DEAD(ish) Read online

  Dead End

  (Trent)

  Dear God. I'm starting to think that maybe Linda's been going about this whole vengeance thing all wrong. All she has to do is hang around Mike whining about how unhappy she is. It would drive him nuts, surely. It's driving me nuts. Yeah, I'm an arsehole, Linda. But when there's nothing I can do to cheer you up, it's just a little bit frustrating. Like bombs exploding make a house a little bit hot.

  The keyboard clicks in front of me, without my help.

  Find my body, arsehole. That'd cheer me up.

  Mental note – never work for ghosts.

  ****

  (Linda)

  I know you've heard Mike's side of the story. Let me guess – I cheated on him, and he was outraged, and we argued, and he slapped me, and I hit my head on something and died, right?

  Fucking liar.

  ****

  (Trent)

  I sit at my computer, trying to work out where to go next in this investigation. Linda, thank God, has wandered off to torment Mike.

  Irritatingly, Linda can access Mike just fine. Me? Limited contact only. And it's not like he's going to be too helpful right now, is it?

  Out of sheer boredom and lack of ideas, I open a browser window and type 'find body of murdered girlfriend' into Google. Lots of results describing gory murders of women by jealous boyfriends. Meh.

  Just wait.

  Jealous boyfriend.

  Maybe the gay neighbours know something?

  ****

  (Trent)

  I knock on the front door of the house next door. It opens a crack almost immediately, and a wary bronzed face peers over the chain.

  "Hi!" I say brightly, "I'm a mate of Mike's, I'm helping him with a little problem?"

  The face disappears with a scream, the door slams closed, and heavy footsteps recede fast.

  That was not the reaction I expected.

  Neighbours

  (Lazarus)

  "Laz, baby, we've got trouble!"

  Geordie stands in the doorway and pants. He looks terrified.

  "Oh Gods, Geordie, you didn't freak out on the cops?"

  He puts his hands on his hips and looks indignant.

  "Of course not! God, Laz, don't you think I have a brain? I freaked out on a weird bloke claiming to be Mike's 'mate' and helping him out with a 'little problem'! He's sent a hired killer after us, Laz! Now do you still think I'm over-reacting??"

  I sigh.

  "Geordie, I never said you were over-reacting."

  "You did too! All over your face!"

  I sigh. Again. I don't want to have this argument. I'm sick of it.

  Then the rest of his words sink in.

  "Just wait – he's sent someone after us? You sure?"

  Geordie nods, bottom lip all a-quiver in a way that's distractingly sexy.

  "Sit down. Tell me exactly what he said."

  Geordie sits down in the spare office chair and starts swinging it round and round, side to side.

  "He said, 'I'm a mate of Mike's – I'm here to help him with a little problem?' And then he smiled, like he wasn't about to shoot the crap out me!"

  Fuck. Sounds as though the bastard's changed his mind about the deal.

  ****

  (Linda)

  Right. I think I've gotten the hang of this keyboard now. Stupid qwerty layout – did a man come up with that? Trent visiting the neighbours has me bloody worried. The guy's going to get himself killed. Geordie's not the stable type, you know? He'd pull the trigger then he'd throw the gun across the room and collapse on the body, weeping – but Trent would still be dead. And yeah, he's a PI and he knows the risks in this sort of case, but I'd still feel bad. Mostly because if he knew what had gone on, there's no way he'd have just wandered over, friendly, unarmed. Fuck! If anything happens to him, it's definitely my fault.

  ****

  (Linda)

  I suppose you're wondering what the hell happened that Trent won't know about, right? I bet Mike's told him some dumbarse story about catching me in bed with one of them, and losing the plot and accidentally killing me. Funny, but I just can't get that information out of Trent. Not sure whether it's customer confidentiality keeping his mouth shut – what a bloody weird parody of customer care that is! – or whether he has old-fashioned notions about not telling a lady about rumours besmirching her reputation. No good telling him I'm no lady. Although if Geordie loses the plot and tells all, even some, that fact's going to be bloody obvious to him.

