Dead Wringers

By Maurice Jones

Deceased they might be, but in Ludo Scully’s head the famous dead could turn into nice little earners by agreeing to endorse companies. How to chat to the dead, though? Step forward God, universally accepted by believers as all powerful and so able to natter with the dead and the living at will. But who on earth could God relay the dead&rs

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Ratskull Trilogy
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780992906221

Book preview

Odds and Ends

Jobs about the house were never Ludo Scully’s strongpoint, but playing Russian Roulette at home ought to have been a doddle. It was his one unfulfilled ambition in a life of largely achieved objectives.

The mechanics had been simple enough. Revolvers were readily available in the relaxed Thai neighborhood he’d made his home. And the bullet he’d nursed pet-like for years had slipped snugly into the six-chamber weapon. He smiled at the international dimension of it all:

If it was not his lucky day, the bullet, one of a pair he’d found at a British Army firing range on Cyprus, would at least be coming home to a British skull, albeit via a Thai gun. The only remaining problem was with the man himself.

A deep believer in testing courage to the limits, he’d spent almost an entire afternoon alone in his library playing the odds, spinning the cylinder and seeing the outcome had he pressed the trigger. Disturbingly, the results were working out too well. Theoretically, one in six spins should have had the bullet nestling in the firing chamber, but it was running at one in eight.

‘Too good to be true, too good to be true,’ he muttered to the pistol. Can’t possibly hold. Law of averages says the odds are due a corrective swing in the opposite direction. Then a light went on and he remembered a conversation with a croupier nearly half a century ago.

A communist in those days, he’d invariably bet on red at a local casino. Eleven times in succession black came up on that disastrous night, and during a toilet break he’d asked the croupier: ‘How is it possible? Black? Eleven times on the trot?’

The croupier sighed, zipped up his flies, strolled over to the washbasin for a quick rinse, examined his jaw in the mirror, and made for the exit, saying, ‘The ball’s got no memory, son.’

Those words never left Scully and now re-emerged, with a bullet replacing the roulette ball, and stakes set at the highest of all levels. Ball, bullet, what’s the difference? It’s all a question of unknowable luck. And yet, and yet, there had to be some law of averages in play. Walk into any casino and query the odds against one colour coming up 11 times in succession. Astronomic.

Scully looked at the scorecard yet again. Over three hours he’d managed around 1,000 spins, and the tips of the two forefingers of his left hand were beginning to blister. He thought he detected weariness in the gun itself. ‘For fuck’s sake, get on with it. This is torture. Metal fatigue for me; mental fatigue for you,’ it seemed to say.

Soon, the hand itself might not be fit for purpose, he reasoned, briefly toying with the thought that it might be an honourable way out of the nightmare afternoon. His twisted conscience intervened: Nah, not a way out, a cop out.

Hollow-cheeked, utterly drained and just wanting sleep, he asked again the question that had blighted his life: Why must he go through this. Just ring a doctor, a psychiatrist, a psychologist – anyone he could talk this out with.

But he knew, deep down, it was not an option. Scully would be betraying the image he’d created: The half-crazy guy who could always be relied on to go the extra mile. For what? To entertain others? To amuse people who happily admitted to lifelong cowardice and shrugged it off as no big deal? How could they live with themselves? But they did – some quite happily.

He thought back to schooldays and kids who eagerly offered to hold the jackets of mugs like him who did the fighting. A bitter little laugh told him he was courting madness and needed to settle this business once and for all. Either way, he would find peace.

A plan was drawn up. Ignoring that croupier, he would continue spinning the chamber until the bullet appeared in the firing chamber twice in succession. He would then place the revolver to his head, spin again and pull the trigger. That would show ‘em all. Of course there must be a law of averages. Yes, like the roulette ball, the bullet’s got no memory, but if it’s just been in the firing chamber twice, it would be unlikely to pop up a third time. Ask any croupier what odds he’d give against that.

Fifty minutes later Scully’s souvenir bullet appeared in the chamber twice in succession and he knew his moment of truth had arrived.

