The Dead Have No Shadows (17 page)

The creature had slowly rolled its head back towards Pester and was waiting for the guide to say something else.  Its wits, dulled by misery, prevented it from realising what was happening.  The blow from the rock was strong enough to stun but not kill.  The Wight slumped to one side and dropped the blade, which Pester rushed in to pick up.  Mickey wriggled free and struggled to his feet.  He switched the rock to his right hand and raised it to deliver another blow to his erstwhile captor.

“No
Laddie
,” said Pester.  “Leave it.  The creature didn’t know what it was doing.  It was just reacting to instructions from Mr. Jolly.  Leave it be.  It’ll fade away soon enough.”

Mickey glared at his guide, making no attempt to mask the anger on his face.

“What good would it do?” Pester demanded.  “Would it make you feel better?”

Mickey stood his ground for a few moments then snarled and threw the rock away.

Pester picked up Elena’s bag and coat.

“I’ll carry these,” he said.

“Yeah,” growled Mickey.  “Lets’ go.”

He made his way to the edge of the plateau and gingerly let himself down to the ground.  When Pester joined him they set off at a steady, yet determined pace after Mr. Jolly and Elena.

For a long while neither man spoke.  Mickey’s leg was throbbing and fresh blood was soaking into his jeans.  This, and the restraint he had been urged to show with the Wight, had put him in a foul mood. 

Mickey’s guide was mulling over the events of the night before, trying to understand why Mr. Jolly had been so aggressive in getting to Mickey and Elena.

Pester had seen thousands of people through their journeys.  Mostly these were short and uneventful, with destinies more or less pre-determined before the person had passed away.  It was always easy to see which way these people would end up going, especially those who would be collected by Mr. Jolly.  Those who were fated for a good end often never saw the likes of the collector of souls and his ubiquitous sunglasses.

Pester had never provided any physical help to anyone under any circumstances.  His job was to guide and advise only.  Questions would be answered fully, vaguely or not at all; depending on the nature of the query – and often the relationship between guide and traveller.  No other help was given – ever.

He felt that he’d already broken some of these unspoken rules and he was beginning to feel inclined to carry on doing it.  He had his instructions; both special and specific.  Yet he still felt he’d overstepped the mark.  Consequences would be inevitable.  Strangely, Pester welcomed them.

Something still bothered him though.  Mickey’s behaviour here didn’t match with the circumstances of his death.  Then there was also the fact that both he and Mr. Jolly were both sent over to the living side to fetch Mickey.  No doubt Mr. Jolly was given his own set of orders about getting Mickey into The Underworld just as Pester had been instructed to ensure that Mickey completed his journey and reached his door.

In the short time that Pester and Mickey had been together Pester had begun to wonder about the nature of Mickey’s background and the manner of his death.  He couldn’t remember having done this before, but of all the people that Pester had dealt with over countless years Mickey’s situation felt the most wrong.

At around noon the two men stopped for a rest and some refreshment.  They ate tinned fruit that tasted dry and fibrous and drank water that Pester collected from a small stream that flowed parallel to their path.  The water had no taste but the wetness at least slaked their thirst.

Mickey had been keen to keep the stop short but Pester insisted that Mickey rest his damaged leg a little longer.  Mickey’s colour still looked good but Pester knew that the wound would only get worse.  Eventually it would start to undermine Mickey’s overall condition.

They chatted while they ate and Mickey detected a change about his guide.

“You seem to have had a change of heart,” he said to Pester.  “What brought this on?”

“Nothing’s changed,” said Pester, defensively.

“Yes it has,” Mickey persisted.  “You’re becoming less ... detached.”

Pester gave Mickey an appraising look.

“Your situation is wrong,” he said eventually.  “I’ve become a pretty good judge of people.  You’re no bank robber.”

“I am though.”  Mickey’s voice dripped with sadness.  “Or at least I’m a failed one.  You were there remember.”

“Where you there by choice though?”

“Choices again,” Mickey laughed grimly.  Then his tone hardened.  “I chose to do it.  It was my decision to go through with it.”

“Really?”  Pester clearly didn’t believe what he’d just heard.  “Was it a free decision – or was someone twisting your arm behind your back?”

He could see from the look on Mickey’s face what the answer was.

“What are you now, a lawyer?” said Mickey.  “Anyway, what difference does that make?  I’m here now, whether I was forced into it or not.”

Pester stood up and shouldered the bag.

“Come on.  We can talk as we walk.  There are a few more things that you should know.”

Mickey struggled to his feet.  He offered to carry Elena’s things but his guide refused.

“You asked what difference it makes,” said Pester as they set off again across the rock strewn valley bottom.  “Possibly a lot.  You’ve got some more episodes from your life coming up.  They’ll all have been major events, whether you realised it or not, and will have influenced your life.

“What’s wrong with all this is the fact you’re here at all.  I think you died too early.  And I think it’s because someone wanted you out of the way.  I played my part in getting you here.  I’m sorry about that but I think it may have been for the best that I did.  I can’t undo what I did but I can do my best to help get you to the end.”

