It was late evening when Nick woke up, and he stayed awake long enough to find out that the tape around his arms and legs had been cut and a water bottle placed beside his head. He took a sip then spat. Someone had pissed in it.
Nick limped out and leant on the front door of the house with his one good arm that was only bruised and not fractured. His legs were like rubber. They were stiff and swollen. The sun had dimmed and the shadows deepened around the gardens. Nick regarded the churned-up lawn and scattered debris, the fence that hung limply in the breeze, the fine grey dust that settled on the leaves and the flecks of dark blood on the grass. The vision from his one good eye that wasn't swollen shut was blurred and he found it hard to focus.
This is it, he supposed. He would just stay here now.
Beer cans and other bottles rattled underfoot as he made his way round a sun lounger that had been snapped in half and twisted and a parasol that had been turned inside out, stripped of webbing and smashed through a window. He passed Ryan's grave, Tom's, and Suzie's memorial.
Nick was tired and wanted a sit down. He wanted to go home, proper home, to see Dad, but the old flat would have to do. The metal staircase seemed very steep this time. He had to climb it sideways, taking a step at a time with a stiff lurch while he gripped the bannister with his one good hand. He slipped once and barked his shin. He pulled himself back up and continued the climb.
The door hung open. Nick ran his fingertips over the fractured wood around the twisted lock. He remembered the fear and desperation of that night.
Inside, the walls were streaked with the grimy fingermarks of dead hands. The paint was pitted and scarred from the all the furniture, appliances and other belongings that had been flung about as the Dead had set about to ruin their home.
'What a mess.' Nick tutted. He nudged aside a little path with his foot through the twisted shards and splinters of glass, plastic and metal until he reached the old den on the end of the corridor.
On the way, he pressed his fingertips to Ryan's bedroom door in remembrance. Forever kept shut, the smell never left it.
The party room was a wreck to begin with, but everything here had been ruined too, the same as the rest of the house. Nick muttered something and tutted again. With some discomfort, he pulled the two halves of the table up and set them straight. He reflected on how pointless that was. There was some murky water left in a twisted bottle. He drank it and was grateful. He peeled off his biker suit and remained in his t-shirt and underwear. He tore down the rest of the mildewed curtains and cardboard that blotted out the window and fetched a chair from the other side of the room. It was still in one piece. A small blessing. This took him over an hour in his geriatric staggering. He just wanted to sit down.
Nick lowered himself into the sole chair left in the room and sat facing the window. He would just rest here for now. He would just sit here and watch the world go by outside. Scattered all around was broken furniture, destroyed artwork and the ubiquitous bottles, cans, ashtray contents and smoking paraphernalia that had accumulated over time.
He found a bottle of Scotch that was half full, a cracked glass and a dog-end in a broken ashtray. Small blessings, small blessings. He rinsed the glass out with the whisky then refilled it and took a sip. He pressed play on the hi-fi but nothing happened. That was fine. He could enjoy some peace and quiet. That was fine. He was weak. He was hurt. It was better to have some peace and quiet now. A bit of a rest. No more madness.
For the time being Nick sat and watched the world go by. He drank and he blew out small plumes, lost far away in some private, distant place. He sat and began a quiet, lonely vigil from the window until the sun went down, there was no more light, and there was nothing more to look at.
Nick felt his way to the sofa, tripped, fell and got back up again without a sound passing his lips. He groped his way around and rested himself on the torn stuffing. He would wait there for the morning, when he could sit by the window and fill his glass again.
