“You can turn this shit off,” demands Charlie from the passenger seat, pointing to the car stereo.

“What shit? The music?” Brent replies.

“Yes the bloody music, if that’s what you call it. I call it shit.”

“Shit? Shit? This ain’t shit,” says Brent, immediately on the defensive. “This is Cypress Hill.”

Charlie gives him a shrug before coming back with: “I don’t care who the fuck it is, just turn the cunting thing off. It’s three o’clock in the morning and we’re lost on the pissing moors and I fancy a bit of quiet, alright?”

With a huff Brent ejects the tape and switches off the stereo. “Alright,” he says. “God you’re a bloody miserable bastard.”

For a while they drive through the dark in silence. Charlie, the eldest of the two, stares blankly at the map, which he can’t even see, and wouldn’t understand if he could. Brent just keeps the car moving steadily on the road they’re on, hoping it is traveling in the right direction.

“I think we should’ve taken that right,” says Charlie all of a sudden.

“What right? We haven’t passed any turn-offs for miles, man.”

“We just passed one, and I think that you should’ve taken it. On the map it shows a right turn we have to take and that fucker could’ve been it.”

“There was no right turn there. We’re on the road home now. This is the way we came, I recognise the area.” Brent’s voice is sounding stressed.

“How can you recognise anything, it’s impossible to see more than a couple of feet in front of the car this fog is so fucking thick. And you never noticed that turn-off did you?”

Charlie didn’t realise that he was shouting until he saw Brent wipe spit from his cheek.

“There was no fucking turn off Charlie, now will you fucking leave it,” Brent snaps back at his accomplice. Then, feeling a little guilty for shouting at the older man he says.

“We’ll be home soon, I know it. Why don’t you try and get some sleep.”

Charlie throws the map into the back and, sighing, throws himself back in his seat.

“I can’t sleep, this bastard is uncomfortable,” he says to Brent after a bit of fidgeting. “I can’t believe you brought a Saxo on a job like this. We hardly look like professionals in a bloody Saxo do we?”

“Look I told you, my Jag’s in the garage ‘til tomorrow afternoon. This is Julie’s car.” Brent explains to Charlie for the fourth time today, and sounding a little agitated. “Besides I don’t hear our fare complaining, do you?”

Looking at the corpse in the backseat Charlie replies, “Well, no. But he is dead, Brent. Try not to forget that.”

“Of course I won’t forget that. I’m not a goldfish. I just hope that the bastard isn’t bleeding all over my backseat; Julie‘ll go barmy.”

“Well we could have put him in the boot if you’d have brought a car big enough. There’s no way a sixteen stone guy like that is fitting into the boot of a Saxo. They were designed to accommodate little hairdryers, you know. A hairdresser’s car, a Saxo. Is your missus a hairdresser, Brent?”

Brent slams on the brakes bringing the car skidding to a stop in the middle of the road. “Look,” he says, turning to Charlie. “I know that the size of this vehicle is a bit inappropriate for our mission, but can you please shut the fuck up? You’re doing my head in, man. It’s after three in the morning and we’re lost somewhere on the pissing moors and now I fancy a bit of quiet, alright?”

Charlie chooses not to reply. Instead he turns to look out the window at the enveloping darkness. He obviously has the tit on.

“Right, thank you,” Brent says as he takes his foot off the brake and they continue on their way. The silence that surrounds them becomes loud and uncomfortable, but in Brent’s opinion it is still better than listening to Charlie whinge about everything.

After about fifteen minutes the silence in the car is interrupted by a noise from the back seat. A groan. Charlie instantly sits up and rotates his head to look into the back. He says to Brent: “Did you just hear that?”

“Yes I did. Of course I bloody did. I thought that the fucker was dead,” he replies, sounding a little panicked.

“Well yeah, so did I,” says Charlie. “I mean, he was, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know, you shot him, not me.”

“Well, he looked dead, didn‘t he?”

“Looked dead? Looked? I thought that you was supposed to be a bloody professional, man. You should have checked. You should fucking know.”

Another groan.

“He’s groaned again, Brent. Did you hear that?” Charlie says, sounding a little worried.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s groaned again. Dead people don’t groan. You shot him in the fucking head, Charlie. You shot him in the fucking head, and he’s still fucking groaning.”

