Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  But now that Tebbit was close to the end, none of his old colleagues wanted to make the journey to see him. It was as if they were afraid that signs of his imminent death might rub off on their skin and mark them out as the next to go.

  There was a nurse's station half way along the corridor and Sarah told the man behind the desk why she was there and who she wanted to see. He checked her name on a clipboard, wrote something beside it, and told her that she could have twenty minutes with Tebbit. Normal visiting hours had been abandoned regarding this patient because they didn't expect him to last much longer.

  Twenty minutes. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

  "Thanks," she said, turning and approaching the door to Tebbit's room. The last time she'd been here the man had been out of bed, sitting in a chair by the window. This time he was lying on his back and waiting to die.

  Sarah paused outside the door, reaching out to touch the window hatch located at eye level. She looked through the glass and saw the end of his bed. His feet were small pointed shapes under the thin covers.

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Tebbit was flat on his back, with tubes coming out of his mouth and nose. A heart rate monitor beeped softly at his side, attached to one finger by what looked like a small clothes peg. His eyes were closed. His cheeks were pale. The side of his neck was fluttering as the pulse there kept its rhythm, the silent chanting of the blood in his veins.

  Sarah stood at the end of the bed, not taking her eyes from Tebbit's frail form. He had never been a large man, and always kept his body trim and fit, but now he was achingly skinny. His scrawny arms rested above the covers, the veins sticking out like cords. His fingers were fleshless, like claws. It broke Sarah's heart to see him this way, but she held herself in check.

  "Everybody ends some time," she whispered. "Some day you too will die."

  "But isn't it so unfair?" The voice came from behind her. "So very unfair."

  Sarah turned around, adopting an instinctive fighting stance. She glared at the man who was slowly stepping away from the wall, challenging him to try something.

  "I'm sorry," he said, trying and failing to smile. "I didn't mean make you jump."

  Sarah relaxed. The man was not a danger. He was small, thin, and looked as if he'd blow over in a strong breeze. She recognised him from somewhere but wasn't sure why. Nothing about his face stood out; he was average.

  "My name's Thomas Usher." He approached her slowly, as if he were still afraid that he might startle her. "I'm a friend of Tebbit's."

  "Ah, yes. I know you." She shook his hand. It was cold, so very cold.

  "Have we met?" He twisted his mouth and looked at her more intently, as if trying to trace her features in his memory banks.

  "Once, several months ago. It was during the Penny Royale case, and DI Tebbit asked me to come to your house and collect you. You probably don't remember."

  Something flashed across Usher's face, lighting him up from the inside. "Oh, but I do. Yes, I do remember you. As far as I recall, you were a bit huffy." This time he succeeded in smiling. It altered his entire face, showing Sarah how handsome he was underneath the mask of melancholia.

  "Yes, I'd just lost my father. I was… troubled."

  "I do remember that," said Usher, putting his hands in the pockets of his slightly shabby suit jacket. "I believe he was following you. Unless I'm mistaken, you didn't like me telling you."

  Sarah shook her head. "No. I didn't like that at all."

  "So you know who I am? What I am?" He clenched his jaw. He needed a shave; the stubble growth was short but dark.

  "Our friend here told me about you. He shared a few details with me regarding how you've helped him over the years. He has a lot of time for you, Mr Usher."

  "Call me Thomas," said the man, walking towards the bed. "Please. No one else does, not anymore, but somehow I'd prefer it if you did."

  "OK, Thomas. I'm Sarah. Sarah Doherty."

  "I remember that, too," he said, not looking at her; his gaze was fixed on the bed, and the face of his dying friend. "We go back a long way, me and Tebbit. Me and Donald. He's a fine man, a great friend. A brilliant policeman." Usher bowed his head over Tebbit's bed, closing his eyes. He looked like he might cry.

  "I can leave you alone if you want. I didn't know anyone else was in here, or I would've stayed outside." She started to leave.

  "No. That's fine. I sneaked in here anyway. Nobody knows I'm back in Leeds. Tebbit told me to stay away, but something happened to bring me back. I thought it best if I kept my arrival as quiet as possible." Usher reached down and placed the palm of his hand on Tebbit's forehead. He left it there, like a benediction. "I just wish he was still here to see me. I have things I'd like to tell him."

  "Me too," said Sarah, surprising herself with her candour. "He was the only one left who might listen, but now even he's gone."

  Usher turned his head towards her. His eyes shone with tears. "Oh, he's not gone. Not yet. He's still here, in this room – in this world, this reality. He hasn't moved on quite yet. But he will do soon, and we'll all miss him, won't we? You and me more than anybody, I'd imagine."

  Sarah nodded. She was crying too; tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her chin. She didn't bother wiping them away. There was no point in hiding her grief: it was personal, yes, but it felt right to share it with this man. For some reason she felt a connection between them, and she was certain that the feeling was reciprocated. It wasn't sexual; she was not attracted to Thomas Usher. It went deeper than that, right down to the bone, and inside the genes.

