Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 3 Page 7

  “I should go,” he said, half turning.

  “No, wait,” she replied instinctively. “Let me call Robbins.”

  “And be locked away again?” He stared at her. “Or worse? I just thought you could help, that’s all. I was wrong.”

  Was it her imagination or was there genuine hurt in his voice? She blinked away another tear, tasting the salt water as it trickled into her mouth. “What is it that you want?”

  He hesitated before speaking, then examined a spot on the floor. “I’m seeing things. Things from when I died, I think. But it’s all so muddled. I can feel the pain. I can remember bits and pieces and a tunnel of bright light.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at that. “Pretty standard for NDE.”

  “For what?”

  “Near death experience.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “White light, figures beckoning, then something stops the person from going any further and they come back. Not exactly what happened to you…”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “If you’re really who you say you are, then you’ve been where nobody has before.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. All of that, all the important stuff is a blank.”

  “But the fact is you’ve come back, Matthew. You’ve come back. The question remains why? And how exactly do we all deal with it?”

  “Will you help me to remember?” he asked her.

  She chewed on her lip a moment before answering him. “On one condition. You let me take you to Robbins, so he can call off the search.”

  “I’m not going back to that cell.”

  “He’s not as bad as he seems, you know. And he might be able to help you get to the bottom of this too.”

  “All right, I believe you,” he said finally. “So, where do we begin?”

  “Tell me everything you can remember about the night you died,” said Beth.

  Chapter Ten

  The dead man talked for the better part of an hour.

  He told Beth what he could remember of the images, the sights, smells and sounds. She listened intently as she’d learned to do in her particular trade, pushing all thoughts about who or what he was to the back of her mind. For a little while at least he was simply another patient, one she wanted to find out more about. One she wanted to help if she possibly could. The talking was as much for her benefit as his, really. But it would take time for him to remember fully, she told him. Things would come back to him in small chunks, when they were good and ready. It was hardly surprising he’d blotted out so much of what was possibly the most traumatic thing that could ever happen to a person. Visual stimuli might help too, perhaps visiting familiar surroundings from that night. But for right now she wanted to get him back to the station, back to Robbins.

  Beth led him out of the office and down the corridor. Past the doctors and nurses she’d seen on the way in––his bare feet drawing odd looks and whispers––past the wards of people in bed. The man she called Matthew glanced at them, with a certain amount of sadness. Especially at the ones with eyes closed, heads back on the pillow as if they had already given up the fight.

  “You see it every day here, don’t you?” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Death. People die all the time here.”

  Beth nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  They took the stairs rather than the lift, bringing them out onto the floor of the Accident and Emergency department. There was a smattering of people waiting, seated on plastic chairs and looking up at a digital display that repeatedly informed them they would be there for some time.

  Beth’s charge held back as they entered. “I… something about this place. I remember something,” he told her. Then he pointed. “I was here, but not here. I-I was sort of looking down on this.”

  “Like you were hovering over the scene?”

  He nodded sharply. “I was here. This is where they brought me, isn’t it?”

  Before she could answer, the set of double doors at the far end of A&E burst open and two figures in green wheeled in a stretcher. All eyes turned in this direction, the most excitement they’d had all evening.

  “Motorcyclist, got hit by someone pulling out of a junction,” they heard the first paramedic state. “He’s in a really bad way.”

  A doctor in a set of blue scrubs came to attend to the patient, then the gurney was wheeled out of sight, away from the people in the waiting room. The man who claimed he was the late Matthew Daley followed, breaking into a run.

  “Matthew, no!” Beth wasn’t far behind him, reaching out to grab his arm but missing by a mile. The crash team were working on the motorcyclist in a side room and hadn’t had time to close the door––they were too preoccupied with trying to save his life. The nurses had cut away the leather of his jacket, and there was blood everywhere. The man’s eyes were rolling over white into his head. Matthew was at the doorway looking inside when Beth caught up with him. She tugged at his arm to pull him away, but he didn’t see her at all. He was in a trance.

  “We’re losing him,” said the doctor, now holding the paddles of a defibrillator in his hands. The whining sound of the patient flatlining cut through the air. He told everyone to stand back and shocked the motorcyclist. His body jerked, and there was a weak pulse, then he crashed again. The doctor repeated this process three times but it was the same result. “I’m calling it at seven fifty. All in agreement? He’d suffered massive trauma; there was nothing any of us could have done. Have his family been contacted?”

  “Come on, we shouldn’t be back here,” Beth told Matthew.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Pushing her to one side, he walked into the room. The doctor was so shocked he stood back. One of the male nurses came around the bed, in an effort to stop Matthew’s approach, but it was too late. He was next to the motorcyclist and his hands were on the man’s chest.

