I don't know why I'm writing this. It's never going to be read. And even if it is, no one is ever going to believe me. I guess it's just something I have to do. After all that's happened I feel like I've got to produce something by way of explanation. Not that it will do me any good. They'll all think I murdered Phil. I mean, I was the one having the affair with him, although I don't know whether you could go so far as to call it that. But I know they will. It'll be the same old story, they'll say. He couldn't handle who or what he was so he killed the man he both loved and hated. Typical repression-compensation-aggression behavior, they'll say. Or some crap like that.
I'm babbling now, I admit it. But it's not because I'm mad. This is good old-fashioned fear that's making me so nervous. And with good reason.
Let me start at the beginning.
My name is Kieran O'Donohugh, and I'm a rock journalist. Sorry, I was a rock journalist. Pretty good one too, although I do say so myself. All the major magazines courted me. Rolling Stone, NME, Vanity Fair - you name them, they showed an interest. But I told them all to go to hell, although I don't think I ever put it so politely. I was accountable to no one but the kids on the street, bringing the voice of a generation to the ear of those whom refused to listen.
I realise now that all that's crap. Still, it's too little too late.
Anyway, it wasn't my articles that made me a household name. It was my biographies. At least, that's what I called them. Really they were exposes. Actually, they were character assassinations, pure and simple. You might have heard of some of them - they all began with the phrase "Whatever happened to..." followed by the name of my latest victim. The public loved them. They would buy them by the score, hungry for whatever skeletons were lurking in those famous closets to come bursting out, propelled by my pen through such lurid sentences and revelations that they could never be locked away again. And they made me rich in the process.
Of course, it couldn't last. In fact, I should have seen it coming. Listening to all those has-beens, would-bes and never-weres I should have learned a little more about fate and karma instead of nodding in all the right places while my pen took note of the little details they hoped I would miss. But I didn't. I was hungry for more victims, and Malice seemed like the perfect choice.
Even if you've never heard of me, you must have heard of Malice. One of the most controversial bands of the last ten years, it was hard to say which they were better known for - their harsh, Generation X-based anti-living songs, or the increasingly anti-social behaviour of their lead singer, Maxi Malice. When she mysteriously disappeared in 19-- the whole rock industry breathed a sigh of relief. Even her fellow band members seemed relieved, and soon they had all gone their separate ways, following different projects and forming new groups. None of them were ever willing to discuss their ex-lead singer but all of them agreed that her vanishing act was the nicest thing she had ever done for them.
For me, Maxi Malice was the perfect subject. Rude, belligerent and darkly unpleasant, she seemed like just the kind of person who had something to hide. Something really big and juicy that I could milk for all it was worth into another best seller. And best of all, she was no longer on the scene to complain when her secrets came flooding out. I could write without fear of threat or litigation. It was almost too good to be true!
Ironically, this turned out to be exactly the case.
Now, any amateur in this business might believe that the best person to have started with was Michael Jonas, the bass player. After all, not only was he a guiding light in forming the band and propelling them to stardom, he was also Maxi's brother. As diplomatic and uninteresting as his sister was rude and scandalous, Michael was well known in the rock world for being the one to clean up his sister's messes. If anyone would know all her guilty secrets, it was he. He seemed like the perfect person to start with.
Which is why I didn't. I've been in this game for long enough not to trust anything so obvious as a rich source. True he probably knew a lot, but his reputation for decency was so solid I knew he would never pass on anything scandalous about someone close to him. Besides, my hatchet jobs had made me a well-known name by then. It would've been a very stupid person indeed who talked to me openly about their past and its secrets, and Michael was nowhere near that stupid.
Fortunately, I knew someone who was.
It seems odd to think about it now, but when I was at school there was this kid in my year called Danny Gosling. One of that strange, skinny little type who are always eager to be the centre of attention but never seem to fit in anywhere. The sort who talk about being rock stars or world-famous novelists when they grow up, but end up working in a bank or something. Funny thing is, Danny really did grow up to be a rock star. He trained as a drummer and eventually ended up joining a band called - yes, you're way ahead of me on this one - Malice.
