The Dead Have No Shadows

by Chris Mawbey

  “Were mealtimes always like this?” Pester asked.

  Mickey glanced at his Mum who had just come back into the dining room.

  “Don’t worry,” said Pester. “She can’t see or hear me.”

  Mickey gave a barely perceptible nod of his head and waited until Elaine had gone back into the kitchen before answering in a whisper.

  “Pretty much so. Mum could never win. If he came home early the tea wouldn’t be ready – so he would slap her. If he stayed at the pub and was late in then the tea would be spoiled and he’d slap her for that as well.”

  “I’m sorry for being blunt,” said Pester. “But your father strikes me as complete shit bag.”

  Mickey glanced into the kitchen where his Mum was starting the washing up.

  “Yeah, he was,” he agreed “And I hated him.”

  “You were afraid of him too,” said Pester.

  “Too right I was,” said Mickey. “You think what you’ve just seen was bad. If he really lost it you never knew what he would do.”

  There was another loud click and Pester disappeared.

  Mickey had the feeling that he had just lost some time; that something had just happened but he couldn’t remember what. Had he been talking to someone? Had his father heard? He would be furious if he thought that Mickey and Elaine had been talking behind his back.

  Mickey left the table and walked through to where his father was nursing his lager can and watching East Midlands Today on the television.

  “You needn’t think you’re staying in here,” Terry Raymond snarled at his son. “Fuck off upstairs to your room. And don’t make any noise.”

  The nine year old Mickey, with his twenty two year old self tucked at the back of his sub-conscious mind, said nothing. He walked across the lounge and opened the door onto the stairs. As he placed his foot on the first step everything around him shivered and blurred and he suddenly found himself in bed.

  To Young Mickey the situation was normal. He had just spent the past couple of hours in his room, keeping quiet. At the back of his nine year old mind the older Mickey wondered what had just happened. He pondered the situation then decided that this must be his next episode.

  Mickey’s bed butted up against the wall that adjoined his parent’s room. There was a creak of bedsprings as someone got into bed. A few minutes later someone else got into bed. Then Mickey heard his Mum’s muffled voice.

  “No, please. I think Michael is still awake.”

  Then there was the sound of struggling.

  There was another, more insistent, ‘No’, then the unmistakable sound of a slap. This was followed by a tearing sound and then the bedsprings began to creak in a rhythmic fashion that increased in pace until suddenly falling silent. A short while later Mickey heard the sound of deep wet snoring. Throughout what had gone before, despite having his hands pressed over his ears, Mickey had been able to hear the sound of his Mum’s sobs.

  Over the snoring in the other room, Mickey heard someone get out of bed and go down stairs. The snoring continued uninterrupted and Mickey slipped out of his own bed and followed his Mum downstairs. He was small and light enough to be able to avoid the steps that creaked when you stood on them. He knew he would be in deep trouble if his father caught him out of bed at this time of night. Even if he needed the bathroom in the middle of the night Mickey would earn himself a back-hander if his father ever caught him out of bed.

  Elaine was sitting on the settee and had her back to Mickey. Even when he walked around the arm of the settee his Mum didn’t realise he was there. By the light of the streetlight that cast its yellow glow through the thin curtains Mickey could see evidence of the damage that his father had caused. The seam of Elaine’s nightdress had been torn revealing a long line of pale white thigh. Mickey realised what he was seeing and quickly raised his eyes to look at his Mum’s face. In the pale light Mickey could see the wet tracks of tears on Elaine’s cheeks. He could also see evidence of fresh bleeding.

  Mickey climbed onto the settee and his Mum realised, for the first time, that she was not alone. Elaine hastily readjusted the ruin of her nightdress to hide her nakedness.

  “Michael, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” she whispered.

  “I don’t care,” Mickey replied.

  He knelt on the cushion and wrapped his small arms around his Mum.

  “I love you, Mummy,” he said.

