The Dead Boy (10 page)

Ben's
slumped sideway to the floor. Francis threw the gun down and rushed to his
side.

            Instantly
dead, no doubt, no mistake.

            'Bastard!
Bastard!
Fucking bastard!
'

            She
thumped at Ben's bloodied chest, but of course, nothing happened. She swore at
the grinning man, not herself, not Ben.

            She
rose to follow the man who did this.

           
Was
it him, though? Or was it me?

            She
didn't know. She just wanted to put a gun against the old fucker's chest and
pull the trigger until it all just went...away.

            But
George was back, inside her head and he wouldn't let her.

           
Francis.
Let him go.

           
Get
out of my head!
she told the kid.
I'm done.

           
When he replied
she had no choice but to listen. It was a child's voice, but something more
than that. It had
power
.

           
If
you chase that man down...we both die. Then he wins.

            'Please
leave me alone,' she said as she slide to the floor outside the boy's cell, Ben
North's cooling body right beside her.

            The
boy's reply was simple.

           
No,
Francis. Save us. Live, instead.

            For
a second, she stared at Ben's dead eyes.

           
I
wonder what he sees
, she thought.

            But
the kid was right. She closed Ben's eyes and stood.

            Whatever
he saw, she didn't need to know just yet.

            'I'm
sorry,' said Francis. She left the man.

            She'd
hardly known him, after all.

            The
key was already in the lock. She turned it all the way and opened the cell.

*

The
kid lived in mind alone and he didn't know because the man with fire in his eyes,
that devil with the grin, had told him it was so.

            George
was strapped in a wheelchair. His neck had been broken, and angry, badly
stitched wounds crossed his shaven head where parts of his brain had been cut
free.

            The
kid was the best part of dead. A mind without a body.

            Francis
cried for him, and placed a hand on George's cheek, like people might show
love, or say goodbye. His cheek was cold. He didn't flinch, or smile. How could
he.

            She
cried and placed her fingers against the side of his neck and held them there
and felt nothing, just as he would. 

            The
veil the man had put over the child was lifted and George, at last, saw himself
through Francis' eyes. Francis' mind, her thoughts, were his for the taking. He
saw what she saw, thought what she thought.

           
Kid's
fucked up. Drool, shit, blood. He's a fucking mess. I can't take him. I can't.
He's practically fucking dead. Jesus, he's just a little kid. What have they
done to him? Poor kid. You poor, poor bastard. Those fucking bastards.

           
He felt, too,
what she felt. He felt that absence...his own death. No heartbeat. No breath.

            Take
me,
he pleaded, because he couldn't take her thoughts any longer.
Take me.

           
I
can't,
she thought.
I can't. You're already dead. George...are you...are
you ghost? Am I mad, too? I'm so sorry.

           
She couldn't
take him. Why would she?

            'George...whatever
you are...don't you understand? You're dead. I...'

           
My
name is George. And I'm not dead. I'm not. I'm NOT!

            Francis
screamed at the full power of the boy's voice in her mind. The pain was the
most intense she ever felt.

           
Please,
don't shout anymore... don't shout.

           
Francis fell
away from the body in the chair, terrified, confused, aching. Her mind ached.
Her heart, too.

           
'You poor boy. I
don't know how we're talking...if we even are. But you're a ghost...don't you
understand? You're a memory...I'm sorry. Can't you see, feel? You're
dead...please. Please just let me go.'

            You'll
take me.

           
How can I? she
thought, but he heard that, too.

            You'll
take me.

            She
rose, shook her head.

            The
dead boy was silent for a second, and sanity seemed to settle over Francis.

            You'll
take me.

            She
walked to the door.

            My
neck. Francis. Touch my neck.

            She
shook her head again.

            I
AM NOT DEAD.

            She
tried, really tried. But it was like pushing and pulling against a riptide.

            Against
her will, compelled by his, she knelt once more and laid her fingers against
his neck.

           
God
help me
, she thought.

            His
heart had been still. Now it wasn't.

            Maybe
he wasn't as powerful as the man who did this. But Francis found she was just
as afraid of George as she was of O'Dell.

            'You
were
dead.'

           
He's
very strong. He fools people. He tricks and pushes them...like he tricked me.
And you.

            The
man lied, without a doubt.

            She
took the handles of the wheelchair, but she didn't push.

            '
You
lied, George. You lied, and you
pushed
.'

           
I...

            'Don't
lie to me again. Don't push me.'

            Something
inside The Mill exploded.

           
O'Dell's
burning it
, said George.
Oh...oh...

            She
heard the same things George heard - but for George, it was inside his mind. Their
feelings. Their fear. All their tortured voices crying out together.

