by Chris Mawbey
“Bollocks,” he yelled. “I haven’t come down yet. You’re fucking with my head.”
“Come with me,” Pester said. He beckoned for Mickey to follow him and stopped by one of the interview rooms.
“This isn’t going to be pleasant for you,” he warned Mickey, “but I’m going to prove to you that you really are dead.”
Pester opened the door not onto a bank interview room but a hospital cubicle. Two people in hospital scrubs were working on a blood soaked body, while other medical staff were busy around them.
“Blood pressure is still dropping,” said a nurse.
“He’ll go into VF if we can’t hold that pressure,” said one of the doctors working in the patient’s open chest cavity. “He’s bleeding out faster than we can get the stuff into him.”
The doctor moved to one side and Mickey saw his own face. It was grey and looked lifeless. He tried to take a step forwards.
Pester placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“Your final journey has begun,” he said. “Every step has to be forward from now on. You can’t go back.”
One of the crash team nurses was talking. “There’s a man in reception asking about his condition. He keeps pushing for regular updates. He claims he’s a reporter, but I don’t believe him. He’s dressed like a hippy.”
“Sounds like the guy who was by the door,” Mickey remarked, remembering the John Lennon look-a-like he had seen earlier.
Pester nodded. “One and the same,” he said. “You’re beginning to get the picture. A wee bit at a time and you’ll soon put the puzzle together.”
Back in the hospital the senior surgeon was talking, “I need the bullet that is still lodged inside him. Lift his heart slightly please. I want to see if the bullet is caught behind it.”
The other doctor eased Mickey’s heart upwards and twisted it slightly. That was all the damaged aorta needed for it to tear open, allowing blood to pulse out with renewed force.
“Damn,” spat the senior man.
Alarms blared as Mickey’s statistics plummeted at a rate that the medical staff were powerless to halt. There was so little blood left in Mickey’s body that it was soon exhausted. His heart battled bravely to keep pumping but with no blood left ischaemia followed and the complex muscle seized, never to beat again.
Mickey felt a physical wrench and then a cold emptiness flooded through him. He knew that what he’d just witnessed had been real and what Pester had told him had been true. He didn’t need to hear what the senior surgeon said next.
“There is no more we can do here. If everyone agrees?” He looked around at his assembled staff. There were nods and murmurs of assent.
The surgeon looked at the clock on the wall. “Time of death, thirteen forty two. Thank you everyone. Could someone inform his next of kin please?”
That final sentence dealt a crushing blow to Mickey Raymond.
He uttered a single word, “Mum.”
Pester led Mickey back to the armchairs in the reception area. They sat in two of the leather chairs, facing one another.
“It was an interesting reaction,” said Pester, “at the moment of your death.”
Mickey just stared at the man opposite as if he’d spoken a foreign language.
“Most people think of themselves,” Pester explained. “It’s the, ‘Oh woe is me, I’m too young to die’ kind of reaction. Your first thought was for someone else. It was a wee bit unexpected.”
“My Mum was the most important person in my life,” said Mickey. “She meant everything to me.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it - robbing banks. Going to buy a giant bunch of flowers for her were you?”
Mickey had been sitting on the edge of the chair with his hands dangling down between his knees. He slapped his palms down on the arms of the chair.
“It wasn’t like that. Anyway, who are you really? And why are you so interested in me?”
Mickey was on his feet now, squaring up to the man sitting opposite him. Mickey wasn’t the biggest or tallest of people. He could only boast to be of average height and with the kind of build that wouldn’t intimidate anyone remotely hard. His boyish looks and mop of wavy black hair made him look anything but tough. Pester, on the other hand, looked to have once had more muscle bulk than he now carried. He was taller than Mickey and this height advantage was accentuated by his crown of greasy black spikes of hair. On the other hand, Pester’s hairstyle made him look skinnier than he actually was.
Even with Mickey looming over him Pester didn’t show any sign of being fazed or threatened. He sat with his fingers steepled under his chin and watched Mickey with his blue – brown eyes.
“All will be revealed in good time,” said Pester. “Or, then again, it may not.” He stood up and smoothed imaginary creases from his leather trousers.
A loud thud sounded from one of the interview room doors and Mickey noticed a shadow of puzzlement pass across Pester’s face. It was only fleeting and Pester’s half mocking smile soon re-established itself.
“First of all though, we have a journey to make,” he said.
“We?” asked Mickey.
“Well, you do,” Pester corrected himself. “This is your final journey. I’m just your guide. There you are – that’s one of your questions answered for you already. Now you know both my name and what I do.”
Not really, thought Mickey. I know what you are – or what you say you do. I don’t know why and I don’t know why you’re with me.
Mickey decided he’d try to pursue this later.
“What do you mean by my final journey?” he asked instead.
Three loud thuds echoed through the empty banking hall. This was followed by a fourth bang which ended with a crunching sound.
“Let’s talk as we walk,” suggested Pester, with a hint of urgency in his voice. He didn’t wait for an agreement from Mickey. “Prepare yourself. This is likely to feel a wee bit strange.”
