The Returned Dead. Rafe Kronos

      

      THE RETURNED DEAD

      by

      Rafe Kronos

      Copyright 2015 Rafe Kronos,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2582-5

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      CHAPTER ONE

      He’d been dead for a long time before he came to see me.

      “The thing is this, Mr Dawson: I died some years back. Now I need you to sort it out for me.” He flung the words at me as he lowered himself into the client’s chair. “You have to sort it out, you have to.”

      I stared back across my desk. Despite the strange claim he did not look dead, not even a little bit. In fact he looked in the prime of life: fresh and rosy cheeks, an enviably slim waist and no nicotine stains on his fingers and heavy moustache. He wore Armani designer glasses with slightly tinted lenses, the top edges of the frames matching exactly the curve of his eyebrows. His face was nothing special, neither handsome nor ugly, but it was topped by a beautifully barbered thatch of dark brown hair. Dead? Definitely not.

      Fit, healthy -- and something else -- something I had seen as soon as he walked in: wealthy. He was wearing a beautifully cut grey suit with a cream shirt and maroon silk tie. His feet were shod in well polished black moccasins – everything about him was stylish and expensive. I like expensive in potential clients. Yet, here he was, apparently convinced he was dead.

      I looked at him without saying anything till he gave a slight nod, reached into a pocket and passed over a business card. He said, “That’s me.” I half expected him to say, “And I’m dead,” but he didn't.

      I wasn’t sure I wanted a dead man for a client: it could make collecting the fee difficult. When did a corpse ever sign a cheque? And would any bank cash it? No, I definitely prefer live clients.

      “I see,” I said, which was fatuous because I didn’t. “So tell me, when exactly did your death occur?” It felt strange asking an obviously live man just when he died.

      “Eight years, four months and thirteen days ago.”

      Well, that showed precision. But did exactitude make his claim believable? Sure as hell he looked very alive – and rich. The rich aspect appealed. Some things in my life demand a lot of money.

      I pondered his weird claim for a moment or two. Something was very wrong here and I groaned silently. I’d had a bad night and it was making me sour, I wasn’t going to be pissed about. I felt a need to shake him up a bit. A bit of mockery might do for a start.

      “So you’re dead, are you? If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re looking pretty good for a dead man.”

      He sat up a bit straighter, pulled in his stomach, touched a hand to his hair and half turned his head so I could see more of his profile and said, “Yes, I suppose I am. I am, aren’t I?”

      I noted the vanity in his response. “Even though you’ve been dead,” I calculated quickly, “eighty-eight and a half months, give or take a day or two.”

      He nodded, his face serious again. “Right.”

      I stared at him for a few more moments trying to understand what was going on. Then I asked him, “So what exactly do you want me to do? Undead you in some way?”

      He gave a sort of suppressed snarl. “What I want, Mr Dawson, what I want, is for you to get my life back for me.” Suddenly there was urgency in his voice. “I want my life back, that’s what I want, that’s why I’m here, that’s why I’ve come to you. I need to get my life back.” He glared across as if challenging me to disagree.

      “Not restore you to life, but restore your life to you? Is that it?” I thought it was a pretty neat bit of phrasing.

      He wasn’t impressed. He gave a sort of tired sigh and said, “Well, I suppose you could put it like that. Yes, yes, if you want, you could say that.” He glared again, clearly warning me not to push my luck.

      I gave him a reassuring smile. Despite my total disbelief that was rapidly shading into annoyance I was not about to turn away a potential client, not even one who thought he was dead. So what was the explanation? Was he mentally disturbed, was he suffering from hallucinations, imagining he was involved in some sort of zombie fantasy? For all I knew he could be completely bananas. In case he was, I had to tread warily. He might be dangerous, he might even have come here to harm me. I tried not to look up at the things hidden in the ceiling as I considered this.

      I decided I might as well get some facts.

      “OK, so let’s start at the beginning.” I glanced down at the card he’d given me. “You’re Roderick Baxendale?”

      “Roddy Baxendale. Yes -- and no.”

      I left that for the moment. “But you – Baxendale -- you’re obviously not dead.”

      “Not even a bit.” He tried to smile but the smile slid off his features, leaving them tense.

      “But you’re also telling me you died some years back.”

      “Yes, I did -- but then I didn’t.”

      I was going round in circles. I’d felt this way before, though not this early in an investigation.

      “Look Mr Dawson, maybe this will help to explain things.” He picked up his stylish green leather brief-case -- another sign of wealth, it had probably been made especially for him -- from beside his chair and opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a fawn folder.

      I’d noticed the case seemed heavy when he came in, a bit swollen, say about four months pregnant. I was starting to wonder if the heaviness was a bottle. Was he an alcoholic? Alkies often carry a bottle with them. I couldn’t smell booze but perhaps his favoured tipple was odourless vodka. Alcoholic delusions could explain what he was saying. Perhaps I was looking at some rich bastard with a dose of the DTs.

      He glanced at me as if to check that I was ready for whatever it was. I nodded in a way that I hoped was reassuring. He slid a press cutting out of the folder, leaned forward and passed it across the desk.

      The paper was yellow and brittle with age. The side towards me showed a truncated photo of a wedding group, the bride, groom and bridesmaids were all cut off at the waist. The groom was looking unhappy but then marriage takes some people like that. Above the picture was the date: 1 July 2006. I did the sum: just under eight years and four months ago.

      “Turn it over. That side’s just to show you the date,” he commanded.

      I did -- and there he was, smiling out of a studio portrait beneath the headline “Sudden Death of Local Businessman.” I looked from the picture to him and back to the picture, then back at him. It shocked me. The face in the photo was the same as the one staring anxiously across my desk at me. In the photo he was a few years younger but there was no doubt it was him: same hair, same moustache, same rather ordinary face. It was him. What the hell....?

      “Read it,” he instructed, his voice harsh.

      I was about to but I nodded compliantly. If – if -- I was going to take him on as a client I wanted him to believe I’d do whatever he told me to. I might not, of course, but there was no point in letting him know.

      I read: