Forever After

9


The whistling agony of the kettle drowned out the constant noise from the street outside. At its peak, moments before screeching to a deafening halt and clicking to indicate the water was boiled, the broken banshee screams of the forty year old appliance could rival any pneumatic drill.

Conversation between Michael and Naff stopped. All eyes, including those of James and Chip -- currently trying to work an equally antiquated games console in the living room -- turned to look at the kettle.

The screaming died, the kettle whipped a mechanical click, and then conversation resumed as if nothing ear-destroying had just occurred. Even James Waddington, previously unaccustomed to the kettle, continued on as normal.

Michael began pouring hot water into three cups. “You have to help me,” he told Naff as he measured out the steaming liquid before returning the clunky kettle to the stove. “Azrael said that this problem started with your department.”

Naff accepted a cup from Michael, warming his hands on the heat that transferred through the ceramic. “I don’t really want to get mixed up with this, or with Azrael,” he said honestly.

Michael handed a drink to Chip, leaving James out. The recently deceased man had initially been deterred at not being able to drink coffee until he saw the coffee -- cradled in a grimy jar like the moist droppings of a swamp monster.

In the kitchen Michael said: “Apparently you already are, and if you don’t help me it won’t look good for you will it?”

“That sounded like a threat.”

“F*ck off, that wasn’t a threat.”

“It certainly sounded like one.”

“Do you want me to threaten you? I can threaten you if you want me to threaten you.”

“I don’t think--”

“I’m not going to threaten you.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Naff put his cup down on the counter. “I can’t do this, I really don’t think--”

Michael interjected. “Do you really want to piss off the Angel of Death?”

“Now that was a threat,” Naff snorted. He picked up his cup and slipped the rim to his mouth. “But you have a point.”

They took their drinks to the living room.

Chip had managed to work the games console. He found the correct station on the television, tuned it in, worked out a kink in the power lead and unearthed both controllers -- a task he usually faltered at during one stage or another. He was preparing to play a game with James, the screen slowly loading, but the arrival of his flatmate had come during an argument.

“Spirit or not,” Chip said. “I don’t want your naked arse cheeks on my couch.”

Michael took a seat opposite the couch, Naff plonked himself down on a hard-backed chair opposite him.

“I don’t think they’re actually touching,” James said, lifting himself up to double check. “I mean they are, but, well, do they even exist?”

Chip wasn’t in the mood for existentialism. He shrugged that one off, letting the dead man rest his buttocks in peace, adding, seconds later: “And for f*ck’s sake keep your legs closed.”

“How you feeling?” Naff asked James, for want of anything better to ask.

James smiled back. “I feel...” he paused, shrugged. “Content I guess. Happy.”

“Were you happy when you were alive?”

“I guess so. I mean, I had a lot to live for. I had a family, a beautiful wife.”

“Turning into a dog every month must have been a downer,” Chip chimed.

“Well, yes, but--”

“You can control it though, right?” Naff butted in. “You can change when you want?”

“I can, but sometimes, during a full--”

Chip hadn’t finished. “Waking up naked in the woods, covered in blood and not knowing if you’ve spent the night raping sheep or eating them.”

“Well--”

“And if your kids found out, God, imagine that,” Chip stated almost dreamily, allowing his voice to drift into the heavens for a moment’s thought. “And when the police find your body, all naked and torn, left alone in the woods. Everyone will think you were a f*cking lunatic. Or a sex fiend.”

“I don’t think your wife would be too pleased either,” Naff added.

James looked immediately dejected but still maintained a sense of calm.

“Leave the guy alone,” Michael jumped in. “I don’t think there’s any depression in death, but keep it up and I’m sure you’ll find it.”

James grinned at the reaper. He received a nudge from Chip, gesturing for him to press a button on his controller. Chip leaned forward and prepared himself for a game before another loading screen cut-in. He groaned and flopped back.

“So, you’re the grim reaper then?” James asked Michael.

“Not the grim reaper, just one of them.”

James nodded like he understood, not letting on that he didn’t. “Are you all grim reapers?” he said, indicating to Chip and Naff.

“I’m a tooth fairy,” Chip said simply.

James laughed loudly, only stopping when he saw that no one else had even raised an eyebrow.

