Below are a few sections of a short story/novel I am currently working on. Enjoy!
I was fifteen when I saw my first dead body. Let’s just say it wasn’t what I expected. Mainly because it was talking. Well I say talking, he was actually swearing. A lot. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was fifteen when I saw my first dead body. Let’s just say it wasn’t what I expected. Mainly because it was talking. Well I say talking, he was actually swearing. A lot. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We found Brian ‘the corpse in question’ Jenkins exactly where Duncan’s contact had told us: Room 45 of the Hotel Paradiso; a shabby place that smelt of mould and damp with peeling wallpaper and boarded up windows. What the contact failed to mention was that we’d find him tied to a chair with his throat cut open. He reminded me of those Pez sweet dispensers but with the face of the loveable cartoon character replaced with the decaying mug of a dead man and the sweets with jostling insects. Another childhood memory ruined and it was only my second day.
From my vast experience of dead bodies, the guy looked like he’d had been dead for a while. The skin had started to tighten over his bones and he smelt like Mittens – when we eventually found him that is. As I fought back the urge to throw up, Duncan pulled out a pack of wax-crayons and carefully withdrew a dark green. Before you say anything, I know – not the best time for a spot of colouring-in, but Duncan set about drawing a circle around the corpse and its chair. After a few muffled words, the dark green outline began to glow, casting ghostly shadows across the rotting walls. A strange power emanated from it and the corpse jerked to swearing un-life.
“So... how does it feel to be dead, Brian? D’yer mind if I call ye Brian?’
“What d’ya mean I’m fucking dead? You scotch prick!” The corpse spoke in harsh and strained tones in an accent I couldn’t place; probably something to do with the deep gash along his throat.
“Oi, mate. Mind ye language, eh?” The ‘scotch prick’ was my mentor, Duncan Kerr. He was a stocky fella, as broad as he was short. With his kilt and the famed red hair of his heritage, he was every bit the stereotypical Scotsman – except for porridge; he has an irrational hatred for the stuff. “One more outburst like tha’ and you’ll wish ya’d kept ya gob shut laddie.”
The corpse snorted and shrugged its shoulders. “You’ve just told me I’m dead... and now you’re threatening me? What could you possibly do that would be worse than my being FUCKING dead?”
I winced. You shouldn’t use that word... He REALLY don’t like it.
“Oi, mate. Mind ye language, eh?” The ‘scotch prick’ was my mentor, Duncan Kerr. He was a stocky fella, as broad as he was short. With his kilt and the famed red hair of his heritage, he was every bit the stereotypical Scotsman – except for porridge; he has an irrational hatred for the stuff. “One more outburst like tha’ and you’ll wish ya’d kept ya gob shut laddie.”
The corpse snorted and shrugged its shoulders. “You’ve just told me I’m dead... and now you’re threatening me? What could you possibly do that would be worse than my being FUCKING dead?”
I winced. You shouldn’t use that word... He REALLY don’t like it.
Duncan placed the crayons back into his pocket and folded his arms, a frown creasing his freckled face. “Well! Ye’ve stumped me there, mate. What COULD I do to ye?” He starts pacing around the room, tilting his head from side to side. “Well, you see that bonnie glowing circle around ye? It’s called a Summoning Circle and it’s that which bought ye back to this lovely wee room. And what does a Summoning Circle do, Joe?”
Christ! Of all the time to have a bloody quiz! “Um... grants the maker power over the summoned being or creature?”
The corpse’s eyes widen.
“Well done, boy. Ten points to Gryffindor.” Duncan turns his gleaming eyes back on Brian, now shaking in his chair. “So seeing as you’re in a circle of ma making, I could do a whole host o’ things. I could make ya me very own slave! That’d be handy actually. Or I could send ye tae a nice hot spot doon below where ye’ll make a tasty treat for some nasty bugger. They love a bit o’ fresh meat don’t they Joe?”
Duncan flashes me a wink. The corpse stares wide-eyed at me, looking for reassurance. “Mmm. Oh yeah...”
