by Chris Mawbey
“At the start of your journey there were a handful of doors waiting for you at the end of your journey. Behind each door was a future for your soul. Some would be good, others would be less so.
“As you go along the doors start to disappear. Which ones go depends on your reasons for doing the things you did in your life and the decisions you make now.”
“And what if there isn’t a door waiting for me?” said Mickey.
“There will be,” Pester replied. “There is always one – and only one. Your final decision is really whether to go through it or not.”
The exchange of words had kept Mickey’s foul guard mildly occupied which had allowed Mickey the chance to feel around with his left hand for something he could use as a weapon. His hand closed around a rock about the size of a house brick. He teased it loose of the earth and checked that he could lift it.
The creature had slowly rolled its head back towards Pester and was waiting for the guide to say something else. Its wits, dulled by misery, prevented it from realising what was happening. The blow from the rock was strong enough to stun but not kill. The Wight slumped to one side and dropped the blade, which Pester rushed in to pick up. Mickey wriggled free and struggled to his feet. He switched the rock to his right hand and raised it to deliver another blow to his erstwhile captor.
“No Laddie,” said Pester. “Leave it. The creature didn’t know what it was doing. It was just reacting to instructions from Mr. Jolly. Leave it be. It’ll fade away soon enough.”
Mickey glared at his guide, making no attempt to mask the anger on his face.
“What good would it do?” Pester demanded. “Would it make you feel better?”
Mickey stood his ground for a few moments then snarled and threw the rock away.
Pester picked up Elena’s bag and coat.
“I’ll carry these,” he said.
“Yeah,” growled Mickey. “Lets’ go.”
He made his way to the edge of the plateau and gingerly let himself down to the ground. When Pester joined him they set off at a steady, yet determined pace after Mr. Jolly and Elena.
Chapter 15
For a long while neither man spoke. Mickey’s leg was throbbing and fresh blood was soaking into his jeans. This, and the restraint he had been urged to show with the Wight, had put him in a foul mood.
Mickey’s guide was mulling over the events of the night before, trying to understand why Mr. Jolly had been so aggressive in getting to Mickey and Elena.
Pester had seen thousands of people through their journeys. Mostly these were short and uneventful, with destinies more or less pre-determined before the person had passed away. It was always easy to see which way these people would end up going, especially those who would be collected by Mr. Jolly. Those who were fated for a good end often never saw the likes of the collector of souls and his ubiquitous sunglasses.
Pester had never provided any physical help to anyone under any circumstances. His job was to guide and advise only. Questions would be answered fully, vaguely or not at all; depending on the nature of the query – and often the relationship between guide and traveller. No other help was given – ever.
He felt that he’d already broken some of these unspoken rules and he was beginning to feel inclined to carry on doing it. He had his instructions; both special and specific. Yet he still felt he’d overstepped the mark. Consequences would be inevitable. Strangely, Pester welcomed them.
Something still bothered him though. Mickey’s behaviour here didn’t match with the circumstances of his death. Then there was also the fact that both he and Mr. Jolly were both sent over to the living side to fetch Mickey. No doubt Mr. Jolly was given his own set of orders about getting Mickey into The Underworld just as Pester had been instructed to ensure that Mickey completed his journey and reached his door.
In the short time that Pester and Mickey had been together Pester had begun to wonder about the nature of Mickey’s background and the manner of his death. He couldn’t remember having done this before, but of all the people that Pester had dealt with over countless years Mickey’s situation felt the most wrong.
At around noon the two men stopped for a rest and some refreshment. They ate tinned fruit that tasted dry and fibrous and drank water that Pester collected from a small stream that flowed parallel to their path. The water had no taste but the wetness at least slaked their thirst.
Mickey had been keen to keep the stop short but Pester insisted that Mickey rest his damaged leg a little longer. Mickey’s colour still looked good but Pester knew that the wound would only get worse. Eventually it would start to undermine Mickey’s overall condition.
They chatted while they ate and Mickey detected a change about his guide.
“You seem to have had a change of heart,” he said to Pester. “What brought this on?”
“Nothing’s changed,” said Pester, defensively.
“Yes it has,” Mickey persisted. “You’re becoming less ... detached.”
Pester gave Mickey an appraising look.
“Your situation is wrong,” he said eventually. “I’ve become a pretty good judge of people. You’re no bank robber.”
“I am though.” Mickey’s voice dripped with sadness. “Or at least I’m a failed one. You were there remember.”
“Where you there by choice though?”
“Choices again,” Mickey laughed grimly. Then his tone hardened. “I chose to do it. It was my decision to go through with it.”
“Really?” Pester clearly didn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Was it a free decision – or was someone twisting your arm behind your back?”
He could see from the look on Mickey’s face what the answer was.
“What are you now, a lawyer?” said Mickey. “Anyway, what difference does that make? I’m here now, whether I was forced into it or not.”
Pester stood up and shouldered the bag.
“Come on. We can talk as we walk. There are a few more things that you should know.”
Mickey struggled to his feet. He offered to carry Elena’s things but his guide refused.