  “Someone call security,” shouted a female nurse.

  The male nurse tried to pull Matthew away, but he shrugged him off. “No, I won’t let this happen.” He closed his eyes.

  “Matthew!” shouted Beth, and the doctor recognized her.

  “Dr. Preston? Who is that? What’s the meaning of all this?”

  There was confusion in the room, lots of voices and shouting. Then a sudden beep sent everyone quiet. It was followed by another… then another. The nurses all looked at each other, then the doctor looked at Beth. “Dr. Preston?”

  The noise had drawn a crowd of people from the other rooms and cubicles in A&E, mostly relatives who were sitting with their sick loved ones, but a handful of patients too––their gowns flapping as they tried to get a better look.

  “Did you see that?” said one person behind Beth. “He just brought that man back to life.”

  “You what?” said a late arrival.

  “I swear to God. Just laid his hands on him. Doctors had given up.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  The beep of the heart monitor was strong and sure. The doctor who’d pronounced the motorcyclist walked slack-jawed towards Matthew and the bed. “What… what did you just do?” The nurse who’d called for security was crossing herself.

  “Vitals are stable,” said the male nurse, blinking at the monitor.

  Matthew stepped back from the bed, retreating to the door. Someone out in the corridor held up a mobile phone and snapped a blurry picture with a mechanical whir. Matthew pushed past them all, pushed past a speechless Beth, and began to stagger back off up the corridor. There was a second’s lapse, then she followed him again, back out of the department. He was running at a trot, but this time she did catch up with him, grabbing his arm and twisting him around.

  “You can’t just walk away like that. Hey!”

  He faced her. “I-I think I know what happened to me,” he told her. “I think I remember.”

  “Look, we can’t stay here now. You’re attracting too much attention.” Beth looked over her shoul
der at the group of people following them: relatives, doctors, patients.

  “You’re right. I have to go.” He pulled away from her and ran out through the double doors into the ambulance bay. The doors flapped back on her as she tried to follow. Beth Preston pushed on them and stumbled out into the night air.

  She looked left and right.

  But Matthew was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Detective Chief Inspector Steven Robbins yawned.

  It had been a long day, a long week, and he hadn’t seen much of his bed. The statements, reports and notes on his desk were all merging into one. The photographs, though still disturbing, had now lost much of their power to shock since the first time he’d seen them. The Matthew Daley case would never really be solved until they found the man who claimed to be him. Robbins couldn’t help smirking at that one; it wasn’t every day that the deceased ended up helping the police to solve the mystery of their own murder.

  He closed his aching eyes, then rubbed them.

  The door to his office opened, the hinges squeaking just like they always did. “Never hear of knocking?” he said, attempting to open his eyes again. The figure before him was out of focus, like the letters on an optician’s board when they put in the wrong lens. He screwed up his eyes, and the figure started to take shape. The man was older than Robbins, older than Wilson even. He took a seat opposite and smiled, the lines on his face stretching to accommodate it.

  “Make yourself at home,” said Robbins.

  “Thanks,” said the man, “don’t mind if I do.” He looked around the office, nodding contentedly. “It’s changed a bit in here.”

  Robbins let out a tired breath. “Look, I don’t know how you got in, but I’m a bit pushed right––”

  The man reached out and picked up one of the reports from the desk. He flipped through it casually. “You’re looking for connections where there aren’t any,” he said. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

  “If I wanted the advice of a total stranger then I’d ring one of my ex-wives.”

  The older man laughed. “But I’m not a total stranger, Robbins. You know me.”

  Robbins studied his face, but couldn’t place him. “If we’ve met before then I can’t remember it.”

  “Ah, well, we haven’t exactly met as such. But you know me all the same.”

  “It’s getting late, and I haven’t got time for riddles tonight,” Robbins said impatiently.

  “I’ve come to give you that one piece of information you’re looking for.”

  A look of enlightenment suddenly dawned on Robbins’ face. “You’re here to take over, is that it? I’m being replaced? I wondered how long it would be. You’re welcome to it, the whole fucking thing. I’m in over my head anyway.”

  The man chuckled again. “I’ve done my share and it was enough for me.”

  “I… I don’t understand.”

  “I’m here to tell you how to solve the case. And to tell you where Matthew Daley is.”

  “Who are you?” asked Robbins.

  The man stretched. “Nice to be able to do that again without the pains in my chest.”

  “Without the…” Robbins sat up straight in his chair. He shouldn’t have been too shocked, though. It wasn’t the first dead man he’d encountered this week. “Croft?”

