Dead Broken - Psychological Thriller / Horror

by Gerard Gray

  “Well there’s only the insurance policy.”

  “I think you should think again about buying the funeral.”

  “Hmm…”

  We had been through this before. She had been all set to buy it but had decided to pull out at the last minute.

  “And you need to buy it using the money in the bank.” I knew fine well that she wasn’t going to do it. She didn’t understand where I was coming from. All she could see was that if she bought the funeral, she would have less money for Marie when she was gone. I had tried to explain this to her on numerous occasions but she never seemed to get it.

  “Look, if you pay for the funeral now – using the money in the bank, not the stuff hidden in your book – then it means you’ll be able to get more benefits.”

  “Hmm…” She wasn’t getting it – old and dithery.

  “You don’t get it, do you? Listen, in the long run you’ll be better off, and you’ll have more money to give to Marie.”

  “But I feel guilty because I need the money for Marie.”

  “God… If you buy the funeral now, with the money in the bank, then you’ll get more benefits. That means you won’t need to spend as much of your own money – the stuff that’s in the bank. In short the benefits will pay for the funeral – in the long run.

  “Oh.” She still wasn’t getting it. “Is Karen in today?”

  “Yes. She’s down… stairs.”

  Silence.

  “What’s wrong?” My mum knew me well; she could tell when I was holding something back.

  “I upset Karen yesterday. I told her that I saw the kids who attacked me.”

  Silence.

  “It was them, mum. I saw them.”

  “But isn’t that what you said the last time?”

  “Things were different back then. I was ill, not thinking straight. I’m completely fine now. Everything’s been going well. Michael and Depp are great.”

  “How are my boys? Put them on the phone.”

  “Sorry, Michael’s still in bed and Depp’s at a sleepover. What do you think I should do?”

  “Do?”

  God.

  “The kids, the ones who attacked me.” I lowered my voice. I didn’t want to wake up Michael.

  “You know the door is always open if you need to come home.”

  “I know that. I know that.” I paused. My mum didn’t have the answer to my dilemma of what to do, but she had the next best thing. When the world had failed me, when all my endeavours had gone awry, this woman would take me in her arms and tell me of tomorrow, of how no one knows what’s round the next corner. The words of a song she had sung to me as a child popped into my head. “Que Sera, Sera. What ever will be, will be.”

  “OK. Thanks mum. I need to forget all this nonsense, that’s what I need to do. I’ll call you back when Michael’s up, OK? He can speak to his granny then.”

  “No,” my mum expelled. “It’s grandma.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I finally spoke to Karen’s mum on the phone and we agreed that she would be granny and I would be grandma. She’s a lovely woman.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does to me. I want them to call me grandma. It’s what you called my mother…Oh, someone’s at the door. Are you still coming this weekend? I don’t think I’ll be able to make a chilli.”

  “I don’t think I’m coming, mum. I don’t think I can get away.”

  “Sorry, I need to go. It takes me a long time to get to the door.”

  On hearing her say this I felt worried, but quickly dismissed the thought.

  “OK. I’ll talk to you later. Could you say a prayer for me, mum – to the Holy Spirit – that everything works out OK?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pray to the Holy Spirit to help you at work. But you’re always the same Pete: you always panic at first and then you’re OK.”

  I hadn’t meant work. I was talking about the neds.

  “I’ll pray to the Holy Spirit.”

  “Thanks, mum. Bye.”

  “Bye bye, bonny lad.”

  *

  I quietly placed the phone down, swivelled my legs around and pushed myself out of bed. I walked gingerly over to the door, prodding my aching guts. I was sure I had an ulcer at the very least. I quickly pulled the bedroom door open in a bid to mitigate the angry hinge. This was a gamble. Sometimes the door moaned, sometimes it didn’t. Not even a grumble. Good. I tiptoed past Michael’s room. I could hear him singing away, laughing to himself – probably playing with my dad.

