Chris Neilan

the corpses

There was a corpse – but there usually is, isn’t there. Isn't there? Yes, for sure – always. You can’t move for sodding corpses. Corpses that float to the surface, mouth-pooted, eyes-slitted, corpses glimpsed because disembowelled, dismembered, corpses of boys, girls, women, corpses of men – don't forget the corpses of men. Corpses on slabs frost-dotted, morgued; corpses stacked in piles by roadsides; corpses fresh-slaughtered that the embattled hero must clamber over; corpses found falling from closets; attic corpses, stuffed in storage. There are corpses that reanimate, corpses whose eyes flash as they change, corpses that come roaring back, the angry dead, plague-like, nouveau locusts; corpses that creep, corpses that spring, slow death/fast death, dread vs panic. Corpses discovered in the closing movement, revealing truths; corpses that fill the opening frame, posing questions. There’s always a bloody corpse. This one was rubber.

Realistic job they’ve done, I said, and gave it a poke.

Ow!

Not rubber then.

I was a retired fisherman. I’d grown tired of the inscrutable ocean and retired to my cottage to brood. And then: corpse. Not quite opening frame. The irascible woman playing my wife said, Is that how you're going to do it?

She was talking about my read-through.

Well. Yes, I said. But more.

How much more? she said. I was starting to become attracted to her.

Just the right amount, I said, hint of a wink. I’ve always been powerless to resist women who can’t stand my breathing guts. It’s my only major character flaw. She sighed a sigh intended to signal idiocy.

Look, she said, her silvery hair leaf-like in the half-light, I’m hiding something, right? She smelled of her set clothes and the aubergines she’d had for lunch. And you know that, and you’re trying to get it out of me, and boom! Corpse. She doffed the rolled up script on her open palm at the boom. I don't think you’re going to be so... credulous. Right?

I tire of people telling me how to act, so these days I tend to agree and then just do whatever I feel like, which not only avoids tiresome conversations but has the added bonus of annoying the snot out of people. Oddly, I do enjoy annoying the snot out of women I’m interested in going to bed with. I find it an inexplicably successful strategy. Something about the kinds of women I’m attracted to compels them to want to solve me, like a tourist unable to sleep until they’ve found the mosquito buzzing around their bed and firmly swatted it, and for the purposes of this analogy I quite enjoy a good swatting.

I think, our corpse said, sitting up –

Shush! she said, You don't get a say.

I felt it was time to nip this in the bud. Fine, I said, you’re quite right. Credulity isn’t the thing. Not for this scene. No, what this scene needs is...

Incredulity?

Precisely.

I was actually going to say that, said our corpse. That was exactly what I was going to say.

I tricked her into coming for a stroll with me by pretending I didn’t want her to. An oldie but a goodie, much like myself. The coast path was atmospheric in the gloam: shadowy gorse and a clifftop tumble to the gush and regush of the massing sea. Not exactly a classic this show, is it, I said finally, when I felt my silence had become suitably magnetic. Not exactly, no, she said, but at our age one doesn't get the luxury of being picky. Not often at any rate. I used to get piles of scripts, always something interesting buried in the slush. Now I’m lucky if there’s slush.

That’s life, I said, which didn’t help anyone, but had the advantage of making me sound carefree. Well obviously, she said. But that doesn’t make it any more pleasant, does it.

I stopped then, and looked out to sea. In the darkness, you couldn’t quite tell what was out there. Some shifting pattern, as if from a quilt, not quite discernible to human eyes. I passed this thought on to her, and she looked at me strangely. Look, I said, life’s roughly as pleasant as you allow it to be. She sort of snorted, but there was a look in her eyes, and so I slid a hand around the back of her neck as if to kiss her, felt her soften rather than stiffen, the warm softness of her neck against my palm. I held my eyes on hers. What are you doing? she said quietly. I held a finger up to my lips. Shhh.

In this episode, the discovery of the corpse provokes a mystery. I, the retired fisherman, despite discovering the body, become suspect number one, and the expert, professional, emotionally isolated, eponymous detective from the mainland arrives to investigate. The actress playing her is know-her-when-you-see-her famous, and fresh from a couple decades of yoga and awards functions. She is lithe as a dancer and lined as a purse. I couldn’t have done it, I tell her, how could I? One thing I’ve learned in my profession, she tells me, is that anyone is capable of anything. No! I say. I couldn’t’ve! How could I do that to my own son?

