Chapter Text
“I often wonder what I'd do if there weren't any books in the world."
- James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room
“Am I walking toward something I should be running away from?”
- Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House
Michael Crew isn’t in Book Club on Thursday evening.
Oliver Banks slumps lower in his seat, chewing on the rim of a waxy paper cup as he continues to stare at the empty plastic chair across from him.
A couple chairs away, Allison was heading this evening’s discussion. Or, as Mike liked to call it, hijacking. Allison was one of the newer members of the group, having joined after ending a twelve-year relationship with her boyfriend - a “textbook narcissistic psychopath” she had claimed. Often. The past several meetings had been excruciating. Each discussion question, every book passage, and any character analysis could somehow be connected back to him. Harmless tangents weren’t even safe. Last week, David had been giving them the recipe for the orange scones he brought until Allison interjected, loudly sharing that her previous boyfriend had been allergic to citrus.
It was almost impressive, in a depressing kind of way, how consistently she could steer the conversation back to him.
“Someone has to shag her.” Mike had said during a break in last week’s discussion.
Oliver had almost choked on his weak coffee. He quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone had heard them.
“It’s the only way out of this.” Mike had continued breezily, picking up a madeleine. He sighed. “We can’t do this for another week. It’s miserable.”
Besides their book club’s moderator, Mike had been the only one attempting to wrestle Allison’s tirades back to the topic at hand, usually with a light-hearted joke. In the instances where this didn’t work, he’d simply shrug and lean back, throwing a knowing look in Oliver’s direction.
“David's obviously out. Maybe Harry?” Mike mused. “And Mira lives in the same building as her, that could be something...”
“Mira and her are neighbors?” Oliver asked.
“I mean, they live a floor apart, but yeah. You never noticed them leaving together?”
When Oliver shook his head, Mike laughed.
“Christ, I’ve only been here for five meetings. How am I keeping track of everyone better than you?” He tilted his head and squinted at Oliver then. “Hey, have you been asleep behind those sunglasses this whole time? It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone.”
Oliver shrugged, a little flustered from Mike’s playful teasing. “Well, it has been hard staying awake lately when ‘you-know-who’s’ going off on one.”
“Right, back to saving Book Club,” Mike said with faux seriousness. “I suppose if things got desperate, I could always throw myself in the mix. What do you think?”
Oliver shook his head and chuckled. “ I don’t think that would work. You don’t really look like her type.”
Mike’s smirk twitched downwards. “Oh really?” His eyes had a dangerous glint to them now and his voice had become sharper, more tense. Like a beartrap, waiting to be sprung. “And what do you mean by that?”
The hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck prickled. He wondered if the sudden chill was from the drafty basement or the abrupt change in Mike’s mood.
Does he think I’m making fun of him?
Oliver eyed the man next him more closely. It was one of the benefits of his sunglasses. Mike was shorter than average, barely clearing five feet and three inches. His crow-black hair stood up at the ends, like he had just stuck his hand into an electric socket. His brown eyes didn’t quite match, the left one being a shade or two lighter than the right. And then there was the scar, a pale, silvery thing snaking its way up his neck before fracturing off into tiny tributaries across the cheekbones and nose.
It was an odd mix of features, but not off-putting. Quite the opposite, actually. Oliver had caught his gaze returning to Mike, week after week during meetings, not in morbid fascination, but in genuine interest. An unexplainable attraction.
Next to him, Mike arched an eyebrow, waiting for his reply. Oliver swallowed and smiled uneasily.
“Um, what I meant was, you don’t look like a narcissist or a psychopath.”
It had been an awkward joke, but the moment’s brief friction had dissolved. Mike’s face cracked open, a surprised laugh escaping out of him. It was entirely different from the typical half-smiles and polite chuckles that came from him during Book Club. This laugh shook his entire body. The air crackled with the sound of it, brightening the dismal, gray basement. Oliver felt the tight knot in his chest loosen into a bubble of laughter. It hadn’t been intentional, but he found that he liked this version of Mike better. This version of him that laughed so loud and hard that it caused heads to turn. Whose scars stretched wide to cradle the corners of his large, crooked mouth.
“Arthur?”
The other members of the Book Club were staring at him now.
Oliver jolts in his seat.
Right. That'll be me. Oliver sits a little straighter, smoothes a hand over his paperback copy of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. He hadn’t finished it and the book was already three days overdue at the library.
“Um…” Oliver says eloquently. He clears his throat. “Sorry, I think I missed the question.”
“We were talking about Dorian’s true nature.” Nadia clarifies. She was the group’s ever-patient moderator, trying valiantly to regain control of yet another book club meeting careening dangerously off-course. She smiles at Oliver before repeating herself. “Dorian’s corrupted nature, is this something he can change, that he can be redeemed from? Or was it always a part of him?”
“I say no. Lying assholes don’t deserve a second chance.” Allison sniffs.
“Madelyn,” Nadia warns through a stiff grin. “I think it would be nice to open this conversation up to everyone else. Arthur?”
Madelyn?
Oliver leans forward, squinting through his sunglasses at the impatient woman’s name tag. 'Madelyn,” it read. Where had he gotten Allison from?
Across the room, a thin, dark tendril loops around the leg of Mike’s chair. Oliver blinks and it disappears again. Dread turns over in his stomach.
“Right…um,” Oliver wavers. “Actually I was going to agree with what Allison said.”
“Thank you, Arthur.” Madelyn nods, vindicated. “Anyway, like I was saying…”
Oliver barely registers the collective sighs and groans around the room as she charges ahead with the discussion.
*****
Oliver opens his eyes and finds that he is in the basement of the old church again. The blue chairs usually occupied by the other book club members are vacant now. The lights overhead have been dimmed low. It’s much gentler on his eyes, a small comfort he clings to. He isn’t afforded many of those in these nightmares.
Oliver doesn’t sleep well. Over the years, he has dipped his hand in various coping mechanisms. Avoiding greasy or salty foods before bed. Throwing out the television in his bedroom. Meditation and journaling. Therapy when he still thought he was somewhat normal. An ill-advised week of no sleep and extra shots of espresso in his coffee. Heavy drinking for a handful of months in between jobs.
The best solution he found for his dreams had been thinking about a relatively isolated part of the city. Abandoned petrol stations, a grimy bathroom in a hole-in-the wall pub, places he knew that people tended not to inhabit. He kept a mental list in his mind, adding new spots as he noticed them during the day. Locations that had been locked or closed to the public were the best because it meant that no one should be able to sneak and get themselves shot, or stabbed, or choked, or hit by a truck, or any other myriad ways a person could die. An inaccessible room meant no dead body. No dead body meant Oliver could sleep in peace, safe from walking ghosts and crawling corpse roots.
It wasn’t a perfect system. Lucid dreaming like this required a certain degree of concentration. If he was too tired or if his attention slipped, he could find himself being pulled away from his empty rooms to ones of dying people. Alleyways, park benches, offices, hospital rooms. However, when it did work, when he kept himself focused, mentally tied to one of these unoccupied places, well…it was heaven. A respite from the dead.
Until yesterday, the basement of the old church had been one of those places. Unfortunately, the corpse roots managed to find him, despite Oliver’s best efforts. Slick and black, they climb down the walls, pooling onto the floor below. He had hoped their appearance was a fluke, but their numbers had increased since the night before. From well across the room, Oliver shifts uncomfortably in his seat, watching as the tendrils tightly hug one chair in particular.