  Elaine’s fragile resolve crumbled and she wept. When the worst of her tears had subsided Mickey’s small hands dried his Mum’s cheeks. He kissed the corner of Elaine’s mouth where her lip had been split. The kiss tasted bitter and metallic from a mixture of tears and blood.

  “One day when I’m bigger,” Mickey said, his voice thick with the struggle to fight back his own tears. “I’m going to make him stop hurting you. Then I’ll take care of you.”

  Elaine returned the kiss she had been given.

  “I love you too, Michael,” she whispered, but didn’t dare to hope that Mickey could deliver on his promise.

  Chapter 17

  When Mickey awoke the following morning he had aged six years. It took his older self a few moments to establish who, where and when he was. He then retreated to the back of his younger mind to see what happened next.

  The fifteen year old Mickey sat up and looked around him. His was not the typical bedroom of a teenage boy. Most boys his age had posters of film, sport or pop stars pinned to their walls. Others, the nerdy sort, had model aircraft suspended from string pinned into the ceiling. There would be piles of books and games, of records or CD’s and DVD’s. The luckiest ones would have their own television sets and games consoles or computers.

  Mickey’s room had none of these trappings of youth. A lack of money in the family contributed to this but the overriding factor was Mickey’s father. Terry wouldn’t allow a television or hi-fi system in Mickey’s room because he would make, ‘too much fucking noise’. He never gave Mickey permission to hang posters on his wall. Terry argued that he didn’t decorate the room just for Mickey to cover the walls with pictures of over-paid footballers or poncey film stars. The joke here was that Mickey couldn’t remember his father ever decorating this room. The wallpaper was faded and discoloured with age and the ceiling was a dirty yellow. None of this was helped by the dark wood wardrobe that was a hand me down from one of Mickey’s grandparents. This was an old person’s bedroom, not that of a healthy and happy teenager – but then Mickey wasn’t a happy teenager.

  A loud click drew Mickey’s attention to a strange man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The shock of finding someone in his room was fleeting as the elder Mickey moved forward in his younger self’s consciousness. He fumbled for the man’s name for a second or two. It finally came to him when the adult Mickey nudged his younger self. Pester – that was it.

  “You don’t look very comfortable,” Mickey said.

  “I’ve had worse,” his travelling companion replied. “At least I’m in the dry.”

  There was a crash and a shout from downstairs.

  Mickey leapt out of bed and jumped into the school uniform that lay strewn across the bedroom floor. The fifteen year old persona took complete control of the boy’s body, completely forgetting about his older hitchhiker and the presence of Pester the guide. The guide became invisible and resumed his spectator role.

  Mickey descended the stairs steadily. Charging downstairs would make a lot of noise which would inflame what he expected to be an already tense and potentially violent situation.

  The argument was taking place in the kitchen. Then again it wasn’t an argument. A true argument involves contributions from both sides and is, though sometimes heated, a debate over opinion and counter-opinion. This was not an argument. This was Terry Raymond haranguing his long suffering wife. It would be over something innocuous. Terry would be pissed off about what he’d been given for breakfast, or the way that Elaine had looked at him, or some careless comment that she’d made. This wasn�
�t an argument. This was verbal abuse. It was constant, unbidden and undeserved. These scenes made life in 42 Ridsdale Street edgy and emotionally draining.

  This was scenario bad enough. Things would get much worse when the abuse became physical. When Terry employed his fists the whole situation could become very dangerous - very dangerous indeed.

  “Are you alright Mum?” Mickey asked. He completely ignored his father. The less he had to do with the odious bastard the happier Mickey was.

  “Yes, I’m fine sweetheart. I just dropped a plate that’s all,” his Mum replied. “Go and get ready for school. You don’t want to be late do you?”

  Things were worse than Mickey had thought. Elaine was trying to get him out of the house. All it did was harden his resolve to look out for her.

  “Do you want a hand with anything?” he asked, completely ignoring his Mum’s instruction. Mickey glanced across at his father, who was prowling around the kitchen.

