SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS by M.G. Cole

Author:M.G. Cole [Cole, M.G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tanglebox Books
Published: 2021-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

15

There was every chance that the stale scent of death was woven into the fabric of the caravan long before Duke had died. The only light struggled through the dirt-encrusted windows and was further tempered by nicotine-stained net curtains. It was cooler inside the cramped space than outside, and Garrick’s every breath came in a puff of vapour.

The caravan layout was much the same as every other one Garrick had stayed in with his sister and parents as they sat shivering on some bleak shingle beach in Wales. That’s what had usually passed for a holiday back then. It wasn’t designed as a pleasure, but more of a punishment to prevent them complaining about what little they had back home. It was always a spot in Wales that was bleaker than his native Liverpool home. A week was just enough to grind down their enthusiasm and make them all eager to return home. Then another year would pass before the threat of another holiday loomed.

Duke had been laid out on the bed, dressed in a suit. He was over six foot and heavy set. Garrick imagined that in life he would have made for an imposing figure. His dark hair was tinged with white and receding. No attempt had been made to comb it after death.

Somebody has folded his arms across his chest. There had been no effort made to imbue him with fake life, with a mortician’s makeover. His skin was as leaden as the walls. Sallow cheeks pulled the side of his lip up in a rictus sneer, as if displaying his contempt for death and revealing teeth stained black and yellow from years of neglect. Garrick noted his hands were overly large and folded together. The backs of them scarred and weather-beaten. There was no jewellery, but pale bands of pinched skin showed every finger had carried at least one for many years. His shoes were polished, indicating some pride, although the souls had worn as thin. Garrick wondered if that was some cosmic pun for the state of the man’s own soul.

The bed took up the back space where a table would normally sit. In the middle was a small bathroom and toilet, opposite which lay a tiny plastic kitchen worktop, sink and two gas burners. The front of the caravan had a smaller mattress propped up on plastic crates. It could be partitioned by brown shower curtains which hung limply from a plastic rail on the ceiling. Garrick assumed this was the area Manfri and Jamal slept. There was scant hope for privacy, and Garrick wondered how the young girl could have felt at home with someone like Duke sleeping mere feet away.

He was viewing that from the luxury of a first-world western eye; he reminded himself. It was already clear that Romani attitudes were very different. And from the point of view of a refugee, this grim caravan was a palace.

There was a distinct lack of personal items. Even the beds had no blankets, just the bare mattresses which had occasional dark stains that no doubt contributed to the smell.

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