“He’s being serious,” Naff offered.

“Oh. And you?” he asked Naff.

“Records department. It’s--” Naff opened his palms as if to begin a lecture and then quickly closed them again. “It’s complicated.”

“And boring,” Michael added. He turned to James, “Tell us what happened out there in the forest.”

Chip groaned, sensing that he had just lost his playmate.

“OK,” James placed the controller down on the floor, much to the dismay of the small man next to him. “I have a little place out in the woods for when I turn. During a full moon I can’t control it, I can’t stop myself from turning and I have no control when I do. I tell my wife I’m going on a business trip.” A flicker of emotion entered his eyes and then departed. “It’s just a tiny shack really. I don’t spend much time there and it keeps me away from the centre of town after I turn. I was there this afternoon, preparing. I took off all my clothes and lay down on the bed.”

“Was the naked thing necessary or just for dramatic effect?” Chip wondered.

James looked at Chip with the look of someone who wasn’t sure if he was talking to a joker or an idiot, not realising it was probably both. “They rip and tear, and what’s not ripped and torn is usually covered in blood, mud or shit by the morning.”

Chip nodded, “Fair enough,” he said, indicating that James had his permission to continue.

“So, I was lying in my bed waiting. I heard a car pull up outside so I went to investigate.”

“You get many visitors there?” Naff interrupted.

James shook his head, “First time I've seen anyone else. When I looked I saw two men climbing out of a car and heading my way. I didn’t know what to do, I thought maybe they were police, I didn’t know, but I panicked. I couldn’t really hide from them, I mean I make so much noise and I can’t control it. So I just ran.”

The attention of the room was on him.

“The next thing I remember is being hot, like a pinprick of heat all through me, no pain at first, and then a massive surge of agony.” He looked off into the distance as he recounted. His hands worked up and down his body as he remembered the agony that had coursed through it during his demise. “I slowed, staggered. I realised they had shot me. I saw the wounds, but then they shot me again and again. I fell, then...” he shrugged. “Next thing I know I was up and running again. No pain. No heat.”

“You were dead,” Naff stated the obvious.

James nodded. “Apparently. I couldn’t run though, something pulled me back, forced me to stay. Luckily the men weren’t near and weren’t rushing.” He pulled his eyes back to the group, to Michael. “Then I saw you guys.”

“Did you get a look at the two men?”

“Not really. They were both tall, muscular. They wore dark suits, dark sunglasses. Same height. Same hair. Same build.”

Michael looked a little unsure. He turned to Naff, “Any ideas?”

Naff shook his head. “Could be anyone. We can rule out the police though, whoever did this knew what they were doing and they had information on who they were doing it to.”

Michael nodded, “OK, great, now what?”

A pitiful morning sun wrapped its faded rays around the deforested urban jungle, providing little light to the world awakening to face, with great reluctance, another day on its dismal streets.

A woman tottered along the path with a high heeled shoe in each hand. Her face a testament to a night on the town: her mascara smudged, her hair matted, her short skirt riding up her thigh to expose a faux tan-line and the ghostly flesh above.

A serendipitous dog scavenged the street for food, finishing a half-eaten kebab on the street before stumbling across an opened, barely touched, chocolate bar. Dinner and dessert within three flicks of a mangled tail.

In a second floor flat, above a sparse business either closed down or on its way, a bedraggled tenant poked his face through thick curtains, checking to make sure that yes, the morning had started and no, he hadn’t died in his sleep and escaped another miserable day.

From his vantage point at the tip of an alleyway across the street, Michael watched the man in the window blink away the sunshine, groan and then duck back behind the curtain.

Behind him James Waddington broke a silence that had only previously been punctuated by the catcalls of domestic violence and the urgency of police sirens in the adjoining streets.

“I feel exposed,” the recently dead man complained.

Chip looked him up and down. “You’re naked,” he noted.

“It's not that, it’s just--”

Michael turned his attention away from the bed & breakfast opposite, the small man operating reception, just visible through the main window, had now picked up a paper and was flicking through the Sports section.

“No one can see you,” he interrupted.

“No mortal anyway,” Naff corrected at the back of the group, hovering in a slight shadow provided by an overhanging drain pipe. “There are a few exceptions though.”

