BloodWorks

Blurb
    Josh Griffin has had leukaemia for the past six years. When he goes into total remission, his life is renewed. He’s ready to begin again...
    ...until his case files disappear, and his haematologist is murdered.
    Josh now has good reason to suspect that neither his disease, nor his recovery, were accidents. And, as much as he longs to leave the past behind, it will continue to haunt him. A dead man is urging him on, using Josh’s hands to mould the destiny of people he has never met. If Josh can’t resolve this, the dead man walking in his shoes...will be himself.

Prologue 

       “If it appears out of control, the fault is yours...because you failed to factor it in.”

       Pompous words. He’d factored in life, and death, then decided it was worth the risk.

       The child’s face haunted him.

       His shoes scraped and snagged as he was dragged across the rough ground. He wore his assassins’ shadows like a second skin.

       Shadows, long and dark...

       Long and dark, like the ebony silkiness of her hair. His Ligeia.

       In that terrible moment, there was no justifying his actions. Because death had hunted him and ignominy awaited...in the grave.

       Now, it would never be put right. None of it...because the end had come too soon...before he could justify the means.

       “The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead once again stirred.”

       Not for her. Not for any of them. Too late...

       It was his last thought, as the bullets blasted him back.

********* 

 

Chapter One 
 

       It was all so manicured; so...pristine.

       Dammit.

       Mick glared at the topiaried shrubs and wide expanses of green. Country club living. “There is no way,” he grumbled.

       “What? You’ll learn to golf?” Josh grinned. “I agree.”

       It didn’t improve Mick’s mood. His next words to Josh were almost a growl. “So while I’m ‘teeing off’, you’re going to be what?”

       “Crawling around on my hands and knees, searching for Pythium, of course.”

       “Of course.” Mick shook his head in disgust. “That’s what I thought you said. Ya know, there are other things to do on Saturdays—besides work.”

       “Yeaaah,” Josh replied slowly. He had a feeling he’d be more comfortable crawling around the sump collecting fungal samples than Mick was going to be smacking golfballs with his co-workers. “Let’s think about this: I could be hitting a ball, then chasing it all over the grass. So much better.” His smile widened. “Where’d you get the clubs, anyway?”

       “Marlena took pity on me...”

       “That I can believe.”

       Mick smiled at that one. “All it took was one brag about my holes-in-one...”

       “Hope you told her it was mini golf.”

       “...to make her hand ’em over.”

       Josh knew him too well. “Let me guess: she gave you the lecture again.”

       Mick nodded, and bit into a chocolate-coated muesli bar. “Yeah. Country club or die. Fitness is secondary—I need to acquire some dignity.” He chewed loudly.

       “You need to acquire some food of your own. Give me those.”

       Mick ignored him and rummaged through the glove box. “This the only healthy thing in here?” It was full of candy—everything from Nashi bars to Lifesavers to Hersheys to Droste. “Knew I should have been a dentist. Would’ve made a fortune off you.”

       “Like I’d let you touch my mouth, or anything else. This is my stop.” Josh slammed on the brakes, and Mick bumped his head on the window.

       It was at the far end of the golf course—the part they were still developing. The only piece of machinery here today was a big backhoe, churning away at the soft soil.

       Josh gestured with his peanut slab. “Drainage,” he explained, pointing to where the big backhoe bucket was removing scoops of slimy, grey-looking soil. “Looks like they’re putting in a sump.”

       “I say it looks like hell, considering what I have to pay to join this place.” Mick smirked up at the cemetery on the slope. Ancient concrete crosses, weathered angels, and lichen-encrusted tombstones. “How picturesque,” he said sarcastically. “Hope they plan on improving the view.”

       “The local ghosts no doubt feel much the same way—whenever someone like you plays through.” Josh opened the door. “It’s why I’m here, Putz. To solve the social dilemmas of the country club crowd, beginning with why their damned ‘windbreak’ won’t grow.” He took another bite. “I’m all that stands between you and that view.”

       “So get out and figure, while I go learn how to play.”

       Josh patted the steering wheel affectionately. “This is my car.”

       “Don’t remind me. A exercise in unhygienic, if I’ve ever seen one. Glad you make your fungus feel right at home.”

       “Fuck you, too,” Josh said genially. He climbed out, then took a hand spade and some plastic bags from the trunk.

       Mick tilted his head to eye Josh appraisingly. The man was looking a little white. “You feeling okay?” he asked hopefully. “’cause if you’re not, I can drive you home.”

       Josh flushed. “You could drive me crazy. Go, so I can get some work done.”

       “Fungus.” Mick’s voice was thick with distaste. He’d never understand it, if he lived to be a hundred.

       Josh’s eyes lit up. “Pythium, if I’m right.”

       “That’s right—qualify it,” Mick retorted. “As if anyone cares.”

       Josh went on as though Mick hadn’t spoken. “Soil samples, grass samples, that kind of thing. Keeping it all nice and green for the goofers.” Josh tossed Mick his keys, then rummaged in the glove box and shoved two packages of Milk Duds into his pockets. “See ya.”

       Mick glanced at his watch. “I go on duty at four.” He held up his phone. “No cellphones on the course...”

       “Don’t worry. I’ll need a chocolate fix by then. Bring Rasputin down and—”

       “—crinkle candy wrappers?”

       Josh grinned. “I was gonna say ‘honk the horn’. But, whatever works.” He walked away, then turned back quickly, as Mick was starting the engine. “Don’t forget—”

       “I know,” Mick cut in impatiently. “‘Park in the shade’.” He snorted. “I’ll hide your trashmobile in the bushes, so nobody can see it. Wouldn’t want to ruin my rep.” With a wave, and a cheerful honk of Rasputin’s horn, Mick sped away up the drive.

 *** 

       Josh wandered up to the cemetery first, aware that he was being morbid. He strolled between the plots, considering what it would be like to be under the soil, rather than atop it. Wondering what it would be like to have no control over a mouldering body, and be no more substantial than the wind which flapped his shirttails.

       It was something he never would have done if Mick had been here. Dr. Carmichael Dodds—AKA Mick—knew him too well. He would have seen something in his expression.

       And then his life would no longer have been his own.

       Don’t think...

       It was getting hard not to. Because lately he’d been making excuses he’d never had to before. And there were times when he’d just like to let it all go...

       Either that or vanish some place else, where he wouldn’t have to live with their concern.

       Soon. It’d come to that soon.

       He looked at the graveyard and the settled stones, but felt no peace. He was all too afraid the “soon” might apply to this, too.

       There was only one way to beat it—the same way he’d beat it for the last six years: be too busy to think. Work on Saturdays? Dedication to fungus? Mick just didn’t know where he was coming from these days, any more than the others did. Josh was dedicated all right, but it was to filling his life—all the blank spots. Recently, he’d also been dedicated to busy—being so busy that thought and regret weren’t issues. Busy enough so he could sleep nights sans pounding heart and nagging fears. Exhaustion was his current answer—for everything.

       He’d been easing out of their lives with lame excuses for weeks now. If he was no longer a part of what they did, he wouldn’t be wounding them when he was no longer a part forever. They wouldn’t feel his absence so keenly then, and he’d be damned if he wanted to carry anyone else’s pain with him. Any more than he wanted to greet them every day between now and forever with the knowledge in their faces acting as a barrier. He’d rather walk, now—while he still could.

       He hadn’t seen Mick, Tino, or Matt in a month. His closest friends, and he’d lied through his teeth. He’d avoided them like a plague, because they knew him too well. But he couldn’t avoid today—or Mick’s insistence—and he knew he’d never hold up to even nine holes of golf. Then Mick would know. And all his subterfuge would be shot to hell.

       Fungus. Think work. It just didn’t seem important any more.

       Josh clambered down off the slope, momentarily reassured by the strong way his legs and boot-clad feet tackled the uneven ground.

       Not even winded...

       He was nearly to the dying trees when the screams began.

***

       The rumbling roar of the backhoe had given way to a stuttering clatter. At the same time, there was a shudder beneath Josh’s feet as semi-solid soils yielded to gravity’s demands. With a groaning squawk, the backhoe was toppling sideways, into earth that was suddenly no firmer than organic ooze.

       The operator never stood a chance. Caught in his cage—belted and secured in place—he was about to go down with his ship. His head cracked against the metal cage, and then, he wasn’t even fighting his fate. The man’s head flopped loosely, as the front feet of the backhoe sank, and the big machine’s cant increased.

       It was the moist soils. There’d been an inordinate amount of rain, which was why the Pythium had done so much damage to the golf course’s soils. It was also why a man was going to die today. His machine had tapped into some unsuspected soft core of earth—some unsuspected Artesian spring pouring across the clay layers.

       Suddenly, Josh’s own preoccupation with death seemed foolish. He had months—maybe even a year. This man? Minutes.

       Josh tore down off the slope, panting heavily as he ran, flat out. His pounding feet sounded that residual resonance which spoke of watery soils, as he sloshed and slid across the slippery clay-loam mix. He latched onto the metal bucket, then knew instantly it was a mistake. The clawed weight cast him backwards, the metal arm slamming his chest and sending him flopping, into what was quickly becoming a river of mud. A river of mud with a semi-solid base. One of Josh’s boots gouged into and stuck in a heavily binding layer of clay.

