Road of the Dead by Kevin Brooks

change that—reasons, revenge, punishment, justice. Nothing can change what’s already done.” I looked at him. “Right?”
    “Right.”
    “So, up until now, the Dead Man didn’t mean anything. It didn’t matter who he was. It didn’t change anything.”
    “Up until now.”
    “Yeah—but things are different now. Now he means something. If we can find him and prove he killed Rachel, we can bring her home and put her to rest. That’s what Mum wants, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s what we’re doing here.”
    “Right.”
    “And that’s all that matters.”
    Cole lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully for a while, digesting what I’d just told him. I watched the smoke drifting in the breeze, and I wondered idly if what I’d just told him was true. I guessed that most of it was. And even if it wasn’t, I was pretty sure that Cole hadn’t been telling me everything he knew, either. But that was OK.
    “All right,” he said quietly. “Tell me about this Dead Man.”
    “There’s nothing else to tell,” I said. “I’ve told you everything I know about him.”
    “No, you haven’t—why do you call him the Dead Man?”
    “Because he’s dead.”
    “But you called him that before he killed Rachel. He couldn’t have been dead then, could he?”
    “Yeah, he was—”
    “Come on, Rube. You can’t kill someone if you’re already dead.”
    “He wasn’t dead physically .”
    “What do you mean?” Cole frowned. “What other kinds of dead are there?”
    “He was as good as dead,” I tried to explain. “It was already decided. I don’t think it even mattered whether he killed Rachel or not. He was going to die whatever he did.”
    “Someone had already decided to kill him?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know. All I know is that there was nothing he could do about it. Once it had been decided, that was it. He was dead from then on.”
    “And he’s definitely dead now?”
    “Dead and buried.”
    “Where?”
    “I don’t know. I think it’s probably around here somewhere, but I’m not sure.”
    “Are you sure about the rest of it?”
    “No.”
    “But you felt it?”
    “I think so.”
    “You think so?”
    “Yeah,” I said, “I think so.”
    I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I could tell him what I wanted to tell him. We’d never really talked aboutthe weird stuff I feel before. I knew he knew about it, and I knew he believed in it, but I’d never tried explaining it to him. I’d never been sure that he wanted me to. And I wasn’t sure now, either. But I knew if I didn’t do it now, I probably never would. So, before I could change my mind, I just opened my mouth and started talking.
    “It’s hard to explain,” I told him, “but when I get these feelings, I don’t have any control over them. They just come to me. I can’t do anything with them. They’re not facts or thoughts or sensations, they’re not anything I can describe. They’re not even feelings, really. I only think of them as feelings because that’s the closest I can get.”
    I looked at Cole to see how he was taking it so far. His face was blank, but his eyes were waiting for me to go on.
    “I don’t know what they are,” I went on, “and a lot of the time I don’t even know what they mean. Sometimes it’s simple. Most of the stuff I get from you is pretty simple.” I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. “I don’t get everything,” I said, trying to reassure him. “I only get what I’m given.”
    “Who gives it to you?” he said.
    “I don’t know.”
    He nodded. “What about the stuff that isn’t simple?”
    “I don’t know…it’s like it doesn’t come to me fully formed. It comes in pieces—fragments, notes, layers, shades…weird kinds of pieces. And when that happens, I have to guess what’s missing—or feel what’s missing—and then I have to try to work out what’s supposed to be there. That’s why I’m not sure about stuff sometimes. I know it’s