You're Dead

The room shrank and fell away at the same time. Gail's pale, worried face was a point of solidity in a hurricane of chintz and sugar tongs and shag pile carpet.

She was saying something, but my ears rejected it. Every sense, every nerve, every cell, all triangulated on a specific, confusing point.

Mickey was dead. He died last night. But I spoke to him this morning.

And I was meant to convince this woman to hire me to investigate death, was that it? How was I even supposed to start that conversation? I knew next to nothing about Gail. Maybe she was a cynic, like me. Maybe she didn't believe in ghosts. Maybe she would rage, scream, cry, and laugh me out of her house.

Mickey was dead at his desk when he turned up next to mine.

"I know," she was saying, a soft hand on my arm, "I know it's a shock. Here..." She pressed a warm mug into my hands, and physically set my fingers round it. "Drink your tea. You'll feel better."

She was comforting me. It made about as much sense as anything, I suppose, but I didn't have to like it. I had to pull myself together.

"Was he working on anything?"

"Yes, he was. Of course he was. He didn't know how to stop working..." She dissolves into tears again.

She's right. He really didn't know how to stop working. Well, I guess he finally found a way.

Her hand is still resting on my arm, and there's sympathy in her eyes. She can see the shock in mine, and she thinks it's grief, putting down roots. It's not. I can't be sad when it's all so weird. Sad and weird aren't just uncommon bedfellows. They don't get along at all. Maybe the grief will hit later. Or maybe it won't. It's impossible to grieve for a man I fully expect to show up again. A man who hasn't left.

"Can you tell me anything about what he was working on?"

She straightens and sniffs, eyes narrowing.

"Why are you really here? He thought there was something.. are you here to take it?" Her knuckles stand out proud, and her chin juts.

"No, no, I don't think so. I meant, unless you want me to. To take a look at it."

"Why would you... Do you think that's got something you do with... Oh, no, I don't think so, they said it was probably a heart..." Her voice tapers off into a mumble. I notice the gaps. Some things are too fresh to say out loud.

"Can I give you my card? If you think of anything..."

I leave some gaps, too. Sometimes a pause is worth more than words.

She ushers me out, and if she wasn't stood there, determined to wave me off, I'd have sank against the wall of the porch and cussed. Nothing for it but to walk with purpose down the path. Open the gate. Ordinary actions that didn't feel like they fit in this new chaos.

The walk clears my head a little. I've always liked walking. One of the best parts of the job, for me. I find a bus stop, and now I sink down, cursing, on to the bench, head in hands.

"Let it all out, that's right. You'll feel better."

I don't look up, but I recognise his voice.

"Fuck off, Mickey," I mutter. "You're dead."

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