  OK. Bean-spilling time. I slept with Geordie and Lazarus. Not for the sex itself, although God, the sex was fantastic. Those two have their major faults, but in the bedroom – together or individually – those boys are perfect. Both muscled, strong and incredibly gentle. And surprisingly aware of female anatomy for mostly-gay guys. But anyway, I didn't sleep with them for the sex, at least at first. I slept with them because Mike asked me to. See, he wanted in on the action, but he needed a hook.

  Me.

  ****

  (Trent)

  I stand at the front door, which has just been slammed in my face with a scream. That reaction was truly odd – unless, of course, they did know something. Had they seen Mike burying Linda? That would be enough to panic almost anyone. Especially with my dumb reference to being a mate of Mike's. Huh.

  I shrug and knock on the door again.

  (Lazarus)

  Geordie comes running in again, shaking.

  "He's knocking on the door again!" he whispers.

  I shrug.

  "Let him knock!" I say, "Just don't let the bastard in, whatever you do. OK? I really need to get some work done, honey."

  (Trent)

  My hand hurts.

  "MIKE. NEEDS. HELP!" I yell at the blank door. "I. WON'T. HURT. YOU! LOOK!" I hold up empty hands, "UN. ARMED!"

  The door re-opens a crack.

  "Promise?"

  "Promise!" I say, exasperated.

  "Well... OK. But the first sign of misbehaviour, I smack you over the head with a frypan, comprende?"

  Sure enough, he's wielding a mean-looking iron skillet.

  (Lazarus)

  I traipse down the hall to refill my coffee cup. Voices? Geordie's talking to someone, and I hear 'Mike' clear as day. That's not good. I hurry down to the kitchen, and lo and behold! Geordie's chatting away to the person who scared the crap out of him and who I specifically told him not to let in.

  "Geordie! Darling! Who's your little friend?" I ask, oozing charm.

  "Lazarus, meet Trent! He's not a hired gun after all! Poor little Mikey! He's an exorcist, Mikey hired him to get rid of Linda's ghost! He's trying to find out where she's buried, so he can do a proper exorcism, but of course he can't ask Mikey, because Mikey's in prison now, but I was about to tell him that that's not going to help, because –"

  "GEORDIE!" I interupt the flow of chatter, "Can I talk to you in the study for a second?"

  I grab his arm and frog-march him to the study.

  "Darling," I say, "did it ever occur to you that he might be an undercover cop?"

  Geordie turns white.

  I leave him standing in the study and head back to the kitchen.

  "I'm so sorry to be rude," I say, oozing charm again, "but Geordie's a fervent Mormon, and he was about to launch into a lecture about souls and being earthbound and – well, you don't want to hear all that rubbish, do you? So I thought I'd do the hospitable thing and ask him to shut the hell up. He's in the study praying for us right now, I suspect! So – can I get you another coffee?"

  (Trent)

  Another excellent cup of coffee, and a whole new basket full of questions. These guys didn't blink an eye at the news that Linda's dead, although it isn't common knowledge. And while they panicked when they thought I was a hit man, they calmed straight down when they'd decided I wasn't. So it's not Mike himself that scares them, is it?

  These guys are in it up to their necks.

  ****

  (Linda)

  "We
ll duh!" I told Trent when he explained his little theory to me.

  "You knew they were involved?"

  "Of course! I was there, remember? But that's not important, I'm not hiring you to find out who killed me, doofus! I'm hiring you to find my body. Those twits aren't going to help you with that, are they?"

  "Linda," he asked pathetically, "Why didn't you tell me this before? What else aren't you telling me?"

  "Nothing important," I told him, "Just find my body, OK?"

  "But I need all the facts to..."

  Blah blah blah. I faded out before he could bore me into a second death.

  Jail

  "Hi, Mikey-baby!"

  "Not now, Linda."

  "What's the matter, lover? Haven't you missed me?"

  "Umm, lemme think... NO!"

  Linda tries her hardest to look hurt. Her bottom lip starts to quiver.

  "Awww, Mikey, have you found someone else?"

  "LINDA!"

  A slender form opens the door a crack, slips through, and closes the door.

  "Mikey, you yelling at the walls again? Am I driving you crazy?"

  "Fucker!" Linda whispers as she fades from view, "You have found someone else, you slut!"

  ****

  "Just brushing up on the mad bastard routine, Fly," Mike says with an easy grin, turning around, "did you get it?"