Most Thursdays, Mike sits in the chair directly across from Oliver. He was one of the newer members, having joined a little over two months ago. They hadn’t spoken much. Oliver was shy and Mike was usually rushing off somewhere after a meeting. Still, Oliver would sometimes catch him looking. Either rolling his eyes when someone made a moronic observation, or, on the rare occasion Oliver spoke up during discussions, nodding along with interest.
From the few conversations they shared, Mike had seemed nice. It was a shame that he was set to die. Oliver had tried for years to warn people of their deaths. Strangers and neighbors, former classmates and coworkers. Once he had even gone to the Magnus Institute, a dusty research organization that had more cobwebs than working pens. He’d long given up on anyone believing him, but the dream he had of its head archivist had been so vivid, more violent than the rest, he felt that he had to try. Looking back, he doubted his written statement ever made to her desk.
Oliver couldn’t save Mike. His death was inevitable, an unchanging fate that Oliver was powerless to prevent. And like so many others, it would haunt him. No amount of therapy or meditation or alcohol would exorcise the guilt he carried in his soul.
A thin tendril breaks free from the writhing nest and slithers towards Oliver then. He stands abruptly, knocking his own chair over in his hurry to get away. In several steps, he is backed against the wall, breathing hard. He curses himself for being so thoughtless, so stupidly attached to the church basement. There were other deserted places he could have gone to in his dreams and still, he had returned here. An idiot child stubbornly refusing to give up their safety blanket.
As the corpse root creeps closer and closer, his wills himself stays calm, but his concentration is split between curbing his panic and thinking of another abandoned spot in the city.
The condemned building on Miller’s Road? No, a homeless man had been found there with a knife through his chest. Oliver had heard it on the news that morning. Aldwych Station? Not there either. After weeks of visiting the out-of-service train station, he stumbled across a woman, sprawled out and overdosed on the cold tile.
Come on, think, think, think. Abandoned curry shop on Thorpe Street? The vacant office on St. Mary's? Seaview Apartments - no, wait, a contractor fell off a beam last week during construction. Shit-
All thoughts scatter, when a blackened root grazes Oliver’s shoe. His throat constricts in disgusted horror as he watches it continue to crawl across the laces, curling itself around his ankle. It is a warm, faceless tongue, exploring and massaging his trapped leg.
Please, he prays silently. Please just leave me alone.
It squeezes once, twice, and then pulls hard.The force of it causes Oliver to stumble forward, but once he’s off the wall, the root retracts, recoiling back towards Mike’s chair.
Okay, that was new.
Oliver’s legs are shaking as he takes a step forward. His right shoe squelches, a loud, obscene sound that should be a warning, a sign for him to stop. But he doesn’t heed to it. He walks, wary step by step, until he is across the room, standing in front Mike’s chair. He wills his knees to bend. On his face, he feels the humid heat of them as they vibrate rhythmically below, like human veins. Or a living heartbeat.
Perhaps this is what draws him in closer, curious for once instead of afraid. Until tonight, the corpse roots had been cold, slow-moving creatures. The squirming mess that writhed in Mike’s chair was so warm, so alive. With every earnest pulse, Oliver feels his own heart quicken. A low spark of hope catches in his chest. He takes another shaky breath, but it doesn’t extinguish the feeling, only gives it more fuel, a dying hearth coming to life again.
Something about Mike is different from the other people Oliver has dreamt of, which meant…
Maybe this time could be different.
His fingers are trembling when he stretches them towards the twisting tendrils.
Maybe I can save him.
A blaring alarm cuts through the air. Oliver shoots up from bed, gasping. He blinks, his vision adjusting from the dark, hypnotic roots in his dreams to the gray morning light washing over his bedroom. With his right hand, he drags a palm over his tired eyes, and with his left, he pats around his blankets for his mobile. The real shock comes when he sees the time. It’s already half past eight?
Shit, I’m going to be late again.
He unplugs his mobile and throws his legs over the bed, half-running to the bathroom.
*****
At work, Oliver is distracted. After ringing up a third customer incorrectly, his manager Kelsey pulls him aside.
“You all right?” She asks, her large eyes scanning his face with concern. “You don’t look so great. ”
“I’ve got a headache," Oliver says. It’s a lie, but it’s easy enough to believe. One of his other coworkers had called out sick last week.
Kelsey's worried frown deepens. “Thought so, there’s definitely a bug going around. Listen, it’s pretty slow today, so why don’t you take the rest of the day off, yeah?”
“You sure?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’ve got things handled over here. Plus it’s Taurus season, self-care and rejuvenation, right?”
“Right,” Oliver agrees, feeling a tad guilty. “Thanks, Kelsey.”
She smiles and gives his arm a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry about it. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” The bell above the shop door jingles. As she’s turning away to greet the customers, a thought occurs to Oliver.
“Hey Kelsey? Do we still have those empty boxes in the back?”
An hour later, Oliver pulls his car to the curb, parking it across the street of a red brick apartment building. He’d driven to work that morning to avoid being late. Now that his afternoon was free and he wasn’t reliant on public transit, he figured he might as well stop by Mike’s flat to check in. And to quell the anxiety rolling in his stomach. He takes out his mobile to double check the address Mike had messaged him previously.
About a month ago, Mike had left his wallet behind after their book club meeting. After workshopping his message for ten minutes, Oliver had texted Mike and offered to drop it off.
It’s nine already, don’t worry about it! Mike had texted back. Just come by in the morning. We can get coffee.
Unfortunately, Oliver had work the next day. While he could swing by with the wallet, a leisurely morning in the cafe would have to wait until another time. Even so, when Oliver pulled up to the curb, he found the other man sitting on the front steps, two paper cups in hand. He bounded down the stairs after spotting Oliver, his dark hair bouncing around his head. After Oliver had rolled down the window, Mike had leaned inside, exchanging his wallet with one of the cups.
“I got you black. Oh and here,” Mike added, pulling a small bag from his pocket. “I don’t know how you take your coffee, so I just grabbed some of everything.”
“Thanks,” Oliver replied, surprised by the thoughtful gesture.
“Nah, I should be thanking you! Can’t believe I forgot the thing at Book Club. You’re a lifesaver bringing it by today.” Mike took a sip from his cup. “Too bad about having to work this morning. Another day, I guess.”
“Yeah, maybe another time…”
Mike waved cheerfully while Oliver drove away. He remembered wondering if Mike had been sitting outside for very long. It was a chilly morning and Mike had been wearing a loose button down, with the sleeves pushed up past the elbows. Perhaps his drink had been keeping him warm.
Since that encounter, a couple of messages had followed, but it never went anywhere. Oliver scrolls back down and grimaces at his most recent attempts at contacting Mike. Ten text messages and six missed calls already. He shuts off the engine and rolls down the car window to get a better view at the apartment building. Five floors, but which one was Mike’s? Would he even be home now? It was the middle of the day…
Oliver tries calling again, but he’s only met with Mike’s usual voicemail message, followed by an automated voice announcing that the voicemail box was full. He sighs, fully aware that if he leaves now, it’s only going to continue to bother him. After adjusting his sunglasses, he steps out of the car and crosses the street.
The building’s call box is tucked into a corner of the apartment’s entrance. While the plastic buttons were yellowing, the name tags were still visible. Oliver picks out Mike’s name next to the number five. He calls twice, before stepping back to survey the building again. It looked like the lights were on in his flat, which meant he could be home. Oliver’s hopes lift for a moment, before sinking again. If Mike was around, then why wasn’t he answering?
