DEAD(ish) (3 page)

"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 said, "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.

"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.

(Trent)

What the hell made me think that someone
would tell me the whole truth just because they were dead? Geez,
shame reaches beyond the grave? More to the point...
Linda
has a sense of shame?

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
grins.

"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 materialised in
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.

****

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.

(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 FUCK 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 nicking everyone's stuff
and stashing it in my cell, 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, 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?"

"Lola wants her money, fuck-knuckle!"

"Then Lola shouldn't try to get me killed,
should she?"

He shrugs.

"Lola's an impatient girl."

I roll my eyes. Fuck, mafia movie with a
drug-fucked psycho chick playing Godfather.

"Hatch, why the fuck are you doing a chick's
bidding? You tied to her apron strings? She promised to tie you up
and whip you when you get out, if you're a good boy?"

He sneers at me.

"Just get Lola's money, fuck-knuckle – you
got lucky this time. Next time, that accident might just hit you
right
in the chest!"

He pokes me in the chest to make his point,
and I slap it away. Hard.

"She'll get her money faster if she gets me
the hell outta here, Hatch. Tell her that – and she might use the
special studded whip, ya?"

His jaw tightens, and I know I've crossed the
line. He hauls off and smacks me right in the jaw. Down I go, and
all I remember is my head hitting the concrete and a sky full of
stars.

****

(Linda)

Stuff it. I don't care if I caused all this. It's
not my fault. It's Mike's. HE'S the arsehole, not me. I'm sitting
in front of the computer, repeating this mantra – 'Mike's the
arsehole, not me!'

You know, I think I'm starting to believe it!

(Trent)

Have you ever tried to get undressed without
moving one arm and its shoulder? To put it simply – it's bloody
near impossible. I finish up struggling out of my PJs with a
minimum of screaming and ditching the sling. My bottom lip hurts
like hell from me biting it, and I concentrate on that pain to
distract myself from the stabbing fire moving through my shoulder
and neck. By the time I'm into a shower and enjoying the feeling of
being in less pain
and
slightly clean, I have company.

"Hey, gorgeous!" purrs Linda.

I close my eyes and sigh. She's stark naked
and substantial enough for me to feel her moving slightly against
the front of my body, from my chest right down to the tops of my
feet. She raises herself up on tiptoe and whispers a kiss over my
lips.

"Hi Linda," I say, for lack of anything
intelligent to say. "Umm..."

"Don't worry," she whispers in my ear, "I
won't hurt ya, honey. I'm just here to offer a hand. See you when
you get out, lover."

She giggles and disappears.

God. I couldn't help but be turned on, the
wench, and any attempt to masturbate would hurt like hell.

"Wench!" I mutter, as I turn off the
water.

"I heard that!" she calls from outside the
cubicle.

I try not to laugh, it hurts too much. I
eventually settle for a snort.

"I'll be good!" she says, "Now come out of
there, I had a brilliant idea!"

I groan, because Linda's brilliant ideas are
usually painful for someone, but carefully get out onto the
bathmat. Linda's holding the hugest hairdrier I've ever seen.

"Just relax!" she says, and grins.

She aims the hairdrier at me and turns it on.
And hell, it actually works. Slowly but surely, I get toasty warm
and dry.

"Spread em!" she demands.

"I'm fine!"

"You can't stay wet down there, Trent, your
balls'll go moldy!"