  The floor squeaked. I froze. Michael froze. It was a bit like that game “What’s the time Mr Wolf”. If I acted like I was dead then perhaps he would just go back to whatever it was he was doing before. Within about twenty seconds the wolf was back singing again. Good. I continued to tiptoe quietly to the bathroom.

  Going to the toilet these days was a painful business. It felt like I was pissing fire. The pain in my guts stretched from the reflux in my throat all the way to the tip of my penis. Up until recently it had just been the stools that were the issue, but not any more. I had had these symptoms for the last six months, ever since the attack.

  I didn’t flush the toilet on the off chance that Michael would hear. Karen hated me doing this, but I needed to have ten minutes to myself. I stared at my face in the mirror. Inside I felt like I was dying, but on the outside I looked rather young, nothing like approaching forty at all. Sure, I had crinkles and wrinkles around the eyes, but I had always had crinkles. In fact when I was little my friends used to call me crinkles. Laugh lines, that’s what they were, not signs of old age.

  Sure they’re laugh lines.

  The door crept open. It was Karen. “Have you looked in on him?”

  I shook my head, anger aggravating my painful guts. Her tone had insinuated that I had done something wrong.

  “I’ll get to him in a minute. You go back down stairs.”

  “He’s crying.”

  “He’s not. He’s laughing. There’s a difference. He’ll be fine until we have a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll get him up.”

  Fuck. The girl couldn’t stop. She didn’t know how to chill.

  “Oh, and by the way, you didn’t half stink the place out last night.”

  “What?” I erupted, my fiery guts finally exploding. Was she alluding to me going to the toilet in the middle of the night? She was always getting onto me about stinking out the toilet. The trouble was, more often than not I did. At least these days I did; yet more symptoms of the stomach injury.

  “Karen don’t fucking start me. I didn’t go anywhere near the toilet last night.”

  “The toilet?”

  “Yeah, the toilet.”

  “What‘re you talking about?”

  “Making nasty smells! Stinking out the toilet. What do think I’m talking about?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the toilet. I was talking about your midnight feast. What were you doing eating salmon in the early hours of the morning? Your diet is appalling. You left the tin lying on the kitchen table. It hasn’t half stunk the place out.”

  “Salmon?”

  “Could you put the tin in the bin, please?”

  Karen closed the door. I looked into the mirror.

  Salmon?

  I couldn’t remember eating any...

  Bang! The previous night’s dream suddenly exploded all over my mind. What a terrible dream it had been as well. I had dreamt that I had lured a cat down into my cinema room with a tin of salmon. I think I had intended on killing it. I don’t think I did, though. God, I hope I didn’t.

  What am I saying, it was only a dream. I walked slowly towards the door, opened it and started down the stairs. It was only a dream. I shivered. My pace quickened. I entered the living room, strode into the dining area, past the computer and on towards the kitchen. A tin of open salmon was sitting on the table.

  What the hell?

  I turned to face the door leading down to my cinema ro
om. It was closed. It was only a dream. A bad, bad dream, but none the less just a…

  A sneeze exploded from my face, and then another. That’s weird, I usually only sneeze like that in the presence of… cats. I am allergic to cats.

  Before I knew it I was running down the stairs towards my cinema room. I flung open the door, but didn’t go in. I couldn’t move. My legs were frozen, the blood rushing around my head like a whirlwind. What the fuck?

  Lying in the middle of the room was a sheet of tarpaulin. And lying on the tarpaulin was a dead cat.

  *

  I paced about the room staring at the horrific scene before me. It looked like the cat’s head had been ripped from its body, the head nowhere to be seen. The blood had spurted right across the tarpaulin and onto the wooden floor, but most of the blood was contained on the sheet.

  But that wasn’t all.

  Candles had been placed all around the tarpaulin, like a satanic ritual or something.

