1: The Undead.
I thought that losing the love of your life was the worst thing that could ever happen to you.
That was fucking naïve.
I also thought losing someone who cared, loved, needed, knew, and nurtured you was the worst thing possible. Again, wrong . . . life can get much worse than that.
As I lay bleeding on the cold concrete, I realised I wanted to live. I did . . . and I only realised this just as I was about to die.
It all became clear as I lay dying (almost dying) in a cold, muddy, dingy, dirty London alley. I realised that losing love, finding depression, escaping depression, finding love again, and possessing a reason to live only to be shot (repeatedly). Only to be saved by my ex-wife—Melissa (who I thought was dead), who isn’t dead, is worse.
She is also, technically, my wife again!
Horrific!
Not only that, but she had probably used me . . . for the duration of our marriage.
My wife died. And I’d resigned myself to death, too. I couldn’t do it to myself. But I saw no reason to live; nothing made me feel good anymore; I had been sticking my head in as many crosshairs as possible: Avenging Arthur.
I was determined to get vengeance, and I didn’t give a fuck about what happened in the melee or what I left in my wake.
Melissa died—and I was DEVASTATED. But the real twist lay at the end of my tale.
I met a woman called Ophelia, and we fell in love; she found me in the dark, at my lowest. She saw it all and didn’t run. I realised that I had genuine, unconditional love for the first time in my life. And I needed closure on what happened with Melissa to move forwards . . .
. . . My wife wasn’t dead, but my marriage was. I thought I had married someone who knew the real me. But what she needed was a foil, someone whom she could use. She encouraged me to use my darkness to eliminate bad people; I never questioned it. I was just happy to be seen by someone. And when she died, I thought I would be alone forever.
They say seeking vengeance is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
They are right. Revenge never ends!
But: I went in search of it anyway. And it nearly cost me everything.
I followed the trail of twats who had interfered in my life. And the breadcrumbs led me to a corrupt US Senator who had paid some idiots to kill my wife after she stumbled across their money laundering project.
Naturally, I went after the Senator and killed my way up the food chain to get to her. I didn’t know it then, but when I heard she had killed my wife—well, I lost it. And the Dirty Senator lost her life, unpleasantly, I should add. I opened her throat up like I was unzipping my sweater. Her bright blood bursting from her neck still lives rent-free in my mind.
But it was an intoxicated fit of rage, vitriol, and stupidity. My plan was poor, and in the ensuing chaos, I almost lost my life to hired muscle!
I should be grateful; as I lay on the ground watching the reaper sharpen his scythe like he was chalking a pool cue, I realised I had blown it, that my love (Ophelia) would be forever alone.
And then I got a second chance.
I know that I, too, have killed.
But it’s not something I do to make a living. There’s nothing whimsical about it. I am Arthur Norman; this is who I am. I have a blood lust. One that cannot be solved by anything other than primordial anger. Or so I thought . . .
I channel my anger into targeting the killers, rapists, and eternal damned that had a damn good lawyer (ironic). The people who fall through the cracks—I get what I need by despatching them. It isn’t particularly elegant or unique. But it is a tale as old as time.
I have no place in the world without releasing my tension. I cannot function unless I exercise my dark tendencies. So I do what I can to make the world a better place, to make me a better person. Ultimately, I hope it evens itself out in the long run; I’m not religious. But even God was said to have avenging angels.
It works! But I can be better.
My name is Arthur Norman; And this is my tale.
***
The events of London became a hazy blur. But from what I am told, it happened something like this:
The bullets missed any major working parts of my body (not enough to cause instant death) but did enough damage to require a lengthy convalescence, and I awoke to what I assumed would be hell, but it turns out it was much, much worse.
It was Camden!
I spent the better part of a month convalescing in a bleak basement. Cut off from the world, from my loves, with only a medical license-less doctor for company. The man knew his body parts but was jittery, strung out, and PTSD-addled—just one of the many former combat veterans left to hang out to dry.
