The Dead Have No Shadows (34 page)

Mickey nodded and Pester helped him across the foot of the crag towards where the valley opened out onto the beach.

“This is as far as I can go,” said Pester.  “I can’t go onto the sand.  Though I’ve broken a lot of rules with you this is one I’m just not able to break.  You’re on your own from here.”

Mickey wasn’t surprised.  He remembered something that one of his grandparents had said to him.  It was something along the lines of, ‘
it didn’t matter how many friends and relatives you had around you, dying was something you did on your own.
’  The whole experience of the past few days had all been part of the process of dying.  Now, at the very end it seemed right that he should do this last part by himself.

“How will I know which is my door?” Mickey asked.

“There’ll only be one,” Pester replied.

They had reached the opening onto the beach and Mickey understood what Pester had meant by his answer.  There were hundreds of people walking out of the valley and onto the beach but the sand remained deserted.  As each person stepped onto the beach they disappeared.  It was as Grandma had said, at the very end you’re on your own.

Pester let go of Mickey and stepped away.  Mickey turned to face his guide and found that he had no words to say.  He opened his mouth in the vain hope that something would come forth.  Nothing happened.

Pester smiled.  He’d seen this before and actually preferred it.  He didn’t care a hoot about most of the people that he brought this way; but he’d grown to like Mickey Raymond, and it hurt to see him leave.

“Go on
Laddie
,” he whispered.

Mickey nodded then turned and stepped onto the sand.

The sand was soft and fine.  It spilled through the holes in Mickey’s trainers warming his feet.  Mickey looked out over the almost empty beach.  Directly in front of him stood a door.  There was no wall to hold it up, just the surrounding frame.  The door was identical to the one at home.  That gave Mickey mixed feelings.  Sometimes he’d opened that door on to a happy home, more often though, he’d opened the door on to a nightmare.  What was going to be behind this particular one?

Mickey knew he had to find out but he didn’t want to move.  Each step would mean he had one less to take in his existence.  Mickey looked over his shoulder.  Pester was clearly visible but the other walkers and their guides were hazy and ill defined.  Pester smiled and nodded but didn’t speak.

Mickey sighed, turned back and took the first of his final steps.  The extra weight of the sand in his shoes dragged at Mickey’s feet and soon his legs began to struggle.  His ruined thigh protested at the mistreatment it was getting and Mickey began to feel unsteady as his balance wavered.

Mickey had been concentrating on the ground in front of him, willing each step as it came.  He looked up.  Fuck.  The door was barely any closer.  He looked back and got a better impression of the distance he had covered.  He’d done well but not as well as he would have liked.  He armed sweat from his forehead.  This was going to take forever.  That brought a wry smile to Mickey’s lips.  The walk may take a long time but forever was where he was heading.

A few minutes later and Mickey was dragging his right leg.  His jeans were completely soaked in blood and pus.  Each step drained him of his rapidly failing energy and he was beginning to feel faint; whether from exertion or blood loss he wasn’t sure.  The reason didn’t really matter.  His progress across the sand was almost non-existent; Mickey was walking on the spot.

An age later the door was about ten yards away.  It was an exact replica of the one at 42
Ridsdale
Street.  Or was it the actual door?  Mickey paused.  He suddenly expected the door to fly open and find his father standing on the doorstep.

Terry Raymond was dead though - then again so was Mickey.

Mickey took another step and his right leg gave way, dumping him on the sand.  He tried to rise but there was nothing left in either of his legs.  He tried to crawl but his right leg refused to work and his left foot couldn’t get any purchase in the soft sand.  Mickey began a swimming action with his arms.  To begin with
he
only scooped loose sand out of the way.  Then he gripped firmer sand beneath the surface and inched forward.

When Mickey finally reached the door he used the exposed frame to pull himself up into a sitting position and sat with his back resting against the door.  He was gasping for breath and his heart was pounding, filling his ears with its dead rhythm.  Mickey looked back across the expanse of sand that he’d finally conquered.  His vision had blurred but he was sure that Pester was still there watching him.

“Can’t sit here all day,” Mickey told himself.

He shuffled round and gripped the sides of the door frame; took a deep breath and pulled himself up.  Mickey tucked his left leg under him and then pushed himself upright.

This was it then. 

The end. 

Mickey was trembling.  He gripped the door handle, hesitated, then turned the handle down and pushed the door open.  His gaze fixed on the red glow that came from beyond the door. 

Had he really come all this way just to end up at the mouth of another or Mr. Jolly’s Underworld entrances? 

This just wasn’t fair. 

There was something different about this glow though.  There was no heat and the glow didn’t look angry.  Instead, the more Mickey looked at it the more the glow seemed to be comforting, welcoming even.  He could hear a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat.  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as bad as he first thought.  He half stepped, half stumbled over the threshold.  The door on the beach slammed shut and disappeared.  Mickey Raymond ceased to exist.

