The End of the World

by Andrew Biss

  “Of course – look at me.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “An image of you.”

  “There you are.”

  “Images lie.”

  “Oh, what nonsense. All right, I’ll prove it,” I said. At this point I’d had enough. I felt rattled and unnerved and realised the only way I could bring an end to both this ridiculous farce and the unsettling feelings it had stirred within me was by doing as she’d asked. I pinched my arm, bracing myself for the sting that would follow, but…there was none. I pinched a little harder, thinking I must have been too timid the first time. Still nothing. I slowly raised my eyes to meet Mrs. Anna’s.

  “You see?” she said, sounding more bored than victorious.

  “It sort of hurt,” I said, feebly. “Anyway, I’m tired and I haven’t eaten – thanks to you. My arm’s probably asleep.”

  “You’re all asleep. Pinch your nipple,” she said, nonchalantly.

  “I beg your pardon? I most certainly will not.”

  “Pinch it – it’s the surest way. A dead nipple is a dead giveaway.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said, appalled at the thought but determined to prove her wrong. As I placed my fingers on my shirtfront in search of my left nipple, I could feel myself blushing. I soon found the small bump beneath the cotton and gave it a good hard squeeze. But again, nothing. I tried the right one. Still nothing. I pinched both at the same time as hard as I could, but the outcome was the same. I felt a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I…I don’t understand,” I said, my voice faltering and fearful.

  “What’s to understand? You’re dead.”

  “No, wait, wait…” I pleaded. I was now in a state of near panic. I pinched my left cheek with all my strength, then my right one, but the result was just as before. I began slapping myself across the face again and again, but still felt nothing. Then, in desperation, I punched myself as hard as I could in my stomach and groin. As I frantically continued to beat myself into a pulp, Mrs. Anna suddenly stepped forward and grabbed me forcefully by my arms.

  “Stop it! Stop this!” she barked, loudly.

  “But…but what is this? What’s happening? Where am I?”

  “Listen to me,” she ordered. “You are dead, I already told you that. Where? You are neither here nor there, that is where you are.”

  Just then the he doorbell rang. Mrs. Anna released me from her grip and began straightening her apron and tidying her unkempt hair a little.

  “But I…I don’t understand,” I said, hoarsely, trying to stop the tears that had welled up inside my eyelids from spilling over.

  “Then think yourself lucky,” she snapped, impatiently, as she turned and headed off towards the front door. “Meanwhile, waiting in my hallway I have three very unhappy foreign aid workers from Afghanistan wanting to know why they were beheaded, and, more importantly, where their heads are. And you think you have problems?” Just before she left the room she turned back to face me, her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Maybe you would like to take care of them, no? Tell them all the answers? Then answer the door to the new ones, yes? Please forgive my English, but give me the fucking break.” And with that she left.

  I wiped my tears on the backs of my hands and tried to collect myself as best I could. It was all too much to take in, much too much, but I had to keep my head. No matter what Mrs. Anna said and no matter how impervious I’d become to pain – at least physically – I still couldn’t accept that I was dead. How could I be? Death wasn’t like that. Death was something that happened when you were asleep. It crept in overnight and did its mysterious deed when no one was around to see it – not unlike Father Christmas. True, it sometimes struck more blatantly. I’d seen any number of films and news stories in which death came quickly and violently to people. But it always ended the same way, with them just lying there – dead. Not me. I was still moving, still thinking, still ruminating. For instance, if I really was dead, how could I possibly ask myself the question ‘How can I be dead?’? And why would I be here? Here of all places?

  As those thoughts continued to bounce around my mind, I suddenly became aware of the sound of a child quietly sobbing. I wasn’t entirely sure where it was coming from, but unless my ears were playing tricks on me, it seemed to be emanating from the kitchen sink.