  I continued to pace backwards and forwards, tapping my finger repetitively against the side of my head. “I didn’t do this.” I stared hard at the cat, pacing back and forth, my eyes spinning like plates. “I didn’t do this.” I walked over to the dead animal and stood over its body, panic rising in my stomach, my hands buzzing. “It was only a dream. I’d never do a thing like this. It was just a dream.”

  I clasped my arms around my body. The room felt cold, way too cold. I broke myself out of my manic thoughts to look around. Shit, the window was slightly ajar. I walked over to it, checked the floor for flooding, and then proceeded to close it.

  Did I sleep walk, I thought to myself? Did I do this in my sleep? Was that possible?

  Oh fuck.

  All at once the gravity of the situation hit me. I was in big trouble here. Could I go to prison for this? Oh God, I wouldn’t last a day in prison. I was going to go to prison.

  I spun around on my heels.

  The door at the top of the stairs had just opened.

  Fucking hell!

  “Are you down there?”

  “Yes!”

  “I hope to God you’re not playing that XBOX. I thought you were going to make tea.”

  I turned to examine the room. God, she would leave me for sure if she saw this. I opened the door, quickly closed it behind me then rushed up the stairs to cut her off at the kitchen.

  “I thought I’d left the window open all night. I just wanted to make sure.”

  Only the week before I had left the window open and it had unfortunately rained. I had awoken the next morning to find the floor completely flooded. Thankfully it hadn’t rained last night. I stopped myself on thinking this. Who was I kidding, it had fucking well poured.

  “Not again, Pete.”

  “Don’t worry it didn’t rain. It’s OK – the window, that is. I’m finished now. I’ll… get the tea, now.”

  Karen looked at me strangely. “Are you OK?”

  “Uh huh.” I stood directly in her path, blocking her descent. I did my best to restrain my struggling breath, which was difficult because it was having a fit. At all costs I had to stop her from going down those stairs, though. Karen tossed away my odd behaviour with an insouciant nod of the head and then she was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I walked slowly into the kitchen and over to the sink. I filled the kettle with water, plugged it in and clicked the button. Think, Pete, think. How could this have happened? I couldn’t remember actually killing the cat in my dream. I knew something had happened, but it was weird, just like… just like a fucking dream. Oh dear God, this wasn’t happening. I couldn’t remember killing the cat, and I couldn’t remember opening the window.

  I stopped dead. The cat was in a terrible state. If I had killed it then I must have been covered in blood. Did I have a shower? Did I leave blood stains in the bathroom? And what about my clothes? Were they covered in blood too?

  The kettle started to boil but I had to go, I had to find my clothes. I rushed into the dining area, through the living room, past Karen and straight up the stairs. I couldn’t find the damn things anywhere. They weren’t in my bedroom and they weren’t lying in the bathroom – no blood either. Thank God for that. Perhaps Karen had found the clothes earlier. I quickly ran down the stairs.

  “Karen, have you seen the clothes I was wearing last night?”

  Michael started to cry in his room.

  “Are you going to get him?”

  “In a minute, in a minute. I need to find my clothes.”

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Have you seen my clothes?”

  “Well, if you had put them away...”

  Without listening to another word I about turned and headed into the downstairs toilet. I had no time for one of her lectures today. The washing machine contained what looked like my clothes. I opened up the door to examine them. The clothes were all wet; they had already been washed. But were they the clothes I had been wearing yesterday?

  “I’m coming, Michael.” It was Karen. She sounded angry.

  OK. I had to calm down here. Everything was going to be OK, just calm down. Go and help Karen with Michael. Don’t make her any more suspicious than she already is. She’s going to see her aunt today. When she’s gone I’ll dispose of the… mess.

  Fuck. I ran my hand over my bald head.

  Everything was going to be OK. Calm down.

  “Can you bring me Michael’s creams?”

  “Creams? Sure, sure. No worries. Where’re they kept?”

