Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  He took away his hand.

  Benson slowed the car and turned into the large parking area at the front of the building. There were a lot of vehicles there already, and Benson's beat-up Ford Focus looked out of place amid the Porsches and the Mercs and the shiny 4x4s owned by middle-class housewives visiting their fucked-up mother-in-laws.

  "There's a lot of money here. Loads of new wealth."

  Sarah nodded. "Don't I fucking know it? They charge a fortune just to feed and keep the residents clean – that's what they call them: 'residents.' Like it's some kind of holiday camp." She stared at the hulking Victorian structure, hating it in a way that she could barely explain, even to herself. Her mother was well looked after here – no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise – and the money used to pay the bills wasn't even hers anyway.

  No, it wasn't about the money. She just loathed the fact that her father had sent the senile old bitch here, and then practically forgotten about her – or at least pretended to. Just left her to rot.

  "So this is it?" Benson turned off the engine. They were parked next to a large black four-wheel-drive with tinted windows and a private number plate. Someone had scratched the side of the vehicle; to Sarah's trained eyes it looked deliberate, as if they'd used a key or a penknife blade. She smiled.

  "How about you wait here in the car? I'm not sure I can handle you coming in there after all." She turned to face him, feeling sorry that she'd let him drive her all the way here only to be told to wait outside like the hired help.

  "Well… I was kind of hoping I could meet your mum. You know, at least it would mean that I knew a little more about you." His dark eyes glimmered and his mouth twitched. He didn't know whether to smile or to grimace. She actually admired his self-restraint – if their positions were reversed and it was Benson telling her to wait here while he conducted business, she'd be screaming at him.

  It was another reason why she should have feelings for him, and another reason why she didn't. How could such a strong man be so weak?

  She softened: "You're right. It's cold of me to even ask you to wait outside. Sorry. I'm just, well, you know. It's tough." She reached out and placed her fingers against his forearm, allowing herself to enjoy the contact. The skin of his arm prickled, as if he had gooseflesh. That was the moment she realised that he truly loved her. She was certain; there was no mistake. Benson was in love with her, and she didn't give a shit, couldn't give a shit, even though she wanted nothing more than to love him back. Just a little.

  "Come on," she said, nodding. "Let's get this over with." If she had a heart, it would be breaking right now. If her bastard father had left her with even a scrap of human emotion, she would be fighting back tears.

  Instead she winked at him and opened the door.

  They got out of the car and crossed the gravelled car park, heading towards the domineering main entrance: huge wingshaped doors situated at the top of a set of wide stone steps flanked by tall fern bushes in expensive-looking pots. Sarah linked her arm through the crook of Benson's elbow, and he responded by sliding his hand over hers. For a moment there, she felt as if they were a real couple, perhaps visiting some estranged family member.

  It was a pleasant sensation, so she tried to hang on to it for as long as she could, feeling deflated as it began to fade.

  If only such fantasies could be made real. Maybe then her nightmares would recede and the darkness of her world would lighten a shade, promising daylight.

  "You OK?"

  She didn't realise that she'd stopped walking until he spoke. She looked up at him, the weak sunlight glimmering at his back, and felt that all of a sudden he represented some other world – a distant place where she could be normal. She squeezed his hand; he squeezed her back. Neither of them uttered a word. Many miles yawned between them, an unbridgeable gulf, and Sarah experienced the sensation of falling – but not into him, or towards him: she was falling down, away from everything Benson stood for.

  Benson's silhouette became something grand, a sort of representation of a strength she could never know. His buzz-cut hair, the slope of his broad shoulders, the line of his neck; he assumed in her imagination the ideal of an ancient warrior, a man more fiction that fact.

  Just for a moment: and then it was gone. He was a man again, just another man who wanted to fuck her.

  They resumed their journey, climbing the stone steps and pushing through the double doors to enter a large, airy reception area. A long wooden desk was situated along the foot of the staircase, and a rather large Chinese lady sat behind it, speaking quietly on a telephone. There were leaflets scattered artfully across the polished surface of the desk and fresh flowers stood oddly erect in a vase. A huge leather-bound guest book lay open beside the computer terminal into which the Chinese lady was staring, examining data on the small, gently flickering screen.

  "Yes, that's fine." Her voice was pure Yorkshire, which seemed incongruous when coupled with her strong Oriental features. "We'll see you then, Mr Jones. Thanks, bye." She hung up the phone, flicked her painted nails at the computer keyboard, and turned to face Sarah and Benson. Her hair was short and black. Her ears were tiny. "Good afternoon. Can I help?" The woman's smile was almost a challenge; it set fire to rather than lit up her small, round face.

  "I'm here to see my mother. My name is Sarah Doherty."

  "Ah, yes, Miss Doherty. We spoke earlier on the phone." She smiled again, this time conspiratorially.