       He kicked and scrambled, trying to get some footing—but his trapped foot only sank deeper. His flailing arms, slapping the soil, contacted something firm, and he yanked and tore at the only solid object in his liquefying world. It was all grasp and lever and yank and pull as he struggled to get clear of the machine. It was still slipping: a fast-descending toothed monster. With a squeak and a clank and a monstrous shudder, the metal Goliath was moving fast-jawed to claim him.

       The object beside him shifted, and all his scrambling was for naught. He was writhing and scratching at a near-liquid world, and he might have been in quicksand for the good it was going to do him. Josh could see his fate descending in the fashioned metal of the big toothed maw...the backhoe bucket, heading his way.

       And in that instant, Joshua Griffin wanted to live, more than anything else. In a last adrenaline-driven effort, he latched onto the thing which had jiggled by his side and struggled to pull himself past it.

       He never expected it to break free first. He pulled it upwards, to cushion the blow. Pulled it up and found himself staring at a clay-caked face.

       It was a corpse—not so old, either. Days...maybe weeks. Sealed in clay and left to rot with the corpses on the slope above. Watery clay dripped out the nose and mouth.

       It was what Josh had been thinking only moments before—about death and decay. About lying in the Earth and rotting away. 

       It’s me...

       Josh lost it. He forgot about the toothed bucket, the trapped operator, his own imminent demise.

       Death was staring him in the face, dripping filth out its ears...

       Josh shrieked in horror, as loudly as the backhoe operator had screamed a few minutes before.

       He never saw the bucket arrive. As one toothed edge ploughed into his mouldering shield, Josh was pinned—joined in jagged agony with the clay-streaked visage in his face. As the metal monster struck, the grey-caked skin was rammed roughly against his own.

       Kiss of death...

***

       Mick didn’t know when the uneasiness hit him, but it was sometime around hole three. The whup-whup noise of a helicopter intruded on his consciousness. He looked up, and saw the Med-Vac chopper in the distance. Dimly, he recalled the wails of sirens, but the sound was so much a part of his work that he hadn’t really noticed. If anything, he’d been glad someone else was handling it.

       Mick watched as the helicopter descended, and his uneasiness increased. It made him feel stupid. He’d trained that kind of morbid transference out of himself years ago...he’d thought. It had been aeons since he’d wondered whether an ambulance or a rescue helicopter was carrying someone he knew.

       But he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Mick finally gave it up. He wasn’t getting anywhere with his golf game anyway.

       Give me a game of basketball any time...

       Mick jogged across the greens. Time to raise Rasputin from the shrubbery.

***

       Mick got there just in time—to gag and lose his lunch. It was something he’d never tell anyone—least of all, Josh—but the sight that met his eyes was enough to weaken the strongest stomach. The fact that it was Josh weakened it more.

       The miracle being, Joshua Griffin was still alive. They’d towed the backhoe out, but it was only circumstance which had kept him from drowning.

       That and the fact he’d been spliced to the bucket tooth as though he were part of it.

       He was bleeding like all get-out, and Mick figured it was only the thickness of the solidifying clay which had kept him from bleeding out.

       That, and the body which was packed against his own.

       Fuck it all! Mick had to fight back a sob. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but could smell only sour soil and rancid flesh.

       Damn! Whether Joshua Griffin wanted his “helpful touch” or not, he was about to get it.

       Mick scrambled down, across the muck, as fast as he could go.

***

       They’d somehow managed to hold him together en route. They’d had to bring corpse and part of the bucket with them, because they couldn’t risk extricating Josh outside the operating room.

       Nor was Mick the only health care professional to lose his lunch before they’d finished. What the bloated corpse didn’t stir, the sour smell of the clay provided.

       And by the time they’d rolled Josh into the operating room, Mick was a mess. Josh had woken up, only once—and that was to ask about the driver of the fuckin’ backhoe. It was all Mick could do not to turn away and bawl.

       Now Hugh Rawlsby wouldn’t let him assist—not even stand in as part of the team—which made it worse. He’d taken one look at Mick and told him to go home. Too close to this one.

       He was right about that. Mick’s and Josh’s friendship had weathered twenty-five years—from boyhood brawls, to teenage angst over acne and theft and cars and gangs, to all-night binges and failed marriages. There were only a few people Mick made time for—and Josh was one of them. And it was only around Josh and Tino and Matt that Mick could shed his professional glaze, and be himself.

       Matt was the wild man. He was a park ranger in a tame forest where the wildest vermin walked on two legs. He took out his tensions by attending every pro sports event he could reach, where he always drank far too much beer. They usually had to haul him home, but he didn’t care. Nor did he care who’d won. He went for the excitement, he claimed—to experience all the animal grunt and tackle, which had been fed out of the animals in the park. Matt was also an oestrogen magnet—something which Mick had frequently envied.

       What wasn’t as obvious was his keen mind. Matt was an astute observer, who’d made some discoveries of note. He was nearly as well-trained in botany as he was in zoology. He and Josh could, and did, talk for hours about plant pathology.

       Mick buried his face in hands which stunk of old watery clay. Shit! He dreaded being the one to tell him about Josh.

       Him or Tino. Valentino Tortelli, who sold real estate during the day, and quoted his own poetry in dimly-lighted cafés all night. The man with a flair for making money, who despised what he did and the success with which he did it. Who always argued with Josh because the man kept so damn busy, and didn’t make time for aesthetics. Josh left himself no time to think. “Money’s for making during the day,” Tino always said, “in as short a time as possible—so you can spend your nights appreciating life.” With Valentino it was fine wine and finer women.

       And Tino fed on them all. He hated the fact his job wasn’t “real” like any of theirs, so he claimed it was his duty to pick their brains. The truth was, they were the only ones around who knew how unromantic his origins really were. He and Josh had both come from abusive homes, and Tino had grown up angry. So the two of them argued—had always argued. But Tino was the first one there when Josh needed him, and if Tino’s poetry needed punch, it was Josh who recognised what was lacking. Mick knew if he were to mention Josh was in trouble, Tino would drop everything to be here.

       Mick’s sigh had a quaver to it, and he swallowed hard, trying to get past that sensation of horror. As difficult as it would be to tell Matt and Tino, the truth was he’d be damned glad to have them here.

***

       When Tino walked out of the ICU, his face was nearly as white as Josh’s had been. “Fuck it, he looks bad,” he whispered to Mick.

       “He was delirious when I went in,” Matt admitted. “Rambling on about someone named Lisa, or Leesha.” He looked expectantly at Mick. “Did anyone tell her?”

       Mick shook his head. “Don’t know her. Tino?”

       Tino shrugged. “Josh never mentioned her to me. I haven’t seen him in weeks, though. Maybe she’s why.”

       “I’ll go over to Josh’s house,” Matt offered, eager to take some action. “Maybe I can find her number.”

       “Wait up. I’m coming.” Tino looked at Mick. “So’s he. Get your dumb ass up, Carmichael. Time to hit the showers.”

       Mick argued, “I don’t think...” he began.

       “That’s right,” Tino interrupted. “You don’t think. That’s what I’m here for.” He gave him a shove toward the exit. “The faster you move, the faster we’ll be back.”

       Matt put a heavy hand on Mick’s shoulder, and steered him in Tino’s wake as the other man sailed past. “He’s right, Mick,” Matt told him firmly. “Mush.”

       “This isn’t the way to the carpark,” Mick argued.

       “When Tino heard about Josh, he hired a helicopter,” Matt admitted gruffly. He gave a sheepish grin. “I hate following Captain Dickwit’s orders, but there’re times when there’s no point in arguing.”

***

       Josh fought them. His hand slammed the railing and it jarred him nearly awake. The memories seeped in, like rank clay.   

       The moon was full. The air had that fresh-mown scent, and the big sprinklers had been showering the greens, so the mix of just-wet soil and cut grass was a potent blend. They’d hauled him over, under the pines, and slammed him against the tree. The smell of the tree’s wounds—the sweet sticky sap—was thick on the air, drowning out the rest.

       It was even thicker than the scent of his own blood. That he could only taste, in the salty tang of his torn lips.

       He was going to die this night. He knew it from the anticipatory glint of the predators’ eyes—knew it because he’d touched evil and could recognise one of its own. He’d mistaken perspicacity for genius, and now he was going to pay.

       Or maybe that was the price of genius: brilliance in your field didn’t bestow universal knowledge. He’d blown it—traded insight for arrogance...the miraculous for money.

       I’m going to burn in hell...

       And the burning was already starting.

       A dream...only a dream. Josh tossed and turned. The flames were licking at his side—frying him from the inside out. Sizzling him on a man-size griddle...

       Every gland in his body seared...

       Josh shouted, and shrieked, and arched in agony. He tried to run, but they were pinning him down. Impaling him...

       Oh, God!

       As his dreams overlapped with reality, the only thing that stuck with him—then and now—was how much he wanted to live.

***

       “And I thought Rasputin was bad,” Tino remarked, looking around Josh’s living room. “I think this rules out the ‘Lisa’ angle. Josh hasn’t had company in a while.”

       “Unless he’s been visiting her house,” Matt remarked. He was hunting through the stacks of loose papers on Josh’s desk.

       “You gonna use the shower, Mick?” Tino suggested, pinching his nose.