My hospital was dark, sinister, and wreaked of middle-aged teen angst. The noise outside was incessant, my pain inexorable, and now and again, some punks would chirp up outside with a rendition of a song that seemed interminable and featured the words oi heavily.
I was in a world of pain, dust, drunk punks, dodgy doctors, and mental strife. I was doing Rubik’s cubes in the dark . . . with no hands. There was a considerable conflict and internal dissonance that trumped my physical pain. I had not seen this coming. It wasn’t ideal; it was not like it looked in the movies.
But anyway, enough of the past. That’s where it belongs . . . It has been over a year since I survived death, and my wife returned from it. It has been over a year since I killed anyone, and I think I would like to keep it that way. My plans went on the ice, mainly because I was shot three times and even shattered my femur. And I am in my late 30’s. It turns out rehabilitation is arduous.
But rehabilitate, I did.
I’m back; I’m better. And my priorities have changed. It’s time for Arthur Norman 2.0!
***
Living in a house that is occasionally ‘surprise’ frequented by your ex-wife is never fun.
She seems just to come and go with little warning. And I thought I knew her: I don’t.
As much as I am/was pleased to see her . . . at first. The situation is far from ideal. The novelty has gone—was it ever novel? Especially given that she is still supposed to be a criminal underworld member, and after what happened with Garcia, we both need to keep a low profile. I don’t know what it is she does or for whom. And I’m not in the mood to find out.
She died, broke my heart, and unlike Jesus, her resurrection is unwanted. After all, he didn’t return as a gun-toting psychopath, did he? Guns? It is so impersonal.
There is also the small matter of her true personality. I always thought it might take a special kind of person to live with a murderer—and it does.
As soon as I sell the house, Ophelia and I will be free of her forever. Until then, however . . .
. . . My whole life is currently in retrograde. I feel like I am being cursed for not reading at least one of my horoscopes or forwarding on an email chain, and to top it all off; Melissa seems to appear on a whim.
***
The house is up for sale, and we have had many, many viewings.
I am not a fan of estate agents; it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that I would rather spend the day playing Ping Pong with an angry sounder of wild boar. I don’t appreciate having strangers in my house, and I don’t like being on edge because my undead wife might appear at any moment.
But the house must be sold; the only way out is through.
I lie in bed, alone with my reverie. The king-sized mattress is empty and cold; as I sit up and stretch, there is no sign of life anywhere; I move from the crib and creep toward the window. My leg stiffens as I walk, and the dull, achy pain that feels like my leg is about to disintegrate moves into my eyes. I straighten out my stiff shoulder and gently pull back the curtain to look out over my domain.
June (nosey-fucking-neighbour-June) sits in the garden, rocking back and forth on her swing. She is alone; she is sad. Her melancholy surrounds her like an unwanted shadow. She never moves out of the dark. And I can empathise, finally.
June was married to a man named Mike. They had a rocky marriage. And Mike was a cunt*.
Still, June loved him, and now Mike is dead.
*One should not speak ill of the dead—Mike was a mini-cunt; sorry, Mike.
Anyway, Mike had a heart attack and died. It was sudden, but it wasn’t a shock. The man was mid-forties and rose early (to get to work and rut his secretary) and came home late. He drank, he smoked, he fucked, he ate, he fucked, and in between, he lived on caffeine, alcohol, and white powder. Mike seized up and died as he lived, balls deep in someone he shouldn’t be. The guy was a tool, a big one. But I feel for June; I do (I think). I’ve been there, and there is nothing worse . . . nothing at all . . . apart from moving on (finally), only to find out that they weren’t dead.
Surprise, all your grief was for nothing! Can you tell I’m annoyed?
Anyway, since Mike departed this world, June has spent her days in the garden on the swing; in the sun; in the rain, moving back and forth, back, and forth. As though she is waiting for Mike to walk through the door, enter the garden and start a fight with her about nothing. I would go and comfort her, but I know June; I already have enough problems with the ladies in my life. It would be tedious. It would be awful. I might be the new ‘Arthur’. But even new Arthur has his limits.
I hoped for a new beginning: in a way, I got one: I even have a job.
