Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  "Yes. I've found you." If I strained hard enough, I thought that I might hear the cogs and springs creaking.

  "So what do you want?"

  Another pause in the conversation, but this one was slightly longer. It contained the sound of gears shifting; a suggestion of mechanisms struggling to cope. I wasn't sure if I was actually hearing these things, or if I was simply aware of them at another level entirely.

  "I want to hire you. To find someone."

  I closed my eyes. "And who do you need me to find?" I wanted to open my eyes but found that I couldn't. Suddenly I no longer had any desire to look at the room, at the bland walls and the stained floorboards, at the flickering light of morning as it hovered like a killer outside the grubby windows.

  "I don't know. That's what I want you to tell me." Then the line went dead. There was no dial tone; no sound at all. There had never been a connection in the first place – I had checked the phone when I arrived.

  I opened my eyes. I was alone, all alone.

  I was alone, as always, with the dead.

  FOUR

  Sarah sat up in bed. She glanced over at Benson, where he lay with his hands clutched tightly to his chest. He always slept like that. Curled against himself, as if seeking protection: warding off his demons. It looked uncomfortable, but he seemed to sleep soundly that way. Sarah stared at him for a while, wondering what his dreams were made of, and then she looked away, unable to stomach the sight any longer.

  Sometimes, usually after sex, he repulsed her. She had never come to terms with her sexuality, not after what had happened in her past. It was part of her pain, a facet of her private damage. She glanced at the floor, at the handcuffs cast aside near the litter bin and the knotted scarves bunched up in the corner. Benson's wrists had been red when she'd taken them off, but this time there had been no swelling and the skin wasn't broken. They would be fine by morning, or late afternoon – when he would probably wake up with a raging hard-on and a craving for coffee. Last time she had not been so gentle, and he had been forced to wear sweatbands on his wrists for a week to hide the bruises.

  She wished that she hadn't invited him back last night (or this morning, as their shift had ended at 4am). But after drying their uniforms as best they could on the station's crappy radiators and signing off duty, they'd both been shaken enough to desire the other's company. Any company, if she was honest – because it was better than being alone, especially after what they had discovered inside the house in Roundhay.

  The poor broken thing they had found tied into the dentist's chair, with its small skull and the small holes.

  Initial findings had revealed that the owner of the house – a Mrs Celia Johnson – was staying with her sister in Brighton. She had been away for a week, and knew nothing of the break-in and what had subsequently been done inside her home. The dead boy had not yet been identified, but the smart money was on him being a runaway – a lost or abandoned soul nobody would even miss. The woman's late husband had been a dentist, a fact which explained the antique dental chair and other related apparatus found in the same room. Explained it, but did nothing to render the scene harmless: it looked like something out of a pulp novel, or a scary movie.

  "Fuck." Sarah whispered into the grey room, enjoying the way the word tasted. "Fuck." She slid out of bed and left the room, closing the door gently behind her so she did not disturb her lover. She smiled. Is that what he is, my part-time lover? My battle-scarred paramour?

  The house lay in shadow. It was still early – just about dawn; she could see its first light at the landing windows – and sleep had somehow eluded her. All she'd managed was a brief nap before the nightmares had woken her. She never remembered the dreams, yet she always retained a sense that they were buried deep within her, plucking at her insides with terrible sharp claws made of glass and steel. They were a part of her, those dreams, and she would never be rid of them.

  She padded down the stairs, feeling like a visitor in her own property. Since inheriting the place in her father's will, she had struggled to grow accustomed to the big draughty rooms and the old, creaking timbers. Even when she had lived here as a child, it had never felt like a home: just a house, a temporary shelter in which to stay until she was old enough to run away. A place where her childhood fears dwelled. Sometimes it even felt like a prison.

  The living room was a mess. Her father had died over seven months ago of a sudden heart attack, but she was still trying to find the time to sort through his hoarded possessions, which were crammed into every inch of the place. Sarah had put off the job for as long as possible, feeling uneasy and guilty at the thought of rummaging among her father's things. She had never been allowed to touch his stuff when he was alive, and the strength of the man's personality still lingered, causing her to stay within those childhood boundaries. She had not seen him for five years until the day she viewed him in his open coffin, but the bastard continued to terrify her.

  When she had stood over him, looking down into the cheap casket, she had expected his eyes to flicker open, his mouth to curl upwards into a sarcastic grin, and his body to sit up as he looked around in judgement at the gathered congregation. Whenever she played out this fantasy in her head, everyone at the funeral would laugh. They turned to her, their faces slick with sweat, pointed their bony fingers, and roared with a frightening humour, enjoying a joke from which she was excluded…

  Sarah was a good copper – a promising young constable who was tipped by those who mattered to make detective when it came time for her to make her career choices – but an old and nagging fear held her back. She was courageous on the job, was even prepared to take on a man twice her size in a confrontation, but when it came to the memory of her father, something made her lose her nerve and revert to the little girl who hid in corners and kept watch for her daddy. The past, she thought, was like glue. No matter how far you thought you had moved on, it kept you stuck in one spot.