He presses the remaining numbers on the call box, but again, receives no response. At this point, Oliver decides to move onto his next plan. He walks back to the car, opens the boot, and takes out the empty cardboard box he taped up earlier. He then circles back to the apartment building entrance to wait. Usually, if he appears busy enough, no one stops him from hurrying inside a building without a key or a nametag. This is a trick he picked up a couple years back. It’s gotten him into a number of places in his mid-twenties, that period of his life where he was still trying to warn people of their deaths.
Ten minutes come and go, but no one exits the building. At this point, Oliver decides it's time to move onto his third plan. He stalks back to his car, throws the empty box into the car’s boot and pulls out the crow bar Dad had given him when he first moved out. In case you find yourself walking home alone at night, all right Ollie? He’s getting ready to close the boot when, after a second thought, he removes his sunglasses and tosses them inside. Less suspicious.
When Oliver was driving around, he noticed a fire escape in the alleyway behind the apartment building. Scaling it proves to be fairly easy. There’s a nearby dumpster that he’s able to hoist himself upon for a couple extra meters. He raises his arms, swinging upwards towards the ladder. After a few attempts, the crow bar connects with one of the rungs. He steadies himself and pulls down, grunting against the rusted metal. The ladder finally gives, descending before Oliver with a noisy clatter. He grabs a rung and climbs until he’s made it to the first level of the fire escape platform. The steps creak underfoot as he ascends past the second, third, and fourth floors, until he finally reaches the fifth.
At the top of the stairs, there’s a balcony window, outfitted with ironwork and stained glass. It’s a beautiful piece. Delicate pink and blue roses intermingle with white lilies. Oliver traces a green leaf with a finger. During their book club meetings, Mike usually showed up in trousers, loose shirts, and white trainers. The expensive kind of clothes that were designed to look effortless and understated. Oliver wouldn’t have expected Mike to have something quite so old-fashioned and ornate in his flat.
But what did he actually know about Mike anyway, outside of a handful of conversations? In the span of two months, the two of them had hardly spoken to one another. And now Oliver was here, spamming his mobile, ambushing him at his home all because he saw him in a dream. How many times has he been here before? Knocking on doors, stopping strangers on the street, trying to get them to listen, to believe him. These interventions always ended in disaster, why did he think this would be different?
Because he came to me.
Mike’s corpse roots had been unlike any other Oliver had seen in almost a decade. While others crawled sluggishly along, these had moved quickly, with a purpose. They had sought Oliver out, grabbed his leg, and pulled, like they wanted him to follow. The deaths that he observed before, those were simply vigils, premonitions set in stone that he could not change, he sees that now. This would be different. His dream last night had been a call for help, a distress signal. Oliver would be damned if he didn’t try.
He steps forward, raising an arm to knock. His confidence wanes slightly at the sight of his own reflection. There’s sweat on his forehead and he’s still holding the crow bar in his right hand. This intervention was suddenly becoming a little more awkward than he anticipated, if not creepy.
Whatever, worse case scenario, Mike thinks I’m a little mad.
Actually, the worst outcome would be Mike dying and Oliver failing again. That morbid second thought is pushed aside for another time. He takes a breath, moves the crow bar to his left hand, and lifts his right arm to knock again. Something moves out of the corner of his eye. He steps back, inspecting the intricate designs on the door.
Maybe it was the sun reflecting off the glass? Oliver brushes his fingers over the twisting iron once more. The cool metal warms under his touch, then shifts, smoothly unfurling itself to wrap itself around Oliver’s right hand.
Corpse root.
It constricts, immobilizing his wrist. Oliver hears the sound of glass shattering before he registers that he’s even swung his left hand. When he blinks, the corpse root has disappeared, leaving behind a pile of rainbow-colored glass at his feet. Oliver freezes, gripping the crowbar tightly, anticipating an alarm or an angry shout but…nothing. Thank God.
He lets out a heavy exhale, then takes a moment to survey the damage. There’s a sizable hole in the left side of the door. Oliver sighs, cursing the thoughtless reflex that seized him momentarily. He hadn’t meant to break the glass. The crow bar had been for the fire escape ladder, not for putting holes in people’s property. Either way, the door was broken now and Mike…hadn’t come out to check what had caused it. Or call the police. While Oliver was grateful not to be threatened with arrest, the lack of response to his accidental breaking and entering was concerning. Maybe a quick look around was in order.
He reaches into the gaping hole he made, feeling around for the door handle. It gives immediately. Seriously? It seriously been unlocked this entire time? For fuck’s sake…
His annoyance at the irony of it all disappears at the sight of the living room. It’s a mess - yes, thanks, in part, to him. He is aware of glass crunching beneath his Docs. But the furniture is also in disarray. The low coffee table and couch sit at awkward angles, as if someone had been in the middle of rearranging the room, but had given up halfway. Even more confusing, the armchair has been tipped to the side. Oliver ventures a little further inside, his eyes falling upon a ceramic tea cup on the floor as well. There’s a perfect crack down its middle, the two broken halves splitting apart like a fresh oyster.
“Mike?” Oliver calls out, alarm rising in his voice. He weaves through the maze of displaced furniture, moving quickly towards the hallway. “Hello, Mike? Are you here?” He doesn’t even bother to knock as he flings open doors. He sticks his head inside various rooms, but they’re all empty, a fact that makes Oliver's stomach clench. When he finds that the final room at the end of the hall is similarly vacant, he's left feeling more shaken than ever. He shuts the door behind him and sinks to the floor, twisting the rings on his fingers.
Something was very wrong here. Mike wasn’t answering his mobile and it looked like a crime scene out there in the living room. Oliver had no idea what he just walked into, but he knows he couldn't stay. He needed to leave, call the police and-and-
Tell them what exactly? That he had a bad dream, so he decided to stop by and start smashing in doors? Oliver was walking around with a crow bar. He’d given a fake name in Book Club. With his fingerprints all over Mike’s flat, he wouldn’t be considered a concerned citizen. He’d be the number one suspect. And it wouldn’t take long for them to discover his breakdown at Barclay’s, the years of therapy after…
No, contacting the police wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t be any help to Mike while in prison. If Mike was even still breathing at this point.
He is. Oliver argues with himself. He has to be.
The corpse roots always preceded deaths. They never appeared afterwards. That meant that despite whatever struggle occurred in the living room, Mike had been able to get away. He was still alive. Oliver just had to find him. There’d be more answers to Mike’s whereabouts in his dreams tonight. In the meantime, though, Oliver could have another look around, try to piece together what had happened.
He slips his crowbar into a belt loop and rises to his feet, his knees popping as he stands. The room he’s currently in is clean and simple. Tucked into the corner is a bed that appears as if it hasn't been slept in for a while. That was strange. Even stranger was the dresser. Its surface is dusty and there’s no trousers, shirts, or socks inside the drawers he pulls out. Oliver crosses the room to check the small closet, but there’s only a set of gray matching suitcases. Oliver frowns, confused. Mike’s suitcases are here, but his clothes are not? If he had left in a hurry, why would he stop to grab his entire wardrobe, and then bring nothing to hold them all in? Wouldn’t that only slow him down? He closes the closet and continues his search in the hallway.
