Now We Can’t Sleep At Night (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Wilde

  “Even the Cylons were treated better than this.”

  “I very much doubt it. But if we’re all agreed, I’ll go phone Pohl and her militia and we’ll soon be on our way.”

  “I wonder how the professor had got on.”

  “She’s probably treated them all like an undergraduate rugby team and got on perfectly.” Which, it so happened, was completely true.

  There were a few handy things about having the Russians smuggle a six foot long wooden crate through Europe, and that was you could work out what they’d done and do the process in reverse. This was how, after a solid morning of complaining, Joe had been divided back into two, mostly packed away, and ended up a few days later resting on British shores. A hired van had then driven the crate back to Dee’s house, and at night, when all their neighbours were asleep, the crate was smuggled inside and given a spare bedroom.

  Not wishing to bear Joe’s complaints any longer they’d turned his box off, but now they put the head on the construct and switched off the soul blocker that kept the device free for Joe, whereupon he stood up and wriggled his fingers and toes.

  “I am so the fucking Terminator,” he smiled, although the face didn’t actually move at all, and soon he was jogging up and down the stairs to get used to things.

  “If you break my stairs you’re paying for them,” Dee complained.

  A short while later the quartet was stood around in the kitchen talking, until Dee said “pass me that jar Joe.”

  He reached a hand out, picked the jar up but over egged things and the glass exploded under the pressure.

  “Joe!”

  “Sorry, sorry, it takes a while to get used to.”

  “Good thing I haven’t got a puppy!”

  “Good thing he hasn’t got a girlfriend,” Nazir said winking at the construct.

  Joe hadn’t anticipated how tough life as a construct was going to be. Once you got used to the powers and limitations of your new body, and that did take time, there was the sense of claustrophobia, because the others didn’t let him out. The last thing they wanted was scared people reporting a metal human walking about, because assuming the police actually listened and didn’t put it down to drugs, that might attract the army, and who knows who else.

  The construct, now Joe’s body, was to be kept for planned excursions and emergencies, and not used for afternoon strolls and visits to the shops. All of which he thought would be his again, and which he felt he’d lost once more. Dying hadn’t been as much of a shock as he’d expected, because you hadn’t got any other option and the box had been so much of a gift. But now, here, with the ability to walk, to interact, he was actively losing something where he did have a choice. Could he wait until society had evolved to accept constructs? Would it ever? And why couldn’t he be the first? Presumably, he concluded grimly, because the military would want him back and the Array couldn’t protect against that.

  So, Joe concluded, here they were, he and the Array, minds no one was ready to accept.

  Eight: The Mona Lisa of Ghost Shagging

  The day began as many did: Dee coming groggily downstairs in her pajamas and only just managing to put toast in the toaster and water in the kettle (and not as sometimes happened a piece of bread in the kettle which had to sit there for an hour until she got sufficiently ashamed to scrape it all out.) Nevertheless, today she targeted right, and was soon leaning on the worktop trying to get her head functioning fully. Okay, let’s try getting the post and doing some reading, that tends to wake the brain up a little, so there was a trip to the front door, the envelopes were collected, and eyes did indeed come into use. By this time the kettle had boiled, so it was back to the kitchen where coffee was made, marmalade was spread, and a functioning Dee sat at the table to eat.

  It was at this point Pohl came out of the lounge, peered in and told Dee “it’s a Tuesday. And the queen died.”

  “Which queen, what era are you reading?”

  “No, Elizabeth II.”

  “Oh, wow, really? Old age?”

  “Apparently. No details released. But it’s a Tuesday.”

  “Okay?” Dee said.

  “Tuesday, Jeff will be here soon…”

  “Oh fuck,” and Dee snapped her head round to see the time, then snapped it back to the door. “I better get dressed.”

  Knowing full well that Jeff had seen her in worst states than these pajamas but caring anyway, Dee raced upstairs and put her regular clothes on, having finished just as the front door was knocked on, so she raced to it, flung it open, and realised she was breathing heavily.

