Dead Broken - Psychological Thriller / Horror

by Gerard Gray

  “Cheer me up, dad. Tell me something to make me smile.” This was something my mum used to say to him when she was feeling down. When he was well he never failed to deliver, and even sometimes when he was ill. Not all my dad’s illnesses started off on a nasty foot; sometimes they were hilarious, at least in the beginning.

  A distant memory floated across my mind. It was an anecdote my mum had recounted to me after visiting my dad in the hospital one day:

  “Hello Joseph,” she had said to him. “How are you today?”

  My dad handed my mum back a grimace in reply before relaxing, the pain slipping away.

  “Has anyone been in to see you?”

  No answer. The pain was back. He held this determined expression for a couple of seconds, and then with an almighty release he relaxed.

  “What's wrong, Joseph?”

  No reply. He was off again, straining with all his might, his lips pursed, struggling with some unimaginable terror within. The poor man was dying of kidney failure – yet another renal infection – and we all suspected he might have cancer of the stomach as well. The doctor had asked us on two separate occasions now if we would agree to stop the dialysis, but we had said no. We weren’t ready to let him go, not yet.

  He relaxed once more. It looked like he was being attacked by spasms every couple of seconds. Perhaps he did have cancer. Still he said nothing.

  Holding back the tears my mum decided to try and take both their minds off the pain by talking about some of the funnier things my sister had gotten up to that week. She spoke for a good ten minutes, but other than a serious nod of the head, my dad said nothing, not even a smile. He looked like he was in agony, his face contorted with pain.

  “Oh, Joseph,” my mum finally said, breaking off from her news. “Are you in that much pain?”

  “I'm finished.” With these simple words my dad had floored my mother. They were the first words he had spoken since she had entered the hospital room.

  “What?” my mum replied, shocked. “You're finished?”

  He nodded calmly but definitely. “I am.”

  “Oh Joseph, you're not finished.”

  “I am!” my dad screamed, his face a manic flush of anger. “I'm finished.” He looked exhausted. My mum was exhausted. The end was near and everyone knew it.

  My mum did her best to swallow the lump in her throat. Perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps it was time to stop the dialysis. Tears welled in her eyes. It was so unfair. What a life this man had had. What a life.

  Just then a nurse came striding into the room. She threw my mum a sterilised glare, stopping by the side of the bed.

  “Are you finished?” she asked my dad.

  My dad nodded and gave her a deep resounding “yes.”

  “Good,” she replied. And with that she whipped back the sheet covering my dad's poor emaciated body.

  My mum was speechless. It only took her a second to realise what was going on, and with that she burst into tears. But she wasn’t crying; she was laughing.

  “Oh Joseph!” she yelled, throwing the hand she had been lovingly holding down hard onto the bed.

  Dad pursed his rosy red lips and chuckled to himself silently.

  He was sitting on a potty.

  *

  Michael dragged me into the hall. I had put off playing with him long enough. I had toyed with the notion of fobbing him off with the TV yet again, but thoughts of bad parenting spanked me over the arse with a slipper. The parents of today were supposedly ignoring their kids, the resultant being a disenfranchised youth.

  I had thought long and hard about this over the last six months. Why were our children so fucked up? And were we really living in a broken society? That’s what the politicians had called it anyway.

  I had my theories. For one, discipline had gone right out of the window both at school and in the home, corporal punishment having ended in my last year of primary school. I could still remember the day the ruling was announced as well. It was a momentous event for a child, right up alongside the afternoon a teenager heard that Maggie Thatcher had resigned, or the day a twenty-something saw the second twin tower coming down live on the communal projector at work. I was standing in the playground with my friends, and we were all laughing. What could they possibly do to us now? Give us lines? It was a joke. In one foul swoop, society had whipped away our teachers’ belts leaving their corduroy trousers embarrassingly down around their ankles.

