FLYTIPS

Sunrise mist settles on a badger corpse. Dean swerves the van to avoid it. “Damn things.” He rights the off-white van. “You’d think they would learn to stay off the roads.”

“I don’t think animal minds work like that.” Safe resettles himself on his passenger side. The van has one of those seats that stretch the entire width of the vehicle. Bouncy as hell.

The early morning haze tumbles over scraggy fields and occupies the innards of roadside hedges. Woodland pockets decorate the motorway edges. Safe hates dawn runs. Dampness creeps into him now, and although he feels no ill effects, its presence spreads within, a cold forewarning of the toll these years are taking. He should be out of this business.

“How much?” says Safe.

“You mean in the back?”

Safe nods and stares, like what else would he mean?

“Yeah, well, not too bad. It’s from that place near Darenth that paid us before. I think they do renovation or some shit.”

“Ah yeah, they had some good stuff.”

“Look through it if you want, but it will have to be as we move it.”

“I know, I know.”

The van leaves the motorway and rumbles through minor roads. Rough ground on either side gives way to more densely packed woods. The mist recedes and sunlight muscles through trees, branches still grasping to hold crinkled brown leaf. A dirt track heads deep into the woods. Birds sing about the trees. Safe wishes he were somewhere warm, asleep, beneath a blanket.

Dean veers around a corner and the track dips abruptly. The vehicle comes to a stop at a dead end under the trees. The woods make a natural circle around a small, oblong clearing. To the farthest end is a tangle of rubbish. Brambles have grown over it since their last run out to the spot.

“Hop out,” says Dean. “I need to check the ground. We do not want to get stuck out here.”

They jump out of the van and Dean strides over to the pile. Safe stays by the van, leans on the front. Dean examines the ground around the pile.

“Is it okay?” calls Safe.

“Yeah. Better than I expected. All right, you stand there and direct me in.”

Safe moves to the side of the clearing and makes a variety of gestures as Dean backs the van up, Safe’s sign to halt the only one really of any use. Loud bird noises come out of the trees.

“I thought birds singing was meant to be nice. That one sounds like it’s throwing up.” Safe gazes up, to the skinny treetops.

“It just saw your face.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Dean opens up the back of the van and they start unloading. Safe sees the stuff is junk, mostly rotted timber and broken cement of unknown origin. Deflated, he takes out his disappointment by throwing the rubbish onto the rubble pile with overly dramatic emphasis.

“Someone has been here since we dumped the stuff before,” says Dean.

Safe looks around. “What makes you say that?”

“The pile is different.”

“I see.”

“It’s not as we left it.” Dean has a near photographic memory when it comes to their tipping history. This has always mystified Safe.

“In what way?” Safe knows Dean wants him to ask this. It’s easier to play along than not, as Dean will drag out his observations three times as long if they are dismissed.

“It’s moved. See over there?” Dean points to a bare spot a few feet away, up against the tree line. “That’s where it was before. Everything has shifted over here.”

Safe takes a break from moving the rubbish. He starts to think Dean might have a point. “Yeah, does look like it’s been moved. Weird. I’ve no idea why that would be, Dean.”

“It’s almost as if someone has been sorting through it.” Dean goes quiet and quickens his back and forths to the van. “I need to get a fucking dump truck somehow. My back is not liking this.”

“Mine neither. Not much left.”

They team up to move the heaviest objects. Puffed out, Safe heads to the side of the clearing. Dean gets into the van to sweep out any rubbish that remains. Plumes of dust emerge from inside as Dean rids the van of dirt. Safe turns towards the woods. Insects lollop down flickering sun rays, broken morning light suddenly golden. A heave births deep in the trees.

“Safe. Safe?” Dean is behind Safe. Safe drags his eyes away from the woods, then turns towards Dean. “Hellooo,” says Dean, waving sarcastically. “Away with the fairies?”

Safe shakes his head. He laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

Over the next few weeks they use the site a few times. The rubble pile grows and continues to be messed with between their visits. Dean takes umbrage, to Safe’s bemusement.

On an overcast evening, Safe gets a message from Dean. “Can you do the run for me in the morn? Sick as a dog. I’ll leave the keys in the van.”