  As I stood in the hallway, waiting for Karen’s reply, I attempted to rake in all the facts surrounding the morning’s events. Had I forgotten anything here, anything that could incriminate me? No, I didn’t think so. Providing Karen didn’t go down into that room, which wouldn’t be a problem seeing as she hated the place anyway, then all would be fine. I just needed to bide my time until she had gone.

  “Where’re the creams, Karen?”

  “You don’t know where the creams are? Typical. They’re in the front of his bag where they’re always kept.”

  I couldn’t be bothered arguing with her. Within seconds I was leaping up the stairs. On seeing me, Karen nodded towards the bedroom. “Your phone’s ringing.” I handed her the creams. She didn’t even say thank you.

  I quickly headed into the bedroom, picked up the phone and looked at the number. I didn’t recognise it. I pressed the answer button.

  “Peter Murphy speaking.”

  Click.

  Silence.

  Bloody call centres. And I was just about to put the phone down when I heard a voice.

  “Did you read the book?”

  I staggered in my step. “Sorry, who’s speaking?”

  “Did you read the book?”

  “Did I read the…” I paused. The book? The book. I suddenly knew who was on the other end of the line. It was the priest’s brother, but I couldn’t remember his name.

  “Sorry, is this the person I was talking to yesterday about the book?”

  “Yes. Will you answer the question? Have you started reading it?”

  I didn’t want to lie to the man, but for some reason I could feel a full-blown porky coming on. How else was I going to get out of this?

  I stopped myself on realising how ludicrous I was sounding. Why did I have to get myself out of anything? This man had no fucking right talking to me like this.

  “The book,” I said, curbing my anger. “The one I’m sending to you?”

  “You know the book I’m talking about. I’ll be on the next train to Glasgow. I have your address.”

  “I haven’t read it.”

  “Sure you haven’t.”

  “Sorry?” I spluttered, his accusatory tone almost flooring me. I turned around to see Karen standing in the doorway.

  “Who is it?”

  I swatted away her question like an irritating fly. I was trying to think of something to say. Now, what I should have said was: “Look, I don’t know what the fuck your game is here, b
ut who the hell do you think you’re talking to, mate?” I didn’t say this, though. I said nothing.

  “What have you killed?”

  My heart stopped.

  “What have…”

  I ended the call.

  “What’s happened? Is it your mum? Is she OK?”

  I shook my head. I was speechless.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I growled. “Nothing’s wrong. It was a prank phone call, someone trying to wind me up; kids or something, hurling abuse down the line.”

  “You almost scared me to death there. What did they say?”

  “They were just… being foul, swearing and… awe, just forget it.”

  Karen walked out of the room. “I’m going for a shower before I go out.”

  “OK.” I felt nauseated. Why did he ask me if I had killed something? Was it possible that he knew about the cat?

  “I need you to look after Michael while I go for a shower.”

  “Sure.”

  I had to think. Karen would be away for most of the morning, which would give me plenty of time to get rid of the cat. I needed to make sure that she was going to be gone long enough, though.

  “What time will you be back at, Karen?”

  “Back early this arvo, which will give you plenty of time to take Michael to soft play.”

  “Sorry?” I walked out into the hall to find Karen holding Michael’s hand. She was ruffling his soft brown hair. “Daddy’s going to take you to soft play,” she said in an over the top Australian accent. “Daddy is going to see how hard it is to continually run after little Michael all day. Yes he is.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh yes he can,” she replied, directing her antipodean lilt towards Michael. “I need a rest. I take care of you all week. Your turn, daddy.”

  “But I can’t.” I could feel myself beginning to drown, my predicament getting worse by the second. No way could I get rid of the cat and watch Michael at the same time? It would damage him for life if he saw that cat.

  “I have plans.”

  “Well daddy’s going to have to change his plans, isn’t he? And remember you’re picking up Depp today. Michael, you’re going to soft play with daddy! Yes you are.” Michael started to jump up and down, turning round and round. He liked soft play, a lot. I on the other hand no time for soft play. At least, I didn’t today.