The Dead Have No Shadows (24 page)

“How old are you?” whispered Pester who still had his hand over Elena’s mouth.  The question dragged the dead Mickey back to the fore of his former self’s mind.

“Twenty,” said Mickey.  “I’m in my second year at Derby University, taking my BA in Politics and Law.  I decided to study locally and live at home because I didn’t want to leave Mum alone with him.”

What little of Elena’s face that Mickey could see looked totally bewildered.

“Stay in here and stay quiet,” Mickey whispered to her.  “Pester will explain everything.”

Mickey walked into the dining room and pulled the door closed behind him.  His Mum was sitting at the dining table in the dark.  The luminous hands on the clock showed that it was six o’clock.  Given how dark it was outside this must be November or December.  It was one thing to instantly jump from one situation to another but the shifts in time really screwed with Mickey’s head.

The deceased Mickey retreated to the back of the mind of the twenty year old who had just come home from university.

The living Mickey had a weird sense of déjà-vu.  He turned the light on and Elaine winced, shielding her eyes from the glare of the
unshaded
bulb.  Mickey had been about to ask when tea would be ready.  One look at his Mum though told him that there would be no tea tonight.

Both of Elaine’s eyes were swollen, the left one almost completely shut.  There was blood clotted around her nostrils and her lips were swollen and split.  Her cheeks were glistening with tears and the table cloth in front of her was soaked with them.  Trembling hands were tugging at a bloodied hankie.

Mickey knelt by his Mum’s side and took her hands in his.

“What was it this time?” he asked.

“H...he decided that he didn’t w...want what I c...cooked for his t...tea.”

Mickey looked through to the kitchen to see another broken plate and food splattered across the cupboards and floor.  White hot anger flared inside him.

“Where is he now?” Mickey tried to keep his voice calm and sympathetic, it was a struggle though.”

“He went b...back to the p...pub,” Elaine whispered.  “He’ll s...stay there all n...night now.”

Mickey used his thumb to gently wipe away the tears that were shining on his Mum’s cheeks.  He kissed the corner of her mouth where the skin had split.

“I’ll run a bath for you,” he said.  What he really wanted to do was ask, “Why to do keep putting up with this?  Why haven’t you thrown him out or walked out yourself?”

He had tried these and other questions before.  It always ended with him getting angry and Elaine shedding more tears.  It hadn’t been until afterwards that Mickey had realised why Elaine did nothing.  It was because she was afraid that no-one would believe her; that instead of getting rid of his father it would only make things worse.  His father had her where he wanted her.  Elaine was trapped with no obvious way out.

Mickey stood up and went to leave the room.

“Let me get you some tea first,” Elaine said.

“No,” Mickey snapped, turning back to face her.  The word came out far harsher than Mickey had intended and he saw his Mum freeze as she was half way to the kitchen.  As Elaine started to tremble Mickey wondered if he was so much like his father that his own Mum was afraid of him as well.

Then Mickey spotted the red stain on the back of Elaine’s skirt and a similar one on the cushion of the chair where she’d been sitting.  He began trembling himself and the white hot anger that he been nursing before exploded into a blinding nuclear fury.

“No,” he said again; this time mustering every ounce of self control to keep his tone steady.  “There’s no need.  You just sit down while I run your bath.”

Mickey walked through to the lounge.  Unseen, Pester and Elena followed him upstairs. 

While the bath was filling Mickey who took a holdall from his wardrobe and went into his parent’s bedroom.

Once his Mum’s bath was ready he laid out a towel and went to fetch her.

“I’ve got to go out for a while.  Will you be alright on your own?”

Elaine assured her son that she would be fine.

“Lock the bathroom door.”  Again there was an edge to this instruction that Mickey didn’t really care for.  He waited until he heard the lock on the door click over then, collecting his holdall Mickey and his two invisible companions, went out into the cold night.

Mickey’s father always frequented the same pub, The Bridge Inn.  It stood just beyond the city centre on the riverbank, next to the bridge after which the pub was named.  It was in a part of the city that still held onto remnants of the time when Derby was a walled and gated city.  The route home would bring Terry over the bridge and past St. Mary’s chapel that sat half way across the bridge.  Mickey waited in the shade of the chapel’s doorway.  Pester and Elena stood across the road in the entrance to a riverside walk on the opposite bank from the pub.  From there they would be able to watch the proceedings without being noticed.

It seemed that Terry Raymond had something other than drinking on his mind because he left the pub before closing time.  Mickey watched Terry weave his way over the bridge. 

As he emerged from the shadow of the doorway to confront his father, Mickey stumbled slightly.  His right leg felt stiff as if he had hurt it.  At the back of his mind he knew what the problem was but the reason remained shy and wouldn’t reveal itself.

“What the fuck do you want?” his father growled, slurring his words badly.

Nice to see you too, thought Mickey.

“I brought you this,” he said, dropping the bag at his father’s feet.

“What’s in it?” Terry asked.

“Your clothes.  You’re moving out.”

