How To Be Dead

by Dave Turner

  Dave woke slowly. His head throbbed painfully in time with his heartbeat. His skin was cold and clammy, his mouth dry. Maybe this wasn't a hangover. Maybe he was patient zero in the Zombie Apocalypse. That would be the only way he could explain how bad he felt. He was glad that he had made it to his bed, even if he had only been able to remove one shoe. He turned over and found a half-eaten pizza spread across the duvet, greasy meat leaving a dark smear across the fabric. He didn't remember buying that. Some memories, though, bubbled to the surface like farts in a bath.

  He felt under his bed until his fingers wrapped around his mobile phone. One new message.

  LEAVE ME ALONE.

  Dave dropped the phone back onto the carpet. The wine and pizza in his belly had been replaced with a mixture of lead and crushing embarrassment. The realisation of what he had done made him close his eyes and offer the traditional prayer of the drunk and remorseful: 'I am never drinking again.'

  Then, after a moment of sombre reflection, he groaned, 'You idiot.'

  'Don't be so hard on yourself.'

  Dave jumped when he saw Death sitting at the end of the bed, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  'Oh no. Am I dead again? I feel like it.'

  'No. Social call. Is that cold pizza?' Death asked, helping himself to a slice before Dave could answer him. 'You like that girl, Melanie, don't you? Personally, I believe that love is merely a chemical imbalance that makes you forget your credit card limit.'

  Death offered the cup to Dave. 'Strong coffee is the answer.'

  'Is it strong enough to punch a hole through time to before I started drinking?'

  'Funny you should say that. Would you like another go at last night? Best out of two? I can arrange that. I once had a chat with Einstein. Apparently the theory of relativity is nothing to do with time running slower the closer you get to your relatives.'

  'And you'd do that for me?' Dave asked with suspicion.

  'Of course. You'd just have to come to work for me in return. I like your style. Getting a lift with the pizza delivery guy? Inspired.'

  Dave had no idea what Death was talking about. 'My mother warned me never to make deals with anthropomorphic personifications.'

  'Sounds like she was a smart woman.'

  Maybe it was the hangover or the desperation, but Dave told himself that everybody deserved a second chance. He just never thought that it could be so literal.

  'Okay,' Dave said. 'This isn't going to screw up the space-time continuum or anything?'

  'Nobody will realise I've done anything. I just need you to sign this.'

  Death produced a thick contract and a silver pen from the folds of his dark cloak. Dave skimmed through the pages.

  'Death accepts no responsibility or liability for any loss, injury, embarrassing family encounters or changes to documented historical fact. This liability includes, but is not limited to, becoming your own father and/or mother, the rise of Hitler or the inexplicable success of Coldplay.'

  'It's pretty standard temporal law,' Death explained as he inspected his fingernails. Dave shrugged and signed his name at the bottom of the last page. If at first you don't succeed, torch the place and claim on the insurance.

  'So, what happens now?' he asked as he passed the pen and contract back to Death.

  'I think the question should be "what happens then?"' said Death.

  'You wanna drink?' asked Melanie. 'Drink to your leg?'

  'I'll drink to your leg.' He looked at the empty wine glass in front of him. 'Shall we get another bottle?'

  Dave swung his arm to attract the attention of a passing waiter, but knocked Melanie's full glass over. Before it could complete its trajectory, time juddered to a halt. Panic was frozen on Dave's face as the room was caught in a moment of existence.

  Death strolled over to the table and picked up the wine glass that was balanced at an impossible angle. He drank the contents and placed it back into its halted free fall. He then moved Dave's arm, like he was playing with an oversized action figure, so that his hand was beneath the glass. Death stepped back like a sculptor admiring a newly completed work of art, and vanished.

  Time lurched back into motion. In an instant, Dave caught the now empty wine glass before it bounced off of the table.

  'Wasn't that full? Where did it go?' He put the glass down and scanned the floor.

  'That's two times you've saved the day now,' said Melanie.

  'I suppose.'

  'Why did you do that?'

