Grim

by Gavin McCallion

  'Right then! I'm off out to the strippers!'

  Not the strippers.

  The Judge got to his feet. 'Fetch our coats, my boy!'

  Derek nodded and left, aiming for the coatroom at the other end of the entrance hall. He lost his professional walk about halfway there and had to stop himself collapsing. He stared at the ground. His eyes were throbbing.

  Not the strippers.

  The Judge fucking loved the strippers, and the strippers fucking adored him. He had far too much money, so he spent it being hailed as a king by naked girls as he poured the finest whisky down his throat. There aren't many who could blame him for turning it into a hobby, I suppose. Going to the strippers wasn't a big deal. It was standard. The problem was that going to the strippers at nine meant he was there until three in the morning, and usually he brought his favourite three home with him to keep the party going until about seven, and then when they left he would be sleeping until dinner time, and then he would wake up and fire Derek because he was being disciplined by the Court for missing his selection deadline and it was all too much!

  He made an effort to breathe.

  Trying to stop The Judge going to the strippers wouldn't bode well for him. He wouldn't get away with trying to stop The Judge going, nobody could stop Judge Rabbit on a path to the strippers; a pack of wild dogs couldn't stop Judge Rabbit going to the strippers; the hands of God himself couldn't stop Judge Rabbit going to the strippers. Derek sat below all of that - he definitely couldn't stop him. But he had to. His wonderful life depended on it.

  Derek retrieved The Judge's coat that already smelled like terrible perfume and returned to the dining room with a stiff upper lip.

  'Sir!'

  The Judge hopped in his chair, turning to the unlikely source of the noise. 'Derek! You scared the nibbles out of me!'

  Derek straightened his crooked back out, clicked his heels together and pointed his gnarled chin at his boss. 'Before you head out sir, I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you make your selection for the island's next Reaper. They're looking to raise him tomorrow. They need a name. Sir.'

  The Judge raised his eyebrows. 'You'll, oh-ho... you'll have to insist?'

  'Yessir.'

  The Judge reached into his jacket and retrieved his lighter.

  Derek suddenly went rigid.

  'Now, Derek, my boy. You know I'm not privy to taking orders from my staff.'

  '...Sir.'

  'Indeed. So you'll understand how I'm somewhat miffed by your word choice just then. Oh-ho... you'll have to insist, will you?' Judge Rabbit sparked up the lighter.

  Derek's eyes pulsed, following the flame. Sweat developed on his forehead. His brain started firing off a thousand signals of blind panic as his puny pill collapsed under the pressure.

  The Judge reached for a candlestick in the middle of the table and drew its wick into the flame. 'Derek, please don't insist anything upon me. You know I don't cope well with stressful deadlines, you've seen what happens when I'm under pressure, haven't you?’

  '...Yessir.'

  Judge Rabbit admired the candle, swaying left and right. 'Good. Now you have assured me this selection business needs doing today, and I promise you that before I sleep tonight, there will be a dead man's name in the Court's inbox. I promise you.'

  The Judge's promises weren't worth much, Derek had been promised things before.

  'Sir...'

  'So, Derek...' Judge Rabbit stood up, holding the candle out in front of him.

  Derek stepped back.

  'Why don't we go out to the strippers, and I'll pay some lovely young woman to show you her entire vaginal cavity while we drink together?' He got closer, bringing the candle a finger's distance from Derek's tie. 'We drink the finest alcohol and enjoy the company of the finest women, and we can laugh and sing into the night. Hm? Cricket?' He lifted the candle up, holding the flame an inch from Derek's chin.

  He felt the heat prick his skin and his bravery collapse out his arse. 'Yessir.'

  'Tickety-boo?'

  'Yessir.'

  'Lovely-jubbly?'

  'Yessir.'

  'Grand. Now, my coat.'

  Derek circled The Judge and draped the coat over his shoulders.

  The Judge turned around with a smile kinking just one side of his moustache. He brought the candle between their faces and extinguished the flame in one swift puff.

  Derek shut his eyes. They stung with sweat.

