Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

by James Roy Daley

  “You can’t just walk away like that. Hey!”

  He faced her. “I-I think I know what happened to me,” he told her. “I think I remember.”

  “Look, we can’t stay here now. You’re attracting too much attention.” Beth looked over her shoulder at the group of people following them: relatives, doctors, patients.

  “You’re right. I have to go.” He pulled away from her and ran out through the double doors into the ambulance bay. The doors flapped back on her as she tried to follow. Beth Preston pushed on them and stumbled out into the night air.

  She looked left and right.

  But Matthew was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Detective Chief Inspector Steven Robbins yawned.

  It had been a long day, a long week, and he hadn’t seen much of his bed. The statements, reports and notes on his desk were all merging into one. The photographs, though still disturbing, had now lost much of their power to shock since the first time he’d seen them. The Matthew Daley case would never really be solved until they found the man who claimed to be him. Robbins couldn’t help smirking at that one; it wasn’t every day that the deceased ended up helping the police to solve the mystery of their own murder.

  He closed his aching eyes, then rubbed them.

  The door to his office opened, the hinges squeaking just like they always did. “Never hear of knocking?” he said, attempting to open his eyes again. The figure before him was out of focus, like the letters on an optician’s board when they put in the wrong lens. He screwed up his eyes, and the figure started to take shape. The man was older than Robbins, older than Wilson even. He took a seat opposite and smiled, the lines on his face stretching to accommodate it.

  “Make yourself at home,” said Robbins.

  “Thanks,” said the man, “don’t mind if I do.” He looked around the office, nodding contentedly. “It’s changed a bit in here.”

  Robbins let out a tired breath. “Look, I don’t know how you got in, but I’m a bit pushed right––”

  The man reached out and picked up one of the reports from the desk. He flipped through it casually. “You’re looking for connections where there aren’t any,” he said. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

  “If I wanted the advice of a total stranger then I’d ring one of my ex-wives.”

  The older man laughed. “But I’m not a total stranger, Robbins. You know me.”

  Robbins studied his face, but couldn’t place him. “If we’ve met before then I can’t remember it.”

  “Ah, well, we haven’t exactly met as such. But you know me all the same.”

  “It’s getting late, and I haven’t got time for riddles tonight,” Robbins said impatiently.

  “I’ve come to give you that one piece of information you’re looking for.”

  A look of enlightenment suddenly dawned on Robbins’ face. “You’re here to take over, is that it? I’m being replaced? I wondered how long it would be. You’re welcome to it, the whole fucking thing. I’m in over my head anyway.”

  The man chuckled again. “I’ve done my share and it was enough for me.”

  “I… I don’t understand.”

  “I’m here to tell you how to solve the case. And to tell you where Matthew Daley is.”

  “Who are you?” asked Robbins.

  The man stretched. “Nice to be able to do that again without the pains in my chest.”

  “Without the…” Robbins sat up straight in his chair. He shouldn’t have been too shocked, though. It wasn’t the first dead man he’d encountered this week. “Croft?”

  “Bingo. How are you finding my old job? It’s a killer, isn’t it?” This last line was said in all seriousness.

  “You… you’re not really here.”

  “Then where am I? Feels like I’m here.” He put his feet up on the desk, pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, removed one and tapped it on the silver metal. “You got a light?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Wise man,” said Croft. He held up the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “I smoked forty of these a day from being a kid. And I used to keep a bottle of scotch in that bottom drawer just there.” Croft gestured towards Robbins’ side of the desk. “Told myself it was for medicinal purposes. What a load of crap. You were just thinking you could use a belt yourself though, weren’t you? Don’t suppose there’s any still in there?” He flapped his hand. “Naw, what am I thinking. I’ve been gone too long for that.”

  Robbins didn’t know how to answer him, so he didn’t bother; he just reached down and opened the drawer. Robbins produced the bottle of Milk of Magnesia he kept hidden away. Croft let out another long laugh as Robbins took a swig.

  “Wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” said the erstwhile DCI finally. “You know, you should get that stomach sorted out. I left things till the last minute and look what happened.”

  “It’s fine,” stated Robbins.

  “Ignorance is bliss, eh? We’re not that dissimilar, you and I. You’re a man after my own heart.”

  “With the greatest respect,” Robbins told him, “I certainly hope not.”

  Croft took a drag on his cigarette. “I’d imagine it was quite a thing when you realized about Matthew.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Now, you said you had some information about the case.”

  Croft smiled again. “Getting straight to it, I like that in a DCI. Very good. Life’s too short, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “The information,” Robbins pressed.

  “It doesn’t become clear you see… until afterwards. Then you know everything. There are no secrets.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Not yet, no. Matthew’s returned to find his peace, Robbins. His was such a sudden passing.”

