by Claire North
And in the congregation …
The Harbinger of Death sits quietly and nods at the words that come, and holds Emmi’s hand, and cries with the rest of the room, not in raging grief that shouts and screams, but at the size of the hollow left behind, which no one now can fill.
And outside the church …
Death waits, but does not enter. Her work is done, for today, and funerals she feels are a ceremony for the living, not the dead. She has no interest in corpses.
Chapter 58
“It’s so good to meet you, so good, we heard that Emmi had a man but she hasn’t really told us much about you, it’s lovely …”
“Thank you for having me over. I know you’ve known Emmi a very long time …”
“All the way back to college! How long have you two been together now?”
“Over a year now, it’s been so …”
“And you just got back from—did she say Japan?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible, I’ve always wanted to go there, it just seems so … different.”
“There’s some social and cultural things that may seem strange, but I find that people are people wherever you go.”
“Very true, very true! And what do you do?”
“Emmi didn’t say?”
“No, just said you travelled a lot.”
“Are you a teacher?”
“Me? No—quit years ago, couldn’t do it. Lousy pay, long hours, no support, the government constantly moving the goalposts. I should have stuck with it, I know, I felt huge guilt, but now I get to see my family, my actual kids, my kids, and I’m just so much happier. But you didn’t say …”
“I’m the Harbinger of Death.”
“Oh. I see. And you … like the work?”
“It has its ups and downs.”
“May I ask, how did you …?”
“I think … I used to feel that it … When I started, it was a job and I didn’t have a job, graduating into a recession and that, and I was flattered to be asked, I mean, to be trusted with something this big … I read this interview with Alfred Pierrepont, you know who he—the last British executioner.”
“You see yourself as an executioner?”
“No! No, not at all, that’s not … I read this interview and he was asked does he feel regret and he said no, because they had to die and he was always sure to treat everyone with kindness and dignity, to meet the eye of everyone he hanged and be sure to see something human, and I thought … I’m not an executioner, I go sometimes as a warning, sometimes as a courtesy, and I meet … I met people and some were dying, obviously, some were dying alone and Death was coming and I was sent before and I thought … there is something in this that is good. Something that is decent. So long as I am. My employer believes in … courtesy. Courtesy and respect above all else. Everyone who dies was once a child; every child once had a dream of something else; every child must die. It is important to remember the human behind the story, and I find it … good.”
“I see. Less of an executioner, more of a … historian?”
“I don’t record the stories.”
“No, that wouldn’t be …”
“Discretion is important.”
“A confessor, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. No matter what you’ve done, no matter who you are … it is important that someone listens. At the end. And important that … that sometimes you know. Sometimes you simply know.”
“Christ, I wouldn’t want to know when I die.”
“Maybe not, but if that knowledge changed the way you live …?”
“You’re implying pre-destiny here, you’re suggesting … fate?”
“Not at all. Death comes when he is called. Sometimes he is summoned by men and the things people do, and sometimes he passes people by.”
“You sound almost … fond.”
“I do not fear Death. I don’t. I fear … something else. The bits in the middle. When I was young, my dad died, slowly; it was horrid. He had ALS—this was before the ice bucket thing, before people really knew or talked about it. The nerves die in your muscles and they atrophy from the outside in until you can’t even breathe without support, just lie there on a respirator, can’t swallow, can’t chew, still alive only ’cos medicine keeps you alive, and I was there, of course. I was there and Mum was there but she couldn’t take it and I couldn’t take it so we’d go in shifts, I’d do a few days, she’d do a few days, to give the other one a break, and so it was me, with Dad, in the hospital room as he died. Took nearly two years from the first time he lost his balance to the moment we pulled the ventilator and …
“… and Death sat with me. Only for a little while, only at the end. The night my Dad died, it was just him and me in the hospital. We’d turned off the ventilator, but he still didn’t die, just lay there, gasping, for hours. Mum went to the toilet and just stayed there, half an hour, forty minutes, she didn’t want me to see her cry. I didn’t cry—I hadn’t cried for a long time, by then. And the door opened, and it wasn’t Mum, it was Death. I knew it was Death, as you always know, even though he looked like a doctor, white coat, the whole business, but I knew. You always recognise Death, when he comes, and you always see him in your own way.
“Anyway, I’m there, and I’m fifteen years old, and Death comes and pulls up a chair and sits by me, and doesn’t say a word. We just sit there, watching, waiting, and after a little while Dad opened his eyes, and I think he saw Death, and he … he smiled. And Death smiled back, and held my Dad’s hand, and Dad died. He died, and Death stayed a little while longer, just him and me, waiting for the nurse to come. It was … On ships the engine stops and suddenly you hear it; in a hospital the machines stop, and suddenly you hear them and it is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard, and Death sat with me and we were quiet, just the two of us, so quiet.
“Then the doctors came, and Death went about his business, I suppose.
