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Read by Alex Woodhall
When we rose you from the dead, you came back ... different. Which was good, because you were kind of a jerk originally.
I mean, you weren’t terrible, I’m not saying that. You were just difficult. You had a difficult personality. Maybe that’s what I mean. Words don’t come so easily to me like they used to.
You weren’t looking your best once we’d finally dragged you out of the coffin. You were all kind of ... I don’t know, I can’t think of a good word ... mouldering.
Ma didn’t care about that sort of thing though. You didn’t either. You would have before, you were always going on about your hair and reading ads from the city about different treatments and putting strange smelling gloop in it and all sorts, but you didn’t care now. You just spat out a few teeth and said, in a cold, deep voice,
What do you want?
You’d said that a lot of times Before as well. Usually in a jerk-ish manner. No, not the right word. Oh, you know what I mean. Moaning and complaining when we asked for the least little thing, and usually refusing to do the important things outright. It was a bloody trial trying to persuade you into anything. We had to keep asking you though, because there was no one else. They’d all left long ago. You didn’t.
Anyway, you’d said it Before. What do you want? But not like this. It was in this kind of ... ugh, words, words ... s ... servile way. Like you genuinely wanted to know. You’d never wanted to know before. You’d never wanted to know anything. The less I know, the better, you’d always said.
“We need you to do it again,” Ma said.
I’m dead, you said. You frowned for a bit. I mean, I was.
This would have seemed dangerously close to a complaint if you hadn’t sounded so ... flat. It was kind of a statement, you know, not an accusation. I don’t know. I used to be good at explaining stuff when I was a kid. You know, when Father Grey taught me stuff, when he said I was clever. Then that thing happened with the others and Ma and I had to drop it all. Like you dropped everything. For her. It was all a bit. I mean, I’m not complaining, it was just. I wish I remembered all those words now.
Okay, off topic. Sorry. Anyway, I was saying. You said it but you didn’t say it. If you get what I mean. Not like in the past you would have said it.
“We’ve got no one else,” said Ma. “We’ve got to finish the work. You know that. Death should never get in the way.”
She always said that. Always, always. Usually, you know, after you’d finished a job. You’d come back shaking and pale and she’d say it. She meant that it shouldn’t get in the way of the bigger picture. You know. Death. Shouldn’t get in the way of what we were trying to achieve. Of the work, and all.
You said, I know that.
“You remember the work?” demanded Ma.
It was raining. I mean, it was seriously raining now. There’d been drizzle, but it was getting worse. I just wanted to be home. This wasn’t the best way to spend an evening, and there were chicken guts everywhere and the sight of it was making me feel ill.
“Let’s go,” I said.
You both ignored me.
“Do you remember the work?” pressed Ma.
Do the job, you replied. And don’t ask why.
“Don’t ask why,” Ma repeated. That was the one thing you had done right. You’d listened to Ma and never questioned her. You just didn’t like doing the job, you’d told me. Late at night, when Ma was asleep and we were hiding in our room and we weren’t accomplices in that moment, but brother and sister. You didn’t like doing it, you said. Which yeah, okay, I get it, it’s not exactly a career. And there’s no pension plan to speak of. But you didn’t have to go on about it so much.
Death means nothing to you, you said. You’d said it Before, but not in this echoing tone. More angry. Shouting, you’d been shouting Before. But not now.
Ma took a photo out of her pocket. I’d seen it a lot lately. It was of Paul Jenkins, at the last barn dance. He had straw in his hair and a drink in his hand and his face was flushed and smiling. Ma handed the photo to you. Your hand didn’t shake when you took it. That was new. Every time she’d handed you a photo before, you’d started shaking. And you went all pathetic and whispery and kept saying things like “No, no” and “Oh God forgive me” and other such rubbish, and then you’d try and get out of it and ugh, jerk much?
“This man killed you,” said Ma.
Killed me, you echoed.
“Shot you dead,” Ma added.
You did have a bullet-hole. Right in your chest. There were maggots in it, it was so disgusting. You wouldn’t have stood for that Before.
“You need to kill this man,” Ma said, and gave you one of her lists. These lists went on forever, and in minute detail. Weapon, location, blah blah blah. She got the detail from the others. The ones who gave the work. I’ve never met them. Don’t think I ever will.
You started to shamble away. You’d always walked so tall before.
And then you stopped and turned around. Pieces were falling off your face, I mean actual pieces of skin, oh my god.
You said, he didn’t.
“What?” said Ma.
He didn’t, you said. Kill me. You killed me. Shot me. I remember.
I looked at Ma but she didn’t look at me. She didn’t deny it. She never denied anything, not really. She just ... stepped around the truth. Things like Officer, if a corpse was in our house, I think I’d know about it. Clever. Clever with words. Like me. That’s why I helped her. Left all that teaching and went to help her with the planning and things. I did the planning. You did the practical work.
“You killed him,” I said to Ma, when you turned around again and continued on your mission.
“I made him better,” Ma said. She grabbed at her forearms. It was getting colder as the rain got heavier. “He was constricted by life. All that worrying, all those glands. I made him better.”
I watched you shuffle out of the graveyard. “At least he’s not so much of a jerk now,” I concurred.
“Yes, he’ll obey everything,” she said. “All things. Let’s go home,” said Ma.
You kept moving. I guess nothing could stop you now.
(c) Jennifer Rickard, 2013
Jennifer Rickard lives in London, and is an office skivvy by day, writer by night (and whenever her boss isn't watching). Her first novel was written aged six and was a tale of epic adventure starring her guinea-pigs. She still writes epic adventures but with less guinea-pig.
Alex Woodhall has worked in comedy for the last 14 years, on stage, TV and radio. He DJs extensively around the country in clubs, festivals, zombie chase game 2.8 Hours Later, and is half of The Coffin Dodgers Disco. Interests include ballroom dancing, Native American art and pornography. Over the moon to be back at Liars’ League – there, I said it, Katy, now please release the hostages, thank you.
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