Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  Bernadette takes them to the passage with the framed photographs.

  Judy stops to study them. “What are all these pictures?”

  “We have regular functions,” says Judy. “Black tie, poker nights, 60s parties. The porter, John, doubles as a waiter and a photographer. He has a good eye.”

  “So these are all current residents?”

  "No. We keep the most recent photos near the reception and the restaurants. They remind the clients of good times. It keeps the morale up. These particular ones are quite old now—they get relegated further and further away from the main areas."

  “So these people here are—”

  “Previous residents,” says Bernadette. “Yes.”

  “In other words—” says Andrew.

  “They have passed away. Most of them, anyway. Some are excessively good at staying alive.”

  “This one,” says Judy. “This lady. Who is she?”

  “Er,” says Bernadette. “Let me put my specs on.”

  She fiddles for the glasses that hang around her neck and puts them on.

  “Look, Andrew,” says Judy. “Long grey hair. Yellow dress.”

  “She’s wearing pearls,” says Andrew.

  “Ah,” says Bernadette. “That’s Mrs. Cawood.”

  The lights above them flicker.

  “That’s her,” says Judy. “That’s the lady Marge described.”

  “Well, that can’t be. Mrs. Cawood passed away years ago.”

  “Perhaps my mother saw this photo before,” says Andrew, searching for a possible explanation. “And somehow this woman became part of her delusions.”

  “She couldn’t have,” says Bernadette. “Mrs. Mead’s never been in this corridor. It’s strictly for hospital patients only.”

  “Well, there’s clearly another explanation. A photo of her somewhere else in the building.”

  Judy shivers. “I think I'd like to see that video now."

  They sit down in Bernadette’s office. It’s quiet. She opens her desk drawer and takes out a bottle. “Will Scotch suffice?”

  “You’re a saint. Thank you.”

  She pours three generous glasses and hands them out, then Judy clicks ‘play’.

  Judy watches with a shocked expression as Margaret struggles alone in her room.

  “I need to see it again.”

  “Jude, don’t do this to yourself,” says Andrew.

  Judy reaches past her husband and clicks ‘play’. They watch the disturbing clip until Judy gasps. “There!” she says. “There!”

  “I know,” says Andrew. “It’s shocking to see her—”

  “Look! Look, as the necklace breaks. Just before she falls backwards.”

  The lights in the office flicker.

  “What?” asks Andrew. “What am I looking at?”

  “In the dresser’s mirror!”

  It’s Bernadette’s turn to gasp. “What was that? What WAS that?”

  “It’s nothing,” says Andrew. “It’s a trick of the light.”

  Judy’s shaking. "You can say what you like, but there is a face in that mirror, and it's not Margaret's."

  Three whiskies down, they get an early-morning call that Mrs. Mead is out of surgery. When she wakes up, Andrew is holding her hand.

  “Where am I?” Margaret croaks.

  “You’re in the hospital wing, Marge. At The Rambling Rose.”

  "We'll take you home as soon as you've been discharged," says Andrew. "They want to keep you for a few days—until you're stronger."

  “The Rambling bloody Rose,” Margaret says, her voice weak. Judy lifts a glass of water with a straw, and Margaret takes a sip. “Rebecca was here.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  “Was she?” asks Judy.

  “She came to apologise.”

  “Apologise?” splutters Andrew. “For almost killing you?”

  “Did she almost kill me?” asks Margaret with a playful look on her face. “What a catastrophe! I didn’t realise. I thought I’d just taken a spill.”

  “Marge,” says Judy. “We’ve got something to tell you.”

  The patient perks up. “Really?”

  “Now, it’s quite shocking,” says Andrew. “So, if you’re not feeling up to it, we can talk about it later.”

  “How exciting,” says Margaret. “You found Rebecca!”

  “Yes, we found Rebecca. Also known as Mrs. Cawood, who used to stay in your room. Before she—”

  “Before she cashed in her chips,” says Margaret.

  “You knew?” asks Andrew. “You knew she was … dead?”

