Qualia Read online

  REBOOT

  ADRIFT IN THE SILENT dark: a final resting place.

  A peripheral awareness. Tiny, living flames that shyly dart and twist, in and out of being: each appearing only for a moment, each a single instant of pain.

  They dance in my hair, blind my eyes and seal my lips with painful kisses before fleeing like startled fish to gather, nervous, at the apex of my spine. Calm once more, they amble down that lumpy track. As they pass, bones fuse, muscle rebuilds and thick blood begins to pulse through plump arteries. Confident now, they kick-start quiescent nerves, wriggling with delight at the stabbing points and searing streaks of anguish that cavort and dance in their wake, a mindless street carnival of renewal.

  I sink stiff fingers deep into the cold earth as I’m rebuilt. I keep my jaws clamped shut, a barrier to the screams that seek to force themselves out through a larynx still under reconstruction.

  As I'm forced toward yet another life, the darkness sends out a final seductive siren call. I twist and struggle, reaching back toward the void: I’d like to stay.

  Eventually the flame creatures separate, then diminish and fade, their major work complete. Cuts and grazes will close soon. Slower to heal, they are left as visible reminders that I have failed – again.

  CHAPTER 2

  AS USUAL, I AWOKE. Dawn had obviously come and gone and I found myself lying in the cool green shadow beneath a dense bush. Groaning, I rolled over and forced myself to crawl out into the warm sunshine. Well, at least this time it was only my spine that had to be fixed. Apart from the puncture wound in my backside, the bites to my face and a couple of minor scratches, all the rest of me seemed happily in one piece. Even the chunk that had been ripped from the back of my neck, although still bleeding, was filling in nicely. But death comes with its own side-effects. I ached all over, the wracking shivers weren’t entirely due to the damp and, as rolling waves of nausea added to my misery, I wondered again about following Bakeneko’s advice and treating myself to a long, long cruise.

  I dragged myself upright and, taking long, deep breaths, struggled to remain that way while I checked my losses. I was surprised to find that there didn’t seem to be any. Unbelievably, the box was still in my pocket and still warm; I used it like a hot-water bottle while I tried to regain my equilibrium. Listening to the comforting hum of traffic on the Bristol Road and the cheerful birdsong that drifted on the warm, slightly diesel-scented breeze, I forced my legs to stop shaking and get moving. Staggering toward home, I had the mother and father of all headaches and my backside, quite frankly, felt as if it were on fire.

  ‘Damn.’ I studied the long rip in the arm of my jacket; there was no way that was getting fixed. ‘Damn and blast it.’ One leg of my jeans was shredded and blood soaked. ‘Bloody, flaming, bloody hell.’ I caught a tragic mess of wires and sparkling bits as they slipped from my torn back pocket. What had once been a top-of-the-range MP3 now resembled a tangled mass of cheap Christmas decorations. There was no chance of getting a new one on expenses; I’d happily lay a bet that my boss didn’t even know what an MP3 was.

  ‘Do try to keep the foul language down if you possibly can.’ A nasally sour voice effectively silenced the happy birds and caused my stomach to roll. Gritting my teeth I turned to face the speaker and suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to stab him in the throat; even beaten and bruised I was supposed to be the good guy. I suppressed a shudder as another warm, wet trail of fresh blood ran down the inside of my shredded jeans then forced my face into a smile.

  Mr Morris, my next-door neighbour, always seemed to catch me at the worst possible moment. Ice blue eyes glared from behind rimless, bottle-bottomed glasses. Thin, pale fingers plucked impatiently at threadbare trousers and, as he followed my limping progress along the pavement, frustration and disappointment thinned his dry and colourless lips.

  ‘Love thy neighbour, love thy neighbour,’ I muttered under my breath. The hinges on my gate gave a tortured squeal as I forced it open. ‘Hello, Mr Morris, lovely morning, isn’t it?’

  He snorted. ‘It’s midday, you bloody layabout. When are you going to do something about those?’ He pointed at the clumps of lion-faced young weeds that had cheerfully scattered themselves throughout my front garden. ‘Appalling.’ He sniffed and hiked his ancient trousers further over bony hips as he glared at me. ‘Mind you, if you go around looking like that, I’m not surprised you don’t care about your garden, you’re a disgrace, just look at the state of you, staggering home from a night of debauchery, no doubt.’

