by Dave Turner
'I am not the world's most miserable man!'
'I'm sorry, but you must be. It says so on the Internet.'
Dave never imagined that death would be like this. Tragic? Yes. Devastating? Inevitably. Annoying? Not so much.
'I am Death. I am merely a ferryman between your world and the next. I am not here to judge. I will mock, though.' Death looked at Dave's untouched drink. 'You not drinking that?'
Dave shook his head. Death picked up the glass and quaffed the contents with noisy gulps. He slammed the glass back onto the table and let out a supernaturally long burp.
'I'm going to let you into a secret. Magic exists in your world, Dave. The way shopping trolleys stop at supermarket car parks should be evidence enough. Though the bags for life are a source of constant disappointment to an immortal being.'
Dave had no idea what to do with this information so just let Death continue. 'If there's one thing I've learned in this job, you always cut the blue wire, never the red one. Another thing is that life is hard. People are cruel. But remember that... Nope. I don't know where I'm going with this. That's it. Life is hard and people are cruel. But you have an untapped gift, Dave. You're a good man. You could be the best.'
Death slid a business card across the table. Dave picked it up and turned it over. Expensive, weighty and black. It was embossed with simple white text that said: '1 CROW ROAD'.
Dave was aware that something important had happened here. The moment was heavy with expectation and meaning. Then Death's mobile phone began to ring. Dave had never considered what Death's ring tone would be, but if he had, 'Uptown Girl' would have been pretty far down the list.
'Do you mind if I get that?'
Dave shook his head and Death answered the phone.
'Steve speaking... Well, I didn't agree that it was a silly name... Really...? I'll be there in a minute.'
Death threw the phone back down on the table.
'Busy?' Dave asked.
Death let out a long weary sigh.
'I'm always busy.'
'How do you find the time to do it all?'
'Time is relative. In fact, he's my cousin. Who owes me money.'
'Time travel?'
'It's not time travel as such. It's more that I exist simultaneously at all points in time. Or something. I wasn't really paying attention. Quantum physics was put together on a Friday afternoon. That's why humanity will never figure it out. Some of the bits are the wrong way round.'
An ambulance siren cut through the awkward silence.
'Sounds like your taxi's here.' Death nodded towards the door.
Dave could feel himself being pulled from his seat. The voices in the room grew dim and the walls faded away. Before he went, Dave realised that he should probably ask at least one metaphysical question.
'Answer me this. What's the one true religion?'
Death seemed disappointed.
'It's not a bloody competition.'
Dave's heart kick-started and he slipped back into the warm embrace of life.
CHAPTER SIX
The pain reminded Dave that he was alive. He did not know exactly how long he had been in the hospital bed, but the antiseptic smell had become familiar and the electronic pulse of the machines reassuring. He opened his eyes and saw a dark blur standing over him. Since he had arrived on the ward, Dave's dreams had been haunted by an anonymous black figure always looking over his shoulder. For a moment, Dave worried that this unknown creature had stepped into reality to take care of whatever business he had with him. The world swam and snapped into focus. Melanie smiled down at him.
'Welcome back,' she said. 'How do you feel?'
'I am never drinking again.' Dave licked his cracked lips.
'Don't say that. I owe you a pint. What was it like?'
'What was what like?'
'You know. They said you were clinically dead. How was the afterlife?'
Dave tried to remember that night, back to a time when he was apparently between worlds. It was like his tongue probing where a lost tooth had been in his mouth. He could feel the shape of what was missing, but couldn't see it.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I think there were pork scratchings.'
Then he decided to slip into something more comfortable, like unconsciousness, and the world was dark.
The next time Dave opened his eyes he was alone. His memory staggered like a drunk bouncing from one recollection to the next.
His name was Dave Marwood. He had been dead. Now he was not. His mind stumbled further back. He was born twenty-five years ago, the only child of Bob and Susan Marwood. He had a happy childhood, but there had been bad dreams and strange occurrences. His mum and dad would come to his bedroom and comfort him and he knew that they would always protect him from the monsters in the world. They knew, as all parents do, that they could not. His father had died when Dave was seventeen; a heart attack brought on by a job that did not deserve that kind of a reaction. Six years later, cancer ate away at his mother.
Once he had smiled bravely at her funeral and taken off the only black suit that he owned, he had taken his father's ashes from the cupboard, mixed them with his mother's and scattered them. Somewhere that had been special to them. He remembered green, but no more than that. Maybe it had been a forest. Perhaps they had seeped into the earth, or had been gathered up by the roots of a tree. Maybe it stood there now, tall and proud amongst the leaves. Maybe some small part of them remained in this world, entwined together. This gave him comfort. He would visit their resting place, wherever it was, once he was out of the hospital.
His mind moved forward, sure-footed now. Like a homeless Dickensian orphan, he decided to seek his fortune. With a media studies degree and the small amount of money his parents had left him, he had taken a train to London. He'd thought it a romantic adventure. It'd turned out to be a series of tiny disappointments. He'd found himself at Gary's door. Soon after that, he'd started at UberSystems International. Later, Melanie had joined the company and he had fallen in love. Then he was hit by a car, which hurt slightly less. That brought him back to the present.