The door to the right leads him to an office. It looks much more lived in than the previous room. Heavy wooden bookcases line the walls, like sentries. Its shelves contain small, unexpected treasures - a pair of brass rabbit bookends here, a Tiffany lamp, a framed vintage postcard of Blackpool Tower. Hand-selected pieces that had been curated with a level of care that Oliver never noticed in Mike before. And of course, there are books. The novels range in genre, author, time period, and even language apparently. Oliver spots one shelf with exclusively French titles. In the center of the room there’s a large desk. Empty tea cups, pens, and a laptop fight for real estate on its surface. Mike’s computer is password-protected, but next to the mouse there’s a stray envelope that contains a list.
Need clearer pics of bathroom, esp tile-work. Request copy of blueprints BEFORE ‘74 addition. Yellow paint under wallpaper in house confirmed as lead - discuss options on Mon.
It’s meaningless to Oliver. Even if he was to decipher Mike’s notes, he’s fairly certain it has more to do with his work than where he is at the moment. Oliver vaguely remembers him saying something about “old money clients and even older houses”. An inspection of drawers reveals nothing new, save for a passport. At least he knows that Mike hasn’t fled the country, and oh, he’s a Saggitarius? That’s interesting…
Focus. Oliver reminds himself. After returning the passport to the desk, he wanders into the hall again to try the third door. The room he enters next has walls painted a serene, pale blue and window curtains that sway gently in the breeze. It also contains a bed and dresser. A swift check of the latter confirms Mike hadn’t run off with his entire wardrobe. His underwear, socks, shirts, and trousers are folded away in the drawers. Oliver eases them shut, his face blushing. He turns to face the bed, finally realizing. Ah, so this is where Mike actually slept. The other room Oliver had seen previously was meant for guests. That would explain the dust, untouched blankets, and lack of clothing there.
He approaches the bed, suddenly feeling more shy than he’s had in any of the other rooms. Like Oliver’s, Mike’s is queen-sized, although he seems to prefer the left side rather than the right. The pillow there is a little more deflated, plus there’s a stack of books on the small table beside it. Their most recent book club pick, The Picture of Dorian Gray rests on the top. Oliver moves it aside, discovering a familiar title underneath - What Is Not Yours, Is Not Yours by Helen Oyeyemi. It was her latest work, a fantastical whirlwind of short stories that Oliver had read four times already. A used envelope has been stuck between the papers, likely serving as a placeholder. Curious, he opens the novel wondering which story Mike had been reading. Coincidentally, it ends up being “A Brief History of the Homely Wench Society,” his favorite story of the collection, but this isn’t what causes Oliver to stop short. Rather, it is the note Mike had scrawled onto the makeshift bookmark.
4/28 - JS @ 2
Oliver had first started seeing the corpse roots that very day. Was it merely coincidence? And what is JS? A new house Mike was working on, perhaps? Mike hadn’t included any other identifying details, like a street address or a contact number. Like the notes in the office, it could mean anything. Frustrated, Oliver slips the envelope back into the pages, returning the book to the bedside table. He then turns and heads back into the living room.
Once he sets the overturned armchair back onto his feet, Oliver slumps into the plush seat. In his mind, he reviews the details of his impromptu investigation. The other rooms he searched were practically untouched. If this had been a robbery gone bad, he couldn’t determine what had been stolen. The closets and drawers were undisturbed. Mike’s laptop and passport had been left behind. Yet, the strange placement of the furniture, the cracked tea cup, these things suggested something like a struggle. Oliver leans forward, scooping up the broken pieces from the tea-stained floor. That’s right, he still hadn’t checked the kitchen. He’ll do a final check there, then leave.
Similar to the other rooms, everything appears to be intact. A pair of rubber kitchen gloves are draped over the stainless steel sink. A footstool is nestled into a corner. There’s a mug sitting on the counter, surrounded by various boxes of tea. Oliver’s eyebrows furrow at this. Why would Mike be brewing a second cup when he hadn’t even finished the first? The answer comes to him a couple seconds later.
Because he wasn’t making it for himself.
JS @ 2.
“JS” isn’’t a place, it’s a person. Oliver dumps the shattered cup into a trash bin and spins on his heel. He needs to see the front door now.
Just as he had feared, neither the chain or the locks have been broken. On a wall hook beside the door, hang a ring of house keys. Oliver reaches forward and removes them, cradling them in his shaking hand.
Mike had known the intruder, this “JS.” He had welcomed them into his home, put the kettle on, and offered them tea. The other rooms had been left untouched, because the intruder hadn’t been interested in stealing anything. They had been solely interested in Mike. And now…now he was gone.
A sharp knock echoes at the front door.
With his left hand, Oliver tucks Mike’s house keys into his jeans. With his right, he removes the crow bar from his belt loop. He takes a breath, slow and deep, before gripping the knob and opening the door.
“Mike…? Oh, hello there!” An older man holding a small dog lowers his hand. “I heard a crash from downstairs earlier. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, I dropped something.” Oliver lies automatically. “Sorry about the noise.”
“Oh, no worries! The woes of moving house. You wouldn't believe how many vases I broke when I was moving. Although, I think that sort of thing is good luck-”
“Moving?”
The man blinks. “Well, yes. I think I might have buzzed you in on what day…ah, Wednesday. Yes, because then I saw you were moving that huge carpet with another one of Mike’s friends later. A tall woman, I believe.” He grins, a little uneasily. “It’s Jon, right?”
JS @ 2.
Oliver stomach drops. Wednesday afternoon was the time and date Mike listed on his note. His mind then catches on the memory of the coffee table and couch, its strange position in the middle of the living room. It hadn’t been pushed in the midst of a struggle. It had been dragged away to get to a carpet underneath. Mike was a smaller man. Oliver would be surprised if he weighed more than eleven stone. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone to carry him, especially if there were two people as Mike’s neighbor was now saying.
Oliver must look terrible because the other man’s initial confusion is beginning to cross over to something worse - suspicion.
Say something. Look him in the eye and tell him everything is fine.
Oliver adjusts his face, stretching his mouth into a taut grin. “Yes, I remember you now. Sorry, I’m a bit all over the place at the moment.”
The small dog growls at him.
“You’ll need to excuse me. Got to run to the store. We’re out of packaging tape.” He inches the front door just wide enough to squeeze his body through the frame and into the hallway, taking care to block the older man’s view inside.
“Is Mike around?” The man asks. “I wanted to stop in and say goodbye. Haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”
“He isn't here. I mean, not right now. He’s waiting in the car downstairs. I only came up here to grab my phone, er-”
What are you doing. Why are you still talking. Leave. Now.
“Anyway!” Oliver’s skin feels like it's on fire. “It was nice meeting you! I’ll tell Mike you said hi, or bye. Whatever, you know what I’m trying to say.”
And before the man can say anything else, Oliver spins on his heels and walks to the staircase at the end of the hallway.
*****
Oliver returns to the church basement in his dreams. Once again, the corpse roots are waiting for him.
They’re everywhere now. Along the walls, in Mike’s chair, spreading and filling the room like an oil spill. Oliver’s stomach churns as he hears the soggy smack of tendrils falling and turning over one another. He slides his foot forward anyway. He just needs to be sure. Like the previous night, the tendrils shrink away. He inches it forward a second time, and they pull back again, like they were leading him, guiding him somewhere.
All right then.