       “If I can find a clean towel.” His tone didn’t sound very hopeful.

       Matt sniggered. “You ought to rent Josh a maid, Tino. Just for his recuperation.”

       Mick avoided saying anything. He didn’t think he could sound any more hopeful about Josh’s recovery than he could about the towel. He wandered into the bathroom, and hunted for soap. The pill bottles were in the top drawer.

       Prednisone. Chlorambucil. Cyclophosphamide. Fludarabine. Mick stood there, looking at them but not seeing.

       Not Josh. I would’ve seen it. There would have been some sign...

       Pale. Tired. He’d opted out of seeing people because he couldn’t keep up the facade. Josh’s place was usually messy, but never as messy as this.

       Too tired to do anything about it.

       Too depressed to care?

       Maybe I’m wrong.

       Mick picked up the bottle and looked at it. No mistake. “Joshua Griffin” was on the label.

       It’ll be on his chart.

       But what if it’s not? What if they don’t know?

       They’ll know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.

       Mick was suddenly furious. How could Josh keep it from him? How long had he known? Suddenly, Mick had to find out.

       It’s not your secret.

       Maybe not. At the moment, he didn’t care. “Tino!” he roared. “Get in here!”

       Tino tore in, with Matt at his heels.

       When Tino saw he was all right, he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “If I’d known you were this upset about the towel thing, I wouldn’t’ve suggested it,” he said coolly.

       Mick held up the pill bottle. “What do you know about these?” he asked accusingly.

       Tino looked startled. “He’s on uppers?” he asked. Tino scowled, almost as darkly as Mick was. Josh’s mother had been an addict. He’d never thought Josh would be stupid enough to go for that kind of thing.

       Matt looked at the bottle, memorised the name, then disappeared in the other room.

       “Could be why he’s been so withdrawn,” Tino suggested. “Did he seem depressed to you?”

       Mick didn’t enlighten him—he didn’t have to.

   Matt came back into the room a moment later, his face pale. “Looked it up on the computer,” he whispered. “Leukaemia? How long?”

       Mick shook his head. “I don’t know.” He turned on the shower with an angry flick of his wrist. “But I sure as hell am going to find out.” His face was like thunder. “Out,” he ordered tensely, tearing off his shirt. “I have to get back, and make sure this stuff is on his chart.”

***

       Josh could hear the regular blipping in the background. The lights were dim, but there was someone in the room when he awakened. An orderly or male nurse—Josh couldn’t be sure. The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t figure out why.

       The man hissed, “...the tractor operator?”

       “What?” Josh whispered, the sound barely audible above the machinery in the room. He shook his head, confused. The tractor operator. Josh frowned, squinting.

       The man must have seen something—some trace of recognition—in his eyes. He fiddled with the IV, clumsily detaching and reattaching the tubing.

       Air. Air in the IV...

       Like someone in a trance, Josh saw a two-foot-long air bubble bleb down the line.

       His brain kicked in and he tore the needle out, ripping the tube out of the bag. Like a lag in a poorly dubbed film, Josh rasped, “What the hell—!”

       He was talking to the air. The only thing remaining was the pooling moisture from his dangling IV. The man—nut or nightmare—was gone.

***

       Mick was already in a foul mood when he got to the fourth floor. He didn’t even bother asking—he just opened up Josh’s file on the computer. He looked at it for a second, swore under his breath, but couldn’t resist checking out his latest vital signs. His fever didn’t seem to be abating. If anything, it was spiking. Mick scrolled up, to see whether he’d regained consciousness.

       Briefly. Long enough to pull out his IV. Apparently, he’d been rather loquacious, too. Not exactly coherent, but talkative.

       At least he’s talking to someone, Mick thought bitterly. He’d only just closed the file when he was paged.

       The police wanted to talk to him, about the missing tractor operator, and now, it seemed, a missing corpse. For some undoubtedly morbid reason, an unknown person had absconded with Josh’s punctured playmate. The entire idea made Mick feel like casting up his accounts once more.

       Mick stomped out to his car, then drove like a defiant madman to the police station.

       Fuckin’ police can’t even fine me when I deserve it...

       He couldn’t recall having a worse day in his life.

*********

 

Chapter Two 
 

       Josh sweated and writhed and ran massive fevers for nearly three weeks. At one point, he remembered screaming, because most of his glands were so swollen he was in nearly as much agony from them as he was from the puncture. Painkillers didn’t do much, and nothing would take down the fever. The consensus was he’d picked up something foul from the water, or the mud.

       Nobody wanted to mention Josh’s unfortunate collision with the corpse, and its rotting tissues. Josh’s gut had been littered with clay and crud, bone fragments and body parts. It was horrible—something Josh didn’t need to know.

       Something he never would know because there was no way he could survive this.

       “He was terminal before this,” Mick told Tino quietly. It hadn’t taken long for Mick’s anger to burn out. He’d spoken with Alan Rutherford, Josh’s haematologist, two weeks before. He’d acted like it was a patient consult, and hadn’t let on how long he’d known the “patient”. “This just anticipates things.”

       His phone blipped and he hesitated. Matt’s number. They’d been taking the evening visits in rotation for the last two weeks—just so one of them could be there when it happened. They were the closest thing Josh had to family. His mother had died of a heroin overdose ten years before.

       Mick answered with a sinking feeling. “Yo,” he answered dully.

       Matt didn’t sound the least morose. “He’s awake, Mick—and hungry as hell. He wants Tino to hit Dionysius on his way here. Says he wants to eat Greek.”

       “He’s out of his mind,” Mick grumbled. “He won’t be able to tolerate it.” But he smiled, nevertheless.

       Tino, who’d been holding his breath to hear Matt’s report, grinned ear to ear. He yelled, loudly enough for Matt to hear him: “Tell him I’ll bring the retsina, too.”

***

       After that first night, Josh didn’t see Mick for nearly a week. Just about everyone else he knew had come by, and Matt and Tino hadn’t said a word about his “problem”. Josh had nearly deluded himself into thinking he’d come out of it with their ignorance intact.

       Mick didn’t let him delude himself much longer. When Mick gauged he was feeling well enough, it was Dr. Carmichael Dodds who came stomping into the hospital room, waving Josh’s chart. His eyes were glittering, there were two red spots high on his cheeks, and his unoccupied hand was clenched in a fist. It was obvious he was furious, but Josh had been expecting it—had known, ever since those moments on the golf course, that it would probably come to this.

       The door had barely swished closed when Mick said icily, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

       There was no answer he wanted to hear, so Josh gave it to him straight. “No reason to.”

       “‘No reason’?! I could’ve done the research—maybe found some way to make it easier—”

       “And then, every time I saw you, it would have stood between us.” Josh’s eyes were dark. “Let it go, Mick.”

       “So, how did you plan on handling it? Wait until I noticed? So I could feel more like a fool than I do already?”

       Josh shrugged. “That was the plan.”

       “Six—years.”

       Josh wouldn’t look at him. “It’s easier when they don’t know.”

       Mick knew he was referring to Tino and Matt, but it killed him that he’d been one of the “they” until four weeks ago. Killed him even more that he’d had to confirm it all with Alan Rutherford, Josh’s haematologist—that even when things were getting bad, Josh hadn’t looked to him for help.

       “Think about it,” Josh said solemnly. “Think how it would be for you, if they knew.”

       “Too late,” Mick told him. It was spiteful, and he hated himself for it, but he had to admit it gave him some satisfaction to see Josh’s reaction. Josh might be the “victim”, but he wasn’t going to be allowed to revel in it.

       “They never let on...” Josh’s voice wobbled slightly as he added hopefully, “C-Can’t you just pretend?” But Josh knew the answer to that one already. Of course he couldn’t. Because it was one thing deluding someone who didn’t know, and another lying to your best friend. Now he’d have to die in front of Mick, a little at a time.

       Or go somewhere else, where the dying wouldn’t be as painful.

       In that moment, it appeared Mick could finally read him as clearly as Josh had always feared he would.

       Josh knew, because Mick was so furious he was shaking. “You fool, Josh,” he whispered. Slamming the chart against the bed, Mick turned on his heel and stomped out.

***

       “Who’s Leesha?” Tino asked him, several days later. “You kept asking for her.” He grinned. “If you give me her number, I’ll tell her why you haven’t been by.”

       “548-2053,” Josh replied automatically. He was half asleep.

       As soon as he’d said it he jerked awake. “I don’t know any Leesha,” he muttered.

       Tino snorted. “She can’t be that good-looking—not if she went for you.”

       Josh didn’t notice. He’d just experienced the weirdest flash of familiarity, and gooseflesh danced down his arms. “Leesha,” he whispered.

       “Want me to call her?” Tino pushed.

       Josh shook his head, then looked up, and met Tino’s eyes. “It’s spelled L-Y-S-H-A,” he said. Abruptly, he asked Tino, “What happened to the tractor driver?” Josh had suddenly recalled the dream—the one where the man had stood over him, then played with his IV. Involuntarily, his eyes drifted to the drip above.

       “Maybe Mick knows,” Tino offered with a fake smile. “I can make Dodds stop by, if you want. Torture, threats—they’re good for things like that.”

       “You oughta know,” Josh replied, just as falsely. He leaned back, and put one arm behind his head. “I can’t do this any more.”

       “Seems to me you don’t have a choice.”

