Gary McMahon - Dead Bad Things: A Thomas Usher Novel
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Dead Bad Things: A Thomas Usher Novel: summary, description and annotation
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HE SOUGHT TO FLEE HIS TRAGIC PAST, but when Thomas Usher hears a clockwork voice on the phone, and sees ever-more disturbing visions in a derelict warehouse, Usher realizes that he has to return home - for the sake of his own sanity.Meanwhile, a deadly figure from Ushers past threatens to undermine the very fabric of reality.File Under: Horror [ Serial Murders | Hellish Visions | Closet Skeletons | Pilgrims Progress ]e-book ISBN: 9780857661289
Gary McMahon: author's other books
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ONE
Police Constable Sarah Doherty watched the rain as it slid like a horde of transparent slugs down the car windows, wishing desperately that the sun would come out some day soon. A little sunshine, she thought, always made things look better, even if they were dead bad
Dead bad: that was one of his terms, her father. He'd used it often, usually to describe his mood before turning on her, and she hated herself for even thinking the words. Hated herself for using his phrasing, even in the relative safety of her head.
She stared at one particular trickle of rain, following the smeared trail as it wound an uneven line down the glass. Held within that single drop she saw the entire world and her inconsequential place within it. She felt small, tiny really, like a speck on the finger of a giant. One flick of that finger and she would be gone nothing but a cosmic crumb thrown into the void.
"You OK?"
Sarah blinked and turned her head, staring at her partner. For a second she failed to recognise his familiar battered features.
Benson smiled. It was not a pretty smile not on his face but it was something she had grown accustomed to. For such an ugly man, Benson possessed an abundance of compassion for his fellows, which somehow made him attractive. "You were miles away." He swivelled in the driver's seat, leaning forward slightly. The seat belt went taut across his broad chest. The springs in the seat creaked.
"I was. Miles away, that is. Miles away in the past, lost with the ghosts." She shrugged her shoulders, one side at a time, trying to reduce the tension. Her back ached; an old injury caused by her father in a particularly dark moment. Closing her eyes for a second, she said: "But I'm OK now. Don't worry about me." When she opened her eyes again Benson was still smiling, but now his face looked almost handsome almost. Not bad at all, really, for a man with badly scarred cheeks and a large dent in his forehead.
The street outside was empty at this hour, even the most hardy of drunks and homeless people having found somewhere to curl up and sleep off whatever ailed them. The rain was heavy; it made a loud hissing sound as it pelted against the brickwork of the big Victorian terraces that lined both sides of the wide street. Not too far away, the urban greenery of Roundhay Park lay shrouded in darkness, and Sarah thought about how easy it might be for someone to slip away unseen across the grass and into the trees someone who had been doing wrong on her watch.
The radio crackled a sharp, staccato echo of the rain outside. Benson reached out and turned down the volume. "You ready?" he stared at her, as if he were looking for something some sort of clue to her wellbeing in her eyes.
Sarah nodded. "Let's go. It's probably a fucking hoax call. You know what they're like round here I'll bet it's just some snotty accountant getting his own back on a neighbour who's in a higher tax bracket."
Benson laughed as he opened the door, but the sound of the rain drowned out his mirth. Sarah got out of the passenger side, hunching her shoulders in an instinctive protective gesture. It didn't work; she was soaked through in a few seconds. The rain was cold. The chill went right through her.
"Fuck," she said, tilting her checkerboard bowler down over her forehead. "I need a coffee."
"What's that?" Benson was leaning over the roof of the car, his head cocked to one side. He looked like an inquisitive rottweiler.
"Nothing," said Sarah, shaking her head. Then she walked around the car and joined him, resting one hand on her hip, near the ASP expandable baton which hung from her belt.
The moon was a smudge in the black sky, and there were very few stars clustered around it. The rain seemed to be in the process of erasing everything else from the sky, as if it were trying to drown the world. The thought chilled Sarah even more than the low temperature and she tried to bury it. The last thing she needed when she was out on patrol was to spook herself like this. It had been happening more and more lately, her mind creating phantoms from thin air, and she had to put a stop to it.
Nobody would trust a scared police constable, particularly a scared female police constable. It was something she had been forced to learn quickly, this type of casual prejudice: a simple harsh fact of life on the modern police force.
She followed Benson who was the senior partner, despite having only three months more experience than Sarah and watched the roll of his shoulders as he swaggered through the rain. Sometimes he seemed like an unstoppable force, a clenched fist on two legs.
The rain churned angrily in the gutters, forming foaming streams along both sides of the road. Litter swirled in the black water a ripped cardboard coffee cup, a stained fast food carton floating like a little boat, and several sodden pages from a discarded newspaper. Sarah could just about make out the name Penny Royale printed in bold text at the top of one of the pages. It was a case she had not been directly involved with, but six months ago, when the torn and battered body of the young girl was found in bed at her parents' home on the Bestwick estate, the child's death had sent shockwaves through the entire community.
Sarah's Achilles heel was cases involving murdered children, and she found it particularly difficult to remain in control of her emotions when, as in the Royale case, it seemed like the parents (both still missing) had been responsible for the killing. She wished that someone would find them, preferably dead. The world would not miss such shoddy, murderous parents. The world mourned dead children, not scumbag adults. And it mourned them far too often.
Benson pulled up abruptly outside one of the terraced houses. He raised a big, knuckly fist and rapped briskly on the wide wooden door. Then, realising that the heavy rainfall might make it difficult to be heard, he knocked again but harder this time like he really meant it, she thought.
Benson, Sarah knew, had his own weaknesses. She had no idea what they were, but had glimpsed them rising above the surface on a couple of occasions, like a shark's fin breaking water for a moment before vanishing again beneath the waves.
Slowly the door opened and a small, pale face peered out through the gap between door and frame. "Yes?"
"It's the police, madam. Did someone make an emergency call?" Benson took a step back, off the doorstep, as if aware of his naturally intimidating presence.
"Oh, yes. Yes." The door opened wider to reveal an elderly woman standing in a narrow hallway, her dressing gown pulled tight around her hefty frame. "I'm sorry my husband works nights. I worry." She smiled, as if this explained everything.
"That's OK, madam. Was it you who made the call? Are you a Mrs Frances Booth?" Benson took out his notebook and flipped it open, ducking into the doorway to keep the paper dry.
"Yes. That's right. I was well, this might sound a bit daft, but I'm concerned about the old dear next door. Mrs Johnson." The woman stepped back, into the hallway. "Would you like to come in?"
"Thank you." Benson stepped inside and Sarah followed, remaining silent. She smiled and took off her hat, inspecting the interior of the house as she did so. Expensive wallpaper, quality carpets, framed prints of good quality art on the walls. It was a nice place; a place where money dwelled.
"I really hope I'm not wasting your time."
"Oh, I'm sure you're not it is Mrs Booth, isn't it?" The woman nodded, almost eagerly. "We were in the area, anyway." Benson's tone was light, friendly. He excelled at putting people at their ease, despite his bulk and the scars on his cheeks. Sarah always found it strange that the public warmed to him so quickly and easily, but then she usually remembered that he had the same effect on her. Two days after meeting, they had jumped into bed together. The occasional sex was something they were both slightly wary of taking any further, but she always thought it a good example of how he was able to take a person off guard and slip in behind their defences. She frowned at the memory, but then suppressed it before Mrs Johnson noticed.
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