The ticking from the library’s grandfather clock suddenly seemed louder. Heightened senses in the presence of danger, Scully rationalised. His heart doubled its usual 60 beats a minute and an intense dryness threatened to seal his mouth shut.

Hand trembling, he raised the pistol to his head and wondered why it felt much lighter than usual. With his left hand, the chamber was spun with all the strength he could muster, instantly regretting the action, thinking it might have upset the entire equilibrium, the pattern of the spin. But then why would he want to maintain the same pattern when twice it would have blown his brains out.

His head throbbed with conflicting theories centred solely on himself. It then dawned that there were others to consider. If the worst happened his family – the two ladies in his long-standing ménage a trois – would naturally assume suicide and they would start blaming themselves. No, a note must be left, just in case.

Hands still trembling, his normally indecipherable handwriting now resembled multiple snail trails as he began:

‘Dear Lucy and Wanlaya,

If you’re reading this, then my gamble will have gone wrong. Sorry about the mess, but I’ve always wanted to give my courage the ultimate test with one round of Russian Roulette (check the Net for details of what it’s all about if you’re unfamiliar with the game). Well, as you can see, I lost, even though the odds were in my favour. Life can be very unfair sometimes, especially when things seem to be ticking along reasonably.

Anyway, all pumped up now so best get on with it before I lose my nerve.

Much love to you both and don’t let this ruin your day. As Paul Newman said in that wonderful film Hombre, We’ve all got to die some time; it’s just a question of when.

‘Missing you already,

Ludo. XXXXX’

Scully thought the letter impersonal, too cold and was forced to scrutinise every word. What should have been a minute’s job, took 15, as he struggled to decipher his own scrawl.

Tension now made him nip for a pee. Earlier the stress had opened his bowels, forcing him to use so much loo paper that he’d had to install a fresh roll. He’d returned to the toilet minutes later to ensure the hanging bit was away from the wall - as his ladies liked it. Set differently, it would have been perceived as a farewell, chauvinistic snub.

Again he put the pistol to his head, deciding on no further spin of a chamber he now averted his eyes from. This time his finger nestled on the trigger. The closeness to possible death prised open a little more head room for Lucy and Wanlaya. He marveled at his selfishness as a further thought struck:

‘Shit, I’ve left the seat up,’ he said aloud. Toilet-seat rows had become high on the list of serious issues in the ménage. If I’m dead and those two find the seat left up, they’re bound to take it as a final ‘fuck you.’

Again the pistol was put down, and Scully thought he heard a definite sigh from the weapon as he headed back to the loo.

Finally, gun raised to his temple for a third time, he devoted the last few seconds before pulling the trigger to thoughts of the two loves of his life. How could he possibly have diced with death without giving them a second thought. But then again moments like this were by their very nature lonely affairs, not normally conducive to family matters. They were acts of utter self-absorption.

The pressure on the trigger grew as he now remembered his long lost son in Canada and wondered how he’d take news of his death. They’d not spoken for many years, so probably daddy was as good as dead to him already.

An itch in his scalp reminded Scully there had been an outbreak of head lice at the nearby school and he wondered whether nits might have migrated his way. He speculated on how they’d react, knowing that a forceful eviction might be imminent. Nits could have feelings, too.

Am I destined to be the only creature in human history whose last thought was lavished on head lice before blowing my brains out in Russian Roulette, he asked himself.

The trigger pressure increased as a final image flashed into his head of the croupier turning away from the urinal, his face a screaming skull, mouthing ‘a bullet’s also got no memory.’

A split second later the hammer fell at the same moment Scully pointed the barrel upwards, the bullet destined for bone and flesh, embedding itself in wood and plaster. Scully’s right ear rang like church bells celebrating war’s end. And in a way it was. His internal war was now at an end, and he’d lost. His nerve had failed at the last, courtesy of a croupier’s ancient words. He’d finally found his limitations and been rewarded with life. A dead man walking, and it felt right.

He allowed himself a glimpse of what might have been had he not listened to casino man. The funeral, the mourners, the lonely grave and the worms gearing up for yet more sustenance once nature had rotted its way through wood and shroud.

