Walking the Cusp

Chapter 1

The dead have no control over, nor fear of, expensive meals, flashy clothes, or Jacuzzis. All they want is to slip quietly on to the next dimension, leaving such ostentatious and earthly possessions behind. The things they do fear — and have no control over — are the 'entanglements' that sometimes hold them stuck between 'Here' and 'There'.

Most dead people manage the transposition between this dimension and the next, with no trouble at all. Others are destined to hang around earthbound for an inordinate amount of time, trying to figure out the reasons for their 'stickiness'. One such person is Brodie 'The Cosh' Webster, whose 'entanglement' was a pendant he bought for his mother with his first pay packet.

Webster was a successful drug baron — at least when alive. Dead, he wasn't very successful at anything; except perhaps scaring the hell out of his young and attractive widow whenever he turned up to check on what she was up to. Webster was nothing if not jealous. He paced around the living room of his large mansion, dismayed, because being a ghost meant he couldn't kick the cat. Kicking the cat was the only thing that lowered Webster's frustration. Now the bloody thing just sat there, staring up at him with its malevolent slitty-yellow eyes, mocking him. He tried kicking it on his next pass, swearing when his foot passed straight through. The cat gave a self-satisfied smirk and kept licking its butt.

Webster was not a nice man, nor a patient one. He didn't trust his wife, who was sunning herself in the garden, allowing every peeping-tom in the district a view of the monumental mammary glands he'd paid for with his hard-earned cash. Bloody woman had no shame at all. She could at least wear her bikini top! Turning from the lounge window, he felt the familiar itch in the palm of his hand. He'd loved curling his fingers around the leather-covered wooden baton — his weapon of choice. It led to his nickname — Brodie The Cosh Webster. He was proud of it. It had a certain ring. Now, to add insult to injury, he'd been beaten to death with the bloody thing!

Webster's greatest pride was acting the provider for his wife; his gang; and the little runts who sometimes took the chance of sponging off him. He had gainfully employed prostitutes for the local constabulary's parties, helped his constituent member with backhanders, and contributed more than his fair share towards the coffers of the local Conservative Party. What more did the bloody world want from him? He kicked out at the cat again, just for good measure.

***

Webster walked to the middle of the road, ignoring the traffic driving straight through him at regular intervals. He'd stopped noticing such oddities some time ago. It was late evening, the street lights glinting off the puddle filled pot-holes. Since the council cut -backs, the roads were getting worse. A taxi passed by, spraying an angry pedestrian with muddy water. Webster raised his hand. The taxi ignored him, something that never happened when he was alive. His face was well-known, especially to taxi drivers, prostitutes and police officers.

He curled his fingers, feeling that familiar tension tingling through his body. Looking down, he spotted a faint outline of his beloved club in his hand, shimmering in the overhead lights. It disappeared again, fading from tip to carefully crafted handle. Okay, no taxi. So how to get himself to the hospital? Standing under a lamppost, he considered his options. Hearing a yap, he glanced round. A woman was walking her dog. It was straining at the leash, looking straight at him, tail wagging.

What's got into you tonight, Rambo, the woman admonished, shaking its leash.

The dog could see him! Tears misted Webster's eyes. Here was another creature with whom he could communicate, even if it was a stupid sausage shaped dog. It came nearer; panting madly, wet tongue lolling from its mouth. He smiled as it stopped by his feet. Hello boy, he said in a pleasant voice.

The dog looked up at him and pissed on his shoes. The woman pulled it away from the lamppost. "Naughty boy, Rambo. Wait until we get to the park.

The club was back. This time with a more substantial feel.

Chapter 2

Elsie Moore patted her bouffant hair, pursing bright-red lips in distaste. Plonking the stale digestive biscuit back on the chipped plate, she pushed the teacup aside and turned her gimlet eyes on Sean.

Sean Baker was a pleasant-looking young man, whose handsome features, soft-brown eyes and cheeky smile helped him blag his unconscionable way through twenty-seven years of crookery. Using a variety of outrageous manoeuvrers, he eased his way into lots of susceptible women's bank accounts — along with a fair number of beds.

Sean was a modern-day con-man. Although modern, he wasn't averse to using the oldest con tricks on record to get his hands on other people's cash. Today was no exception.

I've paid good money for this seance young man, so I suggest you get on with it. Post-haste!

