I like to get outta town sometimes. Prockney, London is one of those areas where there's always something going on: crackheads patrolling the street and begging for coins, schoolkids walking the High Street disturbing the peace, the Met Police and drug dealers always at a standoff when they roll past. When you leave your yard during the day, it's like National Geographic. Don't get it twisted - it's jokes seeing this shit a lot of the time, but it can get stale after a while.
This was also around the time when people started dropping out of sight around Prockney: GMs (gang members), crackheads, some man who just got to the country from Syria fell off the face of the Earth too - he was working late nights for whatever driving companies would take him. People that most wouldn't notice gone, went. But without any bodies, it's just dissappearances so far. One body could change that, and that's where I come in.
A couple weeks ago, I decided to make a whole 180 in my life: a new bodily and mental regime. No more smoking, I've spent too much bread on that shit over the years, no more fried and junk food that poisons me slowly, most importantly, the gym, and don't spend time with guys with no life ambition and just want to trap: bad influences. I mean, I used to be one of them kids that sprint through the streets to drop off packages and let the olders know that patrol cars were coming, but I was never fully committed to it, and they knew that.
"You cannot lose if you do not play."
This regime had me feeling like a new chapter had started in my life: walking round ends with a new swagger and appreciation for life. Guys who get off weed know that you get irritated at little shit for a while, but I could hack it. I had been thinking for a while that staying in Prockney and just chilling with the people I knew was holding me back. Some of them man are good people, but most are just caught up in the road life. I was heading back to one of my guys's yards and randomly asked him how his degree apprenticeship was going.
"Nah, d'you know what, yeah -" he muttered and looked straight ahead, "I quit that, can't lie."
"Why, bro?" I was fuming at this guy, "you actually had potential in that shit - you ain't stupid."
He shrugged sullenly. "Just not my scene, innit. I prefer it out here on the roads: it's what I know."
"Brudda, you know them apprenticeships pay better than these nitties do. It's clean money too, not what them P-Side guys get you." I guess I was trying to win him over to my point of view, cos the guy was obviously institutionalised to the roads, if that makes any sense.
He looked at me with his lip curling. "Bro, y'know P-Side don't do nothing to no one that don't deserve it - just their opps. It's that fucking boogeyman going round abducting bruddas that's the twisted one."
"Two wrongs ain't make a right," I tried.
Nothing I said was going through to him. He just looked over at me like I was one of the preachers outside the local train station and shook his head. "People are destined to do certain shit in life, I guess this is mine."
Straight up mental slavery. It's like they haven't mentally grown since school days. I'll end up leaving this town for good someday, for sure. This whole idea I had and still have about leaving Prockney is what got me travelling outta town and returning to find that body.
It was a girl I went to see about. We met at one of those park runs: typical shit that guys start doing when they're trying to make a change in their life, or to meet fit women. Obviously, the second option was always in the back of my mind. Natasha's her name, strong, clear skin, defined everywhere. I mean, of course I would try it on her. I know I can turn on some jokeman persona when it's needed, so I did alright to get her number and arrangements out of her.
Her place is a couple stations north of Prockney on our train line, I headed out at around five pm - this was before the clocks went back in the UK, so it was getting dark by the time I got to the train station. If you live in London, you'll know the smaller train stations don't have space for the ticket barriers, just a small card reader that watches you helplessly as you walk past it without paying. Those stations are usually deserted of workers, maybe you'll see an old guy sitting reading a book in the ticket office that looks up at you then immediately back down.
Natasha is the rason I saw what I did on that night, but I'd say it was worth it for her: I'm a romantic like that, I do like her more than just for pleasure. But I like a balance as well, you know? I got to her place, ordered us some food (what a gesture considering the economic state right now), and just started talking for a while. She's trying to become a lawyer, going through law school right now - I gave her my good wishes.
She asked about what I was doing, and I had to give the copout answer of "Just working on getting my education" that basically means I ain't got nothing going for me right now. She didn't mind that though, I found that out later. I was considering staying the night at hers, maybe it would have been too early, but I did have a good feeling about her.
I ended up leaving around ten, walking through the misty night to the train station. There were only parked cars and still terraced houses and apartment buildings around me. I shivered against the still and biting air, rubbing my chin against my jacket hood. The train station in her area was the same type as the one in Prockney: empty and silent apart from the fuzzing of the yellow lightbulbs. I looked over at the ticket office and saw the windows were covered.
Damn, not one soul round here, I thought, walking past card reader and down the white hallway to the platform. The silence kind of unsettled me a little; I'm used to always hearing some noise somewhere: somebody calling out - a car backfiring - dogs barking.
Just then, I couldn't even hear cars going past.
It is some suburb, to be fair, I thought, heading down the stairwell to the cold platform.
The train came a few minutes after me sauntering around to keep warm in the pools of light of the platform lights. Only a group of drunk guys got off about ten doors down from mine, I boarded before they could shout any alcoholic shit.
I sprawled out on a six-seater, resting my feet on the seats in front of me and stared out of the window at my reflection as the train started moving. I brushed some drops out of my hair from the shower I took at Natasha's.
At that point, the train stopped and the withdrawal headaches from cutting off spliffs had started to work their way into my skull again. I groaned and open-palm clenched my face with both cool hands. The sickly colour of the train carriage felt like operating table lights, like I was getting ready for open-heart surgery: the first of its kind.
I must have sat with my head in my hands waiting for my headache to go for a few minutes, putting off opening my eyes to the bright carriage lights. Then I did, and that was the catalyst to everything.
