Death Calls

by Al K. Line

  I straightened up, realized I was still holding the scythe, my blurry hands, bones, or what have you, wrapped tight around the shaft. I focused on the grip, trying to feel the sensation of wood against skin, against flesh, but I came up short. If I really tried hard then maybe, maybe, there was a hint of nerves tingling, but that could just as easily have been my imagination and nothing more.

  I was empty, hollow, not really me. Nothing to see, nothing to feel, just wait.

  Thoughts drifted by and I seemed incapable of holding on to them. Was this what I had in store? Would I slowly lose my sense of self, my identity as Arthur Salzman, and become Death for real? A grim, resolute, enduring character out of our nightmares who stood waiting patiently for the next soul and in between visits from the pissed off dead I would stand here at the infinite shore, mind empty, just waiting?

  Fuck! I hoped not.

  Emptiness

  I stood, I fidgeted, I tried to think about how this could have happened. Then I plotted, then I planned, then I got damn angry and switched to devising despicable ways to exact revenge on Sasha for doing this to me. But I was being silly. She hadn't believed I could waste so many chances at life, at redemption, so what did that say about me? It said I deserved exactly what I got, that my current predicament was of my own making and maybe I'd got off lightly. After all, I wasn't actually dead, was I?

  I panicked for a while then.

  Was I dead? What would be happening to my body? Vicky had got me killed by being an utter muppet as usual, but a corpse is still a corpse. If they buried me and I rotted, or cremated me, then there was no coming back. It was goodbye Arthur for all eternity.

  Hell, how did I get out of here? I had to return, right now, or I was toast.

  It was at this point I may have taken to screaming and ranting and raving about the unfairness of it all, but eventually even saying the c-word because nobody else was around became boring.

  It all passed in the end, until I was left with maybe not acceptance, but certainly the realization that this was me now, this was it.

  Nothing I could do. I was here, Death, and like it or lump it, this was my life. Haha.

  I laughed, people might say manically if there was anyone to see, and continued to do so for some time. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe years, but as with the shouting and cursing, it became boring eventually as I guessed everything did here sooner or later.

  All that remained was a bloke in an oversized cloak, holding a very sharp scythe, standing on a crap beach empty of emotion, of thought, of anything.

  This was where I belonged, what I deserved, who I was.

  Arthur was gone.

  Death had taken his place.

  A Bad Start

  "Who are you?" asked the dude who suddenly appeared beside me.

  "Is that a joke? A trick question maybe?" I peered at the man, leaned forward to study his face. Actually, I guess you could call it a loom.

  The scythe swung in my hand like it was well-oiled and whooshed past his head. I counted thirty-seven fine blond hairs sliced in half, point oh-three-five of a millimeter from his mottled, wrinkled scalp. "Oops, sorry." Five hundred and forty-nine wrinkles creased around his eyes and seven hundred and eighty-six around his mouth. Damn, my eyesight was good. But it went beyond merely seeing, it was knowing.

  I knew how old he was, eighty-six, how he'd died, heart attack in Lidl. What he'd last eaten, pork pie, cheese, and sliced white bread, two slices, three hours earlier, and that he lived alone but liked it. Still drove a car he'd had for seventeen years, nice Ford he cleaned every Sunday after mowing the lawn, that his left knee and right hip gave him jip after doing the work but he refused to give in, and I even knew the license plate of his car and the damn serial number on his mower.

  Information came flooding in rapidly, everything I needed to know about this man and plenty I didn't. Useless stuff, like the best-before date on the apples in his fridge, when he bought them, when he bought the fridge, everything about everything in his life in fact. And it didn't stop there. I knew every item in his house, every person he'd ever met, every lover, every friend lost, every good thing he'd done. Every bad thing too.

  And that's when I gasped.

  "You motherfucker."

  "I didn't mean to do it! I swear, I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I've lived with the guilt every single day ever since. Please, I'm sorry."

  The old guy shuffled backward on arthritic feet and held up gnarled hands like he could ward me off. He slipped and stumbled on the pebbles and fell on his bony bum as he tried to clamber up the slope without taking his eyes off me.