Please Mrs Moore, call me, Sean, he responded, turning his broad smile on Mrs Moore's daughter, sitting demurely by her side. Tallulah Moore blushed under Sean's forthright stare, then lowered her eyes.

Mr Baker, Mrs Moore retorted. I was told you knew what you were doing. Either you begin this seance right now, or I'll see to it you never get another client — ever again!

From the moment she sat at the table, the lanky old woman began ending each sentence with an exclamation. It annoyed Sean, but he swallowed his ire. He'd spent the past hour using his not inconsiderable oral skills prising information from the two women. These hard earned titbits would give him a fat fee. If he fed them back correctly, he'd convince them he was in contact with in the 'Other World'.

Sean coughed loudly, covering the soft thump from the corner of the room. He better get a move on, Evan had been squashed in the cupboard so long he'd probably fallen asleep.

***

Evan Johnson, far from sleeping, was trying to ease the cramp from his leg, wondering how long Sean was going to spend flimflamming the two women before getting on with the seance. In the concealed cupboard in the corner of the room, Evan — dressed from head to foot in an all encompassing black body suit — sweated. Listening to the conversation on the other side of the thin wall, he scribbled furiously in a leather-clad diary. He gripped a pen-torch between his teeth, its thin beam highlighting his shaky writing. Easing his body, he tried settling his large frame more comfortably in the small space, clicking off the torch as he waited for his cue.

Evan was a diminutive one-sixty-eight, but was almost as wide. Large biceps bulged the seams of his jacket to breaking-point. To his friends — but only behind his back — he was laughingly refered to as, 'The Brick Shit House'. A nickname that would have brought a red blush to his cheeks, had anyone been courageous enough to say it to his face.

Evan and Sean had been friends since the age of eleven. Sean rescued him from a group of school kids doing their best to bury him in the basement of a derelict building. Evan was hiding under a half-collapsed façade. The kids were throwing chunks of bricks and concrete, their shouts of, Gorilla, gorilla, bringing tears of shame to Evan's eyes.

As the terrified boy backed further into the jumble of bricks and broken pipes — all that remained of the huge bombed out hospital basement — his face brushed through a spider's web. Immediately the old terror returned. His situation became worse when the light quickly faded into a vanishing slit as his tormentors filled it in. Evan suffered from a crippling phobia of spiders, dating to a time when, as a baby, he'd tried eating a spider's nest. Hundreds of tiny arachnids suddenly covered his face and eyes, running in and out of his mouth. It evoked such terror, he still had the occasional nightmare. The last point of light flickered out, leaving him in complete darkness. Convinced he was about to choke on mouthfuls of writhing spiders, he slapped the clinging webs from his head.

The bricks suddenly disappeared. A beam of mote-speckled sunlight struck his eyes, almost blinding him. Centred in the radiance, haloed like an angel, a face appeared, beaming a broad smile. Evan thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

You alright mate? the angelic apparition asked. Come on quick, before they come back.

Grabbed by the shoulders, Evan was dragged through the hole by a tall, gangly boy about his own age.

Name's Sean, the boy said, brushing dust from Evan's torn school jacket.

From that day, Evan followed Sean everywhere, and they became the closest friends. Later, as they grew from boys to young men, Evan realised it was his God-given duty to protect Sean from the idiotic money-making schemes he kept dreaming up. Evan turned out a pragmatist, unlike Sean; now the world's biggest dreamer.

Finished with his note taking, Evan opened a small hatch in the wall and slipped the notebook onto a shelf, alongside a line of other books. Closing the hatch, he settled down to wait for the book reading session to begin. A satisfied grin spread across his moon-like face. This time — against all the odds — Sean had hit the jackpot. This seance idea was a winner. It would earn them a fortune. They might even pay the rent this month!

***

Hearing the faint click of the secret hatch closing, Sean turned to Tallulah Moore and picked up her hand, holding it between his. Now, shall we find out what the future holds for you, young lady? Let's use my Spirit Reading Diary.

The young woman's large blue eyes fixed on his face with a trusting fascination, giving him a sudden flush of guilt. Quickly pushing it aside, he got back into his stride.

On the shelf over here in the corner, are my spiritual diaries, Sean explained in a cryptic tone. Walking over, he picked one up, smoothing his hand across the brown leather cover. Coming back to the table, he laid the diary in front of Mrs Moore with a flourish. This is a special remote writing diary I keep for my favoured clients, like yourself. I have one for each of my many clienteles, as you can see from the shelf over there. My contact on the other side writes the entries for me. Sighing under his breath, Sean closed his eyes, one hand clutched to his breast. Such a sweet old lady.