Danny was always a wild one, even at school. He became infamous for his graphic flaunting of the school's authority -turning up drunk for his GCSEs, smoking something stronger than cigarettes behind the bike shed. It was even rumoured that he was having an affair with one of the male teachers. Not that anything was ever proven, but Danny never denied it. And once he was thrust into the limelight along with the rest of Malice, he became worse. In fact, if Maxi hadn't presented herself as such an obvious target I would've written about Danny instead.
So it wasn't very difficult to arrange a meeting with him. All I had to do was phone him up and remind him about our school days together. Funny thing was, he remembered me. Took me by surprise that did since I was even more of an outsider at school than Danny was. Anyway, it turned out he was doing some session work in London so we arranged to meet in a near-by pub after he had finished at the studio for the day.
I guess it was there that things began to go wrong. You see, Danny was renown throughout the industry for being both openly an alcoholic and bisexual - a combination which left many sections of the media uncertain whether they should applaud or vilify him. It was a running joke amongst certain colleagues of mine that any interview you did with him usually ended with him getting pissed and trying to get into your pants. This was pure malice on their part but it scared the shit out of me - I was so homophobic back then it should have been obvious I had something to hide, but it wasn't. I managed to fool everybody in those days. Including myself.
So we met in the pub and had a few drinks, then we played some pool and drank a bit more. By this time Danny was pretty hammered so it wasn't difficult for me to steer the conversation round to his time in Malice and, just as I hoped, he was pretty forthcoming. At first he didn't give me much to get excited about. He told me that Maxi's real name was Jennifer Jonas, that she had left school at the age of 16 to form the band, and that she had become a right little pain in the arse to work with once they had hit the big time. He also told me some of Maxi's juicier exploits that had been kept out of the papers – entertaining in their own way but hardly scandalous enough to grab the attention of the ghouls who I fondly knew as my readers. So I was about ready to call it a night when Danny let slip the one detail that set my journalistic instincts twitching like it was a royal scandal.
Apparently (according to Danny) it wasn't Michael who had helped Maxi guide the band in the beginning – it was Tom Dreyfus, their manager. It seems that the two of them were pretty close back then, working together late into the night in order to try to make the band a success financially as well as musically. Danny even told me that they went abroad together once or twice in early 19--, when Malice were just starting to make an impression on the international scene.
Of course, none of this would have mattered if Tom had been single. But as every good music journo knows, Tom Dreyfus was renown throughout the industry as being the last of the truly faithful managers, both to the band and to his wife. And since he had been married well before he had become Malice's manager! I could almost hear the skeleton rattling as I sat there.
Unfortunately my thoughts were interrupted at that point by Danny trying to stick his tongue down my throat. No, that's a nasty way of putting it. Makes it sound like it was planned when I guess it was really a spur of the moment thing. And it wasn't even much of a kiss – just a sloppy wet peck on the lips that tasted of larger and spit and cigarettes. A gauche gesture of attraction made by someone renown for his over the top behaviour. I really shouldn't have responded by trying to smash my glass over his head.
I don't remember too much of what happened next. All I know for certain is that I woke up the next morning locked in a cell at a police station with a splitting headache, a broken nose, a black eye and a charge of Disturbing the Peace. I was amazed it wasn't more but the sergeant on duty told me that Danny didn't want to press charges of assault. Turns out that he felt it wasn't my fault; he admitted he was out of line doing what he did and it wasn't fair that I should be made to suffer for my reaction. I should've been more grateful towards the guy but all I thought at the time was how well I'd put one over on the little queer. Really pathetic of me I know but that was the kind of guy I was back then.
I got hauled up in front of the magistrate soon after I awoke - Danny might not have been pressing charges but the police certainly were. Fortunately I still had a large part of the commission from my last book resting in my accounts so I easily paid my own bail, despite its size. And so I was given a warning to turn up for trial in one month's time and released back onto the streets, ready and eager to continue my investigations.
My next move was to try and talk to Tom Dreyfus, but first I had to make sure I actually had something to talk about. I mean, Danny could've been spinning me a line just because he liked the way my blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight or something. So I called in a few favours from some people I knew who worked at Malice's old recording label. Sure enough, their records showed that in 19-- Tom Dreyfus had made two business trips abroad - one to America, one to Japan - from which he had made numerous odd expenses claims. These included visits to amusement parks, unusually large restaurant bills and (and this was the clincher) a double-room in the hotel, both times!