They skip ahead a few pages, and we squeeze in an exterior scene as the day’s last traces of light evaporate, a scene from later, before my redemption, in which the detective doesn’t like me one bit. My wife is nowhere to be seen. By nine we’re back at the tiny hotel bar, by ten we’ve cleared it out, cast and crew vamoosed. Early start tomorrow? I ask her. When she was at the height of her fame, I’d order chicken and cashew nuts and watch her unravel mysteries. Not for me, she says, and takes a sip of her gin. I notice she hasn’t bothered to add the tonic. Star’s perk, is it? I’d’ve thought you’d be needed all hours. They cut me the odd break, she says.

I slip onto the stool next to her, eye a group of local drinkers throwing looks our way from a corner – the only other patrons left. What do you get out of this show? I ask her. A bloody great paycheque, she says. And? A big fat starring credit. And? She’s half-turned to face me, perma-glare half-defrosted. The odd flirtatious co-star. She gives me an up-and-down look that’s hard to misinterpret.

The ocean makes its music, knits its quilt, out beyond the blanket. Tell me something I wouldn’t guess about you, she says. Alright, I say. I used to be a monk. No, really. Buddhist. I summered in Thailand all through my thirties. Our summer is their rainy season. Oh, I think I knew that, she says. The rainy season bit, not the monk bit. Well, I’d go over in June, come back in September, sun-speckled and wrung out like tenderised pork, soft and smiling and ready. I had a Buddhist girlfriend for a while. Quite a woman actually. I was... a bit of a mess if I’m honest. Not an honourable man. A bit... lost.

Well, you can ordain over there, whenever you like. Go to a temple, shave your head, your brows, don the robe. I ordained in a temple in Phrae – that’s in the north. A forest temple. I’d wake at three, pray, chant, meditate, sweep the sala – that's where you pray – sweep the path. Eat one meal a day at 11 – huge meal, that the locals would provide – they do it to earn merit, you see. I planned to stay three months, the whole summer. Ended up staying until the following summer. I still speak a little Thai. Yahk ja poot dee gwah, der seeung soong seeung dtum yahk mahk. She looks at me in a way I haven’t been looked at in a long time. You are full of surprises, she says, and the light is casting shadows on her shallow folds, on the sheets. I think that might be nicest thing I’ve had said to me for many a year.

Our corpse is ready to go: so ready he’s impatient. My make-up’s going to smudge under these lights, he’s saying, can we get a move on? Can we get a move on! I yell. Our cadaver is getting impatient! He gives me the ‘alright smartarse’ eyes. He’s not so bad, as corpses go.

We play the scene straight, not for laughs. The second corpse of the episode, and this one seems to be the icing on the cake. Alright, I say, alright. I hated his stinking guts. He killed my son, I know he did – even if not by his hand, he drove him to it. But I’m no killer! She, the detective, seems to believe me. I’m not sure if she’s meant to – if her character’s meant to – find I can't quite remember the script. But the lines find their way out, and I find my way into her driver's car, and the lines and walls and people of the location fall away behind us.

Only, it isn’t her car – it’s my wife's. The woman playing my wife’s. A thick and heavy silence, scored by the soft thrum of the German engine. So that's your last day is it? she says finally, working her fingers in her lap, the driver silent in front. ‘Fraid so. You'll have to muddle on without me. I see, she says, bitterness falling into her voice. No – that wasn’t... I didn’t mean it like that. But it’s too late – she’s gazing out at the black quilt. I think you’ll find I’m quite adept at ‘muddling along.’

I didn’t mean that, I say. Putting a hand on her skirted knee. She allows it, remains staring out at the patterns in the darkness. There’s always a corpse, isn’t there, she says eventually. At least one, I say. And the journey seems alright then: the German engine, my hand on her knee, the two of us gazing into darkness.

Chris Neilan is an award-winning author, screenwriter and filmmaker.  He was shortlisted for the 2016 Sundance Screenwriters Lab, and was awarded 2nd place for Short Fiction in the 2017 Bridport Prize.  His prose has been published in the Bridport Prize anthology, One For The Road, Fur-Lined Ghettos and The Pointed Circle, and he is currently working on his first collection of short fiction, his second novel, and several narrative and documentary film projects.  He also created and co-hosts the podcast Two Minute Stories, and is the founder of Gor Gai Films.