  “I know. I saw the pictures.”

  “I saw the body,” Croft reminded him.

  “You’re telling me he’s after revenge on the person who did this?” Robbins pointed to the files.

  “He’s being tested.”

  “And you know who that person is.”

  Croft smiled one last time and blew out a stream of smoke. “Things aren’t always clear cut, you know. Good and evil are rarely as easy to spot as we think. It’s all a matter of judgment.”

  “Get on with it,” snapped Robbins.

  “Something’s coming, Steven. The world’s not going to be the same soon.”

  “It isn’t now,” said Robbins. “Tell me.”

  The phone rang loudly in his ear. Robbins woke with a start on the desk. He looked over at the empty chair opposite.

  The ringing persisted and he picked up the receiver. “Robbins.”

  “Steve, I need to talk to you. I’ve seen Matthew.”

  “What?”

  “He gave me the slip again, but listen… I think I know where we can find him. I think he’s going to return to the place where this all began. The place where he died.”

  “No, Beth,” said Robbins, his nose twitching at the smell of smoke which lingered in the air. “He’s going after the person who killed him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They sat in silence.

  Robert Hills was tracing the pattern on the carpet with his eyes. Caroline was nursing her third brandy of the evening. She’d done her best to explain, but it was so difficult.

  “There’s a police car outside,” he’d said as he returned from the bank, then he’d seen her red and puffy eyes. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Are you all right? It was a good question. Would she ever be all right again after today? “Something happened at school.”

  “Jason?”

  “He’s in his room.”

  Rob began towards the stairs, but she stopped him. “What’s happened?” he asked again, his voice cracking. So she took him into the living room and she told him. Just like that. As if she was telling him they’d had a burst water pipe or the microwave was on the fritz. He’d looked at
her that same way she’d looked at the detective and the doctor, like she was mad.

  “Caroline, Matthew is dead.”

  “Tell that to Jason,” she’d replied, a little too harshly. “Tell that to my son.”

  “Our son,” he corrected.

  Caroline didn’t miss a beat. “He saw him.”

  “Saw someone who said he was Matthew, you mean.”

  “He saw… The police have… Rob, they dug up his grave.”

  “What?” He walked over to the fireplace and leaned a hand on the mantle. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I know… I know.”

  “How many of those have you had?” he asked, pointing to the drink.

  “What, you think I’m making this up? You think I’m drunk?”

  Rob rubbed his eyes. “No, it’s just… How can it possibly be your dead husband? It can’t be him. People don’t just––”

  “Come back from the dead?” she finished for him. “No, they don’t, do they.”

  He couldn’t say anything to that; they both knew it was impossible. Only here was his wife, the woman he trusted more than anyone in the world, telling him these things. “There has to be some kind of terrible mistake.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “What did they tell you exactly?”

  So she went through what the policeman and doctor had said. How they’d exhumed the body gaining authority because the case was still open on Matthew. How they’d been called to the school after he’d made contact with Jason. Everything. She’d laid it all out for him, and as she spoke it felt like she was explaining the wild plot of some sci-fi film. Caroline wasn’t sure how much of it Robert had taken in, or how much she had herself, but when she’d finished he said: “So why are the police still here?”

  “In case he comes back,” she explained.

  “To see Jason, or to see you?”

  Caroline’s eyes dropped to the floor. He’d slumped down in the chair then, and not said a word since. Now someone needed to speak. If they didn’t do it soon Caroline feared they might never speak again. That they might just go about their normal (and what was normal anymore anyway?) lives in total silence from that moment on. “Say something, Rob,” she pleaded.

  He looked up at her. “What do you want me to say?” His tone was hollow and weird.

  She felt the tears welling again and couldn’t stop them coming this time. “Say that you love me, and that everything’s going to be okay.”

  Robert said nothing at first, and then her whole body began to shake with sobs. He got up and went to her. She dropped the brandy on the floor as she got up and fell into his embrace. He held her tightly and she continued to cry, both of them with wasted expressions on their faces.

  Then he told her that he loved her. That everything was going to be okay.

  He meant the first part. Robert Hills had never loved another person the way he loved his wife. But as for the second… he knew that this couldn’t have a happy ending, that things would be far from okay from this moment on.

  ~

  He watched them from the shadows on the stairway.

  A frozen image for so long, neither of them speaking, neither of them talking. He knew he must have caused it, however indirectly. Beth’s words haunted him, just as surely as he was haunting this family: “You come back here and you expect people to just take it in their stride––your mother, your son, your widow––to deal with it like it’s something that happens every day of the week. I hate to break it to you, but that’s not normal. None of this is normal.”

