Free Dead Bad Things by Gary McMahon Page A

me as he screamed about the insanity of the situation. But all he did was hand me his fancy little phone.
    Â Â I smiled again, trying to reassure him: It's OK. None of this makes any sense, even to me. Just go with it. Go with the flow.
    Â Â I raised it to my ear. I could hear the hissing sound even before I held it in place.
    Â Â  Go with the flow.
    Â Â "Hello."
    Â Â The voice; that clockwork voice: "It's me again."
    Â Â I nodded. "So it is."
    Â Â "I have a name for you. It's not much, I know, but there are rules here that I am compelled to follow. I can't break those rules." There was a tiny, almost indiscernible click after every word, as if they were being put together by a machine.
    Â Â The young man: "What the fuck is going on?"
    Â Â Me: "Tell me."
    Â Â The voice: "The name is…"
    Â Â The young man: "Give me back my phone."
    Â Â He was grabbing me, but I batted his hands aside. His protests were all for show; he was scared, at least as scared as I was. Probably more.
    Â Â Me: "What's the name?"
    Â Â The voice: "Immaculee Karuhmbi."
    Â Â The young man: "I'll call the police–"
    Â Â Me: "Who is that? Is that who you want me to find?"
    Â Â The voice: "I can tell you nothing more. Just the name."
    Â Â The line went dead.
    Â Â I handed the young man his phone. "I'm sorry… I don't want any trouble. Here, have it back. It was nothing anyway. Nothing I can understand."
    Â Â "Fucking psycho!" He snatched the phone and rose from his seat. I noticed that he was small, much shorter than me. I hadn't noted that fact when he was sitting down. He'd seemed bigger then, when he was seated. "Get out of my way." He stormed off, tugging open the door and almost diving onto the pavement outside in his haste, his eagerness to be out of my presence.
    Â Â I didn't blame him at all.
    Â Â "What was all that about?" The waitress had returned from the kitchen. She was holding a glass of orange juice. The sides of the glass were beaded with moisture. It looked delicious. "He left without his drink." It looked beautiful. It looked real.
    Â Â "I'll take it." I sat down in the vacant stool. The old man with the racing paper emerged from the bathroom. He was humming a tune I knew – Nina Simone: an upbeat number about Feeling Good. Capital F. Capital G.
    Â Â "He didn't even pay." The waitress looked shell-shocked: her eyes were wide, her mouth hung open. Sweat limned her hairline and followed the curve of her forehead, making it glisten like a corrupted halo. She was an earthbound angel, just like the rest of them. All of them but me: I had no idea what I was.
    Â Â "I'll pay," I said, taking the drink, accepting it from this sweaty angel. "By the way, I don't suppose you've heard of anyone called Immaculee Karuhmbi." It was a long shot but I took it anyway. What did I have to lose?
    Â Â "Immaculee? Why yes, deary. Everyone round here knows her."
    Â Â I almost choked on the young man's orange juice. I'm sure he would have appreciated my discomfort. "Do you know where she is now?" It was too much to hope for, but still I hoped. This was becoming important to me. More than simply something to do, it was transforming into a task I could not refuse, a mystery I simply had to solve. A mission. The enigma was bigger than it seemed – larger than me – and I wanted to get to the heart of it.
    Â Â The old man had stopped humming; now he was whistling. It was the same tune, but performed on a different instrument. He was another angel. I felt like kneeling before him to worship. My emotions were at breaking point; I had lost all sense of perspective. Every place I went, each second I spent there, was either a slice or heaven or of hell. No middle ground. No limbo.
    Â Â "She'll be resting now, but in the afternoons she works over there." The waitress raised her podgy hand and pointed – she motioned over my shoulder,