I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
With my suspicions confirmed (or at least confirmed enough for me to write about them) I set about organising a trip to Ireland, where Tom and his wife Nancy had retired to after the break-up of the band. Of course I had to do it in secret since I doubt the police would've understood enough to let me go. Maybe if I had told them where I was going things might have turned out differently. Maybe not.
Ireland is a place of special memories for me. Not only was I born there, but it also has a strong association with my very first best seller. You see the subject of my very first "Whatever happened to…" book was an Irish singer my Mum used to love called Phillip Mulligan. Needless to say, when she found out he was a pot smoking, dress-wearing homosexual, she never bought another of his albums again. Nor did any of his other fans. His career collapsed practically overnight and my reputation as a hatchet man was guaranteed. Oddly enough, however, Phillip didn't mind in the slightest. In fact, I later remember reading an interview with him in which he said he was much happier having been forced out of the closest and that he had become a big name campaigner for equality for homosexuals under Irish law. Go figure.
The only reason I mention him was because he had a house very near to the village where Tom Dreyfus and his wife lived. Not that that meant much to me at the time but its funny how these things work out.
Well, maybe it isn't so funny for Phil. Or Tom.
The flight from Heathrow to Dublin was pretty straightforward, and from there I drove a hired car down to the village where the Dreyfuses lived and got myself a room at one of the guesthouses in the area. After that it was merely a case of locating the Dreyfuses' house and planning my approach from there. In the end I decided on a full-frontal assault. It was as unsubtle as hell but fuck it; between the information I had and my ability to create wild theories I thought I had enough to get Tom Dreyfus to talk.
I watched the place for three days before I made my move. I knew that Tom would've known enough of my reputation not to want to even answer the door to me but I didn't think his wife would be quite so in touch. If I visited while Tom was out I was sure I could charm my way into being asked in for a cup of tea until Tom came home. Perhaps my healing injuries might also help by invoking a maternal sense of sympathy.
In both these respects I was right on the button, which is why Tom Dreyfus came home that night to find his wife having tea with one of the most infamous hacks the world of rock journalism has ever produced.
The expression on his face as his wife introduced me was priceless. He had recognised me at once and I could tell he was less than happy to see me – a fact that was confirmed a few seconds later when he started to demand that I get out of his house. I sat there calmly while he shouted: grinning in a way that I knew was just guaranteed to antagonise him more. Then, during a momentary pause for breath, I let him know why I was there.
The moment I mentioned Maxi Malice he turned as white as a sheet and sat down rather hurriedly. His mouth flapped open and shut a few times but no sound came out so I hurriedly pressed home my advantage. Once I'd finished explaining my theory about his affair with Maxi (embellished with a few accusations about drug smuggling and pimping) he looked like he was going to have a stroke. His face had turned an ashen grey colour and his eyes seemed almost to be pleading as he looked at me. I was certain I had struck gold.
Except his next reaction threw me totally for a loop. Instead of breaking down in tears and confessing all he simply stood up and, in a trembling voice, demanded once more that I leave. I was amazed. Despite all but confirming my accusations through his reaction, the man still had the balls to refuse to comment. I was impressed enough to give him one more chance to tell me his story, but he still wouldn't play ball. He just stood there looking sick and demanded that I leave. So I did.
I must admit, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I drove away. Tom may not have told me exactly what happened between him and Maxi but his body language let me know I had more or less worked it out correctly. There may be a few details missing here and there but I knew I had enough to be able to write some really sizzling text without fear of libel. And that thought made me feel as high as a kite.
Which is why I should've seen coming what happened next. I mean, I know I'm good but things were just going too smoothly for everything to be well. I just didn't think that things would proceed in the way that they did.
The first sign that something was wrong was the radio died. That might not sound like much but when you're speeding down a small country road in the dead of night, you need something to keep you company. Not that I felt that anything was wrong when it happened; I just blamed my car's wiring. But then I noticed the fog gathering outside. And I don't just mean that thin wispy stuff you get on cold nights. I mean the really thick, gunky, almost solid stuff that some call a "pea souper". Except that this wasn't the usual pea-soup colour. It was white. Like the smoke you get from smoke machines, except that this lot was so white it was almost luminescent. And it was almost completely surrounding the car.
