The End of the Day

by Claire North

  “You love to tell people that they’re gonna die.”

  “I love life,” he whimpered, the tears coming again, he’d given up worrying about why or trying to stop them. “I see life, the whole world, so alive, so alive, please let me go please please I want to live please just—”

  “What is Death?!” roared Bubbles, and Charlie cowered, curling away from his words. “You tell me! You tell me what Death is, you tell me!” Shaking him now, rattling his head on the thin stick of his neck. “Tell me!”

  “Please!” wailed Charlie. “Please please let me go you’ll bring him here you’ll bring him he’ll come just like he did before he’ll come for you please please live I want to live you want to live I love life if you see life truly then you see death see life see death see life death life death please let me go please …”

  Bubbles dropped him back down, watched him lie, grateful, on the ground, then spat on him, and walked away.

  A businessman in a suit.

  He pulled out a yellow notepad and a pen, which he licked the end of before hovering it above the paper, ready to strike.

  “Mr. Harbinger,” he began. “What is your date of birth?”

  Charlie told him.

  “And your home address?”

  Again he answered.

  “Your parents … father is deceased?”

  Yes, he was.

  “No siblings?”

  No.

  “And your sexual orientation? Are you hetero, homo, bi …?”

  Charlie didn’t answer.

  “It’s just for the files.”

  “I’ve had girlfriends.”

  “Do you have one now?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Mr. Harbinger …”

  “My name is Charlie.”

  “Yes, of course. Mr. Harbinger … the sooner we’re done here, the sooner I can go home. It’s my daughter’s birthday tonight, I really don’t want to be late.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “There. That wasn’t so hard. Now: why did Death choose you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Her birthday, really very important …”

  “There was a job interview.”

  “Describe it for me.”

  He did.

  “There were other applicants?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Death chose you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you think he chose you, and not someone else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Harbinger—I can see that you’re tired, but I need you to focus. Would you say that Death has a nationalist bias?”

  “No.”

  “And yet the death rates in certain countries …?”

  “Hospitals. Doctors. Car safety. Gun laws. Wealth. Life expectancy …”

  “You are saying that death is merely a facet of human civilisation?”

  “Yes.”

  “A thing that we generate ourselves, by living?”

  “Yes.”

  “If that’s the case, then let me ask you this: why aren’t all societies better? Why isn’t humanity better? If Death is, as you say, merely an adjunct to human processes, then it stands to reason that humanity can command Death, can control him, and by their actions shape the meaning of mortality. If this is so, then why doesn’t Death obey our command? Why isn’t Death, if you pardon me saying so … merely a footnote to the act of living?”

  human human rat rat human rat human rat

  “Because … people aren’t perfect.”

  “And because of chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And because sometimes fathers kill their children, and the children of other men, and wives shoot their husbands, and planes fall from the sky and people throw themselves off bridges, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I … I don’t …”

  “Why do they do these things?”

  “I … because that’s life, because that’s … that’s …”

  “Why is there Death?”

  “You … you know this, you all know this you all know the answer to this there is … why would you … there is nothing that I can …”

  “Why is there Death?”

  “Why is there life? Why is there birth why is there …”

  “Focus, please, Mr. Harbinger. Just this question: why is there Death? Why must people die?”

  “Because they age and they …”

  “Why must they age? Where is it written that this is inevitable? Why is there Death? Is not Death the enemy of humanity, the enemy of life? Are you not serving the enemy of—”

  This time, Charlie had enough energy to throw himself across the desk, and did a reasonably good job of nearly strangling the man before the men who were always waiting managed to pull him off him, and kick him to the floor.

  Chapter 102

  Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

  Charlie?

  tick tick tick tick tick

  Charlie?

  Are you there?

  I’m here.

  What are you doing?

  Waiting.

  For who?

  For my boss. He’s coming, he’s coming. I need him to come now.

  Tick tick tick tick tick tick

  A shower, tepid.

  Fresh clothes.

  The doctor examined him.

  Put him on a drip.

  Let him sleep in a bed.

  He thought, maybe they’ll let me go.

  A day later, they took him back to the room, the chair, the light.

  And they started all over again.

  What is Death?

  What is Death?

  Why is Death?

  Why do good people die?

  Why do bad people live?

  What is on the other side?

  Can Death be bargained with?

  Can Death be banished?

  Why does life have to end in Death?

  Is Death a patriot?

  Can we summon Death?

  Can we control him?

  What are you?

  Why are you?

  Why is Death?

  Why are we dying?

  Why are we not better?

  Why are people flawed?

  Why is life finite?

  Why do people kill themselves?

  Why does joy vanish?

  Why do we bring children into this world?

  Why is there life?

  What is Death?