  But it didn’t end there. It had gotten to the point where we weren’t even allowed to shout at our own kids anymore, never mind physically abuse them.

  I suddenly remembered the neds, the ignorant little bastards. A prime example of what can happen when no rules are in place to curb a wayward youth. What was unleashed in the playground over twenty years ago had spilled over into the gutter along with a good swig of caffeine infused booze.

  They left you for dead.

  I know they did, dad.

  I thought about this for a second.

  I can’t help thinking that we’re not entirely blameless, though, dad. If we as a society have put these kids in this position, can we then entirely blame them for their actions? Every action has a reaction, a rule I learned at school. God, what do our kids have to look forward to? They don’t even have the promise of a free higher education anymore, at least they don’t in England. The politicians haven’t half pulled the rug out from under that one. What poor kid is going to want to risk his or her future by attempting the uni-route now, when he or she could end up owing the cost of a mortgage, even before they earn a penny? Only the rich can go to university these days, at least without the fear of ending up in debt, and that’s enough to piss any less fortunate kid off; because let’s face it, there’s bugger all else for them to do in this country – except maybe stack shelves.

  And what of these politicians who’d rather spend our money on war than education? It’s OK for them to steal our money by fiddling their expenses – they don’t even go to prison for that crime, well, most of them don’t anyway. But if a kid gets angry on facebook and threatens to steal a packet of cigarettes with his friends, he gets four years for it. Is it any wonder these kids have no respect for authority. Talk about hypocrisy.

  Then again, the little bastards did leave you for dead.

  I know they did, dad. I know that.

  A scene unfolded before my eyes. I was back standing in the doorway of the shop earlier that day, but instead of passing me by, the kid had recognised me, stopped and subsequently punched me right in the face. He was laughing, like I had done all those years ago in the playground. But I would be the one who laughed last here. “Whit the fuck’re ye gonae dae about it?” he sneered. “Jist whit the fuck’re ye gonae dae about it, aye?”

  Unlike six months earlier, this time I had a reply. I carefully placed my hand into my coat pocket and pulled out the answer. It was a gun. The kid’s eyes registered their gross mistake as a jackpot of golden piss poured down his leg. He had fucked with the wrong hombre here. This wasn’t some middle classed wimp he was messing with; this was one tough motherfucker – with a gun.

  “Ask me that again… you ignorant little fuck.”

  The dream shattered all around me. Sure that was going to happen. More likely I would piss my own pants. And what if I did have the courage to pull a gun on him? Would I actually blow him away in clear daylight? I’d end up in prison.

  Oh they’d love you in prison. Mmmm, nice, white, middle class cheeks.

  Fuck that. No way was I going to take a penal pounding for that little shit.

  No, I’d wait until he was round the corner instead. I would make sure that no one was looking, and only then produce the gun. I would pull him into the alleyway, knee him in his soon to be neutered balls, and then pistol whip him to within an inch of his useless fucking life.

  Bollocks.

  Bollocks indeed. Who was I kidding? For starters, that would make me no better than him. And I was better than him, wasn’t I? I w
as a law-abiding citizen. Wasn’t I?

  Peados are as much criminals as murderers – didn’t you know that?

  I’m not a peado.

  Sure you’re not. I saw the way you looked at that fifteen-year-old schoolgirl on the bus. You dirty old bastard.

  I didn’t look at her… and she was probably seventeen if she was a day.

  She was wearing a nice short skirt, wasn’t she; probably gagging for it. You do have good taste… for a peado.

  I clutched my head in my hands. Why did I torture myself like this? Why?

  Michael was precariously padding up the stairs in front of me. I shook the bastard of old from my head and darted after him. “Hang on there, gorgeous. That’s dangerous.” I rushed towards the stumbling baby, but just before getting to him something caught my eye.

  It was the book.

  Why didn’t he want me to read it?