“You asked what difference it makes,” said Pester as they set off again across the rock strewn valley bottom. “Possibly a lot. You’ve got some more episodes from your life coming up. They’ll all have been major events, whether you realised it or not, and will have influenced your life.
“What’s wrong with all this is the fact you’re here at all. I think you died too early. And I think it’s because someone wanted you out of the way. I played my part in getting you here. I’m sorry about that but I think it may have been for the best that I did. I can’t undo what I did but I can do my best to help get you to the end.”
Mickey didn’t reply. He’d been reminded about what Pester had done in the ambulance and his anger flared again. This conspired with the dull agony in his leg to darken his thunderous mood even further. Pester had contributed to Mickey’s death in his own way and here he was with a lame apology. Then the image of the hospital cubicle came to mind. Mickey grudgingly accepted that Pester’s meddling with the drip would have made no difference to his chances of survival. Those three bullets had sealed his fate. Then he thought of Mr. Jolly waiting at the entrance to A&E and the recent encounter with him. Mickey’s anger didn’t abate but changed focus, steering itself away from his own predicament and Pester’s part in it and towards Mr. Jolly and his designs for Mickey. Whilst he didn’t necessarily forgive Pester’s involvement, Mickey had to acknowledge that he seemed to have landed with the lesser of the two evils.
“Before I get to the end I’m going to have to deal with Mr. Jolly aren’t I?” Mickey said.
“One way or another, yes,” Pester replied.
“Oh it’s simpler than that,” Mickey said. “I’m going to get Elena back. I promised to help her – by choice. We’re not going on until she’s free.”
“I thought you’d say something like that.” Pester had slowed down considerably as Mickey’s pac
e dwindled. Mickey was limping more now and was in danger of tripping over the rocks and large pebbles that littered their path.
“We’re going to have to be careful though. If Mr. Jolly is cornered he won’t have any qualms about ending Elena.”
“I won’t let that happen,” said Mickey resolutely. His voice carried more confidence than he actually felt. He had no idea what kind of being he was up against and what he would need to do to free Elena.
“I offered to help her complete her journey. I haven’t done a very good job so far. I owe her.”
Pester smiled. This was the attitude that seemed so typical of Mickey and it grated heavily with the notion that Mickey was a criminal.
The valley floor became clearer of rocks and the few stunted bushes that thrust in defiance from the dead ground were becoming more sparse. The clearer ground didn’t let Mickey go any faster but it did mean he was less likely to trip. His right leg was beginning to drag, pulling up puffs of dust that coated his shoes and the bottom of his jeans.
About half a mile ahead the ground began to rise, culminating in a low hill that spread across the valley and blocked the view beyond. The gradient was gentle to begin with but by the time Mickey had crested the rise he was sweating heavily and his limp had become more pronounced. He worried that his wound had opened up.
The brow of the hill ran flat for a hundred yards or so and then the ground fell away down the other side. Part way down the slope a stand of dead trees partly obscured the view of a cluster of buildings beyond.
“Down there is where you’ll revisit parts of your life,” said Pester. “It’s likely to be tough. You should rest before we go down.”
“Is Mr. Jolly going to be waiting for me down there?” said Mickey. He was breathing heavily and trying to flex his damaged leg to ease the pain and stiffness. He took a quick sip from his water bottle.
“No. I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Pester. “He’s more likely to be waiting on the other side of this.”
“Ok. Let’s get on with it then.” Mickey stoppered his bottle and slid it back into his jacket pocket. “The quicker we get through this the quicker we can get after Mr. Jolly and Elena.”
Chapter 16
The trees turned out to be far more than a copse. It was a large lifeless wood. The trees opened out into a huge clearing that looked to be full of buildings and streets. It seemed as if a town had been transplanted there. The first street that Pester and Mickey got to was an incongruous mix of two up, two down English terraces and their pastel coloured stuccoed Eastern European equivalents. It was an odd mix of Mickey’s home town of Derby and Koprno, Elena’s home village.
Mickey cast a questioning look at his guide.
“It’s probably because yours and Elena’s journeys have become intertwined,” Pester said. “It could also mean that I may be wrong about Mr. Jolly and Elena. They may be here in the town after all.”
“So what happens now?” asked Mickey.
“No idea,” the stock answer came back. “One thing though. This won’t be like at the school. You’re going to actually relive things here, not just witness them. People will see you at whatever age you were at the time. You won’t see me unless I break in, like I did with the headmaster. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” answered Mickey. “What about ...”
The words died on Mickey’s lips. They had just walked into Ridsdale Street, the street where Mickey had lived his entire short life. A few yards down the road was number forty two, the house that Mickey had grown up in. The sound of footsteps approaching made Mickey look down the street. What he saw froze his dead heart. He hadn’t seen the man for a couple of years but there was no mistaking his father’s drink affected walk. The sight of this apparition brought back hundreds of unwelcome and long buried memories. Where he should have felt love, Mickey only felt fear and the return of the loathing that had grown throughout the years of his childhood.
Bracing himself for some form of onslaught, verbal or physical, Mickey was surprised when his father completely blanked him.
“The scene hasn’t begun yet,” Pester said in response to Mickey’s raised eyebrows. “Perhaps it only starts when you step inside the house.”
