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I wrote this just randomly, and felt like getting some feedback, so, here I am...
***
‘Days’
Three days passed before they found the body. Three of the hottest days on record, so it was no surprise when Mrs. Jenkins noticed a strange and somewhat putrid smell on the Saturday. She had been curious for the last couple of days as to what had happened to Mr. Iverson, he hadn’t been seen around the village for a while. She walked up the quaint little path which was surrounded by a nicely trimmed lawn, and knocked on the turquoise front door. The paint was flaking slightly – she’d have to tell Mr. Iverson about that.
About a minute had passed since she had first knocked on the door, and there had been no reply. Probably on the ‘phone, she remarked to herself, as she knocked again, this time slightly harder.
Another minute or so went by – probably a really important conversation, Mrs. Jenkins thought to herself. She took a couple of steps back to see if any of the windows had been left open. None of them were even ajar. Mrs. Jenkins then had a thought - but then she saw Mr. Iverson’s car in front of the garage, so he had to be indoors. The odour wasn’t THAT much of a problem, after all, so she walked back down that garden path and returned to her house. She was trying to clear up in preparation for a meeting of her local book club, and would have to check on Mr. Iverson later.
Reverend Adams had just left the church after giving a sermon, which had been particularly difficult, what with the extremely hot weather. He’d be grateful for a nice cold drink once he got home, but the cycle ride home wasn’t looking too pleasing. He changed from his warmth-attracting black robes into something more friendly in these conditions and hopped onto his bicycle.
The uneven roads of the village always provided an interesting ride home, not least in the different wounds that it provided to his body. Today was worse than usual, of course, as the glaring sunlight was causing him to squint, which put him in some danger at times. He was about three streets away from his house when he remembered that he had to talk to Mr. Iverson about something for the forthcoming summer fete; Mr. Iverson has said he would talk after the sermon two days before, but he hadn’t made it. He turned right down Mackerel Avenue at soon found himself outside Mr. Iverson’s house. As he walked down that particularly narrow path, he rapped at the blue front door. It’s not like Mr. Iverson to leave his front door paint unprotected against the heat, he thought to himself, while waiting for Mr. Iverson to answer the door. 30 seconds after first knocking the door, the Reverend tried again. But still there was no answer. Curious by this silence, Adams gingerly stepped onto Mr. Iverson’s lawn to look through the window – he was sure to get a word or two from Mr. Iverson for disturbing the growth of the grass, or some other gardener’s reason.
He was surprised to see the sitting room was completely bereft of life – the television and radio were both turned off, and the light which usually illuminated the small trophy cabinet also wasn’t on. He noticed that Mr. Iverson’s car was still on the drive, so he had to be inside, certainly. This baking heat was starting to bother Reverend Adams, so he thought it best to come back later.
Len looked at his watch: quarter past one. Tom was a good 15 minutes late. Strange, thought Len, he’s never late. He had also missed the previous evening’s bridge game, which was very unlike him. Thoroughly perplexed, slightly worried, Len got in the car and set off for 12 Mackerel Avenue.
It only took him about 3 minutes to get to Tom’s house – those damned road works had finally packed up and gone. Stopping outside the house, he got out and was immediately shocked by the difference in heat. It was like walking into an oven. Blimey, that’s quite the smell coming from Tom’s house – that better not be his cooking, Len thought, chuckling to himself. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and said a quick ‘hello’ before striding up the path and knocking on the green door. He stroked the back of his hand against the door, causing some of the flaking paint to come off. He won’t like that, Len mused.
Quickly rubbing any incriminating evidence from his hand, Len became slightly impatient with his friend. He knocked again, continuously for about 10 seconds, but no response came.
“Come on Tom! Open up! It’s Len!” he cried out. He was becoming irritated by Tom’s refusal to answer him, and the heat was only compounding the problem. That smell was really foul by now, too. “Ah, to heck with you!” he shouted, retreating to his car. I’ll have to give him a ring later if he’s in one of these moods, he told himself.
The lorry wasn’t really helping Vince as much as it should – the air conditioning was having about as much effect on the heat problem as a toddler punching a wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked at his notes. His next visit was to be paid to a Mr. Thomas Iverson, at 12 Mackerel Road. Owed £7,930. Dear me, thought Vince, I don’t think I’ll be seeing all that today. Nevertheless, he pulled up the lorry just outside the house, where another car was just leaving. He quickly put his foot on the accelerator to give chase, thinking it was Iverson, but then saw another car on the driveway of 12 Mackerel Avenue.
