The dead guy

A dead guy looks for his wife.

The bus screeched and halted, threw her head forward, made it bang hard against the seat in front of her, jolted her out of her dream.

Jane rubbed it and looked around: she was in a bus, having traveled from somewhere, a long journey. People stood and got off their seats, reached for bags and lined up, made their way to the front: a mother and a child, an old man. Jane stood and picked up the heavy backpack, lifted it onto her shoulder and waited, followed them and came to the last step and looked around, looked back at the bus-driver who sat watching her, then stepped off and into the sunshine, the mechanical door closing and the bus roaring away. A dirt track waited, leading down a hill to scrub where others were crouching and walking into, a cluster of skyscrapers in the distance. She followed them and came to a hole in the scrub, bent down and stepped inside, and then, her memories came, landing like blows: a hand lying lifeless in hers, blood on her coat, so much blood. She past condoms and cigarette butts and the track opened up to an empty sky and led off into the distance. She stood and stretched and looked around and breathed in the air.

They walked in a line, some, alone, others with families, trekking mile after mile and nothing in sight, nothing but the scrub and the heat and the sun that stung the backs of their necks. They came to a creek and crossed it, stepped over rocks, walked down an incline, came to a car-wreck with its boot lying open like a coffin, weeds and a rat climbing out. The day wore on and she began to wonder how long it would be until they would find some trace of civilization, and then the sound of traffic came and buildings and roads appeared, and they looked at each other and dispersed, like people who had never met.

She walked up a hill overlooking the city, crossed parklands and manicured lawns of fluorescent green, streetlights and monuments that looked as though they had been built by giants in another time then came to the city itself where buildings bared down. She walked into the midst of it all, the noise of the city loud in her ears. After a while, she came to an empty cafe, stopped and looked through the glass, saw a space with leather chairs, décor from another era. A waiter stood, polishing a glass counter and she stepped inside and chose a seat by a window and looked out at the street and the waiter walked over and she could smell his aftershave, looked up and admired the wrinkles in his face. He asked her if she wanted a coffee and she agreed and then he turned and walked back to the counter and made movements behind the coffee machine, then walked back to the table and placed a cup and saucer in front of her and she looked up and thanked him and sipped it and looked back out at the street.

Shadows lined the pavement, spread through alleyways and up the table to where she sat; her arms and head growing heavy, her world falling into dreams.

Jane dreamed the same dream she always had. In it, she would wake up next to her husband, on a day like any other; take the scent of him in, mingled with the smell of flowers and earth, the sound of their kids running through the house.

Her mind would race to later moments: packing food for a trip, getting in the car and sitting in the driver’s seat, looking at him as he drove; travelling and looking out the window at a blue sky, the green landscape going passed.

And then the flash would come and everything would turn white and she would wake up and unbuckle her seat-belt and try to wake him, get out of the car and run around to the driver’s seat and pull him out, hold his frame in her arms, the blood like paint-dye, coming out of his head.

She remembered staring at his face, before they wrenched him from her, her attempts to scream and no sound coming out, putting him on a stretcher and wheeling him into a van and she was running toward it and getting inside and the door was slamming, and she was holding his hand while they put an oxygen mask over his mouth and someone was placing plastic devices on his chest, and then, as always, the dream would end, and she would wake with a start.

She looked up and saw the waiter looking down at her. He said that he was closing up the cafe and so, she stood and picked up her bag and opened the door and took one last look around then walked out onto the street.

She passed shops and buildings and houses, the last of the afternoon light fading onto the pavement in streams, and, after a while, she came to a hotel and decided to check in, walked up a set of concrete stairs and through a glass door, came to a marble mezzanine floor. She walked up to a concierge desk and booked a room for a week, took the lift up to her floor and found her room, opened the door and dumped her bag and flopped onto the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

By the time she woke, it was well into the afternoon. She got out of bed, ordered room-service, showered and got dressed, opened a set of drapes that framed the window, stood and looked down at the buildings and the traffic below, the sky a grey sheen.