  "Don't give me that crap," I roared, incensed by what he'd done over fifty years ago and had never told a living soul. Only the dead woman knew and she obviously wasn't telling. "Accident, my arse. I see you, Peter Webber, I see you. Your ham will be out-of-date tomorrow. The socks you keep losing are behind the radiator, you idiot, that's the first place you're meant to look, they slip off and get stuck, and you bashed that girl's head in with a lamp because she laughed at you when you got naked. You killed her and you threw her body into a fucking ditch like she was garbage."

  "No, no, I didn't. Um, maybe I did, but I wasn't myself. I did a terrible thing. I'm sorry. I don't want to die. I don't want to go to hell. I've been good ever since. If you know these things then you know the rest."

  "I see it," I said, the information there for me to pull on, the knowledge as clear as if I were reliving my own life. Clearer, as most of my life was a blur at the best of times but now it felt like a distant memory, another person, someone I'd heard stories about but dismissed, forgotten as not worth remembering. But this guy, Peter Webber, I could see his entire life and everything connected to him like it was imprinted on my mind.

  I reeled under the onslaught as I tried to take it all in. Every connection led somewhere else. Each person led to another, and another, until I was fighting with information concerning every single soul alive or dead, everyone who had ever lived. Then things became disturbing.

  I saw the people he knew, the people they knew, their parents, their lovers, grandparents, and back it went, reaching far away into the distant past and the beginnings of our entire race. I saw people clad in strips of leather huddling in caves, starving and dying. I saw their babies die. I saw everything, knew it all, but that wasn't the worst of it.

  There was no past, present, or future. I knew the people connected to Peter who were yet to be born. I knew his family intimately, his overweight son who was right this minute on his way to play a round of golf, oblivious to his father's demise or his past crimes. I saw the son's children, and the children those children were yet to have, and on and on. Those unborn children's partners, wives, husbands, lovers, the things they did, the places they went, the people they met, all those people connected to others, connected back to Peter, to Peter's long-dead wife, to their grandparents and back to those struggling to survive in a cave.

  All of it. Everything, and all jumbled up into the here and now until I didn't know what was happening, when was when, who was alive, who didn't exist yet.

  One thing I did know though, and that was who was dead.

  "You're dead," I said.

  Peter stumbled yet again. Shocked by the simple words as they finally hit home and he truly accepted it. I heard my words; they sounded like Death's had. Booming and full of timeless pain and sorrow, yet with hope too, if you were worthy, of which I wasn't. I had lost my identity. I didn't sound like me.

  I really was fucking Death.

  "What are you going to do to me?" asked Peter, still sitting on his bony ass.

  "Me? I don't do anything. I'm here to see you through, sort you out so you're ready for the final journey."

  "I've been good, you can see that, right?"

  "I see it. You tried to make amends, you were kind and generous, a loving husband and father."

  "That counts for something, doesn't it?"

  "Maybe."

&n
bsp; "Maybe!? What do you mean? You're Death, you decide, don't you?"

  "Peter, you don't get to ask the questions here. I do my job, you do yours. Stand up."

  Peter struggled with his dodgy hip, not that it was dodgy anymore but old habits die hard, and I waved my hand with an exasperated sigh and he lifted up like a feather on a gentle breeze. I crooked my finger and he slid forward until he was close.

  "Any final words before you get on your way? I'm the last call before you go meet your afterlife. And trust me, it's permanent, no chance of a change of scene." I don't know how I knew, but I knew that too.

  "Just that I'm sorry."

  I nodded. Fair enough.

  We stood in silence, waiting, but nothing happened.

  "Oh, oops. Sorry, forgot." I looked skyward and a small table came from nowhere then landed with a billow of dust on the beach. The ledger slammed down soon after, again with the dramatic dust, then an inkwell and quill resting gently beside the ledger. After shifting about as if to get comfortable, the book slammed open, pages flipped rapidly, each thinner than Peter's hair. The book stopped, a chair settled. I took a seat and dipped the quill in the ink.