He got out, but as soon as he got out, it felt as though he was walking underwater, so thick was the air. He grabbed his clipboard, shut the door to the lorry and walked up to the front door, knocking on it quickly.
“Mr. Iverson, I believe you owe some money!” cried Vince. A distasteful stench also came to his attention at that time, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He rubbed his eyes slightly and knocked again, harder this time. “Come on, Mr. Iverson, I know you’re in there! Let’s just settle this, OK?” His voice bellowed around the street, attracting some attention and drawing residents out of their homes. He looked around, but was used to having people watch him at work by now. Still no reply. Partially exhausted by the heat, he decided he wasn’t going to muck around. He stood back, waited a few more seconds for some sort of response from Iverson, and kicked down the door. It almost fell off it’s hinges, allowing Vince to quickly get into the house. “Mr. Iverson, let’s just talk about this!” Vince bellowed, but still Iverson said nothing.
Vince looked in the living room, the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, but still he couldn’t find him. He leapt up the stairs and saw a closed door at the end of the landing. It was even hotter up here than before, and the stench was almost unbearable. He approached the door, shielding his nose, and banged on the wood.
“Mr. Iverson, just come out and we can settle all this,” he said, quieter than last time. Still, Iverson would say nothing. He had lost all his patience – he kicked down the door.
Vince went down the stairs and stepped out of the front door.
“We’ve got a problem here,” he cried, motioning for others to follow him inside. Three days had passed, before they finally found the body.
***
‘Days’
Three days passed before they found the body. Three of the hottest days on record, so it was no surprise when Mrs. Jenkins noticed a strange and somewhat putrid smell on the Saturday. She had been curious for the last couple of days as to what had happened to Mr. Iverson, he hadn’t been seen around the village for a while. She walked up the quaint little path which was surrounded by a nicely trimmed lawn, and knocked on the turquoise front door. The paint was flaking slightly – she’d have to tell Mr. Iverson about that.
About a minute had passed since she had first knocked on the door, and there had been no reply. Probably on the ‘phone, she remarked to herself, as she knocked again, this time slightly harder.
Another minute or so went by – probably a really important conversation, Mrs. Jenkins thought to herself. She took a couple of steps back to see if any of the windows had been left open. None of them were even ajar. Mrs. Jenkins then had a thought - but then she saw Mr. Iverson’s car in front of the garage, so he had to be indoors. The odour wasn’t THAT much of a problem, after all, so she walked back down that garden path and returned to her house. She was trying to clear up in preparation for a meeting of her local book club, and would have to check on Mr. Iverson later.
Reverend Adams had just left the church after giving a sermon, which had been particularly difficult, what with the extremely hot weather. He’d be grateful for a nice cold drink once he got home, but the cycle ride home wasn’t looking too pleasing. He changed from his warmth-attracting black robes into something more friendly in these conditions and hopped onto his bicycle.
The uneven roads of the village always provided an interesting ride home, not least in the different wounds that it provided to his body. Today was worse than usual, of course, as the glaring sunlight was causing him to squint, which put him in some danger at times. He was about three streets away from his house when he remembered that he had to talk to Mr. Iverson about something for the forthcoming summer fete; Mr. Iverson has said he would talk after the sermon two days before, but he hadn’t made it. He turned right down Mackerel Avenue at soon found himself outside Mr. Iverson’s house. As he walked down that particularly narrow path, he rapped at the blue front door. It’s not like Mr. Iverson to leave his front door paint unprotected against the heat, he thought to himself, while waiting for Mr. Iverson to answer the door. 30 seconds after first knocking the door, the Reverend tried again. But still there was no answer. Curious by this silence, Adams gingerly stepped onto Mr. Iverson’s lawn to look through the window – he was sure to get a word or two from Mr. Iverson for disturbing the growth of the grass, or some other gardener’s reason.
He was surprised to see the sitting room was completely bereft of life – the television and radio were both turned off, and the light which usually illuminated the small trophy cabinet also wasn’t on. He noticed that Mr. Iverson’s car was still on the drive, so he had to be inside, certainly. This baking heat was starting to bother Reverend Adams, so he thought it best to come back later.