She looked around the room, everything placed in just the right spot like a hotel room should look, then stepped away from the window, and a moment later there was a knock on the door and the same man that she had booked the room with the day before pushed a trolley into the room, turned and excused himself and she looked at the trays sitting on the table, the drapes reminding her of two guards slouching with age, then at the blue sky beyond, then down at the carpet that seemed to be rippling.

 

*

When she woke she rolled over and looked at the alarm clock and felt the ache in her stomach at her hunger and wondered how long it had been since she had eaten and couldn’t remember. She spotted the trays on the table and threw the blanket off and stood and walked over to it, lifted it and ate the eggs and toast and bacon cold, then walked over to the opened window and looked down at the city below, at the cars following each other in lines, closed the window and walked to the bathroom and turned the light on and looked at herself in the mirror then turned it off and went back to bed and lay looking up at the ceiling until a fitful sleep came.

When she woke next, she sat up and took her shower and got dressed, took the elevator down to the mezzanine, walked onto the marble floor, put sunglasses on, pushed the glass doors open and walked out onto the street. It was bright and sunny and she took the air in. She passed buildings and cafes and a cinema where a woman sat in a booth, a figurine in an exhibit, sculpted arms with tattoos and dyed hair. She found the same cafe where she had sat the day before, stepped inside and sat at a table and the waiter walked towards her, and again, she could smell his aftershave, then realised it was the same one that her late husband had worn.

‘You’re not from around here, are you,’ said the waiter.

‘You could say that.’

‘I think I can help you.’

He walked back to the counter and came back with a serviette with an address written on it and smiled at her and she ordered and he turned and walked away and came back a moment later with her food and she ate and stood and paid and walked back out onto the street.

A wind had blown up; clouds loomed like dirty cotton, filling the sky. Jane looked up at it and considered turning back, then decide to ask for directions to the place he had given her. It had started to rain but she no longer cared. She passed people scurrying to get off the streets, stepped inside a jewellery shop and asked a man for directions and then it occurred to her to use her phone to look it up, then stepped back out onto the street and walked the few blocks and came to the address the waiter had given her.

It was an old building that sat, sagging on a street-corner; a cut-out peace sign hung in the window like a talisman in front of a set of red curtains where a cluster of empty chairs stood. She crossed the road and turned the door-knob that had a bell attached that tinkled as she turned it and stepped inside.

The place was packed. A waitress eyed her as she stepped forward and came to a counter where a woman was ringing up a cash-register in front of two overweight cooks, the smell of eggs and bacon thick in the air. Jane waited and, after a while, the woman looked up.

‘Oh, sorry, love, I didn’t see you there, what can I get you?’

‘Just a coffee, thanks… Also, I was wondering if I could speak to the manager.’

‘That’d be me.’

‘Oh, uh, I was wondering…if…’

‘If?’

‘If…uh, well, I was told that…uh…’

‘You looking for a job, hon?’

‘Actually, yes, I am.’

‘Start tomorrow?’

‘Hey, that’d be great.’

Elated, Jane turned and walked back through the café, opened the door and stood on the street and gazed at the buildings and the park opposite, crossed the road and found a bench and sat.

Children playing on swings, couples sitting on rugs, the last of the afternoon light falling through the trees; and then, a smell so powerful that she felt as if she would throw up came, hit her like a violation.

It took a while to register that she was staring at bones, bones opening up from flesh that was charred and torn and rotten. She looked up and gazed at a tall figure who sat, dressed in rags, with a skull for a head that sat on its body like a globe. And then, the head turned and looked at her, eyeballs moving on top of branches of veins, the jaw and teeth jutting out and starting to move…

‘Hello, Janey.’

It was a voice, deeper than any she had ever heard and she sat, transfixed, and then the figure turned and stood and started walking, as though being drawn away by something else, some presence more powerful than itself, and she watched it pass a couple, lying on the grass, then the kids playing on swings, then disappear into the sunset.

