Mad Stacks: Story Collection Box Set
Page 6
And you’re trying to tell yourself it’s only the drugs, this can’t be happening, a ghost is not shaking you down, because dead people could care less about good and evil.
But let me tell you a secret.
Good and evil are not separate things. They’re parts of the same. Part of you, part of me. One side might be bigger than the other, the light might try to wash out the dark, the dark might hunger to swallow the light. It’s a battle.
It’s the only battle that matters, and the sad thing is, it’s a battle we always lose.
Don’t be scared. I’m not going to punish you for the bad things you’ve done. Sure, you only did six months in juvie hall, and you committed enough soft crime to deserve eighty years. But that’s not my problem.
See, I don’t care about the past. I’m dead, so what does the past mean to me? You see my point, don’t you?
No, my friend, I’m here to punish you for all the bad things you’re going to do in the future.
You don’t know what they are, but I do. I can read you like a television.
They’re bad things. And you’re a bad boy. And you’re going to make an even worse man.
Look into the black hole of this barrel and count to six. That’s the way, just fall on over and die. Stop wasting the world’s precious air, because it’s way too good for filth like you. My bullets may be invisible, but your blood is plain as day.
Ah, a weird crime scene, just the way I like it. It’ll drive the detectives nuts. You face-down in the pavement, your juice watering the crab grass in the cracks. You heading down to your own revolving door in a merciless beyond. You’re a done deal.
And that’s the biggest reason I hate you, because your road is as well-lit as the devil’s front door.
You got lucky. I’m still trying.
I’ll get to hell one of these days, if I keep up the good work.
Me, I’m sick to death of second chances.
THE END
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SUNG LI
By Scott Nicholson
There's a story behind every glass eye.
That's what Uncle Theodore says. He got his glass eye after a fight in the jungle. Said something called a "goop" got him with a piece of shrapnel. I asked him once and he told me that shrapnel was a jaggedy piece of metal. Anyway, he's the one who gave Sung Li to my Mom.
If it's true what he said about glass eyes, then Sung Li has two stories. Her eyes aren't really glass, but I like to pretend anyway. Maybe she'll let me tell you her other story, the one you don't know about yet. But maybe not, since all you want to do is talk about what happened last night.
Who's Sung Li? I already told that other police. But maybe they figured since you're a woman police, I'll tell the truth this time. So I'll tell you who Sung Li is, and maybe you'll believe me.
She's the China doll that lives on the second shelf in that little showcase on the top of the stairs. She usually just lays there. Daddy says that's what girls are supposed to do, anyway. Lay there and look pretty. At least that's what he always told me on Mom's library nights. And Mom says if you handle Sung Li, the value will go down.
Mom really loves that doll, maybe more than anything else in the showcase. Did you look yet? There's a silver tray that's got some writing on it under a picture of a sailboat. Up above that is an old book that's got cardboard poking through the corners and a little red ribbon tucked inside as a bookmark. There's some other things, too. Daddy's old bowling trophy, some dollars from where they don't know how to spell good, and that knife from Mexico that's made out of volcano stuff. But Sung Li is the main thing. All the rest is kind of placed around her like an afterthought.
Mom taught me the word "afterthought." She sometimes even calls me that. Her Little Afterthought. She smiles when she says that, but it's one of those crooked smiles where one side of your face gets wrinkly.
Except to put something inside, Mom only opens that showcase about once a month, when she takes one of those dusters that looks like the back end of a chicken. She runs that duster over the shelves and all that stuff in the showcase. I don't see why she bothers, because that old stuff in there just keeps making more dust. When the light's just right, when you hide behind the door and the sun is sneaking through that little crack between the hall and my bedroom, you can watch her. After she leaves, you can sit there and watch the little silver hairs spin and twirl and then settle down all over again.
But mostly I watch Sung Li. You ought to go up and see her. Maybe you will, after I finish telling her story.