  I managed to steady Michael in time to stop him falling backwards down the stairs. I stared back at the book, suddenly intrigued. I could just read the first chapter, I thought. He would never know. I returned my gaze to Michael as he climbed up the stairs, casting the window a quick glance on the way. It was getting dark. He had wanted me to post it before it got dark. Why? I suddenly felt a rush. It was almost as though the book was compelling me to pick it up. I wanted to read it. I needed to read it. I tentatively reached for the novel, examined the blank, desiccated cover, and proceeded to follow my son up the stairs.

  Just one chapter, I told myself. I’d only read the first chapter.

  Chapter 5

  The Cat

  It wasn’t until Karen finally went to bed that I opened the book. I had wanted to read it all night, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to until everyone had gone to sleep. Depp was away at his sleepover. Michael was asleep by seven, Karen following suit shortly after that.

  Sometimes when I read a book my mind begins to wander. Whether it be a thought inspired by the book, or just something that was already on my mind, it usually ends with me breaking out of the flow of the words, but not this time. Just like all the other times, my mind began to ramble, but it didn’t break me out of the story. It was like I was reading the book on two different planes, no longer flying solo but parallel along two separate flight paths. On one hand I was following the story, but on the other my mind was running rampant, like a fire out of control. The story line of the book was throwing question after question at me, my subconscious mind processing and deliberating each and every thought.

  Page after page I turned. I couldn’t put it down. My mind was reeling, anger and indignation dancing to the beat of the prose. It was a parable for today’s society, gripping, to say the least. How the hell had this guy not had this book published?

  I read on. The words percolated into my subconscious, bubbling ideas. At first the thoughts were manic and chaotic, but then patterns started to evolve, plans began to formulate. It was like I was walking in a waking dream. My conscious mind was no longer in control, merely a spectator, my attention firmly fixed on the words of the book. Questions were being asked, answers were being conceived, and ultimately issues were being dealt with. Something was happening, something I had no control over.

  My thoughts tumbled out of the pages of the book, down into the bowels of my mind below. But they didn’t rest there. Something was waiting for them. What was it? Whatever it was I didn’t like it. It scared me, a bit like that cupboard in my cellar. That cupboard scared me shitless because it was bottomless. It was a black hole in the floor, a hole that descended into murky darkness; proof that no matter how well you locked your doors at night there was always something that could get at you from within.

  And then all at once I saw it. It was a well at the bottom of my mind. I stared hard into the hole before me, but all I could see was darkness. Was something waiting for me, lurking just beneath the light of day? Whatever was down there it felt wrong and I knew it, but at the same time it felt right? No, it didn’t feel right, it felt… good. There’s a difference.

  I found myself getting drawn towards that hole. It wanted me to capitulate, to succumb. If I were to have dropped a pebble into it, I am sure that it would have given me back nothing in return. Down, down, down it would have fallen, down into the murky depths below.

  My mind froze. I had heard a noise. I listened to the darkness, staring hard into the void. What was it? Was it a… voice? No, not a voice… many voices. I shivered. I didn’t want to listen to them, but somehow I had to. It was like scratching an itch. On the surface you knew if you scratched it, it would end up bloody and torn, the itch returning with a vengeance only minutes later. But while it lasted, while you scratched that itch, it felt so fucking good.

  And as I stared into that hole, I saw a boy.

  I snarled in anger. What right did he have to do this to me? I had spent three months of my life afraid to leave the house. I didn’t go to work; I didn’t go to the shops; I no longer walked down the street during the day, never mind the fucking night. What right did he have to take my freedom away from me like that? And why had no one done anything about it? The police had ridiculed me. Karen had refused to listen. Fuck, why couldn’t that boy have just left me alone? Why couldn’t he have just left me in peace?

  Replies…

  The voices were answering. The pages of the book had been listening to my thoughts. All the decisions I had ever looked for existed just beyond the event horizon of that hole. The answers were intoxicating, lulling me with advice, caressing me with ideas, soothing me with options. I was drowning in swell of answers. It was too much for me. I had to breathe. I had to breathe before it was too late.