He rises to his feet, walking close behind the roots as they slither out the door, down the basement hallway, and up the carpeted steps to the main floor. It sits patiently at the church’s exit for a moment, like it’s testing to see if he’s going to try making a break for it again. But Oliver is committed now, he’s not running away. Seemingly satisfied, the roots disappear under the door, and into the waiting city. Oliver follows. Call it stupidity, his strange curiosity, a mad hope that he can actually save someone for once after all this time. That there could be a redemption for the cursed man than he is. As he walks through denser parts of the city, tendrils of other unlucky souls begin to appear. They spill out of car windows, alleyways, and train stations, out of apartment buildings and banks. From the lips, stomachs, chests, and skulls of men and women alike. He presses on, doing his best to avoid their vacant stares.
The streets give way to motorways, then to smaller roads and trees. Eventually, he recognizes a sign - Epping Forest. Anxiety coils in his gut, but pushes on, praying that tonight he’ll make it to the dreaded destination before he wakes up.
In the middle of a forest clearing, the corpse roots end. Oliver slows, turning his head around in bewilderment. All he sees are the thick trees surrounding him. He lowers his head back to the ground below his feet.
No, it can’t be. That’s impossible.
But it’s been almost ten years and Oliver hasn’t been wrong yet.
He collapses onto his knees, running his hands over the soil. Mike was alive down there? It’s been days, how much longer could he possibly last? How much time did Oliver have to find him?
Was he already too late?
Before he can answer that, a tendril shoots out. It rightly wraps itself around his right wrist and pulls hard. Oliver’s face meets the cold earth. He opens his mouth to scream but he only tastes dirt. Every breath he takes pushes more soil down his constricting throat. Dirt fills his eyes and nostrils, pebbles worm their way under his tongue. His left arm swings up, flailing uselessly in the open air. And all the while he sinks deeper and deeper, more roots crowding in the pull him down. He can’t move. He can’t see. He’s going to-
Oliver wakes with a shout and a pounding heart.
He staggers out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, groping for the counter. It takes a couple tries for his shaking hand to pick a cup from the sink, rinse it, and fill it again with fresh water. After shutting off the tap, he leans heavily on the counter, holding the cool glass to his forehead, trying to think.
He has a clear location now - Epping Forest. Apparently under the ground. As impossible as it seems, Oliver adds this new detail to what he’s learned so far.
Someone Mike knew came to visit him on Wednesday that he disappeared. A quick glance at the clock on the stove confirms that it was now 1:53 AM - Saturday morning. Three days had passed since Oliver first began seeing Mike in his dreams. Three days without food or water, light or air. What kind of person survives that? What made the man from Oliver’s Book Club so different from anyone else?
It doesn’t matter. You’ve already wasted too much time.
Oliver’s breathing slows. His heart settles in his chest as he comes to a decision. He brings the glass to his mouth and tilts his neck, draining the water in seconds. The hand that places the cup back into the sink is much steader than before. He prays that they'll remain this way. He'll need them for the hour-long drive and the digging that’s to follow after.
*****
Oliver remembers coming to Epping Forest semi-regularly during his university days. He had liked the meandering pathways, the hushed stillness of the trees. After being dismissed from Barclay’s, his therapist had suggested he begin taking walks in Epping Forest again. It had helped for a while - until one of his dreams led him to an open-eyed woman suspended from a tree branch. He hadn’t been back since.
An old garden shovel is balanced on his left shoulder, while his right hand grips a bulky torch. Shadows of branches dance across his lighted path. He carefully steps over gnarled tree roots breaking through the forest floor. Once he arrives at a familiar clearing, he stops and closes his eyes, picturing the blackened tendrils from his dreams.
About thirty more steps now.
He walks ahead, not bothering to open his eyes until his right foot lands on its thirtieth step. He kneels down and touches the soil. It was the same as the soil everywhere else in Epping Forest, but more loosely packed, recently disturbed.
Oliver would need both his hands now. He shoves the torch into his back pocket. The usual rings he wore have been removed, left behind on the dresser back home. It was strange seeing his fingers so bare under the moonlight.
Yes, because that’s the only weird thing happening here.
Oliver raises the shovel, directing it to where he thinks the earth is the softest. It sinks sweetly into the waiting soil. He begins to dig.
After five minutes, he removes his jacket. After ten, his shoulders start to ache. Fifteen minutes pass and any notion that Oliver had about being a relatively fit and healthy thirty-two year old man has now slipped away entirely. He’s sweating everywhere. The dirt from his hands mixes with the perspiration, so when he tries to wipe at his face, he only spreads a muddy grime across his nose and mouth. He grips the shovel harder, even as his arms shake, even as his hands burn with splinters and fresh callouses. Any thought or reason falls away, giving way to action only. Tucked below the earth, his world narrows to sweat and soil, metal and muscle. A mad mantra singing beneath his skin, in his very veins, that urges him to dig, dig, dig.
In another five minutes, his strained eyes snag on a piece of white fabric. He lifts his screaming arms above his head, throwing the garden shovel up and out of the grave. He then bends and scoops the earth with his right hand, using the left to hold the torch light steady. Eventually, he gives this up, too, cramming the torch light into his jeans and using two hands for the exhumation.
A few more handfuls of dirt reveal a pale face. Mike’s eyelids are closed and his face is covered in crusted wine-dark rivulets that Oliver knows isn’t soil. His nose, which is oddly free of dirt, flares ever so faintly. Oliver stares for a full minute not quite believing it.
He’s breathing.
Oliver quickly unearths the rest of Mike’s body and drags him into a sitting position. He pulls himself out first, and, finally with shaking arms and legs, bends over to haul Mike over the yawning mouth of the hole.
He takes a minute to rest, taking in the crisp morning air in heaving gulps. Once his labored breathing has slowed and his heart has returned to a normal rate, he crawls over to Mike’s body, shining his torch into the still face.
A warm brush of air tickles his hand when he places it under Mike’s nose. The chest is next. Oliver lowers his head to it, listening to the soft, improbable heart beat. Satisfied, he pulls away to check Mike’s face again. As gently as possible, he lifts an eyelid. The pupil is large and black, completely pooling over the chestnut iris. A gust of wind buffets Mike’s dark hair, revealing a scowling scar just above his left eye brow. Oliver’s fingers gingerly trace the sunken edges.
In spite of the dried blood and earth, he is struck by how peaceful Mike appears, almost as if he was sleeping. Oliver pulls the other man in closer to lay across his own legs. Mike’s breaths are so slow, so quiet and small. How long would it take for them to cease all together? For the eyes to roll back like marbles, revealing only the pure whites? Oliver was patient. He could sit here as Mike’s life spilled away, unspooling between his fingers like a length of crimson yarn. Dying was grim and lonely. Oliver could bestow the kindness of a silent vigil. And what a gift that would be, to hold someone in their last moments. To be there to witness their final breath before pulling Death’s blanket over -
A loud cough rattles out of Mike’s throat.
Jesus.
He drops Mike’s head from his lap. The smaller man continues to heave and cough while Oliver stumbles to his feet.
What the fuck is wrong with me.
Another gust of wind crashes through the clearing, causing the trees to rustle and shake. Below, Mike doubles over and vomits dark mud. When he spits, Oliver swears he sees something metallic hit the ground.
I can’t do this. Oliver thinks. He’s going to call an ambulance. He doesn’t care how this looks, about becoming a suspect. He needs to get Mike away from here. Away from him.
The wind is roaring now, making him shiver in his sweat-sticky clothes. He turns and runs just as another gust hits him from behind, nearly knocking him over. He recovers, arms pumping, legs leaping over the fallen branches and stumps. When he finally makes it to his car, he wretches the door open. The howling wind yanks it shut again, slamming Oliver hard against the car.
“HEY.”