  I began reading the names to see where his was, then suddenly my eyes snapped halfway down the page to his entry.

  Frowning, I turned and looked at him several feet away. A small, tired, wrinkled, shriveled old man who had once done a bad thing but had spent fifty years trying to put it right the only way he knew how.

  What would happen to him?

  Without waiting for an answer, I crossed his name out.

  I placed the quill down, snapped the lid closed on the inkwell, and shut the book. Everything shot away out of sight and I stood. The chair went the same way.

  "Come with me," I said in an admittedly cool, suitably macabre sounding voice. I held out my hand and Peter took it uncertainly. I led him down to the lapping water.

  "He comes. The Boatman." Damn, I was getting good at this.

  Out of the mist came the faint silhouette of a small rowing boat, a crooked man bent to his task. One minute he was far away, the next the distance was halved, then halved again, like you blinked and zoned out for a few seconds. Then the boat was rocking gently on the shore. The old man had his back to us, covered in hessian, a hunchback with greasy hair poking under the cowl. I considered trying to have a chat but figured now wasn't the time. Did he even have a face? Was he like me? Probably. Got stuck with a crappy job although at least I had a cool cloak and a scythe.

  "In you get," I said brightly, nodding at the small bench seat.

  Peter looked from me to the boat, fear in his eyes.

  "It'll be all right," I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

  Peter stepped in and sat down. He turned to me and asked, "Will it? Will it really?"

  "I have absolutely no idea," I said as the Boatman had somehow got the boat away from the shore and turned around without me noticing.

  Just indistinct shapes now, I watched until they were gone.

  Some time later, as I gazed out at the water, nothing to see, I realized maybe my parting words hadn't been the most inspiring, but all in all I figured I'd done pretty well for my first time.

  Second Time Lucky

  "Um, excuse me," came a sweet female voice that would have made my bits tingle if I had any feeling, or any bits.

  I turned, dragging my eyes away from the emptiness, to stare at a vision of loveliness. Rich, flaming red hair just like George's, which made my heart ache with longing to see my daughter again, and then made me panic because I realized I was just thinking that, not genuinely feeling it. I missed her, but I also wasn't really bothered, not truly, deeply, and that set me to freaking out. Whatever happened, whatever I did here, however long it took, I had to hold on to my emotions, to my desire to return to loved ones, otherwise it was all futile. I would not let this beat me, I would bloody well feel miserable and depressed here because I wasn't at home, and I would do that even if it killed me.

  Haha, that would be funny. What would happen if it killed me? Would I meet myself crossing out my own name? Damn, I was losing the plot here. Get it together, Arthur, or you'll be a gibbering wreck inside a week. I had things to do here, a good job, help people best I could if they deserved it, but escape quick-smart before I lost my humanity. One thing humans do well is feel sorry for themselves, so I'd do that and let the emotions run riot.

  I performed a quick check, concentrated on how I felt. Yes, I ached for Penelope, for her warmth, her smile, a hug. I missed seeing George in the mornings all tousled and sleepy, nothing but grunts until she'd had her coffee. And Vicky, the daft sod, I missed her too.

  Satisfied, I smiled. Maybe.

  "Er, I'm still here, you know? Am I meant to be? You don't look very pleased to see me. Bit distracted are you? Lot on your plate?"

  "You could say that," I bellowed, making her jump as my words came out like chittering beasties who'd been given the gift of speech for the first time.

  "Hell, no need to shout." The woman rubbed at her ears and eyed me warily.

  "Sorry. How's this? Better?"

  "Still a bit loud, and definitely creepy, but yeah, better." She paused in thought for a moment, cute dimples appearing on her tanned face, making her freckles bounce. "Um, am I in trouble? Am I cursed because I said hell here? Can I swear?"

  "You can say what the fuck you want," I said, shrugging my shoulders, which I knew came across as creepy, dramatic, and sinister. It was a powerful feeling, knowing you could make such an impression, so I had to watch myself or I'd become utterly carried away and start doing stupid shit on purpose.