  I put the book down and took a deep breath. I had read half of it. Where had all the pages gone? I had drunk them down like water.

  Water… I was thirsty.

  I staggered into the kitchen, deeply confused and troubled by what I had read. Myriad thoughts were running through my mind confusing me more than ever. God, I felt like shit. Was I depressed? I hadn’t felt like this in a long time. In saying that, I now knew that I was no longer alone; I wasn’t the only one who thought like this. Society was indeed sick and these kids were indeed one of the symptoms. Anyone with eyes could see that. They were getting away with murder, and we were all to blame.

  I didn’t care, though. If that little bastard were here, right now, I would answer his question for him alright. It had taken me six months to etch out a reply, but I had an answer for that little shit now.

  I angrily fetched a glass from the cupboard and turned on the cold tap. As my blood boiled and the water flowed, I noticed my full reflection in the dark patio doors. Something was wrong, wrong with my feet. What was wrong with my feet? I stared hard into the blackened glass. It wasn’t my reflection after all; it was my next-door neighbours’ cat.

  And that’s when it came to me.

  That’s when I realised what I had to do.

  *

  The cat was still curled up on the decking. To me it looked like your typical moggy, but that was because it reminded me of the cat I used to see on the TV as a child. It was actually expensive; it was a silver tabby.

  I opened the kitchen door and knelt down on one knee. The cat leapt to its feet, its ears twitching like flies, its head bobbing like an apple in a bucket. For a second I thought I had lost my window of opportunity, but no, curiosity had indeed gotten the better of this feline. Instead of running she proceeded to grind and wind her body against a wooden post until she had come to a complete halt, her back facing me, nonchalant and still.

  Except for her tail.

  Her tail had a spirit of its own, and that spirit looked spooked. Preternatural in the late October moonlight it was swirling and dancing like an agitated mist. I think it knew something that the cat did not. If only it had a mouth to speak.

  Slowly, carefully, I moved my hand towards the cat’s head. It flinched. The canny cat didn’t know whether it could trust me or not – clever cat. Perhaps she was liste
ning to her tail after all… or perhaps not. I tentatively tried again, and this time she foolishly let me touch her. I would need to seriously wash my hands after doing this, I thought to myself.

  In a flash the cat was on its feet. It darted away to the edge of the decking, closely followed by a grateful looking tail. This wasn’t going to plan. Did I really think this semi-wild animal was just going to let me pick it up?

  The cat came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the decking. Tiddles, for that was her name, then sat herself down and about turned to face me.

  What are you up to?

  “Nothing… I was just being friendly.”

  Tiddles eyed me suspiciously.

  I don’t trust you. You’ve never been friendly before.

  This was true. The last time I had even given this cat the time of day was to push it off the roof of my car. By then it was too late, though – the little shit had dragged her claws right across my paintwork. Damn expensive to repair.

  My eyes blurred as a memory skidded into view. The blood froze in my veins, my scalp tightening, the scar on my stomach beginning to throb. I reached down to touch the souvenir, anger and indignation swelling in my alcohol sodden brain. “Fucking little bastard.”

  I blinked to regain my vision. I had to concentrate. I had to do this. I was going to have to be clever about it, though, at least, more clever than a cat. Plan A had failed: the cat wasn’t going to let me pick it up. Luckily for me, though, I had another plan in my pocket.

  I examined both of the next-door neighbours’ gardens just to be sure that no one was watching. Nothing. Of course there was nothing, it was three o’clock in the morning. But what if someone was watching? I looked again. No, I was just being paranoid. I had to get a grip.

  I raised my eyes to the night’s sky. No full moon tonight. Good. I was surprised at how black and clear everything was, though. Here I was in the middle of Glasgow, and the sky looked practically clear of light pollution. The world was silent, a thin crescent moon sleeping on a sea of stars.