“Sorry. That’s … you’ve only just met me and … but it’s good to tell it, I think. Sometimes I forget, sometimes in this job you see things and … Anyway. That’s what I do. You have a lovely house.”
“Thank you. It’s small, but we like it. We want to try and find something bigger in the future, you know, maybe if kids …”
“Of course.”
“… but it’s hard, housing being what it is, and we don’t want to rush into something …”
“Get comfortable, get uprooted …”
“Exactly. We did the bathroom ourselves. My wife, well, she trained as an opera singer but worked as a plumber to pay the fees, so she really knows what she’s doing. I just stand there and hold a hammer and hope I look useful …”
“And the tiling …?”
“We did that too, all the spacers, actually really came to enjoy it, and it wasn’t hard, just getting the tools; you need to have the right tools for the job otherwise it’s a nightmare, the wrong kind of cutter …”
Words, rolling on.
Sometimes the Harbinger of Death hears these words, words of house prices and commutes and the price of pasta and the new washing machine and the difficulty of finding a place to dry your wet clothes, and they make him indescribably sad.
Tonight, for some reason, as he listens to a story of a life still being built, and speaks of the ending of all things, he is not afraid, and this world, which seemed to be only ashes, begins again to give him an extraordinary joy.
Chapter 59
And as the world turns into night, the Harbinger of Famine walks through the refugee camp, a blue helmet on her head, and sneezes, and a child runs up to offer her a tissue, one of five in its possession, and the Harbinger of Famine smiles and says no, you keep it, you never know when you might need it later …
And as the world turns into night, War himself (for almost no one in this world has ever seen War as a woman, not since the days of fallen Troy) careens around the outskirts of Washington, DC, slams his fist into the horn of his reinforced Mercedes and screams, “F
ucking Beltway, if I want to fucking turn left then don’t put the fucking sign five yards before the turning. I will rain fire down upon you, I will burn the seas beneath your ships, I will …”
And so on and so forth; nothing unusual—not for these streets.
And as the world turns into night, the Harbinger of Pestilence hangs his suit and tie on the hook behind the bedroom door, and changes into trainers and a sweatshirt, and checks the time, and puts his wallet in his left pocket and his keys in his right, and steps out into the cool Berlin dark.
Not on business tonight. He rides the S-Bahn to Halensee, pauses outside the station to buy himself a hot cup of tea, and follows the tinkling of bells towards Kurfürstendamm. A crowd has already gathered, flags flying in the breeze, bright costumes mixing with sedate after-work loafers and suits. A few came here on foot; others by train, but they are briefly outnumbered by the cyclists with green flags who speed towards Brandenburger Tor, wicker baskets on front, babies in tiny helmets staring from the back.
The Harbinger of Pestilence joins the crowd, unobtrusive at the rear. Tonight he is not here for work; tonight is a night that is all his own. The numbers grow, people bumping and smiling, many taking photos, of themselves, of each other, standing on tiptoe to film over the heads of the assembled people. A man, a headdress of bright red feathers wobbling high above his skull, sparkling huge-heeled boots on his feet, bends down to kiss the Harbinger gently on the cheek, not for any particular reason, merely because he was there, and smiled, and seemed alone. Two women holding hands,
one with a crucifix around her neck, ask if he will take a picture of them, defiantly holding each other close. A pair of fathers with their son hoist him onto their shoulders, so he might see over the crowd, and at last, with a whistle and the blaring of pop from someone’s loudspeaker, the rainbow flags are unfurled, and the marchers begin their long walk, to the applauding of the crowd.
Words flutter on the pennants, as they move through the shopping streets of Berlin.
Peace.
Love.
Justice.
Friendship.
The Harbinger of Pestilence is given a glow-stick, decorated in silver tassels, which he waves side to side in time to half-heard music, not sure what else to do with it, and walks on, singing a song of freedom.
And as the world turns into night, Death listens to the last words of an old man dying alone, far from home.
“… women …” he whispers. “Made one a president! President of my country a woman, they should stay at home, they should stay at home, know their place, never have happened in my … in my day …”
The last of his breath leaves his body, and Death closes his eyes. Because here too is something worth saying goodbye to, in its own, quiet way.
Chapter 60
“The future …”
“… the past …”
“… my opinion is …”
“… what’s wrong with the world …”
“… the righteous path …”
“… our children …”
“… our parents …”
“… our hopes …”
“… our suffering …”
rat rat rat human rat
Charlie starts awake in the night, screaming.
Emmi holds him tight, and after a while they both lie there pretending to be asleep, so that the other doesn’t have to worry about them.
“How’d you keep your trousers up, Gav?”
“Don’t know what you mean, miss.”
“You know exactly what I mean. They’re practically around your knees.”
“You got a problem, miss?”
“I’m just wondering how they don’t fall down.”
“You want to know a secret, miss?”
“Probably not.”
“I got my nan to sew my trousers to my underpants.”
“I see.”