Turning his gaze towards the ceiling, he slammed his palm on the diary, making the two women jump. My contact to the world beyond is my dear Nana. His heart-rending tone brought a sob from Tallulah Moore. Turning his attention back to the diary, Sean stroked the cover. Oh, and whose name is this I spy on the front cover?

Mrs Moore stared down at the label. On it was written her daughter's name in a spidery scrawl. She glared at Sean, her twisted frown showing her suspicions. Nana? she queried.

Yes, my dear departed Nana. May God rest her soul. She passed over some time ago now. She's one of my very best contacts in the other world, although she tires so easily. So we must not over-tax her. We must be quick.

A loud thump came from the corner of the room. The line of diaries on the shelf fell to one side. Sean wasn't the sharpest tooth on the saw, but fortunately, he was quick-witted. Ah, he said, staring at the bulge in the wall. There she is now, impatient to get started as usual. Let's begin, shall we?"

An ear-piercing scream issued from the corner, followed by another thump that shook the floor. Sean held his breath. What the hell was Evan playing at in there?

***

Evan was far from playing. Hidden in the cupboard, biting his lower lip against the pain, he desperately massaged his calf. It was trembling and jumping about like a small schoolboy waiting in line for the toilet. Locked in the cupboard for an hour, wondering how much longer Sean would take before starting the damned séance, he got cramp. It finally eased and he heaved a silent sigh of relief.

Something touched the end of his nose. Unable to use his hand, now wedged between his leg and the wall, he tried a fast twitch. It didn't help. Nor did easing out his bottom lip, so he could blow air up at the offending area. Whatever it was, touched his nose again. After a lot of pushing and shoving, he finally manoeuvred his hand up to shoulder height, and switched on his torch.

There, only millimetres away, hanging from a silvery thread, was the biggest, hairiest, fattest spider Evan had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on. It's eight long, jointed legs, reached out for him like the claws of a hungry monster. His terror grew with each passing second.

The spider stared at Evan with shiny black eyes; he stared back with terrified, wide ones. For a moment neither moved, then Evan gasped in shock, sucking the terrifying creature into his mouth. His worst nightmare became a reality!

The frightened creature sought escape by running up and down Evan's tongue, its hairy body tickling the roof of his mouth. He screamed, expelling the troublesome arachnid. It swung out of his mouth on its thin thread. Reaching the end of its arc, it headed straight back, taking on the size of a football.

Eyes now saucer-like, Evan jerked his head back, striking the wall, and knocking himself unconscious. Sliding down the wall he hit the floor with a thump, knees forcing the plasterboard away from the wooden framework, making an alarming bulge in the wall.

***

Sean quickly recovered, dismissing the scream with a wave of his hand. Nana seems a bit frisky tonight, he observed.

Opening the cover of the diary, he pointed to the first entry, distracting the women's attention from the bulge continuing to grow in the wall. Using the information gleaned from Sean's conversation with the two women, Evan had written a long entry detailing where they'd been that day and who they'd spoken to. It was a clever trick, which never ceased to amaze his marks, stemming any doubts they held about his psychic abilities. The next page held a rough outline of who Tallulah Moore would meet and marry, how many children she'd have, and how happy she'd be with the large house her husband would buy her. Her forehead wrinkled when she read her mother would be living with them.

As he watched them reading the text, Sean smiled to himself. Evan had come up trumps. They were lapping it up like cats with a saucer full of cream. Closing the diary, he placed it back on the shelf with the others, eyeing the cracks in the wall.

Chapter 3

Twitching his shoulders, Sean ignored Mrs Moore's eyes boring into the back of his neck. Lighting a small pot of incense, he put some soothing new-age music on the CD player. As the melancholic mating calls of a blue whale filled the room, he settled into his chair, waving his hand over the three candles grouped in the centre of the table. They sprang to life, their flames casting a warm flickering glow across the table. Another double wave dimmed the room lights. Both women looked at Sean expectantly, the candle flames casting shadows across their faces.

The round, three-legged table they sat at was no ordinary one. Sean and Evan had spent several weeks building various devices into the space below the top. There were several buttons hidden beneath the intricate veneer. When