And, of course, if the God botherers were right, which he didn’t accept for a second, he’d most likely - no guarantees, though - be winging his way to an audience with the Big Bloke and then getting to know the huge crowd upstairs and re-acquainting himself with some long-gone folk.

Earlier in the day, idly filling tense moments, he’d checked out the numbers of the dead and living and the corpses were well in front. Of all the people that had ever lived, around 90 per cent were now dead. So everyone living was in a minority. He speculated how minority rights groups might cash in on that as he dragged a desk under the spot where the bullet had lodged.

A chair was also needed for extra height as he gouged away with a screwdriver, determined to remove the business end of the bullet before his ladies returned home from their daily swim. Reluctantly, the piece of lead returned to its old owner, none the worse for its short journey apart from a few light scratches that might have been inflicted by the screwdriver.

Scully donned glasses to view the slug more closely and noticed that the marks, viewed from one angle, resembled the outline drawings of a skull. Dismissing it as fevered imaginings, he took another look and, yes, it was no mistake, there was a skull-like pattern, not unlike that of the life-saving croupier. He felt cold and thought about throwing the useless piece of metal away, but couldn’t. He told himself he wasn’t thinking straight and needed to get a grip. Thoughts and objects sometimes coincided. So what.

There was one bit of unfinished business, however, that he wanted to settle immediately. Was that croupier of many years ago still around. He had no idea of his name, but remembered that across his balding forehead was a huge birthmark, remarkably similar to that of former Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. It wasn’t something that would be easily forgotten by anyone, but what was the name of that damned casino. Something to do with royalty. Aaah yes, Queen of Hearts, if it was still going. It was.

‘You’re talking about Mark Lavery,’ said reception. ‘Oh, yes, most punters here remember him, and I should think half of Manchester does - if not the country. Didn’t you read about it?’

‘About what? I’m out of Britain most of the time.’

‘About what happened with that big monkey, you know those orang things or whatever they call them.’

‘Orangutan?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. One of ‘em ripped him to pieces on holiday somewhere. He was on safari and supposed to stay in his jeep, but for a bet he got out and started beating his chest in front of the thing. Anyway, the orang was not pleased, thought he was having a go or something. He tore both of Mark’s arms off and ripped his throat out. There was a big row over it all because the safari-park owners refused to have the monkey put down. They said Mark only had himself to blame.’

Scully thanked the receptionist for the incomplete information, but wanted absolute confirmation that Lavery was dead.

‘I take it he died then?’

There was a pause for a couple of seconds. ‘Oh yes he’s dead all right. Having a couple of limbs ripped off and your throat torn out usually has that effect. Probably something to do with blood loss.’

Smart arse, Scully thought and put the phone down but not before slipping in, ‘and by the way, orangutans are apes, not monkeys.’

‘Same difference really, innit,’ was the ill-informed, half-heard reply.

Scully brought Lavery’s name up on the Net and read the Manchester Evening News report. A potential soul mate, he soon judged, as Lavery’s colourful background was sketched in. Former seaman, tear-away, bit of a piss artist, half decent writer, the sort of bloke he might have befriended. He wished he could have thanked him for effectively saving his life, courtesy of some decades-old words.

Scully felt a sudden chill sweep through the library and checked whether the air-con had automatically switched to turbo. But no, everything was at its correct setting. His scalp tingled, not unusual when rational explanations were not at hand for irrational events, he reasoned. Arms, unblemished apart from the odd scar, now hosted goose bumps.

A firm disbeliever in ‘the spirit world and other such rubbish,’ as he invariably described it, he dismissed it all as ‘probably’ the body’s natural reaction to a near-death experience. And you can’t get much nearer than a bullet whistling by at 700mph, millimeters from your skull.

His use of the word ‘probably’ bothered him. Permit just one scintilla of doubt to chip away at a reality-based take on life and before you know it, you’re away with the fairies in la-la land.

That’s what he’d always told himself and that’s what he’d live by until the end. And no matter which way you diced it up, death was the end. All talk of the hereafter was strictly for the religious mugs, followers of silver-tongued pied-pipers who made sure they themselves enjoyed paradise here on earth – but well away from prying eyes.