Then all four of the doors locked themselves at the same time. I know that sounds like something out of a cheap horror movie but I swear to God that's what happened. They just locked themselves shut and I couldn't lift the knobs, no matter how hard I tried. Which wouldn't usually have mattered, except that the minute the doors were locked the car started to accelerate.
God, I remember that moment so well. Neither the radio nor the fog had bothered me, and as for the car doors locking, well, that was just too ridiculous to even be contemplated. But the sight of that red needle slowly creeping round the dial just filled me with the most overwhelming fear I have ever felt. I sat there terrified as the scenery whizzed passed me, desperately pumping the brake pedal with my foot in an attempt to somehow halt the nightmarish ride, but it was no good. Whatever was controlling that car, it sure as hell wasn't me.
A few seconds later I heard the sound of breaking glass. I turned around as best I could and saw, to my horror, the back windscreen had been completely destroyed and the fog was seeping in through the hole. In that moment I realised that the fog was in control and was somehow trying to get me. Completely irrational I know, but in the circumstances I just felt I had to get free of that fog. So I grabbed at the steering wheel and tried to turn it. It wouldn't move. Desperately I braced myself and gave the wheel one almighty twist.
The car flew off the road and straight into the bushes. The ground was too much for my city-worn tires to handle and the car's forward momentum was forced back on itself, flipping the car over onto its side and straight into a tree. My whole body jerked hard against the seatbelt, so I hastily undid it and began to look for a way out, trying not to be distracted by the steady pounding that was starting to fill my head. Fortunately the window immediately next to me had started to break during the crash so, aided by adrenaline, I finished the job and hauled myself out.
I don't know how I managed it but seconds later I was out of that car and sprawled on the grass outside, panting with exhaustion. It took me about a minute to get my breath back, sit up and look around. And it was then that I saw the weirdest thing I will ever see in my life. Just a few metres ahead of me sat the luminous fog. Only it wasn't spread out anymore, like normal fog, it was like a solid cloud of the stuff about a metre and a bit in height. And standing in the middle of it, shrouded like it was some special effect, was Maxi Malice.
Swear to God it was! I mean, she was unmistakable - that long black hair, that pale white face. She stared at me with those fierce grey eyes that had unnerved many a journalist and suddenly my head was filled with her voice, telling me to leave her the fuck alone or I'd regret it. Then she raised a gracefully slim finger and pointed just over my shoulder. From behind me I heard a whining noise - gentle at first but gradually increasing in pitch and volume. I turned to see what it was and saw my upturned car beginning to glow.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what was about to happen. Suddenly the aftershock of the accident vanished and I leapt to my feet, another burst of adrenaline pushing me into a run that I wouldn't even think about attempting under normal circumstances. I think I covered about 100 metres before there was a loud explosion behind me and a wave of heat knocked me to the ground. But after everything that had happened, I wasn't going to let something like an explosion stop me so I picked myself up and continued running.
I don't know how long I was running that night, or where I went. All I remember is hammering on someone's door and being led inside a large, warm house. I was pretty out of it by then and could only make out vague impressions, such as someone leading me up some stairs or holding me warmly and me thinking it was nice. Then there was softness where there had been hard and I finally allowed myself to sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.
. I woke up late the next afternoon to find myself lying in a big four-poster bed with Phillip Mulligan standing next to me, a concerned look on his face. It turned out that the front door I hammered on late last night was his; a fact that, he told me, would've led him under normal circumstances to call the Garda. However, when he saw me shivering on the doorstep and saw how awful I looked he swiftly changed his mind. I was in a really bad way when he let me in - crying continuously and oblivious to almost everything - and it had been all he could do to get me up the stairs and help me to bed, and even then I didn't stop shaking for hours. He told me he knew this because he hadn't left my side all night. The soppy sod was so worried about me that he had sat up half the night and watched me to make sure I was OK.
And the strange thing was, I felt grateful. Up until he told me this I had been squirming. I mean, waking up in the bedroom of a known homosexual who was standing nearby wearing nothing but a dressing gown…my homophobia was having a field day and I could feel myself preparing to lash out at Phil and try to escape. But the moment he told me how he had stayed with me I suddenly realised that I couldn't be nasty to this man. I had been through hell last night and he had been good enough to take me in and shelter me when shock had rendered me incapable of helping myself. So when he asked me how I was feeling now I smiled and told him the truth. I even managed to thank him for looking after me. And he had smiled in response and told me that it was OK and I could stay as long as I needed to until I felt better.