  The Judge chuckled. 'You'll have to insist... oh-ho...'

  ~

  Seven

  Gettin’ Up

  On Saturday morning, a young upstart for the Court called Matthew stepped into the White Room carrying two folders and a very important suitcase.

  He admired his surroundings, eyes lit up. 'Wow...'

  Matthew had never been in The White Room but had heard all about it. A room filled with blinding white light, so white it filled every corner and extinguished every shadow. Matthew stood flat on nothing, the same nothing above and around him.

  He tried not to feel disorientated as he walked. He aimed for the table and chairs floating in the middle and gave himself a pat on the back for not falling over when he got there.

  He had everything he needed: the important case, The Reaper's orientation folder and his application folder. He put the three of them on the table along with a bottle of water he retrieved from his pocket.

  Placing a hand on the orientation folder, he wished he had more time with it. For some reason, the folder only arrived an hour ago. The Court must've spent a lot of time deliberating over Wilson’s Well’s replacement. The last one was the longest running Reaper since the Court's inception.

  He hadn't read the contents of the folder, but he felt confident he could carry the interview at first glance. He knew the stuff inside out.

  Past the desk, he saw a black box at the bottom of the room. It was long like a coffin, deep like a coffin and contained a body like a coffin. The new Reaper was in there.

  Matthew approached the box, laid a hand on its surface and smiled. He had waited so long for this. He worked hard for the spot. A Reaper's companion is an important role. A job given to only the most hard-working individuals. A role meant to reintegrate a Reaper back to earth, to train him in his duties and to explain the perils and pitfalls of his immortality.

  Without him, a Reaper would be nothing but an immortal moron, staggering about the island, running late, grabbing at ghosts and missing sends. A Reaper needed a companion. He practised hard to be the best guide for the new Reaper, and he'd be damned if a single ghost went unsent on his watch.

  He returned to the desk and checked everything again.

  New Reaper gets out of the box. New Reaper sits down. Introductions and congratulations.

  Folder one, the old folder, confirm the details. Confirm The Reaper remembers what he should and has forgotten everything he shouldn't.

  Folder two, the orientation folder, walk him through his role, make sure he understands what's expected of him. His new life, his new body, his new dwelling - if required - and his new bank accounts. His schedule, his cloak, the ghouls. The time-limits. The consequences. Immortality. Opting out.

  Matthew had the process down to a tee. While he drew breath, the new Reaper would be taken care of.

  Ten minutes passed before the box opened. The lid swung on its hinges and clanked down on the other side. A hand clamped on the edge and up sat the new Reaper of Wilson's Well.

  He had the floppy hair and jaggy-angled face of Dad, but he wasn't anymore. He was a reanimation, a body made of restructured dust and old bones. He had the memories of my dad, and he looked like my dad, but that was all. The Court took everything else. The only evidence to say he was ever anyone before he died was in The White Room, immune to erasing, but everything outside was gone the second he woke up. Even his name.

  After he was my Dad, he was Grim – or so I like to call him.

  Matthew stood up and applied a warm smile to his fa
ce.

  Grim looked at him, then down at himself. 'I, ah... sorry, but...' He breathed heavily and suddenly burst into a coughing fit. Dust exploded from his lungs, and Matthew realised he should've been standing closer to the box with some water on hand.

  Rookie mistake, he thought. He grabbed the bottle of water and hurried over to Grim's side.

  Grim cowered at the back of his coffin and sprayed dust over the white of his new surrounds. When he was close enough, Matthew patted The Reaper’s back and offered him the water.

  He welcomed it into himself in a hurry. Following a draining swig, he coughed in a much healthier fashion. A cough that didn't sound like he was about to heave up a planet. He continued for another minute or so.

  'Get it up...' Matthew said, like a mother with a sick child.

  Grim stopped long enough to attempt some words. 'S-s-sss-'

  'What's that?'

  'I'm s-sorry. About the- sorry about the m-mess.'

  ~

  It took Matthew a further ten minutes to get Grim out of the coffin.

  Grim told him it hurt to move.