The word ‘probably’ still lingered, however. Stubbornly, it refused to grant him absolution from his minor wander into fantasy land. A mental truce was called via memories of a recent article about dimensions that seemed to offer a respectable third way out.

He’d not understood the entire scientific piece, but enough of it to raise serious questions. Of particular concern was mention of parallel universes: While we were busily leading this life, others were going through exactly the same motions - something akin to our shadows, but in solid parallel form. That had been his understanding, and meant this universe was just a shadow of the others. Anything beyond that brought on a migraine for Scully.

Initially he’d dismissed it all as rot, but then filed it under the mental heading of quasi-science, granting it some room in an over-crowded head that might occasionally be in bits metaphorically, but at least was still physically intact, the recoiling pistol inflicting only a slight bruise above the right ear.

More worrying was the ear’s continual ringing that might signal some permanent hearing loss. Thoughts of the bullet brought Lavery and his fellow corpses back to mind.

Seven billion people alive at the moment, that’s your 10 per cent, so 90 per cent deceased would work out at 63 billion. That would be a lot of folk to hook up with, Mr Lavery, assuming some sort of afterlife, special universe for the dead, heaven or whatever’s floating about out there. Scully accepted he was thinking nonsense, fantasising, but he’d nearly died, so what the hell, he’d give imagination a free ride for once. Arnie Ratledge, his boss, immediately intruded into his thoughts.

Hey, Arnie, imagine the possibilities - tapping into the dead: Tens of billions of corpses to exploit and you’d never have to pay’em a penny, feed ‘em, clothe ‘em, worry about the unions, nothing. A dream scenario, eh!

Ratledge, Scully’s detested boss, always dwelt in the recesses of his brain. One of the world’s richest men, he’d achieved vast wealth by tapping into Scully’s imagination.

A failed union leader and local government boss, Ratledge’s fortune had only really taken off with the launch of world-wide, cost effective care-home ships for the elderly. A byword for end-of-life debauchery, the ships boarded the ‘green’ gravy train, milking what little physical energy the old had left, cutting costs to the bone.

All of it had been Scully’s brainchild, including some earlier land-based converted resorts-cum-care-homes in Thailand that he now kept an eye on for Ratledge. The loathing between the pair was mutual, but Scully’s joyride-flights business on Koh Samui island was not going well and the additional income from Ratledge helped. His boss’s continued interest in Scully was less specific: You never know what the crackpot will come up with next.

Well, Arnie, Scully mused, not even you could tap into that 63 billion. He smiled a slightly deranged smile that slowly melted. He stared hard at the bullet, thought more about Lavery, dwelt on the names of famous people who had lived and something startlingly new dawned. Those whom we remember are not dead at all. They live on in our memories. And as such they are potentially…

The turning of a front-door key interrupted his chain of thought and he pocketed the bullet, forgetting about the hurriedly scribbled death note to his two ladies. Scully’s appearance startled both women.

‘Ludo, you look terrible, like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Lucy. Wanlaya said nothing. She was reading from the note. Too late Scully remembered, making a failed grab for the piece of paper.

‘Mr Ludo,’ the Thai woman trembled. ‘Is this a suicide note. Why?’

Lucy beat Scully to a second grab at the paper, and read, eyes popping. Unlike Wanlaya, Lucy betrayed no emotion as she digested the scrawl, occasionally looking up to fix her shared man with the sweetest of smiles; acid dissolved in syrup, Scully assessed.

‘Aaaah, that’s why you look like death warmed up, Ludo. Why didn’t you say? Here’s me thinking it was something serious, like you’d washed your own wine glass, or put your coat on a hanger, and all it’s about is a li’l ol’ game of Russian roulette. A trifling matter, my love. Partners come home every day to the faint smell of gun smoke and idly speculate whether they’ll be spending the evening gathering up their beloved’s brains or enjoying a candle-lit dinner together. Isn’t that right, Wanlaya?’

Over the years of the ménage, Wanlaya Vatanayon had learned to recognise and even appreciate the subtle complexities of British irony, but this was of a different order. Not for the first time, she pondered the possibility that she’d hooked up with a pair of unadulterated lunatics. She was uncertain how to respond and played safe with a weak, ‘Maybe Mr Ludo’s having a joke, he always enjoys his sanuk.’