I watch June swing for a while before sneaking into the ensuite bathroom. My dead leg lingers on a floorboard, letting out a demonic groan. The sibilant sound hisses through the empty house and reminds me that I am alone.
There was a time when I would have given up my right leg (and most of my body) to get Melissa back— the leg even more so now, given how painful it is. But things changed; Melissa left, and Ophelia came in.
I suppose I should be happy. Happy that Melissa is alive, well, and free to pursue a life of twattery . . . and pleased that we have more in common than I previously thought. But I'm not. She lied to me for years, never mind that. I would give up my urges in a heartbeat if I could. Just Ascetic Arthur content to attend neighbourhood watch meetings and local council elections. Just a concerned citizen of East Oak. Nothing more, nothing less.
I’d kill not to have to kill.
In a way, I do.
I shelve my thoughts, enter the bathroom and switch on the shower before entering. The water crashes from the enormous, almost comically oversized showerhead and the condensation drifts up the walls.
I get in.
Despite turning the water up as high as it would go, my skin does not fall off, and I don't dissolve into the drain. So, thirty minutes later, I appear dressed and ready for work.
For work!
I (we) still have money, but I have been careless with it. Before I almost died, I gave my girlfriend, Ophelia, my bank cards . . . and she bought a small apartment in Greece—a place I have yet to visit. Neither of us has.
She also quit her job in preparation for a new life. I went from being Absolute Arthur. The man who didn’t work and thought the sum of his problems was heartbreak and social events, to this. Working. With people!
My wounds heal, and I grow stronger each day.
But go to work, I must.
I retreat from the shower, moving carefully by the window (lest June sees me) and into the bedroom; I reach into my cupboard and shelve my thoughts. I get dressed and don my uniform. I have tangled with some of the most dangerous and formidable people on the planet. But that is nothing compared to what I must deal with now: Estate agents and co-workers!
So now I do what most people do. I take the daily drugs; I commute, I work, I come home, and then in the small hours of the day, I find something mildly enjoyable to do.
Then I go to bed.
And do it all over again.
I woke up late the following day (as usual) and wasted the start of the morn in bed.
When I finally rise, I shower, dress, move into the kitchen, and pour myself a coffee; a viewing is minutes away, and facing a challenge like estate agents and people sans caffeine is a bad idea.
‘Hey, loser!’
It’s a voice I know all too well!
The words terrify me, and I startle. The porcelain mug falls from my grip and tumbles to the floor. I watch it spin, then smash as it hits the linoleum; I look up to see the person who belongs to the voice that shattered my mug and my reverie: Melissa!
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘That was my good mug.’
‘Hey, it’s not my fault you’re jumpier than a teenage girl.’
‘Most teenage girls don’t have to deal with surprise attacks from capitalist psychopaths . . . in their kitchen.’
‘It’s our kitchen! And what’s up with you? Someone woke up a sour puss this morning. What’s up sour puss, puss?’
‘One: I must go to work. And two: You’re supposed to be dead.’
Melissa moves from her shadow near the back door. She saunters into the kitchen, stepping carefully over the broken mug.
‘You should probably clear that up before the viewing!’
‘What are you doing here, Melissa?’
‘We have a house to sell, silly.’
‘Melissa—’ I begin. There are so many things I want and need to say. But I bite my tongue—literally, I might add. ‘You’re a wanted fugitive!’
‘So?’
‘So . . . you can’t just answer the door and play house.’
‘Eugh, fine. But you know you used to be fun.’
‘And you used not to be a sociopath.’
‘Things change, Arthur. Plus, you’re no different—’
‘I—’ I begin to compose a cogent defence. But just as I start . . .
. . . The doorbell rings and echoes through the house like a death knell.
I reach into the cupboard under the sink, retrieve a dustpan, and pin it against Melissa’s chest before stepping toward the door. I pause before I leave the kitchen, look back, and say: ‘If anyone asks, you’re the cleaner. And you don’t speak much English!’
‘The cleaner?’ Melissa protests, ‘That’s a bit of a sexist trope.’
‘Well, it’s that or International Undead Psychopathic Fugitive.’