The sun melted into the horizon and it became dark. Jane got up off the bench and started walking, walked in between trees, looked up at the street-lights and followed them and came out onto the street and looked around, searched for a cab-rank, passed a bar with a drinker slouched over it and a bar-man standing over him, a neon sign cackling above their heads, empty shops and streets.

She kept walking, watching the streets, and, after a while, came to the hotel, looked up at it, walked up the steps and through the revolving doors, passed the night-clerk, and came to the elevator, pressed the button and watched the numbers light up as it came down, praying that the thing, whatever it was, wasn’t inside.

The doors opened to an empty compartment and she breathed a sigh of relief and stepped inside and pressed the number to her floor, watched the numbers light up and then it came to her floor and the doors opened and she stood and stepped into the darkness, came to her room and opened the door.

The room was empty, the curtain flapping in the breeze above the open window, the sound of traffic below. She closed the door and walked over to the bed and lay down on it.

 

*

 

When she woke, she looked around and got out of bed and looked for her phone, found it and saw the time and realised that she was late for her first shift, called the cafe and told the manager. She hung up the phone and looked around the room, the previous days’ events coming back and hitting her like a sledgehammer. She felt vomit rising in her throat, ran to the bathroom and hurled, turned the taps on and washed the liquid down the sink, stood and looked at her reflection in the mirror, took her shower and got dressed and took the lift down to the mezzanine.

Outside, it was overcast and raining. She stepped through the glass doors and hailed a taxi and got in and gave the driver the address, looked out the window and saw a man, running, yelling at someone, waving a suitcase in the air, and then another man, further ahead of him, in the crowd, running also. She looked at them, but it all seemed so inconsequential, and then the traffic eased and the taxi started moving again.

When it pulled up at the café, the driver turned and looked at her and she handed him the money and got out, turned the door-knob and stepped inside. The place was again, packed. She edged her way between the tables, crossed the floor and made it to the counter where the same woman from the day before was standing behind the register, looking down, her face like that of a cherub. The woman looked up at her and told her to go around the back to where the cooks were and take an apron, and so that it what she did.

Jane walked past the kitchen and came to a small room where there was a group of hooks with aprons, took one and put it on and walked back through the kitchen, then walked back out to the floor and approached the first table where an old man was sitting, images of the corpse, and the ancient voice saying her name, and the smell, running through her mind, then realized, all of a sudden, that the corpse was Richard, her poor Richard and she bowed her head and held herself and summoned the strength to greet the old man, sitting at the table, wrote down his order then turned and walked the floor and came to the kitchen and pinned the order on the board, turned and approached the next table.

When her break came, she put the note-pad back in her pocket, turned and walked through the restaurant and came to the kitchen where a door that stood ajar, pushed it open and stepped into an alleyway, breathed in the air, stood and looked around and saw one of the cooks, sitting on the dirt, smoking. The cook looked up at her then put out his cigarette, stood and walked passed her then stepped back inside and she stood and took one last look around, walked past the kitchen and back out onto the floor, took out her notepad and gritted her teeth.

 

*

 

When Richard woke, he had no idea where he was, or even, who he was. Pain hit him hard, pain such that he had never known, or even thought possible, pain deep in his bones and in every place in his body. He looked around and saw that he was in a room that looked like a cell: no windows, only concrete walls with a small gap between where a sliver of light fell in. He looked down and saw a blanket covering him. He saw that his head was resting on a pillow, lifted the blanket off and looked down and was as horrified as fascinated by what he saw.

Organs throbbed; veins and arteries transferring blood underneath bones that were his rib-cage. He screamed and, after a while, dragged his eyes away, lifted himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, stood, and shook under the strain of his own weight, looked down and saw the shanks that were his legs and screamed again, walked over to a make-shift sink and studied his reflection.