“I know,” says Charlie. “Twice.”

“Twice,” Brent repeats as he drives on, shaking his head. Charlie simply stares at the groaning man in the back. Then he reaches down and grabs his gun.

“Shall I shoot him again?”

“No,” shouts Brent in a panic. “Not in Julie’s car man, she’ll fucking kill me. Besides, what good can it do? You’ve already shot the fucker in the head. Twice. He’s obviously indestructible or something. A survivor.”

“I haven’t got any bullets left anyway,” says Charlie putting his gun away.

Brent turns to face him in disbelief. “What do you mean you haven’t got any bullets left? What kind of a person only brings two bullets on a job like this?”

“Look, you brought a fucking Saxo so don‘t moan at me,” he shouts back. “Besides, what kind of a person survives two bullets, man?”

“Hit him with it. Now, go on, hit him with the gun, just in case,” says Brent, eager to end this uneasy situation. “Then we’ll pull over and bury him somewhere. Go on, man, don’t just fucking stare at me, hit the bastard!”

“Calm down,” Charlie says to him. “Don’t panic, he’s still quite dead. He’s just sitting there again now, looking dead. I think it might have passed. Just his body reacting to his demise or something, like when chickens…”

“I don’t give a fuck just smack him really hard in the face will you!” Brent screams at Charlie.

Caught off guard by Brent’s girly screaming Charlie shrugs his shoulders, picks up his gun and smashes the butt into the groaning man’s face. The man groans.

“There now, does that make you feel better? He’s groaned again.”

“Again?” Brent is slowly shaking his head in disbelief, while Charlie hits the man again. “No,” says Brent. “Not hit him again, I mean how can he groan again? He’s supposed to be fucking dead. I don’t fucking believe this, Charlie. This can’t be happening. Come on, let’s bury the bastard right now.”

The Saxo speeds to a stop at the side of the road, finding a rather conveniently placed lay-by, and the pair jump out. Deciding that from now on he would carry his gun in his jacket, just in case he needs the butt again, Charlie puts it there. From the passenger side he opens the rear door, standing well back to avoid any rebellion from the should-be-dead man. Nothing happens.

“Come on,” he says. “Lets get this fucker into the woods.”

Together they haul the man out of the car and dump him on the dirty ground while they gather breath.

“God, he’s a fat fucker ain’t he. I can see this being fun.” Brent says to his accomplice.

“Come on you puff, grab his feet,” responds Charlie, lifting the guy‘s arms. “He won’t walk himself into the middle of these woods you know.”

“I know,” says Brent, taking the feet.

Struggling slightly they manage to get the body over an old wall made loosely of brick and slate. Getting themselves over proves a little more difficult though. Charlie goes first and is doing fine until the point where he is mounted on the wall with one leg at either side. Then he stops.

“Brent, I’m stuck,” he says. Then after a bit of jiggling his face turns red and the big man shouts: “Oh fuck, one of my balls is trapped on a sharp rock!”

A little more subtle, careful jiggling and Charlie’s mug is all screwed up in pain. Then, with an “Aw fuck!” he throws himself over, kamikaze style, and takes half of the wall with him. Once grounded he rolls about in the dirt, hands covering his crushed testicles as if to protect them from anymore punishment. He is crying. With a slight grin Brent hops up onto the now rather small wall and then hops off the other side.

“Are you alright, mate?” he asks Charlie, who replies with a whimper. Looking at his friend who is still holding his nuts and rolling around in the dirt Brent can’t help but burst into laughter.

“Stop laughing. Stop fucking laughing you cunt,” shouts Charlie from the ground. “This shit is fucking painful.”

“Well it’s a good job you don’t need to use them, ain’t it,” Charlie shouts back, now laughing his tits off. “

With a growl Charlie jumps to his knees and punches Brent square in the bollocks. With a loud, almost terrifying scream Brent drops to his knees and now uses his hands to cover and protect his own balls. Feeling slightly better from this, Charlie manages to laugh. Feeling much, much worse than he did, Brent starts to cry. The role reversal doesn’t last though and pretty soon both men collapse into fits of hysteria, laughing and crying at the same time; crying at their own pain but laughing at the other’s.

