Page 56 of Any More Questions for the Corpse?

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.

“What on earth have you been doing?” the final sibling said. Mal mostly ignored Inva; they weren’t as mean-spirited as Brode and were nowhere near as aloof as Pelonie, so almost everything they said could be taken either way. It was like they were trying desperately to be mean, but couldn’t quite muster the strength to do it.

“Using your powers, I bet …” Mal’s dad said, slicing through the melee. Mal heard someone whisper the word “freak”; he gave himself no points for guessing who.

“Come on now, I’m sure Mal has a wonderful explanation as to all this. Don’t you, Mal?” Mal’s mum said from the kitchen.

Before Mal could respond, Pelonie chimed in.

“Don’t tell us now, I don’t want to lose my appetite.”

“Good thinking. We can eat first, then Mal can explain.” And with that Mal’s dad ended the conversation.

Mal stood around for the next ten or so minutes as the others continued on like he wasn’t there; all except for Jocea, who made her way over and stood next to him as the others sat about.

“You doing okay, brother?” she said in hushed tones.

“I’m still kickin’.”

“You gave us all a bit of a scare there for a minute.”

“Yeah, they all seem terrified.” Mal smiled and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I was worried,” Jocea said, giving him a sisterly punch.

“I’m okay. I’ll try not to disappear like that again.”

“You better not, though I don’t blame you.”

Mal gave her a lopsided smile, and the two shared a look that seemed to commiserate the state of their family. Several very long moments later, the food was ready and the family moved to the dining room. The room wasn’t particularly special; it mostly contained a large, square wooden table with two settings on each side, except for the far side, the one facing his parents, which had been specially laid for one person. Mal’s seat, facing his family. For all his parents’ faults, they could cook a mean Sunday roast. Small, crispy potatoes; steaming-hot cauliflower cheese; a big slab of beef that was just the right amount of pink in the middle; roast carrots; boiled broccoli; and Yorkshire puddings as big as your fist. The family rushed in and the vultures descended.

Mal enjoyed the meal, all things considered. His family didn’t tend to talk with their mouths full (except for Brode), so eating was the best time he spent with them. It was the bits before and after he was anxious about. Unfortunately, it was now after, and as people finished up, their eyes were drawn to Mal. A silence grew that made Mal shrink. He knew what would happen; it’s what always happened when they wanted to “talk” to him. He knew there wouldn’t really be much talking.