The walls and ceiling of the bank began to fade. As the walls became increasingly translucent Mickey could see a barren landscape emerge and gain clarity. The banging on the door increased in volume and intensity. Whoever was on the other side of the door wanted to get through in a hurry. In the instant that the bank walls dissolved to nothing there was a crashing sound from the interview room door. Mickey thought that he heard a curse that briefly became muffled before snapping off.
All of this was getting too much for Mickey to cope with. His mind, already in turmoil with what had happened so far, went into meltdown. He began to tremble violently and sat down before he fell down. Where the armchair had been, and where Mickey still expected it to be, was a large sandstone boulder. A similar stone stood where Pester’s chair had been. The stone was uncomfortable but it served Mickey’s needs. He buried his face in his hands to block the view of this strange new landscape.
He tried to understand everything that had happened to him since he’d dragged himself out of bed that morning. It wouldn’t work though. Everything had been relatively normal up to the point that Mickey and Jonno had walked in through the doors of the bank. The raid itself was extraordinary – after all Mickey had never done anything like this before. But none of this would gel with what had happened after they left the bank. Everything they had done up to that point was mundane compared to what he’d just been going through.
Being dead was difficult to come to terms with – but what had happened since he’d been loaded into the ambulance simply defied comprehension.
Dying was certainly not something that Mickey had contemplated doing anytime soon. But then he supposed most people got up in the morning expecting to be going to bed at the end of the day healthy and intact. They would never anticipate the experience that he’d just gone through.
And that was another thing. If he really was dead, why was he still capable of thought and why could he feel the sharp edges of this sandstone block digging into his backside and thighs?
Mickey had always supp
osed that once you were dead that was it. No more thinking, no more feeling – just nothingness; dark and empty, not even cold. Being in his early twenties, death hadn’t figured very often in Mickey’s thoughts. He was, or rather had been, one of those people who lived for today. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Only now, in Mickey’s case, there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow for him; at least not in the world that he’d woken up in that morning, where Mum and Jonno still lived.
Thinking of Mum made Mickey feel sick with grief and worry. He’d lost her. Who was going to take care of her now?
Would he still be able to get to see her somehow?
Or even get a message to her?
Could this Pester guy help him?
Would he?
Too many questions. Mickey couldn’t handle this. Tears smeared across his cheeks as his resolve crumbled.
“Are you ok?” Pester asked.
Mickey remembered that he wasn’t alone and shut off the tears. He wasn’t going to let this stranger see him cry. It was a long time since Mickey had allowed himself to cry and even longer in company. He may be dead but he wasn’t going to let things change that much.
Dead. That fucking word again. Mickey wiped a hand over his face to clear the tears away.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just a bit of a shock to the system, being dead.”
Pester laughed. “Aye, I suppose you’ve had one or two shocks today, Laddie.”
“Tell me about it,” sighed Mickey. “My head’s spinning. I’ve got so many questions – and each one makes five more.”
“As I said, let’s talk as we walk,” said Pester. “You’ve got a long journey ahead of you. The conversation will help to pass the time and help you to understand what’s happening.”
Mickey grunted a kind of agreement. There was more he wanted to ask but that would have to wait while he took in his new location.
Mickey and Pester appeared to be standing on a rocky plateau. Mickey walked to the edge. A precipitous drop ended hundreds of feet below on a rock strewn floor. This flat area spread for about half a mile before beginning to climb into foothills that grew into mountains beyond. The precipice and mountains ringed the plateau on three sides before marching off into the distance.
Well that decides which direction I’ll be going in, thought Mickey. He walked to the only possible walkable exit from the plateau. A well defined but rocky path wound down to the valley floor. The valley seemed to continue to the horizon as a broad featureless, flat landscape flanked on both sides by vicious looking spined crags that clung to the sides of the mountains.
Like the valley floor the mountains and crags were devoid of any kind of vegetation.
Being born and raised in a city, Mickey had never seen so much open space. The parks of Derby seemed tiny in comparison to this. Though having lived so close to vast areas of open countryside Mickey had never ventured far from the city. He had no real concept of distance and couldn’t even begin to estimate how long it would take him to walk across the desert like valley floor.
“Why do I have to make any kind of journey at all?” Mickey asked.
“To get where you need to go,” Pester answered.
Very funny, though Mickey.
“It looks like it’ll take days to cover all that ground,” he protested, pointing down the valley. “And what about at night?” He assumed that normal day and night times still applied over here; wherever here was.
“You’ll be fine,” was all Pester would say. “Come on, we need to go.”
“What if I say no?”
Pester shrugged. “Then you’ll end up a pile of bones by the side of the path – or worse. Trust me, you really wouldn’t want that.”
Seeing that Mickey didn’t believe him, Pester led the young traveller to the edge of the plateau.
“Look down there,” he said.
Mickey looked and saw parts of a skeleton spread over the hillside.
“That’s what happens to those that don’t go on,” said Pester. “She couldn’t handle that fact that she was dead. Her soul is down there somewhere, trapped in one of her bones. If you want the same thing to happen to you then stay here. Otherwise, it’s time to go.”