Oliver's eyes widen in disbelief. He wrenches his body around, raising an arm against the flying twigs and leaves.
Michael Crew is standing in the middle of the clearing. He doesn’t blink even as the wind circles around his head, violently whipping through his hair.
“Who are you?” He shouts. His voice booms like a thunderstorm. The trees continue to thrash against one another. Oliver’s nose stings as something sharp and metallic ripples through the air.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Mike continues, moving towards Oliver. “Who. Are. You?”
His feet aren’t touching the ground, Oliver realizes. And that’s when his legs buckle out from beneath him.
Mike smiles. It’s a dangerous tear ripping across his face. Oliver’s chest tightens. He opens his mouth and it feels like his lungs have had the air punched out of him. He can’t breathe.
“Why are you here?”
“You-”
“What?”
“You weren’t in Book Club!” Oliver chokes out. He squeezes his eyes as a blast of wind hits him in the face.
Mike pauses, his eyes scanning Oliver’s face in confusion. Two socked feet find their way to the ground again. The winds begin to slow down.
Mike tilts his head to the side.
“Arthur?”
It takes Oliver a second to realize that Mike is talking to him. He nods vigorously, unable to make out any coherent sentences.
Mike’s lip quirks upwards. Then he snorts. Finally, his head falls back with a barking laugh. He wraps two wiry arms around his middle, embracing himself, while the wind whistles lowly around them.
*****
Mike agrees to ride back with Oliver on two conditions:
One, that Oliver will not take Mike to the hospital, and two, that he would not ask any questions. And that Oliver will drive with the car windows down.
“That’s three conditions.” Oliver points out. He’s waiting for Mike to settle into the passenger seat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to A&E?”
“And that’s a question,” Mike reminds Oliver. “And no, like I said earlier, no hospitals, thank you.” He leans back into the passenger seat with an exhausted exhale.
When a few seconds pass and Oliver has not made a move to shift gears, Mike raises an eyebrow. Oliver looks pointedly at Mike’s unbuckled seat belt.
“You can’t be serious,” Mike says.
Oliver doesn’t respond, continuing to wait until he hears a chagrined “Fine” and the distinct click of the seat buckle. Oliver nods his thanks and sets the car to drive.
The two men ride in silence. When they make it out of the forest and onto a main motorway, Mike lets his head fall out the window, allowing the cool air to ripple through his hair. Oliver shivers and pulls his own jacket tighter around himself. After seeing Mike in his short-sleeved shirt, Oliver had tried to offer him his jacket, but the other man had waved him off.
“It was the sunglasses.”
Oliver glances at Mike sideways. He was still looking out the window.
“You’re always wearing them,” Mike continues. “I didn’t recognize you right away, you know…back there.”
Oliver blinks. Was…was Mike trying to apologize?
“Do you always wear them?”
Oliver switches lanes to pass an ambling lorry. “Not all the time. Only during the day. Or if the lights inside are too bright.” His hands flex against the steering wheel. “I don’t sleep very well, and I get migraines. The glasses help.”
“Insomnia?”
“No – I get bad dreams.”
Mike hums in understanding before falling quiet again. He shuffles in his seat, working the seatbelt off his shoulder so he can lean even further out the window. Oliver doesn’t warn him to put his seat belt back on properly, but he does slow the car down to a steady fifty kilometers per hour.
In another twenty minutes, they’re back in the city.
“Oh…you missed a turn. My flat’s down Belvedere and Main.”
Oliver cringes, thinking of the shattered teacup and fallen chair, the missing rug. Going back to Mike’s apartment hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Mike must read into Oliver’s hesitation because he grimaces before continuing.
“Right, probably not a good idea. Don’t suppose you found my wallet while digging me up?”
Oliver shakes his head. Another beat of silence follows.
“I can take the couch,” Oliver offers.
“Oh god, please don’t.” Mike groans. “It’s fine – I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Mike – no you’re a guest. It’s all right, take the bed.”
“Absolutely not! You just spent half the night shoveling me out, your back must be shot.”
“My back’s fine. You can have the bed, it’s honestly not a problem.”
“Oh, okay so this is normal for you? Resurrecting friends and letting them kip on the couch?”
“I thought we already agreed I was taking the couch.”
They go back and forth like this all through parking the car, walking into Oliver’s apartment building, and riding the lift four floors to his flat. Once outside his door, Oliver finds himself feeling slightly embarrassed, remembering the unwashed dishes and the trash that still needed to be taken out. He hopes he left the bedroom window cracked at least.
“It’s a little messy,” he warns.
“Oh, is your flat also covered in dirt?” Mike asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah, all right,” Oliver concedes, chuckling as he pushes open the door. There is no mud or earthworms in his living room, only mismatched furniture and small piles of clutter here and there. With its thin walls and single bedroom, his flat isn’t nearly as impressive as Mike’s. But there are hand-quilted pillows from his aunts on the couches and crystals resting on the end tables. Dad’s old mugs are tucked away in the kitchen cabinets. In a corner, stands two heavy wooden shelves that Oliver hauled upstairs by himself. It houses all of his favorite books. Best of all, he never needs to wear his sunglasses inside his flat. Rather than use the ceiling lights, he mostly relies on a collection of thrifted lamps. They bathe his home in a warm, soft glow that is both comforting and easy on his eyes.
Oliver switches on a lamp and kicks off his shoes by the doormat. Mike follows suit, putting a hand against the wall,to steady himself while he peels off his grubby socks. He winces at the muddy handprint he leaves on the wall.
“I’ll get us some towels,” Oliver reassures him. He rushes to the bathroom. After washing his hands, he grabs the biggest towels he can find. He next darts into his bedroom, pulling at several drawers until he finds clean joggers and a hoodie. They’ll be big on Mike, but Oliver figures that Mike won’t really care about that now.
Walking back into the living room, Oliver is surprised to see Mike still standing at the doorway. His shoulders are hunched and his fists clench and unclench at his sides. His mismatched eyes bounce over the room, obviously looking for something.
“No windows?” Mike asks, as Oliver hands him the bundle of towels and clothes.
“There’s one in the bedroom, but it’s tiny and the view kind of sucks. It opens up to the back of the other building.”
An uncomfortable look passes over Mike’s face.
“There’s a rooftop garden though,” Oliver adds. “I have work today, but I can show it to you when I’m back, if you want.”
“It’s morning already? I almost forgot,” Mike groans, covering his face. But Oliver sees the small smile forming at the mention of the roof. After Mike trudges into the bathroom, Oliver goes into the closet to grab a few extra blankets and makes up his bed on the couch.
Oliver is yawning when Mike emerges from the bathroom. He had to roll up the sleeves of Oliver’s gray hoodie three times and his wet hair was already beginning to curl upwards again.
“You’re out of mouthwash,” Mike announces, plopping down on the couch, getting comfortable. When he stretches, the collar slips over his shoulder, exposing the jagged scar underneath.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
Oliver startles. He must have been more tired than he realized.
“The remote for the TV,” Mike repeats. “Do you know where it is?”
Oliver drags a hand over his face before bending over the coffee table and moving aside a few envelopes. He yawns again and hands the remote over to Mike.
“Thanks. Now go shower before you crash out on my couch.” Mike chuckles.
Oliver decides that he’ll be able to convince Mike to use his bed once he’s washed his hair and brushed his teeth. While he showers, he hears the hushed murmurs of the Channel Four News. This is later joined by the whistle of a tea kettle. After stepping out of the shower and into the living room again, he finds Mike flipping through the channels, sipping out of a chipped blue mug. A second steaming cup sits on the coffee table.