  "Bastard," she said, raising her head to look at the ceiling. There were cobwebs gathered in the corners. The lampshades were filled with the tiny, hard sweet-shop cadavers of flies. "Can you hear me, you old shite?"

  There was no reply. Of course there wasn't. The old man was dead. He was dead, but he was far from gone. That dry, throaty chuckle was just the sound of pipes clattering noisily behind the walls. The heavy tread of footsteps across the floor above was nothing but timbers settling as she stood in the cold room, warming it incrementally with her body heat. She knew this; it was obvious. Yet still she was unable to rid herself of the idea that he was standing in one of the upper rooms, rocking on his heels and enjoying yet another of his obscure jokes at her expense. Shaking in silent mirth.

  "Stop it." She was speaking to herself, but it didn't feel that way.

  There was nothing here to worry about. Nothing at all to fear.

  He's gone, she thought. Long gone. I'm not scared anymore.

  "You OK?"

  So why the fuck did she flinch so violently when Benson called out behind her?

  "Shit, man. You spooked me." Her voice was light but she did not smile as she turned around. She stared at him, her eyes narrowed to slits she could barely see out of. "Don't do that again." The silence which followed was uneasy and filled with too many unspoken questions. Her ears began to buzz.

  Benson dropped his gaze. He looked nervous. He always did when he came to her place – perhaps he too felt the chill of her father's shadow. Because that's exactly where they were, standing in his shadow: the long, cold, dark shadow of Detective Inspector Emerson Doherty. He was a real legend, the old man; one of West Yorkshire Constabulary's finest sons. It was her father who had solved the famous "Bradford Bathnight Murders" back in 1972, and who had worked on almost every high profile case of the last thirty years – even that of the Ripper, as part of the main task force who had struggled so hard to find the killer until he'd been brought in by two ordinary beat coppers.

  Her father was a legend.

  He was
a legend and a bastard.

  Her father was a legend and a bastard and a pervert.

  "I'm sorry," she said, moving quickly and lightly across the room towards Benson. Her bare feet slapped softly against the floorboards. "I'm just feeling a bit edgy. You know?" She slipped her arms around his waist, scratched gently at his muscled back, feeling him relax.

  "It's OK. Last night was rough. We're both bound to feel a bit shitty about it." He pressed his body against her. His dick was hard. His scars glistened in the growing light. A halo of dust hung around his head. Sarah almost pulled away. "We're fine," he whispered in her ear, and she felt his damp breath against the side of her neck. The scar tissue was smooth and almost slick to the touch. "I promise."

  "Fancy some breakfast?" Now she did pull away from him – but at least this time she had an excuse. "I have bacon. Maybe even a couple of eggs, if you're lucky." She edged towards the door.

  Benson nodded. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were hard, like chips of coal. His teeth were very white. They made Sarah think of dentists… and of their hydraulic chairs. She felt suddenly short of breath.

  "Come with me. You can talk to me as I cook." She left the room, knowing that he would follow close behind her. Sometimes, when his guard was down, he was like a loyal puppy. He would trail her, allowing her to manipulate him in small ways. Benson was strong, but she sensed that she was even stronger. She could probably break him with the flick of a wrist, if that was what she wanted. But she didn't know what she wanted. That was part of the problem.

  At least the kitchen was clean. Her first job upon arriving at the house had been to make the room hygienic. She had scrubbed it for hours, and even moved in the pots and pans and appliances from her old flat. They looked out of place on the old work surfaces and in the rickety cupboards, but they provided an odd form of comfort. Bits and pieces of her new life making her old one seem less threatening. At least that was the plan.

  Sarah grilled the bacon and fried the eggs. When the toast was ready she buttered it and sliced the rounds into triangles, which she then arranged on a large plate at the centre of the oval dining table. Benson sat at the table and watched her, his lips twitching. It was the closest he had come to a smile since they had found the dead boy. His shoulders were bunched, tension apparent in his posture.

  "Do you miss him?" He kept staring at her as he spoke. It made her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she was unable to pinpoint why. Her legs were cold; she wished she'd put on her dressing gown over her flimsy Betty Boop nightshirt.

  "Who?"

  "Come on, you know who I mean. Your dad."

  "He wasn't my dad," she said coolly, turning her attention back to the hissing frying pan. "He was just my father." She flipped the eggs, being careful not to burst the yokes. She hated it when that happened.

  "You weren't close, then?" Benson's voice filled the room.

  "Why all the questions? You've never asked about him before?" She turned down the gas on the hob. Checked the bacon; it wasn't quite crispy enough for her taste. She pushed the grill pan back under the heat. The skin of her hand tightened as it moved close to the flame.

