by Justin Mccauley

Created on: December 10, 2008   Last Updated: December 16, 2008

Excerpt From The Novel 'Punch'

He felt dirty. Underneath his nails. In his eyes. In his hair. It was everywhere. The blood and mud caked every pore. He took the shovel out of the car. He'd have to clean it out tomorrow. God knows forensics were clever these days. He should never have used the family car but it was great cover. The police would never check the Volvo. It was Tracey's pride and joy. She called it 'Lola'. She took the kids football in it. Did the shopping in it. Drove her mum round to flower arranging and bingo in it. She would have a fit if she knew there had been a dead man in the back.

He put the shovel behind the other garden tools at the back of the garage. He would put it in the truck tomorrow and swap it with one on the building site. The police would never be able to trace it back to him. They should have used an acid bath or a piggery but the chemists were in with the cops now. You bought too much of this or that and they were on to you. They were watching the pig farms too. Ever since Guy Ritchie had mentioned it in his film, every wannabe gangster was dumping bodies off at pig farms. It was getting to be like a traffic jam at the bacon factory. So the pigs were watching the pigs. He thought that was funny.

The door flung open and his youngest son Samson came running in followed by their beloved Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Bob. Samson was seven. He clawed at his Dad while the dog tried to hump his leg.

"Cor what's that smell Dad?"

His little pale face, red with exertion, looked up at him with adulation. The dog was going nuts. He tried to shoo it away but it kept on trying to mate with his trousers. He pushed Bob gently away with his leg. He didn't want to hurt the thing. It was just the smell.

"Chicken poo Sam. I've been helping your Uncle Bernie put some on his pagonias."

"He's what Dad?"

"Some flowers son. Some flowers."

He tussled his son's hair with his right hand.

"Aw gedoff Dad! You stink!"

"It's alright son. Its only poo."

"Dad is a stinky poo!"

He pointed at his Dad as only seven year-olds can and ran screaming through the side door into the house.

"Mum! Dad is a stinky poo!"

He smiled to himself as his son repeated the mantra over and over again. Tracey was going to be annoyed. She would ask him why they hadn't used the truck and he would have to explain to her again that the company wouldn't let him use it for private use. Mind you, he did stink but not from chicken manure. This was bog mod. Essex bog mud. From deep within the marshes that

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