           
HE
IS KILLING US.

           
KILLING
US.

           
Switch
off, George,
Francis thought.
You don't need this.

            But
perhaps he did.

            The
key code to the exit was someplace in Francis' memory - placed there by O'Dell,
for whatever an insane man's reasons could be. She opened the door and pulled
the wheelchair through behind her. The door closed. The Mill burned, behind the
door. The door, the fire, everything final.

            Francis
turned around with the chair and looked.

            She
expected gunfire, or madness, or a blue sun, maybe.

            But
the world was calm. It was evening and there was just a black road before them,
far away from everywhere, it seemed, or maybe close to nowhere. Nowhere sounded
pretty good to Francis.

            Behind,
the screams were muted by doors and walls to her ears, but loud in her mind.   George
was silent.

           
Maybe
for those ruined children
, she imagined,
fire was better
.

            'God
rest them,' she said. 'And fuck the rest.'

            She
pushed George along the road. It didn't matter where it led, or didn't lead, as
long as they didn't go back. No going back, she knew, for either of them. The
life she had before the Mill, and George, and insane soldiers or crazy old
ladies with false teeth, before saving Ben, before killing him...all that was
done.  

            'George?
We're on the road. Can you see? Through my eyes?'

            Still
he didn't say anything. She could feel him there, though. A presence somewhere
inside, watching everything.

           
Francis...are
you crying, too?

            Everything
she had before O'Dell was done. No husband, no friends. No home. Now a life on
the run with a boy who'd
willed
himself back to life.

           
Francis?

            She
smiled and wiped at her eyes.

            'Don't
worry, George,' she said. 'I'm not tired of living yet. You?'

           
No,
he said, and for the first time she felt something of the boy he should have
been - one who smiled.

            In
her mind, though, she could still hear the echoes of the dying, because George
could. Gradually, their cries faded away, until all Francis and George could
understand was the last word.

           
'US,'
they said, but it was no more than a whisper.

*

Many
years ago a man had shot O'Dell in the head with a .22 calibre revolver. That
man's name was Kurt William O'Dell. He didn't remember why he'd shot himself in
the head. He forgot many other things besides.

            While
the past was a mystery to O'Dell, the future was an open, his path clear and
bright, because his remarkable, scarred,
enhanced
mind showed him the
way.

             Perhaps
he'd never know why he shot himself. Did it matter?

           
Not
anymore,
he thought.

           
He'd caught up
with himself, at last. A new world was coming, and with it, fire like never
seen before.

            The
phone set in his car's dashboard rang, loud in the speakers. O'Dell answered.

            'What
is it?' he said. His words were short, but he felt rather cheerful.

            'Mr.
O'Dell. The Farnham woman? The boy's mother?'

            'Yes.
The one your colleague kindly shot. I remember.'

            'Sir.
Jess and I...we made a slight mistake. We neglected to remove all
identification. Left her wedding ring. Jess thought of it. Just in case...some
people have names or whatever engraved...'

            'Get
to the point. If you just called to let me know you fucked up, just go ahead
and shoot yourself and save me the bother.'

            'Ah...she
showed signs of animation. Sir. Two hours post-mortem.'

            'Well...'
O'Dell wondered whether he should make the man eat a bullet anyway.

           
Maybe
not yet.

            'Forego
the bullet and bring her in, then. Well done.'

            'Sir.
On route to The Mill as we speak.'

            'Go
to the bunker instead. Things move on, do they not?' he said. He almost
suggested they put the mother next to her son.

           
But
I let him go, didn't I?

            He
had no idea why.

           
I'm
sure there's a perfectly good reason...a man can't micromanage everything.
            Instead,
he turned his mind to the future, and fire to come.

            He
cut the call and drove on and while his left hand shook wildly against the
steering wheel, he smiled.

           
Grinned.
 

*

VI.

The Cold Hand

September
passed, gave way to October and a heat wave. Old people always say they've
never know it so hot, or so cold. Young people know better, but both young and
old agree the weather's always too hot, or too cold, or too wet. The weather is
never just right. The English are never satisfied, not even when they grumble.

            The
truth is, it's often hot in October, and sometimes warm right to the end of the
month. People called these late hot days an Indian Summer. Young or old, it's
the last they'll know. Winter will be the coldest in living memory, and they'll
be right about that, at least.

            Things
move on, don't they?

            O'Dell
moved pieces on a vast board that stretched into the futures. George healed.
Kids heal faster than grown-ups. Not usually the dead ones.

