Free Loss by Tony Black

yourself.’
    The place was a shambles, arse over tit. A picture on the wall – looked like the classic Green Lady – was squint. A folding table, couple of chairs, had also been upended. One of the table legs had been snapped. The phone had been pulled out the wall and what looked like a collection of souvenir tat – cheap figurines and plastic snow-domes – had been spilled on the floor. I couldn’t see any further than the living room door because a coat stand had been rammed into the plasterboard wall – a blue anorak and a bust brolly were blocking my view.
    ‘Duly turned over, I’d say.’
    Mac agreed, tugged the dog’s lead and headed round the back. The driveway skirting the edge of the property was blackened with oil and heavy tracks. A rainbow of spills covered the path and burst, worn tyres sat against the gable end of the house. On the back wall, patches of pebbledash had fallen out, exposing brickwork beneath. One of the gutters hung loose, rattling in the wind and threatening to fall.
    Mac kicked at a couple of fallen tiles on the path. ‘I’m thinking this geezer’s no’ been keeping up appearances that well.’
    ‘You think?’
    The back door had a large frosted-glass window that had been put in. The nicotine-stained blinds on the inside crashed against the frame with every belt of cold wind that came along. The door frame had been booted; wood splinters littered the step. Mac and I looked at each other, but said nothing. I pushed the door and stepped through. As I walked in, the broken glass crunched under the soles of my Docs. I turned to Mac. ‘Pick up the dog or he’ll cut his paws.’
    We walked in slowly, cautiously. It was freezing inside; the wind and rain and snow had got in through the smashed window and soaked the linoleum, made it slippy underfoot. The first room we came to was the kitchen. A newish-looking fridge door hung on one hinge and two large shelves had been pulled off the wall. A stack of pots and plates, obviously once resident on the shelves, had been thrown on the ground. A mop handle had been snapped off; I couldn’t see the missing portion but wondered about that.
    It was all eerily quiet. Far too quiet. Was beginning to wonder what we’d come to. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ I said.
    As I spoke, Mac returned fire: ‘And I don’t like the look of this . . .’ He pointed to the hallway leading from the kitchen: along the magnolia woodchip was a streak of blood. It ran almost the full length of the hallway and sat three inches thick at its widest point.
    ‘Fucking hell. Lead on.’
    As we walked into the hall Usual started to sniff at the air, he struggled in Mac’s arms. ‘Settle, boy.’
    The door to the living room sat open about half a foot but as I tried to push it something was blocking it on the other side. ‘It’s stuck,’ I said. I could see into the room: the television screen had been smashed and lay in shards on the carpet. Time-warped teak chipboard units had been pulled over, their contents scattered everywhere. A carriage clock had been bounced off the wall, its face smashed. What caught my attention the most, though, was the splatter marks. They covered everything. Red to black. I knew at once it was more blood. Lots more.
    ‘Give it a push,’ said Mac.
    ‘I am fucking pushing it . . . Something’s blocking it on the other side.’
    Mac weighed in, between us we heaved enough of a gap to get through. Behind the door was an armchair. Sat in it, his back to us, was a man. Stood behind him, we could only see the top of his head – black hair, some male-pattern baldness, a streak of blood. He wasn’t moving.
    ‘Oh, fuck,’ said Mac, ‘what have we got ourselves into?’
    We looked further into the room, copped an eyeful. It was clear what had went on: there had been a serious working-over in here. The dirty-beige carpet was thick with blood; the castors on the armchair squelched in it as we pressed our way past.
    As we