I stayed at Phil's house for about a week and it was probably one of the best times of my life. Of course, the Garda called round concerning the burnt-out remains of my car and I had to tell them about my bail jumping, which in turn meant I had to have two very unpleasant conversations - one with the Superintendent at the station, the other with the police back in England. Fortunately Phil had a good solicitor who helped me explain everything so that I ended up losing my bail money but was allowed to continue resting in Ireland before returning back a week before my trial.
Apart from that, everything was perfectly quiet. And I don't know whether it was the shock of the accident or Phil's almost overwhelming niceness, but I found myself beginning to question some of my attitudes. And it soon became apparent that I had a lot of things in my life to reconsider. Like my behaviour towards Danny in the pub. And certain events that had occurred in my past. And the fact that Phillip Mulligan was still quite attractive for a man in his forties. And the fact that I fancied him.
Not that I did anything about this. A week isn't long enough to sort out questions about your sexuality, and I didn't know how Phil would feel even if I had been comfortable enough to tell him. Besides which, on the seventh day I received a visitor who was destined to change my life forever.
Michael Jonas.
I remember I was coming down the stairs when Phil let him in. He didn't see me at first, but then our eyes somehow managed to meet and the look he gave me was enough to put butterflies in my stomach. Suddenly I saw how much he resembled his sister, and this didn't reassure me one little bit. Still, I couldn't avoid him now he was here so I calmly descended and went over to meet him.
To my surprise he seemed nervous. He said there was something he needed to discuss privately with me about the book I was writing and asked if there was anywhere where we could talk. I wasn't too surprised by this: the fact he was there warned me that he knew about the book and I suspected he wanted to threaten me with something nasty and legal to stop whatever I had found out from being published. So I asked Phil if he could suggest a room and Phil (bless him) announced he was going out for a while so it didn't matter where we went since he wouldn't be around to listen.
We eventually settled ourselves down in the living room - well, I settled myself down anyway. Michael seemed too on edge to want to sit anywhere and instead paced up and down the room like a caged animal, his brow furrowed in thought. After a couple of minutes of this I grew bored and asked him what he wanted. And he told me.
He knew about my book because about a week ago he had received a call from a very distressed Tom Dreyfus concerning my visit. Normally Michael would've just set his lawyers on me, but Tom had let slip about my accident and Michael knew he had to come and see me in person. Apparently my initial instincts had been right; something had happened on one of Tom's trips abroad with Maxi, but it wasn't what I had thought, although (Michael added bitterly) it might have been better for everyone if it had been. However, if I was willing to keep an open mind and promise not to publish anything he was willing to tell me exactly what did happen. For my own safety.
If Michael had told me this before the accident I would've lied to hear his story and published it regardless. But something in his manner told me to play it straight with this man. So I agreed and he told me the following tale.
Maxi Malice hadn't always been the mega-bitch she appeared to be in public. In fact, whilst she was at school she was pretty OK. A little wild maybe, with a head full of dreams, but the worst thing they ever made her do was leave school at 16. And she certainly had the dedication and chutzpah to make sure those dreams come true. That's why she formed the band.
It was also her dedication that led to Tom Dreyfus becoming Malice's manager. He was a pretty big name in those days and Malice was a small band, but through a mixture of begging letters, wheedling phone-calls and outright trickery, Maxi managed to persuade Tom to take an interest in the band. And Tom was so impressed by the boisterously charming 16-year-old Maxi that he agreed to manage the band just on the strength of her approach.
Tom and Maxi worked well together. They managed to get Malice signed to a pretty well known label and soon the band was recording their first album. From there came their first single, which everyone knows went straight into the Top 40 and swiftly made it to number 1, thanks to Tom's contacts and Maxi's imaginative approach to publicity. For a time the newspapers couldn't get enough of Malice and it seemed like nothing could stop their meteoric rise.
Then came the trips abroad. Malice had been doing well in England but had yet to break into the American market - something no British band had ever managed to do successfully since the Beetles. So Tom went on a business trip to America to see representatives of an American record label and of course Maxi came along too. They shared the same hotel room because Maxi wasn't officially supposed to be there - she had sneakily bought a one-way ticket to America, knowing that Tom would be too kind-hearted to force her to return to England - but nobody commented. Besides, Tom saw Maxi as the daughter he never had so there was nothing suspect in them sharing a room.
