Bad Soul

by David Bussell

  The dream was quick to follow. The same dream I always had. The one that told the story of how I discovered the Uncanny world existed in the first place. The one that explained why I had magical tattoos inked on my body and lived the life I led. The one that explained why my own parents wanted nothing to do with me.

  It was the night my baby brother disappeared.

  I was nine years old and it was just me and James in the flat. Our parents had popped next door for a drink and a chat with the neighbours. I felt so grown up, so trusted. Yes, they were only in the next apartment along, but they were treating me like a grown up, leaving me in charge for an entire half hour.

  It turned out to be a mistake that would forever change the course of our lives. That would rip our family to pieces. That would lead, eventually, to me being locked up in jail.

  James had already been put to bed in his crib, and I was in his room, standing guard, the proud older sister.

  ‘Sleepy James, sleepy James,’ I sang softly, twirling the mobile over his cot. Stars and planets with bright red rocket ships flying between.

  He gurgled and burbled and waggled his chubby little arms and legs before drifting off to sleep. He was only eight months old and already had a thick mop of jet black hair on his head. He was beautiful, he was perfect, and as his big sister, it was my job to look out for him. To protect him. Forever. I’d curled up on a chair with a book, happy. I would sit there reading until Mum and Dad got back. He’d be fine and I’d get a hug and smiles and more of the trust I craved. I only realised I’d fallen asleep when the book slipped from my hand and the sound of it hitting the floor made me snap awake.

  The crib was empty.

  I stared at it, confused, unable to believe what I was seeing.

  ‘Jamesy?’

  The rocket ships spiralled over an abandoned teddy bear.

  ‘Jamesy, where’d you get to?’ I said, confused, dumb, reaching into the crib like my hand would somehow find him still in there, invisible but safe.

  A breeze hit me. The window was open. It hadn’t been, I was sure. It was cold outside and I’d made sure it was closed so the air wouldn’t nip at him. I ran to the open window and looked out to the lawn on the rear of the council estate. James was laid out on the grass, giggling. There was a pig, standing on its hind legs, looking over him. The pig wore ragged old sackcloth clothing, like something you’d see a peasant wearing in the Middle Ages.

  Yes, you read that correctly. A dressed-up pig, standing like a person.

  I ran from the bedroom and threw open the front door of the flat, racing down the concrete stairs to the ground floor, heading for the back of the building.

  My brain couldn’t get to grips with what I’d seen, with the humanoid pig. That wasn’t a real thing, there must have been some strange yet ordinary way that James had ended up outside. Maybe I hadn’t shut the window properly like I thought I had, and then… then what? Maybe a big bird had flown in and grabbed him, like he was a lamb. A big bird of prey or something. Did they have those around here? All I knew for sure was that my heart was beating so hard I felt sick, and that I had to get James back into his crib before Mum and Dad came back from the neighbours. Get him back safe and sound before they saw what I’d let happen.

  The night air bit at me as I ran around back and across the grass. James, giggling, plump limbs wiggling, was no longer laid out on the lawn, he was floating in the air inside a ball of red light.

  ‘Jamesy?’ I cried, rocking back on my heels. ‘Jamesy, come here… you need to come here and get back to bed.’

  The pig looked at me and—

  A bang of metal dragged me out of my dream and my eyes fluttered open to see the walls of the cramped solitary cell surrounding me.

  The door swung open and Lolita stepped inside, glowering at me, a large plaster fixed across the bridge of his nose. I forgot to mention, but I got a bit carried away during the ruckus with the shifter, and flattened his nose as he tried to break things up.

  ‘Sorry about that, Lols,’ I said, ‘you caught me in fight mode, I was acting on instinct.’

  ‘Follow me,’ he growled.

  I got the distinct impression that he hadn’t accepted my apology.

  ‘Out of solitary so soon? Thought I’d be in here a week at least.’ I can’t pretend I didn’t feel disappointed. Solitary meant some alone time, meant time free from worrying about a revenge attack from the nose-chewer. I’m not a coward, far from it—if anything I’m a little reckless with my own safety—but I wasn’t stupid either. If danger was coming and I didn’t have my tattoos to help me out, I was in trouble.