  'Well, wine stains are a nightmare to remove.'

  'I'm not talking about tonight.'

  Dave knew that this was his chance. His heart seemed to fill his whole chest and his tongue became as dry and heavy as desert stone. 'Because it's a better world with you in it.'

  They looked at each other and it was as if time had halted once again.

  Dave and Melanie decided to have that bottle of wine. The time flew by as they sat there together and, before they knew it, the bar was closing. Neither of them wanted the night to end, so they decided that it didn't have to.

  As they walked along the bank of the Thames, they were the stars of their own romantic comedy. The heroes of their own private adventure. The rain made London sparkle in the flat orange glare of the street lights and the city belonged only to them. Melanie slid her arm through Dave's. Her fingers searched for his and entwined with them. Dave realised what those skinny boys with acoustic guitars had been singing about on soundtracks all these years.

  They found a twenty-four hour café and talked about their lives before that night, as if everything had merely been a prologue to that moment. Melanie played with a silver cross; a christening present, while she talked about her family. It caught the light and sparkled just like her eyes. Her parents were still together. She was the eldest of three girls who had spent their lives playfully bullying the only man in the house. As an orphaned only child, Dave didn't feel jealous of this, instead he was happy that her family brought her such joy.

  They talked about their ambitions and dreams and neither one laughed at the other. Even the silences were comfortable when the conversation ran dry. Dave revealed secrets he had never told anyone, such as how he felt it was him against the world, and she returned his trust by telling him hers. He had briefly considered telling her the biggest secret of all, but decided that admitting you could talk to ghosts was probably a third or fourth date confession.

  Soon tiredness took hold and, hiding yawns from each other, they headed to the nearest underground station to catch the first train of the morning. Unsure of what to say, or how to say it, Melanie leaned forward and kissed Dave. She tasted of coffee, mints and hope. Pressing her body next to his, she felt real and warm and alive.

  'Call me,' she whispered before heading into the station. Dave watched her until she turned around, smiled, and went past the ticket barriers.

  He decided to walk the quiet streets for a while. That's what the leading man would do in the movies. He splashed in the puddles and wondered if he would ever stop smiling. He didn't have to wonder for much longer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  'Nice weather for ducks,' said a voice behind Dave. He turned around to see Death standing before him on the pavement. 'I could never figure out what you meat puppets meant by that. For a time I assumed that ducks were very romantic creatures and enjoyed walking in the rain thinking about other ducks they had loved.'

  'What are you doing here?'

  'I'm guessing it all went well with Melanie? There's no need to thank me.'

  'Thank you for what?'

  Death pulled the contract from his cloak. He looked at the last page, but Dave's signature was no longer there.

  'Oh bloody hell. Stupid linear time. Can't causality take one for the team just once? Change of plan. Can I show you something?'

  'If it's quick.'

  Death grabbed Dave by the wrist. It felt as if he was a cocktail being poured from one place to another. Suddenly, they were standing in a dark bedr
oom. An old man was perched at the end of the bed while his body lay beneath the covers. Dave had never seen a dead body, other than his own, and he was surprised by how little it disturbed him.

  'Hello, Michael,' said Death.

  'I wondered when you'd get here,' said the old man with a sigh.

  'Sorry I'm a bit late. Traffic's a nightmare.' The old man smiled, then pointed a finger at Dave.

  'Who's he?'

  'Work experience,' said Death.

  Michael turned his attention back to the dark figure. 'You know you're a lot shorter in person?' he said.

  'So I've been told.' Death glanced at Dave.

  'What's it like, then? Eternity?'

  Death thought for a moment before answering.

  'Long,' he said, 'I've been watching a lot of Scooby Doo recently. Have you got any biscuits?'

  'In the kitchen,' said Michael. 'The cupboard by the window.'

  Death turned to Dave. 'Make yourself useful.'

  Dave went downstairs. The walls of the hallway were lined with framed photos that told the story of a long life lived. Michael as a small boy, carried in his father's arms. Michael as a young man, surrounded by friends. A woman joined him in the pictures. They grew older together. Children and grandchildren appeared alongside them. Then, the woman was gone. Michael as an old man; an image of the person Dave had just left in the bedroom.