            Things
move on, even in a small town at the heart of England where the air shimmered over
sticky roads and d
irt
on playing fields and weedy back paths dried and hardened
. S
hops and stores
ran their air conditioning high enough for sweat to chill and damp shirts stick
to backs. Polite signs on shop windows begged men to keep their shirts on. People
with dry throats drank warm lager while they sat on rotten benches in pub beer
gardens beside slow stinking rivers, or by busy stinking city streets.

             In
that small heartland town, a man named Edgar Burroughs passed wilted fruit and
vegetables on market day. His head pointed from somewhere between his narrow
shoulder blades. A stick man, and one who'd snapped. The spoiled fruit and
vegetables were both sweet and putrid and the smell sparked memories he didn't
want.

            The
cloying stench of lilies dying in a green vase. Something brown and wet and rotten
in the bottom of a fridge. Last summer's grass cuttings, mouldering in the
grass box. Blue-green steaks ripe with flies on a barbeque that was never lit.

            These
smells reminded Edgar Burroughs of his wife and the way she was dying. A human
shouldn't wilt until there was nothing but a lingering corpse, even though she
breathed, still.

            He
kept his head down and walked slowly, deep and low in his thoughts, and Francis
Sutton followed right behind.

*

Mrs.
Burroughs - Sarah - had known something was wrong with her as early as spring
that year. Maybe she'd worried she wasn't right in the winter, but by April, she
knew
. She didn't have to tell Edgar. She wasn't obliged to share. She
didn't, either.

            Sarah
went to the doctor's surgery alone. She took the news well as could be
expected, hands folded around her handbag, sitting in the uncomfortable chair
in Doctor Darpec's office.

            'Lymphatic
Cancer. Nodes. Spreading.
Blah blah
Edgar's going to be alone blah
blah.
Stage Four. I'm so terribly sorry. Can I get you a tissue?'

            Something
along those lines. People don't really listen, when they're told they're
terminal. Darpec saw her glaze over, but there's a rhythm to these kind of
things. He finished his spiel.

            'I'll
give you the number of the MacMillan nurses, but they'll be in touch. They're a
great help. I'll pass on your details...'

            'Thank
you,' said Sarah Burroughs and rose, and left, and didn't even cry.

            She
didn't need to tell Edgar, because Edgar knew things without being told.

*

A
man over fifty grew to expect a certain amount of attrition among the people in
his life. For most children, death didn't really exist. It was a distant, alien
concept. In a man's middle years, it became a spectre, but one that was all too
real.

            By
old age, it was almost an acquaintance, a passer-by you might consider taking
in for tea on a cold day.

            Edgar
Burroughs wasn't quite on good enough terms to be taking tea with death. But he
knew him well enough. A fifty-year old man, he was under no illusions about
death's part in his future, or his wife's. Sarah Burroughs was forty-seven.

            Edgar
had always known he would outlast her, but he loved her the instant they met
and enough that he would bear the loss her for the chance to share the time
they had. They loved well, and often. They never had children. It had always
made Sarah sad, though with the heavy booted footsteps of her death march
getting ever closer, Edgar was almost glad. He could bear her loss, perhaps,
because in twenty-two years he had time to prepare. A child of theirs would be
spared this tearing of the heart, and his was sundered with each pound she
lost. Her face grew pale, then gaunt, then skeletal. She groaned and her breath
rattled in her chest. Their bedroom smelled of death and shit and awful fetid breath
which came with every gasp. Edgar fell asleep with the smell, and woke with it,
because he slept on an armchair he had carried upstairs so he could watch Sarah
and tend to her needs. He didn't want to do this, but he did. He stopped going
to work to feed her watered soup until all she could couldn't take that. Then
morphine and ice water, then just ice on her lips.

            She
seemed so dry he watched her, he wondered if he opened the window on the summer
heat, would she catch light in the warmth to float on the breeze like burning
paper?

            He
couldn't remember why he'd gone to town for a moment. He looked at his hands,
strangers to him suddenly.

            Morphine,
he remembered. He'd gone to collect her morphine, leaving her...thinking:
If
she dies alone, while I'm out, I won't have to watch.

            Had
he really thought that?

            His
hands were empty, because the chemist had been closed.

            Absent-mindedly,
he'd wandered all the way back with nothing. He barely remembered getting to
town, or getting back, or even where he'd put the house keys when he came in.

            Edgar
stared at his wrecked wife for a moment. He felt like shit for having nothing
for her pain and worse for hoping she would just...
slip
.

            'Sorry,
honey,' he said, but as he spoke that last shudder racked her barren chest and
he got half his wish. She slid away from him, but he still had to watch.

            A
second, unexpected exhalation made him jump, but the MacMillan nurse told him
this might happen. The nurse hadn't told him that his wife would grasp his
throat in death and that her milk-eyes would open.

