Interlude: Gabriel. J. Walker – Liverpool—2004

“It’s okay Gabe honey, close your eyes.” His grandmother's voice called to him. Gabe felt her soft hand lay protectively on his shoulder. She was driving. Gabe had removed his seatbelt urgently to lay facing the caramel brown leather on the backseat. Outside was a bad one.

His grandmother needn’t question why her grandson had shifted so fiercely in the backseat after crossing the Waterloo bridge, where traffic had wound down to an almost crawl. An entire lane of the bridge was sectioned off. Police cars lined one side; an ambulance sat restlessly, its blue lights pulsing like that of a beating heart. They were looking for the ‘jumper’ Gabe knew because: if they had had the same sight as him, they would see her standing there beside them, her face broken and caved in.

Did she see me? His only thought was. It was difficult to tell given the fact Gabe saw no eyes buried that ruin ahead. He hoped to high heaven the dead thing didn’t notice him. The dead things always took an interest in him. He wasn’t exactly sure why? Maybe it was so they didn’t feel so alone, caught between this world and the next. They always seemed to understand; to know Gabe could see them. And while the dead ignored the living, they seemed to be drawn to Gabe like lonely ships in the night seeking refuge.

Before Gabe could dive down to stare at the plain caramel leather, he had seen the damage a fall from such a height did to a person. He saw with blinding clarity how the head broke inwards, bursting all its content from an exit rupture at the top of the skull. Eyes, nose, even mouth were gone. Hidden among a mountain range of bone and split skin.

“It’s alright Gabe, we’re coming off the bridge now honey.” His grandmother assured him, attempting to keep her voice as sweet as sugar.

“Dammit, Mary!” She cursed under her breath. She wouldn’t have taken the bridge if she’d known there’d been an accident. Gabe lay shaking in the back of the car, his deep, rapid breaths sounding frantic and wheezy. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. He repeated these lines over and over in his head, fearing the dead thing might hear him if said aloud.

“See honey, it’s all done and over now.”

Gabe felt the car stop. Mary slipped into neutral and leaned over to comfort him. He lifted his head slowly, becoming aware once again of his surroundings. He had slightly switched off after seeing the dead woman. And like a trapped animal about to be eaten, Gabe had seized up, froze like a deer in headlights. Caramel leather, the soft—but at the same time—firm touch from his grandmother, her honeyed words, this was what made up Gabriel’s world while caught in that tentacle grip of fear.

“Did she see me?” He whispered, too afraid to look out of the windows.

“She didn’t see you, baby, come on. Come here. You’re okay.” Mary said. Her arms pulled at him from below his right armpit. Gabe pushed himself upwards, gazing suspiciously around the car. No dead women, only his grandma; her great white hair curling vibrantly above a pair of teal oceans.

“See honey, it’s okay. It’s alright now. Brave boy, such a brave boy.” She said, stroking the adolescent afro on his head.

Flaaaa-Buuunkkkkkk

The window to his left became suddenly shadowed. The thing that had struck it caused Gabe to pee a little. A pancake mess of white, olive, and red, was pressed helplessly against the plexiglass window, but most horrifying of all was from somewhere amongst that ruined mess—through a narrow slot at the bottom of all that mess—appeared a mouth, and from it, the desperate cry of someone in pain.

“ERRRRLLLL MEEEEEEEEE” It groaned. Creamy flem sprayed against the glass. Broken fingernails scratched to get in, scratched to get him! Gabe screamed…then woke up with a great intake of breath.

His heart was vibrating in his chest like some frightened hare just caught in a snare. For the next few seconds, he lay there getting his bearings. Fear had a hold of him, but slowly he felt it fade; leaking from his pores like sweat. He was okay. Just a nightmare Gabriel. You should be used to nightmares by now.

When he felt he could, he raised himself in the bed to peer at the window. It was still dark outside meaning he’d only pocketed a few hours of rest, four at most he suspected. His dark dreary hotel room seemed to carry on sleeping while Gabe shook the residue of sleep from his eyes. He kicked an almost empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black on the way to his bathroom, he’d come back for that shortly.

Remembrance came back through the dreamy fog. He had drunk enough booze the night before to induce a light coma, yet his hangover never came, they never came… Praise God for small miracles.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Pissing for what felt like a second shy off a gallon, Gabe returned to his bed and lay there—eyes closed—listening to the world outside slowly come alive. The cars that once sailed past his window in long intermediate cycles became more, and more frequent until the sun, at last, tried desperately to penetrate his drapes. Outside was filled with the noises one would expect from a city centre.

Liverpool…Fire…Death. That was why he was here.

He leaned over and pulled the briefcase from under the bed. The thing inside was probably the cause for his nightmare he knew. It was getting strong now. The more Gabe fed it, the more its influence grew. He clicked the locks on the tobacco brown suitcase hearing the latches click pleasantly. Lifting, he saw the remains of a single item. A black, slightly weathered bowler hat. The rim around the hat was slightly frayed displaying its age. Gabe grabbed it reluctantly.

