Bad Things - Michael Marshall

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empty, though not really at peace. To achieve that I would have needed to believe that I had a place in the world, instead of standing quietly to one side. I'd been in Oregon for nearly three years. Floating. Before the Pelican had been bar work up and down the coast, some odd jobs, plus periods working the door at nightclubs over in Portland. Service industry roustabout work, occupations that required little but the willingness to work cheaply, at night, and to risk occasional confrontations with one's fellow man. My possessions were limited to a few clothes, a laptop, and some books. I didn't even own a car any more, though I did have money in the bank. More than my co-workers would have imagined, I'm sure, but that's because all they know about me is I can hold my own in a busy service and produce approximately circular Italian food.

      Finally it rained.

      Irrevocably, and very hard, soaking me so quickly that there was no hurry to go inside. I sat out a little longer, as the rain bounced off the waves and pocked the sand. Eventually I finished the second beer and then stood up and started for home.

      As Friday nights go, I couldn't claim this one had really caught fire.

      Back inside I dried off and wandered into the living room. It was nearly two o'clock, but I couldn't seem to find my way to bed. I played on the web for a little while, the last refuge of the restless and clinically bored. As a last resort I checked my email – another of the existentially empty moments the Internet hands you on a plate.

       Hey world, want to talk?

       No? Well, maybe later.

      Invitations to invest in Chinese industry, buy knock-off watches and stock up on Viagra. Some Barely Legal Teen Cuties had been in touch again, too. As was their custom, they were keen to spill the beans on how they'd got it on with their roommate or boss or a herd of broad-minded elk.

      I declined the offers, also as usual, hoping they wouldn't be offended after the trouble they'd gone to for me, and me alone. I'd selected all the crap as a block and was about to throw it in the trash when a message near the bottom caught my eye.

      The subject line said: PLEASE, PLEASE READ

      Most likely more spam, of course. One of the Nigerian classics, perhaps, the wife/son/cat of a recently deceased oligarch who'd squirrelled away millions that some lucky randomer could have twenty per cent of, if they'd just send all their bank details to a stranger who'd spelt his own name three different ways in a single email.

      If so, however, they'd titled it well. That combination of words is hard to ignore. I clicked on it, yawning, trying and failing to remember the last time I'd received a message from someone in particular. The email was short.

      I know what happened

      Nothing else. Not even a period at the end of the sentence. The name of the apparent sender of the email – Ellen Robertson – was not that of anyone I knew.

      Just a piece of spam after all.

      I hit delete and went to bed.

       Chapter 3

      Next morning started with a walk up the beach, carrying a big cup of coffee. I've done that every day since I've been living in Gary's house. Far as I'm concerned, if the beach is right there and you don't kick off the day by walking along it, then you should move the hell inland and make way for someone who understands what the coast is for.

      I was up early, and the sands were even more deserted than usual. I passed a couple of guys optimistically waving fishing rods at the sea, and a few people like me. Lone men and women in shorts and loose shirts, tracing their ritual walkways, smiling briefly at strangers. Sometimes when the sun is bright and the world holds no shadows at all I imagine what it would be like to have a smaller set of footprints keeping pace with mine. But not often, and not that morning.

      I walked further than usual, but it was still only eight-thirty when I got back to the house. There was already a message on the machine. It was from Ted.

      ‘Christ,’ he'd said, without preamble. ‘Look, I hate to call you like this. But could you come lend a hand? Someone's broken in. To the restaurant.’

      His voice went muffled for a few moments, as he spoke brusquely to someone in the background.

      Then he came back on, sounding even more pissed. ‘Look, maybe you're out for the day already, but if not—’

      I picked up the handset and called him back.

      Rather than wait for me to walk, Ted came down, arriving outside the house ten minutes later. It's always been evident where Becki acquired her driving style. Ted turned the pickup around in the road without any notable decrease in speed, and drew level with me. I was leaning against the post at the top of my drive, waiting, having a cigarette. I leaned down to talk through the open passenger window.

      ‘You need me to bring any tools?’

      He shook his head. ‘Got a bunch in the storeroom. Going to have to go buy glass and wood, but I'll get on to that later. Fucking day this is gonna be.’

      I climbed into the truck and just about got the door shut before he dropped his foot on the pedal.

      ‘When did you find it?’

      Ted's face was even redder and more baggy-eyed than usual. ‘One of the cooks. Raul, I think. Got there at seven with the rest of the crew, called me right away.’

      ‘Which one's Raul?’

      ‘You got me. I think they're all called Raul.’

      ‘What happened to the alarm?’

      ‘Nothing. It went off like it was supposed to. It was still going when I got there.’

      ‘Isn't someone from the alarm company supposed to come check it out? Or phone you, at least?’

      Ted looked embarrassed. ‘Stopped paying for that service a while back. It's eight hundred a year, and we've never needed it before.’

      By now we were decelerating toward the right-hand turn off the highway.

      ‘How bad is the damage?’

      Ted shrugged, raising both hands from the wheel in a gesture evoking the difficulty of describing degrees of misfortune, especially when however much ‘bad’ is still going to cause a day of fetching and form-filling and expense that a guy just doesn't fucking need.

      ‘It's not so terrible, I guess. I just don't get it. There's signs on all three doors – front, back, kitchen – saying no money's left on the premises overnight. So what the hell? Huh? What kind of fuckhead comes all the way over here in the middle of the night, just to screw up someone else's day?’

      ‘Maybe they didn't believe you about the money,’ I said. ‘Fuckheads can be strange like that.’

      As the car slowed into the lot I saw Becki's car ‘parked’ down the end. ‘Don't tell me Kyle's here already?’

      Ted laughed, and for a moment looked less harried and disappointed with mankind in general.

      ‘I had to call Becki to work out how to get your phone number off the database. I told her she didn't have to do anything, but she came right over.’

      He pulled the pickup to come to rest next to his daughter's vehicle.

      ‘You called the cops, I assume?’

      ‘Been and gone. They sent their two best men, as I'm sure you can imagine. Not convinced either of them aced the “How to pretend you give a shit” course, though. And I've comped a lot of appetizers and drinks for both those assholes in the past.’

      We got out and I followed Ted to the restaurant. He led me around the side to the back door, the one you'd enter if you'd been out on deck with a drink before coming in for dinner.

      The remains of the external door

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