She wears this little robe with flowers on it and she's got a cloth belt tied around her waist. The sleeves where her hands come out are really wide. She has tiny black shoes and pants that are the color of raw rice. But her frosty white face is what I really like to look at.
Her cheeks go way up high under her eyes, and they're sharp like a naked bone. Her eyebrows are real skinny and rounded. She has a nose that's almost invisible, just a little nip of whatever it is they make plates out of. Her lips are bright red and shiny, almost like they're wet. I know it's all paint, but I like to pretend about things like that.
She doesn't look much like me. Except for the eyes. Sometimes I'll look into those black glass eyes of hers, the eyes that seem to soak up whatever light hits them. Then I'll run into the bathroom down the hall, quick before I forget, and look in the mirror at my own eyes. And for just a second, or however long I can go without blinking, I can pretend that I'm pretty like Sung Li.
You really think I'm pretty? Well, it's nice of you to say that, anyway. But I'm not pretty like Sung Li.
At night in bed I wrap the blankets around me and think about Sung Li. I take off my pillowcases and put them on my arms and pretend they're big sleeves. I stick my lips out a little, like I'm waiting for a secret kiss. I pretend I'm sitting on the middle shelf and people look at me and like me because I am pretty and have good value.
Maybe I wouldn't ever have learned Sung Li's story. But one day Daddy opened the case with his little key because he bought a carved gnome and wanted to put it in there. Mom was watching him, to make sure he didn't break anything. Daddy used to break things sometimes.
No, I don't need a tissue. Everybody keeps telling me that it's okay to cry, and they give me candy bars. But why should I cry? Sung Li is going to be okay.
Usually Mom sent me away whenever the case was opened. I think she was afraid I would pick up something and make its value go down. So I hid behind the door and looked through that crack near the hinges. I heard Daddy tell Mom that the gnome was a collector's item. It was an ugly old thing, with a thick beard and a sharp nose and a face that's all wrinkly like somebody who stayed in the bathtub too long. You can see it when you go up to look at Sung Li, if you want to.
Daddy took Sung Li out of the center space on the main shelf and put that knotty old gnome in her place. He put Sung Li on the bottom shelf and leaned her against my baby shoes. They're bronze now. They weren't bronze when I wore them.
I knew Sung Li was mad about being moved, maybe just because Daddy had touched her. Her eyes burned with all that light they had soaked up over the years. But Daddy didn't notice, he just hummed his little hum and tilted his head back to make sure the gnome was centered on the shelf. Then he closed the door and I saw Mom hide the key under the showcase.
After they were gone, I tiptoed to the case and felt under the bottom edge until I found the key. I heard the front door slam and then heard Daddy start his car and drive away, back to work or wherever he stayed all day until dark. Mom was messing with the laundry downstairs. I put the key in the lock and turned it. The whole front of the case opened up, and it squeaked like a door in a haunted house.
I reached out to touch Sung Li, and my hand was trembling. She was so pretty, even when she was mad about being moved. Her lips were shining in the little bit of sunshine. Then I couldn't help myself, I had to feel her
smooth skin, even if it meant her value would go down and Mom would be mad at me. I touched her secret lips and they were cold, cold like a popsicle, cold like the sidewalk in winter when you lay the back of your head against it.
I felt her soft black hair that was smoothed behind her head. I touched her robe with all its folds and tiny stitches. I rubbed that little pinch of a nose. I picked her up.
I thought she would be made out of that hard stuff they make plates out of. But only her head was. The rest must have been stuffed with rags or cotton or something like that. When I picked her up with my hand around her skinny waist, her head flopped over and banged against the bronze shoes. The showcase rattled and I was afraid Mom would hear it even over the noise of the washer.
I quick put my hand around Sung Li's head. I felt a sharp pain. I pulled my fingers out from under her hair and there was blood on them. Her head had cracked.
My heart must have skipped at least two beats. I was afraid Mom would be mad because Sung Li's value had gone down and Daddy would give me one of his special spankings. And I was afraid that Sung Li wouldn't love me after that.