       Falsely jovial. It made Josh’s skin crawl. Anything but the levity—the pretence that nothing had changed.

       Mick was right. You couldn’t pretend.

       Josh was going home in a couple of days and he wouldn’t be able to stand it if the pretence came with him. He was too sick and tired to keep it up.

       It was okay to be sick and tired to people who didn’t know—who could blame it on his injury—but he wasn’t going to have his friends watching him die.

       “I can’t do this, Tino.” His tone was kind, but firm. “I’m grateful—God knows I’m grateful.”

       Tino joked, “Gratitude’s the most worthless of emotions...”

       Josh interrupted with an honest, “I can’t play these games. Mick has the right idea, and if I’m a fool, that’s the way I want it. Let Matt know...” He shrugged.

       Tino put a hand briefly on Josh’s shoulder. “I’ve never been a very good actor,” he admitted.

       “I never wanted you to be...not around me, anyway. This way, no one has to act any more.” He smiled. “Call it a dying man’s wish.”

       Tino was no longer smiling. Instead, he quoted a line from a poem—one Josh had helped him write. “‘Vanity is wit’s derision—affecting men of limited vision.’”

       “Try this one: where vanity and reason vie, there is but one solution...?”

       “...goodbye,” Tino whispered. With a curt nod, he picked up his jacket, and walked quickly out the door.

***

       After Tino had left, Josh felt guilty as hell. There’d been something in Tino’s eyes—similar to what he’d seen in Mick’s. He’d mistaken it for premature mourning. Now he knew it for what it was: pain. And for the first time, he looked past what he was feeling. Somehow, because he was the one with the disease, with the most time on his hands to think, and the shortest time to “feel”, he’d put his reactions first, as though they took precedence.

       Drama. Self-absorption.

       Hey, for them it’s just one sorry interlude in a lifetime. For me, it’s the end of existence. I have a right to direct the show.

       I’m in charge...

       There was only one ending which fit: I’m in charge because I’m the one suffering.

       More drama. He suddenly hated himself for what he’d done. Maybe the biggest nobility to dying was putting up with other people’s angst. Hell, they were the ones who had to carry on—maybe he needed to leave them with the feeling that they’d helped him out, at the end of his days.

       It’s how I’d feel if it were one of them...

       For the first time in years, Josh felt the familiar ache in his throat. His eyes filled and he lay there, sniffing and dripping. He just didn’t know whether he had enough generosity of spirit to let go. He was hurting too damn much...everywhere. As much as he tried to fight it, all that sniffing and dripping escalated into sobs. He buried his head in the pillow so no one would hear.

       Matt strolled in five minutes later and found him. He didn’t give Josh a chance to be embarrassed—instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked him over roughly, into a bearlike grip. His rough pats on the back did little to soothe Josh’s external aches, but they did a lot to soothe his internal ones.

       “It’s okay, Josh,” Matt kept saying, over and over. “It’s okay.” And when it was over, Matt’s wet-faced, “Dammit if you aren’t a sap,” did the rest.

       Matt wiped his own puffy eyes disgustedly, and growled, “How the hell am I gonna go for coffee now? The poet’s never gonna let me live it down.” He grunted, “You’re a damn fool, Griffin.”

       Josh rolled his eyes. “No ‘fooling’.” He smiled. “Feel free to quote me on that.”

***

       Two days later it was Mick who picked him up to take him home. He didn’t say much until Josh’s muttered, “Sorry,” broke the ice.

       Mick’s face split in a grin. “I was wondering how long I could hang onto it,” he admitted. “Heard your latest blood tests were really good,” he added casually.

       Josh looked up quickly. “How good?”

       Mick’s eyes were glinting. “Nearly back to normal.” He sighed dramatically. “Seems we might have to put up with you for a while longer, Dickwit.”

       Josh was grinning now, too. “And Rutherford had already bought a new suit for my funeral...”

       “So what are you gonna do with your savings?” Mick asked. “Maybe you should dump the funeral account and go on vacation instead.” He added, with a saintly grin, “Unless it makes you feel more secure, knowing you’re ‘covered’, of course.”

       “Hell, no. If I go into another decline I’ll have you dumbasses cover the funeral.”

       “I’ll put away a dollar seventy-five as my contribution,” Mick offered.

       Josh sobered. “They’re not that good, are they? The blood tests?”

       Mick pulled the car over to the curb. He was serious. “Rutherford doesn’t know why, but you’re in remission, Josh. That’s why he did that last bone marrow—to confirm it. At this rate, your bloods’ll be better’n mine.”

       Josh paled. He couldn’t believe it. He sounded choked. “What are the chances—?”

       “Of a relapse?” Mick shrugged. “Alan sounded pretty positive. In fact, he sounded elated.” Mick smiled. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen too often.”

       “It’s gonna take some getting used to,” Josh muttered.

       “I’ll say. I was just getting used to ignoring your existence.” Mick started up the car and pulled back out onto the road. “Rutherford wants to check you again in a week. He says whatever you’ve been doing, keep on doing it. He wants to use you as the subject of a paper—and he’ll be damned if he’ll change the ending at this point.”

***

       Josh was grinning all the way into his house. When he opened the door, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Stinks in here.”

       Mick gave a mock shudder. “I’ll say.”

       Josh twisted and gave him an evil grin.

       “Nooooo,” Mick groaned.

       “I need help,” Josh said. “Seems to me someone came unglued because I never asked for any, and now...” He gestured at the strewn clothes and dirty dishes. “...you’re gonna let a sick man down.”

       “Anything but this...”

       “Okay.” Josh went over and picked up a handful of dirty clothes off the floor. “Ouch,” he said loudly.

       Mick was grumbling under his breath—things like “I don’t clean” and “Carrying the bonds of friendship too far”. He snatched the clothes out of Josh’s hands and flung them in the direction of the kitchen. “You have a washing machine back there somewhere, don’t you?” he asked angrily.

       Josh sat down on the couch, and booted him as he stumbled by. “Just kidding,” he sniggered. He yawned. “I’ve called a cleaning service.” He saw Mick’s expression. “Okay, I’m lying. I’m going to call a cleaning service.” There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Dammit, Mick, I was joking! Just go, will ya?!” He stood up and opened the front door. “Thanks for the ride home.”

       Mick was still grumbling under his breath as he stomped out. He drove around the block, then walked back up to Josh’s door and knocked.

       No answer.

       He walked in and found Josh crashed out on the bed. He was so soundly asleep Mick guessed he could have pounded on the door and it wouldn’t have woken him.

       Mick went back out to the living room and started picking up dirty laundry once more. After he’d finished with the living room, he washed a mug, made himself a coffee, and leaned against the doorjamb in Josh’s room. He listened to Josh’s soft snores, then grinned and lifted his mug in silent salute. “It beats golf,” he said.

***

       Josh woke himself with his own yells. The echo was residual in his ears, and now the phone was ringing, too.

       Maybe I was dreaming all that shouting. There was a dryness to his mouth which suggested otherwise. Embarrassed, he was glad to be back at home, where nobody could hear him.

       He reached the phone just as someone hung up, and sank onto the couch, yawning widely. When his eyes stopped watering, he rubbed them, then realised why he hadn’t fallen over anything on his rush to answer it. Mick had obviously taken him seriously. Josh picked up the phone to thank him.

       He was waiting, pen idly tapping his phone pad, when it happened. The tapping changed to scratching. Josh looked down and saw what he’d penned.

       And promptly dropped the phone.

       Gooseflesh danced across his skin. Not Lisa or Lysha: L-Y-G-E-I-A.

       The only “Ligeia” Josh had ever heard of came from a story by Edgar Allan Poe. It was a story about some woman who rose from the dead. She’d been wrapped in her winding sheet, ready for the grave, when she’d come back to life.

       Like me. Josh’s nostrils were suddenly filled with the overwhelming scent of sour soils. He’d forgotten everything about his accident, except the stuttering backhoe and its desperate driver.

       Maybe my mind was trying to protect me...from this.

       The other images flooded in: the mud, the panic, the creaking of the metal...

       The corpse hugged in his arms. All he could see behind his eyes now was clay leaking out nose and mouth, the dripping ears, the kiss of death.

       He was still sketching, but he didn’t remember doing it. His eyes widened as he stared in horror at his own fingers, moving—seemingly of their own accord—across the page.

       As if from somewhere far away he heard himself ponder the way he was holding the pen, near the tip. Damned uncomfortable. What was even more uncomfortable was the fact that he was decidedly righthanded. The author of this scribble used his left.

       His thoughts were scattered—everywhere and nowhere. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and he was suddenly terrified of his own wayward digits.

       Under someone else’s control...

       Josh wrestled the pen from his fractious fingers, and flung it across the room.

       He sat there, shaking, and heard Mick’s voice come on the phone. “Michael Dodds.”

       Josh had this sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Not the time to talk to Mick. Definitely not the time. With a barely-contained snort, Josh silently picked up the receiver and dropped it back on its cradle.

       He sobered, then picked it up and punched in Tino’s number. He remembered Tino saying, “Who’s Leesha? You kept asking for her.”

       I gave him a phone number. The gooseflesh did its tickly dance again, tightening the skin on his arms. “Hey, Tino,” he said, before Tino could say a word. His voice seemed hoarse to his own ears, but he was also amazed at how calm he sounded. “Do you still have Leesha’s number?”