  Then Caroline, his Caroline––but at the same time not––begged the man to say something, to tell her he loved her. And when she began crying all he wanted to do was burst in and take her in his arms, tell her what she needed to hear, that he still loved her––had never stopped loving her in all the time he’d been… away. He even rose slightly. But then the man––Rob, her new husband––had got up and he’d gone to her, taking her in his arms and holding her so close.

  That was when the realization finally hit him: although time had barely moved on for him, it had been seven long years for her. She’d had to struggle on without him, had to bring up their child alone. And she’d finally met someone else that she could love. Not the same, never the same, but it was blatantly obvious that she did. He could never turn back the clock and have what he had then.

  So he cried too. Cried because this never should have happened, cried because all this had been taken away from him. Cried because none of this had been his fault.

  It had been someone else’s. Someone who he now felt compelled to visit.

  But first, he had something to do.

  ~

  The TV was still blaring away from its position on the side unit, even though the light was off and Jason was fast asleep on the bed, covers half over him, half kicked off.

  The black and white images on the screen projected themselves into the room––a man and a woman in a graveyard––and he heard tinny voices coming from the speakers. “They’re coming to get you Barbara. They’re coming…”

  He flicked off the set and walked across to the sleeping boy. For precious moments he looked down on the lad, taking in the features. He had his mother’s eyes but definitely his father’s nose. He bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “Sleep well, son,” he said.

  Then as he rose he saw the toy car on the bedside table. He stood stock still, staring at it.

  Jason rolled over in the bed, and said something, his dream broken. The man withdrew from beside him, just as the boy opened one eye a crack.

  Jason thought he saw movement in the corner of the room, thought he’d heard someone talking to him. Not his mum or his ‘dad’ (his other dad, not his real one). But must have been mistaken; there was nobody here now. Except… except hadn’t the TV been on when he’d dropped to sleep?

  With tired eyes, he rolled over to the bedside table and reached out for the car that had been given him that afternoon. It was gone. His hand searched the table, fingers like spider’s legs on the surface. Jason turned on the bedside light, squinting at its brightness.

  His room was empty. Nobody in sight.

  With a puzzled frown he sat back against his pillow. And although he wondered where his new toy had gone, it wasn’t too long before his eyelids felt heavy again.

  Then he settled back down in the bed where he fell back into a long, deep sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Douglas Knowles was nowhere near drunk enough yet.

  But he’d run out of money some time ago, nursing his last short for at least twenty minutes. And the more kindly patrons of The Bull’s Head would only stand you so many rounds without seeing any bought back in return. Sometimes Phyllis the barmaid would let him finish off the last dregs of drinks that had been left by punters, but not tonight. Tonight she was being watched very closely by the landlord after he’d found a fiver missing out of the till.

  (It had actually dropped down the side when she’d been putting it in the register, but neither of them would find it until the following morning when the cleaner came in. That didn’t help Phyllis right now. And it didn’t help Douglas either.)

  So he had no choice but to return home, or the dingy little one bedroom flat he called home. He kidded himself that maybe he’d find a bottle or two of unopened spirits in there somewhere, but he knew he’d finished off whatever he’d had in the flat when his benefits had first gone in.

  He hadn’t resorted to drinking that bottle of meths yet. The one he’d bought originally to clean his brushes when he’d thought about redecorating. That had been after the last time he’d gone to AA, turned over a new leaf––yet again––in an effort to encourage Jane to let him see his two daughters. It hadn’t worked, neither coming off the booze, nor convincing his estranged spouse. Tonight might just be the night he tried that meths. It depended on how desperate he was when he got back in. He looked at his watch, a cheap digital one with fad
ing numbers.

  Christ, it was only just turned ten. He’d be home by ten thirty, and then what? A night of not being able to sleep ahead of him, a night of remembrance when all he wanted to do was get completely smashed and forget everything. Not have to deal with reality.

  It hadn’t always been like this. He could remember the better days, the great days––when he had a good job working for an insurance firm, when Jane had looked up to him and the kids weren’t ashamed to be seen with Daddy. He’d had a career with flexible hours, a nice car––

  But then the problem had slowly crept up on him. At first it was only social drinking when he met up with clients. It was okay, he told himself, he’d gone out and got hammered most nights when he was younger, before Jane had come along, so he could handle a few every so often now. The only thing was that ‘every so often’ became more and more frequent. Slowly but surely the drinking started to take over his life. He began to crave that fix, the warm tingling you got whenever you were getting nicely merry. Some of his friends in the trade even slipped him soft drugs now and again; nothing hard, he insisted on that, just some coke or cannabis. What could it hurt? What harm could it do?