Richard Roxenburough was pronounced dead at approximately 1300 hours on a Friday morning. Ambulance crew, paramedics and doctors had done all that they could, but it was clear as soon as they saw him that he was gone. They had tried pumping his chest, injecting him with tranquilizer, and all the other standard procedure, but in truth, a lot of it was just that, and nothing more. The wreck had burnt most of his body; it was clear no-one could have survived that. Still, despite all of this, his wife screamed louder than anyone thought possible. They had tried to console her, but nothing seemed to work, every time they would get near her she would punch their arms away, and, in the end, all they could do was leave her to stare at him, at the blanket that covered what was left of him.

For Richard, all of this went undetected; his memories were of waking up in the darkness, and with a great gulping of air, as though he’d been allowed to live after almost being drowned. He had thrown a plastic sheet off himself and had managed to shuffle towards the edge of the bed and put his feet on the linoleum floor, then, with effort, stood, and had started to walk.

He had noticed that his feet made an odd clacking sound on the linoleum and then a set of electronic doors opened, and he walked through what looked to be a hospital. He had walked, passing doctors and patients, everyone looking at him then running away; some, for some reason, feinting at the mere sight of him.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get anyone to talk to him, and so he kept walking, out into the night air, down a footpath, out into the city and came to an abandoned building where he had stumbled down a set of stairs and into a laneway, had found an opened door and walked inside what looked to have been a basement, and landed, almost by miracle, on a mattress, and had fallen straight to sleep.

Now, he opened his mouth and looked in the mirror and marvelled at all the intricacies, at the veins and tendons and muscles working together in concert. He walked back across the floor, and lay back down on the bed and looked around the room then down at his ribcage, at the heart beating inside of himself and wondered how it was even possible that he was alive, and then the memories came, and he wished for it all to end, but it didn’t, the dust-filled room remained, along with the light that penetrated his eyes.

 

*

Jane had made it through her shift. Her work gave her reprieve from her troubles; and so, today, above any other day, she had been happy to work in diners and cafes; had been happy to serve the elderly and the infirm, the strange and wonderful, because they were wonderful, and best of all they weren’t DEAD.

‘All done, lovey?’

She looked around and saw that it was the manager.

‘I guess so, you tell me.’

‘You’re done, love, we’ll see you tomorrow.’

Jane turned and walked back to the kitchen and put the apron away, then spotted the cook from earlier, finishing the last of his orders. She studied him, and a flash of heat passed through her body and she chastised herself inwardly that she should even think such a thing so soon after her husband’s passing (and anyway, she now had his zombie to contend with, didn’t she?), then turned and walked through the café and stepped out onto the empty street and started walking and when the bottle-shop appeared on the street- corner, it seemed like the natural thing to do…

Images of the all the AA meetings that she had been to, swept through her mind, along with all the promises that she had made to Richard about giving up her drinking. But this was different, wasn’t it? After all, it wasn’t every day that you were followed around by your late husband’s corpse…

Always the same miscreant, manning the desk, the same pimply kid on his first job, or the overweight disillusioned male unable to find work anywhere else; always the same neon lights and shelves. She stepped inside and walked the aisles and realised that she was only toying with herself, for she knew, right from the moment that she stepped into the place that it was always going to be vodka. She picked out the bottle and took it to the pimply kid and paid and stepped out into the street, passed a group of girls in micro-shorts, opened the cap and took a swig, screwed the lid back on and kept walking, and, after a while, came to the hotel, opened the doors and stepped inside, walked the floor and pressed the lift button, watched the numbers light up as it made its way down. And then the doors opened, and she stared into the empty compartment and walked into it and waited as it went upwards and came to her floor, then walked the passageway and came to her room, the whole thing like a dream.  She opened the door and stepped inside and switched the lamp on, took the bottle from her coat, got a glass and poured, opened the window and turned the television on and sat on the bed and drank.

 

*

 

Richard woke from a deep sleep, grateful for the fact that he was even able to sleep, (the fire had, at least, left him with eyelids that could close). He looked around the room and felt the pain coursing through his body, and with it, his own weakness. Night was approaching. He stood and looked at himself in the mirror, at the skull that was his face, then turned and put on the filthy shirt and pants and buttoned it all up and left the room.  By the time that he made it out the night had set in and the moon was out, enough light for people to see him. When he made it onto the street a woman looked up and saw him, screeched and ran.