  "Do you feel it, too?" he was staring at her: his gaze was… naked. That was the word that came into her mind, the only one she could think of to describe it.

  She nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. But what is it?"

  Usher looked down at Tebbit. "I think it's him. He wants us to talk. Does that make sense to you? If it doesn't, I'll go away and never bother you again."

  Sarah was aware that she stood on the verge of a pivotal decision. This was a defining moment, something that would resonate throughout the rest of her life. Whatever she said here, it mattered: it meant something beyond this room and the two of them standing over a dying man. "Don't go," she said. "Let's go and get some coffee."

  "That sounds good," said Usher. "I can't even remember when I last ate, so I might even get a sandwich." He smiled again. "I could really go for a sandwich right now." His stomach growled, lightening the moment. "Sorry." He lowered his gaze, like a guilty schoolboy.

  "Come on, Thomas." Sarah was laughing now; the tears had dried on her cheeks. "It's my treat… I hope you're a cheap date."

  They rode the lift in silence, each of them content that a bond had been made between them over the body of their dying friend. Sarah felt instinctively that they didn't have to work at it, this blossoming friendship. It felt more natural than the sunrise, as effortless as strolling in the rain.

  They walked across to a small café just off Millennium Square that served all-day breakfasts. Usher ordered a full English and Sarah had a coffee and three rounds of buttered toast.

  "Sorry if I'm being a pig, but I'm starving. I can't remember the last time I was this hungry." Usher tucked into his meal, shovelling in huge mouthfuls.

  "Knock yourself out," said Sarah, nibbling at her toast. She wasn't really hungry but she didn't want Usher to eat alone.

  After he'd cleared his plate Usher asked for another cup of sweet white tea, and then leaned back in his chair. "OK, I'm going to tell you everything. I have nothing left to lose."

  Sarah pushed her plate across the table, clearing some space. "You and me both."

  "After Penny Royale, Tebbit sent me away. I've been living in London for over six months, locked away from the world and trying to make myself invisible. A few days ago I was sent a message, and I knew that I had to come back."

  "What kind of message?" Sarah leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

  "
I'm not quite sure. It was garbled, just a series of images. Like watching an art-house film that I knew meant something but couldn't pinpoint what that meaning was. All I knew was that I had to come back, and right now I'm thinking that you're the reason I was meant to return." He sucked on the inside of his cheek. His eyes went wide. "So, what do you think of that, Sarah Doherty?"

  A waitress brought over his tea and scurried away to another table, where someone was asking for the bill.

  "It should sound fucking stupid," said Sarah. "But it doesn't. A lot of weird stuff has been happening lately, and this is just the latest piece of a puzzle that's too big for me to see." She took a sip of coffee. It was growing cold. "All I know is that I've needed help and now you've fallen from the sky and offered me some. Maybe this is some kind of message, or fate or destiny or something. I don't know. I really don't know. I do know, however, that Tebbit trusted you more than anyone he ever knew, and that's more than good enough for me. I trust you, Thomas, even though we don't know each other. I've never trusted anyone before in my life. How fucked up is that?" She laughed, but even to her it sounded shrill and unconvincing.

  "You know what I do – that I communicate with the dead. I don't have to tell you about that. I do need to ask you something, though." He looked paler than before, and his hands were restless on the tabletop.

  "OK, just ask. Whatever it is, I'll do my best to answer." She picked up a teaspoon and started passing it between her fingers like a cheap trick, a sleight-of-hand.

  Usher let out a long breath. He closed his eyes and then opened them again. "If this sounds crazy just let me know. OK. Does this mean anything to you: the image of a man in a black robe and a white hood?"

  Sarah dropped the spoon onto the table. It clattered loudly, making her twitch in shock. "I can't believe you just said that."

  Usher looked scared. His cheeks were gaunt; his neck was too thin, the flesh almost translucent beneath the shadow of his stubble. "So it does mean something? Tell me. Tell me who it is."

  "It's my father."

  "Your dead father. The one who's been following you around." These were not questions: they were simply a confirmation of the facts.

  Sarah nodded. "Only I found out recently that he wasn't my father… not my real father. DI Emerson Doherty adopted me, illegally. I'm a Jane Doe. I'm a woman without a name or an identity. I'm whatever it is he made me into."

  The café was emptying. Breakfasters were making their way to offices or meetings or the teaching hospital across the road. The waitress was doing the rounds, clearing the tables. She looked tired, like she was at the end of her tether.

  "Where are you staying?" Sarah took out her purse and laid a ten-pound note on the tablecloth.

  "To be honest, I haven't a clue. I own a house out past the airport, but it's been closed up for months. I'm not exactly keen to go back there, so I was thinking about checking into a hotel here in the city. Can you recommend anywhere?"