  I studied the small but vigorous crop of young dandelions that had muscled their way through the clover, nettles and scrubby grass that was my front garden; did the wretched things actually manage to grow overnight? ‘Sorry, Mr Morris.’ My rapidly healing backside was beginning to itch like the very devil and, digging my dirty fingernails into my palms as I shuffled toward my front door, I desperately tried to ignore the almost overwhelming need to scratch. ‘I promise I’ll deal with them as soon as I can.’

  Misery Morris was obviously the price someone like me had to pay for attempting to live in one of Birmingham’s quieter streets. He was a member of the neighbourhood watch, sat on most of the local committees and had taken an almost psychotic dislike to me from the moment I’d moved in.

  ‘You always say that, young man.’ He shook a finger in my general direction. ‘But, as with most of your type, you never actually keep your promises. You drop them like litter and then some other poor bugger has to pick up your trash.’ He waved a finger at me. ‘That’s why you and your ilk are just a waste of everybody’s time.’

  My type? My ilk? I managed to keep a straight face. I hadn’t realised that frequently dead “collectors”, currently contracted to angelic duties, were forever doomed to be bad gardeners.

  Carly, my other neighbour, had recently created a “natural art garden”. Slumped glass “sculptures”, stacked rusty tins and artfully placed mosaics peered coyly through the long grass, nettles and bolted herbs. Wind chimes, created from twisted silver cutlery and painted bottles were suspended from every available branch of her young rowan tree. Whenever the wind blew, the resulting cacophony could be heard right down the street.

  Mr Morris ignored my pointed looks. ‘I can tell you weren’t in the Army.’ He puffed his pigeon chest out at me then jabbed a thumb toward the frayed yellow pullover he wore. ‘I was, you know.’

  I spoke up quickly before he could get started on his favourite monologue yet again. ‘Mr Morris, I will get the garden sorted.’ Giving him what I hoped looked like a friendly nod, I limped quickly toward my front door; I really hoped that he wouldn’t notice the bloody trail that dogged my footsteps – he’d just assume that I’d mugged someone. Or worse.

  My hallway was dim and blessedly peaceful. Leaning on the door I took a moment to enjoy the silence. As I caught sight of myself in the mirror I had to accept that Mr Morris might just have a point. Even if I ignored the half-healed cuts and that really impressive black eye, I was definitely looking a little rough around the edges. My unruly brown hair, darkened further in patches by dried blood, curled toward my shoulders. A week’s worth of stubble needed removing and I was positive that my eyes used to be dark brown on white, not dark brown on bloodshot pink. I turned sideways and glared at my reflection. I’d lost weight again; “skinny” was now a description to be aspired to, “emaciated” seemed to fit me better.

  Rubbing at the back of my neck with one dirty hand, I indulged in a long groan. Every part of me ached, itched or stank of dog do and demon. I needed a long, hot bath – possibly two – and lots and lots of tea.

  As much as I tried to ignore it, there were days when I had to admit my life was more than a little odd. I’d even go so far as to describe it as unnecessarily complicated and so incredibly unfair.

  First complaint on the list? Legally and physically, I’m dead and have been for a very long time. So long in fact, that I don’t remember much of the last thousand years at all, just odd f
lashes of faces or places. My boss once told me that this selective amnesia was a self-defence mechanism and that, if I actually had to remember all those years, I’d probably be as mad as a box of badgers. He might have been right: the hazy jigsaw of half-memories, feelings and people that I could recall when I really tried always made me feel a little queasy. I didn’t attempt it very often.

  Second complaint? Unlike all the films and comic books, being dead didn’t give me any special powers or make me “cool” in any way. I still needed to eat, sleep and, apparently, pull up weeds. Paper cuts still stung and stubbing my toe had me swearing like a fishwife and, my absolute favourite: I still had to experience the whole glorious range of human emotions.

  My third and loudest complaint? Even though I was already dead, I could die again – and again and again and again, each death as messy and painful as the last.