*

 

Jane’s head pounded as though being hit by a sledgehammer at regular intervals. She looked around the room, got out of bed, walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror: black circles under the eyes and getting darker. She took her shower and got dressed and left the room and made her way down to the foyer.

The day was bright, making her head cook from the inside like it used to. She looked up at the people on the street, at the faces in the sunshine then walked on, the light stinging her eyes, and, after a while, made it to the café. She walked over to the manager who was standing in her usual spot and waited for her to look up and notice, and when she did, a look of shock came over her face.

‘What happened, love? You look terrible.’

‘I’m ok, just feeling a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘I’ll say, you sure you want to work?’

‘I do, please, just let me stay.’

‘Alright, love, when you’ve had enough, you just say when.’

Jane walked to the back and put her apron on then stepped onto the floor and approached a young family who sat looking up at her, and all of a sudden realised that she was looking at herself and, not that long ago, and felt the lump in her throat rising. She took their orders and pinned them on the board and went and served an elderly couple with combed white hair, matching cardigans.

And so another day went, until she was walking back into the kitchen and hanging up her apron, and there again, stood the cook, looking at her and she looked back at him and saw that he was handsome, though none of it mattered �" what mattered was Richard, always and only ever him. She walked out onto the street, and, for the first time, since she could remember, felt her fear diminishing, looked around at the night then felt the cravings, cravings that had been set off since she had started drinking again and realised that what she needed was a meeting, corpse or no corpse, and besides, she would be safe amongst people. She pulled out her phone and looked up the nearest one and started the few blocks to get there, passed people walking the streets, couples enjoying the early evening, and, after a while, came to it.

A sign, written in biro, scrawled as if written by a child, hanging on the door, said AA meeting here, all welcome. She pushed the door of the old church, open, closed it and took a seat. A woman stood at the back of a hall in front of them, giving a speech about her pain and struggle with alcohol. She finished her speech and sat and then a man was standing and announcing the end of the meeting and they were looking around at each other and greeting and she stood and shook hands with a little old man who introduced himself as Harold.

Harold asked her about herself and she found that when she tried to speak, her throat tightened and no sound came out. A look of sympathy came over Harold’s face and he led her over to the tea and coffee and cake. They made their cups and she sipped her coffee and looked at Harold as he told her his story, and then they were exchanging numbers and she was saying goodbye and turning and walking in the night air, having promised to call in the next few days.

She walked and looked around for a cab but there was nothing, then called the number and ordered one and stood in the street and looked around and became afraid, then walked back to them �" her strange family; figures, standing in the night, shivering, and then the cab pulled up and she opened the door and stepped inside.

When it came to the motel, she handed the driver the money, got out and stood and looked up at the motel, walked the concrete stairs and stepped onto the foyer floor, passed an old woman sitting in a chair reading, and then the cravings came back and she prayed to have them taken away, took the lift up to her room, opened the door and looked inside, crossed the carpet and walked to the window and looked out at the city.

When she woke she looked around, looked up at the ornate ceiling of the motel room and thanked herself that she hadn’t drunk the night before. She got out of bed, ordered breakfast and took her shower and thought about the fact that her money was running down and realised that it was time to think about moving again. When she stepped out into the day, she found herself walking to the cafe where she had first come to, when she got off the bus, sat down and ordered food from the waiter who stood, now, looking down at her, a troubled look etched on his face.

‘You don’t look well, mademoiselle.’

She looked up at him.

‘Did you check out that address I gave you?’ he said.

‘Yes, I did. And thanks.’

‘Look, I don’t often say this, but if it’s that bad, you can come and stay with me, if you want.’

‘But, I don’t even know you.’

He turned and wrote down his address and put it on the table in front of her.

‘Now, what can I get you, some orange juice perhaps?’

‘That sounds nice.’

‘Maybe some lunch?’

‘That sounds good, too.’

