Through the window

The police cars are outside and now here comes a van. The men busy in the garden let the others through, with their big tent. They’re putting it up over the shed and at the same time the shed is being taken apart and the panels are being leaned against the fence. They’ve put the yellow and black tape back across the drive.

There’s a reporter over the road with his back to the house, talking to a camera which is pointing directly at us. I can’t tell what he’s saying but I can guess most of it. There’s another one a bit further along doing the same thing.

The pneumatic drill is starting again, breaking up the rest of the slab which forms the shed base. I wish I hadn’t bought the place now. I only wanted to repair the bit of the base that was crumbling so I dug it up. I’d even got a couple of bags of ready-mix concrete. It’ll take a bit more than that now.

I told the detective all I knew, which wasn’t much. The house was sold empty. There had been tenants before I bought it but they’ve gone. “Talk to the vendor,” I said. Gave them the name of my solicitors and the Estate Agent. I expect they’ll track them down.

I got the house for a song at the auction, it was in such a state. A new bathroom and kitchen and decorate throughout and you’d never know the place. I’ve even done most of the garden, which is why I started trying to fix the base of the shed, I wish I hadn’t now.

Two of the people in white head-to-toe suits are putting something on a stretcher. It’s covered in black polythene so I can’t see. They’re taking it through to the van while a policeman in uniform talks to the reporter and stops any filming. There’s some things you don’t want to see. Wish I hadn’t.

The police emptied the shed. All those tins of paint, my toolboxes and the garden tools. They’re all under a tarpaulin in the garden. I hope the tools don’t go rusty but they won’t let me move them.  The officers wanted to know if there was anything left in the shed before I moved in. Fingerprints I suppose. There wasn’t though; just an empty shed, apart from the spiders.

I see the van has gone away now, taking the stretcher to wherever it goes. The people in white suits are back inside the tent so I can’t see but there’s a policeman in uniform talking on his phone to someone. He keeps looking through the flap. I hope there’s no more but I expect it will be on the news before I find out.

I’ve been to the chemist and tried all sorts of creams. None of them give much relief. It’s just my right arm: I can’t stop scratching it. It was just where that dead hand fell on me.

Author: Ian

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