Mickey looked at the door to his old home with growing trepidation. He knew the kind of thing that would be waiting for him inside and didn’t want to go through it again.
“Do I have to do this?” he suddenly asked Pester.
“You know you don’t,” Pester replied. “It’s the same as everything else. It’s your choice. Do it or don’t – but I can’t guess about the consequences either way.”
“What would you do?” said Mickey.
Pester thought for a moment. “I’d do everything I could to help my case. All of these episodes are evidence of your life. Whether they’re helpful or harmful is not for us to say.”
“I suppose so,” Mickey replied.
Mickey had no way of knowing what would be helpful or otherwise. Though he really wanted to go after Elena he realised that these situations had been set up for a reason. It didn’t occur to him that one possible reason was to see whether he’d accept the challenge or not.
He decided to see this one through. Mickey slowly walked forward and opened the door. A dead twenty two year old stepped over the threshold but a very much alive nine year old closed the door behind him.
The Young Mickey Raymond felt dizziness wash over him as he closed the door. He had the funny feeling of being two people; himself and someone older but somehow familiar. He paused for a moment to see if the strange feeling would pass. It did and quickly but Mickey still had an odd sense at the back of his mind. It was almost as if he was watching himself.
Across the lounge and directly opposite from the front door was the entrance into the dining room. Mickey’s father stood framed in the doorway with his back to his son. At the sound of the door closing Terry Raymond spun round.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he roared, crossing the room in four massive strides. The swipe that caught Mickey on the side of the head knocked him into the door that opened onto the steep and dark staircase.
Without waiting for an answer Mickey’s father stormed from the lounge and through the dining room.
Mickey was relieved that his father hadn’t insisted that he account for where he’d been. The truth was he couldn’t remember. He had some vague memory of a strange man and a foreign girl. Where that had come from he had no idea. He must have been daydreaming.
From where he lay, sniffing back tears, little Mickey Raymond could clearly hear his father’s raised voice.
“Why was he still out at this time?”
Mickey also heard the slap and cry of pain from his Mum.
“How many times have I told you I want him in before I get home? I don’t want to have to go trawling the fucking streets looking for him before I can have my tea.”
There was a gasp from Mickey’s Mum. Mickey recognised the sound. His father had taken a handful of Mum’s hair.
A chair scraped across the floor. Mickey’s father had seated himself at the table. Mickey quickly picked himself up, dried his eyes and hurried into the dining room. Whenever Terry Raymond sat at the dining table it signalled mealtime. This meant that Mickey had to get himself seated and his Mum, Elaine, had to get the food on the table now.
Mickey sat down and glanced at his father.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Terry growled.
Mickey looked down at the table and said nothing.
“Well?” said his father. “Answer me.”
“Nothing,” whispered Mickey.
“Well don’t then.” Terry glared at his son, then roared at his wife, “Where’s my fucking tea?”
“It’ll be a couple of minutes,” Elaine’s harassed voice came back from the kitchen.
“Well fucking hurry up then,” the reply was shot back.
Mickey could hear his Mum rushing around in the kitchen. True to h
er word, a couple of minutes later, Terry Raymond had his plate placed in front of him. Elaine went back into the kitchen to fetch her own and Mickey’s meals.
When she sat down she gave Mickey a warm, everything’s alright kind of smile. Elaine picked up her knife and fork then dropped them when a back hander caught her square in the face.
“When I come in I want my fucking tea on the table,” Terry shouted. “If you hadn’t been sat on your fat arse all day reading magazines and watching fucking telly, it would have been ready. And you could have made sure that he was fucking in.” Terry jabbed his knife in Mickey’s direction to emphasise his point.
Elaine didn’t reply. She knew better than that. When her husband had hit her she had instinctively raised a hand to her face. She brought her hand away dotted with blood. Elaine reached for the tissue tucked under the sleeve of her cardigan and held it to her nose until the bleeding eased. Terry had finished his meal before Elaine was able to start hers. He grabbed his can of lager and left the table without a word to either his wife or son.
It was only when his father was away from the table that Mickey dared look up from his table and speak.
“Mummy, I’m sorry for making him hurt you,” he whispered, his voice wavering.
Elaine’s eyes were red rimmed and a few tears spilled out when she smiled.
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Never ever think that you’re to blame.”
She reached across the table and squeezed Mickey’s hand. The contact breached a dam and tears began to flow freely on both sides of the table.
Both Elaine and Mickey had lost their appetites. They played with their food for awhile then both pushed their plates away. Elaine should have insisted that her son eat more of his food, but she understood how he felt and let it go. She got up from the table and started clearing the plates away.
There was a loud click. Mickey glanced to where the sound had come from and saw a man leaning against the wall. He was a funny looking person with spiky black hair and a funny wispy beard. Mickey was about to scream in surprise when recognition eased forward in his mind and stopped the sound. It took a while for the adult Mickey to fully reach the surface of consciousness. From his position at the back of his own mind Mickey had been so wrapped up in the moment that he had forgotten that all of this had happened years ago and that he had an audience this time.