Len looked at his watch: quarter past one. Tom was a good 15 minutes late. Strange, thought Len, he’s never late. He had also missed the previous evening’s bridge game, which was very unlike him. Thoroughly perplexed, slightly worried, Len got in the car and set off for 12 Mackerel Avenue.
It only took him about 3 minutes to get to Tom’s house – those damned road works had finally packed up and gone. Stopping outside the house, he got out and was immediately shocked by the difference in heat. It was like walking into an oven. Blimey, that’s quite the smell coming from Tom’s house – that better not be his cooking, Len thought, chuckling to himself. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and said a quick ‘hello’ before striding up the path and knocking on the green door. He stroked the back of his hand against the door, causing some of the flaking paint to come off. He won’t like that, Len mused.
Quickly rubbing any incriminating evidence from his hand, Len became slightly impatient with his friend. He knocked again, continuously for about 10 seconds, but no response came.
“Come on Tom! Open up! It’s Len!” he cried out. He was becoming irritated by Tom’s refusal to answer him, and the heat was only compounding the problem. That smell was really foul by now, too. “Ah, to heck with you!” he shouted, retreating to his car. I’ll have to give him a ring later if he’s in one of these moods, he told himself.
The lorry wasn’t really helping Vince as much as it should – the air conditioning was having about as much effect on the heat problem as a toddler punching a wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked at his notes. His next visit was to be paid to a Mr. Thomas Iverson, at 12 Mackerel Road. Owed £7,930. Dear me, thought Vince, I don’t think I’ll be seeing all that today. Nevertheless, he pulled up the lorry just outside the house, where another car was just leaving. He quickly put his foot on the accelerator to give chase, thinking it was Iverson, but then saw another car on the driveway of 12 Mackerel Avenue.
He got out, but as soon as he got out, it felt as though he was walking underwater, so thick was the air. He grabbed his clipboard, shut the door to the lorry and walked up to the front door, knocking on it quickly.
“Mr. Iverson, I believe you owe some money!” cried Vince. A distasteful stench also came to his attention at that time, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He rubbed his eyes slightly and knocked again, harder this time. “Come on, Mr. Iverson, I know you’re in there! Let’s just settle this, OK?” His voice bellowed around the street, attracting some attention and drawing residents out of their homes. He looked around, but was used to having people watch him at work by now. Still no reply. Partially exhausted by the heat, he decided he wasn’t going to muck around. He stood back, waited a few more seconds for some sort of response from Iverson, and kicked down the door. It almost fell off it’s hinges, allowing Vince to quickly get into the house. “Mr. Iverson, let’s just talk about this!” Vince bellowed, but still Iverson said nothing.
Vince looked in the living room, the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, but still he couldn’t find him. He leapt up the stairs and saw a closed door at the end of the landing. It was even hotter up here than before, and the stench was almost unbearable. He approached the door, shielding his nose, and banged on the wood.
“Mr. Iverson, just come out and we can settle all this,” he said, quieter than last time. Still, Iverson would say nothing. He had lost all his patience – he kicked down the door.
Vince went down the stairs and stepped out of the front door.
“We’ve got a problem here,” he cried, motioning for others to follow him inside. Three days had passed, before they finally found the body.
Hmm - don't know about aliases, seems as everyone knew him by the same name.
... but if I have to fill in the blanks I would imagine him dead, inverted on an X, like in the Messiah video I've just watched (I wish I could write death scenes like that).
Razor blade in the bath is so old hat now :)
... but if I have to fill in the blanks I would imagine him dead, inverted on an X, like in the Messiah video I've just watched (I wish I could write death scenes like that).
Razor blade in the bath is so old hat now :)
Pleasant - that's the way...
I think I was a bit bogged-eyed this morning when I read it, and probably missed a few of the subtleties, but I see what you mean, and I agree that sometimes it's best to leave details out so the reader's imagination can fill in the blanks.
Now I'm visualizing poor Mr.Iverson pale naked body submerged in red bath water with a razor blade floating on the surface...
Now I'm visualizing poor Mr.Iverson pale naked body submerged in red bath water with a razor blade floating on the surface...
Black Glove wrote:
> Nicely written and set up, but I was slightly underwhelmed by the
> ending. I was expecting something more gruesome or mysterious -
> perhaps that the old man had been murdered or something. But maybe
> that's just me, always looking for the dark twist...