Safe rises before dawn and walks the short distance to Dean’s place, a post war bungalow left to him by his dad. The bungalow is as wrecked as ever — ivy gone wild over one side, a garage held together by will. Dean’s van is round the back, the keys left trustfully in the glove box.

The sun strains to break a gloomy horizon. Safe guides the van along the familiar route, cursing under his breath that there better not be too much crap loaded in the back, that this favour might cost him a working spine. Early morning chill causes dragon breath, even in the van.

Safe backs up the van without checking the ground, too put out to care. When he opens the van doors and takes a look in the back he’s relieved to discover it filled with layers of plastic sheeting and tarpaulin, ripped and unusable. Awkward to move but not heavy. Safe starts dragging the rubbish from the van. The ground is hard with frost. Some of the sheeting is printed with images of horses, advertisements for an equestrian event.

As Safe moves to and from the van he finds himself dawdling, against all tipper rules to be in and out of any dump site as swiftly as possible. Bird wings flap among the trees. Safe guesses crows, or something of a similar size, given the noise level. Dawn light rises fast as clouds clear high above. The trees teem with the low crackles of sunlight on frost dust.

When the final tarpaulin rests atop the pile Safe finds himself wandering over to the tree line on a side of the clearing that faces into deeper woodland. A shallow trench borders the clearing, filled with mossy mulch and leaf scatter. Knobbly tree trunks mark entry to the woods. Safe leans in, intrigued by their aged appearance. Deep cuts swipe across the bark of some trees, like bloodless knife wounds. In parts the bark has grown around objects, placed there so long ago that their presence is camouflaged. Safe makes out the surface of a conker, most of it completely enveloped by the bark. Misshapen bark elsewhere has completely consumed whatever is beneath.

Safe fights his curiosity to explore farther into the trees. A stronger instinct keeps his feet on the clearing’s ground. Rustling breaks out far back in the woods, then a strangulated caw of inflated volume snaps between the trees. Safe turns on his heels, ready to leave. A deep croak emerges from brambles at the other end of the clearing. Safe loses his balance and falls backwards, landing clumsily halfway into the shallow trench. Beneath the surface layer of dry leaf is moist and slimed rot. Safe rolls out of the trench and gets to his feet. “Jesus.” A strip of brownish green decorates a portion of his jeans down one side. “Great.”

A tremendous impact sends him forwards. He is knocked hard to the ground, his body smacked tight. A weight on his back keeps him pinned. With lungs pressed so tight he is struggling to fill them, he tries to move but the weight restricts him. It presses his face into the dirt and talks into his ear. The gifts are not suitable. Bring it blood or it will take his own.

Safe drives the motorway. He gazes at the dirt on his jeans, cursing himself for getting it all over Dean’s car seat—why didn’t he cover the seat like he would’ve done any other time? He takes the van to his place and gives the seat a clean, grumbling throughout the process. When evening comes he messages Dean and asks if he can hold on to the van for a while. Dean doesn’t reply until the next morning. Says he’s half dead with flu and probably won’t need the van for a couple of days at least.

Under greyish skies Safe takes the van through roads that skirt busier traffic, where there is countryside, enough cars that animals will get hit, but not congested to the extent it will be difficult for him to pull over and collect a body. For a few hours he spots nothing, but eventually finds a dead pheasant. He shovels it into a sack and places it in the van. Two hedgehog corpses follow before the day’s light begins to dim.

In darkness he arrives at the clearing. The van’s headlights illuminate the tree line, creating shadow trees that sink into the woods. Safe leaves the headlights on as he retrieves the sack and moves it towards the trench. Cold bites at his ears and his breath escapes in clouds. His eyes dart between trunk and branch, twig and leaf. The dead animals topple out of the sack and into the trench. He backs up and slides into the van. It is difficult to make any decision. There is a compulsion to stare at the wood, but he fights it and forcefully takes the steering wheel. The silence of the clearing pierces above the harsh amplitude of the van’s engine as he reverses the vehicle away.

More days and more roadkill. Badgers, foxes, a cat, a duck, multiple hedgehogs, even one small deer. All delivered after nightfall, the corpses absent from the clearing each time he returns. Eventually Dean gets in touch wanting the van back. Safe cleans the vehicle, hoping his efforts rid the insides of the stench of death. When satisfied, he grudgingly returns it.