  Bubbles sat on the edge of the desk and said, “Between you and me, now that the tape has stopped, I think this is a fucking waste of my fucking time. What the fuck is the point of it? Some guy in some office wants me to ask these questions and I’m like, sure, I’ll ask the fucking questions but it don’t mean nothing. I know what Death is, just like you do. I seen him, back in Kabul, I seen him when my old man passed away. I seen Death and Death seen me and that’s all there is to it. Death is, just like the sun is, the sky is, Death is what you get at the end and that’s all the fucking point of it, but shit. Here we are, you and me, and until you come up with something better, Harbinger of fucking Death, we’re gonna go this merry-go-round again.”

  At that point, Charlie thought maybe he’d misjudged Bubbles, and that actually he was a nice guy after all.

  Once, he woke and a woman was holding him tight. He thought perhaps he was hallucinating, as she pressed herself close to him and stroked his hair and kissed the side of his neck and said it’s okay, it’s okay, you’ll be okay, and gently pushed his head away so he couldn’t look at her, and still held him tight.

  He believed her for a little while, and thought this was a fantastic dream, until she whispered,

  “Is Death God?”

  Then he closed his eyes, and closed his lips, and didn’t say a word.

&n
bsp; Then he was lying on the floor, and one of his teeth had fallen out, and Bubbles said, “What is Death?” and he screamed, he screamed, blood flying from his mouth in Bubbles’ face,

  “He is you! He is you, he is me, he is all of us, Death is in all of us in every man who killed in every child who was ever born he is us he is humanity he is in every second of every clock he is in every atom of the universe he is you!! You are Death, you are Death and so am I, you kill and I kill and the world changes and we all die, we all die and we run from it, you hit me because you’re so fucking scared so hit me! Hit me! Fucking hit me because you don’t understand because you won’t understand so hit me! Hit me if it’ll make you not afraid hit me! Hit me because you’ve known your whole fucking life what Death is and never had the courage to see!”

  He fell back, no breath left, and for a while Bubbles stood silent, chewing, eyes flickering to an unseen observer. Then, at a signal Charlie couldn’t see, he bent down and lifted the Harbinger up, put him on his seat like a loose-limbed toddler, said, “Gum?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Some folks are gonna be in to talk to you in a bit.”

  Bubbles headed for the door.

  Charlie half turned in the chair, trying to watch the shape of him against the light. “Do you see him yet?” he whispered, as the blood rolled down his chin. “Do you see him? Can you hear him coming? Do you see?”

  Bubbles stared back at Charlie, and for a moment, he seemed to flinch.

  Two men and a woman came through the door. One had an East Asian accent; the other sounded French.

  They pushed papers across the table.

  “If you sign here … Have you got a wet wipe, he’s getting blood on the … Thank you. So sign here and also here and … Yes, well, don’t worry about that, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Now: do you need to use the restroom? No? Are you sure? Can we get some more wet wipes, he’s a bit … Thank you. No allergies to plasters? Or latex? Good. Well, thank you very much, that’s about it, so … good luck.”

  So saying, they left.

  A man in a white shirt, flecked with Charlie’s blood, turned off the floodlight that had been in his eyes, turned on the overhead fluorescent. Charlie cowered from the change, saw that the room was small, so much smaller than he’d realised, with a fire exit sign above the door. The man smiled uneasily, held out a lumpy white object in a plastic bag. For a moment Charlie didn’t understand, and then he saw.

  “Your tooth,” the man explained, with an uneasy smile. “I think if you keep it in milk, or something, it’ll last better.”

  Then the bag was pulled over Charlie’s head, for what felt like the very last time.

  Chapter 103

  “This world, I look around and I see so much love …”

  “We’re sceptics, but that doesn’t mean we need to mock people’s deeply held beliefs.”

  “I am not in a position to pronounce on an individual’s sexuality.”

  “We are all the people of this world, all of us, together.”

  “We will make a new Jerusalem.”

  “Marriage is not the only choice. When I choose to express my love, I express it for myself, for us, for each other …”

  “Exploration teaches us as much about ourselves as it does the universe …”

  “The time has come for change.”

  “There is a value in beauty; beauty expresses something human.”

  “It’s a new beginning.”

  “Look how far we’ve come.”

  Chapter 104

  Charlie

  opened his eyes.

  Lying on the side of the road.

  That was fine.

  He’d come to enjoy lying on things, in his way.

  Insects chittered nearby.

  He smelt leaf mould.

  Saw darkness.

  Felt tarmac.

  Leaves whispered, titillated by a cool night breeze.

  He thought about rolling over.

  Didn’t.

  A car swooshed by, somewhere nearby, a junction, perhaps, slowing for a corner, then heading off in the opposite direction.

  Charlie

  waited.

  Another car. Headlights blinding, slowing to a halt, stopping, the engine still running, a door opening, thunk, footsteps, a woman’s voice, joined by another, Jesus, is he dead? Are you dead, mister, is he …?

