The Dead Have No Shadows (8 page)

“And there’s no coming back?”

“No.  You’ll be free to roam around the village but once you leave or walk past you won’t be able to return.”

“Well, Guide,” said Mickey.  “What would you recommend?”

Pester was silent for a while.  He just stood and stared at the rooftops less than a mile away.  He opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind and walked away from Mickey.  It was only a few yards and it wouldn’t have given Pester any better view of the village but it did seem to help him come to a decision.  He turned back to face his young companion.

“It’s up to you.  I don’t care one way or the other.”

Worthless advice, thought Mickey.  You’d have made a bloody good solicitor.

The village looked deserted as they approached it.  Windows, though intact, were dark and sightless.  Some were shuttered, the painted wood aged and faded; many were hanging off or broken.  It wasn’t possible to see the rest of the village from where Pester and Mickey stood; only a few rooftops were visible and the cross on a church steeple.

A portion of cobbled road ran in front of the homes.  Half of the road was missing.  Fractured stones butted up to the desert of the valley floor.  It looked as if a large portion of the village had been torn up from its original position and dropped into the valley of the dead.

So this is what a disaster looks like, thought Mickey.  This wasn’t just one or two people, it was half a village.

Mickey and Pester rounded the last building and walked along part pavement and part desert to a junction.  On the right, the village faded to meadow, scrubland and the mountains beyond.  On the left hand side, the road opened out into a small square of three story townhouses.  These homes all had first floor balconies and most of the shutters on the windows were intact.  All of the buildings were coated in pastel coloured render.  The hue had faded on all of them with time but Mickey could tell that this had once been a pleasant place to live. 

Some of the homes were occupied.

A few people were leaning on their balconies, gazing into the centre of the square; other villagers were sitting in chairs outside their front doors.  In the middle of the square was a fountain in the shape of a trio of dolphins.  It was surrounded by a concentric ring of concrete steps that led up to a low retaining wall.

From where he stood Mickey could see that the pool surrounding the statuary was empty.  The spouts on the dolphins’ heads, where water would have sprayed into the air, were silent.  Mickey imagined a scene where the pool was full and children splashed and played in the spray raining down from the dolphins.  Mum would have enjoyed seeing this. She would have been happy just to sit on the wall, trailing her hand in the water.  Mickey knew all this because Mum had once told him about all the things that she would like to do.  This was a secret that she and Mickey shared – his father never knew any of this.  He wouldn’t have understood, wouldn’t have cared and would never have allowed it to happen.

The eyes of the villagers all turned to Mickey as he and Pester entered the square.  No-one moved and no-one hailed him; they just stared.  As Mickey and his companion reached the fountain the reality of the place hit home.  The fountain had not seen water for a very long time.  Dust and sand was gathering around the edges of the pool.  The dolphins were cracked and parts of their snouts and fins were missing.  The stucco on the surrounding buildings was in a similar state of disrepair.  It didn’t look like simple neglect to Mickey.  The place had a feel of more than just old age about it.  It was almost as if the square, and possibly, the entire village had reached and gone past its allotted time on earth.

Mickey glanced across at some of the villagers who were still making no attempt to hide their curiosity.  He looked around him, more deliberately, at some of those who were watching him.  They all had a similar look about them.  They were all late middle aged to elderly and all had a look of resignation and defeat about them.  Everyone looked as if he or she was waiting for their end to come.  Mickey wondered if some of these hadn’t realised that they were dead – or if they had, were unsure what to do about it.

“They look as if they’re waiting for the undertaker,” Mickey whispered to Pester.

“In a way they are,” the guide responded.  “The village made its choice a long time ago.  Now it’s paying the price.”

Mickey and Pester had almost reached the far corner of the square when a man came out of the final house.  He had the same defeated look as his neighbours but did at least manage to attempt a smile.

“Welcome, my friend,” he called and walked over to where Mickey had stopped.  “Welcome to
Koprno
.  My name is
Janic
. 
Janic
Kovaks
.”  He held out a thin, bony hand.  Mickey took the hand and felt the weakness and decay in the shake.  It was like shaking hands with a Mummy.

“Mickey,” he replied.  “Mickey Raymond.”  He started to turn to introduce Pester before remembering that the guide was invisible to the residents of
Koprno
.

“I am happy to be meeting you, Mickey Raymond.  You are welcome here.  We are to have a wedding – the first one in many years.”  The last comment was made wistfully.  “You shall be my honoured guest.”

“
Er
, that’s very kind of you,” said Mickey.  “But, we’re ... I’m just passing through.”

Janic’s
smile broadened, revealing a mouth with more gaps than teeth.  He raised his arms in as exaggerated shrug.  “Stay, please.  You are welcome.  My house is your house.”  He gestured towards the house at the end of the row.

Mickey got the feeling that
Janic
thought it was a done deal.  The man had disregarded Mickey’s comment that he was just passing through, with no intention of staying.  The thought of spending some time with other people, even dead ones, did appeal to Mickey though.  He pretended to look around the square but made a point of catching
Pester’s
eye.  A questioning raise of the eyebrows from Mickey was met with a shrug of indifference from Pester.  Though Pester had seen and heard everything he didn’t seem willing to share his opinions with Mickey.