Over the following weeks Safe and Dean travel to clients based farther away than they have been required to visit before. Dean scouts new areas for dumping grounds. He finds tucked away corners, with fly tipped waste already present. Safe trusts Dean’s instincts on discreet dump sites. It is only when they pass a deceased animal on the roadside that Safe’s thoughts return to the clearing, to its hunger.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep helping you with this,” says Safe.

Dean nods. “Yeah well. Let me know when. My cousin needs some extra cash, so mentioned she’d be up for it if you ever dropped out.”

“Keeley? How’d she find out?”

“Don’t know. She came up to me outside the newsagents and asked about it.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean word has got about.”

“I don’t think so. There are too many people I’ve pissed off. If people knew, I would’ve had a police visit by now.”

“And me.”

“Too true.”

“Do you think she’d be able to handle it physically?”

“Yeah, for a while anyway. She used to do all kinds of stuff on her dad’s farm.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot she grew up like that.”

Eventually they cycle back to the clearing. Dean backs the van into a spot by the waste pile. The mornings are fresher, the ground less moist. Safe looks through the windshield, up into the tree canopy. Sunlight streams between budding branches. Dean gets out of the van and heads to the back. Safe hesitates. The van doors open behind him and this prompts Safe into movement. Safe walks slowly towards the back of the van, all the while studying the trees around the clearing.

The clearing is less clear than Safe remembers. Other fly-tippers have made use of the site in their absence. Fading horse eyes stare out from underneath old carpets and busted garden trampolines. They make quick work of unloading the van. Safe gets back into the passenger seat while Dean finishes off. The trench draws Safe’s attention. Life surrounds it, but the trench’s barrenness chills Safe.

As they drive away a dark object falls from the treetops, in the woods, then out of sight behind bracken, heading to the wood floor. Dean halts the van and they both wonder what it was.

Over the next days Safe makes up excuses as to why he needs to borrow the van. Dean isn’t using it until the weekend so he lets Safe take it to get Safe off his back. A heavy mist spreads over the county. The coast towns are farther than he’s driven the van before. Evening falls into the mist. Safe parks the van down a dirt track, and hopes no one will spot it. He leaves it and wanders to an old industrial estate Dean has mentioned. There are people, as Safe expects. They give him wary looks, but get talking after Safe takes an unassuming tone, gives the impression he’s leaving something behind but doesn’t want to say what. An entire back story that is only implied, unformed because it is invented, but that is a cloak, resembles reluctance to reveal himself due to worry. They say Safe can share the warmth, and Safe explains he needs help with a job, he can pay if they are up for it. An older guy, characteristically grizzled, says he’ll do it. Some of them drink, the old guy a lot. In the morning Safe ferries the man all the way to the clearing, pushes him to the ground, he’s weak. It doesn’t take much for his lights to go out.

The roll into the trench seems to take an age.

There is roadkill on the road but Safe keeps driving. It won’t accept that now. He thinks about digging up a freshly occupied grave, but that is dead blood. Animals could be trapped, but the wood already has them. They aren’t what Safe should offer. He spends days scouting the makeshift encampments of people on the move. Eventually he makes approaches, with offers of cash for work. All rebuffed until a young, scrawny man agrees.

In the van the young guy doesn’t stop talking. His life history is bled out as Safe guides the vehicle along quiet backroads, the longer route.

At the clearing the young guy follows Safe around, weirdly shadowing Safe’s body. Safe soon realizes the guy is becoming suspicious, that he detects something is off. A caw born of the gut ejects from close by. In a rush of air the weight comes down.

Dean reverses the van up to the pile. He hasn’t used the spot in months. A cloud of mosquitoes wanders the clearing, lit up in late summer sun. The vehicle halts with a jerk.

“Let’s do this quick,” he says.

Keeley exits the vehicle and joins Dean in removing the van’s contents, split fence panels and various landscaping junk.

“I wonder if they’ll ever find him,” says Keeley.

Dean shrugs his shoulders. “Nah, I doubt it.”