  As he rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, Dave looked at the meals for one and the soups and realised that Michael had lived and died alone. At that very moment, he couldn't think of anything sadder.

  When Dave returned to the bedroom with the packet of biscuits, Death had settled into a chair with his feet up on the bed.

  'I just can't see where they got the money from,' Death said as he helped himself from the packet. 'Ooh. Garibaldi. Lovely.'

  'Example?' said Michael.

  'In one episode, Scooby and the gang were investigating a haunted hotel. It turned out that the janitor, it's always the janitor--'

  'Or the theme park owner,' said Michael.

  '--or, indeed, the theme park owner. Anyway, the janitor was pretending that the hotel was haunted to drive down its value so he could buy the place cheap. But the holographic and laser equipment he used must have cost thousands; hundreds of thousands, even. He would've got the place at a rock bottom price. But he would've owed a huge whack on the military hardware. It was a completely false economy.'

  'If it wasn't for those meddling kids,' said Dave.

  'And they always find a rational explanation for the supposedly supernatural events, but nobody ever mentions the talking dog. ''Hmmm. Egyptian exhibition possibly haunted by a mummy? Let's investigate!" You're having a conversation about this with a Great Dane and he is actively disagreeing with you! Deal with the issue at hand!'

  'Do you think we could get on with this?' Michael asked. Dave felt that he was intruding on a very private moment and quietly slipped out of the room.

  'Yes. Of course. Sorry. Take my hand.'

  Dave returned to find Death turning the pages of a half-read murder mystery novel that had been left on the bedside table. He flicked to the last page.

  'I should've told him how it ended. There's nothing worse than not knowing.' Dave pulled the duvet up to Michael's chin, as though he were simply in the deepest of sleeps.

  'I phoned for an ambulance,' Dave said, 'I didn't know how long he'd be here otherwise.'

  'Thank you. I guess there's nothing more for us to do,' said Death, as he put the book down. He grabbed Dave's wrist. Once again, he was sucked up and spat across the country.

  When Dave dared open his eyes, he saw that they were standing outside his flat. The rain had finally stopped and fingers of sunlight crawled over the dark glossy roofs.

  'I'm not bad, or evil, Dave. I'm here because you all need me. Are you defined by your job? No.' Death sighed. He seemed tired. 'But there are probably things you need to do. I'll see you around.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Oh, you will. Eventually,' Death said as he disappeared into the ether.

  Eventually. Dave understood. The soul was just too strong, too full of life, to be stopped. It had a momentum of its own and all Death could do was deflect its path of travel. Sometimes you needed a companion for a journey. Nobody should be alone.

  His exhaustion forgotten, Dave knew what he had to do. He quickly showered, changed his clothes and quietly closed the flat's door behind him so as to not wake Gary, who had fallen asleep on the couch again. Dave made his way through the waking city until he arrived at Marylebone station.

  'Where are you going?' asked the bored woman in the ticket office.

  'Stratford. Warwickshire. I'm going home.'

  'You can't go home.'

  'Well, that's your point of view.'

  'No, I mean there's a signal failure just outside the station. You'll need to take the Bakerloo to Oxford Circus, then take the Victoria to Euston. Take a train from there to Birmingham New Street, walk over to Birmingham Moor Street and then get a service to Stratford.'

  'Oh, right. Thanks. I'll do that then.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dave made his way to Euston station, where he found buying a train ticket was an altogether less philosophical experience. He bought a cappuccino with so much chocolate topping it was technically a coffee Revel and boarded his train. He finally succumbed to his tiredness and fell asleep before the train had even left London. He dreamt that he had died but nobody had noticed. Everybody he knew continued with their lives, oblivious to his absence. Terrified and alone, he called and screamed at them as if behind a glass wall, but nobody responded. When he woke with a cry, he had arrived at his destination.