That's what he did for the next few times the sun rose and fell. He watched the ceiling and the street below, he didn't know for how long. It was an age, an eternity. It was timeless and uncounted, uncountable and unbroken. He drank and smoked steadily. He sat and thought about all the things he'd done, the things he'd said, and the things he'd thought. He thought about the things he wanted to do and the things he wished he'd done differently. What did it all make him, what kind of person? When other people looked at him, what did they see? He sank deep into the memories and the haze of smoke, mind swirling in unrelenting contortions without end as he was alone and surrounded by all the things he remembered, the regrets that tormented him, the things he dearly wished he could undo and make different. What times these had been, and what things he had done to stay afloat in them and keep his head above water. Then everything only led to this. Was this the best place for him to be? Alone? He had tried to pick himself up and do what he thought was right – and what a mess he'd had made of it. Maybe Matt had been right all along. Maybe Ryan had been. He wished they could come back, and they could do something to make it right, all together. But there were some things that could never be undone, some things that couldn't be forgiven. Perhaps no one should ever suffer to look at him again. He would rest here for now.
An evening came, who could tell which, and Nick went to relieve himself of the vile Scotch into the brimming porcelain well. He thought he heard a noise back in the other room but dismissed it for the mice or rats that grew ever bolder in his home. He came back, sat in his chair, but couldn't shake the sense that he wasn't alone. Much as he didn't want to, much as he wished it away, he heard the tiniest sound of breaths being drawn and the movement of fabric brush against fabric as something moved in the dark near him. In the reflection in the window he saw a figure sitting across from him looking at him from the sofa. He froze. He was unable to look away. He didn't dare turn round to see who it was. He stared at the image, trying to see if it was an illusion, and the figure stared straight back at him. There was no mistaking it.
Matt sat there and fixed him with hollow black eyes that silently condemned him, the hollow black voids in his skull damning him for his guilt.
'You can't blame me!' Nick gasped. 'You're gone. You can't blame me for what happened! How are you here? Don't sit and shake that bloody head at me! Why are you here, how did you come back?' His voice rose to a cry of fear, unable to look away.
Across the street a lamp winked on. Its cold, white light shone down on another figure that stood and watched him from beneath it, staring and accusing. Because of the dark, Nick thought the figure was dressed in black rags, but then he saw that it was a shirt, now torn up and drenched in dark blood, the same blood that matted the eccentric tufts of blond hair on Tom's head.
'You can't blame me! I didn't know that would happen! We buried you! Why will no one stay buried? The whole world becomes a tomb and those we bury come back to haunt we who mourn them.'
Nick turned and saw that no one was there in the room.
He woke up in his chair. Had it been just a dream? He had nightmare visions of crawling backwards through wet grass on limbs that could barely move, screaming in a voice that came out no louder than a whisper. There was no one there in the whole world, just the endless black of night. He was as alone as in space, with nothing between him and the stars in the infinite dark all around. He was being pulled back by the ankles. Ryan stood in the gardens. Nick saw his silhouette looking at him with contempt. His form was emaciated and withered from the sickness that Nick had been powerless to prevent. Katie was there too, and Jenny and Matt, their dark shapes watching him crawl and weep and panic.
Sat back in his chair, Nick felt his clothes. They were wet through and covered with streaks of mud.
Sometimes Nick would go and sit by the graves. He would lie on the grass beside them and pick up small clumps of soil. He rolled them between his fingertips and watched them crumble. He whispered little conversations, secret things, little regrets. He ran his fingers along the leaves of the Bhuna plants that flourished there. He watched the leaves tremble at his touch.
Eventually there was no more whisky. Nick shuffled around the garden. On his way, he stiffly picked up cans and bottles and sorted them into piles. The north side barrier was still broken down and open. A woman was standing in the garden. Nick looked at her. She turned around and looked back at him. Nick edged past to leave through the open gap. The woman turned to watch him go but didn't move.
On the way to the off-licence at the top of the street, Nick walked past a small boy who was tattered and grimy, and sat idly rolling a yo-yo on the ground. The boy didn't look up or pay any attention to Nick as he passed by and wasn't there when Nick returned with a basket full of bottles. Nick thought little of it. He shared each waking moment with ghosts. They would appear in the garden or under his window, but not often. He left them alone. They stared at him for a while, but they left him alone too.