       He was gripping the table so tightly his fingertips were white. Anything rather than let his hand start tapdancing on its own once more.

       “No? Yeah, I’m fine, just a little tired. Thanks anyway.”

       Josh clicked it off. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t act on. That weird writing was a momentary aberration.

       Trauma. Subconscious mind acting on his fears. Hence, the “Lygeia”. Fears of death, and maybe some equally strong fears about his recent resurrection.

       He didn’t know what drove him to it, but later he was certain it was a stupid effort to prove himself wrong. To show himself that his weirdness was misplaced—an artefact of fatigue and overly-strong medication. Josh picked up the phone once more.

       “Lygeia,” he whispered.

       His fingers punched in the numbers as though they’d been doing it for years.

       Oh God!

       His eyes were glazed with horror as he lifted the phone to his ear, and heard the receptionist answer, “Lygate Engineering.”

       “Wrong number,” Josh mumbled, and hung up, limp with relief. He sat there, grinning, feeling foolish as hell.

       No wonder he’d been able to punch in the number. Lygate Engineering was one of the suppliers for half the labs in the country. They were a big supply house for nucleotides, RNases, bases—that kind of thing. Josh usually used their eight-hundred number to order, but his brain must have lodged this one deep in some neuron. It even explained the “Lygeia”—a corruption of “Lygate”.

       Moron.

       “Obviously, I am much too preoccupied with my work,” Josh mumbled. He snorted. “I’ve gotta get my medication changed.”

       Whistling cheerfully, and feeling incredibly foolish, he crumpled that crazed writing sample and flung it at the wastepaper basket. Then, still whistling, he pushed up off the couch and wandered into the kitchen, to see whether there was anything digestible left to eat.

***

       Matt and Tino hauled him off to a poetry meeting that night. “Do you good to get out,” Tino insisted. “Besides, your kind of angst will provide lots of inspiration for all the other wannabes.”

       “Don’t look at me,” Matt told Josh sarcastically. “I’ve been conscripted to haul you home—”

       “—should you decide to die on us again,” Tino elaborated.

       Josh looked affronted.

       “That’s good,” Tino told him, “but try to look more pained.”

       Matt grinned. “I really came along for the food. I don’t care whether you keel over on the table as long as it’s not on my plate.”

       As they wandered into the restaurant, Tino whispered, “Seriously, Josh—when you get tired, you’ll let us know, right?”

       “And if you get tired of poetry,” Matt grumbled, “let me know and we’ll go see Schwarzenneggar instead. This kind of shit is hell on a man’s rep.”

       It was the best evening Josh could remember in a long time. He fell asleep right after dinner, during the first recitation, but Matt assured him his snoring only kept half the audience awake. Matt propped him up with a jacket and told him he’d take him home as soon as Tino finished boring everyone.

       Josh woke up for Tino’s recitation, largely due to a thump on the arm from Matt’s fist. Tino was under the spotlight, enjoying his moment, when Matt thumped Josh’s arm again.

       “Quit the noise,” Matt hissed.

       Josh frowned, but then he heard it: the chicken-claw scratching of pen on a wooden surface. Josh froze, his heart pounding, but the scratching went on.

       “What’re you doing?” Matt complained again.

       Now that he was aware of it, Josh could feel the tension in his left hand as it tediously scrawled on the table top.

       What’s happening to me?

       In a surge of anger, Josh ripped the pen out of his left hand and sent it clattering across the floor.

       They were clapping now, for Tino. He was the last performer in this set. The lights would be coming up, for discussion.

       I don’t want to see it. He had the feeling if he were to read the words on the table top, he’d never feel sane again.

       “Excuse me—” In the midst of the applause, while the lights were low and Tino was taking his bow, Josh left the restaurant and stumbled out into the night.

***

       “Where’s Josh?” Tino asked.

       “Men’s. He excused himself just as you were finishing up.” Matt grinned. “Must’ve made him sick.”

       “You sure he’s okay?”

       “Okay enough to deface the table.” Matt showed him the pen scratches on the wood, then hastily covered them with his plate.

       “What’s it say?” Tino asked, shoving the plate aside. He read, “‘The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead once again stirred’.” Tino tapped the table. “I know this,” he said.

       “So do I. Know this is going to cost me a bundle.”

       “It’s Poe.”

       “I don’t care if it’s poo,” Matt whispered, covering it with the plate once more, “so long as I don’t have to pay for it.” He looked around, the picture of guilt. “‘Poe’,” he said out of one corner of his mouth, “as in ‘Edgar Allan’?”

       “Yeah. One of my favourite short stories: ‘Ligeia’.”

       “Very edifying,” Matt said dryly. “Glad to know you can place it. Unless you have a tablecloth on hand, it doesn’t help a whole lot at this point.”

       Tino pushed the plate aside again. There was something not right here. It took a few seconds to figure out what it was. He pointed to the dinky loops and the backwards slant to the letters. “This isn’t Josh’s writing. I’d recognise his scrawl anywhere. I used to copy his homework, remember?” He shook his head and pushed back his chair. “You make such a big deal over nothing.”

       “Surprised you couldn’t hear him scratching away—but then, maybe you were too busy listening to yourself,” Matt said sarcastically. He reminded Tino, “We were the only ones here.” He glanced at his watch. “That damned vandal is taking an awfully long time.” He pushed back his chair and headed for the Men’s.

       He was back in seconds. “He’s not there,” Matt told Tino worriedly. “Pay up and let’s go. Maybe he’s outside.”

       “Why do I have to pay?” Tino asked.

       “Price of performing,” Matt said sarcastically. “One look at me, and they’d stiff me for the tabletop, too.” He wove between the tables and headed out to the parking lot.

***

       There was no sign of Josh in the parking lot either. When Tino came out, and Matt shook his head, Tino said, “Try his phone.”

       “He didn’t bring it—and all I get is the answering machine.”

       “Maybe he took a taxi.”

       Matt looked around. Taxis were few and far between. “Okay, I’ll believe that. His house, right?”

       When they reached Josh’s Matt ran ahead up the walkway. He felt for the key under the mat, then switched on the lights. “Holy shit!” he yelped.

       Josh’s house had been ransacked. Tables overturned, cupboards emptied, drawer contents spilled across the floor. “Watch yourself, Tino,” Matt warned.

       Tino nodded and his eyes narrowed. In those seconds he shed the sophisticated veneer he adopted for his public, and was once again Tino, the streetsmart truant. He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. “No problemo,” he hissed, stealing into the kitchen.

       There was no one there. No one anywhere. “All those weeks to rob the dump and they pick now—the night he gets back,” Matt complained. He phoned the police. It’d probably be hours before they got here anyway, and hours more before they’d accept any kind of missing person report on Josh, but it wouldn’t hurt to have them aware he was out there somewhere.

       Tino was looking at Josh’s stereo. “Funny they didn’t take it—or the VCR,” he said.

       “None of it’s funn-” Matt said.

       The front knob twisted and Matt dove behind the couch, and Tino behind the door. The invaders never had a chance. The door no sooner opened wide, than Tino slammed it forward, sending both men sprawling. Matt jumped back over the couch, saw who was lying on the floor, and grimaced. “Oops,” he said, rushing to help Josh to his feet.

       “Big, dumb ox!” Mick was swearing. “What the fuck do you think you’re doi-?! Then he noticed Josh’s tattered living room. “Holy shit!”

       “Is there an echo in here?” Tino asked. “You okay, Josh?”

       Mick came out of his distraction and knelt at Josh’s side. “No thanks to you,” he said.

       “Fine,” Josh mumbled. Mick and Tino helped him to his feet.

       “Why’d you leave the restaurant that way?” Matt asked. “We were looking all over for you.”

       Josh shrugged.

       “That’s it? Your explanation?” Matt had been worried and it bothered him that Josh could be so casual about it. His place was a shambles and he hadn’t said anything about that, either. “Dammit, Josh!” he started in, but at a high sign from Mick he amended it to, “Must’ve been your performance, Tino.”

       Matt wasn’t the only one who was angry. Josh didn’t seem the least bit remorseful for any of it—from his lack of consideration to his rudeness at the restaurant. Tino had no idea how he’d ended up with Mick, but he’d be damned if he’d have either his concern or his efforts dismissed with a casual shrug. Tino snorted. “Must’ve been, Matteo. Maybe you didn’t catch it all, Josh—but we sure caught yours.” He sniggered, then quoted, “‘The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead once again stirred’.”

       Josh gasped, and stared at Tino in horror. His eyes widened, and his face went as white as it had been that first night in the hospital. The next second he folded, crumpling to the floor at Tino’s feet.

*********

 

Chapter Three 
 

       Josh awoke the next morning in his own bed, but he wasn’t alone in the room. Mick was there, snoring loudly in a chair next to the bed. Josh would never tell him, but it was probably the comforting sound of that snore which had encouraged him to sleep so soundly.

       He’d left the restaurant in a daze, and a kind of self-ashamed terror. The scientist in him insisted he find a logical reason for his own weird behaviour, but the only thing he could think of was some odd reaction to his medication. He’d found himself on the phone to Mick almost before he’d realised what he was doing. Somehow, the idea of admitting to anyone else like Rutherford that his left hand was out of control seemed like an invitation to disaster, both professional and personal.

