Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  They knew that They would soon be joining those boys, those chickens, but the idea did not trouble Them. The longer They could be around these characters the better.

  They remembered Their purpose here, the reason why They had come to this reality, and once again They felt the touch of the lost one – he was close, he was hovering at the edges, prowling the periphery of this story. If these men had not yet met him, they surely would make his acquaintance soon. All They need do was be in the right place at the right time, and be on hand to intervene.

  They could see it in the designs.

  The lost one had been meddling; he had tampered from afar with the outcomes of these two spoiled lives. They could see that now, oh so clearly.

  They stood in the room, under the roof of abusers, and waited for bad things to happen.

  SIXTEEN

  Derek had clearly made an effort. He sat there all clean and tidy in an expensive black silk shirt and skin-tight black trousers, with a self-satisfied smile on his face. His pretty, pretty, lineless face: his smooth and lovely face, which Trevor wanted to slap.

  "That was delicious." Derek sat back in his chair, rather expansively for such an effete young boy. The material between the buttons on his silk shirt bulged slightly, ruining the illusion of untamed youth.

  "Good. I'm glad." Trevor smiled at his guest. He picked up his glass of merlot and took a large mouthful, then refilled it from the bottle that stood on the table between them. "How about we have another bottle of this nice red to enjoy with our dessert?"

  Derek's eyes lit up. He was impressed by extravagant displays of wealth. He probably came from a deprived background and judged success in terms of money and acquisitions. Trevor knew the type well: he was one of them. His childhood had been devoid of compassion; his father had deserted the family when the boys were young and his mother had been forced to take on two jobs just to provide for them. His mother… she was such a coldhearted woman. That was why the boys had clung together – more specifically, why Michael had needed so much attention from Trevor.

  But they were all dead now. His father had been murdered in London many years ago. His mother had suffered a fatal heart attack a little while before her eldest son had found fame as a psychic. And Michael – poor, poor Michael – had, of course, been the first to go. He had taken the hard way, the bloody way, out of his own personal nightmare.

  Trevor remembered his mother coming to him at night sometimes, after a late shift at the hospital where she was an auxiliary nurse (when such a role still existed). After cleaning up the blood and piss and shit and vomit, she would come to him, freshly scrubbed, and demand that he hold her, caress her. She always wore her dressing gown, and it always gaped at the throat, revealing her cleavage. She would moan as he embraced her, and it was only much later, when he was old enough to understand such things, that he had realised his mother was taking sexual gratification from his attention.

  She never had another man after Trevor's father died.

  She didn't need one. She had her sons.

  "I can't believe you know the owner here. That's very impressive." Derek licked his lips. It was unclear whether he was trying to be seductive or just cleaning food from his mouth.

  "Oh, no it isn't, friend. I know a lot of people… I knew a lot of people, anyway, before the scandal. Some of them turned their backs on me, but a few others stayed on my side. When you put people in touch with their loved ones, they often feel that they owe you a great debt. They don't realise that I do it – I did it – because I had no choice."

  Derek nodded, fascinated. He could not take his eyes off Trevor. It was such a turnaround from the last time they'd met that Trevor had to bite down his laughter. He raised his hand to attract a passing waiter, and ordered another bottle of wine. The waiter glided away, as if on castors.

  It was nice here, he thought. Civilised.

  There was a family at the table closest to theirs. A husband, a wife, a little boy – the boy was eight or nine. Trevor glanced at him, and the boy caught his gaze. Trevor stuck out his tongue. The boy began to giggle, and hid his mouth with a crisp, white napkin.

  "Steady on," said Derek, noticing this brief exchange. "You're being a bit blatant, aren't you?"

  Trevor looked away from the boy, and directly into Derek's face. He hadn't even realised that he'd been flirting. But Derek had: Derek picked up on this stuff. "I didn't even think. But, yes, you're right."

  Derek grinned.

  The waiter brought the wine, opened it, and waited while Trevor tasted it. He nodded. "Thank you, friend. That's lovely." The waiter smiled and floated away.

  "I hope your associate – is it Sammy? I hope Sammy is a little more discreet than I just was." He was starting to feel excited. His stomach tightened. His crotch was warm.

  "Don't worry." Derek leaned forward, affecting a conspiratorial posture. "Like I already told you, I've known Sammy for years. He's very trustworthy. He has to be, the people he gets at his place. Police, politicians, celebrities: all kinds of top people. You wouldn't believe it."

  "Oh I'm sure I would," said Trevor, recalling some of the clandestine parties he'd been to back in the day, and the so-called big names who'd attended alongside him. At the height of his fame, he'd been part of an inner circle that met up in different locations three times a year and kept young boys on ice. Literally, on ice: huge ice cubes at the centre of a room, with naked boys in chains balanced on top. When he thought about it now, the whole thing was surreal, like something out of de Sade, but at the time it had felt like nothing special. Just another way of having fun.

  But now all that was out of his reach. The circle had been sealed: he was no longer welcome inside its perimeter.