  "Oh, that was you. OK. Yes. Well, I'm here as promised. Can I see her, or is she still having lunch? We don't mind waiting." Sarah pressed up against the desk, dropping her shoulders and placing her hands on the shiny wood. She felt tense but for some reason did not want this woman to witness it, as if to reveal that tension would be construed as a weakness.

  "I'll just check for you. One moment, please. Take a seat if you wish." She motioned with a hand towards some leather sofas by the doors, and then whisked out from behind the desk and moved swiftly and quietly towards another set of double doors, behind which she vanished from sight. Her smile seemed to remain behind, hanging in the air like that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  Snap out of it, thought Sarah. Focus!

  "Odd woman," said Benson.

  Sarah nodded. "A real fucking weirdo, if you ask me. They all are: like little plastic dolls, afraid to show any real emotion in case the shell cracks and all the bile leaks out." She was surprised by the venom in her tone, and raised a hand to her mouth as if to block the words that were spilling from between her lips.

  Benson did not reply, but she could tell that she'd unnerved him. It seemed like she was always doing that, even when she wasn't trying – especially when she wasn't trying.

  "This was a bad idea. I'm sorry." She turned away from the reception desk, looking towards the main entrance. "Maybe we should go… before she comes back."

  Benson laid a hand on her arm. She looked down at it, peering as if it were an alien object that might burn her flesh. "Come on, Sarah. You wanted to ask her something, didn't you? About your father?" His grip was strong, grounding her, tethering her body to the earth in a way that she could not possibly deny. He was like a part of the landscape, and all she needed to do was bind herself to him.

  Sarah nodded. "Yes. But she probably won't be able to answer. She barely even remembers who I am. It's taken her. The Alzheimer's. There isn't that much of her left." Her eyes prickled but she refused to cry. She would not allow Benson to see her like that, not now, not ever.

  "Just try, eh? What have you got to lose, really? Ask her what you came here to ask and then we can go home and have a drink."

  Sarah sucked in a breath, held it, and then let it go. Her head felt light, as if the skull were as thin as an eggshell and held nothing within it but air. "Yeah, yeah. Fuck it. It's pointless anyway, but I might as well try."

  Footsteps sounded loudly on the polished floors, but when Sarah looked around there was nobody there; the reception ar
ea was empty. She heard movement upstairs, and in other rooms on the ground floor, but there was not a single person in view. Benson stood rigid at her side, a statue, a cold presence that had slipped between the cracks of her life.

  She felt as if the world had suddenly backed away from her, like a bystander retreating from an armed drunkard. Tiny steps, a smile, a nod: open hands raised in an attempt to calm the gibbering psycho.

  "Where is everyone?" She spun on her heels, grabbing Benson's hand. His fingers were cold; his skin was dry as paper. He said nothing.

  A tall, broad shape shifted slightly in a doorway under the stairs, pulling slowly back into shadow before it could be examined in full view. Sarah caught sight of dusty dark clothes, pale hands, and a small white towel or blanket covering the face. Just like the vision of her father in her bath-time dream-memory, the figure was dressed in some kind of ritualistic outfit. A demented holy man on a fool's crusade: a shabby demon in her view, but retreating, forever backing away, just out of sight… Who the hell was it over there, and what did they want?

  The figure slipped gradually away, the covered face shrinking to a single white point in the darkness. Although she could not make out the features beneath the white covering, she felt certain that it was smiling.

  "What? I don't get you." Benson's mouth moved out of synch with the words, as if he were a character being badly dubbed in a foreign film. "What do you mean?"

  Then, like air rushing in to fill a vacuum, the room was once again teeming with life. People moved across her line of sight, doors slammed, voices were carried towards her on the still, stale air.

  The doorway was empty.

  Reality…

  Reality was empty.

  "Sarah?"

  She looked up at Benson, and then down at his hand. For a moment, she thought that he was someone else, a person she had never met before in her life, and that he was restraining her. But the feeling passed and then she knew who he was, of course she did: he was the only solid thing in her life, and she resented him for his strength and solidity. She hated him for being weak enough to love her.

  Then, in a moment of clarity, she realised why she could never truly care for him. Benson would always be denied her, standing forever out of reach, because she had never really loved herself.

  TEN

  I stood outside the grungy-looking doorway opposite the café staring at the handwritten flyer that was pinned to the right of the door, just below a row of battered stainless steel buzzers and a horizontal grille.

  Model/Massage

  If it wasn't so depressing it might have been funny.

  But somehow I had lost my sense of humour regarding the world; somewhere along the way it had been eaten up and spat out into the gutter.

  People brushed against me as they passed by, some of them glancing at me disdainfully as I waited outside the entrance to the knocking shop. A woman sucked air through her teeth, averting her gaze; a couple of teenage Asian lads laughed and called out to me. I ignored them all and stared at the door. It was painted pillbox red and the old paintwork was bubbled and blistered, like diseased or badly sunburned flesh.