Mickey turned back to
Janic
and smiled.  “Thank you Mr.
Kovaks
,” he said.  “You’re very kind.  I’d be happy to stay – for a day or two.”

The ancient villager smiled and hugged Mickey.  “Please to come and meet my family.”  He steered his guest towards the open door to his home.  Mickey noticed that an audience had gathered to see what was happening.  With nothing else to do, they lingered even when old man
Kovaks
and Mickey had disappeared through the door.

The ground floor of the townhouse was a storage area, or would have been if
Janic
Kovaks
had anything to store.  The room was dark and smelled stale and rotten.

There was a small sealed barrel and a few hessian sacks.  One of these was open and Mickey could see what looked like some kind of dried vegetables.  There was also a set of shelves with a few tins of food dotted here and there.  Mickey saw that there was no fresh food. 

Janic
led Mickey up a flight of stairs to the main living area.  Sunlight flooded into the lounge through the open balcony shutters but added no warmth.  It took Mickey a while for his eyes to adjust from the gloom of the storeroom below.  There was someone sitting in the lounge.  Though he couldn’t see them clearly there was something about the person that caught and held Mickey’s attention.  He didn’t realise that
Janic
was talking to him again.  He turned to face the householder.

“Please to be meeting my wife.  She is Olga,” said
Janic
.

The woman in question had emerged from the kitchen at the back of the building.  She had once been a plump woman and reached to about Mickey’s shoulders.  Death hadn’t been kind to her though.  Loose skin sagged where the weight had fallen away and her clothes hung from a frame that was only slightly larger than what Mickey had taken to be
Janic’s
naturally skinny build.

Mickey and Olga exchanged pleasantries, he in English, she in her native tongue.  Though neither understood a word the other said, they understood the sentiment.  The woman had the same destitute look that Mickey had seen on the other villagers.  He wondered if she was actually worse than those outside – or was it just the fact that he was seeing her close up?  As the two of them shook hands Mickey felt that he was being scrutinised.  A faint flicker of a different expression played across Olga’s face.  It was there and gone in an instant – too quickly for Mickey to be able to work out what it meant.

“Please to come and meet my daughter,”
Janic
said.  His wife reluctantly released her weak grip on Mickey’s hand, who then allowed himself to be steered into the main living area.  The girl hadn’t moved.  Either curiosity hadn’t bettered her or disinterest had kept her seated.

“Mickey, my friend.  This is my daughter, Elena.” 
Janic
presented his daughter to his guest.  Mickey had never seen a girl like this before.  He had only known a few girls in the past.  Some of them were good looking.  Others were average to dog ugly.  Even the very best of them came nowhere close to this girl.  In a dark and desolate world she was a beacon.  Mickey felt an unexpected stirring that caused his face to flush.  He hoped that the girl and her father hadn’t noticed this.

“Elena,”
Janic
said.  “Stand up girl and say hello to our new friend.  This is Mickey.  He will be my honoured guest at your wedding.”

The girl did as she was bid, but reluctantly, shooting a defiant look at her father.  She shook hands with Mickey.  Her grip was surprisingly firm, almost challenging.  Elena’s expression was nothing like that of her parents.  Defeat and dejection hadn’t clouded her looks yet.  Her oval face was framed by long, straight, raven hair.  She had a small, almost pert nose and full lips that if they ever cracked into a smile could break a boy’s heart. Though just as dead as everyone else, Elena had life in her large, dark eyes.  Mickey suspected that this spark was fading but he also got the impression that Elena was fiercely battling to hang on to it.  When his hand had come into contact with Elena’s he felt a sizzle of excitement run through him.  Like her mother, Elena held on to Mickey’s hand longer than he would have felt normal and, like her mother, seemed to appraise him.

The girl didn’t smile or speak, but a flicker of something passed over her face.  As with Olga, it was too quick for Mickey to work out what it meant but he was sure that Elena had the same thought as her mother.  Had it been a look of hope?  What was there to hope about round here?

“Hello,” said Mickey.  His voice wavered and croaked.  He felt like a fourteen year old.  He felt his face grow hotter.  “
Er
... congratulations on your wedding.”

Mickey had expected at least a flicker of a smile form Elena.  Instead, Elena’s face clouded into a picture of sadness.  Mickey thought that she might actually start to cry.

Janic
seemed completely oblivious to all of this.  He was beaming through his mask of defeat and despair.

“Please to let me show you to your room,” he said.  Mickey gently broke his grip on Elena’s hand and followed the girl’s father up a further flight of stairs.  On the top floor of the house were three bedrooms and a small bathroom.  Mickey was shown to the smallest bedroom at the back of the house.

“Please, this is where you sleep,” said
Janic
still beaming.  “You are welcome to stay for many days.”  He shook Mickey’s hand with the best vigour he could muster before leaving him alone.

The room that Mickey had been given was a basic affair.  An iron bed frame carried a straw mattress and matching straw pillow.  This was topped off by a coarse hessian blanket.  A small, rusty night stand carried a cracked porcelain basin and a dented pewter mug.  The jug was empty and there was no soap or a towel.  Mickey suspected that he would see none of these while he stayed with
Janic
Kovaks
and his family.

“The girl doesn’t seem to be very happy about getting married,” said Pester, who had followed Mickey and
Janic
up to the bedroom.