  “Of course I didn’t know. If I had known I wouldn’t be in this hospital bed! If I had known that it was a bloody ghost that was wrecking my room, I would have hightailed it out of this loony bin and be bunking at your place!"

  The married couple stare at Margaret.

  “Rebecca came to apologise,” she says. “I explained that it was my bed now, not hers, and she kind of had a … a moment. She didn’t know, you see?”

  Andrew frowns. “She didn’t know it was your bed?”

  “She didn’t know that she was dead! It was all a bit sudden. One day she was drinking piña coladas and playing bowls and the next day, wham! Massive stroke! That’s why her eyes look a bit squinty, see? Then all of a sudden, a strange lady is sleeping in her bed, filling her cupboards, wearing her pearls."

  “To her, you were the strange lady,” says Judy. “You were haunting HER.”

  “Exactly. But now that she knows what happened, she won’t be bothering me any more.”

  “Mom. Don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

  “I’m going to stay here!”

  “No!” says Andrew.

  “Marge,” says Judy. “You can’t!”

  "I can, and I will! You see … the whole crowded thing … It’s because there are hundreds of spirits here.”

  “You can’t be serious,” says Andrew.

  “Deadly serious. Do you know how many people die in ‘retirement destinations’?”

  Andrew looks at the ceiling in exasperation. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “Hundreds. Literally. Places like this have a VERY impressive fatality rate.”

  “They need you,” says Judy. “To tell them what happened. To send them on their way.”

  “Exactly!” says Margaret. “Otherwise they’re stuck here forever, stumbling about, clogging up the dinner queue, pushing people out of their beds.”

  “Even if that were true,” says Andrew. “Why does it have to be you?”

  “I’m the only one who can see them! I can put their minds at rest. I think it’s wonderful. I’ve got cult status around here now, you know. Besides, I've grown quite fond of them. There's Sally, who keeps painting landscapes all over the walls. And Helen, who plays the piano beautifully. Barry is a bit of a pain. He keeps changing the channel on my telly to nature documentaries. I miss all the cricket highlights! But they’re good company, really. Or will be, until I let them know that they don’t belong here anymore. The only thing I regret—”

  “Yes?” says Judy.

  “Is my beau. I thought we had something. And now—”

  “Oh no,” says Judy. “Your new boyfriend was a phantom, too?”

  “I’m assuming so. I mean, he stood us up for dinner last night, didn’t he? Margaret sighs. “And I thought we had such … chemistry.”

  “What a shame,” says Judy. “Sorry, Marge.”

  “Ah, well, I’d probably be too busy for a love life anyway, with my new job. Being the resident ghost whisperer and all.”

  “One step at a time, Mom, we need to get you out of this hospital bed before you start taking over the spirit world.”

  “Yes! The nurse told me there’s no Happy Hour in the hospital wing! It’s a travesty. I’m going to get out of here as soon as humanly possible.”

  Someone arrives at the doorway, and they all look up.

&
nbsp; “Ah,” says Andrew. “Saint Bernadette!”

  “Good morning! How are we feeling today?”

  “Alive and kicking,” says Margaret with a sparkle in her eye. “Which is more than I can say for most of the people in this room!”

  “Er—” says Bernadette, looking spooked. “Do you mean—”

  Margaret chuckles. “I’m kidding. It’s just us three.”

  “Not for long,” says Bernadette.

  “What now?”

  “You have a visitor!”

  A handsome man with silver hair hobbles into the room, holding flowers. “I heard you took a tumble last night, dear, are you all right?”

  Margaret is delighted. “Robert! You’re alive!”

  “You look quite well, too.”

  “I mean, I thought you might be … well, you look positively vital. I can practically hear your pulse from here."

  “Those roses are beautiful,” says Judy, taking the bouquet. “I’ll put them in some water. I’m Judy, and this is Andrew.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard all about you. I was terribly sorry to miss dinner last night. I had an urgent errand to attend to.” He fishes in his pocket and brings out a bag of sweets.

  “Jelly beans!” says Margaret.