James was pacing back and forward. Trotting to and fro like an agitated horse in a stall. “Don’t I need to be somewhere else?” he wondered, not looking at anyone in particular. “I feel like I need to be somewhere else. Are we going soon?”

Chip watched his nervous movements with something resembling awe and amusement. “Is he mad?” he asked.

“I feel like I’m going that way,” James answered for him.

Chip turned to Michael, the beacon of knowledge in those situations. “I thought they needed to stay near their body,” he said. “Is that why he’s…” he glanced at James and then lowered his voice. “Losing it?”

Michael frowned at Chip. “He’s fine. And they can go where they want when they’re with me.”

Chip wasn’t convinced. “You think it’s safe to bring him here? They can see him and the last time they saw him they tried to kill him,” Chip looked confused, he scrunched up his ugly little face. “Again,” he finished meekly.

“I’m not going back to work until I catch these guys,” Michael told his friend. “Just go down there with him,” he gestured deep into the alleyway, which narrowed towards a rusted metal door beside two grey dustbins. “Stay low; keep him hidden.”

“Crawl into the alleyway with the naked man,” Chip said distastefully. “Sure, why not.”

Chip motioned for James to follow him. They walked to the end of the stretch of alley and ducked behind the bins, concealed but for a thin slice of naked flesh.

Michael watched the two go, turned back to the window of the bed & breakfast and then checked his timer.

“Five minutes,” he said.

Naff took a step forward, sliding up alongside his friend, his eyes also now on the window of the small establishment across the street.

“Why did you get an early warning on this guy and not the others?” He eyed up the man through the window. “Are you sure he’s a werewolf?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I saw someone else, brief, but enough for me to get suspicious.”

“And if it’s not him, if it’s not them?”

Michael shrugged impassively.

Naff stuffed his hands into his pockets. He looked around with a casual boredom and then wondered. “You ever deal with so many deaths this close together before?”

Michael gave a brisk nod. “A few years ago a dodgy batch of pills was circulating the pubs and clubs. I took in six poisoned kids in one weekend. I’ve seen murders. Drug deals gone wrong. Escalated domestic violence. Had one fifteen year old kid kill his grandmother when she refused to lend him a tenner. Never anything like this.”

Naff nodded, looking slightly worried. “What are we going to do if they do show up?” he wanted to know.

Michael grinned from ear to ear. A telling grin that Naff didn’t appreciate. Don’t worry,” he said confidently. “I have a plan.”

“Great.”



****

When a sleek silver vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the bed and breakfast, Michael knew he was witnessing the arrival of his targets. The car was an immaculate, expensive machine; its tinted windows shaded the occupants within. It was out of place in a town like Brittleside. The tinted windows were a common theme with the town locals, but they were usually fitted on broken relics barely fit for scrap and came with crude paint jobs and sound systems more expensive than the car that contained them.

The two men in black suits slowed clambered out of the car, as if to further dispel any suspicions that Michael did not have. He watched them stand momentarily by the front door of the B&B. They checked their surroundings, failing to see Michael and Naff who had now shifted to the back of the establishment, peeking through the slats of a gate at the side of the house.

Michael heard the owner greet the two men, he heard them reply, their voices muffled through the brickwork.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the baffled owner stuttered, sounding anxious.

“Are you Alan Richards?” One said, repeating his initial question.

“Tell me who you are first.”

“Friends,” Two said simply.

The owner took a step back, swapping his glance cautiously between the pair. He was used to having strangers drop into his home, but these two were stranger than strange.

“Friends!” He spat, indignant. “How can you be my friend if you don’t even know my name?”

“Is it Alan Richards?” One said without fault.

At that moment Michael entered the room from the back of the house, stepping in from the kitchen door at the other end of the spacious room. The B&B owner was now cornered between three intruders.

“What’s going on here?” Michael said to attract attention.

All eyes fell upon him, including those of Naff who casually, and reluctantly, trotted into the room behind him.

“Alan Richards?” One asked Michael.

“Who wants to know?” Michael said with a flick of his head.

“I bloody well would,” the real Alan Richards said. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you?” he asked both sets of intruders.

