Dead Bad Things (8 page)

  People.

  They were easy, really: simple. It had taken me decades to understand this, but recently I had begun to realise what made my fellow human beings tick. Previously I'd struggled with them, being more comfortable with the motives of the dead. Perhaps it meant that I was moving on, leaving something behind. Or maybe I was moving
towards
something, and this was all part of some metaphysical growth experience.

  Who knew? Not me, that was for certain. All I really knew was what I saw before me: the grubby, tragic, intriguing mess of the human race and the tattered reality they so desperately clung to – a reality that was as fragile as blown glass.

  So was that it? Had I suddenly, after all these years, learned how to feel pity?

  "There you go, deary. Enjoy." The waitress was back at my table already. She slid the plate in front of me, her chubby hand like a bloated claw. I blinked and it was just a hand again; reality deftly reasserted itself and I was able to look up and smile at the woman to express my gratitude. Then I looked back at my plate.

  Those tomatoes looked grand, and all philosophical thoughts aside, I was fucking
starving.

  The man at the counter ordered another fruit juice. He had a low voice; quiet and dignified. The old man with the racing form guide folded up his paper, stuck it under his arm, and went to the bathroom. He left his pencil on the table, where it slowly rolled off the laminated surface and onto the floor. The European women left the premises, still arguing, but even quieter than before. Only their hands could be considered loud as they hacked at the air, shouting with aggressive strokes and slashes.

  It struck me that I was very aware of what was going on around me, even more so than usual. It was my habit to fully engage with any situation in which I found myself. The fact that I saw ghosts everywhere, even when I wasn't looking, gave me a rather unique relationship to my surroundings. My knowledge of other states of existence, and other realities beyond the one we moved through, made me cling to earthly experiences like a child to the tit. The metaphor was crude, but it was effective: like mother's milk, the world I inhabited offered a kind of sustenance not available to me elsewhere.

  All this went through my mind as I gobbled up my fried tomatoes and started on the roll. The tastes were intense; it might just have been the best bacon and egg sandwich I had ever eaten.

  The room seemed to fill with breezy air, as if a silent wind had blown in from somewhere and settled over everything. No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like a layer of dust had drifted in through the door as the women had taken their leave and it now coated everything in a thin layer. The silence was almost unbearable. Previously there had been a radio playing at the rear of the café, but someone had switched it off. I could not even hear any conversation between the waitress and the cook. The air conditioner had gone silent. Passing traffic made no sound.

  The man at the counter was motionless, like a stone statue. His hands rested on the countertop and his feet were perched on the footrest of his stool. He was still staring dead ahead, as if lost in thought. It was difficult to see from where I was sitting, but from what little I could make out of the side of his face he didn't seem to blink. I watched for a while, intrigued, and his features remained still and expressionless.

  That was when I realised something was wrong.

  I dropped my sandwich onto the plate and turned my attention to the window. The street outside was empty: no pedestrians passed by, the road was clear of traffic. It was impossible; that street was the main road through the area, passing West Ham's football ground only a few hundred yards away, up the slight incline. Whatever the time of day or night, it was always jammed with vehicles.

  Then, as if trying to summon my attention, a phone began to ring. The sound was one of those annoyingly catchy and inevitably terrible mobile ring tones. I hate things like that; they are instantly obsolete and often plain embarrassing.

  The tune was coming from the counter – or, more precisely, from the man at the counter. The young man in the smart suit.

  I turned to face him, but still he had not moved. His hands were limp; his body was hunched, the spine curved. He didn't look comfortable.

  "Excuse me." My voice sounded thick, syrupy, like someone calling from a nightmare. I repeated the words: "Excuse me." Nothing. The young man did not move. "I'm sorry… your phone. It's ringing."

  It was as if the world were holding its breath, but as soon as I made this observation commotion flooded back in, filling the cafe. Sound and motion from the window caught my eye; I turned to look and everything had returned to normal. When I turned back to the young man he was reaching into his jacket pocket to take out his mobile phone. I watched in a kind of stunned dread as he removed the phone and brought it to his ear, flipping the lid as he did so. He pressed the small rectangle to the side of his face and spoke: "Hello."

  There was a moment then when I considered running. I knew the situation was wrong, that something weird was taking place, but what kept me there was the fact that I had not paid my bill. I'm nothing if not an honest customer. I didn't want the waitress to think I was a cheat.

  "What? Who is this? You'll have to speak up – I can't make it out." The young man's cultured voice grew louder; he was becoming irritated. "Sorry? Listen, I have no idea – who? What? Who is it you want?"

  I knew before he said it; to me, it was obvious. As certain as the seasons.

  "Who? Usher? What is that? Oh… what? Oh,
Thomas
Usher? No, never heard of him. I think you have the wrong number."

  I wish he had just hung up the phone, that he had put it back in his pocket and continued to drink his juice and think his idle thoughts. But he didn't. He kept on talking, expressing mild annoyance that someone was ringing him up to ask for a man whose name was unknown to him – a man who was, even now, standing and pushing back his chair.

  That man:

  Me.

  The call was meant for me.

  I walked away from the table, and from my delicious bacon roll, and approached the man at an angle. I could see his smooth, cleanshaven cheek, a white smear of soap caught in the bushy hair at his temple, the way the pulse in his neck beat wildly as he spoke.

  "I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I really was. Sorry for everything, and to everyone. So very, very sorry for all of it. "I think they're asking for me."

  He turned around on his stool, this vital young man in his expensive clothes and shoes, and with his flashy mobile phone clutched so tightly in his lovely manicured hand. "What? Who are you? What is this?" His eyes were huge; they looked at me with interest but they saw nothing, nothing at all. They never did, eyes like his. All they ever saw was the surface. They never peered beneath, even for a second.