  Robert smiles. “I know the way to a girl’s heart!” He searches in his other pocket. “And this … is why I missed dinner.” He brings out a jewellery box and opens it, revealing Margaret’s pearls, which he had re-strung. She smiles warmly at him as he fastens them around her neck. “Thank you.”

  She moves slightly and winces, then rings the button for the nurse.

  “Are you okay?” asks Judy.

  “Never better,” says Margaret, winking at Judy. “I feel more alive than I have in years. I think it’s the company that does it.”

  The nurse arrives, slightly worried, and out of breath.

  “Nurse?” says Margaret. “Nurse? Bring a round of gin & tonics, please. And make mine a double.”

  9

  The Family Romance of Neurotics

  Junichuro Matsumato is a handsome 42-year-old man: dark-haired, wealthy, and devastated. He stares forlornly at the small glass buddha statue illuminated by the blue LED light behind it. There are thousands of the buddhas behind the glowing panes of glass, five hundred per wall. For easy identification, the light behind his wife’s buddha glows a different hue as he swipes his card to enter. He doesn’t need to be shown where his wife’s glass box is. Junichuro visits here every day and has done for 21 months. He never cries.

  The bright LEDs glow different colours and gradients according to the season. Junichuro’s favourite time to visit is in Autumn when the room is alight with deep oranges and reds. At the moment it’s brilliant blue, and he knows if he stands there for long enough, he might see a shooting star. Nishi's star.

  Nishi’s buddha block is highlighted yellow, which makes Junichuro remember her favourite flowers—tulips. Scented smoke wisps the air. It floats up from the balls of incense burning slowly over the warmed pebbles behind him. There is a button you can press on the glass pane that will play holograms for you: photos and videos of your loved one can dance before you as you sit on the stylish bench provided. But Junichuro doesn’t want to watch those today. He knows by heart her every pixel, and his memories are warmer in his head than in the high-tech hologram. Junichuro doesn’t sit on the bench or sing a song as he sometimes does. Today is an important day, and he has somewhere to be. It's the last time he'll be visiting his wife's grave.

  Junichuro’s wife had been a practical woman, but she had also believed in the afterlife. The futuristic charnel house in a temple in downtown Tokyo had been the perfect solution for her burial as it required no maintenance—better than a tombstone—and she said she’d enjoy the company of the others. Nishi Matsumato had been lonely in life and didn’t want to be lonely when she passed.

  Junichuro glances down at his access card; the microchipped plastic is all he has left of his wife, and it isn’t enough for him. As he steps out of the elevator on the ground floor, a young man in a smart suit approaches him.

  “Ohayō Misutā Matsumato,” he says, bowing. “I believe you want to hand in your key card.”

  Junichuro nods.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  He had selected and paid for the glass box next to his wife’s.

  The next time I come here, I won’t need a card to get in. I’ll be a box of ash.

  He passes it to the man. With a sleight of hand, the charnel access card turns into a white business card. Junichuro’s forehead creases. “What’s this?”

  “Forgive my boldness, Sir,” says the man. “But I think they may be able to help you.”

  Junichuro looks at the new card in his hand.

  THE FAMILY ROMANCE OF NEUROTICS. There is a phone number on the back.

  Junichuro catches the speed train back to his house. He doesn’t call it “home” anymore; it hasn’t been a home since Nishi died. It’s a cold house, a jail made of invisible skeleton ribs. Junichuro does a final cleanup of the house, putting everything where it belongs. He makes sure the cupboards are clean and the fridge is empty. He’s always been a neat man, perhaps too neat. This no longer matters.

