Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  "We're here." He stopped the car and stared straight ahead, through the windscreen and into the bleak urban darkness. "We can get out now."

  The boy removed his hand from Trevor's trousers, and he wilted. It was an instant reaction, and Trevor knew that his erection would not return, not tonight.

  They walked up to the house and Trevor paused on the stone steps. "Are you sure?"

  The boy laughed. "Don't be daft, man. This is what I do for a living. But I can pretend to be unsure, or a virgin, if that's what you like. You got any drugs?"

  Trevor took him inside and closed the door.

  The house closed in around him. He was acutely aware of the mirror upstairs and the presence behind the glass. Hunger crawled along the hallway, creeping into the rooms and rolling across the walls and ceiling.

  "Upstairs," he said, taking the boy's hand. "In my room."

  The boy allowed himself to be led. "You got drink up there? I'm feeling a bit too sober."

  "Yes. I have everything you want up there. Everything we need." He led the boy up the stairs, along the hall, and into his room.

  "Wow," said the boy. "This is a nice place. Cool mirror. How does it do that? Is it a trick?" he walked straight to the mirror, slipping off his T-shirt and dropping it to the floor. His body was painfully thin, like a doll's torso. There were faint scars on his back; a black rose tattoo was pasted onto his left shoulder. His collarbones were sharp as cleavers.

  "Yeah, it's a trick." Trevor stood at the door, afraid to go any further.

  "You a magician or summat? Those suits are fierce." He motioned towards Trevor's gold jacket, and then the open wardrobe door and the stage outfits that lolled from the gap like drunkards. "You famous? You been on telly? I've never fucked anyone from telly before." The boy began to undo his trousers, slipping them down his thin legs.

  "Hello there," said the Pilgrim, appearing in the black glass. "And what do they call you, my boy?"

  To give him his due, the boy reacted fast. He pulled up his jeans and turned to flee, all in a single motion. He did not scream. Even in extremis, he realised that it would be wasted energy, that there was nobody around to hear. He took a step – just one – and then he halted. The skin of his face went tight, as if someone had clamped a huge bulldog clip onto the back of his head. The flesh began to slough from the bone, but unlike Derek's flesh it came away in chunks. Blood sprayed and hung in the air, clogging into globules like fluid spilled in zero gravity.

  Trevor could not bear to look but he was unable too look away. He stared at the boy, at the clots of blood dangling in the air, and he felt more alive than he had in years.

  The human body holds eight to ten pints of blood, and Trevor watched in awe as every single speck of the boy's blood was drained from his body. The blood gathered above him, forming a surreal crimson reflection, and then it moved sluggishly towards the mirror, dropping down as the boy's exsanguinated corpse flopped to the floor.

  The Pilgrim opened his arms. His eyes were closed.

  The blood-image spread and flattened and pressed against the glass, and then was slowly absorbed into the Pilgrim's world. It smothered his body, writhing against him like a dark red sheet caught in a strong wind, and then it entered his body through the pores in the flesh he wore.

  This last part of the process took only seconds, and when it was over Trevor could barely believe what he had seen.

  "Ah, that's better." The Pilgrim opened his eyes. They were deep red, like orbs of blood. He licked his lips, and his tongue was also red, stained dark from the boy's juices. "That's much better." The skin seemed to fit him now, perfectly; it clung to his form as if he had been born wearing it.

  "What now?" Trevor's voice was weak and raspy as he struggled to gulp down air.

  "One more thing." The Pilgrim shuddered. "Just one more thing."

  "Anything," said Trevor.

  The Pilgrim smiled shyly, shrugging his shoulders. "This might sound trite, but you need to believe."

  "What?" Trevor took a step back, opening his hands and shaking his head. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm like Tinkerbell," said the Pilgrim, grinning. His mouth was as wide as that of a shark. His bone teeth shimmered. "I need you to believe."

  "I already believe in you." Trevor stepped forward, occupying the space he'd just vacated. "How could I not?"

  "No," said the Pilgrim. "You misunderstand me. You don't have to believe in me. I already believe in myself. I need you to believe that I can step through this mirror and enter your personal reality. Believe that I can come over there and join you. You see, my friend, it's all about belief. Everything is about belief. Without it, we have nothing. Belief is the glue that holds the universe together, and I need some of that glue from you. Believe that I can come through the mirror, and I will. It's that simple."

  Trevor was shaking. His eyes were filled with tears. "I do," he said. "I believe."

  "Are you sure?" said the Pilgrim. "Are you really, really sure? I need you to be certain."

  Trevor nodded. He couldn't speak. His face had turned to stone.

  "Thank you, friend," said the Pilgrim. "Thank you very much." He sounded like a low-rent Elvis Presley impersonator. He even did a little shimmy, shuffling his feet and grinding his pelvis in a tight little circle. Then he flicked out his hands at waist level, waggling his fingers as if he were playing the piano. "Uh-huh, huh, huh."