  I’m not a vampire; if I sit in the sun for too long I end up as sore and rueful as the next guy. I’m not a ghost, a ghoul, a poltergeist or anything even remotely awe-inspiring. When I’m not dead I’m just human and when I am dead, which happens far more often than I’m comfortable with, I’m a dead human: like I said, the whole thing’s very unfair.

  Kicking my boots down the hall, I pulled off my blood-soaked socks and shuddered as the cold of the Victorian tile floor bit into the soles of my feet. Alternately tiptoeing, limping and scurrying, I headed off through the house toward the kitchen.

  Beside the kettle was a postcard. I stared at it and swallowed hard as the familiar sinking feeling caused my stomach to roll over once more. ‘Oh come on.’ I whispered at the uncaring stationery. ‘You have got to be kidding me. I can’t face another job after last night.’

  As usual, there was no stamp or address on the front, just the word “Joe” written in a heavy and florid hand. I’d never seen who delivered these wretched missives but I’d spent years dreaming of what I would do the day I finally caught up with them. This one had only one word written on the blank side: “Dark”.

  Placing the card back by the kettle, I grinned in relief. That meant I had most of a day before I had to go out again and I was damn well going to enjoy it. I filled the kettle and, as I waited for it to boil, stared mindlessly out of the window trying to ignore my own smell.

  A small frisson of guilt crept up on me as I stared at the dustbin in the back garden. Bakeneko had been telling the truth. I wondered if he was still in the bin; I probably needed to apologise to him when I saw him next.

  After a long hot bath, during which the last of my injuries vanished, I settled my knife and sheath back between my shoulder blades. Wrapping an ancient grey bathrobe around me, I squelched, still wet, down the stairs. Grabbing yet another mug of tea, I headed out into the sunshine for a well-deserved siesta.

  Settling into one of my two mismatched chairs, I stuck my damp feet up onto the ancient garden table and turned my face to the sun. It was hot; the traffic was merely a faint drone in the distance and the low-level hum lulled me into an almost trancelike state. Forcing my eyes open, I watched as a plane scored parallel stripes across the blue sky. Wherever it was going it surely couldn’t be any better than here. I could feel myself dropping steadily toward sleep.

  ‘Hey, Joe!’

  At the sudden shout, I spasmed and dumped most of the hot tea into my lap and, as my delightful drifting state vanished in a sudden flood of wet pain, I recognised the unsympathetic snigger that belonged to my “artistic” neighbour.

  ‘Whoops, sorry, hun, do you want a towel?’ Carly, leaning over the fence, was trying to untangle her long hair from one of my feral rose bushes. Despite what she said, she didn’t look the least bit sorry. ‘I heard Moany Morris having another go at you,’ she said. ‘So when are you going to join the Army and let them make a man of you?’

  Her laugh was always infectious and even though I was concentrating on holding my hot dressing gown away from certain important parts of me, I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Hello, freckles.’ Setting my half-empty cup down, I waddled, in a rather ungainly fashion, over to the fence. ‘Actually, I think it might be a good idea to join the Army.’ I laughed as her big green eyes widened. ‘But that’s only because it’s safer than living next door to you.’ I tore my attention away from my blistered bits and took a closer look at her. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’

  If possible, her smile got even wider and, stepping back, she gave me a twirl to show off the full effect of her “garment”. It spun around her in a mad disharmony of sound and movement, little bells tinkled and rang, tiny mirrors sparkled and flashed as they caught the sun and bright, multicoloured embroidery combined into a riotous blur as she moved.

  ‘It was a present from a friend who thought it would suit me for some reason.’ She wrinkled her nose and studied the dress intently. ‘I haven’t had the nerve to wear it out of the house yet.’

  There was something about the sound of those little bells that was familiar, but the connection was elusive and I gave up reaching for it – I was too tired to think. ‘Probably wise, you look like an explosion in a primary school craft box.’ I leant on the top of the fence and leered at her. ‘Where have you stuck the fuzzy pipe cleaners?’

  Carly casually reached over and gave my ear a sharp twist, smiling at my yelp of pain. ‘Don’t be rude, or I’ll be forced to give this cake to the birds.’ She went back to picking bits of rose bush out of her thick red hair.