  Terry was paying the price for his drinking session of the night before. This only made him slightly less dangerous than when he was pissed. He noticed his son looking at him.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Terry growled.

  A piss head, though Mickey. “Nothing,” was the word that came out. It had become his stock response over the years.

  “Well do as your mother told you and piss off to school.”

  In keeping with teenage tradition Mickey did the exact opposite of what he had been told to do. He walked into the kitchen and started to pick up the shards of the broken plate. He wrapped the fragments in kitchen towel and put them in the bin.

  Elaine smiled at her brave son but her eyes were saying, “Get out of here, please.”

  She went to the grill, pulled out the pan and sighed in despair.

  Mickey’s father exploded. “What are you fucking playing at woman? Can’t you even make toast now?”

  “It’s not too bad,” Elaine replied. “I can scrape the worst of the burn off.”

  She had taken one of the slices and was scraping the burnt surface into the kitchen bin.

  “Fuck that,” Terry roared. He slapped the toast and knife out of Elaine’s hands. Burnt bread and cutlery flew across the kitchen floor. Terry grabbed Elaine’s hair and dragged her across the room.

  “Leave her alone,” Mickey shouted.

  Terry threw Elaine to one side so that she crashed into a cupboard door.

  “Or what?” snarled Mickey’s father, squaring up, unsteadily, to his son.

  Mickey knew better than to answer that question.

  “She made a mistake that’s all. She was trying to put it right. Why don’t you give her a break?”

  Terry stepped in close and Mickey could see the bloodshot eyes and smell the stale beer breath. He grabbed Mickey by the throat and pushed him up against the worktop. The edge of the counter caught Mickey on the hip and started a bruise that would grow to the size of his palm and last for a week or more.

  “Her job is to cook my food when I want it and do it right. Your job is to keep your fucking mouth shut and fuck off to school.” He squeezed Mickey’s throat hard enough for the boy to struggle for breath. He clawed at his father’s hand, trying to break the grip. Terry hung on for a while longer then let go, laughing in Mickey’s face.

  This humiliation was too much for a fifteen year old to handle.

  “One day you’ll be old,” Mickey gasped, rubbing at his throat. “When that day comes I’ll be waiting for you.”

  The punch took him off his feet. He slid to the floor and was propped up by the fridge door.

  Elaine slid across the floor to her beaten son, helping him climb to his feet. She pulled off a sheet of kitchen towel and held it under Mickey’s nose to try to stem the blood.

  “You’ll need to change your shirt before you go to school,” she said. “Can you sort it yourself? I need to make your Dad’s breakfast.”

  Hearing the pleading in his Mum’s voice, Mickey decided to withdraw. He nodded and took the wad of paper towel from her. He left the kitchen without a glance at his father but could feel Terry’s mocking smile follow him through the dining room and into the lounge.

  All through this episode an unseen guide of the dead stood in the kitchen doorway and watched and learned. He learned very much – and was sure that those who were to decide Mickey’s ultimate fate had learned things as well. Pester had stepped to one side when Mickey passed through. The look on the young man’s face told Pester that words were not appropriate at that time. They could talk later, when the boy’s blood had cooled.

  Chapter 18

  Mickey was late for school. The changing of his shirt only took seconds but the staunching of the blood from his nose and lip took a lot longer. Every time that Mickey had thought the bleeding had stopped he would move his nose or lip and the wound would open up again.

  Mickey’s late arrival at school earned him a dinner time detention. He’d expected this, latecomers always got the same treatment, but it did nothing to help his foul mood. Mickey wore a thunderous face all morning and the few people who had anything to do with him made extra efforts to keep their distance. Even Mickey’s closest friend, Jonno, decided to let his friend stew for the morning.