       Mick had been non-committal, but told Josh he ascribed to the fatigue theory. He’d also suggested that something in the horrific nature of Josh’s accident may have influenced his “dreams”.

       “I was awake,” Josh had insisted, but it was obvious Mick didn’t believe him. At the end there, he’d almost come around to believing Mick’s theory himself. After all, his dreams recently had left him shaking and gasping, even when he couldn’t fully remember what they were about. And that horrific recollection, which had been so intense he could almost smell the rancid flesh of the dead man, was reason enough for any number of wild nightmares.

       Josh sat up in bed and Mick jerked awake with a startled snort. He studied Josh for a moment, and Josh could almost read his thoughts. Mick was trying to convince himself he’d made the right decision the night before.

       “Feeling better?” he asked. “Remember what happened?”

       Josh’s cheeks reddened. “Don’t remind me.”

       Mick grinned. “Tino swears he’ll never insult you again. You scared the hell out of him.” He stood up and stretched, then admitted apologetically, “I told Alan Rutherford you passed out, but that it’s probably a one-off.” The last was said warningly, with Mick’s “or else” tone in full effect. “He wants to see you today, so I’ll bring you in this morning. By the way, I pulled your meds—told him you thought you were having a problem. He’ll check into it.” Mick’s eyes met his. “Look, Josh, if it happens again, or you have any more of those ‘hand’ episodes, let me know, okay?” He headed for the door, and when he came back, a few minutes later, Josh could tell it was still bothering him. Mick was worried these new developments would fall into the same black hole as Josh’s revelations about his illness. Mick tossed Josh a package of chocolate chip cookies, then picked up where he’d left off. “If not me,” he grumbled, “then someone else. Don’t let it go.”

       “So much better to go crazy in company,” Josh said lightly, but he nodded. “Thanks for last night, Mick,” he said gruffly.

       “Any time,” Mick assured him. He grinned. “I mean that.”

***

       The dreams hit him again that night. Josh woke up in a sweat, the foul smell of anaerobic runoff thick on the air.

       Night sweats. Bad sign.

       But Rutherford claimed his bloodwork was good. So it was nothing to worry about...

       Just a dream. Nothing to tell Mick, or anyone else about. But it was enough to rob Josh of sleep. At first, he wandered within his four walls—afraid to let down his guard because the hand bandit might come calling once again.

       There were no safe havens any more. His stability was shot to hell. He was grateful for his “miracle” cure, but he was afraid to trust it—what if it vanished as miraculously as it had come? He’d spilled his guts—in more ways than one—but he felt some of the easy camaraderie with his friends had been replaced by watchful eyes. If Josh was going to flip out or flop over again he wouldn’t be alone. Supported and stifled; gratitude and guilt.

       The limits had been lifted on his leukaemia, but if he pushed too hard at this point he could well end up flat on his face like he had the night before.

       The night when person or persons unknown had sifted through his house like a searching cyclone, then taken only his computer. Selective thief, considering his stereo was younger and probably worth more. It made no sense.

       Just one more break-in, the police were saying. The neighbourhood was rife with them. He was just lucky, that he hadn’t been there...

       Lucky, that’s me...in so many ways...

       That feeling he’d experienced just before he’d blacked out—the dizzy confusion. Like huge chunks of his life had fallen out of sync, and others, which didn’t belong, were taking their place.

       It makes no sense.

       No more sense than his survival, or the disappearing tractor operator, or the vanishing corpse. That was the latest and he’d had it from Tino, because Mick hadn’t wanted to mention it to him.

       Bad news. It was weird enough that Mick still wanted to talk about it, even after all these weeks, but he didn’t want to talk it over with the only person who might possibly have a personal interest in the matter. It wasn’t any too comforting knowing Mick was holding back—that he didn’t trust Joshua Griffin’s stability any more than Joshua Griffin did himself.

       Or maybe he’s just worried he’ll get more phone calls in the night about independently-operating hands and walking corpses.

       Josh gagged. The dream was still with him. At the moment, in his intruded-upon residence, with the scent of death thick on the air, he couldn’t deny his fears. It seemed all too possible that he’d look up, to find the missing cadaver lingering in the doorway...

       It started him walking. His was a mental dilemma, rather than a physical one, and he’d be damned if he’d tell Mick or anyone else. They’d send him to another kind of doctor altogether. Josh wasn’t biased enough to deny that it might come to that later, but it would be a poor place to start. He wanted to see whether he could work this through on his own.

       Years ago, whenever he’d had a problem, he used to walk it out. Mile upon mile he’d stomp out the abuse, the neglect, the hate, the hurt—sweating it out of his system. Even before others took up running as a healthy pastime, Josh ran for his life.

       He hadn’t walked or run off his angst for the last four years. He’d been too interested in conserving, rather than expending, his energy. But now he had some problems and no way to solve them. He couldn’t sleep it off—his fears wouldn’t let him—so he needed to walk it through instead.

       And tonight, with spectres of mouldering corpses lingering in his doorways, outside seemed far preferable to in. Almost without thinking, Josh let his feet carry him away.

       He wasn’t well enough to run, but he walked a while. And then, when he was exhausted, he walked a little more. He walked until he was a zombie, and could stumble through his front door, and flop onto his bed.

       And he kept his fingers far removed from the nearest pen or pencil. He wasn’t taking any chances on exhaustion leading him astray.

       It was the beginning of his night-time forays, and they didn’t look to be ending any time soon. There were too many questions and too few answers. As his feet plied the pavement, he had the uneasy sensation this was only the beginning.

***

       Matt was heading home from a date when he saw him. Josh was walking along Steuben Street, keeping up a determined pace and Matt grinned. He recognised the signs, even though he hadn’t seen Josh doing one of his runners in what? Five years? At the same time Matt felt a pang. Josh’s abstinence hadn’t been by choice. Good to know he was feeling up to it once more.

       He still wasn’t strong, though, and Matt saw him trip, and nearly take a tumble. Feeling like a cross between a mother-hen and a stalker, Matt climbed out of his car and trailed him. If this was Josh’s first outing since his accident, Matt wanted to make sure he got home safely.

       Matt wasn’t well-versed in criminal tactics, but it didn’t take him long to realise he wasn’t the only one following Josh. There was someone else, trailing them both. Some perp, waiting to snatch a wallet and run? Not likely he’d be so surreptitious. Very likely he’d be well-armed.

       Matt fidgeted uncomfortably. No sense getting picked off, one at a time. Better to show a united front. Matt picked up speed until he was nearly in Josh’s shadow, but Josh didn’t seem to notice.

       “Hey, Fool!” he yelled.

       Josh ignored him. He kept moving along, at that same determined pace. Matt caught up with him and walked alongside, but Josh never turned his head. His eyes were focused on a building in the distance.

       Matt grabbed his arm and Josh turned to him, his eyes oddly glazed in the streetlamps’ glare. What was odder was the lack of recognition.

       He’s sleepwalking...

       It was a joke—had always been a joke. When they were kids, at least once a week, Josh would take himself for a stroll. The last time Matt had seen it was when they were seventeen. Josh had crashed at his place after a party, then wandered around in the halls, knocking on apartment doors. In the end, most of Matt’s neighbours had been awake—all except Josh, who’d curled up on the carpet, blissfully unaware of the havoc.

       Apparently, he still had his moments of nocturnal wandering. However he’d started this outing—and judging from the clothes he’d intended it as a night-time stroll—Josh had dozed off somewhere along the way. Now, he was living out his dreams.

       Like a cowhand guiding a reluctant steer, Matt edged in gradually, cutting him off so he had no choice but to make a wide turn. Matt eased him around until he was heading back the way he’d come.

       Let’s hope it gives the lurker a scare. Maybe the guy would think they were into confrontation...

       Matt stopped briefly at his car, but there was no getting Josh inside. Instead—reluctant to leave his vehicle unattended—Matt trailed him, centring him in its beams like a performer on stage until they reached his house.

       Josh never woke up enough to thank him, but it didn’t worry Matt. He was too concerned about the frequency with which this was happening. When he led him into the bedroom he noticed both pairs of Josh’s running shoes were caked in mud.

       Matt was heading for the front door and home when he heard a weird scratching sound from Josh’s bedroom. He froze in his tracks, then reluctantly turned back.

       Things that go scratch in the night...

       Matt had to force himself through the doorway, but then he just stood there, breath caught in his throat. Josh was sound asleep—flopped across the bed and snoring softly—but his left hand was clenching a pen, and scratching out a note across the headboard. Only the first few words were legible. The rest were light scratches, after the pen had given up its ink.

       Josh gave a shiver in his sleep. Matt’s teeth were chattering. The fuckin’ room was cold—so much colder than the rest of the house.

       So were the words: “Not dead”, and—a demanding scrawl—“BRING HER BACK”.

       Matt’s feet wanted to work independently, too—they wanted to run right out the door. His heart was pounding, but his limbs were icy.

       Matt squinted his eyes and grimaced, then snatched the pen from Josh’s grip. He’d fully expected a fight, but Josh’s fingers were limp. After the pen was gone, Josh groaned and tucked his hand under himself protectively.

