Carpet was a bitch to carry, it chafed his shoulder and his legs were soon hurting under the weight of it. But it was the best way to stop any of the blood from dripping onto the ground as he took the body down to the bank. It was nightfall, his vision getting accustomed to the dull oranges and dark blues. He walked down street after street, shaking on his legs. He swore, wiping his face and resettled the heavy load across his shoulder.
Finally, he came to the river bank and allowed the body to hit the muddied bank. He sighed and unhooked the spade from his back. He dug it in once before he realised he was not alone. Behind him was another man standing stock still. The stranger was surveying him with as much surprise as he was him. The stranger was covered in blood, a spade of his own in his hands.
He huffed, “do you mind giving me a hand with this?”
The stranger looked between the thick rolled carpet and his own bloodied spade before coming up to help him dig.