“It stops them falling down.”
“Right.”
“You won’t tell, will you, miss?”
“I don’t think anyone would believe me.”
In a windy, rain-washed land …
… in a land of sun and snow …
… in a land of green, of slow river and prickling hedgerow …
They ate scones with clotted cream by the sea, and at last Charlie said, “Thank you,” and Emmi said,
“For what?”
He gave a half-shrug. “For … everything. For you. For every-
thing.”
She smiled, and squeezed his hand tight, and again, for the thousandth time, wondered whether this relationship was giving her more than it was taking—more joy, more time, more laughter, more delight, more strength, more confidence in herself—and realised, to her surprise, that it was.
Chapter 61
An email arrives on Patrick Fuller’s phone.
He opens it immediately. Usually his secretary filters such things, but not these, not any more. They’re too important, and besides, the content was making her uneasy, though she’d never say so.
… cordially invite …
… politely request …
… to bear witness to …
… the end of a world …
For the first time, Patrick hit reply. He’d never done so before, even though the emails had been coming thick and fast, faster even, over the last few years—but until now there had never seemed a need. What had changed? Perhaps he had merely reached his critical mass.
Why me?
An answer came back within a few minutes.
Because you are one of the men of this time.
Whatever the hell that meant.
He flicked through the email chain, noting things that interested him, things that bored him, and finally closed the program and phoned his secretary.
“All right,” he said, as she answered, tired and bewildered at this late hour of the night. “Let’s go see another.”
Part 6
LAUGHTER
Chapter 62
“Of course he is a dictator, but look at the results! Clean streets, good schools, a soaring economy. Yes, journalists vanish and none of us say what we actually think, but do we need to? He’s given us a new hope, a new vision for the future, and the moment he dies, there will be ethnic genocide again, just you wait and see …”
“An economist, a physicist and a mathematician are asked what two plus two equals …”
“The UN special reporter, in saying all of this, I do not think he has the right information. I do not think he has been told the correct things, he has gone to the sites but only heard the stories of the victims. He cannot be trusted, I think; the UN is not a reliable witness to these events.”
“The world is jealous of us, jealous of Russia, they want us to fail and that is why they accuse the President of all these things …”
“… so the mathematician says two plus two equals four …”
“It is not the role of the Church to offer mercy to those who wilfully sin, but rather to save the sinners from the sin itself.”
“We have been occupied, we have been invaded, we have been LISTEN TO ME we have been invaded and everyone pretends that it isn’t war!”
“More tea, Vicar?”
“… and the physicist says, well, given a certain variation in measurement and the speed at which you perceive the equation, I would also suggest that two plus two equals four …”
“… the decree provides inter alia: ‘Any person who publishes in any form, whether written or otherwise, any message, rumour, report or statement being … calculated to bring the federal military government or the government of the state or public officer to ridicule or disrepute shall be guilty of an offence under this decree.’ Section 1 of Decree No. 4, 1984, passed by then military dictator Muhammadu Buhari of Nigeria.”
“If you want to defeat the extremists then you’ve got to let Russia keep the Crimea, and I know that’s hard for Ukraine but this is so much bigger now …”
“An
d the economist leans in, checks no one is watching and whispers: ‘How much do you want it to be?’”
“They’re not a bit like us, not at all really—but they do like Mr. Bean.”
Chapter 63
Charlie nearly missed the flight to Lagos because of the visa. Usually Milton Keynes handled such things, but no, this time he had to go in person to the Nigerian Embassy in London, where he queued for forty minutes before finally being told the relevant official had gone home and he’d have to try again tomorrow.
He tried again tomorrow, and after waiting for an hour was led into a room where he filled out all the paperwork and signed the forms, while a smiling, patient woman talked him through customs regulations and asked if he was harbouring any infectious diseases, and the next day he got an email from the embassy saying that, given the nature of his visit, he’d filled out the wrong visa declaration after all and could he come back in again.
“Eh, relax!” said a woman swathed in green who sat next to him in the reception area, waiting for her interview. “It’s like a little bit of the home country, right here in London!”
In the end, he received the visa eight hours before his flight was due to depart, and having assumed it would take even longer than that, didn’t bother to go home, having all his luggage ready with him.
Emmi said, “Have you been to Nigeria before?”
“Not Nigeria,” he replied. “But I’ve been to other places in Africa.”
“Where?”
A list; struggling to remember, so many flights, airports, customs, security, luggage, travellators, escalators, terminal bus services, coffee, chairs, gates, arrivals, departures, arrivals, departures, so many …
Here. A few memories, surfacing like the tip of the jumbo jet from thick grey cloud.
Democratic Republic of the Congo. A whirlwind tour to half a dozen villages with no name, depositing talismans of ancient gods, maps of the local area, a vase that made one old man weep to behold it. The destruction of the villages by who knew what faction fighting for God knew what cause were not noted in the international media; even the local press was too tired to make very much of it.