  "Phew, that's a relief. I sometimes let a swear slip through."

  "Don't we all?"

  My mind wandered as I thought about Penelope and what she was up to now. Hopefully she'd feed the chickens, do the chores, and not be too worried. It wasn't like I never came in at odd hours, so she'd probably not even stress about it for a while. But when Vicky broke the news that I was dead and hadn't returned like normal? George would be distraught. Bet Vicky would be too, and feeling a little guilty. Ha, that would teach her.

  "I didn't expect Death to zone out quite as much," the woman said. Tammy, that was her name. I could see it, knew it.

  "Old habit."

  "I bet," said Tammy. "Look, not to be rude or anything, but what's happening?"

  "You're dead."

  "Duh." Tammy put a hand to her mouth then blurted, "Sorry, sorry, don't know where that came from. I'm a bit stressed out."

  "Understandable."

  "So, er, you going to weigh my life on the scales of Justice or something? Give me a chance to redeem myself for the bad things I've done? Send me to hell, or let me go to the good place? How does this work?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," I grumbled, feeling miserable. Which made me happy, as I wanted to feel something.

  "Haha, I never knew Death was a joker."

  "Yeah, that's me. Hilarious."

  The silence spread out like it could last an eternity, and who knows, maybe it could. It certainly felt like it.

  "Well?" Tammy asked eventually.

  "Well, what?"

  "Aren't you going to do something? Tell me where I went wrong, what I should have done? What happens?"

  "Tammy, I can honestly tell you that you are the nicest person I have ever had to help pass over to their deserved eternity."

  "Really? Wow!" Tammy's face brightened, a look of pure joy and happiness.

  It lifted my spirits. See, we aren't all bad. Some of us want to be good, some of us even accomplished it. I let her past wash over me, tried to put a filter on it this time, focus on her and the important details, none of the background noise that made my job harder. Not that any of it mattered, of course. I was a bookkeeper, nothing more, yet, and this was what I would have to ponder, I felt that the opinion I formed of the person I signed out was of the utmost importance.

  I didn't know how, or why, but I knew it. What
I thought of the person would seal their fate. What a responsibility. I didn't want this, I couldn't be the one who decided what happened. I wasn't equipped for such things.

  Be that as it may, if I was right or wrong about it, the people I would be confronted with deserved this much at least. So I looked at Tammy, I saw her life, I lived her life, all of it in the blink of an eye, and slowly I let my awareness spread out to encompass how she affected others, the branches forking and forking again. How a kind word, a smile on a bus to someone having a bad morning, giving an old friend a call to say hi, all the little things, how they made ripples that spread around the globe, affecting countless lives, and I found that she was a beautiful person.

  "I can tell you this much, Tammy, so listen closely." Tammy shifted close, scared yet forcing herself to be brave. I towered over her, a good foot and a half, maybe two feet taller, and me with a bloody great scythe and all the gubbins of Death, and she cocked her ear.

  "Yes?"

  "You have affected endless lives in a good way. You were, and are, a kind, considerate person. Yes, you have done bad things, but who hasn't? The main thing is that you tried. You tried to be good, you helped others, you were nice, and that has had a positive influence on the planet as a whole."

  "The whole planet? Cool. I hardly know anyone, don't have many friends."

  "Who does? Not real ones. If you get one, two maybe, then you're luckier than most. You were a good person; your future shall be bright."

  "Yes!" Tammy punched the air and did a little jig. It was awful; it reminded me of Vicky.

  "Get ready," I warned.

  "For what?"

  I shuffled her back without touching her, and just in time.

  The table crashed to the ground, dust billowed, ledger, ink, quill, the usual.

  Pages ruffled, a chair appeared, and we both leaned over and stared at her name.

  "Enjoy your afterlife," I said as I dipped the quill in ink then put a cross through her name with a flourish.

  "Thanks." Tammy beamed at me then walked to the shore where the Boatman was already waiting.