Pester hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath until he let out a long sigh of relief.  It had been a real worry that Mickey was going to fail to reach the door and be destined to become a pile of bones on the otherwise empty sands.  When the door had finally slammed shut it had shimmered for a second then had blinked out.  Pester smiled.  His task was almost over.  He just had one more thing to do.

“You’re nearly there.  You’re doing really well.”

That first sentence had been music to Angela Reynolds’ ears.  She’d been in labour for over twelve hours and she was exhausted.  Another contraction cramped her stomach and she pushed against it.

“That’s it.  Well done, the head’s out,” the midwife told her.

Constance Clarke was almost as tired as Angela.  Though she was at the end of her shift she wanted to see this one through to the end.  She didn’t know why but it felt important that she witnessed this little one being born.

Constance’s relief, Lizzie Gable, had arrived early and was lending a hand.

“Now rest, Angela,” Constance said.  “When you get the next contraction give it one big final push.”

Drenched with sweat, Angela was desperately trying to get her breath back ready for the next contraction.  Her stomach cramped, she screamed and bore down with all of her strength.  Down between her legs came the cry of new life.

“You’ve got a little boy,” Constance announced.

Angela lay back on the bed and smiled.  She looked to her husband who had done his duty and held her hand throughout the ordeal.  Angela’s smile faded when she saw the look of concern on Graham’s face.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.  Angela forced herself upright to see the two midwives deep in conversation.  The baby was in a
Rescusitaire
.  He was crying lustily and sounded healthy enough; though the midwives seemed less than convinced.  Constance left the delivery suite.

“I said, what’s wrong.”  Anger was warring with panic for control of Angela’s voice.  Why wouldn’t they answer her?

“Nothing’s wrong Angela,” Lizzie said.  “He’s just got a few marks on his body that we’d like the doctor to look at.”

“What sort of marks?” Graham asked.  “Is he deformed?”

“No, not at all,” Lizzie replied, trying to reassure the new parents.  “It’s probably nothing but we just want to check.”

Constance returned with a doctor in tow.  The doctor went straight to Angela to check her condition.  He was a strange looking man, with dark spiky hair and a
tufty
black and white beard in the middle of his lower lip.  Satisfied that the mother was fine, the doctor then shook hands with the father and congratulated both parents.  Graham would later comment to Angela that he was sure that the doctor had different coloured eyes.

“Now what seems to be the problem?” the doctor asked the midwives.

“He’s got some marks on his body,” said Constance.  “It’s probably only trauma from the birth but it looks like he’s been shot.”  She added this last part in a whisper that she hoped wouldn’t carry to Angela and Graham Reynolds.

While the midwives attended to Angela, the doctor peered into the crib and unfolded the towel that the baby was wrapped in.  There were three red wheals on the baby’s chest that did, indeed, look like gunshot wounds.  The child also had an abrasion on his right thigh that was oozing blood.

The doctor wiped a thumb across each of the marks on the boy’s chest and they instantly began to fade.  The cut on the baby’s thigh needed a second wipe to settle it but it did close and began to look less angry.

“Does our bonnie new friend have a name yet?” the doctor called over his shoulder while he made perfunctory checks on the baby.

“Michael Raymond,” the new mother replied with justified pride.

The doctor faced the parents and smiled broadly.  “We’ll I’m delighted to tell you that Michael Raymond is perfectly healthy.  These are just superficial wee marks caused during his birth.  They’ll fade away completely in a day or two.” 

He turned back and leant into the crib.

“It seems that you’re still destined to do something momentous,” he whispered to the baby.  “You have some powerful allies.  Good luck to you, my friend.”

The doctor straightened up, smiled again and left.

“I must be more tired than I thought,” said Constance as she passed baby Michael to Angela.  “I could have sworn that I heard waves breaking on a beach when he opened the door.”

“I could smell the sea air,” Angela replied absent-mindedly, cuddling her son for the first time.

Hundreds of people were walking along a grassy pathway towards a deserted beach.  Mostly they were walking in pairs that would separate when they reached the beginning of the sand.  There were a few groups of threes and fours but only a single walker.

Just before the end of the path the solo walker veered off and climbed up the back of a low crag where a young woman sat gazing out to sea.

“Hello again, Lassie,” said Pester.

He received no reply.  Nor did he expect one.  Pester sat down a few feet away from Elena and looked out across the beach.

“Mickey has gone on and I’ve come to the end myself.  I’ve had enough.  My time here is over.”  Pester looked around him again.

“Aye, this is a bonnie place to stay.  I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company.”

Pester sat back, closed his eyes and waited.

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Also by this author

Shades of Imagination
(short story collection)

To find out more about Chris
Mawbey
visit his blog:

http://chrismawbey.blogspot.com