  Once he is happy with how the house looks, he pads into his sitting room and leans the new business card against a book on the bookshelf. He approaches the beautiful samurai sword displayed on the wall. It’s a family heirloom, worth millions of yen, but he has never been tempted to sell it. Gazing at its cold steel makes him think of warriors and bloodshed; love and heartbreak. It’s a cruel world. He takes it down from the wall and polishes it with a soft cloth. Silence creeps inside his ears and muffles them; his eyes water, but Junichuro does not cry. The silence is getting more intense now, and he feels as if he is drowning in it. He places the carved handle of the sword on the floor and holds the razor-sharp tip in his palm, directing it slowly and thoughtfully to press into his torso. The blade bites into his skin, and he closes his eyes. Soon Junichuro will be with Nishi, and the world will be set right again. In his mind's eye, Nishi's face smiles down at him and gives him the courage to press his weight against the blade, but just before he’s about to fall on the sword, the business card slips off the shelf and flutters down to the floor. A white butterfly. The distraction makes him hesitate.

  What am I doing? There’s nothing good or honourable about this.

  He lets go of the sword, and he collapses next to it, crumpling into a ball. He stays there, lying motionless in the dark, until his body is cold and full of aches.

  The next day, Junichuro wakes up sore, stiff, and utterly desolate. He no longer has a job to go to. Not wanting to let his colleagues down, he had resigned in preparation for his suicide. There is no food in the house, just the suffocating silence of failure. He picks the white business card up off the floor and dials the number, scheduling an appointment for that afternoon. He leaves the house key beneath the pot plant outside the front door, just in case his daughter decides to return home. It’s a years-old habit he has not yet broken.

  Showered and dressed, he makes his way to a noodle bar for lunch and then to the offices of The Family Romance of Neurotics. It’s a stylish building inside and out. Junichuro appreciates the clean lines of the architecture and the uncluttered interior. He is anxious, but the minimalism comforts him.

  “Ohayō Misutā Matsumato,” says the man who receives him. He’s wearing neat but informal clothes which look too casual for the smart surroundings. Maybe Junichuro is just used to his own office, and the high-tech charnel house, where everyone wears expensive suits.

  "I'm Yamamura. You can call me Yama for short. I’m glad you came in today.”

  They settle in a reception room, and Yamamura pours them both some fragrant tea.

  “We can help you,” he says. His fingers are slender and elegant.

  “I miss my wife,” says Junichuro. “I miss my daughter.”

  “We can hel
p you with that,” says the young man. “The manager at the charnel house sent through your wife’s file. We have all the data we need.”

  “I’m not interested in robots,” says Junichuro. “And I don’t want those organic DNA clones, either.”

  “We don’t manufacture stand-ins,” says Yamamura. “We enlist them. The Family Romance of Neurotics is a relative replacement service. We use actors to play the part.”

  “Actors?”

  “Very good actors. People with kind hearts. Would you like us to supply you with a new wife and daughter?”

  “That sounds too good to be true,” says Junichuro.

  “Well, it’ll only be for a few hours, of course. And they’ll be pretending to love you; don't expect any authentic emotions to surface. And you're not allowed to touch them unless they initiate contact. Even then, it will be limited to hugs and hand-holding."

  Junichuro thinks of the last years with Nishi. How many times had he hugged her, or held her hand?

  "If you like them, we can reach an agreement regarding a regular visit."

  Junichuro feels overwhelmed by the possibilities. “People do this? Your clients pay you to arrange fake relatives?”

  “They’re not fake, Misutā Matsumato. They’re as human as you or I. Sometimes a client just needs a certain person in his or her life, and we’re happy to provide that service. I recently facilitated a reunion between an engaged couple who had broken up because the bride’s mother disapproved of the groom. We arranged for a stand-in mother of the bride and the wedding went off without a hitch.”

  Junichuro raises his eyebrows. “You were there?”

  Yamamura smiles. “Yes. We go to a lot of weddings. They are our bread and butter. Sometimes, I even play the groom!”

  “You’re an actor, too?”

  “That’s how I started the business. A friend of mine—a single mother—wanted to get her toddler into a prestigious preschool, but both parents had to be present at the interview. I volunteered to go with them and play the part.”

  “Did the child get accepted?”

  Yamamura laughs. “No, unfortunately not. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. But that was the day that sparked this,” he gestures at the building. “It’s good money but that’s not why we do it. It’s an extremely rewarding business to run.”