  "Yes, I would believe it." He sipped his wine. It tasted wonderful, even better than the last bottle.

  "I've spoken to Sammy already, and vouched for you. He says he has some new stock – a couple of chickens fresh from the roost, as he put it." Derek watched as Trevor refilled his glass. The boy's eyes never strayed from Trevor's fingers, as if he were trying to pin them to the table by force of will alone. "He's happy for you to go along, once I've given you the address. You see, my word can open a lot of doors. I can get you into places you didn't even know existed."

  Trevor put down the bottle. He clenched his hands, unclenched them. His fingers were stiffening. The alcohol was affecting his circulation. "And what's in it for you? I realise you aren't doing this out of friendship, or as a favour; certainly not after the way our last meeting ended. So what do you want? What is it that I can do for you, friend? Money?"

  Derek placed his hands on the table, palms down. He took a deep breath and paused before letting it out. His eyes were large and full of something Trevor could not quite recognise but thought that he should. Was it fear, hope, or something more obscure?

  "It isn't money, then?"

  Derek shook his head. "No. Money is nice, of course, and if you want to offer me some I'll take it. But that's not what I want in exchange for introducing you to Sammy. I'll give you his address if you do something for me – something important."

  Trevor waited. He wasn't sure what the boy was about to say, but for some reason it made him afraid.

  "I want you to contact someone for me. A person who died a long time ago. I want you to get in touch with my sister."

  Well, he certainly hadn't seen that one coming. "OK. You've taken me off guard. I was expecting a more… conventional method of payment." He tapped his fingertips on the table top, trying to halt the momentum of the situation so that he might gather his thoughts and decide how best to proceed.

  "There's the deal," said Derek, his hand shaking as he picked up his glass. "That's what I want. You help me and I'll help you. I have a slip of paper in my pocket with Sammy's address and a code word written on it. You do this for me, and that paper is yours."

  Trevor could do this; he knew he could. As the evidence of the strange presence in the mirror proved, his gift was retu
rning. The fakery and deceit, all the years of pretending, had been stripped away and he had discovered at their core the remnants of his true ability. He could see the dead, speak with them, and perhaps even be heard by them. He knew he could. Ever since that day in his fifteenth year, when he had become aware of a spirit alongside him, reaching out to him for companionship, he had known. And now it was all coming back, at last. It was coming back to him.

  "OK, I'll do it." The words came so easily. He was surprised that he felt no trepidation as he spoke them. He was no longer afraid.

  The family at the next table got up to leave, and the young boy stared at him, smiled. Trevor grinned back, but it was not a friendly expression. The grin contained all the hunger that had been building up inside him for such a long time, and he felt it spreading across his face like a stain.

  The little boy burst into tears and hugged his mother's leg. The woman held her son tightly, and glared about the room in search of what could have provoked such an extreme reaction from her son.

  "I'll do it," said Trevor, knowing that, yes, he could, he really could. "With great pleasure."

  "Now," said Derek, his eyes shining, so bright and clear. "How about ordering us some dessert?"

  They shared a tarte au chocolat. It was a huge portion, easily enough for three, but they left nothing on the plate. Trevor felt Derek watching him as he ate, but whenever he tried to catch the other's gaze, his eyes flickered away to look at something across the room. A strange atmosphere had developed between them. The position of power had shifted. Trevor was now in control – he had once again assumed the position of authority.

  Trevor signalled for the waiter and asked for the bill. Neither of them wanted coffee or a liqueur.

  "So. What now?" He stared at Derek, pushing him, teasing him. "Fancy going for a drink somewhere?"

  Derek sat up straight, his back held rigid. He looked pensive. His former arrogance had faded. "If you don't mind, I'd rather go straight to your place. I mean, can we do it now? Or do you need to prepare. Is there some kind of… I dunno, some sort of ritual you need to go through?" His hands fluttered in the air as if trying to catch his words and put them back in his mouth.

  Trevor sat back. He smiled, softly. "No, it's nothing like that. This isn't something I turn on and off. I'll be honest with you: I haven't been able to speak with any departed friends for quite some time, but since I met you my gift has come back. It's been a slow process, but now I feel strong again. I feel… capable." he knew that he was lying – his returning powers had nothing to do with Derek; it was all down to the figure in the mirror, whoever he might be. But there was no harm in flattery. Indeed, it might even grease the wheels of commerce, so to speak.

  Derek looked pleased. He seemed to inflate before Trevor's eyes, as if he'd put on weight during the meal. "Wow. That's a nice thing to say. Maybe… maybe I'm helping you, then?" He was regressing, becoming younger the more he spoke. "Like an inspiration or a muse."

  "Perhaps." Trevor caught sight of the waiter returning with the bill. "Perhaps not. Who can say?"

  He paid the bill and stood, pushing back his chair. Derek followed suit, deferring to Trevor and allowing him to lead the way. The power shift was complete: Trevor was fully in charge, in control. He liked it better this way.