  "I believe," repeated Trevor, staring at the amazing being before him. And he did; he really did.

  Then, without further preamble, the Pilgrim stepped casually through the mirror and into the room.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Benson wasn't due at her place until after eleven, but Sarah already felt fidgety and restless. The events of the day were weighing down on her like a sack of offal and the news she'd received from Eddie Knowles stunk at least as bad as what was crammed inside that proverbial sack.

  So Detective Inspector Emerson Doherty wasn't her real father. The thought made her feel weird: not exactly relieved, yet not unhappy either. It just sat there, the truth, like a dead elephant in the room, rotting away before her eyes. She could handle it, just about, but what she failed to balance was the corresponding realisation that her mother had not given birth to her.

  Sarah loved her mother. She always had done, and this wouldn't change a thing regarding how she felt. It was simply a matter of adjusting, of redefining the boundaries of their relationship in a similar way to when her mother had been put in the rest home.

  Sarah didn't even want to start thinking about who her real parents were. That way there was only madness. That road led only to despair and disappointment, and maybe even tragedy. No; she didn't want to think about that at all.

  She sipped her tea, tasting the whisky she'd poured into the cup along with the brew. It warmed her, made her feel comforted. But wasn't it the people in your life who were supposed to do that for you, and not alcohol? She was aware that she was starting down another bad road, one lined with the corpses of drunks and losers. She didn't want to go there, not ever. If she did, it meant that her father – God, she had to stop thinking of him as that: he was just Emerson now – had won the battle for her soul.

  Now there's a melodramatic thought. She smiled, wondering what had prompted it. Sarah wasn't given to hysteria: she usually tried to keep a lid on things and react calmly and realistically. She didn't even believe in the concept of a human soul, and she certainly had no time for God.

  "Fuck you," she said, to the empty room, to the walls her father – no; Emerson – had decorated, to the entire house he had left her, just to ensure that his cold, dead fingers were still stuck in her life. "Fuck you, old man." She drank her tea. It was hot. The whisky burned her throat.

  Sarah had already been hard at work. When she'd returned home from her shift she'd changed into some old jeans and a stained shirt and pulled everything out of the bureau in the living room. There were bundles of envelopes with red elastic bands around them, tatt
ered cardboard Kodak photo wallets, more bills and receipts and hand-written chits from her father's time touring with the band. Then, tucked away inside an old Swan Vestas matchbox she had discovered a small key. It was silver, with a looped handle, and looked more like a decorative pendant than a key that might work in an actual lock.

  She held the key in her palm now, as she finished off her whisky-laced tea. It was cold; the metal refused to warm up, even to her body temperature. That fact alone was pretty weird, and it made her feel like Emerson was still holding on to the key, from beyond the grave.

  "OK," she said, standing. "Let's do this."

  Sara left the room and walked along the hallway of the old period house. There were a lot of rooms in the property – the roof space had been converted decades ago so that her mother could inhabit the entire upper floor; Sarah's old bedroom was located on the first floor, along with the master bedroom, the guest room she currently slept in, the family bathroom and a small sitting room; the ground floor contained the main reception or living room, a small toilet and washroom, and the enormous kitchen. Then, down a further set of stone stairs, there was the cellar. Emerson had loved to spend time in the cellar: it was his space; a combined den and office facility.

  The rest of Emerson's stuff was stored down there. Dusty files pertaining to old cases that he'd managed to copy and smuggle out of the station, his personal files, which he ran concurrently with the official ones; his notebooks and other scribbled musings; his old guitars and harmonicas. It was Emerson's lair: three separate underground rooms divided up by thick stone walls, with bare bulbs hanging from the dusty ceiling.

  Sarah stood at the top of the stone cellar steps, feeling like she was invading his space. She had never been allowed down there, into his personal space, when she was younger, and even now, as an adult, she was afraid to descend. She had been hoping to put this off indefinitely, but circumstances had dictated that she visited the bastard's hole. "Just a little look, Emerson," she whispered, pleased at how well she was growing accustomed to using his name rather than the false title of father. "A wee peek into the belly of the beast."

  The lights were on in the hallway but it was still dim. Outside, the night was deep and dark and threatening; inside, the weak illumination did little to stave off the feeling of being observed. The lights flickered. He was there, alongside her, trying to scare her.

  "Oh, no, she said. "No you don't, big man. I don't scare that easily – not anymore. You'll have to do better than that.

  She reached out a hand and pushed the door at the top of the steps. It swung inward, slowly, stirring up thin streams of dust that hung in the air like fine webbing. The door was a cheap timber item with flimsy central panels. Its construction was lightweight, and it felt light as balsa wood in her grip.

  She leaned over and flicked the light switch. The bulb in the ceiling, halfway down the flight of stone steps, did not respond: it was dark down there. Of course it was. The house, along with its dead owner, was toying with her, trying to spook her, probing for a reaction. It was obvious.

  The steps led down into darkness. The stairwell was narrow, barely wider than her body, and she knew that she would have to go down in the dark if she were to go down there at all. Alone. In the dark. Under the house.