“Or I could just go down the old-school route, mah personal favourite by the way, and just cause ye a shit-loada pain. Aye, Brian. Ye have died. But ye still here mate.” To illustrate his point, Duncan throws a right fist hitting Brian square in the face. The corpse falls from the chair and lands in a heap on the dusty floor. He moans and rolls about, clutching his face.
Duncan flashes me a wink. The corpse stares wide-eyed at me, looking for reassurance. “Mmm. Oh yeah...”
“Or I could just go down the old-school route, mah personal favourite by the way, and just cause ye a shit-loada pain. Aye, Brian. Ye have died. But ye still here mate.” To illustrate his point, Duncan throws a right fist hitting Brian square in the face. The corpse falls from the chair and lands in a heap on the dusty floor. He moans and rolls about, clutching his face.
“But as ye find yaself thrust into circumstances beyond ya control, I’ll gee’ ya one more chance. Now, let’s start again... who killed ye?”
***
From its peeling walls and stained carpets to the smell of cooking fat and cigarettes, Duncan loved the greasy spoon cafe that was simply known as Charlie’s. To be honest, I thought it a bit of a shithole, but unlike the previous one I visited, the ratio of Living to Undead was much better. But looking again at some of the other clientele, munching down their fried breakfasts, I might have to re-think that estimate.
Terry Wogan natters away on the crackling radio as I take a gulp of tea from chipped mug. Duncan grabs a handful of sugar sachets, tearing one open and pouring it into his cup. A second sugar follows, then a third. When the tenth sugar is torn and poured, my stomach churns a little and a grimace spreads across my face. Fuck me! TEN sugars! That’ll go some way to explain those mood swings of his.
“I know whatchae gonnae ask me and ma answer’s no.” Duncan slurps loudly at his tea. “Am sorreh, pal.”
“Why the hell not?” My hand slams on the table, shaking the cutlery. “I mean you do it. I’ve SEEN you do it. Hell, you’re teaching me to do it!”
Duncan leans over the table, whispering. “Aye, but that’s strictleh business; I never KNEW any o’ them. Trust me, in this line o’ werk, ya keep ye business and ya private life as separate as Hitler and bah mitzvahs.”
A bell rings from the service hatch. “Food’s up, Charlie!”
Duncan’s eyes light up as Charlie ambles over to our table, deftly balancing two plates of food and a pot of tea. He places the teapot in the centre of the table and sets Duncan’s ‘Usual’ before him and me my sausage and egg sarnie. “Enjoy fella’s! I might have to put your usual on the menu, Dunc!”
“Ha! You do tha’, Charlie!” The bell rings again, calling Charlie away.
Duncan rubs his hands with delight and snatches up his knife and fork. His plate heaves with greasy eggs, sausage and charred bacon, an atoll of islands in a sea of baked beans and mushrooms. Spare a thought for my sarnie. Poor thing. Probably feels like a guy standing at a urinal when an African Bull-Elephant walks in. Don’t worry Sausage-And-Egg-Sarnie, I still love you. Size doesn’t matter to me.
“Listen boy. Ye kno’ ya comic books right? To paraphrase a well-worn line from a friendly neighbourhood spider-botherer regarding power, responsibility and all that gumph, only cos ya can do it, doesn’t mean ya shood!” He stabs at a sausage with his fork, dipping it liberally into the first of his four eggs and shoves it into his mouth. “I mean... I COOD shave my head, dress in black robes, call maself Lord Voldemort and chase filthy Mudbloods aboot the place ‘til the Hippogriffs come home. But I won’t... no’ again anyway. Oh, and while I’m at it, another piece o’ advice -” He points his yolk-stained fork at me and glares, his eyes full of warning. “Do nae get pished and queue for a childruns book.”
The admission catches me by surprise and I choke back on my sandwich. I grab my tea and take a deep swig, it scalds but it clears my throat. ‘You did WHAT?’
Duncan stops chewing his food and throws me a ‘don’t-mention-that-again’ look. I laugh into my mug, shaking my head. “But hopefully ya see ma point?”