Yeah, I know what you mean, but the essence to this, I thought, was not knowing the full facts anyway... I really wanted the reader to establish how one man could come to be known as different aliases to different people, and what sort of man this guy was - also, I wanted to leave it to the imagination as to what fate had befallen Mr. Iverson, as someone's imagination could be more harrowing than my words.
> Nicely written and set up, but I was slightly underwhelmed by the
> ending. I was expecting something more gruesome or mysterious -
> perhaps that the old man had been murdered or something. But maybe
> that's just me, always looking for the dark twist...
Yeah, I know what you mean, but the essence to this, I thought, was not knowing the full facts anyway... I really wanted the reader to establish how one man could come to be known as different aliases to different people, and what sort of man this guy was - also, I wanted to leave it to the imagination as to what fate had befallen Mr. Iverson, as someone's imagination could be more harrowing than my words.
Good story.
Nicely written and set up, but I was slightly underwhelmed by the ending. I was expecting something more gruesome or mysterious - perhaps that the old man had been murdered or something. But maybe that's just me, always looking for the dark twist...
I wrote this just randomly, and felt like getting some feedback, so, here I am...
***
‘Days’
Three days passed before they found the body. Three of the hottest days on record, so it was no surprise when Mrs. Jenkins noticed a strange and somewhat putrid smell on the Saturday. She had been curious for the last couple of days as to what had happened to Mr. Iverson, he hadn’t been seen around the village for a while. She walked up the quaint little path which was surrounded by a nicely trimmed lawn, and knocked on the turquoise front door. The paint was flaking slightly – she’d have to tell Mr. Iverson about that.
About a minute had passed since she had first knocked on the door, and there had been no reply. Probably on the ‘phone, she remarked to herself, as she knocked again, this time slightly harder.
Another minute or so went by – probably a really important conversation, Mrs. Jenkins thought to herself. She took a couple of steps back to see if any of the windows had been left open. None of them were even ajar. Mrs. Jenkins then had a thought - but then she saw Mr. Iverson’s car in front of the garage, so he had to be indoors. The odour wasn’t THAT much of a problem, after all, so she walked back down that garden path and returned to her house. She was trying to clear up in preparation for a meeting of her local book club, and would have to check on Mr. Iverson later.
Reverend Adams had just left the church after giving a sermon, which had been particularly difficult, what with the extremely hot weather. He’d be grateful for a nice cold drink once he got home, but the cycle ride home wasn’t looking too pleasing. He changed from his warmth-attracting black robes into something more friendly in these conditions and hopped onto his bicycle.
The uneven roads of the village always provided an interesting ride home, not least in the different wounds that it provided to his body. Today was worse than usual, of course, as the glaring sunlight was causing him to squint, which put him in some danger at times. He was about three streets away from his house when he remembered that he had to talk to Mr. Iverson about something for the forthcoming summer fete; Mr. Iverson has said he would talk after the sermon two days before, but he hadn’t made it. He turned right down Mackerel Avenue at soon found himself outside Mr. Iverson’s house. As he walked down that particularly narrow path, he rapped at the blue front door. It’s not like Mr. Iverson to leave his front door paint unprotected against the heat, he thought to himself, while waiting for Mr. Iverson to answer the door. 30 seconds after first knocking the door, the Reverend tried again. But still there was no answer. Curious by this silence, Adams gingerly stepped onto Mr. Iverson’s lawn to look through the window – he was sure to get a word or two from Mr. Iverson for disturbing the growth of the grass, or some other gardener’s reason.
He was surprised to see the sitting room was completely bereft of life – the television and radio were both turned off, and the light which usually illuminated the small trophy cabinet also wasn’t on. He noticed that Mr. Iverson’s car was still on the drive, so he had to be inside, certainly. This baking heat was starting to bother Reverend Adams, so he thought it best to come back later.
Len looked at his watch: quarter past one. Tom was a good 15 minutes late. Strange, thought Len, he’s never late. He had also missed the previous evening’s bridge game, which was very unlike him. Thoroughly perplexed, slightly worried, Len got in the car and set off for 12 Mackerel Avenue.