A ticket inspector was making his way through the carriage behind mine. I saw his high-vis jacket through the glass door between carriages. He was bending over, I'm guessing to check someone's zipcard or to wake up someone who was pretending to sleep. Pretending to sleep because they didn't have theirs. And neither did I.
"Fuck!" I whispered and jolted up, looking behind me at the door to the driver's cockpit.
What can I say? Excuse me, boss - I'm tryna escape this ticket inspector, d'you mind if I hide out in there until we get to Prockney?
Fuck do I do? I was thinking fast, pacing around the aisle. You're defo holding a fine. And the train's stopped, we'll never get to the next station before he gets here.
I walked over to the vestibule and put my head up to the windows. I could barely see three feet ahead of me, only some grassy bank and the fences of houses's back gardens. I stepped back and looked up. The lightbulbs above my head burned a little brighter from the level of revelation I just had.
The emergency release. All I had to do was pull the lever and I could force the door open and jump out onto the gravel. I looked back down the carriage and saw the ticket inspector staring right at me. I moved forwards and pulled the lever. The doors beeped quickly and cracked open.
Making me do too much, I cursed them and pushed the doors open, fitting through and waited a few seconds before dropping to the gravel. It rattled around my feet but I still stood up in the cold. The shock of it bit into my skin and my body shook.
I started walking across the gravel next to the humming train, trying to make it to the next station. I saw the pools of light on the deserted platforms in the distance, but the depot caught my eye.
I had my phone flashlight on and shone it over this open area. Rusted train tracks and rails lay around in piles and overgrown bushes. This dark brick building stood on my left, its paint was faded and peeled and the bricks were chipped. A metal sheet covered its door: the seal in the coffin of vacant buildings.
There was a shitty residential street behind, only a few lights on in the windows but most of them were covered with bedsheets or metal sheets: just what I wanted.
I looked past some of the bushes and saw a decent sized hole in the chain-link fence. It looked like someone had made it with bolt cutters. I didn't like that thought so pushed it away. I also just wanted to get outta there and away from an £80 fine.
I moved over to the hole in the fence, stepping over the rails and shoving the weeds and leaf branches out of my way. I tripped on something. My weight smashed against the fence and caused it to ripple up and down, echoing around the empty street.
What the fuck is that? I thought, more annoyed than scared at that point. Did I cut myself? I held my hand up to the moonlight and didn't see any cuts or red streams on it. I looked down at my feet to see if it was a rail I tripped on or something. I froze.
Two legs stretched out from under the bush, one was straight and the other was bent away from the view of the pavement on the other side of the fence.
I couldn't even whisper "What the fuck" out of fear, I just stood staring at the legs below me.
Oh, shit - is it that fucking serial killer?
Or some dead GM that P-Side killed off and dumped here?
No, they hide them better: in vacants.
It could just be a tramp sleeping, I thought to calm myself down, You think he wouldn't have woken up to some next man trampling over him? What if he's got a nank?
I took a few steps back in case he jumped up at me with super crack strength, I lifted a branch up and saw his upper body. He (it wasn't a she) had a black puffer on, my heart dropped when I saw the hands. They were crossed on his belly and had cuts across them.
Where the fuck is the head?
My mind and body were both screaming at me to cut out of there, and I wanted to, but I had to find out where the head was. I craned my neck to look closer, and I saw a black drawstring bag on his head. The ones schoolkids take to PE lessons.
"OK. Fuck off," I said out loud, bending down to climb through the hole, not caring who'd made it. I got onto the pavement and started to cut: sprinting up the street in the direction of the High Street.
As I ran, all these theories jumped around in my head: P-Side execution, this serial killer's work finally being discovered, a homeless guy that OD'd. I slowed my run as I got to the lights of the High Street. It was more active that in Natasha's parts - I saw some Asians working through the halal butcher's windows and a group of old men sitting at the window seats of the McDonald's eating with empty faces. I was glad to be in a noisy area for once.
When I got back to my yard, I went straight to bed and laid there for about an hour, listening to the wind rattle the dead branches outside and police helicopters flying over. I stared at the popcorn ceiling until I fell asleep.
I've gotten on with my daily life in the time between me finding the body and writing this down. Gone to college, gone to work, gone for runs, gone to see friends, family, Natasha. Always going somewhere to keep my mind off it. It won't work - I end up at that depot in my dreams, what happens next depends on the night. One time he was a zombie that jumped up at me and bit my face off, another he was a weak ghost that lay down and whispered at me to avenge him. Weird shit, I know.
I found the depot on Google Maps since then, I'll drop the link to the screenshot below. The council replaced the iron fence with the chain-link fence since that picture got taken.
So why haven't I reported it yet? Or even told anyone.
A: The feds have already known about the disappearances going on for a while. A body turning up is gonna turn this into a full investigation with boots on the ground patrolling round Prockney like an occupying force. That means stops and searches, that means drug busts, that means public dispersal orders. That many feds coming to Prockney means they're gonna stick around, and I got some motive for not wanting that.
B: If that body is P-Side's work and I grassed on it, I'm dead. Simple as that. Them man are gonna find me, take me somewhere quiet, and make me look at the flowers. I'm not on that.
C: What if it was just a sleeping tramp? Then I'm a snitch AND didn't get anything out of it. If you're gonna be a matyr, at least be successful.
So I gotta turn to internet mans: it's harder to track, and there's bare detectives here anyway. And hopefully I can sleep at night now.
As well as I can sleep knowing there's a war going on outside.
Catch you man later, do your detective shit.