  Lolita stopped and turned. ‘You’re not going back into the prison population, you’re getting out.’

  This did not compute.

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Of this room?’

  ‘Of this prison. You’re a free woman.’

  I went to say something glib but my brain was short-circuiting.

  I followed Lolita’s tight trousers out of the solitary wing, wondering what sort of a weird trick this was. Was I being punked? But no, it wasn’t a prank. A half hour of exit admin later I was stood beyond the walls of the prison, alone and blinking at the daylight. For the first time in six months I wore my own clothes: black jeans, black boots, an old jumper, and a battered leather jacket. Inside a small, clear bag I held a few other meagre belongings, the junk I had in pockets when they took me in. And now I was out. I was free. No one seemed to have any idea why or how, only that there definitely hadn’t been a mistake, and that I had one-hundred percent been granted my freedom. I’d almost begun to argue that it couldn’t be right, to check again, until I realised that was a very stupid thing to do. I was out. Head down and shut up, Banks!

  It’s a strange feeling to be relieved, bewildered, and ecstatic all at the same time, but somehow I managed it. Bye-bye boredom, bye-bye table tennis, bye-bye shifter bitch with a grudge. I grinned, leaned my head back, and breathed in the outside air.

  ‘Erin! Over here!’

  A blonde woman dressed in her mumsy best was stood in front of a family hatchback on the opposite side of the road, waving madly at me.

  ‘Erin!’

  It was Lana White, my cousin. She ran over, squealing, and enveloped me in a great sloppy hug, her happy tears dampening my cheek.

  ‘Easy, girl, you’ll break something,’ I said, hugging her back.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said. ‘I really can’t, this is amazing!’

  ‘Yeah, bit of a turn up for the books, eh?’

  Lana released me from her vice-like grip and began fussing at my hair, her happy eyes taking me in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Better than I was half an hour ago.’

  Lana laughed and hugged me again. Not usually a hugger me, but I’d let it pass this time. It was a special occasion, after all.

  ‘How did you even know to come and get me?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lana, releasing me and wiping her sleeve across her wet, red cheeks, ‘a demon told me to.’

  ‘A demon?’

  Lana nodded.

  I’ll admit, that was not the answer I was expecting.

  3

  Lana’s mum wagon rattled along the motorway as she shuttled us back to Brighton, the seaside town on the south coast of England where we both lived.

  As I mentioned before, Lana is my cousin, older by two years. She was happily married to Tom, a tall, handsome, boring young man who worked as an architect. She was a full-time mother to two young kids, Alfie and Lily, and was absolutely happy and satisfied with her very ordinary, run-of-the-mill life. Sometimes I envied her all that, usually when I was in a very maudlin and drunken state. There was no way I’d ever admit it to her though, so just keep it under your hat, okay? Cool.

  Lana was also the only person in my family that I had any sort of relationship with. She was the only one who believed me when I started spouting off mad-sou
nding things about James’ disappearance, about magic, and bipedal pigs, and more. She’d find me sat under a table as a child, sobbing, and would clamber under with me, putting her arm around my shoulders and telling me that she knew I wasn’t a little liar like my mum said I was. That I wasn’t keeping secrets. Empathy and a god-given gift for nurturing, those were Lana’s super powers.

  ‘So when you say a demon…?’

  ‘Well, not a demon exactly,’ Lana replied, ‘it was a big, fat man in a really expensive-looking pinstripe suit. He came to the front door, and told me you’d be out of prison in a few hours, so I should go and pick you up. Oh, here...’ she reached across the dashboard to retrieve a business card, ‘he gave me this.’

  I took the ivory-coloured card and turned it over. Embossed on its surface in neat black letters was a message:

  We Shall Talk Soon.

  ‘Well, that’s all a bit enigmatic,’ I said, sliding the card into the inside pocket of my jacket.