  Briefly, I envied him. Then I felt only pity.

  I smiled. "I'm Thomas Usher. I don't know what's going on, but that's my name." I wasn't trying to confuse him; it was a genuine attempt to tell the truth, to get to the heart of the matter. Whatever the matter was.

  Surprisingly, he held out his phone. He looked like he wanted to say something – perhaps to yell at me, or even to hit me as he screamed about the insanity of the situation. But all he did was hand me his fancy little phone.

  I smiled again, trying to reassure him:
It's OK. None of this
makes any sense, even to me. Just go with it. Go with the flow.

  I raised it to my ear. I could hear the hissing sound even before I held it in place.

  
Go with the flow.

  "Hello."

  The voice; that clockwork voice: "It's me again."

  I nodded. "So it is."

  "I have a name for you. It's not much, I know, but there are rules here that I am compelled to follow. I can't break those rules." There was a tiny, almost indiscernible click after every word, as if they were being put together by a machine.

  The young man: "What the fuck is going on?"

  Me: "Tell me."

  The voice: "The name is…"

  The young man: "Give me back my phone."

  He was grabbing me, but I batted his hands aside. His protests were all for show; he was scared, at least as scared as I was. Probably more.

  Me: "What's the name?"

  The voice: "Immaculee Karuhmbi."

  The young man: "I'll call the police–"

  Me: "Who is that? Is that who you want me to find?"

  The voice: "I can tell you nothing more. Just the name."

  The line went dead.

  I handed the young man his phone. "I'm sorry… I don't want any trouble. Here, have it back. It was nothing anyway. Nothing I can understand."

  "Fucking psycho!" He snatched the phone and rose from his seat. I noticed that he was small, much shorter than me. I hadn't noted that fact when he was sitting down. He'd seemed bigger then, when he was seated. "Get out of my way." He stormed off, tugging open the door and almost diving onto the pavement outside in his haste, his eagerness to be out of my presence.

  I didn't blame him at all.

  "What was all that about?" The waitress had returned from the kitchen. She was holding a glass of orange juice. The sides of the glass were beaded with moisture. It looked delicious. "He left without his drink." It looked beautiful. It looked real.

  "I'll take it." I sat down in the vacant stool. The old man with the racing paper emerged from the bathroom. He was humming a tune I knew – Nina Simone: an upbeat number about Feeling Good. Capital F. Capital G.

  "He didn't even pay." The waitress looked shell-shocked: her eyes were wide, her mouth hung open. Sweat limned her hairline and followed the curve of her forehead, making it glisten like a corrupted halo. She was an earthbound angel, just like the rest of them. All of them but me: I had no idea what I was.

  "I'll pay," I said, taking the drink, accepting it from this sweaty angel. "By the way, I don't suppose you've heard of anyone called Immaculee Karuhmbi." It was a long shot but I took it anyway. What did I have to lose?

  "Immaculee? Why yes, deary. Everyone round here knows her."

  I almost choked on the young man's orange juice. I'm sure he would have appreciated my discomfort. "Do you know where she is now?" It was too much to hope for, but still I hoped. This was becoming important to me. More than simply something to do, it was transforming into a task I could not refuse, a mystery I simply had to solve. A mission. The enigma was bigger than it seemed – larger than me – and I wanted to get to the heart of it.

  The old man had stopped humming; now he was whistling. It was the same tune, but performed on a different instrument. He was another angel. I felt like kneeling before him to worship. My emotions were at breaking point; I had lost all sense of perspective. Every place I went, each second I spent there, was either a slice or heaven or of hell. No middle ground. No limbo.

  "She'll be resting now, but in the afternoons she works over there." The waitress raised her podgy hand and pointed – she motioned over my shoulder, through the glass and out onto the street. I followed the imaginary line made by her broad, stiff finger. All the way to the first floor massage parlour on the other side of the street.

  Surely it couldn't be this easy.

  "She's a working girl?"

  The waitress laughed. She wiped down the counter with a grubby blue cloth. The surface was already clean. The motion was like a nervous twitch. "Of course not, deary. She works on the top floor –
above
the knocking shop. Immaculee is a psychic."

  My head went cold; my brain froze. My heart turned to ice. I felt it dripping, dripping, and beginning to thaw.

  The dead; it always comes back to the dead.

  The waitress laughed again, and then she began to sing along to the old man's whistled tune:

  "…
and I'm feeling good
."

  I wished that I could join in, but any attempt at harmony would have been a lie.

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

As a rule Sarah rarely drank anything stronger than cranberry juice before lunch – and then only sparingly, because she'd heard somewhere that too much of the stuff rotted your insides. Today, however, she was drinking whisky. She needed it just to get through this task.

  She stared at the floor, frowning at the pile of creased paperwork she had pulled from the drawers: faded envelopes and dog-eared manila folders, all making her wish that she could set fire to the whole fucking lot. Yes, that would be good; send the old bastard's legacy up in flames. But she wouldn't, of course. She could tell herself that destruction was the way to go, but the reality of the situation was that she needed to know what was in there. Those photographs had piqued her interest; they had triggered her mental twitch and the only response was to investigate. After all, didn't she want to be a detective?

  The backbone of any case, as her father had said many times, was the careful sifting of information.

  Somewhere outside a dog barked. The sound was snappy, incessant, and before long it began to play on her nerves. The familiar sound of a police helicopter flying overhead drew her focus. She wondered who they were after, and had to restrain herself from going to the window to take a look outside. She was off duty: let the others deal with whatever was happening out there. She needed a break from other people's problems so that she might concentrate on her own.