  "Well that depends, Mikey – am I gonna get it?"

  Mike fishes around under his bunk, and hands over a few cigarettes.

  "Mikey baby – ya know you don't have to pay me, right? Any time you're up for –"

  Mike pushes Fly firmly out the door.

  "Awww, Mikey!"

  Mike sighs. Prison's a bitch some days.

  ****

  Mike wakes, and stumbles to the sink. He throws water on his face and drinks a handful. Bleary-eyed still, he stares at the mirror. Linda's done a beautiful job this time – green eyeshadow, heavy eyeliner and mascara, bright red lips, pale pink cheeks.

  "Fuck, I look like a clown at the fucking whorehouse!" he mutters, and sets about washing it off. Everything but the eyeliner and mascara budges with a minimum of effort. Those stay put, no matter what.

  "FUCK!" he yells, frustrated, and gives up, leaving his cell in answer to the breakfast summons. Unsurprisingly, the boys stare and cheer.

  "Mikey baby, settin' up a little money-earner, are ya?" Hatchett leers, "Damn iffen ya don' look jus' a lil attractive, boy – ya might get more business than ya know what ta do with!"

  "Arsehole!" mutters Mike, grabbing his breakfast and sitting down to eat fast.

  Betrayed

  (Trent)

  What the hell made me think that someone would tell me the whole truth just because they were dead? Nobody in this bloody investigation is telling me the truth, and it's starting to piss me off. I can't believe this shit even reaches beyond the grave. Who would've thought Linda even knew what shame is?

  Weirdly enough, I feel betrayed. Not because she slept with the neighbour boys – I already knew about that. Not because of anything she might have done in that odd foursome. Because she lied to me. What a sap.

  I get up, grab my wallet, and slam my front door on the way out to the pub.

  ****

  I'm sitting at the bar, deep in irrational but nasty misery. I've just finished ordering another shot of Sambucca, when Linda materialises on the stool beside me.

  "HOLY SHIT!" The man who'd been about to sit back down on the stool jumps back. "Oh, sorry, luv, I just didn't see ya come in, ya scared the crap – sorry – outta me!"

  Linda smiles sweetly and tells him that's OK. "Would you like your chair back?" she purrs, leaning forward to ensure that he has a good view down her top. He shakes his head slowly as the woman with him looks daggers at her. Linda winks at me, then leans over to the irate woman and whispers to her. Suddenly the snarl on the woman's face disappears, and she smirks.

  "What'd you tell her?" I whisper to Linda.

  "'It's all fake'", she whispers back.

  I laugh. More true than the woman's ever likely to know.

  ****

  (Linda)

  I'm back from another Mike-raid. I popped into Mike's cell in the middle of the night. He was fast asleep, and I watched him twitch and mutter while I pondered what I'd do to him next. But I couldn't concentrate. I just felt sad. This schmuck used to be the love of my life. He was strong, manly, uncomplicated. He wanted to protect me, and to fuck, and to eat his bizarre high-protein microwave meals, and that was it. Then Laz and Geordie pranced into our lives, and everything went pear-shaped. Well, honestly? It was probably pear-shaped already. It'd felt good, though, before them. So I did nothing, just came back here. What the hell is the point?

  ****

  (Trent)

  Linda reappears in the flat, and immediately melts into a major mope. Right – that's my cue. I'm off to do some investigating far away from here.

  ****

  Five drinks and a couple of black coffees later, I'm at the prison in time for morning visitations. Mike, obviously tense when he walks in, relaxes a little when he sees that it's me.

  "Thank God!" he says, and collapses into his plastic moulded chair.

  "Who'd you think I might be?"

  He shrugs.

  "Just about anyone, including a friend of anyone in there." he points behind him with a thumb.

  "So," I say, "What do you want me to do? How am I supposed to help you?"

  Another visitor is escorted into the room, and sits at a free table at the other side of the room.

  "I haven't made many friends here," he says heavily. "In fact, I think I've pissed someone off a lot..."

  The other visitor, alone still, removes something from his pocket and points it at Mike.

  "Get down!" I yell, every reaction just a bit slow from the alcohol. I shove Mike backwards with the table, his chair overturns, and something smacks into my left shoulder, spinning me around. I smack my head on the table and my shoulder turns into a ball of white-hot pain and everything fades out.