  “Are you alright?” Jeff asked, reaching out concerned.

  “I’m fine, fine, just ran down the stairs.”

  “That didn’t aggravate anything?” He replied, worried about her old wound, although as he was the one who’d shot her it didn’t feel that old. Quite new and still bloody in fact,

  “I’m fine, as I always tell you, come in and have a coffee.”

  Soon Jeff was sat drinking, and Pohl had come and joined them. “Jeff, look, it’s been lovely of you to come round three times a week to see me, I appreciate it, I really do, I have a limited number of real friends and you’re one, but I assure you, I’m fine now. The doctors said I’m back to normal.”

  “Doctors can be wrong, and it must take time to acclim… get used to it all again.”

  “It has, it has! But I’m used to it. We even went on our first job recently.”

  Jeff’s eyes widened in concern. “You did?”

  “Yes, yes, I, err…” Dee looked at Pohl to see if she should have mentioned that. Pohl tilted her head, decided Jeff knew enough to know more, and nodded.

  “We went to Ukraine,” Dee explained, eyes lighting up at the memories.

  “Ukraine, that’s a war zone?” Jeff wasn’t feeling any better.

  “Actually, we’ve something to show you. Joe, Joe come here.”

  “Dee, Joe’s dead…” But then Jeff heard footsteps, turned and…there was a metal humanoid standing in front of him. “Well blow a goat, you’ve got one of those construct thingees.”

  “Hello Detective,” Joe said in the manner of one love rival to another.

  “That’s really impressive. You look like…”

  “The Terminator?”

  “A posh shop dummy.”

  “Oh.”

  Jeff turned back to Dee. “So, a warzone, but you’re alright?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then I guess you are better. Good, good, I’m really pleased.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me to stop?”

  “Dee… I did this to you. I can hardly tell you not to live again can I?”

  “Thanks.”

  There was a knocking on the door, and Nazir shouting “you will not believe what I’ve found!”

  Dee sighed, ran to the door, and scolded as she opened it. “I do have neighbours you know.”

  “And what a hotty one is.”

  “Right, come in, stop getting me in trouble.”

  As Dee went to pour Naz a coffee he followed her in and shook Jeff’s hand.

  “Should I be here for this?” the detective asked.

  “Oh, yes, it’s funny,” and Nazir waved his phone.

  “You’ve got another amusing Grindr escapade to horrify us with?”

  “No, no, I have the latest and greatest star of the internet.”

  “You do realise the internet is a cesspit of human honesty?” Dee replied handing the mug over.

  “Grumpy Cat would not be happy with your view of the web.”

  “No, because he’s fucking grumpy, that’s the point.”

  “Aren’t you our own version?”

  “What have you found?” Pohl asked.

  “Ah, right, sorry, well, there’s a chap with his own YouTube channel where he hosts songs he’s written.”

  “You’re going to have to narrow it down a bit.”

  “He’s called Acid Phantogasm. Calls himself just ‘Acid�
��, the band is, well, you get the idea.”

  “This doesn’t sound promising,” Dee concluded aloud.

  “He loves ghosts, and writes songs about ghosts.”

  “Really doesn’t.”

  “Let me play you his most popular track, and by popular I mean increasing exponentially in plays, called ‘She Gave Me The Willies.”

  Nazir pressed play, and a song came out of his phone. The group listened, and slowly adopted looks of confusion and disdain.

  “Did he just sing “her spooky bum made me cum?””

  “That, that… he said “her phantom tits gave me fits.””

  The song ended and the room was silent except Nazir’s hysterics. Then Dee said “come back the Keira Knightly song, all is forgiven.”

  “Isn’t that hilarious!” Nazir was turning a funny colour.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “There’s more, there’s more!”

  “Sorry, people are watching this in considerable numbers?”

  “It had a thousand extra plays just while we’ve been talking. This might be the new Gangnam Style!”

  “If only the Array could call in a drone strike,” Dee judged.

  “So, you want the next song?”