A noise from beyond the room alerted them; they all turned towards the door to the living room to see a woman enter. Her face was etched with a pleasant greeting at first, one practised through years accompanying her husband in the hospitality business, but when she saw the three strangers standing in front of her, with questioning and intimidating glances on each of their faces, her happy eyes widened.

“What’s going on?” she looked beyond the suited men at her husband, the fear in his eyes told her something was wrong. Michael and the two men watched silently as the woman saddled up to her husband and was taken under a protective arm. He whispered something reassuring to her and then stared at the intruders in his home, flashing each of them a threatening stare that they all returned.

Michael ignored the owner and strode straight up to the two men. Standing in the centre of them he peered up into both pairs of sunglasses. “Who are you?” he asked them.

“None of your concern,” Two stated.

“Unless you’re Alan Richards,” One added.

There was a brief pause, followed by Two querying: “Are you?”

Michael nodded his head and lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

He saw them simultaneously grasp for their pockets but he didn’t react. He saw them both produce pistols that glimmered and spread the dim sunshine that crept in from the large windows, but he didn’t flinch. Only when the bullets were ejected -- the thick thuds of gunpowder expanding in the small room -- did he move. He flung himself backwards, toppling over a sofa and flipping dramatically on the floor.

The men turned their pistols on Alan Richards and popped a staccato of bullets into his surprised face before he had a chance to assess the situation and get out of the way. His wife watched in horror and opened her mouth to vocalise her terror, but her words were sucked back into her lungs when a strong of bullets pierced expertly through her forehead.

The men then turned their guns on Naff, ejecting the remaining bullets from the magazine into him. There were six shots in total, all of which hit Naff in the chest, but he didn’t budge. He remained standing, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets, a look of disinterest on his face.

A glimmer of emotion, shock, perhaps awe, appeared on the faces of the two men. They swapped glances, making sure they both felt the same way, before turning back to Naff.

“You’re not mortal?” One asked.

“Uh huh,” Naff casually shrugged his shoulders. “This was your great plan?” he asked Michael.

A pained sigh lifted from the floor. Michael pulled himself to his feet with his hands grasping his chest and a twisted expression on his face. “That f*cking hurt,” he spat through gritted teeth.

He turned to glare at his friend; a knowing look was exchanged and then shrugged off by Naff. He pulled out his timer, checked the display and then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Bang on time for once,” he declared.

“You’re immortal as well?” One uttered redundantly.

Two pulled out a timer of his own and checked the screen, looking perplexed. His colleague glanced over his shoulder. Michael waited patiently.

“The woman,” Two said softly. They both raised their eyes, noted the soul of the departed woman lingering at the back of the room. They looked at each other and offered a reciprocated shrug.

“We’ve been looking for you.” Two slipped the timer back in his pocket and raised his gun at Michael again.

One declared: “I think you have something that belongs to us.”

“Give it to us.”

The two assassins made a point of pressing their guns closer to Michael, aiming in the centre of his chest. Michael met their threats with a wide grin and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You didn’t think that through did you?” he asked cockily.

They exchanged glances again; a thought seemed to pass between their shaded eyes before they returned their gazes to the reaper.

“We may not be able to kill you,” One told him. “But we can find plenty of ways to hurt you if you do not give us want we want.”

Michael nodded, “What do you want?”

“The soul,” One told him. “James Paddington.”

“Waddington,” Two corrected.

“Waddington,” One repeated with a nod.

Naff was still motionless at the back of the room, looking bored with the situation. Michael shot a glance at his friend before relaxing his own casual posture and facing the men with a look of negotiation.

“Fair enough,” he said as genuinely as he could. “I couldn’t give a toss what happens to him, but first you tell me why.” He glared at each of them in turn, expecting something to flicker behind their staunch apathy, but nothing budged.

“Why werewolves?” he pushed. “Why steal their souls? What could you possibly want with them?”

“I’m afraid we cannot divulge that information.”

“It is none of your concern.”

Michael sighed loudly. “I’m getting f*cking sick of hearing that.”

“Hand over the soul and we shall be on our way,” One declared.

Naff stepped forward from the back of the room, suddenly interested. “And why do you look so much alike?” he wondered, his eyebrows arched inquisitively as he strode to Michael’s side and studied the doppelgangers. “You twins?”