  ‘He told me you’d be out in a few hours, that I should pick you up, and give that card to you. When I asked who he was and why I should trust him, he said he worked for a demon, then just turned and walked away. I thought he was probably just mad, but then I know the sort of, uh, people, you mix with, so I called the prison, they said it was true, they were releasing you, and I just jumped in the car and headed over. I still can’t believe this!’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ I replied. Less than an hour earlier I’d been cooped up in solitary, resigned to another two and a half years of being locked up, and now I was out, the countryside streaking by, and the only person in the world that I could truly say I completely, whole-heartedly loved and trusted at my side. Things can flip when you least expect it. I’d already learned that lesson a long time ago.

  I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and teased the edge of the calling card with my finger. I was out and straight into a mystery. A demon had greased the wheels to get me free of prison? Well, I do have some friends in low places. I wondered just who it could have been, and what they wanted in return. No one in my world did something for nothing, least of all a demon.

  My home isn’t exactly a palace, it’s a cramped, two-bedroom basement flat that I bought a few years back with my ill-gotten gains, situated down an alley that stank of piss come rain, sleet, or shine.

  ‘Ah, it’s good to be back,’ I said, wiggling the key in the lock, taking my time, delighting in Lana’s horrified face.

  I swung the front door open and Lana quickly ducked inside. ‘You know, there are places you can buy around here that don’t double as an al fresco urinal,’ she said, shivering with disgust.

  ‘I think it gives it character,’ I said, barely keeping the grin from my face.

  ‘Piss isn’t character.’

  I’d assumed I wouldn't be seeing my place again until I was into my thirties, and yet there I was, home and dry.

  Still grimacing, Lana skirted around the mountain of junk mail that had accumulated by the front door and pushed into the flat to open a window, letting the fug out and some fresh air in. Lana and I were opposites in so many ways, and the pride we took in keeping a tidy home was certainly one of them.

  ‘Jesus, Erin,’ said Lana, taking in the state of my flat, ‘were you using this place as a dog fighting ring before you got locked up?’

  I plonked myself on the sofa and Lana sat down beside me, but not before laying down some tissues, plucked from her handbag.

  I leaned back and popped my feet up on the coffee table, several books and a plate crashing to the floor in response. ‘So, Dad paid me a visit while I was inside. Weird, eh?’

  Lana’s eyebrows shot up, then she tried to play it all nonchalant. ‘Oh? That’s great. Really great.’

  ‘He said you told him I was inside.’

  ‘I told him not to do that!’

  ‘And I think I told you not to tell him, so I suppose none of us is all that trustworthy.’

  ‘He’s your dad, you were going to be locked up for years and years and I thought—’

  ‘—And you thought you’d do the one thing I asked you not to? Great. And he’s my dad in name only. You know what that fucker did. What both of them did.’

  I was getting angry. I’d been released from prison two and a half years early, and I was already feeling that fury starting to boil inside me. They’d turned their back on me, my parents. They blamed me for what had happened to James. It didn’t matter that I was only nine, I’d been trusted. Been left in charge for thirty minutes—just thirty minutes—and I’d let him be snatched out of our lives. I’d tried to explain, but even then, when the incident was still fresh, my memories of the kidnap had been a jumble of indistinct images, sounds, places. Of strange streets that shouldn’t exist. Of running in fear from something I couldn’t remember. Of a grey shape with burning, crimson eyes.

  The Red-Eyed Man.

  And the bits I was clear about, the pig-man, James floating away in a glowing ball of magic, were just as mad. I could only tell my parents what I remembered, but that wasn’t good enough for them. They couldn’t understand why I was making up stories. I was the only witness to James’ disappearance, and I had nothing to offer. No clue, no idea, just nonsense. The psychiatrist they made me talk to said the memories I had were a result of the trauma I’d suffered, that it was my mind’s way of processing what had happened. That didn’t matter to my parents. All they wanted was James back, and all I had to offer them was fairytales.

  Lana placed her hand on my knee. ‘Hey. I’m sorry.’