  "There's a taxi rank outside. We'll grab a cab." He spoke over his shoulder, not waiting for his eager guest to keep up, but trusting that he would.

  Outside there was a queue of taxis waiting at the kerb. It was too early for people to be heading home, so Trevor opened the rear door of the black cab at the front of the line and climbed inside. Derek followed him, maintaining a short distance between them, as if he had discovered some new respect for the psychic.

  It was a short journey to Trevor's flat, and the fee was low. He tipped the driver heavily – another show of wealth for Derek, who was by now almost foaming at the mouth. Trevor was enjoying this; it made him feel like a big man, a king, just like he'd been when he performed on the stage. He had even stopped hating Thomas Usher, the man who had taken it all away. Just for a while; for tonight. Tomorrow he would hate him all over again.

  "Come on up. We can let the mood develop. There has to be the right mood, you see. I'm a bit rusty, so can't just jump right into this." He unlocked the main door and climbed the stairs. Then he let them both into the flat.

  He left the lights off. Darkness was best. It helped.

  "This way," he led the way. "My bedroom. It's where all my old stage stuff is stored, and I'll probably make a better connection in the place where I'm most comfortable." He had a vague idea of what he was doing, but nothing more. He knew that this was all for show, and that the real reason for using the bedroom was something else entirely – a reason he wasn't yet ready to fully embrace.

  The mirror was in the bedroom, and as soon as they'd stepped out of the cab he had felt the figure behind the glass tugging, urging, wanting him to bring Derek into the room.

  If he'd been asked at that very moment, he would have sworn that he intended to at least try and contact Derek's sister. But afterwards, when it was all done, he realised that he'd had no such intention at all.

  "Follow me, but keep quiet. I'm trying to grab hold of something… a vibration. A mood. A feeling. If your sister is anywhere near you, I'll find her. I'll bring her forward and get her to speak."

  The mirror was right where he'd left it. Of course it was; it was unable to move, and the figure trapped inside could not yet impact upon the world this side of the glass. The mirror's surface was dark; it looked fluid, as if it were composed of water. It rippled as he watched. Shapes passed beneath it – a hand, an arm, a bald head? It looked like a figure was swimming, darting and coiling beneath dark waters.

  "Just a moment," said Trevor, opening one of the large wardrobes at one end of the room. His old stage outfits were stored in plastic. He selected his favourite – a pastel green number – and slipped the suit jacket over his shirt. It felt good, like a comeback.

  "That's nice. It suits you." Derek was sitting on the bed. He had one leg crossed over the other and his hands were flat against the mattress.

  "Thank you, friend," said Trevor, feeling like the show was about to begin.

  The room had darkened further, as if a great shadow were falling. Trevor looked up, at the light fitting, and then back at Derek. "Is your sister's name…" It came to him in a flash, and a slender presence stepped forward, away from the wall. "Is it Suzie?"

  Derek stared in disbelief. He nodded slowly, incapable of words.

  "Suzie… she's here, aren't you, friend?"

  The washed-out suggestion of a female figure drifted across the room, towards the bed. She stood beside Derek, arms hanging by her sides, and waited. She was dark – almost black. Smoke curled from between her lips. "Did she die in a fire?"

  "Oh, God. Oh… Yes. Yes, she did." Tears shone in Derek's eyes. He looked like a different person, someone Trevor had not yet met. "Yes. My Auntie Jean's place. An ember popped in the grate, and burnt the place down while everyone was asleep." He began to sob. His shoulders shook. He clenched his fists on the bed.

  At Derek's side, the mirror was black, like oil. Something moved erratically in the darkness.

  "Suzie, friend. Can you hear me? Can you give me a message for your brother?"

  The figure bent at the waist, as if leaning in for a smoky kiss. She raised her hands, and tried to clasp Derek's head. She seemed annoyed, as if she were trying to hurt him. Or warn him.

  The surface of the mirror boiled; something was raging within.

  The female figure straightened at the waist, her head turning to face the mirror. Then she began to back off, to move away, her hands in the air and her mouth gaping in a silent scream.

  "It's OK, friend. Just take your time." Trevor stared at the figure.

  Derek, noting the source of the psychic's interest, turned around on the bed to face the empty spot in the room where his sister now stood. "Suzie? It's m
e, Suzie. It's Little Delly… your baby brother."

  The mirror bowed inward, as if under great pressure. The glass had become elastic; it bent and stretched, sucking the air towards its concave centre. The bedclothes began to shift on the bed, the loose covers drawn towards the mirror. Derek, oblivious, was pulled along with them.

  "That's right, friend." Trevor was no longer speaking to the ghost of Derek's sister. He was communicating with the man in the mirror.

  Derek, finally understanding that all was not well, started to whine. "What's going on? What is this? Is it Suzie?" He was pulled backwards, towards the mirror. Even as he fought back – too late; much too late – the mirror sucked him in, hungry for whatever he could give.

  "Just relax," said Trevor, smiling. "Let it all happen."