  Everything was wrong. I had to leave this place. Despite being penniless and rudderless, I knew it was time to go. I’d clearly stumbled upon a madhouse of demented eccentrics who were hell-bent on dragging me into their perverted existence. I had to leave. To where I did not know, but it was time to make an exit while I still could. I looked frantically from left to right. If I could just remember which door I came in – or which door went out. It all started to look the same, but I had to get out – I had to. My sanity was at stake. I had to go. Go quickly. Leave! Now!

  I heard the sound of another child, this time giggling, echoing all around the house. In mad desperation I ran to the door I thought to be the one that Mrs. Anna had left by. When I swung it open, standing before me was Luka, her stomach hanging down in a mass of bloody entrails from the middle of her dress, little pools of blood forming on the floor beneath her. In one hand she held an AK-47 and in the other an empty vodka bottle. Her eyes were closed and she was leaning forward, puckering her lips, as if waiting for me to kiss her. I screamed and stumbled back, almost falling to the floor, then lunged forward and slammed the door shut again.

  Out of nowhere, I suddenly heard the opening bars to ‘The Theme from Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To)’ begin to play. I grabbed desperately at the handle of the door to the left of me, which I thought to be a closet, but since I was no longer sure of anything, decided to give it a try. Upon opening it I could hardly believe my eyes. It was indeed a closet, and standing inside of it, wearing a big, black, long-flowing wig and an extravagant dress festooned with sequins, was my mother. She held a microphone to her mouth and proceeded to lip-synch the words of the song, giving me a knowing wink just before the first line.

  I stepped back, more confused than frightened, and as I watched her mistimed attempts at miming the words I began to feel very light-headed.

  As she stepped forward towards me, I could feel myself begin to swoon, everything starting to spin and swirl around me. Just as I felt myself falling to the floor, my mother deftly reached out with her free arm and caught me, still continuing on with her mismatched mouthing.

  Held tightly against my mother’s sequined bosom, the sound of Diana Ross filling my ears, my conscious mind slipped away into the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mother

  When I came to, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table once more. The room was empty, but I could hear the sound of my mother’s voice off in the distance. Why was she here? And how did she know how I’d be here? And most curious of all, why was she impersonating Diana Ross inside one of Mrs. Anna’s kitchen closets? True, she wasn’t the most conventional person you’d ever meet, but this seemed like a rather puzzling way to behave, even for her. I could only assume she must have gotten horribly drunk at some fancy dress party and somehow stumbled upon The End of the World as she tried to stagger her way back home. Small world, I thought.

  Presently, my mother entered the kitchen, dressed conservatively – much to my relief – and carrying a small handbag, still talking over her shoulder as she did so.

  “No, no, no, Mrs. Anna, if you don’t have 700-count cotton sheets I’m sure whatever you do have will be perfectly satisfactory – but I’m afraid the nylon has to go. That said, I don’t want to be any trouble, do you understand? None at all. I want it to feel as though I’m not even here.”

  At first she didn’t seem to be aware of my presence at all, her attention fixed solely upon rearranging a small string of pearls she wore around her neck. After a few moments, however, she looked up and beamed a huge, sparkling smile in my direction.

  “Oh
darling, isn’t this place simply marvellous? Almost heavenly in some ways. I say almost because…well, let’s face it, it is a bit rough around the edges. But who knows, perhaps that’s what they were going for. Anyway, even though I’ve barely had time to unpack I’m already beginning to feel quite at home.”

  Unpack? What was happening? I held my head in my hands and groaned. I thought she’d be smothering me with hugs, desperate to know the state of my well-being, not to mention wracked with guilt at having banished me from home, only to discover I’d been forced to endure the strange and unsavoury environment that was The End of the World. Instead, she seemed oblivious to my condition and was already referring to this place as home.

  “And what about Mrs. Anna?” she continued. “Isn’t she a find? A little churlish I suppose, but with her job who wouldn’t be? Overall she seems like an absolute dream.”

  “It all seems like a dream,” I said. “A very, very bad one.”