‘Always playing the diplomat, eh Wanlaya,’ Lucy said without rancour. ‘Well, let’s look at the evidence. You’ll have noted his ashen face of course. And if you tilt your head back about 15 degrees and look to the right of the chandelier, you’ll also note a cute little hole in the ceiling, surrounded by some cracked plaster. So my guess is, our dear lover really did play Russian roulette.

‘And here’s the best bit: He lost, yet won. I don’t know how he managed it, but that’s Ludo for you. A great ideas man, wonderful imagination, accomplished writer, effective propagandist, but when it comes to Russian Roulette, well, what can I say about someone who can’t even make a clean job of either blowing his fucking brains out. Or not.’

Wanlaya didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and Lucy was in no mood to offer guidance as she rounded on Scully, no whiff of hesitation as every available verbal trigger was pressed.

‘So tell us, Ludo, you selfish bastard, how can anyone botch up Russian Roulette? Tell us how you managed it. YOU BLITHERING IDIOT. AND DON’T SAY IT WAS ANY SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT US BECAUSE I’LL NOT BELIEVE YOU!’

‘Ok, you’ve had your fun, Lucy. You sound as though you’d have been happier to see my brains spattered all over the place.’

‘HAPPIER!!!’ Lucy was incandescent. ‘Did you ever think how it would be for us, coming home to find you dead, killing yourself in a game set up for drunken maniacs? WELL, DID YOU?’

Scully tried to explain the courage thing, his overall mental state and how casino man had saved him at the death.

Lucy listened in silent fury, then removed the gloves. ‘So, it’s all about courage, eh! And it was one bullet in the chamber. Is that right?’

Scully nodded.

‘And you call yourself a man!!! Six chambers and you put in a single bullet, stacking the odds in your favour! Well, I never. A real man would have played fair. Three bullets in the chamber. The odds even. Isn’t that right, Wanlaya? You know, I never realised we were living with such a yellow belly wimp.’

Wanlaya shook her head in disbelief at what she was hearing, her lower jaw threatening to detach itself. It made her question how solidly based the ménage was, something she’d never really wanted to examine too deeply. True, it was held together by exotic threads - silken, luxurious and thrilling – but of a rope-like strength. Could all that be entrusted to a man plagued by demons that ought to have been jettisoned decades ago.

Young men living dangerously she understood; in war, in peace, in hazardous sports, driving stupidly in fast cars, that sort of thing she could deal with. But a man well into advanced middle age still testing his courage was insane. That was something beyond her understanding.

Lucy seemed to read Wanlaya’s thoughts and tackled Scully head on. ‘How can we live like this, Ludo? You might want to have another go. If not with Russian Roulette, perhaps something less sophisticated. Err, let me think. I know, chicken, like they play in America: Two cars hurtling towards each other at full belt and the first one to swerve away is chicken. How does that grab you, assuming you can find some fellow lunatic?

‘Or how about joining very young kids in some shanty towns where they run across busy roads in front of speeding cars? Or jump from sheer cliffs into pools of water, like teenagers do in Mexico, many of them misjudging, leaving their parents to pick up what remains of their shredded bodies on the rocks below?’

‘OK, enough, Lucy. I promise both of you nothing like this will ever happen again.’

‘Did you hear that, Wanlaya? He’s promising it won’t happen again. So that’s all fine then. Nothing to worry about.’

The Thai had one question: ‘Mr Ludo, why just now? Has something terrible happened? Why are you doubting yourself. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all us. Your life is testimony to the sort of man you are. Sometimes gutsy to the point of madness, if I may say so.’

Silence and a drawn-out sigh from Scully told both women that Wanlaya had hit the spot. ‘OK, if you truly want to know. Losing my key battle with Ratledge still hangs heavy with me.’

‘Which one, Ludo? There are so many of ‘em,’ said Lucy.

‘Come on, you know very well, the ships. Thousands of old folk looking to spend their final years cruising the world, and that greedy bastard just anchors them off-shore to save on fuel.’