Then, in a much-needed moment of clarity, Charlie remembers their task. Pulling himself together he looks over at Brent, who is still withering on the ground, and just about holds back another chuckle. “Come on,” he says in a calming voice. “We are not just here to have a bit of fun y‘know, we’ve got a body to bury.”

The wind rises and both men feel a chill. Finally on his feet Brent takes hold of the dead man’s arms. Lifting the feet, Charlie informs his partner “We’ll take it a few hundred metres into the woods and then you can come back for the shovel.”

Hearing this Brent instantly lets go of the arms, dropping the man on his head and bringing a “Ooh, careful!” from Charlie.

“What do you mean I’ll come back for the fucking shovel? Why can’t you come back for it?” Brent asks Charlie.

“Why can’t you come back for the fucking shovel? One of us has to. Besides, I’m older than you.” Charlie replies. “You’re younger, fresher, more able.”

“Well why don’t we both come back for the fucker then? Save arguments.”

“Don’t be stupid, Brent. What’s the point in us both coming back when it only takes one? What’s the matter? Are you scared or something?”

Brent takes a quick, worried look around him. “Course not. But, y’know, it’s dark as fuck, man.” Another look around; “What if I get lost or something? What if I get lost in that fucking jungle?”

“Jungle? Well what if we both get lost? If one of us stays with the body then you can shout to me if you get lost in the…jungle,” he smirks to himself before adding: “Now come on, quit bitching, it’ll be light in a couple of hours.”

Brent picks up the arms again and they struggle off into the forest with the heavy corpse. The white, bare trees give off a very eerie glow in the moonlight, and nothing can be heard for crunching leaves under their every footstep. And the wind, the perpetual wind blowing and gushing in every direction, in and out of their ears, with a frosty bite.

The battle is fought in silence. They wrestle the man about two hundred metres into the woods and then lay him down on the dry, crunchy leaves. Both men are panting heavily, and beads of sweat coat their foreheads. They aren’t used to this much exercise, being criminals and not athletes.

“Right,” says Charlie, puffing and spitting. “You go back for the shovels, I’ll sit here and try to light a fag.”

“Oh yeah, cheers,” replies Brent with drop of sarcasm, before reluctantly starting off at a jogging pace back toward the car.

Charlie chuckles, then sputters, and then coughs up a bit more phlegm before ending his set by spitting it out. He pops a cigarette into his mouth and it is immediately snatched away by the wind. He pops in another and the same happens again. On the third attempt he gets clever and bites it between his teeth. He takes out his lighter and tries to light the end, but in the wind it fails to create a flame. Giving up as a bad job he pockets the lighter and releases his grip on the cigarette so it blows away, after it’s brothers.

Now feeling a little naughty and mischievous, and sensing Brent returning pretty soon, Charlie quickly gathers up a load of leaves and covers the body with it. Then, seeing Brent’s silhouette jogging toward him, he slowly makes his way towards it waving his arms in the air.

“Charlie…” Brent calls to him.

“Is that you Brent?”

“Of course it fucking is who else would it be?”

“He’s gone!” Charlie shouts back in reply, filling his voice with false horror.

“What the fuck do you mean he’s gone?”

“What the fuck do you think I mean? He’s gone. He just got up and ran off. I nearly shit myself”

Now close enough to see each other in detail, Charlie says: “Come on, look.” He leads Brent to the spot where they laid down the body. The ground was just full of leaves, and not much else.

Brent looks around, eyes glued to the floor, muttering “I can’t fucking believe this. What the fuck do you have to do to kill someone around here?”

Seeing Brent’s horrified expression is enough for Charlie and he cracks out into laughter. “I’m only kidding you, man. I covered him with a few leaves, that’s all. He’s right here. Fuck, man, you should have seen your face though. That was great.”

“You fucking cunt, Charlie. For fuck’s sake I can’t fucking believe that you’ve just bastard fucking done that! Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack,” Brent raves at Charlie.

“I can’t fucking believe you. Shit!”

Thinking that maybe he pushed his partner too far, Charlie apologises and starts brushing his hands through the leaves in search of something solid but still slightly soft, a recent corpse for example. Brent looks on, shaking his head. Then he continues with his offensive, though in a much calmer tone than before.