  The lunchtime detention session was run by Mr. Douglas. He was a dour man with a mop of wiry, sand coloured hair and glasses that looked to be twenty years out of date. His sandy hair and pale complexion were complemented by a matching shade of sports jacket. He looked about as interesting as a cold curry and had a well earned reputation as a miserable bastard.

  When Mickey walked into the detention room, shadowed by Pester, his heart sank. Mr. Douglas liked to make sure the attendees enjoyed a hard time for the hour they were with him. Three other pupils were also there and the teacher wanted to know how each of them had earned the privilege to keep him company whilst he ate his ham and pickle sandwiches. He queried each in turn then reached Mickey.

  “Raymond?”

  “Late for school, sir,” Mickey replied in a sullen tone.

  Mr. Douglas raised his eyebrows when he saw Mickey’s face. “How did that happen?” He waved in a vaguely circular motion, indicating Mickey’s face.

  Mickey could sense the other kids watching him.

  “I ... fell over, sir,” he replied and then heard sniggering behind him.

  A scowl from the teacher silenced the offenders.

  “Right.” Mr. Douglas drew the word out. He chewed his lip for a few moments, then made some notes on the detention register.

  “If anyone asks you, you’re running an errand for me. Right?”

  Mickey only took a fraction of a second to get the picture.

  “Yes sir,” he muttered.

  “Good. Off you go then, and keep out of sight.” Mr. Douglas waved Mickey towards the door.

  Mickey felt his face growing hot as he walked out of the detention room. So the rumours about him being knocked about by his old man had even reached the staff. Mr. Douglas’ apparent understanding and sympathy was all very well but his kindness had been misplaced. Instead of being helpful it had only served to humiliate Mickey. The rest of his year group would love this. His simmering mood didn’t need it. Neither did it need what happened next.

  “Raymond. Mickey Raymond,” someone called. Mickey had just reached the end of the corridor and was about to go outside when a girl from his form caught up with him.

  “Your friend’s in trouble again,” she said, making no effort to hide her enjoyment in breaking the news.

  Mickey sighed. Whenever he heard this it always meant the same thing. Jonno had got out of his depth again.

  “Where is he?” Mickey didn’t even try to keep his voice pleasant. When shit happened to Jonno it was always Mickey who was expected to clean up. He resigned himself to the fact that his mood wasn’t likely to improve any time soon.

  “Behind the Pavilion,” the girl replied.

  Mickey rolled his eyes. The Pavilion was a haunt of the sixth forme
rs. What had Jonno got himself into this time?

  When he turned the corner of the Pavilion Mickey was reminded of the first time he’d met Jonno. As then, his friend was pinned to the wall by someone bigger and stronger than he was. The only difference this time was the fact that instead of an audience of one, Jonno’s tormentor had three spectators.

  Mickey felt a little encouraged. He recognised all of the sixth formers. They’d just moved up after completing their GCSEs. They thought they were the cock of the walk now. Mickey knew differently though and had a feeling that these boys were about to find that out.

  “What’s up Jonno?” he called out.

  Four pairs of eyes became trained on Mickey. Jonno leaned over to look round his closest aggressor. He looked shaky but his expression still took on its usual apologetic look. It was an ‘I’m in trouble again’ kind of look.

  “What do you want?” the ringleader asked, trying to look menacing but falling someway short. Mickey Raymond had a reputation as a loner who had a short fuse. The ringleader was sure that between the four of them they could handle Mickey but he didn’t relish the thought.

  “Just making sure that my mate is ok, that’s all,” Mickey replied casually. He looked past the sixth form bully. “Everything alright Jonno? Business going well?”

  “He’s fine,” said the lad with the mouth. “We’re just doing some business, like you said. So, if you don’t mind – fuck off.”

  Mickey pretended to consider the invitation.

  “Nah. I’ll stick around,” he declared. Mickey edged around so that he had a clear view of all four of the sixth formers. The two closest to the ringleader were looking confused. As was usual they would have been told how things would pan out and now that things were different they weren’t sure what to do.