  I realised I was trembling, teeth clenched, ready to lash out. Wanting to throw my knuckles at someone.

  ‘That’s… I just thought you knew better,’ I replied, pushing her hand off me and standing up before I did something I regretted.

  A heavy silence descended until Lana stood. ‘I’d better get going, I’ve got to pick the kids up from school.’

  ‘And I’ve gotta go get hammered, so busy schedules all around.’

  Lana smiled but her eyes didn’t. ‘You don’t need to go straight back into this life, you know.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘This could be a clean break. A new start. I mean, why not? Your life doesn’t have to be a prison, does it?

  ‘And what do you think I should do, then?’

  ‘They’re looking for entry-level people at Tom’s office. He’d get you in if you want. Don’t just say no. Think about it. Say yes.’

  ‘Right, get a nice, normal, boring job and live a nice, normal, boring life.’

  ‘My life isn’t boring,’ she replied with steel.

  ‘Oh, it’s just end-to-end thrills, I know. Tell me, Lana, how do you stop yourself from slipping into a coma as Tom gives you your regularly scheduled ten minutes of Saturday evening missionary?’

  Lana shook her head and I tried to not immediately apologise.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she said. ‘Be safe.’ She turned and walked out.

  ‘Lana…’ I said as the front door closed and I was left alone. ‘Shit.’ I grabbed the coffee table and launched it against the wall.

  Ten minutes later I’d finished the dribble of whiskey I had left in the cupboard and was stalking Brighton’s seafront, the ocean to my left, my anger soundtracked by the cries of gulls circling the blue above. I was angry at Lana, angry at my parents, but mostly I was angry at myself. Lana had been nothing but kind to me, nothing but a shoulder to cry on, and I’d repaid her with venom. Was I trying to push her away, too? Is that what I secretly thought I deserved?

  It wasn’t her fault that my parents shunned me. Wasn’t her fault that after James disappeared they turned so cold. That’s when I’d started to act out. To rebel. To do anything I could to get a reaction out of my family. Then came my teens – that’s when I really cut loose. Nothing beat the look on their faces when they opened the front door to find me standing next to a police officer.

  But even that lost its effectiveness as they began to accep
t the way I was.

  All I had for them were scraps that sounded like lies. They’d lost their only son and I gave them a pig in sackcloth clothes and a fuzzy shape with red eyes. They wanted to know why I was lying. Why couldn’t I help? And on top of it all, why did I have to turn into such a little bitch?

  ‘That night… I feel like I lost two children, not one.’ I was thirteen when I heard my mum say that to her friend Cathy. It kinda hit me in the guts.

  I was heading towards Baker’s Pub, a regular haunt for no-good swines like myself. I intended to drink enough to keep me bedridden for the next two days, minimum. A getting out party with a guest list of one.

  ‘Erin Banks, you are required.’

  I looked up to see who the deep, emotionless voice belonged to. Stood before me was a giant of a man, at least six-foot-five and as wide as two ordinary men. His head was a giant, perfectly smooth bowling ball, his eyes vacant, his nose far too small for his face. He was dressed in an expensive-looking, dark blue pinstripe suit.

  ‘I take it you’re the bloke who paid my cousin a visit?’ I asked, pulling out the small card he gave her.

  The huge man nodded and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a large, vicious-looking knife.

  ‘Whoa,’ I said, taking a big step back, ‘if I were you I’d put that thing away before I find a place to stick it.’

  ‘This will not be pleasant,’ replied the man.

  Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

  4

  As it turned out, the giant of a man—whose name was Gerald—didn’t want to stab me. Which was a bit of a relief. I’d yet to have my tattoos reapplied, and I didn’t fancy my chances against a bloke his size without them. By the looks of him, he could’ve gripped me in a bear hug and squeezed my insides outside like the contents of a tube of toothpaste.

  ‘The Long Man is waiting for you,’ said Gerald.

  The Long Man? That rang a bell. We hadn’t crossed paths before, but I’d heard all sorts of whispers about things like him—about demons—in the darkened corners of pubs at three in the morning.