Sandra Coffey was desperately struggling to breathe.
The smell, an over-ripe suffocating stench, completely overwhelmed her, making her nauseous and dizzy. She shook her head in panic, suppressing an urge to gag, thinking she wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer.
Suddenly she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel outside, and through the window she saw drawing to a halt a white van with familiar blue writing on its side.
At last, help had arrived. Thank God, thank God ...
Sandra stood up, smoothed down her trousers, and, trying to regain her poise, headed quickly for the front door.
‘Morning, Mrs Coffey.’ Paddy Murphy, the local plumber, greeted her amiably. He had a round, red face, long, white muttonchop sideburns, and his bulky frame filled every inch of his extra-large, navy-blue boiler suit. He looked up at her, a frown of concern on his face. ‘Toilet backing up, you said?’
‘Not just one, Paddy. All of them. The smell ... it’s unbearable.’
His frown deepened. ‘Probably your septic tank then.’ The plumber removed his cap to reveal his shiny bald head and scratched at it thoughtfully. ‘Sounds unusual. Maybe a rat or something found its way in there. Only way we’ll know for sure is to go and have a look.’
Paddy set his toolbox down, loosened the cap of the inspection pipe, then stood back and averted his face. He didn’t want to be hammered by the acrid funk he knew would rush his nostrils when the system was opened.
He rummaged in his toolbox and came up with a large industrial torch. Tapping it on the heel of his hand, he flicked it on, aimed it down the tank and peered into the murky depths.
The inspection pipe was narrow – maybe sixty centimeters across – and didn’t show much of the tank itself. He moved the torch around and peered in as far as he could to see if he could identify a blockage, but all he saw was the layer of scum that floated on top of the mottled and putrid grays and browns. Instinctively he held his breath. Helluva of a way to make a living ...
‘Can you see anything?’
Paddy jumped, startled.
Unheard, Mrs Coffey had come up behind him, her feet in a pair of patterned Wellington boots, a Barbour jacket draped across her shoulders.
He grunted as he stood up, trying to regain his composure. The woman was standing very close and her proximity was unaccountably disconcerting.
‘You can never really see much down these. Reckon I’ll just have to open up the manhole cover.’ He sighed as he recapped the pipe.
What a pain in the arse – digging around in a heap of shite was not what Paddy had in mind just before lunchtime on a Friday morning, especially with yer woman over his shoulder watching his every move.
He grabbed his toolbox and trudged across the sloping lawn and around a line of low-growing shrubs, Mrs Coffey hard on his heels. Then he stopped so suddenly that she almost stumbled into the back of him.
‘What is it?’
He turned and looked at her, puzzled. ‘Have you had someone else in to check the system lately?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Someone seems to have been digging for the manhole cover, but from the looks of that mess, they didn’t know exactly where to find it.’
They both observed the turned-over soil, dark and rich from the recent rain.
‘Maybe Tony noticed it was backing up before he left and tried to fix it, though he didn’t mention anything ...’
The plumber approached the metal manhole cover. ‘Someone’s been at this for sure.’
He kneeled down, slipped a small crowbar from his toolbox, and placed it under one edge of the cover. He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs Coffey. ‘You might want to stand back a bit – these things reek to high heaven when opened.’
She duly took a couple of steps back and pulled her jacket tightly around her. Paddy flipped the cover off, and once again averted his nose to evade the malodorous stink racing up to greet him.
Waiting for the air to clear a little, he was reaching for his torch when a horrified cry from behind stopped him short. He shook his head. Serves her right for standing over him this was no place for a—
But Paddy quickly realized that it wasn’t merely the stench that had affected Mrs Coffey.
Once, twice, three times her high-pitched screams split the cold, damp air, before she finally clamped her hand across her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
What the ...? Paddy stared at her, puzzled, before slowly turning back to the tank to see what had so affected her.
Floating up to greet him was the bloated, distorted face of a man, his eyes protruding, skin purple with putrefaction, sewage spilling from his open mouth as he bobbed in the effluent pool.
Frozen with shock, the plumber just stared, unable to take his eyes away. The dead man’s deeply veined, bloodshot eyes seemed be staring back at him in mute accusation.
Behind him, Mrs Coffey was whimpering little sobs of pure animal fear and horror.
Finally Paddy Murphy gagged and fell backwards onto the damp grass.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty ...’