  For whatever reason she suddenly seemed far more cognisant of my existence, quickly gliding across the room and sitting herself down next to me.

  “Oh dear, what’s wrong, darling?” she said, placing her arm around me. “Is it all the excitement? Is it your tummy – your diarrhoea?”

  “No it isn’t,” I said, sharply.

  “Well something’s thrown you out of sorts. Is it a cold? A headache?”

  “No.”

  “Oh dear, don’t tell me it’s something…” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Is it something sexual? Did someone give you something you weren’t quite expecting?”

  “No they did not!” I said, offended by the very suggestion.

  “Because if they did I don’t want you to feel the least bit ashamed. Some of the nicest people I know pick up a little something every now and then. It’s just a part of life.”

  “It’s not life! It’s got nothing to do with life. In fact–”

  “And I am your mother, after all. If you can’t talk to me about these things who can you talk to?”

  “A doctor?” I retorted.

  “And I’ve heard it all, so I shan’t be shocked. So what is it? Little red sores? A funny feeling when you pee pee? Uninvited guests down there?”

  “No! No, it’s nothing like that! Nothing. It’s something worse. Much worse. You see…”

  But her attention had already been hijacked by her handbag, which she proceeded to dig through with steely determination. “Yes?” she said, still pretending to listen.

  “Mother…Mother, look at me,” I implored.

  “I’m looking, darling, I’m looking,” she insisted, as she retrieved a black lacquered compact from the jumbled folderol inside her bag.

  “No you’re not.”

  She opened the compact, still maintaining her façade of attentiveness. “I am, I am, I…oh damn, where’s the mirror? It must’ve fallen out. Never mind, you’ll just have to guide me.”

  By now I realised she was in no fit state to receive the dreadful news I was about to impart. Somehow I had to try and bring her back down to earth, surmising that the shock would be less jarring if she were in a more sober frame of mind.

  “Mother, what I am about to say to you is going to put a terrible strain upon your emotional coping system.”

  “How’s this?” she asked, as she applied the compact pad to her face. “Am I more or less on target?”

  Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy, but I remained resolute. “You’re going to have to be very brave and to try to absorb this as best you can without resorting to hysterics or outbursts,” I instructed, as solemnly as possible.

  “Oh no! Oh, damn, damn, and damn it all!” she suddenly cried.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I think I just smudged my lipstick. Did I?”

  “No, you didn’t,” I sighed.

  “Oh, thank God! Imagine trying to fix that without a mirror – I’d end up looking like The Joker,” she joked.

  “Mother, I need you to be serious for a moment. I need you to be as calm and logical as you possibly can, for what I have to tell you is something I am only now beginning to fully come to terms with myself.”

  She leaned in towards me and moved her face from side to side. “How’s that – do I pass muster?”

  By now I was beginning to lose patience. “All except the shiny nose,” I said, testily.

  “Oh!” she shrieked, as she applied a few final dabs of powder to her nose, before snapping shut the lid of the compact.

  “Really, Mother, this isn’t easy for me to say and I…I…”

  “Oh, do hurry up, darling, it can’t possibly be as bad as all that,” she said, once again foraging desperately for something buried deep inside her handbag.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it can. You see, Mother, I…it appears that I…that I’m…to all intents and purposes…” I took a deep breath. “Dead.”

  “Well of course you’re dead. Is that it?”

  “Well…yes,” I said, a little bewildered by her reaction…or non-reaction.

  “Oh for heavens sake, that’s old news, darling. What a big build up to nothing.”

  She was obviously in a state of either denial or shock. I took her hand gently in mine and looked her straight in the eye with as much intensity as I could bring to bear. “Mother, I don’t think you could have understood what I just said. I have passed on. I cease to exist. I am, according to all reports, completely and utterly dead.”

  “Of course you’re dead. We all are. Why else would we be here?” she said, quite matter-of-factly.

  “You mean…you mean you’re dead, too?”