Isn't that funny, how you love somebody but you end up breaking them?
But Sung Li's eyes weren't mad anymore. They just looked off over my shoulder and soaked up the sunshine. That's when I heard Mom coming up the stairs. I leaned Sung Li back against the bronze shoes and closed the case.
I think I was breathing again by then because I could see fog on the glass. I put the key back in its hiding place, and that's when I remembered that I hadn't locked the case. But I thought maybe I could do that later, if Mom didn't notice that I'd messed with anything. It almost looked exactly the same as before. The crack in Sung Li's head was hidden by her hair.
But one thing I knew Mom would notice. The dust on the shelves. Daddy had been real careful when he set Sung Li there on the lower shelf. But I was in such a hurry to pick her up, I had wiped a clean trail where Sung Li's robe had brushed across the wood. And one thing I had learned from watching dust settle all those times, you just can't hurry dust.
My tummy felt like it had a stone in it. When Mom reached the hall, she asked me why I was so pale. She said I was as white as a China doll. She felt my forehead and said I might be getting a fever. She was so worried that she forgot to look in the case.
She tucked me in and then Daddy came later and tucked me in twice. After he left, I stared up at the ceiling in the dark and thought I could see Sung Li's eyes. Even when I thought I was asleep, I still saw those eyes. And my head hurt. And the eyes got bigger and bigger until they filled up everything. And then it was like I was looking through Sung Li's eyes. You know how you get a fever and things get mixed up?
That's how I was feeling. How could my eyes feel cold and glassy and big like that when I was asleep? But all I know is that Sung Li wanted me to look through her eyes.
Sung Li saw the edge of the shelf, she felt the cold of the bronze shoes against her back. But the robe was soft and snug around her body, the sleeves as loose as pillowcases. She stretched out and then she was standing, raising up on those wiggly legs and walking to the glass door.
She tripped over an ivory elephant that came up to her knees. The elephant fell over and landed on some of Uncle Theodore's army medals. The noise was so loud, it would have woken me up if I hadn't been dreaming so heavily. Then Sung Li crawled over a toy metal train that was old and rusty. Curly flakes of paint stuck to her robe.
She pushed open the glass door to the showcase and jumped to the floor with something from the shelf, something that was dark. She landed on her little shoes, her head flopping up and down because it was so heavy. In my sleep, I heard a thumping and scratching down the hall, at my parents' door. Or maybe I was awake, because a dog was barking somewhere down the street.
Then I heard Daddy's breathing, sort of long and loud, not the short and fast way it gets on Mom's library nights. Sung Li felt the edge of the blanket that was hanging down to the floor. She pulled herself up, the volcano knife tucked under her arm, and the next thing I knew she was on Daddy's chest and rocking up and down like a boat on the ocean.
I don't know what happened after that, only I heard Mom screaming and I think I woke up and I was glad it was only a dream because I was scared. But Mom kept screaming and screaming, then I knew I was awake because my finger hurt where I had cut it.
I cut it on the crack in Sung Li's head, just like I told you. Not on the volcano knife. I never touched the volcano knife.
Anyway, Mom screamed and then my head was hurting again. I went down the hall and looked in their bedroom. Mom was sitting up in bed, her face all pink and she screamed some more. I guess somebody finally heard her and called the police.
The police I talked to before asked why I had blood all over my clothes. I told him it was because I tried to get Mom off the bed, away from what happened to Daddy. Maybe you don't believe me, either, and you'll make me keep telling Sung Li's story over and over, and about those library nights, and how my finger got cut.
But just go upstairs and look in the showcase. Then maybe you'll quit looking at me like I'm an afterthought. You'll see two things right off. I know, because I did, and I'm only a kid.