“Ok,” Mickey said, taken aback by Pester’s bluntness. “Seeing how I don’t seem to have a choice in the matter, let’s get on with it.”
“Oh but you do have a choice,” said Pester. “You always have a choice. You can stay here if you want to.”
Without waiting for a reply from Mickey, Pester set off down the path from the plateau.
Mickey looked around him, then down at the bones strewn across the hillside, then at Pester walking down the hill.
“I don’t see that I do have any choice,” he muttered and set off after his odd eyed guide.
Mickey struggled to match the pace that the other man set and soon started to lag behind.
“Stop, I need to rest.” Mickey leant forward with his hands on his knees, panting. His face was bright red and his tee-shirt was soaked in sweat.
“If I’m dead why am I so knackered?”
“You’re not,” Pester called back. “Knackered, I mean. It’s all in your mind. Because you’re a soft city boy you have no stamina. Your mind thinks that you should be hot and tired. So, your spiritual body reacts that way.”
“So if I just decide that I’m not tired then I won’t be,” said Mickey.
Pester laughed. “It doesn’t work that way.”
Typical, thought Mickey. He’d already noticed that Pester could be cryptic and oblique with his answers. He drew in a lungful of air. Pester had already continued the descent to the valley floor.
Mickey was used to walking on pavements. He felt unsteady on this steep, dusty and uneven path. His thighs and calves were tightening up as he tensed himself for each downward step. He decided to let Pester have the gap that he’d opened up and concentrated, instead, on keeping his footing. If Mickey was feeling the effects of his exertions then he would experience the pain of a sprained ankle just as much. He guessed there were no NHS Walk-In centres on this side of whatever boundary he had crossed.
The sun was low in the sky when Mickey finally reached the valley bottom. The shadows thrown out by the mountains were flowing across the ground. They would have completely hidden where Pester had set up camp if it wasn’t for the flames of the campfire that the guide had lit. Mickey started to trudge towards the flickering light. His feet were sore and his calves were protesting at the amount of work they’d been asked to do.
There was a deep throated growl from somewhere in the foothills of the mountains. That sounds big, thought Mickey. He based this theory on the natural history programmes he’d seen on the television. Every time he’d seen a big cat at the zoo it had been silent; either sleeping or prowling along their perimeter fence. The sound came again but was suddenly cut off in a yowl of pain. That meant that something bigger was out there. Mickey spotted the odd bone here and part of a skeleton there. He decided that his legs didn’t hurt quite as much as he first thought as he quickened his pace towards camp.
Chapter 3
Pester was roasting a small animal on a spit. It looked to be rabbit sized but it could have been anything. Mickey didn’t care what it was or where it had come from. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of a meal. He hadn’t eaten since . . . He began thinking it was his first meal since breakfast. He actually ended up thinking that it was his first meal since he’d died.
“The food’ll be ready soon,” said Pester. “Make yourself useful while it’s cooking and gather some firewood.” He pointed at some bushes just on the fringe of the ring of light cast by the fire. “Make sure you stay in the light.”
Mickey sighed. He’d just sat down and was easing his trainers off. He rubbed his aching feet then slipped his shoes back on.
“Why do I need to stay in the light?” He didn’t think he really needed to ask the question – he remembered the animal and its howl of pain.
&nbs
p; Pester smiled. “You must have seen the bones along the way.” He left the rest unsaid.
Mickey nodded. “How much wood should I gather?”
“Enough to keep the fire going all night,” said Pester. “We need to make sure them beasties don’t get too interested in us.”
“Are they...?
“Dead? Aye,” Pester replied. “They’re just as dead as you and just as hungry.”
Mickey went to collect the firewood. He made sure that he always faced outwards from the camp and kept glancing out into the darkness looking for signs of movement amongst the deepening shadows.
When Mickey got back with the firewood the meal was ready. Both men ate in silence – Mickey through sheer hunger and Pester just happy to let his charge settle and adjust to his new condition. There would be difficult times and questions ahead. Better to let Mickey handle them in his own time.
They both made short work of their meal. Pester took two water bottles from the pockets of his leather jacket and passed one to Mickey.
“Only drink what you need,” said Pester. “There’s not much drinking water along the way.”
Mickey nodded and took a small sip of water. He swished it around his mouth before swallowing. He offered the bottle back to Pester who indicated that he should keep it. Mickey slipped the bottle into one of the pockets of his Army store combat jacket.
“What were all those bones I saw back there?” Mickey pointed back the way they had just walked.
“The remnants of more of those who gave up before they’d even started,” Pester replied. “Plus one or two who just got unlucky.”
“Do a lot of people come this way?” said Mickey.
“Oh, aye,” the guide replied. “There are always plenty of people passing this way – it’s one of the start points. That’s why the animals wait around here; it’s easy pickings for them.”
Mickey stared back into the darkness, too shocked to speak. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was just part of the flow of the dead. Another layer of sediment settled on his mind.
“Do you want to talk about anything else?” Pester asked when Mickey had been silent for several minutes.
