Errorby Ásgrímur Hartmannsson |
|
| Chapter 23 |
One day, Jonas, who has recently migrated to the city, discovers that all his records — including his assets — have been erased somehow. No longer able to get work, buy anything on credit or sell his now legally non-existent car, his life becomes a unique adventure.
Joe had a hard time remembering everyone he had ordered killed, or perhaps he had a hard time sorting out those who had been killed by his goons from those his goons had killed accidentally or for sport against orders. Or maybe it was both.
It looked easier when he counted backwards. Sid, Maria, Fred... those he had orders on this week. He knew there had been four others, ones he had not ordered to have killed, but the names escaped him. The goons had not told him who they were. It didn’t matter. They were just forensic evidence now.
That was this week. It had been a busy time for his goons. There was only one the week before, and the whole month before that, none. In all, there were perhaps at most fifteen others on the list.
Jonas would have been surprised had he heard this a week ago. But now, he could believe anything presented to him. And it was not just what he had been through recently. The drugs helped.
Joe waited when he had finished. He did not want to turn his back on Frank without his goons, who were at the moment coming to life again on the floor. He looked pitiable. Frank looked more relaxed. When he relaxed, so did Joe.
That is when Frank smashed him in the head with his bat. Joe fell to the floor, and Frank kept hitting him until he got bored of it.
Frank calmed down again after a couple of minutes, straightened up, and dropped the bat. “I never liked him very much,” he said, and walked out the door. Jonas and Rick followed him.
Jonas took a deep breath. He had wanted to do that for some time now. The air was cleaner than usual. They could see the smoke rising from the Bureau of Personal Information Protection building from where they stood. That only meant the sky was clear. It was just a matter of time when the fire would be put out.
They looked at the smoke rise directly up in the air in the distance. Jonas knew that people would not meet the full impact of the fire till Monday, when they all went out of bed and tried to buy stuff on credit. Only a few would be affected now. A few still at the bars, and perhaps some sober people trying to buy gas at a self-service or buying something on credit in general.
It would take days, even weeks for the authorities to figure out a solution to the problem. Meanwhile, gangsters like Frank would capitalize on the troubles.
“I am thinking,” said Frank while these things were going through Jonas’ mind, “we should dispose of the body.”
“What body?” asked Jonas.
“Joe’s body.”
“Is he dead?”
“He will be when we dispose of him, I guess,” answered Frank.
Jonas was right. Frank had already begun using the problem he had helped create to get rid of people who stood in his way.
“How do we dispose of it?” asked Jonas.
“Well, we drive it out of the city, to where we can drop it off a cliff and into the sea. Somewhere where nobody will think to look,” said Frank.
“In the trunk of that car you stole?” asked Jonas. He was looking at the car. It was quite small. A body would fit in the trunk, he was sure, but it would be awkward getting it in, and so would be getting it out once rigor mortis had set in.
“We will use his car,” said Frank, and pointed at the car. It was a new BMW 4x4-vehicle. It was ugly as sin, but with a trunk that is perfectly presentable for body-disposal purposes.
Jonas nodded.
They set to work with the body, Jonas and Frank took each one arm, while Rick held the feet, and they brought the body to the BMW and stuffed it in the trunk. The keys had been found in Joe’s coat, along with his wallet that contained a disappointing amount of cash.
“Can you give me a ride home?” asked Jonas as they were about to leave.
“Home? Why? Don’t you want to come with us to drop the body?” asked Frank.
“Not really. I don’t care what you do with the body. I just want to go home and rest. Watch TV or something,” said Jonas.
“Okay, we can do that. Hop in,” said Frank.
Jonas went into the car and had a seat in the back. The body had settled nicely on the floor of the trunk, and been covered by the trunk lid. Now he knew what those things were for. His own car had never had a trunk lid. One of the previous owners had lost it, or removed it and forgotten to put it back in. Now, somewhere, there lived a man who owned a piece of material he did not need and was perhaps wondering where he’d gotten it.
But that no longer mattered. Jonas’ car had been disposed of. Now it would be up to the mall cleaning crew to dispose of what had been disposed of in their lot. It was highly doubtful they would ever find out who was responsible for that egregious act of littering. No, the car had been made untraceable along with Jonas.
The BMW slid silently off the lot, and travelled the roads with silky smoothness. Jonas was not used to the comfort. Compared to this, his own car had been just a metal box with an engine in it. With soft leather seats and upholstery, this was definitely no economy car. It was no Land Cruiser either. At the next lights, Frank accelerated and Jonas was pushed back in his seat.
Comfort. Jonas liked that. He would have liked going for a longer ride, just so he could sit in the car for a while longer.
The way home did not take him anywhere near the Bureau of Personal Information Protection building. He was curious how putting out the fire was going.
He could imagine it: the computer room would be an infernal pit of burning plastic and glowing metal, flames trailing from it out into the hallway, spreading along the soundproofing into the offices, the whole level heating up to burning point until the pressure would be released out a window. The fire would spread upwards, heating the level above it to the point where paper caught fire.
Firemen would be going in, hosing fire up the stairwell. There was nothing else to do. They would be hosing in through the windows too, and would probably also break the upper floor windows to pump water in, both to cool the floor and hoping it would leak down to the flaming level below.
They would be wondering why the sprinklers did not work. At some point they would go into the basement to check out. And they would find the valves Jonas had turned off and turn them on again. By this time, the pipes leading upwards would have been fused, so less water than might be expected would come rushing out; enough to cause damage, but not enough to put out the fire.
By mid-day the fire would be well under control. Everything on the upper floors would be too wet to catch fire, and firemen would be actively making sure nothing caught fire below. Not that they would need to, as when the lower-floor sprinklers went on, the area would get almost as wet as if it had been located at the bottom of the sea.
By the time they extinguished the fire, nothing much flammable would be left. The entire level would have been completely destroyed by fire and by water. The floor above would also be a complete wreck, but it would be a mostly identifiable wreck.
Jonas smiled. The building might have to be demolished. He could take all the credit for it he wanted, but he could not be held accountable. Just like a politician who has made a mistake leading to endless troubles, he was accountable for nothing — but for different reasons.
Jonas had nobody to point a finger at, nobody to blame. He could share the glory with Frank and the guys, but he could not blame them. He had instigated this. That knowledge made him feel good. It made him feel like a great person in history, the man who wiped out everyone’s identity.
Frank rolled into Jonas’ driveway, as he was instructed to, and let him out in the middle of the lot. Jonas said farewell to the guys and went home. There was no longer any need to watch out for thugs. They were all dead.
Jonas walked through his courtyard, taking time to breathe in the cool air and watch the grass, still green in the middle of winter; weird, that. He went into his apartment, and opened his door.
It was just like he remembered it last time. Shoe prints on the floor. Jonas figured he ought to clean up. He knew he could not sleep because of the pill, and the place needed cleaning. One never knows where murderous thugs have been, or what they have been touching.
He made some coffee, and had a cup now and again while cleaning his apartment. Not having much yet is always a good thing when one is cleaning one’s apartment. It was less fuzz. No need to remove or dust carpets one does not even have.
Jonas had some dog biscuits. When he had finished cleaning, he figured it would be a wonderful idea to invite the neighbour in for some coffee and dog biscuits. He believed she needed it. He too, needed it. He needed to talk to someone who was not involved in crime.
To be continued...
Copyright © 2010 by Ásgrímur Hartmannsson
