Free Dead Bad Things by Gary McMahon

street outside was empty: no pedestrians passed by, the road was clear of traffic. It was impossible; that street was the main road through the area, passing West Ham's football ground only a few hundred yards away, up the slight incline. Whatever the time of day or night, it was always jammed with vehicles.
    Â Â Then, as if trying to summon my attention, a phone began to ring. The sound was one of those annoyingly catchy and inevitably terrible mobile ring tones. I hate things like that; they are instantly obsolete and often plain embarrassing.
    Â Â The tune was coming from the counter – or, more precisely, from the man at the counter. The young man in the smart suit.
    Â Â I turned to face him, but still he had not moved. His hands were limp; his body was hunched, the spine curved. He didn't look comfortable.
    Â Â "Excuse me." My voice sounded thick, syrupy, like someone calling from a nightmare. I repeated the words: "Excuse me." Nothing. The young man did not move. "I'm sorry… your phone. It's ringing."
    Â Â It was as if the world were holding its breath, but as soon as I made this observation commotion flooded back in, filling the cafe. Sound and motion from the window caught my eye; I turned to look and everything had returned to normal. When I turned back to the young man he was reaching into his jacket pocket to take out his mobile phone. I watched in a kind of stunned dread as he removed the phone and brought it to his ear, flipping the lid as he did so. He pressed the small rectangle to the side of his face and spoke: "Hello."
    Â Â There was a moment then when I considered running. I knew the situation was wrong, that something weird was taking place, but what kept me there was the fact that I had not paid my bill. I'm nothing if not an honest customer. I didn't want the waitress to think I was a cheat.
    Â Â "What? Who is this? You'll have to speak up – I can't make it out." The young man's cultured voice grew louder; he was becoming irritated. "Sorry? Listen, I have no idea – who? What? Who is it you want?"
    Â Â I knew before he said it; to me, it was obvious. As certain as the seasons.
    Â Â "Who? Usher? What is that? Oh… what? Oh, Thomas Usher? No, never heard of him. I think you have the wrong number."
    Â Â I wish he had just hung up the phone, that he had put it back in his pocket and continued to drink his juice and think his idle thoughts. But he didn't. He kept on talking, expressing mild annoyance that someone was ringing him up to ask for a man whose name was unknown to him – a man who was, even now, standing and pushing back his chair.
    Â Â That man:
    Â Â Me.
    Â Â The call was meant for me.
    Â Â I walked away from the table, and from my delicious bacon roll, and approached the man at an angle. I could see his smooth, cleanshaven cheek, a white smear of soap caught in the bushy hair at his temple, the way the pulse in his neck beat wildly as he spoke.
    Â Â "I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I really was. Sorry for everything, and to everyone. So very, very sorry for all of it. "I think they're asking for me."
    Â Â He turned around on his stool, this vital young man in his expensive clothes and shoes, and with his flashy mobile phone clutched so tightly in his lovely manicured hand. "What? Who are you? What is this?" His eyes were huge; they looked at me with interest but they saw nothing, nothing at all. They never did, eyes like his. All they ever saw was the surface. They never peered beneath, even for a second.
    Â Â Briefly, I envied him. Then I felt only pity.
    Â Â I smiled. "I'm Thomas Usher. I don't know what's going on, but that's my name." I wasn't trying to confuse him; it was a genuine attempt to tell the truth, to get to the heart of the matter. Whatever the matter was.
    Â Â Surprisingly, he held out his phone. He looked like he wanted to say something – perhaps to yell at me, or even to hit