‘Fine! But you used to be more playful; what happened, Arthur? Trouble at home?’
‘Yes. In this home. The one in which you were less murder-y!’
‘And you were less murder-y.’ she mocks. ‘It takes one to know one, Arthur. Are you that surprised? Admit it: you have a thing for dangerous women.’
‘I’m not getting into this now,’ I reply. ‘Cleaners, clean!’ And with that, I exit the kitchen and move to the front door.
Selling the house is proving to be a challenge. They say you can’t choose your buyers (they don’t, but they should). So far, I have had various viewings, which have been painful. I wouldn’t mind if a sale were guaranteed: it isn’t. But sell we must. And with each new viewing, I must suck it up, smile, show, and seethe silently.
The challenge is less to do with market values and more to do with the fact that no one wants to buy the house a woman died in—which is fair, although irony is having a field day because the dead woman is alive . . . and well . . . and currently hiding in the house.
We only NEED to sell the house because she isn’t dead, but we are struggling to do so because people think she is. I like a paradox, but this one can fuck off!
The family viewing the house today has seen the place four times!
FOUR!
And each viewing is the same. It’s the same house. It hasn’t gotten bigger or smaller. No one else has died in it (recently). And it has a pool, for Christ’s sake. But they might buy the house. A hope I am clinging on to, a hope that keeps me from adding more dead bodies to the listing. Which would, in turn, make it more difficult to sell.
The doorbell rings again: The Devil does not like to be kept waiting.
‘Just coming,’ I yell, despite the improbability that it will be heard. I dig deep into my dark soul and locate my best ‘I’m not going to kill you grin’.
I reach the door. I pause. I breathe. I pause again. I exhale. I open it.
‘Hi, Mr Norman,’ comes the overtly cheery fake greeting from the tall brunette standing on my unwelcome mate. I meet her glare. I look her up and down; she is well-dressed, elegant, and attractive. But she is in real estate! There will be horns and a tail somewhere.
I take another deep breath before inviting her in (they say it resets the brain).
You must invite vampires into your home; I wonder if it is the same with demons. I look at her (again) with an air of familiarity. I should know her name. I don’t.
‘Hi . . . ’
‘ . . . Amanda,’ are the words that fall from the demon’s mouth.
I shake her hand—for as little time as possible—before we are joined by a miserable-looking couple, followed by their equally dour daughter and a boy who already looks like he should be on a ‘most wanted’ list. They descend upon the house; they wipe their feet in unusual unison. They step inside. They have been here on four previous occasions. But this is the first time I have met them. I didn’t want to, but I’ll do anything to rid myself of the house, of Melissa—if that involves meeting them or taking their severed hand and signing the bill of sale.
Then so be it.
The man enters, then looks up at me and smiles. I don’t know why he’s smiling. They look like the British ‘chav’ version of the Addams Family. The father’s polo shirt is about two sizes too small, and either he dripped egg on it recently, or it is a very niche part of the pattern. His wife is a Real Housewife of Winchester: a haggard, husky harpy. The boy looks like he will one day be featured on the front of a magazine cover for having touched someone or something he shouldn’t have, and the girl has pigtails, and her eyes are permanently glued to TikTok, Bleeper, or whatever it is the kids are slaves to these days.
I cobble my best fake smile/greeting combo and usher them in. Derek—his name is Derek—introduces his wife Kathleen, his son Derek Jr—as if being called Derek wasn’t bad enough—and their daughter Tara-Jane. I smile some more, make unoffensive small talk and then excuse myself in the direction of the kitchen.
I get two steps toward it when Melissa appears from nowhere, and I almost physically bump into her.
‘Hi,’ she says, introducing herself. ‘I’m the cleaner; I don’t speak much English.’
If I could have made a diorama of this morning and how it would have played out, it wouldn’t have been this fucked-up.
Still, I don’t have time for this.
I must work.
I leave the Chav Addams in the hands of the hellhound and the cleaner, who doesn’t speak much English and make my way back upstairs.
Today, work will be an upgrade!