Oddly enough, I believe this.
Anyway, the American visit went well, but for some obscure legal reason the representatives wanted both Tom and Maxi to do a follow-up visit to their Japanese office in Tokyo. And it was there that something happened.
You see, for all her bright ideas and imagination, Maxi Malice was rather a naïve young woman with a love of action and excitement. And whilst Tokyo might be a fascinating place to visit as a tourist, it's less exciting when you're forced to stick to an official itinerary. So by the third day Maxi was restless and bored.
Her mood wasn't helped that day by the trip that had been planned for her and Tom by their Japanese hosts. It turned out that one of the executives they were meeting with came from a long line of noble and wealthy merchants. This enabled them to own and maintain one of the biggest family cemeteries in the whole of Japan; a place that the executive thought was worth showing to the famous rock star and her manager.
It must have been an impressive sight. Because of the family's connection with pottery, the cemetery forwent the traditional gravestones and other markers, preferring instead to mark each family member's grave with a small clay statue of whoever it was that was buried there. Tom was greatly moved by the sight of all those statues lined up like a little clay army of the dead, but Maxi was unimpressed. After all, what's a bunch of statues to a young woman who was well on the way to making her first million? The way they sat there in neat little rows reminded her of nothing more than skittles. Which is probably why she starting to dance amongst them, trying to keep in between the gaps without knocking any of them over. She did quite well at first, jumping this way and that; nimbly navigating the gaps with her feet hardly touching the ground. And nobody seemed to be paying her any attention.
That is, until she tripped and fell, filling the air with the sound of a dozen honourable ancestors shattering as one.
The outrage caused by this desecration was enormous. It set Malice's international career back by years, as well as ending the working partnership between Maxi and Tom. From then on the record company forbade Maxi from being involved in anything other than the music, and it is said that it was this ban that began her transformation into the media menace she became infamous as.
Except that it wasn't. In fact, it wasn't until a few months before her disappearance that the real reason was discovered. Maxi's behaviour in that time had reached the point where even her long-suffering brother was becoming fed up with it. But she was still his sister and so, being a methodical man, Michael had begun to investigate into her past to try to find out what might have happened to turn his once bearable sister into the Bitch Queen from hell. And it was this that led Michael back to Japan, where he learned about hungry ghosts.
Now, I know bugger all about Japanese mythology but this was how Michael explained it to me. The Japanese believe that when anyone dies, the proper rituals must appease their spirit or it becomes a hungry ghost: a nasty spirit who is trapped in this world and consumes life force. This appeasement, however, is not just limited to one occasion; if the person's grave is ever treated with any disrespect then the hungry ghost is released back onto Earth, ready to consume whatever they could find.
In other words, when Maxi destroyed those statues she released a whole host of hungry ghosts who had taken control of the nearest living thing they could find. Her.
I think my disbelief showed openly when Michael told me this because he grinned and said he couldn't believe it either, at first. But when he sat down and analysed everything Maxi had said and done after the Japanese trip to what she was like before then things began to slot into place. Which led to another terrifying conclusion. Because nowhere in Japanese folklore does it tell you how to get a person back once a hungry ghost has claimed them. So Michael knew there was only one thing he could do.
I won't go into the unpleasant details because Michael didn't either. He just said it was the most horrible thing he'd ever had to do, and the pain and grief were so intense in his eyes that I knew he was telling the truth. Of course, he couldn't risk doing it alone, so he had asked for help from someone who had once cared about Maxi very much. Which is why Tom Dreyfus had reacted so badly when I had barged in on him like that.
And there it should have ended, but for one little detail: my crash. After Michael finished his story I told him everything that happened that night, including the fact that I saw his supposedly dead sister in the fog. He didn't even blink as I told him, just sat there impassively. When I had finished he sighed and nodded. He said that he suspected something had gone wrong. When he and Tom had…concluded matters he had somehow felt that they hadn't done enough. Of course, things had been quiet ever since then so he had slowly stopped worrying about it. But if I had seen Maxi Malice then that meant that somehow the spirit had survived. And as far as Michael could tell, the only way that could've happened was if it had found itself another host. One who would've known about my interest in Maxi's past and my confrontation with Tom Dreyfus…
The moment the words were out of Michael's mouth it became pretty fucking obvious to both of us who the new host might be, and moments later we were in Michael's car, heading for the Dreyfuses' house.