  “Jesus, what’s it called?”

  “I Shagged A Ghost.”

  “Scooby Doo was never like this.”

  “Well there’s an idea for a web comic.”

  “There’s an idea for a lawsuit.”

  “She showed me her ghostly holes and I tunnelled my fleshy mole…”

  “If a God looked at humanity this instance and decided to strike it down, none of us could complain after this.”

  The reporter pressed the off button, leant back in her chair, and wondered if it was too late to be sent to Afghanistan or somewhere, anywhere else away from entertainment media, because they’d made her interview a man who was somewhere between nut job and ‘soon to be included on a register’. She’d interviewed pop stars, meme creators, the fleetingly famous and the soon to be millionaire cat owners, but she’d never had to do something as soul crushing as this interview, and quite honestly she wanted to go and be physically sick and then jump off the building at the stupidity of it all.

  Instead she had to transcribe what she’d just recorded, and do it quickly before the internet buzz wore off. Jesus, you really shouldn’t have bothered dying for anyone at all.

  Interviewer: Hello, this is Jenna Perkins, is that Acid?

  Acid: Yes, hello, I’m Acid Phantogasm, you’re right on time.

  Interviewer: I do try.

  Acid: I have a freshly poured cup of coffee and I’m all yours.

  Interviewer: Brewed?

  Acid: No, poured. I like it to stew a little.

  Interviewer: Okay, well, I believe this is your first interview for Moving Boulder Magazine, but I’ll make it painless. There’ll be a short piece at the start giving context, and then I’ll ask you how it all started.

  Acid: I’ve been writing songs for many years now, but I decided two months ago to dip my toe into YouTube. I’d recorded for years, but always been sceptical of modern technology. I just felt if people could listen for free on the web, why would they buy a compact disc? Why would a label sign me?”

  Interviewer: When did you decide to change tact and go it alone?”

  Acid: When the news said Grumpy Cat has made millions. I thought ‘there’s someone I respect, and they’re successful, I should follow in their great paw steps.’

  Interviewer: …Did you expect the huge reception your music has gained?”

  Acid: Yes. I knew people would love it, I didn’t realise I could earn so much without a physical release.

  Interviewer: Let’s turn to your music. You’re called Acid Phantogasm, and the web calls you the Ghost Shagger. How do you feel about those names?

  Acid: A badge of honour, an erotic VC.

  Interviewer: …That might be a controversial statement. Your songs deal, almost exclusively with a romance between yourself and a number of female… ghosts.

  Acid: My lovelies, my lovelies!

  Interviewer: How did this imagined affair begin?

  Acid: Imagined?

  Interviewer: Oh, sorry, you believe you’ve had an affair with a ghost?

  Acid: Ever since I was a pubescent boy I have felt a kinship with ghosts, and I have been able to see ghosts. But why should ghosts just be sexless beings? They have forms, beautiful forms, and clothes which can be shed, and spectral vaginas… sorry, can I say vaginas in your magazine?

  Interviewer: Yes, you can.

  Acid: Wonderful glowing orbs and ectoplasmic orifices.

  Interviewer: Let’s move on. What attracts you on an emotional level to ghosts?

  Acid: My attraction is in my heart and my penis… hello, are you still there?

  Interviewer: Yes. I am still here. Why do you think other people find your music so entertaining?

  Acid: We all become ghosts, so we’re all awakening to the possibility of sex lives with the beyond. I am the first, the forerunner, the father, and soon humanity would welcome the dawn of a new sexual age which will put the Sixties to shame.

  Interviewer: You don’t see yourself as a novelty act then which will pass?

  Acid: No? I am the Jesus of ghost shagging. You can put that on the cover.

  Interviewer: I have a feeling my editor will do just that.

  Acid: But there is one thing I want to do, and I hope you will help me announce it.

  Interviewer: To be honest something’s come up and I need to go.

  Acid: I will be taking the money I have made from adverts and downloads, combining it with my savings, and offering a prize.