Mickey didn’t reply.  He’d been reminded about what Pester had done in the ambulance and his anger flared again.  This conspired with the dull agony in his leg to darken his thunderous mood even further.  Pester had contributed to Mickey’s death in his own way and here he was with a lame apology.  Then the image of the hospital cubicle came to mind.  Mickey grudgingly accepted that
Pester’s
meddling with the drip would have made no difference to his chances of survival.  Those three bullets had sealed his fate.  Then he thought of Mr. Jolly waiting at the entrance to A&E and the recent encounter with him.  Mickey’s anger didn’t abate but changed focus, steering itself away from his own predicament and
Pester’s
part in it and towards Mr. Jolly and his designs for Mickey.  Whilst he didn’t necessarily forgive
Pester’s
involvement, Mickey had to acknowledge that he seemed to have landed with the lesser of the two evils.

“Before I get to the end I’m going to have to deal with Mr. Jolly aren’t I?” Mickey said.

“One way or another, yes,” Pester replied.

“Oh it’s simpler than that,” Mickey said.  “I’m going to get Elena back.  I promised to help her – by choice.  We’re not going on until she’s free.”

“I thought you’d say something like that.” Pester had slowed down considerably as Mickey’s pace dwindled.  Mickey was limping more now and was in danger of tripping over the rocks and large pebbles that littered their path.

“We’re going to have to be careful though.  If Mr. Jolly is cornered he won’t have any qualms about ending Elena.”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Mickey resolutely.  His voice carried more confidence than he actually felt.  He had no idea what kind of being he was up against and what he would need to do to free Elena.

“I offered to help her complete her journey.  I haven’t done a very good job so far.  I owe her.”

Pester smiled.  This was the attitude that seemed so typical of Mickey and it grated heavily with the notion that Mickey was a criminal.

The valley floor became clearer of rocks and the few stunted bushes that thrust in defiance from the dead ground were becoming more sparse.  The clearer ground didn’t let Mickey go any faster but it did mean he was less likely to trip.  His right leg was beginning to drag, pulling up puffs of dust that coated his shoes and the bottom of his jeans.

About half a mile ahead the ground began to rise, culminating in a low hill that spread across the valley and blocked the view beyond.  The gradient was gentle to begin with but by the time Mickey had crested the rise he was sweating heavily and his limp had become more pronounced.  He worried that his wound had opened up.

The brow of the hill ran flat for a hundred yards or so and then the ground fell away down the other side.  Part way down the slope a stand of dead trees partly obscured the view of a cluster of buildings beyond.

“Down there is where you’ll revisit parts of your life,” said Pester.  “It’s likely to be tough.  You should rest before we go down.”

“Is Mr. Jolly going to be waiting for me down there?” said Mickey.  He was breathing heavily and trying to flex his damaged leg to ease the pain and stiffness.  He took a quick sip from his water bottle.

“No.  I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Pester.  “He’s more likely to be waiting on the other side of this.”

“Ok.  Let’s get on with it then.”  Mickey
stoppered
his bottle and slid it back into his jacket pocket.  “The quicker we get through this the quicker we can get after Mr. Jolly and Elena.”

The trees turned out to be far more than a copse.  It was a large lifeless wood.  The trees opened out into a huge clearing that looked to be full of buildings and streets.  It seemed as if a town had been transplanted there.  The first street that Pester and Mickey got to was an incongruous mix of two up, two down English terraces and their pastel coloured  stuccoed Eastern European equivalents.  It was an odd mix of Mickey’s home town of Derby and
Koprno
, Elena’s home village.

Mickey cast a questioning look at his guide.

“It’s probably because yours and Elena’s journeys have become intertwined,” Pester said.  “It could also mean that I may be wrong about Mr. Jolly and Elena.  They may be here in the town after all.”

“So what happens now?” asked Mickey. 

“No idea,” the stock answer came back.  “One thing though.  This won’t be like at the school.  You’re going to actually relive things here, not just witness them.  People will see you at whatever age you were at the time.  You won’t see me unless I break in, like I did with the headmaster.  Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” answered Mickey.  “What about ...”

The words died on Mickey’s lips.  They had just walked into
Ridsdale
Street, the street where Mickey had lived his entire short life.  A few yards down the road was number forty two, the house that Mickey had grown up in.  The sound of footsteps approaching made Mickey look down the street.  What he saw froze his dead heart.  He hadn’t seen the man for a couple of years but there was no mistaking his father’s drink affected walk.  The sight of this apparition brought back hundreds of unwelcome and long buried memories.  Where he should have felt love, Mickey only felt fear and the return of the loathing that had grown throughout the years of his childhood.

Bracing himself for some form of onslaught, verbal or physical, Mickey was surprised when his father completely blanked him.

“The scene hasn’t begun yet,” Pester said in response to Mickey’s raised eyebrows.  “Perhaps it only starts when you step inside the house.”

Mickey looked at the door to his old home with growing trepidation.  He knew the kind of thing that would be waiting for him inside and didn’t want to go through it again.

“Do I have to do this?” he suddenly asked Pester.

“You know you don’t,” Pester replied.  “It’s the same as everything else.  It’s your choice.  Do it or don’t – but I can’t guess about the consequences either way.”