The Dead Have No Shadows

by Chris Mawbey

  The Dead Have No Shadows

  by

  Chris Mawbey

  Copyright © 2012 Chris Mawbey

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in 2012 by Chris Mawbey at Amazon.

  Kindle Edition

  Cover artwork sourced from morgueFile.com

  Cover designed using Photoshop editor

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents portrayed in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real people, both living and dead, or events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Birds scattered and children screamed as the shots rang out. Three holes appeared in Mickey Raymond’s chest. He staggered backwards and crashed against the plate glass window of Barclays Bank - the bank he had just robbed.

  Two of the bullets left exit wounds the size of oranges in Mickey’s back. The third bullet, the one that would be the cause of Mickey’s death, deflected off a rib and grazed his aorta before lodging in his shoulder blade. This graze would later tear whilst surgeons were battling to save Mickey’s life.

  Mickey’s only concern at the moment though, was for the state of his tee-shirt. He watched the blooms of blood around each wound spread in a macabre tie-dye before merging into a red bib.

  Oh fuck, he thought, Mum will kill me.

  Shock and rapid blood loss meant Mickey’s legs could no longer hold him up. He slid down the window leaving a red smear across the face of the poster girl advertising the latest loan rates.

  Despite his wounds Mickey’s senses became enhanced. He heard the plastic clatter of the replica Berretta he’d been carrying as it hit the ground. He smelt the cordite, the iron rich tang of his blood and the hint of roasted flesh where the bullets had punched through him. There was also the smell of urine. Mickey hoped that he hadn’t pissed himself – that would be so embarrassing. His head rolled to one side and he could see Jonno standing in a puddle of his own making.

  Serves you right, thought Mickey.

  Jonno was a good lad really. Daft as a brush but he never intentionally hurt anyone. He could never be trusted to cope with anything too difficult though. That was why Mickey had been roped into doing this – even though it was Jonno’s job.

  Jonno had always done what Mickey had told him, and nearly always without question. Mickey had liked that.

  Mickey spotted the holdall with the money in it - he was sure there was enough cash in there to get Jonno out of the hole he’d landed himself in. Jonno’s water was spreading towards the bag. Mickey didn’t want the money to smell of piss. He tried to reach for the bag but found that his arms wouldn’t work.

  Pick the bag up and go, Jonno, he thought, what are you waiting for?

  People were crowding around Mickey now. They were dressed in black and were shouting at him. These must be the bastards who had shot him.

  Was there any need for that?

  Mickey’s senses were beginning to fade now and he couldn’t understand what the people were saying.

  What were they shouting at him for anyway?

  What did they expect him to do?

  Mickey saw Jonno get pushed to the ground. His friend lay face down in his puddle while his hands were cuffed behind his back.

  Leave him alone you bastards, Mickey tried to say but the capacity for speech seemed to have deserted him.

  Mickey thought about his Mum.

  Who would tell her what had happened?

  What would they tell her?

  Would they let Jonno out so that he could go and tell her what a mess this all was?

  Jonno could get his Dad to drive Mickey’s Mum to the hospital. Mickey hoped the nurses would wash the blood off his tee-shirt before Mum got there.

  Someone else appeared in Mickey’s diminishing field of vision. He wasn’t one of those black dressed shouty bastards. This person was dressed in green. There were badges on his tunic that Mickey couldn’t read. He was reminded of the paramedics on Casualty. Mum liked to watch that on Saturday nights. The man was talking but Mickey couldn’t make out what he was saying. All Mickey seemed to be able to hear was a whistling sound every time he breathed, and a slow squelchy pumping sound as his heart did its best to empty all of Mickey’s blood onto the pavement.

  The paramedic lowered his face and looked into Mickey’s eyes. The man had a goatee beard. No, it wasn’t a goatee it was more a patch of black and white hair growing from the lower lip and hanging down over a hairless chin. The paramedic had a ring in the lobe of his left ear. Hanging from this was a small, grinning gold skull. Mickey looked into the man’s eyes. The left one was blue and the right one was brown.

  That’s odd, thought Mickey. His final thought before darkness closed around him was, I must tell Mum about that.

  Mickey was in an ambulance. Not so strange given that he had just been shot – but it took him a few moments to work out what was wrong. He was sitting on a short bench that ran part way along the side of the vehicle.

  So who was that lying on the trolley with the paramedic working on him?

  Mickey leaned forward and looked around the shoulder of the medical man. The shock of self recognition coincided with an alarming blip on the heart monitor that was attached to his bloodied body.

  There was a cannular in his arm and a bag of clear liquid was dripping down the plastic tube into his body. The paramedic glanced over his shoulder at the Mickey sitting on the bench.

  “It’s not looking good for you, Laddie,” he said with a soft Scottish accent. The paramedic nodded at the body lying on the trolley. “I can’t see how the doctors’ll be able to save you.”