  Dave left the station and, as Meadow Close was only a few minutes' walk away, he thought the crisp winter air would clear his head of the cotton-wool helmet that sleep had bestowed upon him. He was struck by the odd juxtaposition of the familiar and the new. There was the newsagent he had bought sweets from. A block of flats that had once been a pub.

  The pub. The Green Dragon. Where his parents had first met. He remembered now. He had come here, the urn tucked away in a bag, and got heroically drunk. Then, he had wandered into the garden and had spread their ashes in the bushes and the flowerbed. The beginning and end of their life together.

  Dave crossed the road and tried to look over the garden wall, but it had been rebuilt and raised since the last time that he'd been drinking here. He peered through a gap in the woodwork. Though it was now a private garden, the borders looked the same. Dave smiled to himself.

  'See you later, mum. Goodbye, dad.'

  Soon, he was walking past the bright Christmas decorations and tidy lawns of Meadow Close. The suburban perfection made the shock of seeing his childhood home even more intense. A bleakness infected the abandoned Number Fourteen. The overgrown front garden and boarded windows made it look like a decayed tooth in an otherwise shining and healthy mouth. Dave wondered what could have happened in the two decades since his family had left the street. He knew where he could potentially find answers. He walked to the house next door and rang the bell. An old lady answered. Stooped over a walking stick, she warily looked Dave up and down.

  'Mrs Van Dresch?' Dave asked.

  'I'm not buying anything,' said Mrs Van Dresch in an indeterminate accent, and began to close the door.

  'I'm Dave Marwood. Bob and Susan Marwood's boy? Do you remember?'

  Mrs Van Dresch peered over her glasses and smiled. 'No! Little Dabbie Marwood?' A nickname he had not heard spoken in almost twenty years. 'Come in! The kettle has just boiled. How long has it been?' Dave stepped into the hallway and was shepherded into the kitchen.

  'About eighteen years, I think.'

  'Look at you. So big now! Why do you come here?'

  'I'm just visiting an old friend.'

  'And parents? Bob and Susan? How are they?'

  'They're both dead. I'm sorry.'

  'Oh, Dave, I'm so--'

  'Do
n't be. I think they're in a good place now. I'm not sure if it's better than here, but I think they're alright.' The kitchen was silent as Mrs Van Dresch performed the solemn ritual of the making of the tea until Dave asked, 'What happened next door?'

  Mrs Van Dresch put a cup of tea in front of Dave and let out a sigh.

  'Very bad things. Strange things. Everybody frightened. Nobody want to live there. Very sad. It has good parking and south-facing garden.'

  Dave finished his stewed tea and ate a slice of inappropriately named sponge cake. He and Mrs Van Dresch made small talk, but he couldn't make her elaborate on what had happened next door. He said goodbye, promised to stay in touch, and when she had shut the door behind him, walked into the front garden of Number Fourteen.

  Dave tried to look into the house but the boards over the windows were too tightly rammed together to offer any view. Hoping he would have more luck at the rear, he climbed over shopping trolleys and broken pieces of furniture in the side alley.

  The back garden was in a worse state than the front, but the kitchen door had been exposed by somebody in the past. One of the small panes of glass had been smashed and the door opened easily when Dave tugged at the handle.

  Daylight splashed over the grey, stale sideboards and cupboards. The house seemed to shift, as if it knew it had been invaded. Dave could have sworn the cup on the table in front of him moved an inch or two. Nerves made the tea and cake bubble in his belly, but he forced himself to take a step forward.

  The cup flew from the table. Dave ducked and it sailed over his shoulder and shattered against the wall behind him. He choked on the dust and waited for both the grime and his heart rate to settle.

  'Haunted house. No meddling kids. A janitor could make a healthy profit with a place like this,' Dave muttered to himself. He trod carefully through the hallway to the foot of the stairs. Dave had just mounted the first step when he heard a low rumble. It grew in intensity until his whole body shook as if caught in an earthquake. He gripped the bannister to steady himself and could hear items in other rooms crash to the floor. Soon, the groans of the house died down until the only movement was the dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of light.