‘Might I recommend the fish?’

He returned a moment later with a glass of orange juice then went and served other customers and came back with a plate of fish and placed it down in front of her and she sat and looked out the glass window and watched the people walking past and thought about the waiter’s offer, sat and ate and finished the meal, paid, and stood and thanked him, opened the glass door and walked out onto the street.

The sun was out and the streets were crowded. She came to the bus stop, sat and waited and thought about Richard and how it was all going to end and then the bus arrived. The doors squeaked open, and she stepped onto it and put money on the counter, walked to the back and sat and looked out the window. Streets littered with people, shadows going up the lane-ways; when it came to her stop, she stepped off and looked at the cafe door, opened it and stepped inside, went to the back and took an apron and put it on, walked back onto the floor and started serving.

When she finished her shift she stepped out into the night and looked around. A full moon hung in the sky like a giant cat’s eye looking down at her. She thought about calling a cab but remembered her bank statement and realised that her cab catching days were over, at least until she could find a cheaper place to live, then started walking the street, headed toward a bus stop.

When she came to it she stood amongst a crowd that waited and then the bus came and she lined up and waited to get on, punched her ticket and stood squashed in amidst an overweight man and another man, then turned and looked out the window, watched the city go by and wondered where poor Richard was, then, all of a sudden, saw a tall figure in the crowd, wearing a hat on top of an oddly white coloured neck. She craned her neck to get a better look but the bus sped on and she turned around and searched for him but there was nothing, only the crowds making their way home.

It came to her stop and she got off and stood on the street, started up the stairs, then decided against going home, realised that she needed a meeting, if anything, to calm her nerves. One was being advertised not too far, and so she turned her tired feet and began the walk.

Empty streets, the occasional traveller nodding at her in the night; a woman about her age with piercing blue eyes, passed her, some other version of herself. She kept walking and, after a while, came to the door with the sign on it, and, exhausted, opened the creaking door then closed it. People turned around and looked at her, and she sat down and felt the relief at being there.

The usual scenario: a guy pouring his heart out, while they watched and listened, and then they were announcing that the meeting was over and it didn’t surprise her to see Harold walk up to her, glasses bulging, hair swooped over.

‘And, how’s fair Jane on this fine evening?’

‘I’m Ok, Harold.’

‘I’m glad.’

They stood and sipped their coffee and ate cakes and, for a moment, Jane forgot her troubles, and then, in what seemed like the next moment, it was all over and she began making her way back to the motel.

 

*

 

 

It had grown dark. Richard woke and looked around. He was in the same room he had first woken up in, the same ray of light coming through the same hole in the wall. He struggled to lift himself up, realising, as he did, that these movements would be his last.  He dragged himself to the sink, its wares, brown and red and broken, looked at the broken mirror, at the ghastly mess that was his face, the eyeballs swimming amidst veins, white bone, protruding from blackened flesh. He told himself it was the end and accepted it, prayed to the power keeping him alive and asked for redemption, looked down at his body: maggots eating the last of his flesh, not much muscle tissue left. He hobbled to the stairwell and climbed the stairs one last time, came out onto the city, onto the street.

The night hung all around him. People walking the streets, shining skin, flowing hair, women with painted lips and dresses swaying in the wind, trams clattering passed, petrol fumes and perfume. He hobbled along, beneath a trench coat, his strength dissipating with every step. Unable to take much more he stepped into a cafe where other hags sat looking at him but unmoved: an old lady with warts all over her face, a transvestite with a beard. A buxom woman walked up to him and he pulled his hat down and asked for a milks-shake and a steak and, to his surprise, she brought him his order and he ate it in the gloom. He finished the meal and walked back onto the street, not knowing where he was headed but was compelled forward, came to another cafe and sat on a chair and slumped onto a table, his breath ailing, looked up and saw her, his Janie, hair falling over her beautiful face, and wondered if it was all a dream and she was screaming and crying and lifting him and telling him that she loved him and a man was standing next to her and that was all he knew.