First, you'll see Sung Li right back in her old place in the center of the shelf, staring out with those cold glass eyes that aren't really glass at all, only that stuff they make plates out of. The ugly gnome is down on the bottom shelf, its face all chipped and scarred like the woodcarver got mad at the thing he was making.
And there's one other thing, something Sung Li couldn't cover up. I don't know how she got the blood off her clothes. And she somehow got the ivory elephant back in place and wiped off the knife that's made of volcano stuff. The knife's gone now. One of those other police took it away in a plastic bag.
But look on the shelf, and the second shelf, too. You'll see what gives her away. What she left behind on her way back to her old place in the showcase. Two little rows of dots in the dust, about the size of the ends of somebody's fingers.
Footprints. She couldn't fix that, and I know why.
I hid behind the door enough times to know that you just can't hurry dust.
Can we go see Sung Li now?
THE END
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BLACK
By Tim Lebbon
She only screams for the first two minutes. Some of the screams may be words in her own language, but if so they are a curse. She still makes noises after that but they are unconscious and dead, not echoes of life. He hears the knife going in, whispering through skin and flesh, grating on bone, its serrated edge sucking like a jelly shaken from its mould as he pulls it out. He is changing this mould radically.
She sighs, but it is gas escaping her rent body. She coughs, but it may be blood bubbling in her throat. Still he stabs, slashes and gouges, just to make sure. He tries to concentrate on the white-hot anger and rage he feels, propagating them in the hope that they might camouflage the worrying excitement. The pleasure. He’s enjoying this.
She begins to drip from the edges of the table, more solid scraps of her following soon after, and a steady rain of fluid patters down onto the flagstone floor. He closes his eyes and listens, trying to distinguish the cleansing rain outside from that within. He’s still shaking with fury, fear and dread, and even though he knows that what he’s doing is so wrong, he cannot take it back. He will not take it back. It’s her fault, it’s the fault of her kin and kind, and this is his release. At least he can smell the truth of that.
Ed carved another niche into the damp plasterboard wall. As the knife penetrated and pink plaster squeezed out he expected blood to well from within, the wall to quiver and scream and smell of insides. He expected this every time, and every time it did not happen. Yet the fear was always just as fresh. Sometimes he believed that every memory he had was made up, pulled together hurriedly by his still-waking min
d before he could become fully conscious and realise that he was actually no one at all.
The only real memory he could never doubt was of the murder that had changed his life.
“Thousands,” he said, standing back from the wall and surveying the damage he had wrought. The bare painted partition was scarred across its surface with a mark for every day he had been here. They started in the left bottom corner as inch-high, delicately cut indicators, the tender slices of a surgeon operating on his own child. But now, the latest was the hacking of a murderer. Tracing them from left to right did not tell his story, because at some point he had decided to mix in the marks, make them disordered and confused. Not his story, no, but perhaps his state of mind.
“Thousands of days.” He’d counted to begin with. Each mark added to the number he kept in his head, the length of time he’d been here, and because back then his memory still was not too bad he would wake in the morning and remember the number from the night before. Then he’d started to forget, and it had become necessary to re-count the marks several times each week. This he did not mind, essentially—he had nothing better to do—but it was tedious and, as the violence of the knife strokes grew, all but impossible.
So now he left it at this: thousands. With what he could remember of his life, that was as good as forever.
The flat was sparse and dirty. He ate takeout food mostly, and old boxes and bags and sachets were piled on the kitchen surfaces, plates in the sink waiting to be washed when all the clean ones were used. The bin stank of mould and rotting meat. Ed liked that. It reminded him of what he had done, and he only wished he had the conscience to view it as a punishment rather than simply an annoying smell. He paid for his food with a debit card from a bank account that seemed always to honour the transaction. He had an idea that he’d had a good job once. Perhaps he was still being paid. He didn’t deserve it – he felt that he was deserving of very little, and he knew the dead woman would agree—but it was there, and he needed to eat, and his scruples hardly went that deep. If he’d once had morals, they’d been slaughtered by that knife as well.