He was tired now; so tired that even his eyelashes hurt. He closed his eyes, drowning in the darkness, and felt the black figure once again at his shoulder.
'No matter how you look at it, Emperor Palpatine was the democratically elected leader of the Senate. Then the Rebel Alliance comes along without any mandate and starts blowing up anything within a twelve parsec radius,' Dave said. He was sitting up in bed now in his own hospital room. Melanie was perched on an uncomfortable plastic chair.
'You've obviously been thinking about this a great deal,' she said.
'I've had a lot of time on my hands. The way Luke, Yoda and Obi Wan kept banging on about their religion, it's obvious they saw it as a holy war.'
'Yeah, but those space teddy bears were cute.'
'Ewoks? Ewoks cook their prisoners and use the helmets of dead Stormtroopers as drums. You call them space teddy bears, I call them war criminals. And another thing. Even though he can backflip and lightsaber duel, Yoda claims he needs to use a walking stick. What's that all about? Apart from claiming disability allowance?'
Melanie laughed. 'Are you saying that the Rebel Alliance were religious terrorists and Yoda was a benefit cheat?'
'I'm just saying that when it comes to intergalactic civil war, nobody is squeaky clean.' After a brief silence, Dave decided to say something that had been on his mind. 'You don't have to keep coming here.'
'I enjoy our theological debates,' Melanie said, smiling warmly. 'Do you want me to stop?'
'No! I mean, I don't get many visitors. Probably why I chew your ear off. Sorry.'
'Does Gary not drop by?'
'No. He thinks that the MRSA bug is exactly that. A bug. A genetic tag released by the government to mark and monitor the weaker members of society.'
'Right.'
A bell rang in the corridor to indicate that visiting hours were over. Dave had a sinking feeling i
n his stomach. She would be gone in a moment. He should say something.
Melanie got up from her chair, causing it to squeak against the polished floor.
'Is there anything you want me to bring next time?' she asked.
You're all I need, Dave thought. 'No, I'm good, thanks.'
She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, feeling her warmth against his cold skin. Then she was gone.
He should have said something.
Dave recovered quickly and the doctors were baffled by the fact he'd not sustained any permanent injuries. His interior had been ripped out, shifted, squeezed and reshaped. There had been operations and procedures. Metal had been grafted onto bone. Dave didn't mind this too much as it technically made him a cyborg and therefore fulfilled a childhood ambition. The police came and questioned him about the accident. It was a formality so that they could put a tick in a box. The car had been stolen earlier that night and the driver had fled the scene. No accurate descriptions and no evidence.
One morning, Dave was woken up by a rhythmic clicking. He pulled himself up in bed, tangling himself in the wires that were stuck into his skin. The door to his room was closed against the bustle of the corridor. An old lady in a dressing gown sat knitting in a small armchair by the window. Her knotted leathery hands moved the needles nimbly, yet the garment she was making did not seem to grow in size at all.
'Hello,' said Dave. As an opening gambit, it was a tried and tested method. The old lady looked up over the frame of her glasses, smiled and returned her attention to her work.
'You're awake, then? Your friend has been worried about you. Nothing good ever came from worrying. I tried to tell her that, but I were wasting my breath, so to speak. She comes here when you're asleep, that Melanie. She says she owes you.' Dave knew he owed her more. He had stopped her leaving this life, but she had brought him back. They were forever bound while they were in this world.
'Are you a patient here?' he asked.
'I was, but that's by the by. I heard about what you did to help that pretty young thing. What you did to end up in here. It was either very brave, or very stupid.' Dave shifted his weight and felt a sharp pain shoot up through his legs.
'A little from column A and a little from column B,' he replied through gritted teeth.
There was a sharp, efficient knock on the door and a nurse briskly stepped into the room.
'How are you this morning, Dave?' she asked.
'Good, thanks.'
'Talking to yourself again?' She consulted his notes at the foot of the bed. Dave looked over at the empty armchair by the window. The nurse tapped the clipboard. 'Looks like we'll have to sort out that medication if we're going to send you home.'
The medication. That was it. Seeing ghosts at his bedside? It was understandable considering what he had been through. Pills and potions telling him what he wanted to hear.
Doctors and nurses came and went throughout the rest of the day. Forms were updated, waivers approved and prescriptions signed. Dave's thoughts soon drifted away from the old lady to plans of watching box sets of 'My Big Fat Geek Wedding' on the sofa.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Death stood at the back of the small church. A plaque over his shoulder informed visitors that it had been built in the mid-fourteenth century, funded by the wealthy town elders as an appeasement to their Lord in the hope that they would avoid the Black Death. Those same town elders had all been buried in the graveyard outside before the construction had even been completed. You pay your money and you make your choice, he thought.
The congregation shifted awkwardly in their seats and stared at the cold stone floor while the priest spoke from the pulpit. Some furtively glanced at the coffin in front of them, imagining their own lifeless body within, and shuddered. When the priest had finished, a piper wrestled a set of bagpipes like he was dealing with a drunk and surly octopus. Death was glad that he had stood at the furthest point that the room would allow. He was deeply suspicious of any instrument whose sound was improved the greater the distance between the performer and the listener.