It only took him about 3 minutes to get to Tom’s house – those damned road works had finally packed up and gone. Stopping outside the house, he got out and was immediately shocked by the difference in heat. It was like walking into an oven. Blimey, that’s quite the smell coming from Tom’s house – that better not be his cooking, Len thought, chuckling to himself. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and said a quick ‘hello’ before striding up the path and knocking on the green door. He stroked the back of his hand against the door, causing some of the flaking paint to come off. He won’t like that, Len mused.
Quickly rubbing any incriminating evidence from his hand, Len became slightly impatient with his friend. He knocked again, continuously for about 10 seconds, but no response came.
“Come on Tom! Open up! It’s Len!” he cried out. He was becoming irritated by Tom’s refusal to answer him, and the heat was only compounding the problem. That smell was really foul by now, too. “Ah, to heck with you!” he shouted, retreating to his car. I’ll have to give him a ring later if he’s in one of these moods, he told himself.
The lorry wasn’t really helping Vince as much as it should – the air conditioning was having about as much effect on the heat problem as a toddler punching a wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked at his notes. His next visit was to be paid to a Mr. Thomas Iverson, at 12 Mackerel Road. Owed £7,930. Dear me, thought Vince, I don’t think I’ll be seeing all that today. Nevertheless, he pulled up the lorry just outside the house, where another car was just leaving. He quickly put his foot on the accelerator to give chase, thinking it was Iverson, but then saw another car on the driveway of 12 Mackerel Avenue.
He got out, but as soon as he got out, it felt as though he was walking underwater, so thick was the air. He grabbed his clipboard, shut the door to the lorry and walked up to the front door, knocking on it quickly.
“Mr. Iverson, I believe you owe some money!” cried Vince. A distasteful stench also came to his attention at that time, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He rubbed his eyes slightly and knocked again, harder this time. “Come on, Mr. Iverson, I know you’re in there! Let’s just settle this, OK?” His voice bellowed around the street, attracting some attention and drawing residents out of their homes. He looked around, but was used to having people watch him at work by now. Still no reply. Partially exhausted by the heat, he decided he wasn’t going to muck around. He stood back, waited a few more seconds for some sort of response from Iverson, and kicked down the door. It almost fell off it’s hinges, allowing Vince to quickly get into the house. “Mr. Iverson, let’s just talk about this!” Vince bellowed, but still Iverson said nothing.
Vince looked in the living room, the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, but still he couldn’t find him. He leapt up the stairs and saw a closed door at the end of the landing. It was even hotter up here than before, and the stench was almost unbearable. He approached the door, shielding his nose, and banged on the wood.
“Mr. Iverson, just come out and we can settle all this,” he said, quieter than last time. Still, Iverson would say nothing. He had lost all his patience – he kicked down the door.
Vince went down the stairs and stepped out of the front door.
“We’ve got a problem here,” he cried, motioning for others to follow him inside. Three days had passed, before they finally found the body.
***
‘Days’
Three days passed before they found the body. Three of the hottest days on record, so it was no surprise when Mrs. Jenkins noticed a strange and somewhat putrid smell on the Saturday. She had been curious for the last couple of days as to what had happened to Mr. Iverson, he hadn’t been seen around the village for a while. She walked up the quaint little path which was surrounded by a nicely trimmed lawn, and knocked on the turquoise front door. The paint was flaking slightly – she’d have to tell Mr. Iverson about that.
About a minute had passed since she had first knocked on the door, and there had been no reply. Probably on the ‘phone, she remarked to herself, as she knocked again, this time slightly harder.
Another minute or so went by – probably a really important conversation, Mrs. Jenkins thought to herself. She took a couple of steps back to see if any of the windows had been left open. None of them were even ajar. Mrs. Jenkins then had a thought - but then she saw Mr. Iverson’s car in front of the garage, so he had to be indoors. The odour wasn’t THAT much of a problem, after all, so she walked back down that garden path and returned to her house. She was trying to clear up in preparation for a meeting of her local book club, and would have to check on Mr. Iverson later.
Reverend Adams had just left the church after giving a sermon, which had been particularly difficult, what with the extremely hot weather. He’d be grateful for a nice cold drink once he got home, but the cycle ride home wasn’t looking too pleasing. He changed from his warmth-attracting black robes into something more friendly in these conditions and hopped onto his bicycle.