“Like fuck I am,” laughed Terry.  The action caused his body to sway alarmingly.  Once he was steady again Terry went to walk past his son.  Mickey put a hand on his father’s chest to stop him going any further.

“When I was little I told Mum that I’d stop you from hurting her.  And I told you that one day you’d grow old and I would be waiting for you.  Well that day’s arrived and here I am.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”  Terry slapped Mickey’s hand away from his chest.  “Go back to your fucking school books.  And make sure you put my fucking clothes away.”  He made another attempt to walk past Mickey but was blocked again.

The punch that flew was aimed at Mickey’s temple and that was what saved him.  Years of experience had taught Mickey that his father always went for the head.  Terry’s actions were dulled by beer though, and Mickey had no trouble dodging the swing.  As Terry’s fist flew harmlessly past his son’s face the older man lost his balance.  Mickey drove his left fist into his father’s ribs.  It wasn’t the strongest blow, he was using his weaker hand, but it carried enough force to wind his father.  Terry pitched forward and landed on a right hand upper cut from Mickey.  As Terry Raymond went down Mickey followed up with three more punches to his father’s face.  It sickened him to do it but it was the only language that his father would understand.  Mickey knelt down.

“I could spend all night paying you back for what you’ve done to Mum,” he spat. “You keep away from her from now on or you’ll get worse than this, you sick bastard.”

Terry suddenly reached up, grabbed Mickey’s jacket and pulled himself up.

“Fuck off,” he snarled.  “You think you can stop me?”

A blow to the temple dazed Terry and he sank back to the ground, releasing his grip on Mickey.

Mickey stood up and took a final look at his fallen father.

“How about I drag you back to the pub and parade you in front of all your mates as a wife beater and a rapist?  How do you think they’d like that?”

Mickey didn’t wait for a reaction or response.  He turned and walked away, heading back towards the city centre.

From across the road Elena was about to follow when Pester put a hand on her arm and drew her further back into the shadows.  He pointed across the bridge, beyond where the drunken and beaten Terry Raymond still lay.  Someone was walking over the bridge.  They had blonde hair and were wearing an afghan coat.  More strangely, given the time of night, they were wearing sunglasses.

“It is Mr. Jolly,” gasped Elena.

“The very same,” agreed Pester.

“But what...”

“
Sssh
,” said Pester.  “Just watch.”

When Mr. Jolly reached Terry he helped him to his feet and leant the drunkard against the low parapet wall.  Then he picked up the holdall that Mickey had brought and thrust it into Terry’s arms.  Terry grabbed the bag but tilted backwards against the bridge parapet.  Mr. Jolly stooped, lifted one of Terry Raymond’s legs.  The drunkard’s momentum increased as he rolled over the low parapet wall and dropped, bag and all, into the river below.

Elena gasped.  “Why would he do that?”

“I’m not sure,” Pester replied, keeping his voice low.  He watched Mr. Jolly casually retrace his steps over St Mary’s bridge before continuing.  “It looks someone was trying to cause trouble for Mickey.”

“But why?” said Elena.  “Who would want to do that?  And why would Mr. Jolly be involved?”

Pester avoided the question with a shrug.  “Let’s go,” was all he would say.

They left the seclusion of the entrance to the river walk and quickened their pace after Mickey.

They found him sitting on a wall eating pie and chips.  He expected them to walk past him so was surprised and became guarded when they sat down, one on either side of him.  He didn’t mind the girl so much, she was really pretty, but the man looked creepy.  There was something familiar about him; but Mickey couldn’t quite place the man.  There was a loud click.  The man stared at Mickey and Mickey stared back.

Pester.  That’s who it was.

“I didn’t recognise you.” Mickey sounded embarrassed.  He turned to Elena.  “Sorry.”

Elena smiled and shrugged.  She had no idea what was going on so couldn’t really think of anything to say.

“It might have been the separation or the trauma of what you’ve just been doing,” said Pester.  “Your younger self absorbed you almost completely into its sub-conscious mind.  It took a while after seeing Elena and me for you to jolt back.”

Mickey shuddered.  He decided to make sure that he kept Pester close by from now on.  The switch back from his earlier selves had been uncomfortable and having Pester around helped Mickey feel grounded when he came back to his present, dead, self.

“What have you been doing?”

The pie and chips had been eaten, with Elena’s help, and the three of them had set off walking towards Mickey’s house.

“I was curious to see what your father did when you left him,” Pester replied.

“I’m not interested in what he did,” said Mickey.  “I was just pleased that what I said got through to him.  We didn’t see him again after that night.”

Elena and Pester shared a look.  Pester shook his head at Elena’s questioning glance.  Mickey didn’t pick up on the exchange.

“Did you report him missing,” Elena asked.

Mickey shook his head.  “When Mum saw that some of his clothes were gone she assumed that he’d walked out on us.  I think she was so relieved that her years of torment might actually be over that she didn’t want to risk him coming back.”

“And you never told her about what happened between you and him that night?”

Mickey looked uncomfortable as he answered.  “I didn’t see the need to.  He was gone.  Mum was happy.  Why spoil that with details?”