Nick spent his time alone at the window for the most part. He drank and smoked. He looked down on to the street below, the road, the houses, the sky. He didn't know for how long. This was it, now, in this cold, slow, dark little eternity, the only soul in the world. Everything only led to this and it was all his fault, he thought. Perhaps he would just sit here now, and wait. Days passed, unnumbered, uncounted. The sun rose and fell and he got up to lie down on the sofa and got up to sit down, and drink, and smoke some more. On occasion it would become too much to stay inside and he would go out to shuffle things into stacks or aimlessly pick up some pieces here and there.
One day, Nick looked out of the window and he saw a dog walking up to the street corner. It had a black and white coat, tatty and matted. It sniffed the ground and looked up at him from across the street. It sat and watched him with a steady, lifeless gaze.
It was the same dog they had seen at that bar so long ago, at Ryan's funeral party. Wondering if it was an illusion, Nick started up out of the chair, not able to believe his eyes. The dog sat, licked its lips and continued to look straight back at him. Nick hastened down the stairs and hobbled out as fast as he could, hoping against hope that the dog would still be there by the time he got out. The key to the gate long since missing, he crawled underneath the barrier, feet and hands scrabbling against the dirt without any self-consciousness or care for his dignity.
The dog was still there. It looked at him with that unwavering gaze, waiting for him to approach. The corners of Nick's mouth twitched with a smile, weak, hopeful, and vapid with exhaustion. Nick dragged his feet across the road as he made his way towards the dog, hoping, hoping, that it wouldn't run or snarl at his approach. He held his hands out, open, and made a desperate wish that the dog would see that he meant no harm. Nick thought to detach the bottle from his hand and let it fall where it may.
In his mind and out loud, in a dry voice cracked by disuse, Nick pleaded for the dog not to run away.
'Hey there, don't go. Please stay. Don't leave me here alone again,' Nick said in a hoarse whisper. He drew close in the frail one-two step of his limp that didn't seem to get any better. The dog sat there, motionless.
Nick took his chance and held his palm out to the Dead dog that sat and regarded him with its filmy, blank eyes. Nick felt very weak, very brittle, but he kept hopeful in the suspense. There was still a chance it would bite him in revenge for his owner. Nick felt a pang of regret. Maybe the dog had been alone all this time, too.
'I'm sorry about what happened. How could I know?' Nick murmured aloud. He hoped that the dog would forgive him at least. This one soul in the entire world would forgive him. Maybe it could be a fresh start.
'Don't go,' Nick whispered.
The dog leant in and sniffed Nick's hand, and he felt the chill dampness of the dog's tongue briefly touch his palm. A wide smile broke through the lifeless mask Nick's face had become. He stroked the dog's head, its fur. He smoothed out some tangles in its matted coat. Tears ran freely down his face, but now of a different kind.
He had lost everyone and made terrible mistakes but now he had a friend again. He had a dog.
'Good…' He had to check. 'Good boy.' He couldn't stop smiling.
'Ah, enough of this,' Nick said in his cracked voice, and he wiped the wetness from his cheeks. 'I suppose you're hungry. Me too, now I come to think of it. It's been a while. It's been quite a while.'
He got up and started to make his way back across the road. 'Come on,' he said, and patted his leg. The dog licked its lips, rose up and followed him.
There was still a shank hanging in the food store. The foot was still attached, the toes and toenails greenish-purple. The outside had dried out and was discoloured but Nick could shave off the outer layer. The others had brutishly, artlessly hacked a chunk off from the side, but the rest was still redeemable.
'Filthy little hypocrites.' Nick smiled and tossed the first slice to the dog, who chomped it down then sat and begged for another slice. Nick skimmed off a piece for himself. He took the time to chew it and savour the taste. Ah, relief. He was hungrier than he thought. It had been such a long time.