  ****

  (Linda)

  Love is never easy.

  That's what I kept telling myself every time Mike and I had one of our 'discussions'. You've gotta work at it, make compromises,smooth things down.

  Of course, Mike's idea of 'working at it' was to fuck more, and to bring me flowers. Sweet, but kinda missing the point when the main problem was that he spent money like a millionaire, but his house was always on the point of being repossessed because he 'forgot' to make the repayments. Moron. Yeah, I could've made them for him, I know. But why the hell should I finance his bad habits? Hard work and sensible spending got me where I am today. Where I was, I mean.

  Things were OK, though, you know? Then one moonlit night we were sitting on the little balcony outside Mike's bedroom, watching our neighbours' regular Kama Sutra show and quietly giving each effort a score, and arguing in whispers about when each particular 'performance' ended and began. Mike turned to me and he said, very casually, "Baby, do you think they'd let us join in?"

  That was the beginning of the end – to quote Shakespeare or some other dead writing guy.

  Oh, fuck. Gotta go – something's happening.

  (Trent)

  "OI!!!!"

  The black fades away. Linda has me by the shoulders, and she's shaking me and screaming in my face.

  "Wha..?"

  "Don't you DARE fucking die, arsehole! I need you! DON'T fucking die! Get BACK!"

  There's no more black, no more pain, just Linda and a light that's getting brighter and brighter.

  "GET! BACK! NOW!"

  She's stopped shaking me, she's shoving me backwards, and I'm so tired, and the light starts to dim into blackness again.

  ****

  God. The light's getting brighter again, and a male voice is calling my name. Can't people leave me the fuck alone? I open my eyes and raise my hands to shove away the annoying git shining a light into my eyes, and scream with pain.
My left shoulder is white-hot with pain again, and pokers of pain are stabbing into my neck and down my arm.

  "FUCK!" I yell.

  "DON'T. MOVE!" the man shouts at me, and I'm happy to do what I'm told.

  I blink, and breathe, and calm down a bit. The room's bright white everywhere – walls, ceiling, sheets. I'm in a bed. Hospital?

  "You had an accident at the jail, Mr French," the man says.

  I shake my head.

  "I was shot," I say, remembering the stranger with the gun.

  The man nods.

  "In the shoulder. We've operated and removed the bullet, but you'll need to be careful of it while it's healing," he says.

  Yeah. I'd noticed that bit.

  Aftermath

  (Mike)

  Well, fucking great.

  Here I am, stuck in prison, and someone's trying to kill me. And it's not Linda, for once. And they shot my exorcist, the arseholes. Now how the hell am I gonna get rid of her?

  And like thinking her name brought her here, she pops in. Fucking wonderful.

  "Hi, Linda."

  "Mike – what the HELL happened to Trent?"

  "Whadda you care?"

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  "Fine," I say, beyond caring, "He got shot. Someone was aiming for me. Thanks to you, everybody hates me. And someone really hates me. Happy? Finished trying to get me killed? They're gonna try again, you know."

  The bitch turns white as a ghost, and disappears.

  Lucky she left when she did, I was having trouble keeping a straight face.

  ****

  (Linda)

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can't believe I got Trent shot. This has all gone too far. None of this is his fault. I should never have gotten anyone else involved in my problems.

  ****

  (Trent)

  I wake up, and Linda's sitting by my bed sobbing. Huh, no tears. If anyone ever asks me if ghosts can cry, I'll know the answer.

  "I'm so sorry, Trent!" she gulps.

  "'Salright," I say.

  "Someone shot you because of something I did. I'm so sorry!"

  Is she repeating herself? Or am I just really drugged up? I frown, and try to clear my brain through sheer willpowerish stuff.

  "Linda?"

  "Trent... you got shot because I did something to make people hate Mike. I'm so sorry!"

  She is repeating herself.

  "Mike doesn't need any help, Linda, he's an arsehole on legs."

  She looks shocked.

  "He is?"

  Fuck. Bloody blind women. She didn't notice even after he killed her?

  ****

  (Mike)

  "Fuck-knuckle!"

  I turn around. Hatchett. Great start to the fucking morning.

  "Whaddya want, Hatch?"