  Matthew assured him what he felt was normal. Dust gathered between his bones during resurrection; he needed to grind it out. He had to move to do it.

  Eventually, he clambered out of the coffin.

  Matthew also tried to make some assurances that Grim's walk would straighten out in time. He was wrong, of course, that was Dad's walk. He didn't lose it. Nor did he lose, apparently, his ability to wear a suit poorly. Gran couldn't afford to bury him in a new suit as well as pay for the rest of the funeral, so she picked that old brown one he wore to his interview with Derek.

  They sat down on opposite ends of the white table, and Matthew started the orientation process. 'Now then.'

  Grim's eyes darted around the room, his whole body shook. The shoulder of his jacket had slipped off down his arm on one side.

  Matthew leant in. 'To be honest, they shouldn't make this room your arrival spot. A bit too freaky, right?'

  Grim didn't look at him. 'Yes.'

  'Anyhoo! Welcome back! My name is Matthew, and on behalf of the Court of Reapers, allow me to congratulate you. It's my pleasure to welcome you to your second chance!'

  Grim's eyes stopped, right on Matthew. 'Reapers? I... I died?'

  Matthew dropped his grin and made an internal note that dead people don't realise they’re dead, not three minutes after they're back. He cursed himself for forgetting such a basic detail.

  'Apologies. That is the case, yes.'

  'Ah, oh dear that's... not the best news.' He scratched his ear. 'Not great at all.'

  'But, you're back. You've been given another chance! You were chosen!'

  'Cora,' Grim blurted. 'Is she alive? Is she okay?'

  Matthew grimaced. 'Listen, I need you to stick with me.' He put a hand on each folder and held eye contact with the sunken, gaunt pits in Grim's face. 'All the information you want about your new life is in here, and I'm going to take you through it. Just stick with me.'

  'Oh, okay. Sorry.'

  'No problem.' Matthew smiled. 'Now, confirm your name for me?'

  'Oh, uh... I... I don't know.'

  'Good.' Matthew ticked a box, he didn’t address Grim’s clear confusion. He would explain it shortly. He would describe the sensation in his head: that feeling of trying to push two magnets towards one another, only for them to shift out of alignment at the last second.

  'Date of birth?'

  'Okay, yes, sorry...' Magnets. 'I don't remember.'

  'Great.' Another box ticked. 'Occupation?'

  'No, I'm sorry, I can't remember-'

  Tick. 'Tell me something about yourself.'

  'Oh, oh right okay, I have a daughter called Cora, she's two years old.'

  'And something about yourself?'

  'Oh, right. Sorry. I- in my spare time, I write fan-fiction.'

  'Good, good!' Matthew wrote that down. 'What kind?'

  'Star Wars.'

  Matthew smirked. 'I hope you're doing a better job than the prequels.'

  'Sorry?' Grim tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, confused by Matthew’s comment, which in itself confused Matthew. The controversy around the Star Wars prequels was common knowledge to any fan alive since the millennium.

  'The prequels?'

  'Oh, I haven't seen... I was on my way to the cinema when... well...'

  'On your way to...' Matthew pulled over Grim's orientation folder and opened it.

  Again, he was reading these folders for the first time. If he had seen them sooner, he would've found a couple of glaring holes in the application. For example, Grim had been dead for over fifteen years.

  Matthew's mouth dried. 'You died in '99?'

  'Was the film not good? Did they not totally change light-'

  'You died in a car-crash? A car crash where you were at fault?' Violent circumstances and liability for them. 'You were definitely in a car crash?'

  'I'm not sure I remember... I think- I put Cora in the back seat. Is she-'

  Matthew searched through the file. Shaking his head, he read that Grim was a D-grade candidate at interview stage. His place in the pool was cripplingly deep.

  Count three interesting notes regarding selection of a new Reaper: candidates expire from the pool when they've been dead for fifteen years - Grim shouldn't have been chosen; candidates dead in violent circumstances expire from the pool - Grim shouldn't have been chosen; candidates responsible for their own death expire from the pool - Grim shouldn't have been chosen.

  Matthew lost the friendly tone in his voice. 'Do you know any Judges?'