  ‘Cake?’ Rubbing my hot, tingling ear I peered over the fence. ‘That cake with the ants all over it?’

  She looked down quickly then sighed; the cake was untouched. ‘You know I only look after you because you’re my karmic charity case, don’t you?’

  As she bent down to pick up the cake I had to force my eyes away from her cleavage. I’ve lived long enough to know that only bad things will follow if you’re caught checking out the goods. Sure enough, she looked up suspiciously. I met her eyes with a grin ­– no expression on my face other than “hopeful cake appreciation”.

  She pursed her lips and then grinned. ‘I bet there’s nothing in your fridge except for a hairy tomato, some milk and half a can of ravioli.’ She looked me up and down and then shook her head. ‘I only made you this cake because you’re beginning to look a lot like a scarecrow; it’s getting embarrassing introducing you as my neighbour.’

  ‘Thanks!’ I know I’m tall and thin but really … a scarecrow? That was more than a little harsh. ‘I’ll have you know I had a right day of it yesterday, I haven’t really slept yet.’ Reaching over the fence, I took the cake. I didn’t feel guilty lying to her, I hadn’t actually slept … I’d spent some time dead but that wasn’t ever particularly restful.

  Carly rolled her eyes then laughed. ‘Are you going to be in tonight?’ She stuck a finger deep into the icing.

  I remembered the card, still sitting in the kitchen and shook my head. ‘Nope … Working as usual.’ I tried not to stare as she sucked the icing from her finger.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘That means I can be as loud and disorderly as I want.’ With a small wave she walked away, then, at her back door she paused and looked back over her shoulder. ‘You are going to be careful tonight, aren’t you?’ she said.

  I laughed. ‘Carly, I’m a security guard in an abandoned factory. The most dangerous thing I have to face is the occasional lost squirrel; I don’t think they’re going to get that feisty.’

  She watched me for a long moment then shrugged and giggled. ‘You just be careful where they stick their nuts.’ Blowing me a kiss, she went inside.

  I smiled at the closed door before carefully carrying the cake back to the table. Drawing my knife from the well-worn sheath between my shoulder blades, I studied it as I wrestled with my conscience. Could I be bothered to fetch another from the house? I shrugged: no, I really couldn’t.

  Defining the whorls and eddies of the ancient Damascus steel, the sunlight seemed to slow on the blade. Flowing in hot caramel waves, it sank into the etched sigils that lined the
blood gutters of the oddly shaped weapon. Grasping the worn bone handle I hesitated, then shrugged. For hundreds of years this knife had spilled viscous and disgusting fluids – eviscerating an excellent coffee cake would probably do it some karmic good.

  Juggling an obscenely large and sticky slice in one hand and the last inch of my tea in the other, I made short work of both. With a full stomach I leant back in my chair, stuck my feet back onto the table and dozed the afternoon away.

  As the summer sky finally darkened, I put on my jacket and then remembered that it was only good for the bin. Sighing, I transferred everything to an old combat jacket. It didn’t feel right and I shrugged my shoulders inside it trying to get comfortable. I’d had that leather jacket since I’d bought it back in 1953 and I hated to see it finally give up the ghost. I put my boots on while I waited for my phone to ring and, as the final rays from the setting sun faded, the display on my phone lit up and at the second vibration I was gone.

  For such a quiet, peaceful little guy, my boss certainly seems intent on making a statement with his office space. The large rectangular room was opulently decorated in rich cream and pale gold. The ceiling hung heavy with intricate plasterwork which framed a painted, central panel depicting the fall of Lucifer. The only piece of furniture was a huge oak and leather desk, deeply carved with intricate foliate faces that peered menacingly from behind lifelike leaves and flowers.

  Every previous visit, I had been there for a disciplinary showdown, usually for some misdemeanour that wasn’t entirely my fault. I was always threatened with negation of my existence and the sullying of my soul if I transgressed again. None of these threats had ever come to anything – my employer was nothing if not terminally patient. After these wonderful and enlightening little “chats”, I would then find myself back at home, ears still ringing. It seemed a little odd to be here when I hadn’t done anything wrong.