  "I know. I just thought, well. You know. I thought it was time we actually tried to get to know each other. We've been fucking for weeks now, and all I know about you is that your dad was the famous DI Doherty." He was attempting to keep his tone light, but there was an edge to it, an undercurrent she didn't like.

  "Is that why you fuck me?" She closed her eyes. "Because I'm the daughter of a legend?" The hot oil in the pan spat at her. She felt it on her cheek. The pain was good; it was real.

  "Don't talk shite. Of course that isn't why. I like you. We seem to work well together."

  Sarah laughed. "Jesus, you sound like you're filling in a form, or something. Like a character reference: 'works well with others, likes to tie me up when she rides my dick.'"

  Benson laughed, breaking the moment of tension, but Sarah could tell that he was still unsure. Good: let him stay that way. Nobody got through her layers, not if she could help it. She liked to keep everyone off balance. The real Sarah Doherty was buried way too deep for a scar-faced journeyman like Benson to find. She regretted this thought instantly, but that didn't make it untrue.

  "You want ketchup on this?" The bacon was ready. She put the food on the plates.

  "What?"

  "Ketchup. You know, red sauce. Or something else?" She turned and set down the plates on the table, taking the seat opposite. "I have some stuff in that cupboard over there." She motioned with her head but made no move to stand.

  Benson seemed confused for a moment. He looked at her, then down at his plate, and then across towards the cupboard. "No," he said. "No, thanks." His eyes were dull, as if he'd just been beaten in a game whose rules he did not understand. There were dark circles under his eyes. His short, dark hair stuck out in little clumps.

  "Suit yourself," said Sarah. Then she got up, went to the cupboard, and took out the ketchup.

  They ate in silence. The smell of burnt bacon hung in the air. A puzzling sense of unfulfilled confrontation lay between them.

  Afterwards, Benson washed the dishes while Sarah returned to the living room with a cup of coffee. She turned on the TV and watched the morning news. There was a brief report mentioning the dead boy, but not the state in which they had found him. Someone had been stabbed outside a nightclub in central Leeds. There had been a crash involving two coaches on the motorway, heading towards Manchester.

  Sarah got up and went to the bureau. It was an old piece of furniture, possibly an antique. Sarah remembered it from her childhood. Once she'd watched her father slamming her mother's head repeatedly against it during an argument over shopping.

  She opened the top drawer and began to riffle through the papers she'd found there, bored and restless, looking for something to distract her darkening thoughts. A few days ago she had noted a couple of envelopes stuffed with Polaroid photographs inside the bureau. At the time she had not been able to examine the photos – she was due at the station, and just nosing around as she finished her morning orange juice with no real aim in mind.

  She dug deep and found two envelopes. They were slim, brown, and obviously old. One of them was badly torn and the contents were threatening to spill out.

  "Come on, then," she whispered, juggling the envelopes as she took them out of the drawer. She almost dropped the torn one, and this was all the invitation the photos needed to wriggle free. They spilled to the floor like thrown playing cards, scattering at her feet.

  Sarah bent down and grabbed them, creasing one or two but not really caring. She was certain they weren't important: just more of her father's shit. The same old stuff he had been hoarding for years. The house was filled with such items, and she was tempted to call in a house clearance company to have the lot taken away without even giving it another glance. Or was that just something she told herself to stop her from being afraid of what she might find?

  Slowly, she fanned out the photos in her hands. The first one showed her father, much younger than when he had died. He was naked except for an old-fashioned bobby's custodian helmet and a avaricious smile. Sarah's mother was kneeling at his feet; her arms were trussed up tightly behind her back and bound by what looked like coils of nylon rope. Her father had an erection. Her mother was staring at it. Her lips were slightly apart. There was fear in her eyes. The image was slightly degraded, and nothing was too clear, but the look of absolute terror in her mother's eyes was unmistakable. Sarah had seen it before.

  She always looked like that when she knew her husband was going to rape her.

  "Jesus…" Sarah was hardly surprised. As a child, she had seen far too many examples of the man's abusive nature – had even experienced it first hand, several times. But this was something new. She had never known him to photograph any of his activities. The risk of the images getting into the wrong hands was too strong, and exposure would surely ruin his carefully-cultivated reputation as
an officer of note.

  The muscles in her jaw ached. She was grinding her teeth. A photograph like this meant nothing, of course; it was simply a kinky shot of two married people playing sex games. Hardly something new amongst the police, who tended to let off steam in all kinds of personal ways. But…

  What if he had recorded other things. Bad things. Dead bad things, as the old bastard had called anything that did not fit into his fucked-up sense of right and wrong, his twisted world view.

  Sarah carefully slipped the photographs back into the envelope, and then she replaced both envelopes inside the overstuffed drawer. She would examine these more closely later, when she was alone. She had a day off before rotating back onto the day shift; there was nowhere important she needed to be. She had even briefly considered cancelling her rest day and calling into the station, maybe to relieve someone who had better things to do, a family and friends to spend time with, a real life to lead. But not now: not any longer.