When we got there, the place looked almost suspiciously quiet. There were no lights on in any of the windows and the front door looked firmly locked. However, when I went to investigate I found that it had only been left on the latch and swung open easily when I pushed it.
This wasn't reassuring.
Inside the quiet was almost tangible, and the air was heavy and oppressive, like the kind you get in old wardrobes that need a good airing out. It was also filled with a faintly disquieting coppery smell; a smell that for some reason put me in mind of the old butchers my family used to use when I was a kid. Of the Dreyfuses there was no sign. For a second Michael and I looked at each other and then, as if by some unvoiced agreement, we went forward to see what we could find.
It was in the kitchen that we found Tom. It was also in the kitchen that we found the source of the coppery smell, which was also to do with Tom. Or at least had been once. Now it was to do with most of the floor and walls, as well as the gaping hole in Tom's chest where most of the rest of him had once been. I took one look at the mess and fled the room, my stomach heaving. Outside it heaved one too many times and I found myself being noisily sick in the corner of the Dreyfuses' hallway. As I did so I heard the sound of Michael coming out to join me. He waited until I had finished before handing me a tissue and raising an issue that neither of us really wanted to discuss. If Tom was dead, where the hell had Maxi's spirit gone?
That question was answered thirty seconds later when the front door swung open and Mrs Dreyfus tottered in, her eyes wild, her dress dark and stiff with what could only be the remains of her husband's chest contents. I could sense Michael tensing next to me, ready to finish the job he had started with his sister, so I shot out an arm and restrained him. I wasn't an expert but seemed to me from the way Mrs Dreyfus was standing there, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, that if Maxi Malice's spirit had controlled this woman, it wasn't present any longer. In fact, it didn't look like anyone controlled of Mrs Dreyfus any more. She tottered forward, her legs moving almost automatically towards us, her gaze shifting randomly around the room without appearing to take any notice of any of it. Her mouth was moving soundlessly now, repeating the same pattern over and over, almost as if trying to say something. After watching it for a few cycles I began to make out a pattern.
When I worked out she was mouthing the name "Phillip Mulligan" I was out of that house and in Michael's car before anyone had noticed. By the time Michael realised what I was doing and came out to stop me, I was just a rapidly shrinking dot on the horizon.
Which was really stupid of me. If I had stopped to think it over I would've realised it was a trap. Well…I should've realised, at any rate. I mean, why would Mrs Dreyfus be mouthing the name "Philip Mulligan" unless he was the last person she had met? And Phil did say he was going out…
Maybe I'm rationalising with hindsight. Actually I doubt I would have realised any of this immediately because when I got back I found everything in order and Phil was alive and well and preparing us some dinner in the kitchen. At least, I thought it was Phil. It was only when he picked up a very sharp knife and fixed me with a steely grey gaze that I had seen only a week ago at the scene of my crash that I realised that whatever was controlling Phil's body, it sure as hell wasn't Phil.
Besides, Phil's eyes were green.
So I killed him. Or rather, I killed Phil's body. Because Phil's essence or soul or whatever it is that makes a person a person was destroyed by the thing that possessed him. At least, that's going to be my defence in court.
And I know I'm right because the damn thing escaped at the moment of Phil's "death". I saw it with my own two eyes as it leaked out of Phil's body; a luminous fog-like substance that formed itself into a cloud and looked at me with all-too human eyes.
Which is why I'm writing this. Because the spirit or hungry ghost or whatever the hell it is didn't leave. It's hiding in the house somewhere waiting to catch me unawares and use me as its latest vehicle of transportation. But it won't do it any good. The phone's rung at least twice since I started writing this and I know the Garda are going to come knocking soon. After I've finished this I'm going to post it to alt.fan.kieran.odonohugh (yes, it does exist, worse luck) and go looking for that hungry ghost. Maybe someone somewhere will believe my story. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to beat it. But even if I don't, it's going to be fun to see how it deals with being arrested and charged with murder.
I just wish I could be there to enjoy it.
Oh well.
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