  Sarah thought about it for a second or two, and then decided that she had a good plan. "Yes, I can. How about my place?"

  Usher frowned and twisted his mouth. He looked comically surprised, like a character in a silent film.

  "Don't worry; I'm not trying to seduce you. Sorry, but you're so not my type. And I never did see the appeal of older men."

  Usher smiled, but it was tentative, as if he were still unsure of her motives.

  "Seriously, I have that huge old house with just me rattling around inside. You can take your pick of the rooms, and stay with me until you feel ready to go back home… or until this thing gets wherever it's going."

  "This thing?" He raised one eyebrow.

  "This thing, whatever it is."

  "It feels like the last part of something," he said, abruptly. "Like something is drawing to its conclusion."

  "I know," said Sarah, astonished that he was able to verbalise her own muddied thoughts in such a succinct manner. "That's exactly how it feels: it feels like the end."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Back at Sarah's large, high-ceilinged town house, the girl almost had to coax me inside.

  "Come on, Thomas. I promise not to bite. I've already told you that I find you deeply unattractive. What further assurances do you need?"

  I shook my head and walked slowly through the front door, dropping my small sports bag onto the hall floor. My smile was relaxed now; I felt more comfortable in her presence. I didn't understand why or how, but somehow she had managed to put me at ease. Not many people could do that. In fact, most people – most living people – put me on edge.

  She turned gradually towards me, scratching at a spot on her left forearm with her bitten fingernails. "Anyway, as I said in the taxi, I have selfish reasons for this, too. If Benson comes back I want some muscle around to give me a hand."

  I took off my coat and hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She had told me all about her boyfriend and his odd behaviour during the journey from the café. "If I'm your idea of protection, you are well and truly without hope. I couldn't throw a party never mind a punch."

  She smiled at that, enjoying the joke – or at least pretending to. I began to think that this might be a good idea after all. As random and impulsive as her offer had been, it felt right somehow that I should accept the invitation and stay with her. At least for a little while, until things played out to their climax.

  I realised that I hadn't thought about my dead family – Rebecca and Ally – for quite some time: ever since the episode in the Pilgrim Products warehouse on the south bank of the Thames, in fact. The message I'd been given was still beyond my ability to work out, but this whole meeting with Sarah Doherty felt like another part of some epic saga. I wasn't sure if I was being mentally slow or if the situation was simply too complex for me to contemplate. My thought processes were blurred; all I could focus on right then was the fact that my friend, Donald Tebbit, was dying.

  The young girl who stood before me represented a link to Tebbit that I was yet to understand. Whatever her sudden presence in my life meant, it had been foreshadowed in London, during what I was beginning to think of as my exile in the urban wasteland.

  What was it Ellen Lang's clockwork voice had said in that haunted warehouse? Don't go back. You can't help her.

  I had no idea what the warning meant, not literally. But I decided to ignore it for now. I felt that I could help this girl, and she was certainly in need of my aid. Perhaps if I could work with her to solve her mystery, a light might shine down on my own affairs and reveal a little more about what was unfolding around me. And that was exactly how it felt: like something was unfolding, a giant sheet twisting and unwinding and slowly uncovering what was wrapped up inside.

  "Come on," said Sarah. "Let's get you settled in and I'll pour us a drink."

  I nodded and followed her along the hallway and into the lounge.

  Sarah poured us both whiskies – large glasses, filled almost to the halfway point. It was a bit too early for that kind of drinking, but I took it anyway. I needed the help to bring my emotions under control. The visit to Tebbit's bedside had affected me more than I'd expected. I'd known the man for long enough to call him a close friend – perhaps my only friend – and it hurt to see him like that, unconscious in a single bed and connected to machines.

  I'd known for a long time that Tebbit was meant to die of his brain tumour. His wife's silent ghost had shown it to me, a bizarre kind of mime performed to let me know the manner of his demise. She was there in the room when I'd arrived, standing at his side and staring down at him. That's why I'd been standing against the wall when Sarah walked in, watching and waiting for Tebbit's beautiful guardian to allow me the space to approach him. Despite being in a coma, he'd known that his wife was there. I could tell by the way she was smiling, and the tenderness with which she touched his pale, slack skin.

  She had been there to guide him. All she had to do was wait for him to slip away and join her.

  Would my loved one
s do the same when it was finally my time to leave? Was that when I'd see them again, my beloved wife and daughter? The thought had crossed my mind too many times over the years, but I was too afraid to test the theory. What if I killed myself and they didn't come? That would be the worst horror of all: taking my own life to find that I was alone on the other side of the curtain, and doomed to continue my search beyond the confines of the reality I had left behind.

  No; that was not the way I wanted to go. I'd been close to ending things on several occasions – one of which was soon after I'd arrived in the grey zone in Plaistow. But I was stronger than I thought, and had not yet weakened enough to take that most desperate of paths. I would survive; I would endure. It was what I did.