'Beautiful marbling, premium cuts,' he said. 'Leaner these days.' He carved some more. 'In all fairness you've never seen a finer ham in your life. They can have their swan, their veal. They can keep their Wagyu beef. There's nothing other than long bacon for me.' He thought for a moment. 'Prosciutto Lungo.' He smiled.
There wasn't much left by the time they'd eaten their fill. The dog sat calm, impassive and still on the surface, but Nick could tell there was something intelligent inside. The dog thought and understood things more than it would let on. He could sense it.
Nick tried to think about what the others did, when they were with Charlie. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on top of the dog's head. Nothing happened. Nick closed his eyes and thought hard. He kind of reached out with his mind, that was the best way to describe it.
A sudden rush of dog thoughts and memories filled Nick's mind with an incredible, vivid clarity. So many memories. There were intense smells, memories of running, a fierce barking match with another dog. He felt the passionate rivalry with the dog across the street and the fierce pride in announcing his territory, showing how loud and strong his voice was. He felt the awe of the big man, his old master, and a zealous defensiveness to some other people, a woman, a little girl and a baby boy. Family. There was the pain at their loss that Nick shared completely with the dog, and the agony of defeat as the dog ran away from a gang of intruders – them. There was the memory of ravenously slurping down food, the sharp bitter tang of its saltiness and the meaty flavour, the family members calling out the dog's name – all of this experienced in a few seconds.
Nick flinched and opened his eyes, surprised at the intensity. He jerked his hand back as though he'd got a shock. Perhaps that was too much.
'Mack?' Nick said. 'Is that what they called you?'
Nick closed his eyes and focused, this time only reaching out with his mind to the dog. The dog's intelligence was there, thinking, sensing and awake, and they communicated. Nick expressed his apologies at how they'd killed the big man. He felt the dog's sorrow and how it understood his regret. What's done was done, and it was in the past, they both understood that. This really was a smart dog, Nick considered. Quite a find.
Nick took the dog to the bathroom and put him in the bath. He couldn't find much water left but the dog didn't make a fuss when Nick doused him, lathered him up with shampoo and used the rest to rinse it away. He didn't react at all. The horrible brown and black crusty grime sloughed away to reveal black and white fur beneath. 'I should probably treat myself to the same,' Nick said, mentally, and he peeled off a flake of crusty face paint and muck beneath an overgrown nail. The dog licked his face.
Nick and the dog lived at the Castle together. They healed together and Nick had some company while he worked to make the place as decent as he could. He wouldn't tidy it for his own sake but would when there was another pair of eyes to see it.
He brushed the dog's fur and groomed it. His cuts and abrasions got better, but sadly, the dog's injuries, all the scratches and welts, never changed. He tended them as best he could remember to do with one of Andy's old medical kits.
His own collarbone and arm were still fractured and of limited use. He couldn't move his arm very far either way. He could feel through his skin how the bones and some ribs had fused badly. No amount of Bhuna would change that. He uprooted a lot of the dead shrubs and flowers and planted Bhuna cuttings, especially by the graves he carefully tended.
Nick found an old tennis ball and waved it in from of the dog.
'Here, boy! Fetch!' he said and threw it. Mack gave no response and kept on staring at Nick, his old instincts gone. Nick thought it was kind of funny. He was glad for the little things like that each day.
One day Mack got up and stared out past a barricade, before the tin cans had time to clatter on their string. He huffed and growled.
'Ah, well. Maybe this is it. They've found me.' Nick said. 'I wonder what took them so long.'
Mack stared, fixed on the direction of the barricade, standing rigid.
'You can run if you want, but I'm not going anywhere. This is home now, I'm not leaving.' Nick closed his eyes, ready for the end.
When he opened them, he saw Andy, Jack, Joe, Sarah, Emily, Emma and Jane.
'We're back, you bastard. We tried, but there's nothing for us out there. There's nowhere else for us to go. Maybe we do belong here after all,' said Sarah.
'I think we have unfinished business here in this town, and you need to tell us everything we need to know,' said Jack.
'And we're hungry.'