  Mickey hadn’t got a response to that. He was trying to work out how he was lying there plumbed into the ambulance’s systems yet was also sitting here on this bench, apparently in good health, being spoken to by the odd eyed paramedic.

  Was he tripping?

  Drugs, one of Mickey’s pet hates, were the source of the shit that Jonno was in and were the reason they’d both been forced to do the bank raid.

  He shouldn’t have let Jonno force that stuff on him earlier on. What was it doing to him?

  The monitor above the prostrate Mickey’s head was happily calling out that his pulse and blood pressure were dangerously low and falling further.

  The paramedic was smiling at Mickey. He ran a hand through a mass of spiky black hair then, still smiling, shook his head.

  “You’re a goner, Mickey,” he said. “Looks like they managed to get you. There’s no point wasting anymore of this stuff.” He reached up and turned off the tap underneath the bag of fluids.

  That action finally galvanised a response from Mickey. “What are you doing? You’ll kill me.”

  “Kill you? Me?” laughed the paramedic. “I think those three bullets have done that job.” He slapped the cheeks of the unconscious body. The head rolled left and right with each slap, showing no signs of resistance.

  Mickey instinctively raised a hand to his face to protect himself. His cheeks felt faintly warm and sore.

  The ambulance stopped and the sirens fell silent. Mickey heard the driver get out of the cab and a second or two later
the rear doors of the ambulance flew open. The paramedic reopened the tap on the fluid bag and looked out of the back of the ambulance. Mickey was about to ask what was going on when the paramedic turned back to him and raised a finger to his lips.

  “Say nothing and stay close to me. Stay very close.”

  Mickey started to protest but the paramedic silenced him with a raised finger.

  “Just do as I say, Laddie.”

  The trolley carrying the body was lowered to the ground and was met by the emergency team. The team was updated on the patient’s condition as the trolley was briskly wheeled into the hospital’s Accident and Emergency department.

  As the group swept through the doors they passed a man waiting by the entrance. Mickey thought the man must be in fancy dress because he looked like a throwback to the nineteen sixties. He was dressed in an Afghan coat and had long, greasy blonde hair held in place by a black head band. He wore a pair of round lensed sunglasses on the bridge of a hooked nose.

  Fuck me, it’s John Lennon, thought Mickey.

  The lenses of the sunglasses were so tiny that Mickey thought they were pointless. They were too small to protect the man’s eyes. But then Mickey couldn’t see the man’s eyes. He could see where they should have been but instead of eyes there were two black pits of emptiness. There was a depth to these sockets that spoke of despair, misery and never ending suffering. Mickey felt himself being pulled towards the two voids. Though he knew they offered nothing but pain there was an allure about them – an attraction that was difficult to resist. He took a step towards the strange man.

  A stronger, more insistent pull turned Mickey away from the weird spectator. He was dragged along by the trolley though it was now several yards away from him. Mickey turned and followed his failing body into the hospital. He didn’t see the look of fury on the John Lennon look-a-like’s face as he walked away from him.

  Mickey caught up with the trolley but no-one paid him any attention. Even the odd- eyed paramedic ignored him. The trolley was wheeled straight into the resuscitation unit where more medical staff were waiting. Mickey’s body was lifted and placed, unceremoniously, on a treatment table.

  “Does our patient have a name?” asked the more senior looking of two attending doctors. He glanced at the paramedic.

  “Michael Raymond,” replied the paramedic. “Mickey, to his friends.”

  “How do you know that?” Mickey asked. The paramedic ignored the question.

  “Age?” the doctor snapped off the question whilst performing basic checks on the body before him.

  “Twenty two,” said the ambulance man. “But I can’t see him making it to twenty three.”

  The doctor scowled at the remark. “If he does not, it will not be for any lack of effort on our part.” He allowed the paramedic to update him with the treatment that the patient had already received then dismissed him.

  The paramedic sidled over to Mickey and whispered, “That’s what I admire about doctors and nurses. They never know when they’re beaten so they never give up. And, they don’t pass judgement.

  “The old man there won’t even flinch when he finds out you were shot trying to rob little old ladies of their savings.”

  Mickey couldn’t keep up with any of this.

  Had he really been shot?

  He still thought he could be tripping on that stuff that Jonno had given him. Maybe this was really just a dream; although it was bloody realistic. One way or the other he wanted some answers. He turned to the paramedic who cut him off before he could say a word.

  “You know, you’re lucky that you’re still clinging to life,” the paramedic said. “If you’d already gone our friend back there by the entrance would have had a go at claiming you. And we don’t want that do we?” He turned away to watch the doctors at work.

  The team around Mickey’s body worked to a well rehearsed and co-ordinated routine: all to the tune of strident alarms that were heralding Mickey Raymond’s impending departure from the land of the living.

  The paramedic took Mickey by the arm. “Time to go,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  Mickey was back in the bank – but he was alone. There was no sign of Jonno. Neither were there any staff nor customers.

  “Fucking drugs,” he growled and ran past the queuing ribbons to the teller positions.

  Mickey craned his neck to look over the counter into the rear of the bank. That too was deserted. He scanned the row of meeting rooms along the side wall. Despite the frosted glass doors Mickey could tell that the rooms were empty. He walked back down the main hall towards the main entrance. No-one was walking past outside and there didn’t look to be anyone in the shops across the street either.

  “Jonno,” Mickey shouted. “What’s happening? Where are you?”

  “There’s no point in bellowing,” said a voice near the entrance. “He’s not here so he can’t hear you.”

  At the front of the building the open plan reception area was dotted with armchairs. A man sat with his back to Mickey.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Mickey challenged. He pulled a gun from his jeans and aimed it at the back of the man’s head.

  The man started to rise from the armchair.

  “Slowly,” yelled Mickey. “Slowly,” he said again, trying to sound calmer. He wasn’t sure if he would hit the man if he fired – his hand was shaking that much.

  The man raised his hands and continued to climb from the chair, but slowly as he’d been ordered. He turned in exaggerated slow motion and smiled at Mickey.

  “You,” Mickey gasped. “You’re the paramedic.”

  He looked around again, hoping that Jonno had made an appearance. “Now I know I’m on a trip,” he shouted. “You bastard Jonno. Stop hiding. What was that stuff you slipped me? I’ll kill you when I get hold of you.”

  The man with the odd beard and the strange mis-matched eyes continued to smile at Mickey and took a step forward.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” shouted Mickey. He was covered in sweat and the gun was beginning to slip in his hand.

  “As you wish,” said the man, his smile never flickering. “My name’s Pester.”

  “What?”

  “You asked, who I was.”

  “Pester?” said Mickey. “What sort of stupid name is that?”

  The man shrugged. “Just a name,” he replied, his smile broadening.

  He no longer wore the uniform of a paramedic but was clothed in an old set of dark blue, two piece motorcycle leathers, complete with calf length boots with worn down soles and heels. The jacket was unzipped, revealing a thread bare crew neck sweater.

  “Oh, think you’re funny do you?” said Mickey, taking exception at Pester’s amused expression. He waved his gun in Pester’s face. “You won’t be very funny if I pull the trigger,”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Pester. “You need me. And I wouldn’t be much use to you with a hole in my head.”

  “Yeah?” sneered Mickey.

  This was his trip. He wasn’t going to let some weird figment of his imagination order him about.

  He was the man, yeah.

  He was the boss.

  It was his trip.

  Mickey pulled the trigger.

  The gun kicked upwards and the bullet entered Pester’s head just below the hairline. A flap of scalp flipped up and back and a spray of the contents of Pester’s skull jetted from the back of his head. Pester took a single step backwards then collapsed to the floor.

  Mickey giggled nervously.

  He’d just killed someone. That was a first.

  He laughed. It was high pitched and approaching hysteria.

  Hang on. He hadn’t killed anyone. He couldn’t have. He wasn’t a killer. No, it was the trip – the drugs that Jonno had fed him. Anyway, the gun he’d taken into the bank was only a replica. Jonno hadn’t wanted to take a real one and had got all piss and panicky about. That was typical Jonno. He was just a girl really.

  Mickey vaguely w
ondered where he actually was and if he had managed to get away with the money. He guessed he would find out when he finally came down. Mickey walked over to where the man, Pester, lay in a pool of blood.

  Yeah, I’m the man, thought Mickey.

  Pester’s eyes snapped open and Mickey screamed.

  Pester sat up.

  “Do you feel better for that?” he asked, adjusting the flap of scalp back into place. The skin reattached itself and the bullet wound shrank and disappeared. Pester stood up leaving a halo of blood on the floor where his head had lain.

  Mickey looked at the gun in his hand and then looked at Pester.

  “It’s the drugs,” Mickey said. He didn’t sound convincing.

  “No it isn’t,” Pester replied. “This is real – or as real as it’s ever going to get for you from now on.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Mickey.

  He was beginning to feel unsure of himself. The trip was getting worse, surely he should be coming down by now. But coming down to what?

  He had a vivid memory of being in this bank and robbing it. He could remember getting outside, trying to make a run for it and hearing gunfire. Mickey looked down at his chest. There were no bullet holes in his jacket or shirt. So who had been shot?

  “Don’t worry about it for now,” Pester told him. “You’ll understand in time, if there’s enough of it. First of all though, you have to accept.”

  “Accept what?” Mickey had a horrible feeling that though he needed to know the answer he wouldn’t want to hear it. All cockiness was draining away from him. He began to feel scared. Something was wrong. Really wrong – not just drug induced.

  “You have to accept that you‘re dead,” Pester said. It was said in such a matter of fact way that Mickey knew that the odd eyed man wasn’t lying. The words hit him as hard as the bullets had less than an hour earlier. He dropped the gun. It made a familiar plastic clatter as it hit the floor.

  “Dead?” Mickey whispered.

  Pester nodded and smiled. It was a smug self satisfied smile and it angered Mickey.