“Close.”

“We are clones.”

They both smiled simultaneously, as if to emphasise their statement. Naff looked a little less interested and took an instinctive step closer to Michael, feeling creeped-out by their smile.

Michael moved forward, leaving Naff to battle his disturbances without the shoulder of his friend to lean on. He looked at them both closely and they let him, taking pride in their status.

“Weird,” Michael said under his breath. “Every little detail.”

“So how come you’re not constantly speaking over each other?” Naff wanted to know.

“Were genetic doubles, we are not the same person.”

Naff looked bemused; he opened his mouth to issue another question and then slammed it shut when Michael offered a different line of questioning.

“So does that mean you’re both mortal?”

“Yes,” one answered proudly. “Of course--”

“Shit.”

Michael planted his hands on their shoulders and grasped tightly. Instantly the colour drained from their faces. They fought back, tried to wriggle free, but their strength rapidly leaked from their body. Their limbs quickly became incapable of resistance; their lungs incapable of breath.

They slunk to the floor like rag dolls, dropping out from under Michael’s grasp. Their cold, lifeless bodies, coiled around his feet.

He stepped back, brushed his hands together and happily announced, “That was easy.”

Naff inspected the corpses with a gentle shake of his head. “It scares me that they gave you guys that ability.”

Michael tapped his friend jokingly on the shoulder, Naff jumped instinctively and then cursed under his breath.

“Just be thankful they didn’t give it to someone like Chip,” he said.

Naff felt a chill coast through his body, he shuddered. “Good point.”

Michael bent down to inspect the dead duo. He reached into the pocket of Two, and withdrew a timer. It didn’t look much different from his own; he could have easily confused the two devices.

“What do you think?” he asked, handing the device up to his friend, who had only just finishing pondering a world where Chip could kill anyone who annoyed him or didn’t buy him a drink.

Naff took it, turned it this way and that, inspected the screen, toyed with the buttons and the menu. “Remarkable,” he said after a few moments, his eyes wide. “This is our timer,” he held it up like a trophy, “our technology.”

“Copy?” Michael wondered, still on his haunches as he searched through the dead men’s pockets for any further clues.

Naff shook his head. “No. Straight off the line. I’d say someone somewhere was missing a timer.”

“Why would they need it?”

“To keep tags on you I guess. They weren’t very bright but clearly someone told them what you could do to them. I guess if they had the timer they knew where you would be and how long they had to finish,” he shrugged, “whatever it is they were doing.”

“How could they see the spirits? They were mortal.”

Naff dropped the timer into his pocket and shrugged. “They had a hard time identifying us, and they seemed unsure about their actual targets,” he explained, watching as Michael inspected their identical faces. “It seems they can see us but they can’t distinguish--”

He stopped short. Michael had removed the sunglasses from one of the men to expose a set of glimmering metallic eyes which appeared to be whirring inside his skull.

“Creepy,” Naff said with another little shudder.

With a brave thumb and forefinger, Michael reached into an eye socket and plucked out the metallic orb, leaving a black hole embedded with a fine silver lining inside the skull. He rolled the eye on his palm like a marble. It had stopped whirring, but it still glimmered like polished steel when it caught the light.

“What about these?” he asked, tossing the eye over his shoulder to his friend.

Naff toyed with the catch, bouncing it off his palm with a twisted face, as if his friend had just tossed him Chip’s balled collection of body hair. He watched it spin uncontrollably out of his hand and onto the sofa. “Never seen them before,” he said to the back of Michael’s head, hiding his hands sheepishly behind his back. “Could have something to do with our missing souls though.”

Michael stood up, straightened his body with a complimentary groan. He looked at his friend and noted his hidden hands with a small flicker of bemusement.

He held a weapon and a vial in front of Naff, the question on his lips unspoken.

Naff nodded knowingly. “No doubt that’s how they collected--”

A cough from the other side of the room alerted them; they turned to see the ghosts of Alan Richards and his wife standing serenely and expectantly. They were both smiling, their arms locked.

“What happens now?” Alan asked them.

“Now you can rest in peace,” Michael told him. “Come with me.”

“To heaven?”

“To the alleyway.”