake. I mean, come on!’

Gary thought her husband was well on the money but didn’t say anything. He needed Tracy to move on. ‘I really must be going now,’ he said.

She didn’t move. Her elbows remained locked on the lid.

‘The ungrateful prick, the Mr Bigshot Accountant, picked up the first pretty young piece of trash the wind blew his way. Well, he won’t do it again, I tell you! I hope you were nicer to your wife than my scumbag husband was to me. Did you have an affair? Is this why you separated?’

Her steely eyes bored into him.

‘That’s a very personal question, Tracy. But I must get going now. I can’t afford to be late.’

‘Right,’ she snarled, ‘you better get going, leave me here, all on my own, like my good-for-nothing husband.’ She lifted her elbows off the lid and stepped back. ‘It’s all yours,’ she spat defiantly.

Gary waited for Tracy to leave, but she didn’t. He stood frozen on the spot, unsure what to do.

‘Aren’t you carrying on with your jog?’ he asked. 

‘No, I’ve finished now. I’ll go home, have a quick shower and a cuppa.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Right here,’ she smiled. ‘We’re outside my place now.’

Gary gulped. ‘Okay, Tracy,’ he said hesitantly, ‘nice to meet you.’

‘You too, mystery man. Might see you next week.’ Tracy turned and walked up her driveway.

Gary now needed to decide. He couldn’t hang around any longer. If he lingered, he would be late. Paperwork was not his thing. He hated it. Looking around again, he made his decision. He would dispose of the body. Leaving the full bin behind would cause too much delay and paperwork. Besides, whatever he decided would be of no concern to the body in the bin. She was already dead.

He strained wheeling the bin to the back of the truck. He hoped the hoist would take the weight. The hoist was designed to lift a maximum weight of 40kg. This bin weighed at least half as much again. The engine whined, and the gears graunched as the robotic arms slowly lifted the bin over the back of the truck. Then, with a tip and three quick shakes, its contents were dumped into the bowels of the truck, never to be seen again.

Gary smiled as he jumped into the cab. He slammed the truck into gear and released the brake. With only two more suburbs to collect and a quick trip to the refuse site, he should make it to the depot before cut off.

Tracy peered through her front window. She smiled, watching the rubbish truck slowly trundle off. Her distraction worked. The stupid driver mustn’t have known her wheelie bin contained the body of her husband’s lover. It boded well for next week when she would try to dispose of her husband’s body. She hoped he wouldn’t smell too bad by then.

At the depot, Gary was on his smoko break. He checked his phone and played a voicemail message left an hour earlier. To his surprise, it was his wife.’

‘Gary, something’s wrong; Claire didn’t come home last night. I’m worried something might have happened to her. She started seeing a new guy, an accountant, and I couldn’t contact him either. Something’s wrong, Gary. I can feel it. Can you come around after work? I need to see a friendly face.’

Gary deleted the message and switched the phone off. He smiled. There was no way in hell he was going anywhere after work. He was going home. The final of Big Muddy Truckers was on TV, and he’d already bought a big bag of munchos. 

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ABOUT THE ARTIST

Roly Andrews lives in Nelson, NZ, in his spare time he enjoys tramping. After many years of practising, he is still trying to learn to play the trombone! A champion for everyone, he has mentored rough sleepers and supported people affected by suicide. He advocates for the rights of people living with disabilities.

Image generated on Magic Studio

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