“You’re a knob, Charlie. A big one. Do you know how much a knob you are? You’re fucking enormous, man, bigger than you could ever imagine. A huge, gigantic prick, that’s what you are, with shining bells on,” he pauses as he realises that Charlie is still looking for the body, his face showing sickly white concern in the moonlight. “You’ve lost it, haven’t you? You’ve lost the fucking body. You fucking cock man.”

“All right, all-fucking-right,” Charlie stands up to defend himself.

“Dick.”

“Ok then, you’ve made your point. I’ve lost him. Now are you going to help me find him, or are you going to stand there until the sun comes up thinking of every alternative to the word penis like you’re a fucking dick thesaurus? Why don’t you pass me the shovel you went to the car for and we’ll scrape back the…where is the shovel anyway?”

Brent jumps into the air and smacks himself in the face with his hand. “Fuck,” he shouts. “I forgot to tell you man, with you winding me up like that it slipped from my mind. The fucking car’s gone!”

Charlie looks Brent deep in the eyes in a very suspicious fashion, trying to work out whether he’s bullshitting or not. After being so smug about hiding the body he doesn’t want to fall for a similar prank. That would be embarrassing. Brent stares back at him, eyes wide open, waiting patiently for Charlie to stop analysing him and get on with it.

“Are you sure that the car is gone, Brent?” Charlie finally says in a cold voice. “We haven’t got time for fucking about now, lad.”

“Charlie I’m telling you,” replies Brent. “Swear to God the car isn’t there no more. I went back and it was gone. No trace of it. Like it was never there, man.”

Still looking suspiciously at his accomplice Charlie decides that they should go back and check. Brent is eager to go too, but he just wants out of the forest, and so they trek back to the car.

When they reach the lay-by a few minutes later Charlie discovers for himself that the car has indeed, as Brent said, gone. Charlie is pretty stressed out now, and is pacing over the space where the Saxo had been left. Brent is stood off to one side, where he’d be standing waiting to open the driver’s door if the car were still here like it should be.

“Where the fuck has it gone?” Charlie shouts at Brent.

“I don’t fucking know, man. It must have been nicked or something.”

“Nicked? Who’s going to nick a car off the fucking moors at five o’clock in the morning in the middle of fucking winter, Brent? You stupid bastard,” Charlie shouts.

“I don’t know, someone who is cold and has a long way to travel, maybe,” he replies, and then before Charlie can react says: “Anyway, it’s my fucking car.”

“I don’t give a fuck whose car it is, or was, insurance will cover that shit. All I give a fuck about is getting home. It‘s freezing man.”

From down the road an approaching car can be heard. Both men are instantly attracted to the sound; they’re turned on and uplifted by it. A car represents hope, even if it is traveling in the wrong direction to home. Silently they both step slowly forward, into the road, never taking their eyes off the patch of darkness from where the sound is coming. The humming gets louder and louder and as it does, Charlie and Brent stare harder into the darkness.

Suddenly a small car leaps out of the darkness, without headlights, and straight into Charlie, not stopping until it hits the wall, crushing the big fella in the middle. Brent doesn’t move, he’s in too much shock. After a few seconds he rotates his head to see the mess. Charlie is as dead as dead gets. His insides are all over the car bonnet and his head hangs limply onto his right shoulder, with thick blood pouring from his mouth. Then, snapping out of his trance, Brent realises that the car is a Saxo. He looks down to the license plate and starts moving slowly toward the vehicle. “Fuck,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks. “That‘s my car!”

The driver’s door springs open and a foot steps out. Then very slowly a figure climbs the car. It appears to be a man, about seven feet tall, wearing some kind of hooded top. His face is hidden behind a decorator’s dust mask and sunglasses.

Brent nervously steps back. He wants to run but is frozen with fear.

“Who are you?” he asks. The man doesn’t respond, instead he stares back at Brent, who is getting more and more scared by the moment. After a few seconds the man swiftly strides over to Brent and smacks him in the head. Doing nothing to protect himself Brent collapses face down, with his head in the mud. Nothing happens for a couple of seconds, allowing Brent a little breathing time before plucking up the courage to roll onto his back. He does so and there he sees the large shadowy figure, stood over him with a steel bat. Without saying a word the man bashes Brent’s head into the ground and repeats the motion until it explodes all over the lay-by.