  “As they come, my dear. Of course, I don’t look it, but when you have a complexion and bone structure like mine all you can do is count your blessings.”

  How had she done that? She’d completely turned the tables on me without even trying. There I’d been anxiously trying to find the right way of breaking to her the news of my death, when out of nowhere I was suddenly being forced to grapple with the news of hers. And despite the fact that she was sitting right next to me, chatting away merrily, I somehow believed her. I felt a wave of great sadness sweep over me. My mother was dead. This wasn’t an eventuality I’d ever even vaguely contemplated before. It was simply unimaginable. And even with her there beside me, I suddenly felt more empty and alone than I ever had in my entire life. Quite why, I wasn’t sure, but I did.

  “But…but how? How did it happen?” I asked, fearfully, before a dreadful realisation quickly came to mind. “Oh…oh no…I think I know…the baby.”

  “The what?” she asked, apparently having no idea of what I was referring to, until a few seconds later when something abruptly jogged her memory of her late-life pregnancy. “Oh that! Oh, no. No, no, no. No, that was all…gas or something. A phantom pregnancy. There was no baby, unfortunately.”

  “No baby?”

  “Isn’t it ridiculous? All that fuss over a lot of hot air,” she rued. “Pretty much sums up my life now that I look back on it.”

  “So I needn’t have…”

  “I only wish I had died in childbirth. It would have given my death a far more poignant, BrontQ sisters-like veneer.”

  This, all of this…and all for nothing. I’d been ejected from my home, torn from my loved ones, cast out into a brutal, cruel world that robbed me of my life before it had even begun…and all because of some smelly gas bubble. It all seemed so unjust. At the same time, if giving birth hadn’t caused my mother’s untimely passing, what had?

  “So…so how did you?” I ventured again.

  “Die?”

  I nodded, solemnly.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was your father.”

  I gasped in shock. This was most certainly not the answer I’d been expecting. Not that I knew what to expect…but, this? My father? My mild-mannered, jolly, jovial accountant father? True, he secretly harboured fantasies of living a double life embroiled in intern
ational espionage and government skulduggery, but that was all make-believe…or have-us-believe. But murder? Real life murder? It hardly seemed possible.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, whilst simultaneously trying to imagine what method he might have employed to carry out his gruesome deed.

  “It was a shock to me, too,” my mother replied, a little too off-handedly, it struck me, for a victim of violent crime.

  “But surely…surely he would never do anything like that?”

  “Oh, but he did, my darling, he did. If he’d only driven me into town as I’d asked him to, instead of fobbing me off with some excuse about a meeting he couldn’t possibly be late for, I wouldn’t have had to walk to the shops and I wouldn’t have been run over by that dim-witted bus driver.”

  Aha! And there it was. Another of my mother’s cunning twists of events that caused the mind to change gears at warp speed and readjust to what actually was, not what it had been treacherously and rather craftily led to imagine.

  “A bus? You were killed by a bus?”

  “Isn’t it positively shameful? I’d always imagined myself slipping away under far more glamorous circumstances – or in a foreign country at the very least, my body being shipped back home amid a frenzy of media attention. But no, a bus it was. My only consolation is that it was a No. 73 and not a No. 10. You can imagine it otherwise, can’t you: ‘How did she go?’ ‘Knocked down by a No. 10 bus.’ Urgh! Thank heavens for small mercies.”

  “Oh, Mother, that’s awful!”

  “Yes, and quite grisly, I regret to tell you. But for a flap of skin and a couple of small tendons, I was all but decapitated.”

  “What? Oh my God!” I cried, craning forward to examine her neck for some sort of macabre affirmation.

  “Oh, don’t worry, darling,” she said with a knowing smile, as she fingered her necklace. “It’s nothing a few strategically placed pearls can’t disguise.”

  “But Mother that’s horrific,” I insisted, my eyes still searching for signs of scar tissue or sutures in and around the shiny, translucent orbs gilding her throat.