Dead Man Walking (Part Three)

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

As soon as he entered the house Harry turned on the TV, fumbling nervously with the remote as he turned up the volume up to a level that he would normally have been the first to complain about. He flicked on every light he passed, though it still wasn't quite dark outside. He needed light, he told himself, he needed noise and normality. He could do with a little human company, or maybe a lot; for the first time in weeks he wished he was an anonymous face lost in the hustle and bustle of a mighty crowd, a tight, shoulder-to-shoulder throng that could only be found at football matches and concerts and the New Year sales, but it was light that his soul really craved. He resisted the temptation to put on the kettle and make coffee, settling for a glass of water, which he downed in three desperate gulps. His mouth still felt dry, and he guessed it would feel dry for a long time, as dry as a desiccated corpse curled up in a foetal position in its claustrophobic iron coffin.

Harry filled Phileas's water bowl and glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the kitchen wall, then he unlocked the back door and stepped into the garage. Sue wouldn't be home for two hours or so, which left plenty of time to do what he had in mind. “A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do,” he said to Phileas, who sniffed at the wheels of the vintage Rover that hadn't left the garage for a couple of months as Harry started to tick off the items on his mental list. Fifteen minutes later he and Phileas were heading for the edge of the estate.

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“Here's the new clothes you requested, Mr. Death,” Harry yelled, shoving a bundle of Sue's old clothes that she had bagged up for the charity shop down the hole under the wood pile with a long, stout hazel branch that he had gathered on the way. He crept up to the creatures lair as stealthily as a cat stalking a sparrow, but now he was kicking up a right old racket. “Drag 'em in, buddy, it's a tight fit!” The thing uttered a muffled gasp of surprise as Harry unscrewed the lid of the plastic container he had brought from his garage and poured the strong smelling liquid onto a bright yellow cardigan, which the burrow's occupant was pulling down with all its might.

“Gaah! What is this stinking fluid?” a voice gurgled as the thing managed to pull some of the sodden clothing through the narrow entrance.

“I thought you'd like a drink on me,” Harry said, the petrol pouring down the hole with a cartoon gloop-gloop-gloop. “Don't worry, I have your sacrifice. She's fifteen years old and as fat as fuck, she's as appealing as a young sow wearing a party frock and loads of make-up. Sarah-Lou, her name is, I've tied her to a tree just down the hill, I'll bring her to you as soon as you've tried on your new clobber.”

There was an almighty scuffle, and a pair of filthy hands appeared as the panicking creature tried to evacuate its cell, but it was too late, Harry had already struck a match and ignited the petrol.

The short trail that he left to avoid scorching his hands burned annoyingly slowly, but as soon as the creeping flame reached the edge of the hole the grappling hands swiftly retracted and a deep whoosh reverberated through the hollow, followed by a plume of flame and smoke rising six feet or more into the air. “Magic!” Harry roared, clapping his hands in glee. Phileas wasn't quite so impressed, and he turned tail and scampered off into the darkness. The explosion was followed by a brief silence apart from the crackle of hungry flames, and then the burning head and shoulders of Harry's enemy filled the hole as it frantically tried to make its escape.

“It's not your day, is it, me old China?” Harry said, hitting his foe square on its sizzling cranium with the stick, which he held in both hands. “Your brains would be frying now, if you had any. There have been a number of technological advances since you were entombed, Mr. Death, and petrol is only one of them. Oh dear, it's raining again, it's pissing it down, in fact, but thankfully petrol burns beautifully rain or shine.

If you had any brains, Mr. Death, you'd know all about flammable liquids, and you might have anticipated me trying to pull off a stunt like this. 'I don't like the cold, Harry,' you whimpered. 'I'll be waiting patiently in my burrow for your return.' How stupid can you get?” Harry struck his enemy again and again, he could feel its bones giving way with each and every blow, but still it lived. It pulled itself out of the hole and rolled in the sodden grass in an attempt to extinguish the flames, but slowly its struggles diminished. “I bet you're not bloody cold now, are you?” Harry said, idly kicking the twitching, still burning corpse through a pall of foul smelling smoke.

“As a matter of fact I'm freezing,” the ghoul said as it leaped onto Harry's back, digging its claws into his throat, “but I'll soon warm up when I've sucked you dry. It's a shame you've burned my once lovely whore, Puddin', but never mind, she was just a cheap strumpet, and as my old mummy used to say, there are plenty more fish in the sea.”

Harry started to shout, dropping his stick as his hands instinctively came up to his throat, but the ghoul's powerful fingers dug deeper into his windpipe and his cry was cut off. The ghoul was much heavier than Harry anticipated. With all his might he smashed it against the stub of a sheared off branch on the trunk of of his ruined crab apple, which loosened its grip for a second, but it didn't let go. Harry was an ex Territorial Army man, he was still pretty fit despite his illness and even though the monster's impressive grip prevented him from breathing he didn't give up easily. He dropped to the ground and rolled in the grass to see if he could shake his aggressor off.

“No, Puddin', none of your frenetic machinations are going to work, I'm way too powerful for you,” the ghoul growled in Harry's ear. “I see your supposedly faithful mutt has deserted you, so I won't have to worry about him, but I'll look forward to slowly bleeding your beloved wife to death after I've tired of you, slaughtered you and left your pathetic, naked carcass on a well-worn footpath for all the world to gloat at. Maybe I'll infect her, maybe I'll make her mine and only mine, maybe I'll condemn your sweet Susie to eternal life. Naah, she's too old, I think I'll have Glenda instead, she has perter tits.”

At the mention of his daughter's name Harry found a new reservoir of strength. He closed his fingers around a shard of timber from the shattered tree and stabbed it blindly into his enemy's face. The splinter burst one of the ghoul's eyeballs and it fell backwards, squealing like a baby and clutching at its head. Harry lay on his back, desperately drinking sweet oxygen in shallow, ragged bursts while the stricken fiend crawled towards him to wreak whatever bloody vengeance was on its mind. “I'm coming to get you, Puddin',” it growled. Harry groped for his stick, but his fingers found only mud and trampled vegetation.

A dark shadow appeared from nowhere, springing into the air like a leaping panther. Ninety five pounds of solid muscle and bone hit the ghoul with a wet thud as its clawed hands hovered over Harry's face. Phileas's powerful jaws closed around his victim's throat with a sickening crunch, and he screamed with fury as he shook his prey like a terrier shaking a rat. The sound of the bones splintering in the ghoul's neck was the most beautiful sound that Harry had ever heard, and he laughed and cried in the same instant of jubilation.

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“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and whatever comes next,” Harry said, “I honestly can't remember. God rest your souls, whatever you are and whatever heinous sins you've committed.” When Phileas had finished ragging the ghoul's corpse Harry caved in its skull with heel of his boot, but just to be on the safe side he dragged both bodies onto the timber pile, which was to be their funeral pyre. The corpses still smelled of flowers and summer meadows even as he poured out the last of the petrol.

“We've got to make tracks soon, Phileas,” Harry said a while later as the dry corpses succumbed to the wrath of the flames. “Sue will be wondering where we are, and I've lost my phone so I can't call her. What am I going to say - what the fuck am I going to tell her? The truth? Are you kiddin' me? I've always though it was best to tell the truth, but now I'm not so sure.....”