*

Edgar
wasn't a weak man. Not strong, or fit, but probably somewhere around average.
But shock stayed him, and the hand on his throat cut off his voice.

            His
wide eyes stared into his wife's white gaze and saw nothing there. No flash of
her
;
no soul, no life. An empty vessel strangling him slowly, her hands implacable
and solid and her face nearer as she pulled him down toward her last embrace.
She stank of death, her teeth bared and snarling and feral, breathlessly, just
an expression and a hunger. His vision, rather than growing dim or dancing with
air-starved white spots, grew sharp. Colours that had been black and white and
shades between turned back, bled, at last, into the world. Her skin was pallid
and yellowed, but for the first time in weeks Edgar saw the bright pale light
of the sun in her grey hair, the slice of light that cut through the bedroom
window and brought life to their floral bedspread. Green, and heavy red roses,
carnations, like blood blooms from a wound into cloth.

            Unreasoning
and almost unthinking, stunned the impossibility of her rising, but by the
colours and smells and the sharpness of waking, too,  he put his hands on hers.
He pulled.

            She
was taking him with her and he found he did not want to go.

            She
would not give. The simple muscles of an ordinary man against...

            What?
Death?
His dead wife, rising?

            He
could not break free. Could not, he realised, hear anymore. His grip seemed
ineffectual, pointless, despite the fight within him he'd found. Like they merely
held hands rather than what they were really doing, which was fighting over
Edgar, the survivor of their marriage.

           
This
isn't an embrace. She's killing me.

            As
the bright colours left and his sight began to darken once again, something
flashed beside him. Whatever it was seared his face and a terrible pain blasted
his left ear. Blood, cold rather than hot, washed over the sheets and the rose
pattern and spotted his face and hands.

           
The
blood cooled the burn. A relief.

            He
would remember that thought later and feel sick.

            For
now, he was free. He rolled to one side, his weakened hands fluttering at his
face and saw a woman stood over the bed. She held a gun, and the gun smoked.

            Edgar
waited for her to shoot him, not caring about her reasons at all.

*

He
expected to see the dark barrel of the gun turn on him, but she moved the gun
aside, though her eyes stayed on him.

            'Come
on.
Move
.'

            Edgar
neither rose, nor moved. He lay on the carpet in the bedroom he'd shared with
his wife for over a decade. The carpet had burned his elbows almost as badly as
the powder burn down the side of his face.

            His
ears rang, but he heard the woman's voice just fine. Somewhere down deep,
either actual hearing, or piecing her words together from her manner; a little
movement of her lips, or her head. But her meaning didn't quite register. His
wife's handprints were still warm and harsh on his neck. His throat burned, and
blood choked the back of his throat.

            'Get
up!'

            Still,
Edgar could not move.

            'Fuck
this,' said the woman. Blonde, long hair. Attractive, but not to Edgar. He was
a one woman man, and this woman looked around twenty years younger, and she'd
just shot his wife in the face.

            She
held the gun beside her leg as she strode toward him. Edgar didn't back away.
He craned his head toward her. He wanted her to shoot him, too. But she didn't
- with a surprisingly powerful left hand she dragged him to his feet, like he
weighed no more than a bag of potatoes, rather than his thirteen stones. Her
right hand remained tight on her gun.

            'Fucking
hell...do you
want
to die?'

            That
seemed like a strange question. But he knew the answer to that one, even though
the words swam through his confusion and fluid ran down his neck from a ruptured
eardrum.

            'Yes.'

            She
shook her head. 'For Christ's sake. Brilliant.'

            Edgar
heard tyres outside, screeching, then the squeal of metal on metal. Other
sounds, distant, like you might get two or three times a day in a small town,
of sirens and shouting. Then...a gunshot.

            He
frowned.

            'You
might want to die. I shot your dead wife...get over it. I don't want to die,
and I'm not going to.'

            She
pulled him and he could either follow or fall down. He followed, thick-headed, and
on wooden legs. Like a marionette, and she held the strings.

           
But
it isn't me that's the puppet,
he thought.
She is.

            Through
her hand, like a jolt of lightning, he saw the puppet master. A man with a
straight, hard face, with fire reflected across the surface of his eyes, as
though his eyes were mirrors and he stared straight into a burning world.

           
The
man who sees fire?

            Something
like that. It was all he could pick up from the woman.
 

           
'What?'
she
said.

            He
shook his head. He didn't want to say anything. She was his saviour, but she
was nothing more than a tool, a hand being told what to do, a gun pointed at
whatever and whoever the -

           
Puppet...man
with fire...

            He
turned himself away from the thought with effort. Whoever that man was, he was
dangerous.

           
So
what if he is?
Why do I care?