  Interviewer: Ooh, okay, for what?

  Acid: I am offering a million dollars to whoever can allow me to talk to my lovers. I just need an afternoon, and whoever can offer that will be paid. But only after they have proved it and the meeting has happened.

  Interviewer: You can’t actually talk to them?

  Acid: No, just see them, and touch them of course.

  Interviewer: Ack of course. A million dollars is a lot.

  Acid: I am a man of modest needs, I do not need millions. I just need to tell the lovelies how much I adore and love them, and for them to vocalise it too. Then we can get back to fucking our brains out. Can you say fucking in the magazine?

  Interviewer: At this point I think we’ve gone so far beyond the boundaries of taste you could say anything.

  Acid: Shall I tell you about the beauty of cumming right through a ghost’s mouth and out the other side of her head? … Hello, are you still there?

  Interviewer: I, err, sorry, must be the weather, I feel a little faint.

  Acid: We could talk about the video.

  Interviewer: The what?!

  Acid: I’m having a music video made with the leftover money. It will feature me and…

  Interviewer: Not with the ghosts.

  Acid: No, they can’t appear on camera. We’ll have to recruit some models and make them look suitably dead.

  Interviewer: Have you considered saving the money?

  Acid: No. Am I being paid for this interview?

  Interviewer: You need an agent.

  Acid: They all turned me down.

  Interviewer: How… surprising. Well, I better be going now. Thank you for your time.

  Acid: It’s great, I’m happy to talk to anybody about my loves.

  The reporter clicked the recorder off, leant back, and hoped the golf ball sized lump of pain behind her eyes was a tumour because this world just wasn’t worth living in anymore.

  “You’ve sunk my battleship!” Joe complained.

  “We’re playing Monopoly.”

  “Well, yunno, figure of speech, I’ve lost my hedge funds.”

  “Your hedge funds? Joe, you’re playing a board game with friends, not playing fantasy fucking stockmarket.” Dee held one hand out for the money, and picked her beer up with the oth
er.

  “You’re too good at this.” His mechanical hands handed over the multi coloured cash.

  “I went to university and had a few snowy nights in. What can I say.”

  “Sounds like you had a boring time,” Joe tried.

  “Oh, right, yes, you are calling me boring. Just because you have a construct body it doesn’t mean your university evenings weren’t a Stargate marathon.”

  “Let’s just focus on the game,” Pohl said, picking the dice up. The door was being knocked on.

  “That’ll be Nazir,” Dee said. “He’s probably late on purpose after I beat him at Risk.”

  “You do realise you’re still young enough for nightclubs?” Pohl called out after. Ever since she’d been shot and spent a lot of time in bed, Dee had resisted more popular nocturnal activities.

  Nazir came into the lounge as a bundle of energy, and everyone raised an eyebrow as to where this was going.

  “You remember Acid Phantogasm?” he said.

  “The ghost shagger,” Joe replied.

  “I have been trying to forget him, but no one’s invented mind bleach yet.”

  “Right, well, he’s announced something.”

  “This had better be a forthcoming suicide,” and Dee sat down and picked up her pile of money.

  “Ah, I see you’re interested in wedges of cash. Good. The ghost shagger is offering a million pounds for anyone who can let him talk to the dead for an afternoon.”

  “What a dumbass,” Dee concluded and cast her eye over the board.

  “No, no, a million quid, for someone who can let him talk to the dead. Talk to the dead. Someone. Us, fucking us!”

  “I thought that’s where you were going,” Pohl said.

  “A million quid?” Joe checked.

  “Right,” and Dee turned to Nazir. “You want to take our nice, serious, crime fighting box of tricks to a man who sings about ‘my anal apparition’.”

  “Firstly, no one else would call us nice and serious. And secondly, yes. Just imagine what we could do with a million quid.”

  “We could have this man encased in concrete and thrown into an old mine.”

  “We could go on the American road trip?” Pohl tried. That left Dee sitting open mouthed.

  “Oh, we could.”