Slawter

I’m not sure what happened there, how they fought, what sort of a mess Dervish went through, how time passed for him, the manner of his victory over Lord Loss. For more than a year I guarded his body, helped by a team of lawyers (my uncle — he mucho reeeech) and Meera Flame, one of Dervish’s best friends. I went back to school, rebuilt my life and babysat Dervish.

Then, without warning, he returned. I woke up one morning and the zombie was gone. He was his old self, talking, laughing, brain intact. We celebrated for days, us, Bill-E and Meera. And we all lived happily after. The end.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Stories don’t end. Before she left, Meera took me aside and warned me to be careful. She said there was no way to predict Dervish’s state of mind. According to the recorded accounts of the few who’d gone through the same ordeal as him, it often took a person a long time to settle after a one-on-one encounter with Lord Loss. Sometimes they never properly recovered.

“We don’t know what’s going on inside his head,” she whispered. “He looks fine, but that could change. Watch him, Grubbs. Be prepared for mood-swings. Try and help. Do what you can. But don’t be afraid to call me for help.”

I did call when the nightmares started, when Dervish first attacked me in his sleep, mistook me for a demon and tried to cut my heart out. (Luckily, in his delirium, he picked up a spoon instead of a knife.) But there was nothing Meera could do, short of cast a few calming spells and recommend he visit a psychiatrist. Dervish rejected that idea, but she threatened to take me away from him if he didn’t. So he went to see one, a guy who knew about demons, who Dervish could be honest with. After the second session, the psychiatrist rang Meera and said he never wanted to see Dervish again — he found their sessions too upsetting.

Meera discussed the possibility of having Dervish committed, or hiring bodyguards to look after him, but I rejected both suggestions. So, against her wishes, we carried on living by ourselves in this spooky old mansion. It hasn’t been too bad. Dervish rarely gets the nightmares more than two or three times a week. I’ve grown used to them. Waking up in the middle of the night to screams is no worse than being disturbed by a baby’s cries. Really it isn’t.

And he’s not that much of a threat. We keep the knives locked away and have bolted the other weapons in the mansion – it’s dotted with axes, maces, spears, swords, all sorts of cool stuff – to the walls. I usually keep my door locked too, to be safe. The only reason it was open last night was that Dervish had thrown a fit both nights before and it’s rare for him to fall prey to the nightmares three times in a row. I thought I was safe. That’s why I didn’t bother with the lock. It was my fault, not Dervish’s.

“I will kill him for you, master,” Dervish says softly.

I lower my fork. “What?”

He turns, blank-faced, looking like he did when his soul was fighting Lord Loss. My heart rate quickens. Then he grins.

“Asshole!” I snap. Dervish has a sick sense of humour.

I get back to wolfing down my breakfast and Dervish tucks into his, not caring that the scrambled eggs are cold. We’re an odd couple, a big lump of a teenager like me playing nursemaid to a balding, mentally disturbed adult like Dervish. And yeah, there are nights when he really frightens me, when I feel like I can’t take it any more, when I cry. It’s not fair. Dervish fought the good fight and won. That should have been the end of it. Happy ever after.

But stories don’t end. They continue as long as you’re alive. You just have to get on with things. Turn the page, start a new chapter, find out what’s in store for you next, and keep your fingers crossed that it’s not too awful. Even if you know in your heart and soul that it most probably will be.

PRAY AT HIM

→ School was strange when I first went back. I’d spent months outside the system, first in the asylum, then in the mansion with Dervish. It took me a while to find my feet. For the first couple of terms I didn’t really speak to anybody except Bill-E and the school counsellor, Mr Mauch, better known as Misery Mauch because of his long face. I’d always been popular at my old school, lots of friends, active in several sports teams, Mr Cool.

All that changed at Carcery Vale. I was shy, unsure of myself, reluctant to get involved in conversations or commit to after-school events. On top of the hell I’d been through, there was Dervish to consider. He needed me at home. I became an anonymous kid, one who spent a lot of time by himself or with a similarly awkward friend (step forward Bill-E Spleen).

Things are different now. I’ve come out of my shell a bit. I’m more like the old me, not quiet in class or afraid to speak to other kids. I’ve always been bigger than most people my age. In the old days I was a show off and used my bulk to command respect. At the Vale I kept my head bent, shoulders hunched, trying to suck my frame in to make myself seem smaller.

Not any more. I’m no longer Mr Flash, but I’m not hiding now. I don’t feel that I have to.

I’ve made new friends. Charlie Rall, Robbie McCarthy, Mary Hayes. And Loch Gossel. Loch’s big, not as massive as me, but closer to my size than anybody else. He wrestles a lot — real wrestling, not the showbiz stuff you see on TV. He’s been trying to get me to join his team since I started school. I resisted for a long time, but now I’m thinking of giving it a go.