'Play Free Bird!' Death chuckled to himself, disappointed that nobody could appreciate his wit. Every joke was a private joke these days.
Death drifted through the wake. After he had met the deceased, he thought it was important to spend a little time with those who had been left behind. He eavesdropped on small talk. He'd always considered the British reaction to the loss of a loved one slightly odd. While other cultures wailed and gnashed their teeth in sorrow, or celebrated the life that had touched them, the British always stared into the dark abyss, gave a collective shrug and went back to talking about the weather.
The buffet table was spread before him.
'Look what I've been reduced to.' He sighed. 'Once, I vanquished barbarian hordes. I destroyed vast armies. Foes dropped their swords at the mere sight of me. Ooh! Cheese and pineapple on sticks!'
He had not always been alone. He had not always had to hang out at funerals to remind himself that he hadn't been forgotten. There had been three others: Famine, Conquest and War. They didn't have much in common to begin with but, as is the case with humans, before they knew it they could not comprehend life without each other.
They had but one task. Wait for the Apocalypse. Nobody, not even the Horsemen, knew when the end of the world would come. Some had believed that it would happen when the Mayan calendar ran out. Others held onto the Judeo-Christian texts. Death was sure it would be when the sale at DFS ended.
They had tried to fill the days. Death was kept busy. There was the French Revolution. Whatever you think about the French, they gave violent insurrection a certain je ne sais quoi. He had stood at the dock when the Titanic set sail. Nobody that day could imagine the horror that awaited. 'My Heart Will Go On' by Celine Dion. The four friends grew to like humans and all their eccentricities and foibles. They did not relish the fact that they would one day be responsible for their destruction.
Famine even fell in love. The marriage was short lived, though, when his bride found out who he really was. 'Till Death us do part' is a rather hollow promise when he's your drinking buddy.
Throughout history, men had tried to force their hands. Their reasons differed. Some were religious, others mad, a few simply saw profit. In a few cases, it was all three. The results were always the same.
But mostly, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were bored.
That had changed sixty years ago. Satan, once again, made a claim on the mortal realm. There had been fiddle contests from time to time. Death could handle the fiddle contests, but this was a more organised campaign than the previous attempts.
The skies roared and the ground shook with every blow and scream. The battlefields ran thick with the blood of both the mortal and the immortal, including Famine and Pestilence. Beelzebub had learnt the harshest of lessons. One does not anger Death. For the one and only time, he took satisfaction in the snuffing out of a life.
After they had buried their dead, Conquest and Death shook hands and parted ways. They had decided that they had no right to bring about Armageddon upon those that had fought alongside them. Death had had a few problems adjusting as a solo artist. Mistakes had been made and he knew that these needed to be put right. He did not know what had happened to Conquest, but sometimes thought of him. He hoped he would see him again some day.
Death looked at his watch; a gift from three old friends. Perhaps it was time to make new ones.
CHAPTER EIGHT
November turned into December. London was ablaze with lights as if a city-sized mother ship, crewed by drunken office workers, had crash-landed on the banks of the Thames. When Dave's money and patience with daytime television had run out he'd drifted back to work. He was happy to be busy. He had spent the last two Christmas days on his own. He'd walked the quiet, deserted streets and it had felt like the aftermath of the Zombie Apocalypse. It made sense; at that time of year people hoarded food, barricaded themselves in their homes and want
ed to hit family members over the head with a shovel.
Offices thrive on private drama so it stands to reason that Dave's first day back at work was filled with handshakes and pats on the back. He smiled and modestly downplayed his involvement on that evening over a month ago. He just wanted to get back to his desk and be near Melanie. With no reason to call around to his flat, Dave hadn't seen her since he'd been discharged from hospital. He had missed her and over the next few days, they slipped into the conversational rhythm of old friends.
Melanie looked over from her seat opposite Dave. 'How's it going with the Meyer project?'
'It's been better.'
'Is all not well in the Shire, Frodo?'
'I think we may have a very big problem with the systems upgrade.'
'Remember what Fiona says,' said Melanie. 'There are no such things as problems, only opportunities to shine.'
'Okay,' said Dave, ' I think we may have a very big opportunity with the systems upgrade.'
Dave clicked a button on his mouse and the printer behind him chugged, whirred and spat out paper. He pushed himself away from the desk and glided along on his chair. When he reached for the printout, his left foot brushed the floor.
'Gotcha!' Melanie punched the air with her fist.
'What?'
'Your foot touched the ground.' Melanie looked at her watch. 'You've got no lives left and there's three minutes to go.'
'This game is so rubbish.' Dave sighed and shoved himself back towards his desk.
Melanie pouted. 'It was your idea!'
Dave shook his head as his phone began to ring. He picked up the receiver.
'UberSystems International... I don't know about that, Mr Meyer. I'll just need to grab the file. Please hold.' He pressed a button on the phone.
'Who's got the Meyer file?' he shouted across the room.
Over the other side of the office, on another bank of desks, John (or was it James?) held the file above his head, an evil smile on his face. Dave looked from James (or was it John?) to a smirking Melanie and, finally, to the clock on the wall.
