Not Dead

Chapter One



The dull walls glared down at the man as he sat and fidgeted in his rigid plastic chair. Somebody cleared their throat loudly behind a closed door. An array of self-help leaflets were scattered on a table beside him; titles such as “Drugs: Don't Do Them” and “The Abomination Of Alcohol” stood out. The man let out a quiet but hearty giggle as he picked up the former and flicked through it. He quickly put it back on the table as a burly policeman with a greying “number two” haircut called him over in a harsh but bored voice.



“Right, what seems to be the problem, mate?” The policeman asked the man in a gruff voice.



“Well,” the man begun, “I'm not entirely sure you'll believe me if I do tell you, but it all started last night, when I was visiting some... Some friends, across town.



“It was about... nine pm, maybe nine oh five, I got to my... Friend's house, buzzed the buzzer and he let me right up. As I got upstairs, I could tell something was wrong. He'd invited over a bunch of his big, butch men, the type you really don't want to have a cuppa with and not exactly the type who share conversation. Anyway, this mate of mine, I owed him a bit of cash. Didn't think he minded as such, never really has before.



“Anyway, we get down to business, cuppa in hand and, my mate, he says, 'Jack, you managed to get hold of that money yet?' I tell him, I say, 'no mate, times are hard at the minute, the missus just packed up and skinted me.' Not that he doesn't know this already. Now, the guy who's sat next to me just looks at me and smirks. I smirk back, not really getting it, then my mate, he smirks too and, before I know it, the other guy, probably the weediest one, but not really weedy at all, he pulls out a gun. Just a small one. Black, with a chunky handle and a little nozzle.



“Obviously, I freak out. I mean, this guy has a gun. So, I take a sip of my tea and then I jump up and tell him I best be leaving. At that point, they all jump up too. So I bolt. Over the sofa, through the kitchen, out the door and down the stairs. I guess that's the one thing I had on them guys, with all that extra weight they had; I could run much quicker. So, I get to the main door and shove it open with my shoulder. Keep running, like. I'm running down the street and I know I'm a bit ahead of them so I turn a corner, but not long after, I hear their big, beefy footsteps behind me. I swear, obviously, 'cause wouldn't you?” He paused and looked at the police officer, who had one eyebrow raised as if to say that he most definitely would not swear. Then he swallowed and continued his story.



“Right... So anyway, they're running after me and I'm getting a bit out of breath, but they're all quite a bit older than me, I'm only twenty-nine, they're all maybe forty, mid-forties, so I figure they must be getting tired too, right? Wrong. I daren't stop. I just keep running. There's plenty more city to run through. By this time, though, it's quiet. 'Specially at this time of year. Not that anyone would help us anyway, like. So I just keep running, hoping that the mug with the gun can't shoot and run at the same time. It's a feeble hope, but so far he hasn't tried shooting me.



“Anyway, I turn down Queen Lizzie street, down near the old Rusty Anchor pub, the one that's been boarded up a few years and, as I'm running, I realise I'd run down the wrong street and was about to hit a dead end. My heart's going crazy by this point and I know that if I don't stop, I'm gonna pass out pretty sharpish anyway, so I'm pretty much done for. I have maybe two, three minutes before they're gonna catch up with me, I do a couple of 'Hail Mary's, not particularly religious but hey, if there's a heaven, I'd like to end up there. Then I just sit on a bin down behind the old wreck of a pub and wait. Trying to look confident at this point, probably not succeeding but hey, no one ever thought I would succeed in anything at school and I went and got a B in Maths.



“So there I am, sat on the bin, legs crossed, arms folded, grin on my face and chin sticking out. I am bricking it, but I wouldn't want them to know that now, would I. My mate just stands there, all Hollywood style. I'm half expecting a tumble-weed to roll past, but no one's chewing on straw. So then he speaks, a Brixton accent, may I add. He'd do well as an Italian-American though, much more Hollywood. Well, his mouth curves up just slightly at the side as he says 'Jack, nobody messes me around and gets away with it, you should know that by now.' He smiles and beckons the weediest one over. I see his hand wrap around the gun and pull it back out of his pocket. I keep smiling, even when he pulls the trigger. Doesn't take long 'til I'm dead on the floor. That's when it gets real weird.”

The policeman sighed and rolled his eyes. “Can we just get on with it? I haven't got all day.” The young man muttered an apology, wide eyed, took a deep breath and then continued.



“So I'm lying there on the floor, having fell off the bin when the twit shot me and I guess from their reaction that I'm dead. All of a sudden there's this gorgeous lass stood in front of me, mouth opened in a toothy smile, except, next to her front four teeth at the top were, like, two sets of sharp, pointy fangs. But she's hot. She's quite a busty lass, long blonde hair, blue eyes, wearing a white dress, kind of Marilyn Monroe but longer. Here's the weirdest bit though; she has wings. Like, full on white feathery wings, sprouting from her back. I figured I was just hallucinating, being dead and all. She leans towards me, still smiling, fangs bared, but I'm perfectly good with it. Or I would be. You see, through all this, the big, butch guys are still there. One of them, the thug looking one without the gun, he stands and stares, then lifts one finger and points at the hot chick. She stops in her tracks, then all of a sudden, the guy grabs the gun off the weedy one and he shoots her, right in the side. Her eyes go wide and I think I must pass out or something, 'cause I hear this voice, then I wake up about 'alf an hour ago and I'm alive and alone behind the bins. I think they have her though. Will you help me, mate?”



The policeman just stared, one eyebrow still raised. “Help you what, exactly?”



Jack looked at him confused. “Well, they shot me! They shot that beautiful woman too! They killed me and they kidnapped her, surely there's something you can do?!”



The policeman let out a single “ha”. Then gestured for the young man to lean closer. In a soft and mocking voice, he said, “But you're not dead and angels don't exist. Your pupils are extremely dilated and you smell a little of booze and cannabis. The best I can do for you is tell you to go home and get a good nights rest, sober up and, if you still feel like this in the morning, go and see a psychiatrist. Now can you please let me get on with my job and deal with some real cases? Cheers.”



Without another word he shooed Jack away with his hand and picked up a pile of paperwork, licking the tip of his finger before flicking through the pile. Jack screwed up his face in disbelief and left the building in a withdrawn manner. Outside, he rested his forehead on the cold brick of the building and sighed. He looked down and unbuttoned his jacket, seeing the stain of the blood on his shirt around his chest. Unbuttoning the first few buttons of the shirt, he examined his wound which had already healed and looked like a scar from an injury that happened a long time ago. It was proof, to Jack, of the night before, but not much proof to anybody else. He slapped his palm hard against the wall and growled.



A policeman walked past him and stared before asking Jack to move on. Jack buttoned up his shirt and jacket again, put his hands in his pockets and walked away from the police station, alone.

In his head, he could hear the voice of the woman who had saved him. He didn't know what she had said, but he could tell she was afraid.