“All right, Mike. The bed’s ready. Like I said, I really don’t mind.”
Mike continues switching through channels, absently bouncing his right leg
“Mike, come on-”
“I’m not tired,” Mike replies, shrugging. “What’s the point of taking your bed if I’m not sleeping?”
“Because-”
“What time do movies start? They play those during the morning, right?”
Oliver sighs. “I don’t know. But I do know that you’ve got to be exhausted and-”
“I was laid up six feet under for three days. I think I’ve had enough rest as it is,” Mike says lightly. The laugh that follows behind sounds a tad forced.
Oliver lays out the pieces in his mind. Mike’s head hanging out the car window. The slight panic at the prospect of a closed, windowless apartment. His back pressed stiffly upwards against the couch pillows. It all finally clicks neatly into place.
Mike is scared.
Embarrassment sweeps over Oliver in a heated rush. Mike must be experiencing something similar, because he gives up channel surfing, tossing the remote onto the coffee table with a noisy clatter.
“Mike, I…I didn’t realize. I’m so-”
“Your tea’s getting cold,” Mike replies flatly.
“Right. I’ll probably take it to bed then. If you need anything though, just knock, okay?” Oliver stoops to pick up the cup. He lingers for a moment, unsure of what to say. Mike fiddles with the tea spoon.
“Good night, Mike.”
“It's 5:32 AM.” Mike calls out as Oliver is turning to leave. He isn’t looking at Oliver, but his shoulders have once again relaxed.
“Good night, Arthur. Sleep well.”
*****
Three hours later, Oliver stumbles out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and muscle-sore. The coffee pot calls to him from the kitchen. As he steps out of the hallway, he notices Mike that has dozed off, sitting up on the couch, tea cup still in hand. Oliver approaches him slowly, taking care not to make too much noise. Mike’s hair has fallen back, revealing the sunken scar in his forehead. It’s smaller than the Lichtenberg scars that cover his neck and face. What had caused it? The injury couldn’t have been simply from a thrown fist or a stray elbow. It looked more like a bullet hole. Was he involved in some kind of gang? Did people like that join their local book club?
Below, Mike stirs.
Oliver whips his own outstretched hand back, only now noticing that his hand had been hovering mere centimeters above Mike’s forehead. He lowers it, wrapping his fingers around the empty cup and gently removing it from Mike’s loose grip. Then, before he can think better of it, he reaches across the couch, delicately laying a fleece blanket over Mike’s sleeping body. The crease in Mike’s forehead settles as a small, peaceful sigh slips through his lips.
Oliver is at the bus stop before he realizes he’s still holding the chipped blue mug.
*****
For the second time this week, Oliver is useless at work. Fortunately for him, it’s a slow day at the shop. The customers have mostly consisted of poor university students, who quietly window-shop as they sip their overpriced coffees from the cafe across the street.
When he isn’t yawning or pretending to stock shelves, Oliver is on his phone, searching for more information on Michael Crew.
The typical social media sites are a dead-end, being that “Michael” and “Crew” are fairly common names. He does, however, have some luck when he throws Mike's name into an internet search engine and clicks past the first several pages of results. An old website advertises translation services, specifically for out-of-print and rare books. A few travel blogs praise his candor and vast knowledge of London’s historic buildings. And further still, Oliver finds Mike’s name connected to a restoration project in southern France last year.
Oliver takes a sip out of the chipped blue mug. While interesting and impressive, the information he digs up doesn’t give him any new insights into how Mike found himself buried six feet under. Or if there’s a possibility of the attackers coming around and trying again.
A little after one o’ clock, Kelsey takes pity on Oliver and sends him home. Before heading back to the flat, he stops by a corner store to pick up some things - mouthwash, coffee, paracetamol for his aching shoulders. He’s starting to text Mike to see if he needs anything before he remembers, dumbly, that Mike doesn’t have his phone. If anything happened, if he needed help, Mike would have no way of getting in contact. Oliver grabs an extra tooth brush and hurries to a register, paying with cash.
Throughout the bus ride and walk to his apartment building, Oliver has to remind himself to breathe. No one knows that Mike is impossibly alive and staying in his flat. Still, he likely left tire tracks in Epping Forest and he never filled the hole back in after pulling Mike out. While he rides the lift to his floor, he entertains the idea of going back to Epping Forest and filling the grave at night. Would that look suspicious? He could say he was a park worker, give a made-up name and badge number if anyone asked. But what about the car’s license plate? If someone saw him, could they run the plates and figure out where he lived? Honestly, they wouldn’t even need to do that. They could just watch Oliver from a distance and then trail him back to his flat. It wouldn’t be hard.
Oliver rests his head on his front door. Feeling the cheap wood against his forehead, he frowns. How easy would it be to kick it down? He adds new locks to his shopping list.
Upon entering the flat, Oliver finds Mike where he left him. He’s sitting on the couch with a fresh cup of tea and a large stack of books on the coffee table. Oliver’s gray hoodie has been traded for an equally large tee shirt. It was a cheap souvenir from a weekend trip to France, a ridiculous romantic splurge he made after receiving his first paycheck from Barclay’s. Mike must have found the shirt and thought it was funny.
“Hey,” Mike calls out without looking up. “Are you on a break?”
“No, my manager just let me go early.” Oliver explains. He makes his way to the kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator, scowling at the pot of spaghetti inside. It was likely a week old at this point. He shuts the door and checks the freezer.
“Right, is this the part where you give me a kiss and I ask how your day was? Like the movies?”
Oliver shoves his head deeper among the expired pizza boxes. It hides his face, but does little to cool the heat rising in his ears.
“No, dinner, I’m afraid,” Mike continues. “Couldn’t figure out what to make with frozen peas and tomato sauce.”
“That’s all right - I was thinking of ordering out” Oliver says. He opens a drawer and picks up a stack of take-away menus. There’s a small grease stain on the one for the Thai restaurant. God, was everything a mess in this house? He shuffles that menu to the bottom and closes the drawer. “What do you like?”
“Anything is fine with me. Shouldn’t we wait for your boyfriend, though? When does he get home?”
“Boyfriend?” Oliver scoffs.
“Yeah. It’s Oliver, isn’t it?” Mike asks.
Oliver pauses, finally looking up from the menus. His eyes flick to the coffee table again, studying the clutter of books and discarded envelopes. They then drift to the book Mike is holding. It was a first edition copy of Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. The corners of the old dust jacket are crumpled and worn, but otherwise the book was in pretty good condition. Mike’s left thumb is tucked into the book’s first few pages. If Oliver closes his eyes, he could imagine the handwritten inscription penned on the title page.
“Happy Birthday, Oliver. Skipped the cake and got you Baldwin instead. Just don’t go sticking a candle on it, that’s my job. Cheers! G”
“How long have Oliver and you been together?”
Oliver’s hands twitch. He swallows an instinct to snatch the book away from Mike, to ask him to please be careful. That it’s one of the last things he has left from-
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, my mistake, guess that’s on me for assuming. Is Oliver your middle name then?”
Oliver briefly considers how much easier it is to learn about another person’s life when you have five hours and access to their entire apartment. Much simpler than blindly stumbling through old websites. He thinks about all the things Mike must have touched while he was away. Tooth brush, drinking glass, pillow. The drawers he had opened and the cabinets he had searched. All the nooks Mike had slid his fingers into, trying to get a feel for the person who lived there.