       Until then, Matt had wanted to blame this on sleepwalking and circumstance; on painkillers and reactions to them and horrific experiences manifesting themselves in walking nightmares. It was only now he began to suspect something else—something far worse, to his way of thinking.

       Because the room warmed. The gooseflesh on Matt’s arms faded and his teeth stopped chattering. Josh, who’d been shivering in his sleep, relaxed.

       Matt forced himself closer to that ominous message, and the gooseflesh danced across his arms again—but this time, it had nothing to do with cold.

***

       Matt left when the first ray of sunlight glinted the window panes. He didn’t know whether he could qualify this as a haunting, and he had no idea whether ghosts were as responsive to sunlight as movie vampires, but he felt safer leaving in the daylight.

       Safer for Josh.

       Safer for me. As hard as it had been to stay here last night, it would have been nearly as hard to go. He’d have been abandoning Josh to evil, at a time when he was ill-prepared to combat it.

       Less noble but nevertheless terrifying was Matt’s fear that some of the darkness might travel with him. This morning, in the sunlight, it seemed foolish, but last night had gone beyond any boundaries Matt had set on his existence. In the dark, with that damned pen-scratch marring the wood, anything had been possible.

       But he couldn’t face Josh with this. Not yet. Not until Matthew Hawkins could do something more positive than ramble on about phantoms and mumble childhood prayers. Josh was a scientist. Matt wanted to meet him on that level. No explanations without some solution. Josh didn’t need more problems to sort out—he needed someone to help him do the sorting.

       There was another thing which stopped Matt, too: uncertainty. How certain could he be that what happened last night wasn’t just...Josh? Could it be Josh’s subconscious was manifesting itself in the hand movements? That, as Mick had proposed, he was merely playing out some of his dreams?

       Only one problem with that one: Josh’s subconscious can’t manipulate cold.

       Unless it wasn’t cold. Maybe I just convinced myself it was. Some form of self-hypnosis.

       Then why did I convince myself out of it? And why did Josh shiver like that?

       There were no easy answers, and Matt didn’t want to leave Josh to face this alone. The clay-clotted shoes were bad enough, but if Josh were to read those scratch marks this morning he’d go out of his mind.

       Look what it did to him the other night...

       As the morning sky pinkened with dawn’s rosy orange, Matt went into the kitchen and rummaged around for the furniture polish. He knew Josh had some of that scratch remover stuff. It belonged to his TV sales phase. Feeling like something of a blasphemer, and wondering whether he was going to bring poltergeist action down on his head, Matt tiptoed back into Josh’s bedroom and silently rubbed the scratches away. Most of the penmarks came off, too, and what was left was illegible.

       It might be an illusion, but it made Matt feel as though he’d taken control. It was time to do a little research, though, and it made as good an excuse as any to leave. Matt wanted to know more about “Ligeia”, and why it had affected Josh that way. The words “Not dead” and “Bring her back” were seared in his brain. There was a connection somewhere. Matt just needed to find it.

       He’d already resolved that while he was on the Internet, he’d look up “exorcism”, too. The very idea seemed foolish, but it wouldn’t be his first foolish moment of the day.

       And there was no sense going in unprepared.

***

       Josh discovered his clay-caked shoes that morning. He’d stumbled into some muck, and now the stench was so strong in here it was evoking dreams. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep.

       He picked up the shoes and took them outside to hose down. Monday he was going back to work. He didn’t need any remnants of his horrific experiences to carry with him. God knows, he thought, rubbing his still-tender abdomen, he’d carry the scars forever.

       Alan Rutherford wanted to see him this morning. He’d sent some of Josh’s blood and bone marrow off to another lab for study. The way Rutherford had explained it, if there was some factor in his system to explain why he’d undergone such a sudden and total remission, they’d like to find it. It might help someone else.

       Josh was all for it. He was for it all the way into Rutherford’s office. Until he saw Tracy Dawson, Alan’s receptionist, sitting there with reddened eyes.

       Alan Rutherford was dead. Someone had broken into the office the evening before, and rifled through the files. Alan had caught him at it.

       Josh stood there, stunned. He’d known Alan for six years. They didn’t exactly socialise outside the office, but there’d never been a shortage of things to talk about, either.

       “He wanted to see me,” Josh told Tracy quietly. “About my results.”

       Tracy nodded, and pulled up his name on the computer—or tried to. She frowned, then went to the hard copy folders and tried again. “Your name’s not here,” she told him. “And someone’s wiped your file.”

       Josh felt a sudden chill. “Do you know where he sent the samples?”

       “It would have been Portia Labs. They couriered back the results yesterday. I remember the packet.” She smiled, but her eyes were glassy. “Alan was really excited about it.” She disappeared for a few minutes, then came back, shaking her head. “Sorry, Josh. I don’t know where it went. Maybe the police took it.”

       “I’d like to call them.” At her look, Josh explained, “Portia Labs—not the police. If they found something in my blood, that could help someone else...”

       Tracy was already looking up the number. She offered him a watery smile, then punched in the number herself. When they put her on hold, she covered the mouthpiece and told him, “Just to give you credibility—”

       He smiled at her.

       “This is Tracy Dawson, from Dr. Rutherford’s office. I have a patient here, Joshua Griffin, who’d like to know his test results. Could we get a duplicate sent?” She covered the receiver again. “I’m back on hold,” she hissed.

       A moment later, she listened, then looked surprised. “Yes, he’s here.” She shrugged and offered Josh the phone.

       “Joshua Griffin,” he said. He didn’t get a chance to say much more. The man on the other end seemed too afraid he’d hang up. Tracy watched as Josh nodded, gave the occasional “Yes, that’s right,” and “Uh-huh.” Finally, he handed back the phone. He looked a little stunned.

       “You all right, Josh?” Tracy asked him.

       Josh sat down heavily in the waiting room chair. “They want to fly me out there. If that’s not convenient, or if I’m not up to it, they’ll send someone to me.” His face had paled and when he spoke, it was barely above a murmur. “That was the haematologist who did the analyses. He can’t send copies because he doesn’t have any. Someone broke into their labs last night. The samples, and all the test results that went with them, are gone.” His voice was hoarse as he added, “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, Tracy, but I think it’s time we call the police.”

***

       The detective in charge of Alan Rutherford’s murder investigation offered Josh the kind of unfocussed stare which would have served him well in a Magic Eye puzzle competition. The detective, Charles Carroway, seemed far more interested in Josh’s close encounter with the clay-coated corpse (and its subsequent disappearance), than he did with any coincidence over stolen blood samples on opposite sides of the country. Josh, reading between the lines, realised The Case of the Missing Clay Man was weighing heavily on Carroway’s reputation. The detective had a lot to live down. He wasn’t about to jump at any “coincidences” until he’d spoken personally with Portia Labs.

       Josh’s rambling insistence about a tractor operator had hampered Carroway’s investigation—creating questions as to whether the tractor driver was victim or victimiser. The tractor was leased, and the drainage contractors had parked it for the weekend. By the time police had arrived on the scene, the tractor engine was cold, and erosion, excessive runoff, and weakened soils had been blamed for the incident. Josh Griffin’s insistence on a disappearing tractor driver had cost people hours in fruitless searches. The loss of the clay man’s body, before either cause or time of death could be determined, had made Carroway look as though he were chasing his tail.

       Then there was the incident at the hospital. Josh Griffin had claimed the tractor operator was responsible for his sabotaged IV, and the circumstances surrounding Griffin’s injuries meant Carroway needed to look at any claims seriously.

       More foolishness, and no more “attempts”. Griffin’s ramblings had obviously been the product of a delirious mind. Not even his friend, Dr. Carmichael Dodds, had taken the claim seriously.

       Now, something else was going on. Griffin’s house had been searched and his computer taken. That suggested to Carroway that Josh Griffin had something worth taking. The thief had ignored other, more valuable, electronic equipment, and removed just what he’d needed.

       Now, Dr. Alan Rutherford was dead. The cases might be unrelated, but the common factor was Joshua Griffin. Carroway had already been pointing the investigation in that direction when Rutherford’s secretary had called on Griffin’s behalf.

       If Griffin had something worth taking on his computer, he might also have something worth hiding. Something which would “inconvenience” him if it were to be revealed. Some kind of drug in his system? Was he an addict, out to cover his actions? Someone with dirty connections or financial secrets he didn’t want anyone to know about?

       Apparently, he’d successfully kept his leukaemia a secret from even his closest friends for over six years. Hardly a crime, but what lengths would he go to in order to cover something more serious? He was obviously no stranger to subterfuge.

       And a man with nothing to lose can afford to risk all.

       Carroway had nothing conclusive on which to build a case, and no real evidence to support his suspicions. But Griffin’s reasons for visiting the golf course that day had been flimsy at best. Maybe he’d gone to ensure the body was out of sight—to eliminate any evidence.

       Now, Griffin had taken to night-time wanderings. Several officers had encountered him during their patrols. He’d been incoherent, confused.

       Maybe the answer didn’t lie in his reasons, but in his reasoning. It could be coincidence was enough—if Griffin was as unstable as he seemed.

***

       With a perfunctory knock, Mick walked into Josh’s house. “Ho, Josh!” he called out.

       “Here.”

       Mick wandered into Josh’s room. Josh was stretched out on his bed, reading a book. He lifted it so Mick could see the title. “Alan Rutherford gave it to me,” he said. “Never got around to reading it.”

