Dead People Don't Write
an excerpt

The taxi pulled into the hospital car park and the driver turned to face them.
“That’ll be six fifty,” he said, tapping his meter with a grubby fingernail.
Stephen put a hand in his pocket and absent-mindedly handed over a pile of coins. The taxi driver took the money and started sifting through it. He held out the change, but realised that Stephen and Sally had already vacated his car and were nowhere in sight. He shrugged and put the money away. He turned the car and headed off to his next fare, which had just been radioed to him. The generous tip would pay for an extra pint at lunchtime.
Stephen jogged ahead and opened the door for Sally. They walked into Casualty and surveyed the people sitting in the waiting room. Some were bleeding, some were looking pale and dishevelled and others were just sitting quietly. One man, alone in the corner, was crying silently into his hands; a broken pair of spectacles dangled from his fingers. Sally broke away from Stephen and moved as quickly as she could towards Mark.
“Mark,” she said, “what happened?”
Stephen stayed where he was for a moment. Mark was always so strong and composed, even in a crisis, but now he looked like a lost child. Stephen became aware of a sweet and gentle sound behind him. The song on the receptionist’s radio fitted the situation in creepy perfection; it was “Bright Eyes”. Stephen drifted over to Mark and Sally and placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, mate,” was all he could manage to say.
Mark looked up at them for a moment and then stood and hugged them both. He looked exhausted and ill. His face was red and blotchy and tear-tracks shone on his cheeks. He was the elder of the Bradley brothers by two years and had always been supportive of Terry’s ambitions. He had hoped to see his brother become a well-known and established author one day. He knew that Terry had it in him.
“What happened?” Sally asked again.
Mark sighed heavily and tried to compose himself.
“It wasn’t his fault…” he said quietly, “It wasn’t his fault…”
“What wasn’t?” Stephen joined in the interrogation, even though he knew how hard Mark must be finding it.
“Someone hit his car… they were speeding, I’m sure of it… drunk” he paused and folded his arms across his chest and dug his nails into his jacket sleeves, “they hit him and he swerved and… and then the wall and…”
“I get it,” said Sally softly.
“Yeah,” Stephen whispered.
None of them spoke again for several moments.