The uneven roads of the village always provided an interesting ride home, not least in the different wounds that it provided to his body. Today was worse than usual, of course, as the glaring sunlight was causing him to squint, which put him in some danger at times. He was about three streets away from his house when he remembered that he had to talk to Mr. Iverson about something for the forthcoming summer fete; Mr. Iverson has said he would talk after the sermon two days before, but he hadn’t made it. He turned right down Mackerel Avenue at soon found himself outside Mr. Iverson’s house. As he walked down that particularly narrow path, he rapped at the blue front door. It’s not like Mr. Iverson to leave his front door paint unprotected against the heat, he thought to himself, while waiting for Mr. Iverson to answer the door. 30 seconds after first knocking the door, the Reverend tried again. But still there was no answer. Curious by this silence, Adams gingerly stepped onto Mr. Iverson’s lawn to look through the window – he was sure to get a word or two from Mr. Iverson for disturbing the growth of the grass, or some other gardener’s reason.
He was surprised to see the sitting room was completely bereft of life – the television and radio were both turned off, and the light which usually illuminated the small trophy cabinet also wasn’t on. He noticed that Mr. Iverson’s car was still on the drive, so he had to be inside, certainly. This baking heat was starting to bother Reverend Adams, so he thought it best to come back later.
Len looked at his watch: quarter past one. Tom was a good 15 minutes late. Strange, thought Len, he’s never late. He had also missed the previous evening’s bridge game, which was very unlike him. Thoroughly perplexed, slightly worried, Len got in the car and set off for 12 Mackerel Avenue.
It only took him about 3 minutes to get to Tom’s house – those damned road works had finally packed up and gone. Stopping outside the house, he got out and was immediately shocked by the difference in heat. It was like walking into an oven. Blimey, that’s quite the smell coming from Tom’s house – that better not be his cooking, Len thought, chuckling to himself. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Parsons and said a quick ‘hello’ before striding up the path and knocking on the green door. He stroked the back of his hand against the door, causing some of the flaking paint to come off. He won’t like that, Len mused.
Quickly rubbing any incriminating evidence from his hand, Len became slightly impatient with his friend. He knocked again, continuously for about 10 seconds, but no response came.
“Come on Tom! Open up! It’s Len!” he cried out. He was becoming irritated by Tom’s refusal to answer him, and the heat was only compounding the problem. That smell was really foul by now, too. “Ah, to heck with you!” he shouted, retreating to his car. I’ll have to give him a ring later if he’s in one of these moods, he told himself.
The lorry wasn’t really helping Vince as much as it should – the air conditioning was having about as much effect on the heat problem as a toddler punching a wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked at his notes. His next visit was to be paid to a Mr. Thomas Iverson, at 12 Mackerel Road. Owed £7,930. Dear me, thought Vince, I don’t think I’ll be seeing all that today. Nevertheless, he pulled up the lorry just outside the house, where another car was just leaving. He quickly put his foot on the accelerator to give chase, thinking it was Iverson, but then saw another car on the driveway of 12 Mackerel Avenue.
He got out, but as soon as he got out, it felt as though he was walking underwater, so thick was the air. He grabbed his clipboard, shut the door to the lorry and walked up to the front door, knocking on it quickly.
“Mr. Iverson, I believe you owe some money!” cried Vince. A distasteful stench also came to his attention at that time, almost bringing tears to his eyes. He rubbed his eyes slightly and knocked again, harder this time. “Come on, Mr. Iverson, I know you’re in there! Let’s just settle this, OK?” His voice bellowed around the street, attracting some attention and drawing residents out of their homes. He looked around, but was used to having people watch him at work by now. Still no reply. Partially exhausted by the heat, he decided he wasn’t going to muck around. He stood back, waited a few more seconds for some sort of response from Iverson, and kicked down the door. It almost fell off it’s hinges, allowing Vince to quickly get into the house. “Mr. Iverson, let’s just talk about this!” Vince bellowed, but still Iverson said nothing.
Vince looked in the living room, the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, but still he couldn’t find him. He leapt up the stairs and saw a closed door at the end of the landing. It was even hotter up here than before, and the stench was almost unbearable. He approached the door, shielding his nose, and banged on the wood.
“Mr. Iverson, just come out and we can settle all this,” he said, quieter than last time. Still, Iverson would say nothing. He had lost all his patience – he kicked down the door.
Vince went down the stairs and stepped out of the front door.
“We’ve got a problem here,” he cried, motioning for others to follow him inside. Three days had passed, before they finally found the body.