       Mick nodded. “I heard about him at the hospital.” Alan had played a big part in Josh’s life over the last six years. It wasn’t an easy thing coming to terms with your own mortality. Josh’s recovery may not have been attributable to any particular action on Alan Rutherford’s part, but the man had been genuinely happy when Josh had come through it. “He was a good guy.”

       “Yeah,” Josh said grimly. He sat up and laid the book to one side. “Having a little trouble concentrating.” He wanted to tell Mick about the blood samples, but it suddenly occurred to him that might not be the safest course—for Mick.

       People are dying...

       “Josh!”

       Josh looked up. “Yeah?”

       “Are you okay?”

       Josh nodded. “Sure. It’s just...the shock.” His smile was humourless. “Thought I was the one dying.”

       I was, but for some reason now, I’m not. Once again, he was hit with that sensation of unreality. It suddenly seemed egotistical as hell to think he could be at the centre of some kind of conspiracy. People don’t die over blood samples.

       No way.

       It was something he’d been churning over for hours, ever since he’d finished his interview with Charles Carroway. Being in the police station and giving a statement had made his claims seem a lot more foolish than they had in Rutherford’s office. There, the spectre of death had weighed heavily on Josh’s shoulders. His concerns had been no more foolish than the idea of someone murdering a man like Alan Rutherford for some stupid pieces of information in a file.

       Carroway had suggested that Rutherford’s death was drug-related: some addict mistakenly hitting the wrong kind of doctor’s office for a “fix”. At the same time, Josh had the impression that wasn’t what Carroway really believed. He was keeping his conclusions to himself, for the time being, anyway. While they were waiting for Carroway, Tracy had checked patient numbers versus patient files. As far as she could find, nobody else’s file had been wiped, and nothing else taken. Either the assailant had been interrupted way too soon, or he’d never intended anything more than eradication of Joshua Griffin’s files.

       Like Portia Labs.

       For six years, no one had shown the slightest interest in Josh’s leukaemia progress except for Alan Rutherford. Now, suddenly, it seemed, he was the focus of some kind of operation he couldn’t begin to fathom. Because, miraculously, he’d recovered.

       Rutherford had exhausted the chemotherapy methods, and hadn’t held much hope for a bone marrow—unless they could locate a donor. Josh had been trying to come to terms with a terminal existence when he’d had his “accident”.

       Maybe it was the years of chemo which had triggered it—the days on the drip, the months of taking that small pill and anticipating a major result.

       His years in plant pathology had taught him how easily change could be initiated, through the introduction of something as impossibly small as a single strand of viral RNA.

       Maybe his accident had done more to him than tear open his gut. Maybe there was something in the mud, which had affected him.

       Affected him enough to make others want a second look.

       “Tell me about my accident, Mick.”

       Mick looked startled, and none too happy. Josh had the distinct impression it wasn’t anything Mick wanted to remember. “You getting a morbid streak?” Mick asked.

       Josh told him impatiently, “I don’t want to dwell on the damned thing, if that’s what you’re thinking. I want to know if mud...or anything else...got into my system.”

       Mick was looking mutinous.

       Josh knew if he didn’t handle this right, all he’d get would be an argument. He said reasonably, “There must be something to account for my sudden ‘cure’.”

       “Maybe three weeks of near-fatal fevers,” Mick replied angrily. The “you damn fool” was implied.

       “Maybe,” Josh said agreeably. “Whatever it was, was important to Alan. It’s something I’d like to follow through.” There was a glint in his eyes as he rubbed his side and said, “Believe me when I say this is far more painful for me than it is for you.”

       Mick smirked, his anger fading. He still didn’t look happy, and his voice was husky as he said, “You were a mess, Josh. I thought you’d bleed out.”

       Josh nodded. “Lots of mud?”

       “Yeah.” He hesitated. 
 “There was a body,” Josh prodded.

       “Don’t push,” Mick warned him. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t assist in surgery, but I heard about it afterwards. S-Some of the bone fragments...” He stopped. Josh shouldn’t be hearing this. It wasn’t going to do him any good.

       “It was more than that, wasn’t it?” Josh asked. “Some of his tissues, too...” Josh couldn’t hold onto his objectivity. “Excuse me.”

       He stumbled out of the room, and the next second, Mick heard him gagging in the bathroom. He followed him in and waited, then led him back to the bedroom. “You dumbass, Josh,” he kept saying, over and over. Josh could tell from the way Mick’s hands were shaking how upset he was.

       Josh sat down on the edge of the bed and gripped his side. “How decomposed?” he managed.

       Mick stood up, flexing his fingers. “Dammit, Josh—!” he roared.

       “Intact enough to harbour a virus?”

       Mick’s brow furrowed and he looked at Josh in shocked understanding. “You think you picked up something from the corpse?”

       “Just exploring all the avenues,” Josh admitted. “No stone unturned.” He grinned, but Mick could recognise that smile now. It was the one Josh had used for nearly six years, when a subject was getting too close to home.

       “Maybe we should look into it,” Mick said seriously.

       Josh shook his head. “I have lots of help, Mick. One of the labs Alan worked with is sending someone out to interview me. I just wanted to make sure I had all the details...sick as they may be.” His smile this time was genuine. “I don’t think I ever thanked you—”

       “The paramedics pretty much had it covered by the time I got there. I just picked up the pieces.”

       “Yeah, but they were my pieces.”

       “Not all of them,” Mick joked.

       Josh grinned. “And you call me sick.”

***

       Later that day, Tino came by. Josh opened the door and Tino pushed past him and flopped into a chair. “Thanks for having me.” He grinned obnoxiously. “Carmichael wants me to remove you from your shell, Griffin. No soul-searching allowed, so I guess that leaves out the poetry.”

       “‘No tripe’ would’ve covered it.”

       Tino returned disparagingly, “I have my orders. Mick says you’re looking tired, so I’m supposed to feed you, haul you off to the stadium to watch football with Matt, then get you back here before I go out on the town.” He sighed loudly. “Will the work never stop?!”

       “Yes,” Josh told him. “Have a good time.” Ever since Mick had left, Josh had been thinking about their conversation, and Alan Rutherford. He couldn’t get it out of his head. The truth was, he didn’t want to go out with them tonight, because it would rob him of his anger. It was a lot easier for him to deal with than to wonder whether he was, in some convoluted way, responsible for Alan’s death.

       He couldn’t go out to a football game tonight—not without sorting through some of his confusion first. His computer had been ripped off, his files, his blood samples, for crissake. Josh had already decided where he was spending the night: at the university library, plying the Internet. It was time to fill in some gaps. He owed Alan Rutherford at least that much of his time.

       But there was somewhere he needed to go first, and none of them—not Matt or Tino or, especially, Mick—would be able to understand it. Josh didn’t really understand it himself.

       Sick compulsion, or an effort at understanding? A chance to jog his memory?

       “Now, wait a minute,” Tino was saying. “This wasn’t one of those ‘if he feels like it’ missions.” Tino was at a loss. He’d never expected Josh to refuse—and Mick was right: Josh didn’t just look tired; he looked exhausted. A healthy meal would do him good. He dropped the pretence. “Seriously, Josh—Mick told me about Rutherford. Let’s take my car—”

       “I can’t, Tino,” Josh said, and he had the sudden impression the words weren’t all his own. He felt a shiver of apprehension, and he wondered whether he was making a terrible mistake. But, it was too late now: the compulsion was there and he had no means to fight it.

       Admit it, Josh: you don’t want to fight it—not if it’ll bring her back.

       Bring her back? Gooseflesh danced down his arms. He heard his own voice saying, “I already have a date.”

***

       “He has a date?”

       “It’s not that surprising,” Tino said. “Now that he has a new lease on life. Healthy, if you ask me.”

       “I’m not asking you,” Matt grumbled. He couldn’t recall the last time Josh had actually gone out with someone. No wonder, considering his indefinite future. He hadn’t wanted to get too close to anybody.

       “Aren’t you drinking?” Tino asked.

       “Nope.” Matt didn’t enlighten him.

       Josh wasn’t the only one who looked tired. Matt looked pretty wiped, too. He was also impatient, as though he couldn’t wait for the game to be over.

       “Did he say what time he was leaving?”

       Tino shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

       Matt’s expression was grim. “You’d be amazed.” He checked his watch for the fifth time, and finally suggested at half-time, “Let’s go.” He’d taken a taxi to the stadium. Now he told Tino, “Drop me at Josh’s. I’ll find my own way from there.”

       When they reached Josh’s, Rasputin was just chugging out of the driveway. “Stop here,” Matt ordered. “Cut the lights.”

       “What the hell?!”

       “I mean it,” Matt said. He grumbled, “I knew I should have brought my car.”

       “What’s going on?” Tino asked.

       Matt tightened his lips. There are times when it’s better not to explain. “Just follow him,” he ordered. “And watch your back. We may get some company.”

       Tino did as he asked, but he didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked damned angry. Following Josh was hardly what he would consider a friendly gesture. “Doesn’t this strike you as ‘weird’?” he asked coldly.

       Matt’s voice was chilly, too, but it held a note of something else—something remarkably like fear. “‘Weird’?” he repeated. “You couldn’t begin to guess.”

*********