  'No, sorry?'

  Of course he didn't. Not many people wielded enough influence over a Judge to demand this size of favour.

  'I'm... so sorry about this, but...' Matthew stammered.

  He had to ask Grim to go back. He would be fired for disobeying process. Someone fucked up, someone should lose their job for this, but not Matthew.

  'There's been a mistake, I'm afraid. You... were selected in error.'

  Grim froze for a moment, and then he shook his head, stammering, 'nonononononono.'

  'I'll speak to the Judges, but I think you'll have to-'

  The door behind Matthew exploded open and in marched Judge Rabbit with both hands behind his back.

  He counted out loud. 'Six. Five. Four.'

  Matthew shot to his feet. 'Judge Rabbit, sir, excellent timing.'

  'Three-' The Judge stopped at the table. 'Two-' He pulled an indecently long gun from behind his back and pressed it to Matthew's skull.

  'What-'

  'One.'

  He pulled the trigger and red obliterated the perfect white of the room.

  Bang.

  A minute later, he offered Grim a frappuccino.

  ~

  Eight

  Because of a Judge's Taste for Topless Girls

  Derek opened his eyes.

  The ceiling moved in violent circles.

  Derek shut his eyes.

  Being Derek was not good.

  It was the day of The Reaper's Gala.

  Delicately, he pawed at his phone on his bedside counter and checked the time.

  He had slept in. To be fair to him, he had only slept in by his own standards. It was the back of eight. Additionally, both he and Judge Rabbit had gone to bed at five, so The Judge wouldn't be out of his pit until at least three when he would sling on a sports jersey of some sort and demand to be taken somewhere greasy. He had slept in, and he wasn't pleased with himself, but he certainly didn't plan on getting up in the next few hours.

  He remembered whisky at the strip club; and shots of absinthe; and some friendly girl who happily accepted his money for a bit of a blether with him rather than dance all over him; and then some more absinthe; and then nothing.

  No memories, but for the first time in his existence, he felt the fear. That sinking, dry-mouthed, electric dread in his legs and the coat of bile at the back of his throat. The idea that h
e had done something definitely wrong sitting at the surface, waiting for someone to dig it up. I - as a teenage girl owning a mobile phone - am quite familiar with the feeling, but Derek wasn't. The Judge made him do all kinds of embarrassing things. He tucked his shame away at the back of his cupboard behind seven incredibly expensive suits. Never did his antics bring him the fear.

  He didn't like the fear.

  Thinking back, he didn't do anything wrong at the strip club. There's nothing he could do wrong at a strip club, not Derek. Derek had driven them to the port and arranged a return on the night-ferry with the Captain. That must've been how he got home, but did he drive? God he hoped he didn't drive.

  Any time he tried to recall a memory, his brain swirled with whisky and David Bowie music.

  'Hugggh...' Derek muttered.

  What did he do?

  ~

  Fifteen dreadful minutes later, David phoned him.

  The sound cut through him, piercing his ears. He couldn’t remember ever setting such an irritating ring tone. Grimacing, he answered without checking the screen.

  David's dry tones did nothing for his hangover. 'What the fuck have you done?'

  Like Derek hadn't been wondering himself. 'I really don't know.'

  'I'm at work, you muppet. Just done the history on your selection.'

  Derek's eyes shot open. The fear vanished. It vanished and replaced itself with horror.

  The haze parted, revealing The Judge and Derek drinking at the reception desk in his lobby.

  They reminisced about the day they met against a backdrop of Bowie’s Moonage Daydream.

  'I remember when first we met, old chap.' The Judge lay on the desk, speaking more to the ceiling than Derek, who sat on the floor against the wall.

  'Me too. Me too. Yessir.'

  'You were interviewing someone. Oh, who was is? Who was that man? Who?'

  'I d'no.'

  'You do!' The Judge sat up. 'Bring me the talent pool, I need to select someone anyway. Hurry on!' He pointed over his shoulder, at a wall. The talent pool wasn't back there.

  Derek found it, regardless, and they dug out Dad's file.