‘Ludo, it’s history. You fought him. You lost. Move on.’

‘Easy for you to say, Lucy. That loss, as you call it, devastated me far more than I’ve ever let on. Not only thousands of old people let down – and soon it will be millions – I’ve betrayed myself too. I created this monster, remember. And by throwing in the towel and working for him I feel worthless, like I’ve lost my moral compass. The Russian Roulette business was just an attempt to prove to myself that I still had something worthwhile – guts. And I even failed at that.’

‘Or maybe, Mr Ludo, without even realising it, deep down you wanted to lose at Russian Roulette and bring your pain to an end.’

‘Quite the psychoanalyst, aren’t you, Wanlaya,’ said Scully. Lucy sighed, a long, weary sigh from the depths.

‘So, at root, it’s Ratledge again. Always Ratledge,’ she said. ‘And he’s just come within a whisker of killing you. I told you all those years ago not to allow him back into your life – and now he’s blighting all our lives, like a constant curse. If ever there was a man who should be toying with blowing his own brains out, that’s the one.’

‘We all get things wrong, Lucy, even you,’ said Scully, failing to convince.

‘Actually, talking of Ratledge, there’s something else I should maybe tell you.’

‘Go on, he’s phoned to say he’s doubling your salary; or compensating you for siphoning custom from your flying business.’

‘Drop it, Lucy. This is something serious. You’ll not like the next bit, but funnily enough, it was this Russian Roulette business that triggered an idea – sorry, that wasn’t meant – Ratledge might be interested in. Its money-making potential is virtually limitless and, handled cleverly, it could carve us a very big piece of the action.’

Neither woman could believe her ears. Wanlaya was the first to gather herself.

‘Mr Ludo, you have made this man fantastically rich and he’s treated you badly, very badly. Why on earth would you want to make him any richer? This doesn’t sound wise or clever to me. If I may say so, it seems crazy you should even be thinking like this.’

Lucy could contain herself no longer. ‘Wanlaya, let’s not be polite or mince words here. Only a raving lunatic would consider making a known enemy still stronger. You might not know this, Wanlaya, but there was a great western scientist called Einstein,’ – ‘Yes, I know of him,’ the Thai assured – ‘who defined insanity as the repetition of the same mistake in hope of a different outcome. I think in Ludo we have the clearest example possible of such insanity.’

Scully hit back with a reality check.

‘Do either of you think for one minute I would voluntarily do anything to help that bastard in any way. I’d happily pour water on him if he were drowning, but the fact remains that as things are at the moment we are not in a good position, and for us he’s the major game in town.

‘About 80 percent of our income is from Ratledge, the rest from my odd writing jobs, none of which is guaranteed. Sorry, I forgot, there’s also a bit from the flying business, but that’s largely from old punters who still stick with me out of loyalty. And even that’s not certain. That new outfit, Samui Air Breaks, has undercut me so much that any of them could switch. Loyalty only stretches so far. Now, it might stick in your throat – and it certainly sticks in mine – but if I can come up with something that strengthens our position, I will go for it, whether I have to deal with Ratledge or the devil himself; same thing really.’

‘OK, Ludo, you’ve made your point. You think we need the money, extra security, I can understand that,’ said Lucy, ‘but how can anything be guaranteed, coming from Ratledge? And don’t tell me you’d get some cast-iron contract. He hires the best lawyers to wheedle out of anything, planting false information, getting people to perjure themselves, using bribes and threats. Jesus, Ludo, you more than anyone know how he operates. Haven’t you learned anything over the years?’

‘Of course I know all that, but what I’ve got in mind would make me indispensable.’

‘Ludo,’ Lucy persisted, ‘has no-one ever told you there isn’t a person on this planet who’s indispensable. We can all be replaced, including the great Ludo Scully.’

‘But this is something that would put me into a position of such power that I couldn’t be crapped on without the whole outfit coming down around Arnie’s ears.’

‘And ours, of course, Ludo."

‘Well, yes.’

‘You know, you remind me of that old Samson and Delilah film where in the final frame Samson pushes apart a temple’s stone pillars and brings the whole kit