  “Bingo. How are you finding my old job? It’s a killer, isn’t it?” This last line was said in all seriousness.

  “You… you’re not really here.”

  “Then where am I? Feels like I’m here.” He put his feet up on the desk, pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, removed one and tapped it on the silver metal. “You got a light?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Wise man,” said Croft. He held up the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “I smoked forty of these a day from being a kid. And I used to keep a bottle of scotch in that bottom drawer just there.” Croft gestured towards Robbins’ side of the desk. “Told myself it was for medicinal purposes. What a load of crap. You were just thinking you could use a belt yourself though, weren’t you? Don’t suppose there’s any still in there?” He flapped his hand. “Naw, what am I thinking. I’ve been gone too long for that.”

  Robbins didn’t know how to answer him, so he didn’t bother; he just reached down and opened the drawer. Robbins produced the bottle of Milk of Magnesia he kept hidden away. Croft let out another long laugh as Robbins took a swig.

  “Wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” said the erstwhile DCI finally. “You know, you should get that stomach sorted out. I left things till the last minute and look what happened.”

  “It’s fine,” stated Robbins.

  “Ignorance is bliss, eh? We’re not that dissimilar, you and I. You’re a man after my own heart.”

  “With the greatest respect,” Robbins told him, “I certainly hope not.”

  Croft took a drag on his cigarette. “I’d imagine it was quite a thing when you realized about Matthew.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Now, you said you had some information about the case.”

  Croft smiled again. “Getting straight to it, I like that in a DCI. Very good. Life’s too short, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  “The information,” Robbins pressed.

  “It doesn’t become clear you see… until afterwards. Then you know everything. There are no secrets.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Not yet, no. Matthew’s returned to find his peace, Robbins. His was such a sudden passing.”

  “I know. I saw the pictures.”

  “I saw the body,” Croft reminded him.

  “You’re telling me he’s after revenge on the person who did this?” Robbins pointed to the files.

  “He’s being tested.”

  “And you know who that person is.”

  Croft smiled one last time and blew out a stream of smoke. “Things aren’t always clear cut, you know. Good and evil are rarely as easy to spot as we think. It’s all a matter of judgment.”

  “Get on with it,” snapped Robbins.

  “Something’s coming, Steven. The world’s not going to be the same soon.”

  “It isn’t now,” said Robbins. “Tell me.”

  The phone rang loudly in his ear. Robbins woke with a start on the desk. He looked over at the empty chair opposite.

  The ringing persisted and he picked up the receiver. “Robbins.”

  “Steve, I need to talk to you. I’ve seen Matthew.”

  “What?”

  “He gave me the slip again, but listen… I think I know where we can find him. I think he’s going to return to the place where this all began. The place where he died.”

  “No, Beth,” said Robbins, his nose twitching at the smell of smoke which lingered in the air. “He’s going after the person who killed him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They sat in silence.

  Robert Hills was tracing the pattern on the carpet with his eyes. Caroline was nursing her third brandy of the evening. She’d done her best to explain, but it was so difficult.

  “There’s a police car outside,” he’d said as he returned from the bank, then he’d seen her red and puffy eyes. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Are you all right? It was a good question. Would she ever be all right again after today? “Something happened at school.”

  “Jason?”

  “He’s in his room.”

  Rob began towards the stairs, but she stopped him. “What’s happened?” he asked again, his voice cracking. So she took him into the living room and she told him. Just like that. As if she was telling him they’d had a burst water pipe or the microwave was on the fritz. He’d looked at her that same way she’d looked at the detective and the doctor, like she was mad.

  “Caroline, Matthew is dead.”

  “Tell that to Jason,” she’d replied, a little too harshly. “Tell that to my son.”

  “Our son,” he corrected.


  Caroline didn’t miss a beat. “He saw him.”

  “Saw someone who said he was Matthew, you mean.”

  “He saw… The police have… Rob, they dug up his grave.”

  “What?” He walked over to the fireplace and leaned a hand on the mantle. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I know… I know.”

  “How many of those have you had?” he asked, pointing to the drink.

  “What, you think I’m making this up? You think I’m drunk?”

  Rob rubbed his eyes. “No, it’s just… How can it possibly be your dead husband? It can’t be him. People don’t just––”

  “Come back from the dead?” she finished for him. “No, they don’t, do they.”

  He couldn’t say anything to that; they both knew it was impossible. Only here was his wife, the woman he trusted more than anyone in the world, telling him these things. “There has to be some kind of terrible mistake.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “What did they tell you exactly?”