  Towards the very centre of the spider's web.

  She blinked. Then she peered downwards, picking out each individual stair in the gloomy little passage.

  Right there, on the bottom step, sat a figure. Sarah could only see it from behind, but the figure was wearing a long black robe. There was a flash of white above the robe, a loose silken hood worn over the head.

  Behind her, the lights flickered again. "Not scared, Emerson," she said, lying to him. Lying to herself. "Not even close." She took a small step forward, dropping her left foot onto the second step down.

  Below her, shrouded in gloom, the figure slowly began to turn.

  "Fuck. Off." She took another step, heading down, ready to confront whatever sat there, waiting so patiently for her to pay a visit.

  The kitchen lights flickered one more time, and then they went out for what must have been less than a second. When they came back on, the figure was no longer there. The bottom step was empty. Yet, strangely, Sarah still felt that she was not alone in the narrow, cramped stairwell.

  She moved down the steps a little faster than she had done so far. She had the feeling that someone was behind her now, following her, and perhaps even reaching forward to shove her between the shoulder blades, causing her to fall. She hurried, trying to throw off the sense of paranoia. Then, at the bottom of the steps, she finally allowed herself to turn back and look. At the top, beyond the open door, the light was bright but barely made it over the threshold. It was as if the light was unable to penetrate some kind of invisible barrier; that it was not welcome down here, in the depths of the house.

  She turned to the second door. It was unlocked. The key was in the lock. With admirably steady hands, Sarah reached out and turned the handle. It clicked loudly, and then the door swung silently open. She remembered that it used to scrape on the stone floor; that was how she always knew that Emerson was down here, and it had allowed her to breathe more easily. Perhaps he'd planed half an inch of wood off the bottom of the door, or was this yet another little trick?

  She stepped inside, reaching around the opening to turn on the lights. The electrical connection was allowed to work: the lights came on, the naked bulbs shedding harsh illumination onto the old, scarred stone.

  She pushed closed the door behind her: this time its bottom edge scraped loudly across the stone floor. She smiled. "Very clever, Emerson."

  The cellar was cluttered with old furniture – free-standing shelf units, battered chests of drawers and other assorted items that her parents had been either unwilling or unable to throw out. Tall filing cabinets stood along the walls like waiting officers. Some of the wall shelves were fixed high up near the ceiling, and whatever had been stored there was now covered in a thick layer of dirt. The place looked like it hadn't been cleaned for years. When she was a girl, Emerson had always seemed to be dragging cleaning apparatus down here – bucket, brush and mop, vacuum cleaner, assorted rags for polishing – but it seemed that his old habits had died long before him.

  "Messy boy," she whispered. "What happened to all that fastidious neatness? Did it vanish when your mind snapped completely? Did you find other things to obsess over instead, you mad bastard?"

  In one of the corners something stirred. It sounded like a wet length of rope being pulled slowly across the stone floor, but when Sarah glanced in that direction there was nothing to be seen. More games; more tricks to try and scare her. But it wasn't going to work. She was onto him, and his pathetic distractions were just so much smoke and mirrors.

  Sarah passed through the first cellar – the main underground room – and into a secondary chamber. This one was smaller, narrower, and even more cluttered with objects. She saw what she wanted immediately. Against one wall (the rear external wall) was an old writing desk. Its top was crammed with stuff: pens, notepads, an old rusty tin cup, some kind of sports trophy and another model from Emerson's vast collection of out-ofdate twin cassette players. Above this desk, on a wooden shelf bolted to the wall, there was a row of audio cassettes.

  "There you are." Sarah walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. She leaned over and selected a few tapes. Most of them were Emerson's yearly compilations, containing his favourite songs from the particular year noted on the sticker, but between these tapes, every fourth or fifth, cassette, were tapes similar to the one she'd been given by her mother. Rather than a year and subtitle, each of these other tapes had a year and two initials written on the faded, peeling labels.

  "What did you do?" But Sarah had a feeling that she already knew.

  She plugged in the old player and sat down at the desk. The first tape she slipped into the machine held the identifying information, A.M. 1977.

 
She pressed play.

  Again there was a long gap before the first track began. Beneath the hissing of static and the muffled sounds from within and outside whichever room had been used to make the recording, Sarah could make out something else. Just before some up-tempo stomping anthem filled her ears, she heard what sounded like someone coughing.

  Sarah rewound the tape.

  She pressed play.

  She turned the volume right up, so that the static was almost deafening.

  The sound she had heard was a voice. It was whispering, and the words were bleeding into each other, but she knew it was her father – she knew it was Emerson speaking into the microphone. Not her father. Emerson, just Emerson.

  "Manchester. Small, underfed, blonde hair, brown eyes. Easy."

  Sarah's throat was dry; she felt sick. The cellar seemed to become smaller, the ceiling lowering and the walls closing in. The air was mouldy, it stunk of old decay.