“I don’t have a middle name either.” Oliver admits.
Mike closes the book, absently smoothing the cover. When he meets Oliver’s gaze, there’s a glassy smile settled there, waiting.
Oliver had spent a little over an hour worrying about the possibility of someone breaking into his flat. He wishes he had spent some time thinking about the person he left behind that morning. That he had considered the kind of person, the kind of thing that could survive three days out of light, water and air.
“Oliver is my real name. I gave a fake one at Book Club.”
“Why did you give a fake name?” Mike asks, his smile tight, his bright voice tense around the edges. “It's Book Club - not an AA meeting.”
“I don’t know - it’s a dumb habit. I go somewhere new, I get nervous and sometimes I give people a fake name. I didn’t always do it, just something I picked up a couple years ago.” Oliver huffs a wrung-out laugh. “Probably when I went to the Institute and-”
“You work with those Magnus freaks too?”
“What? No, I just gave a statement there a few…” Wait. “Are those the people who attacked you?”
“That’s-” Mike lets out a frustrated sigh, obviously annoyed at revealing a crucial detail too soon. He looks away and pulls his legs closer to himself, the right knee bouncing quickly with agitation. “That’s another question.”
“Mike, you can’t keep dodging questions like this. How are we going to keep you safe if I have no idea what or who could be coming after you?”
“Says the man of a thousand names.”
“Look, I’m sorry for not telling you my real name, that was stupid. But believe me, I’m not trying to hurt you.” Oliver feels indignation flare when he catches the other man rolling his eyes. “Mike, why would I come dig you up if I was going to kill you later? That doesn’t make any sense!”
“No, what doesn’t make sense is how a man finds someone who’s been buried for three days in the middle of the woods!” Mike shoots back. “You realized you never explained that, right? How did you know where to look? How to find me? That I was still alive in the first place?”
“Because I saw you in a dream!”
Mike’s mouth snaps shut in stunned silence. Oliver sighs, drops the stack of menus onto the coffee table and slumps onto a nearby chair. Was he really going to explain this?
“I…I dream of car crashes and drownings, of heart failures and hangings. Accidental falls, robberies gone bad – I see all of it before it actually happens. That’s how I found you.”
Oliver goes back to the beginning. He talks about his dismissal from Barclays and the very first dream of death that followed soon after. How he had scoured for answers in books, websites and mediums, had tried and changed countless remedies. The empty efforts to warn strangers, his father, the old woman from the Magnus Institute. It never worked. How almost a decade later he still can’t sleep through the night. That he’s scared that he never will again.
Oliver talks with an openness he hasn’t attempted in years. Maybe it’s because he’s too exhausted to care what Mike may think, too tired to keep up with the lies. Or maybe he thinks a man who somehow survived three days underground could understand a person who could see dead people in his dreams.
Mike fidgets with one of the couch pillows.
“So what happens now? I didn’t die. Does that mean I’m safe? Will something else happen to me?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver confesses. He never saved anyone before Mike. This was new for him, too. “I can’t see everything in the future. Only things related to death. So I wouldn’t be able to tell if you’ll be hurt or be in any other kind of danger unless you were going to die from it. But I didn’t see you in my dreams this morning if that makes you feel better.”
Mike nods, accepting this small piece of comfort.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Is…is there still a ban on questions?”
A smirk creeps onto Mike’s face. “Depends. What did you want to ask me?”
Who did this to you? Are we safe? Do you trust me? What are you?
Are you something like me too?
“Did you still want to see the roof?”
*****
Silver wind chimes jingle as a breeze passes through them. Oliver pulls the hood of a sweatshirt up and over his head. The raised flower beds are mostly brown and dead and the mismatched wooden chairs are splintered, weather-worn. He doesn’t even want to chance sitting on the dubious sofa a group of students found last year and walked up the eleven floors. The string lights still worked though. Oliver had clicked them on, hoping that the warm glow would be forgiving to the ramshackle state of the place.
Mike hadn’t cared. Running straight past the dying zinnias and deck chairs, he had hoisted himself up and was now standing on the roof ledge, looking over the bustling streets below. He turns to Oliver, a wild grin splitting open his face.
“This is fantastic! Love the view!”
Mike throws his arms out beside him, pantomiming a tight-rope walker. Oliver reminds himself that he hadn’t any dreams of Mike falling off a roof yet. Regardless, he quickly crosses the roof in long strides to join the other man.
“Yeah, it’s really nice. Want to come down from up there?”
“Nope!” Mike stops his pacing. “You should come up though.”
“I think I’m good.”
“Afraid of heights?” Mike teases. A gust of wind picks up and swings Mike’s right leg upwards. Oliver immediately extends an arm to grab him, but Mike twists with the updraft, catching himself and landing securely again on two feet, as if he was simply dancing with the air, and not minutes from plummeting to the ground. Upon seeing Oliver’s frightened face, he laughs.
“Didn’t you say you could see if either of us are going to die?”
“That doesn’t mean we still can’t get hurt-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mike waves an arm and squats lower on the ledge in front of Oliver. He stretches out his arm like he’s going to shake Oliver’s hand. “Here, come on.”
When Oliver hesitates, Mike rolls his eyes, but leans in closer. “I’m not going to let you fall. Promise.”
Oliver nods and then reaches out to take the other man’s hand.
Mike’s palm is dry and wind-chapped, but it’s also surprisingly strong. He lifts Oliver up onto the roof ledge, sure hands supporting Oliver’s elbow and arm. Satisfied, he sits down, letting his legs dangle over the edge. Oliver gingerly lowers himself to sit next to Mike. Too nervous to watch the traffic below, he turns to Mike.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, eyeing Mike’s short-sleeved tee shirt. God, he sounds like one of his aunts.
Mike shakes his head, then leans back drinking in the cool evening air.
“Nah, it’s perfect, I love this. I feel like I can breathe so much easier up here.”
Oliver had noticed the shift in demeanor. Mike's face had a little more color and his eyes were shining. His entire manner seemed more open, at ease.
“I think I have a set of spare keys. I’ll let you borrow them. Then you can come up anytime you want.”
Beside him, Mike’s legs have stopped their lazy swinging. Now, his right knee bounces, a nervous tic that Oliver is coming to recognize.
“I…I can stay?”
“Of course!” Oliver rushes to reassure him. Mike shifts uneasily, not quite convinced.
“And you’re not worried about…I mean…I can still get a hotel or something, if it’s too much trouble.”
“I worry all the time. If you got a hotel, I’ll probably still check in with you every day.” Oliver groans thinking back to the previous days of searching. “I think I sent you like twenty texts while I was looking for you? If we ever find your phone, please just delete any voicemails from me.”
Mike wrinkles his nose, suppressing a smirk. It’s ridiculous how charming it is.
“Yeah, I think that means I have to listen to all of them now. Twice.”
They both laugh and settle into another comfortable silence.
“I get bad dreams, too, sometimes,” Mike admits quietly. “It’s been happening more lately, since…well, you know.”
Oliver turns to look at Mike, but he’s gazing at the sky overhead. Oliver can’t see any stars - too much light pollution. So he closes his eyes, listening to the steady traffic below, the wind rushing against his ears, Mike’s voice beside him.
“So if you wake up in the middle of the night…well, don’t be a stranger. I think we’re past that point now, yeah?” He kicks Oliver’s foot playfully. Oliver returns the gesture, his face breaking into a smile.
“Yeah, I think so, too.”