I wipe the last of my sandwich round the plate scooping up excess egg-yolk and pop it in my mouth. “No, not really. You bring arseholes like that Brian guy back to life, why not people we actually like? Love, even?”
Duncan sighs, dropping his knife and fork onto his empty plate and scratches at his food-ridden beard. “That’s a noble idea, lad. But ya no’ using ya head. Think it through, eh?”
I stare out the window and scratch the back of my head. Then it hits me. I lean forward on the table, eyes wide.
“You’ve done it before!”
Duncan drains his mug with one final slurp. “Eh?”
“Bought someone back! Private-life wise, I mean.”
His head falls into his hands, groaning. “Aye, I did and I do no’ recommend it.” His voice shrinks to a gravelled whisper, his eye’s fiery. ”So drop it, eh?”
Now. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time with Duncan it’s this: when he has that look in his eyes and he uses that voice, you do as he says.
Unfortunately for me, my curiosity blinded me to it.
“Who was it?”
***
To be honest, death was proving to be a disappointing experience. No bright lights led me to a final reward. No deep, mystical voice beckoned me forth. Not even the threat of a demon performing various cruel and gratuitous punishments for a life ill-lived. Not that that would happen of course, I was always a good boy. Just dark, blacker than the ace of spades as my granddad used to say… although I don’t think he was describing the same thing.
It’s much more cramped than I expected too. Who knew the after-life would be stingy on leg-room? There must be some kind of complaints form I can fill in.
On the plus side, it smells nice; a pleasant warm, earthy aroma of freshly cut wood and tilled soil – a recommendation for an air-freshener if there ever was one.
I roll my shoulders and try to adjust my position, my clothes pulled tightly as I moved. Padding myself, I realise I’m wearing a suit - new and nicely pressed with an over starched shirt and a tie. A quick click of my heels, reveal a pair of shoes. The after-life obviously operates a no trainer’s policy.
A bored sigh escapes my lips as my fingers start to drum impatiently against my legs. I scan the surrounding darkness and lift my head. With a dull thud, my head is sharply met by ceiling. I quickly raise my hand to rub my throbbing forehead, only to crack and scrape my knuckles on the same ceiling. “OW! Fucking hell! Ceilings! REALLY?”
I gingerly raise my hands and place them on the ceiling. Like an unqualified mime, still not trusted to practice his art without props, I pat at it. Fine grain and the knots and whorls of wood greet my palms and fingertips. Pushing against it, it gently creaks. “What the...”
Before my mash potato mind can put the pieces together, a quiet rhythmic scraping noise breaks the silence. Where is that coming from?
I press my ear to the wooden ceiling. It’s coming from above me. The scratching noise continues, gradually getting louder and more worryingly, closer. Adrenaline starts to kick in. Fight or flight time, Joe.
Being a natural born coward with over fifteen years of experience, this option was always an easy one. But being trapped in what my panic-addled brain now understands is a coffin – a cheap one at that, no lining would you believe! – my usual response was tossed aside. Not that I had much choice. My body started to shake as my eyes scan in vain for the non-existent escape route. I’ve definitely gotta put in a complaint about this. Eternal rest? I don’t think so!
The scraping noise was getting closer. I could make out the occasional grunt and the odd complaint. Oh, God. I’m gonna be a necrophiliac’s sex toy.
A sudden thud on the roof of the coffin jolted me from my imaginings, a small yelp escaping my throat. Oh-fuck, oh-fuck, oh-fuck!
My legs began to tremble and I’m not ashamed to admit this to you reader, but I wet myself. Another thud, followed by three quick taps, confirmed that whoever it was had found me. Jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut, I awaited my doom. Who knew I’d lose my virginity after I had died? The muscles in my face began to ache from grimacing. I timidly opened my eyes and stared in anticipation at the coffin lid.
On the half-beat it opened.
My heart leapt as blinding light poured into my dark world. I recoiled from it and my hands leapt into a feeble defensive position. “Please don’t rape me!”
My plea was met by a gruff, but familiar chuckle. “Nice tae see ya too, Joe. But ya nae ma type. Fancy a trip tae Charlie’s?”