‘Flaaaaaaa-Buuunkkkkkk’ came the sound from within its hollow mouth as Gabe lifted it over his head. He felt its cold rim press against his scalp like some icy bandana. A chill ran down his spine causing him to shiver all over. He opened the chest drawer beside his bed. Inside was an equally sad and lonely newspaper. Gabe again reluctantly began to lift its pages. He could still smell the old ink as if he’d purchased the newspaper recently. On page five, however, he would smell only fire. Enough to choke him, make him gag as it did in his kitchen a few days prior.

He placed the paper on the chest drawer and pealed back to page five. It was like opening a door to a burning building. He couldn’t just smell the fire, taste it, almost feel it. He dropped the page, and the smell of fire was extinguished almost immediately.

“Shit.” He murmured, knowing now he couldn’t turn back. The article on page five described the burning of a house, where two people ended up burning alive. Gabe stroked his thumb and forefinger across the rim of his hat. A habit that preceded the job at hand.

“Shit.” He said again.

‘Language boy! Don’t make me come over there and wash that filth from your mouth with a toothbrush!’ His grandmother's voice echoed in his head.

Placing the newspaper on the suitcase, he reached for the bottle on the ground. Time to take your medicine.

Loosening the lid, he gulped as hungrily as a thirsty man drinking fresh water for the first time in two days. The sensation of scotch burning down his throat hardly bothered him anymore, on the contrary, Gabe associated the liquid fire with relief; learned to relish it, like some addict relishing the ritual before his high. Gabe was a drinker, certainly even an alcoholic, but not a drunk. The difference between the three was minimal, but in Gabe’s mind, distinct. A drinker enjoyed his or her vice. Engaging in it as often as there were causes for it: celebration mainly. An alcoholic didn’t need an excuse to drink and walked the line between control and destruction like a man walking a tightrope. A drunk was simply the alcoholic that fell. Gabe heard there was a term for men like him. Men like him were functioning alcoholics. They had mastered the art of tightrope walking and engaged in it as easily as a horny man engaging in sex.

The dangerous times that worried Gabe, when he felt closest to falling from that ways-up-place, was when he was on a job. Nothing got his thirst quite like on a job. Unlike the men and women that attended businesses, drove taxis, hauled freighters at the Albert Docks, Gabe was responsible—albeit morally—to help certain disinclined spirits on their merry way. A job that Gabe would happily trade away if his conscience would permit it. But the truth of the matter was: only Gabe could fulfill a job like this. The occupation had been made for him. And whether it was God or some evolutionary advancement, only Gabe could see the dead, so only Gabe could send them away. The hat that sat currently on his head didn’t work unless he was the one to use it. His grandfather could use it…but his grandfather was dead. His grandmother was dead, along with all the comfort she once offered him. If Gabe was to die right now, tonight. His ability might indeed die too. But he didn’t believe that. He knew there were others out there, there just had to be.

He flicked on the tv which sparked into the morning BBC news. Before Gabe could change the channel (the news leading the charge as his most avoided channel), Gabe saw the remnants of two old ghosts that momentarily hypnotized him. The news reporter was standing above the M5, his grey rain slicker jacket doing a valiant job at keeping off the rain. In one hand he held a slightly worse-for-ware microphone, its windscreen soaked with rainwater. Behind him, cars ran up and down the six-lane motorway. An assortment of flowers had been tied to the bridge on which the reporter stood.

Unbeknownst to anyone; except Gabriel who watched fervently through the screen was a couple of dancing. Cars passed through them as if they were transparent memories, which Gabe supposed they were. This was their finishing act, their fading act as Gabe got to call it sometimes.

‘—And all that remains here is nothing more than the tragic memory of what took place. Tony and Barbara Willing died here yesterday afternoon after their vehicle began to swerve and lose control. Eleven more were injured but chief officials investi—’

Gabe shut the tv off. The image of the two seniors dancing; was that the waltz? Made Johnnie Walker in his stomach want to do an emergency exit. The worst ghosts were always those that died in accidents. Car crashes, suicides, murders, all ranked supreme in their intensity. They were the bad ones Gabriel called them growing up.

Another mystery was why the spirits maintained their image in death. A man shot in the head would walk around as a ghost with half his head missing. The old people on tv reminded Gabe of two dancing zombies, each of which deformed in some manner: a broken arm, neck, missing foot. Being in such conditions never seemed to bother the ghosts themselves, but Gabe thought he detected some deeper pain in them, a longing, lonely pain that transcended all other pain possessed by mortals. Similar pain to that of an old woman who sits abandoned at Christmas in her home with no one to love or be loved from. He suddenly felt sick.

‘Please remain seated while we experience some light turbulence’ the stewardess pleaded in his stomach. Johnnie and Walker got up despairingly, their hands reached defiantly for the emergency exit of the plane. The image of the two zombie-like ghosts dancing made a surprise appearance, Johnnie and Walker pulled the lever and everything left the cabin at once.