  Immaculee Karuhmbi. It was an odd name; poetic and strangely beautiful. Foreign, obviously: perhaps African. There was a singsong quality to the name that made me think of tribal songs and the wide-open spaces and scrubland of a faraway veldt.

  I turned my head and looked at the café I'd just left; it felt a million miles away, as if the main road were in fact an ocean separating me from that other place. The neon sign was bent and hung down further on one side, and the bulbs in the accent above the letter e had burned out. The owner didn't seem to mind such inattention to detail regarding his premises. It was just another thing that went wrong at some point, and nobody cared enough to put it right.

  Turning back to face the scarred old building I was about to enter, I let out a small breath and wondered what the hell I was doing here. Why had I not just stayed in the stupid haunted house, sat tight, and ignored that damned clockwork voice on the telephone?

  But I knew why – of course I did.

  A small, quiet voice located somewhere at the back of my head, where all the primal hopes and fears were curled up into a tight little ball of anxiety, spoke softly to me, prodding me onwards.

  It might be her, said the voice. It might be Rebecca.

  The voice on the phone had sounded nothing at all like that of my dead wife – it had barely even sounded human: more an approximation of human tones. But still, there was always the chance, however slim, that it was her.

  Rebecca.

  My wife.

  And wherever Rebecca was, I would also find Ally, our daughter. Wasn't this the only reason I was still alive, the single thing that had stopped me from ever ending my own life? The narrow hope that one day, in some way, I might see them again?

  Recent betrayals of their memory aside – and even older ones craftily ignored – it was still the thing that drove me, the carrot I dangled ahead of myself just to help get me through the dark. Hope. That's what it was: blind hope. I had nothing else to cling to.

  "Moron," I whispered under my breath. "Fool." It was true. But what's more powerful than a fool's logic?

  I stepped forward and rang the buzzer for the top floor. There was a burst of static, as harsh and unforgiving as a murder victim's scream, and then a voice cut through the din: "Hello?"

  "I've come to see Immaculee Karuhmbi. Is she available?"

  Again, there came a short explosion of static before the voice continued. "Do you have an appointment? Appointments only, I'm afraid." I could not tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman, but it was polite and direct and sounded like its owner would not take any crap.

  "I…" I remembered the clockwork voice, and how it seemed to know everything – or even to be orchestrating things from the other end of a dead line. "Just tell her that Thomas Usher is here to see her. If she still won't accept my call, I'll go away."

  This time the pause was longer, and it took me a few seconds to work out that the clicking sound I heard was probably the speaker being silenced as the person upstairs passed on my message.

  I closed my eyes. My head ached. The world was like a giant bruise, gently pulsing.

  "Come on up." Then, before the static could be heard again, the communication was ended and the door lock clicked loudly, allowing me to enter. I pushed open the old red door and stepped into a dimly lit passageway, with torn wallpaper on the damp walls and no carpet on the burnished floor. The floorboards creaked as I walked over them and the door eased shut behind me with only the slightest nudge from my hand.

  The air was dense. Dust hung thick and heavy in the passage; a phantom cloud. The skirting boards along the base of the walls were coming loose, there were holes in the plaster and the floorboards had wide gaps between them. The place felt derelict, but I knew that people dwelled here: both the living and the dead, standing side by side like soldiers in some weird war against a common enemy yet to be identified.

  Straight ahead was a closed door. There was a hatch set into the door at eye-level, but with no way of opening it from the outside. The door handle had been removed and the door had been hung in such a way that the hinges were hidden.

  I hadn't noticed at first but in the wall at the foot of the stairs was a strange little cubby-hole, a sort of built-in cupboard with its door removed and with a tatty dining chair shoved into the space. Across the doorway, attached to each side of the frame, was a makeshift shelf or counter positioned at midriff level. Behind the shelf, sitting on the chair, was a wiry old man with badly drawn tattoos on his face. Behind him were crude shelves piled high with hand towels.

  "Hello." I took a step forward, unsure at first if he were alive or dead.

  The old man grinned, flashing several yellow teeth and a lot of gaps in his blackened gums. "Fanny or phantoms?" He laughed, finding his question – which he had no doubt asked hundreds of times – hilariously funny.
/>   "I'm here to see the psychic." I didn't even crack a smile.

  "Top floor," said the old man, squinting at me. He licked his lips. His tongue was coloured an interesting shade of green. "Just keep climbing the stairs until you see a door covered in a load of African shit – that's the one you want." He laughed again. Spittle flecked the air in front of his wizened face. He raised a hand to scratch at his inky, monkey-like features. His fingernails were obscenely long, with dirt caked behind them.

  "Thanks." I moved past him, keeping my distance. I felt that if I even entered his orbit I would be stained for life, dirtied beyond the hope of ever feeling clean again.

  The man's laughter followed me up the first flight of stairs, and then suddenly stopped when I reached the narrow half landing, where the stairs turned abruptly to take me to the first floor. It was as if an invisible hand had reached out and snatched his mirth away, silencing him forever.