Loch also has a younger sister, Reni. She’s pretty cute, even if she does have a nose that would put Gonzo to shame! I stare at her a lot and sometimes she makes eyes back. I think she’d go out with me if I asked. I haven’t. Not yet. But soon… maybe… if I can work up the nerve.

→ The end of a typical school day. Yawning through classes, desperate for lunch-time so I could hang out with my friends and chat about movies, music, TV, computer games, whatever. Bill-E joined us for some of it. I don’t spend as much time with Bill-E as I used to. He doesn’t fit in with my new friends — they think he’s geekish. They don’t slag him off when I’m around, but I know they do when I’m not. I feel bad about that and try to help Bill-E relax so they can see his real side. But he gets nervous around the others, acts differently, becomes the butt of their jokes.

Thinking about Bill-E as I walk home. I don’t want us to stop being friends. He’s my brother and he was really good to me when I first moved here. But it’s difficult because I don’t want to lose my new friends either. Guess I’ll just have to work harder to make him feel like part of the group. Try and be like one of those TV kids who always solve their problems by the end of each show.

Dervish is sitting on the stairs when I let myself in. I’m dripping wet — it’s been pouring for the last couple of hours. Normally, when the weather’s bad, he picks me up on his motorbike. When there was no sign of him today, I figured his mood hadn’t improved since breakfast. I was right. He’s as blank as he was this morning, staring off into space, not registering me until I’m right in front of him.

“Dervish! Hey, Derveeshio! Earth to Dervish! Are you reading me, captain?”

He blinks, frowns as if he doesn’t know who I am, then smiles. “Grubbs. You’re alive. I thought…” His expression clears. “Sorry. I was miles away.”

I sit beside him. “Bad day?”

“Can’t remember,” he replies. “Why are you home early?” I hold up my watch and tap it. Dervish reads the time and sighs. “I’m losing it, Grubbs.”

My insides tighten, but I don’t let Dervish see my fear. “Losing what — your sanity? You can’t lose what you never had.”

“My grip.” Dervish looks down at his feet, bare and dirty. “I wasn’t like this before. I wasn’t this distracted and empty. Was I?” He looks at me pleadingly.

“You’ve been through hell, Derv,” I tell him quietly. “You can’t expect to recover without a few hiccups.”

“I know. But I wasn’t this way, right? Some days I can’t remember. I feel like it’s always been like this.”

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.”

“All things must pass,” Dervish mutters. Then he looks at me sideways, his cool blue eyes coming into focus. “Why are you wet?”

“Took a bath. Forgot to strip.” I rap his forehead with my knuckles, then point to the windows and the rain battering the panes. “Numbnuts.”

“Oh,” Dervish says. “I should have picked you up.”

“No worries.” I rise and stretch, dripping steadily. “I’m going up to shower and change into dry clothes. I’ll stick this lot in to wash. Anything you want me to add?” I did all the jobs around the house when Dervish was a vegetable. Hard to break the habit.

“No, I don’t think so. I…” Dervish stares at his left hand. There’s a black mark on it, a small ‘d’. “There was something I meant to tell you. What…?” He clicks his fingers. “I had a phone call, a follow-up to some e-mails I’ve been getting recently. Ever heard of someone called Davida Haym?”

“No, can’t say…” I pause. “Hold on. Not David A Haym, the movie producer?”

“That’s her.”

“I thought that was a guy.”

“Nope. She uses David A on her movies, but it’s Davida. You know about her?”

“Sure. She makes horror movies. Zombie Zest. Witches Weird. Night Mayors — that’s, like, Nightmares, only two words. It’s about evil mayors who band together to set up a meat production plant, except the meat they process is human flesh.”

“Win many Oscars?” Dervish asks.

“Swept the board,” I chuckle. “I can’t believe she’s a woman. I always thought… But what about her? I didn’t think you were into horror flicks.”

“She phoned me earlier.”

I do a double-take. “David A Haym called you?”

“Davida Haym. Yes.” Dervish squints at me. “Have I grown a second head?”

“Hell, it’s David A Haym, Dervish! That’s like saying Steven Spielberg was on the line, or George Lucas. OK, not as big as those, but still…”

“I didn’t know she was famous,” Dervish says. “She told me the names of some of her movies, but I don’t watch a lot of films. She made it sound like she was a cult director.”

“She is. She doesn’t make films with big-name stars. But her movies are great! Anyone who loves horror knows about David A Haym. Though I’m not sure many know she’s a woman.”