  He’s not dead, thank Christ, Jesus, call an ambulance, dial 911, Jesus, okay, let me look at him, don’t move him, his neck might be broken, mister, mister, can you …?

  Charlie closed his eyes, smiling at the dark.

  A hospital room.

  When he could speak, he gave them the number for Milton Keynes, having to mumble it dumbly through broken lips.

  They gave him water, small sips, small sips now.

  When he could speak again, he asked for a phone, and one of the two girls, both students, who’d picked him up said he could use hers, and he said it was international, it’d be pricey, and she shook her head firmly and said, “If there’s someone waiting at home who loves you, you need to let them know that you’re all right.”

  He called Emmi.

  The phone rang, and rang, and rang, and she didn’t answer.

  He tried again.

  No answer.

  Shaking, he gave the phone back to his rescuer.

  “You can try again later,” she promised. “You can try again.”

  He nodded, and closed his eyes to sleep, and thought of another number, and asked if he could try that instead.

  Patrick arrived at nine the next morning. The two women who’d picked Charlie up refused to leave until he came. “Mister, you’re in trouble, we don’t just leave people who are in trouble, that’s not the way of things round here.”

  Patrick brought flowers.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, walking into the room. “You get hit by a train?”

  “Kidnapped,” Charlie replied. “Got kidnapped.”

  “You know who by?”

  “No.”

  “What’d the doctors say?”

  “I’ll be all right. They didn’t want to kill me.”

  “They look like they wanted to kill you. Jesus,” Patrick murmured, settling uneasy into the chair by the bed. “I thought I told you to take it easy?”

  “You also said I should call.”

  “Yeah—I’m glad you did. Look, apart from being … you know …” a long gesture, taking in Charlie’s bandaged body, “are you okay? Is this room, are you …?” A shrug.

  “Milton Keynes sorted it.”

  “Glad Milton Keynes is good for something. How long are you going to be in here?”

  “They think they’ll let me go today.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The doctors say that everything was meant to hurt, not cripple.”

  “You were …” Patrick drew in his lips slowly, looking for the word, then briskly, finding no alternative, “tortured? Was that it? Because of your job?”

  “I was wondering if I could get a lift.”

  Patrick gave him a lift.

  To his surprise, Patrick drove a hired estate car, no chauffeur, the windows down, instead of the air conditioning on. Charlie turned the radio on, tuned it to something classical, no words, let his head flop against the back of the seat, face turned towards the sun as it danced through the trees.

  “What did they want?” Patrick asked at last, as they headed towards Madison Avenue Bridge.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “They didn’t ask you anything? They did this shit to you and they didn’t …?”

  “They wanted to know what Death is.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s an insane thing to ask.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Sounds insane.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You’re the expert.”

  They drove.

  Music. Barber’s Adagio for Strings; w
hen a good man dies, said the conductor, every nation has a song they can sing to honour his passing. Here, we have this. Listen.

  Charlie listened. Maybe Patrick did too; he wasn’t sure.

  The wind through the window, the smell of the motorway, traffic thick, the trucks roaring by, the sun high overhead.

  At last he said, “What is Death?”

  Patrick mumbled, don’t dwell on it, don’t think about it, not important now …

  But Charlie cut him off, repeated: “What is Death? It’s the oldest question; maybe the very first question ever asked. The dead can’t tell us, the dying don’t have the language to explain. The only guaranteed part of our lives is the one thing we cannot express, control or command. It comes and we are … so afraid. Too afraid to look. Too afraid to understand. We think we know, we think we prepare, but we don’t. Like a man tied to the train tracks, we see death coming, all our lives we see it coming, and we cannot name that light, but know exactly what it is. To see life, to honour life, you must know that one day it will end, that it has ended, that it will begin again, that all things change, that change is death. These words, too big, too big to understand, too big, too frightening, and so we ask … it’s one of the most human questions anyone has ever asked. It’s a question everyone can answer, and no one ever will.”

  Patrick contemplated this for a while, steady in the centre lane. Then: “Still sounds insane to me. Not worth beating the shit out of you, I’ll say that for sure.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “I wanted to. I think … I think that maybe I was meant to.”

  “Meant?”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “They asked that too.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t …”

  “No, I don’t believe in God.”

  “But the world … no … a world is ending, and I was called to witness, yes? I was called to witness because I am part of the ending. My actions … I am the change. I am the future, and it is fitting, I think, that I should see the past too, yes? Is that … what you think?”

  Charlie closed his eyes, pressed his head against the glass. “I suppose.”

  “The men … the ones who took you. You really don’t know who they were?”

  Charlie didn’t answer.

  “I think that’s the world too,” breathed Patrick, nodding at nothing much. “Maybe that’s why I’m here, as well, to see this. To be here for … you. I think that in my world, the powerful will always get away with it.”