Chapter 22
Happy Families
A fire crackled back to life, waking Mal from his slumber. He’d fallen asleep in the library on a particularly comfortable armchair. Someone had covered him in a woolen tartan blanket and the book he’d fallen asleep reading had been carefully placed on a side table next to him.
Mal had no clue what the time was or what day it was.
There were no windows in the Order headquarters, let alone at the far end of the library.
He rubbed the blurriness from his eyes and checked his phone; it was early Sunday morning, way before he would normally be up for Uni.
He had spent the last three days recovering—not from an injury, mind you, just recovering from everything that had happened in the previous week.
He still felt drained from it all, which was peculiar given how much of the last three days he’d spent sleeping.
He slept on the way back from Poland; he’d slept most of the following day away when he arrived back in Dunwich; he’d had no time to sleep on Friday, having spent it apologizing to lecturers and getting caught back up with his studies; but Saturday he’d had a lie-in, then ambled over here, where he’d once again fallen asleep after spending the day with Des.
As he examined his surroundings a bit closer, Mal realized that something was sticking out of the book he had been reading. A small note that said:
When you wake please come and find me, I’ll be somewhere near the records room. —Walters
Below that, on the same piece of paper, was another note in different handwriting:
Can’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you. Gone to Skelmir to have a snoop about. I should be back before lunch but if I don’t see you, good luck! Call me if you can think of anything we need for tonight. xx
Des was out hunting lions it seemed, a good sign.
Mal must have nodded off as the pair were studying the odds and ends of their respective secrets.
Several books on vampirism lay stacked near where Des had been when he’d fallen asleep.
Somehow two people had written notes not half a meter from his face and he hadn’t woken for either.
He was used to being tired, the drain from his parents had seen to that, but this was taking the biscuit.
He pulled himself up and pushed the blanket off his legs.
He’d gotten too warm what with the fire and the being fully dressed, and he could feel a gross layer of cold sweat underneath his clothes.
He needed a shower; then he could figure out where the records room was.
Twenty minutes later Mal was showered and changed, his sopping wet curls flopping over his glasses as he made for the records room.
He would usually ask someone for directions but the place was creepily quiet; the once-buzzing corridors were empty, filled only with the echoes of Mal’s shoes against stone.
He turned a corner and found something that caught him off guard.
Signs, lots of signs, haphazardly placed at an intersection of the corridors.
Most were on the floor in disarray; the only one that wasn’t said “Walters” and was fixed in place pointing down a corridor to Mal’s left.
Mal had walked past this exact intersection on the way to the washroom and he hadn’t recalled seeing any signs.
Let alone one that said “Walters.” What the fuck is going on? Mal thought as he followed the sign.
He eventually found the right room. It was the only one (that Mal knew of) that had a skeleton walking around in it.
It was a bland room with filing cabinets in every conceivable space, except for a handful of desks which were also covered in files.
Mal was used to skeletons at this point, but it was still odd to see Walters, who last Mal knew was still mostly flesh, standing around bare-boned.
“Mal,” Walters said, as if with a voice box. “You’re finally up.”
“I got your note,” Mal said, waving it in his hand. “You doing okay? I thought you had more …”
“Skin?” Walters said. “Yeah, I walked into one of these rooms and it all vanished. I’m not sure what happened. I’ve put a sign on it to make sure you living lot don’t walk in there.”
“Ahh, so you were behind the ‘Walters’ sign in the corridor.”
“What?” Walters said, utterly confounded. Mal felt an unease overtake him.
“It wasn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Walters said. “Come over here, I wanted to show you something.” Walters walked him to a desk and pointed to several stacks of files. Mal guessed there were about seventy to eighty in total.
“Eighty-three,” Walters said. Mal realized immediately who these people were. He wondered if Walters had put his own record in this pile. Walters put a bony hand on top of the files and exhaled lunglessly. “They can rest easy now because of you.”
“I just wish we’d figured it out sooner.” Mal lowered his tone to be more respectful.
“He did this, not you. You got them justice and I know that every single one of them is grateful for that.”
Even if Mal couldn’t see it his eyes, he could tell Walters had seen something horrible beyond that veil. The process of bringing him back was terrifying enough; Mal dared not think what actually lay beyond it.
“You did some real good here,” Walters said, tapping the files reverently before turning to Mal. “This place could use some of that now, if you wanted.”
“What? Work for the Order?”
“You and I are all that’s left of the Order, and you were forced into it under threat of death. I think it’s probably best it faded. But if you wanted to do something else, something new, you and Des and the others, you could use this place and figure it out as you go. It’s your choice.”
It was a nice feeling, having a choice.
“What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. I’ll figure that out as I go too.”
“We can figure it out together, then.”
There was a pause as the pair contemplated everything that could be. Mal smiled and Walters put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“If this”—Mal gestured to Walters’s skeleton—“isn’t what you want, just say and I can …”
“Thanks, kid. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to move on. You know you don’t have to keep this up either, right?”
“I know,” Mal said. He placed his hand on the pile, then went to leave.
“Did he suffer?” Walters said, as Mal got to the door.
Mal had a flashback to him ramming most of his arm through Kosh’s torso.
“I don’t think so.”
Mal headed out of the headquarters and found himself up at the crossroads between Bow and Copperfield Street.
Dunwich was thick with crowds enjoying some early Sunday shopping; none made note of Mal as he emerged onto the street from the crevice in the crossroads.
The sky was white with clouds and a light wind reminded Mal that even in summer, British weather wasn’t to be trusted.
He walked his usual route to the closest portal station and got in line.
Unfortunately, Mal had plans—not plans he’d made, but plans that others had made for him.
On Thursday, before he’d slept the day away, Mal had popped in on the family he’d been ignoring.
He resurrected his parents and then escaped as quickly as humanly possible.
They’d decided their usual family Monday meal would happen on Sunday this week so the whole family could “talk” to Mal about his behavior.
Mal had glanced at some of the vitriol he’d received from his siblings in the few days he’d been missing and he knew this meal was going to be more than unpleasant.
He thought about skipping it, but the torrent of shit he would catch would be even worse.
It was better to bite the bullet in these situations, that’s what he’d learned.
At least he’d get a free Sunday roast out of it—not a terrible trade, all things considered.
Mal forced his legs to walk through the quiet village that was home to his parents’ house.
The village sat at the very edge of Dunwich, and his parents’ house sat at the very edge of the village.
The roads got barer and barer, and the sidewalk got smaller and smaller.
It was practically the countryside, he was so far out.
One advantage of the portal stations was that technically everywhere in Dunwich was city center adjacent; the disadvantage of this was that houses were priced accordingly.
Mal felt the tension build in his shoulders as he got closer to the house his parents called home.
Mal received a text from Jocea asking where he was.
She must already have been there, helping their mum set up; she was only a few years younger than Mal, but she’d somehow ended up the most mature of the bunch.
She’d been the only one who’d asked if he was okay or alive in her texts.
The others seemed to compete tirelessly for their parents’ affection and did so by participating in the family tradition of sending shit down the River Mal.
Mal replied that he’d be there soon. He hoped arriving half an hour early would be a point in his favor, but everyone was already waiting for him when he got there.
“Look who finally crawled out of his bog.”
“Hello, Brode,” Mal said after taking a deep breath. Brode was the middlest child—third oldest, third youngest, and a complete cunt. While the others had some tolerable traits, Mal had yet to find one in Brode.
“You look like shit …” the oldest, Pelonie, said. Pelonie deemed herself above the petty squabbling of siblingry, yet still took the time to smirk or comment when she could. She had dyed her familial black hair blond and was almost always hungover from some fancy work do the night before.