How To Be Dead

by Dave Turner

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Big List of Awesome

  How To Be Dead

  Dave Turner

  Aim For The Head Books

  Copyright © 2013 by Dave Turner

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  Cover design by Paul Turner

  Aim For The Head Books

  149 Long Meadow

  Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, HP21 7EB

  www.aimforthehead.co.uk

  Twitter: @mrdaveturner

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/mrdaveturner

  For Zoë

  For everything

  CHAPTER ONE

  Death watched the city sleep.

  He gazed down at humanity's glow from the top floor of the office block. A sleek and thrusting tower made from glass, chrome and undisguised wealth.

  He was waiting. He was good at that.

  He checked his pocket watch. A gift from three old friends. Crafted for him by Patek Philippe & Company in 1933 with a movement as complicated and precise as the dance of the stars that he had counted for millennia.

  Sometimes, as he gazed up at the night sky, he wondered if the universe was some kind of in-joke that had got out of hand and was working up to an awkward punchline. He had explained his theory when he and Einstein had briefly met. Nice guy. Good hair. That was back in 1955 and Death had not seen anything since to change his mind.

  He did not know how long he had existed. He thought he remembered the dinosaurs. An asteroid killed them, hadn't it? Was he there? Or had he merely read it in a book? All he was sure of? It's the sort of thing that happens when you live in a world without Bruce Willis.

  Then humanity arrived. They loved. They fought. They died.

  He had seen the worst that they could do, but he had also witnessed them at their finest and he loved them for it. Their compassion. Their bravery. Their wisdom. The Billy Joel album 'An Innocent Man'. Cake.

  Especially the cake.

  He took his mobile phone from the folds of his cloak and dialled the only number in his contacts.

  'Did I wake you, Anne?' The groan at the other end of the phone answered his question. 'Who would win in a fight between Bruce Willis and Billy Joel? I mean, Billy Joel used to be a professional boxer. I think he'd be a bit tasty.'

  'No, I don't know who would win, but the fact that we're even discussing this at half past two in the morning means I'm pretty sure I know who the losers are here. What do you want?'

  'Today is the day. Are we sure he is the one?'

  'You should know that Death isn't allowed to doubt.'

  'Are we sure?'

  'Yes.' Anne sighed.

  'There are portentous skies. I haven't seen them like this since Beezelbub was defeated.'

  'I'm sorry. Who?' Anne stifled a giggle.

  'Satan. Lucifer. Beezelbub.'

  'You mean Beelzebub?'

  'Yes. Beezelbub.'

  'Repeat after me,' she said. 'Bee.'

  'Bee.'

  'Ell.'

  'Ell.'

  'Zee.'

  'Zee.'

  'Bub.'

  'Bub.'

  'Beelzebub.'

  'That's what I said. Beez-el-bub.'

  'You're an idiot,' she said. 'Shouldn't you be working?'

  'I will be. Stockbroker. Heart attack. Another one who'll tell me how much he regretted spending so much time here. They never bloody learn.'

  'How are you going to play it?'

  Death drummed his fingers against the window, considered his options. 'Old school, I think.'

  He heard a thump from the office next door. 'I have to go. You should get some sleep.'

  'Do you think?'

  'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.'

  'Oh, is it now?' asked Anne, sarcastically.

  'Touché.'

  Death switched the phone off and looked again at the infinite blackness. This was all created from stardust, born in the furnace of a long dead sun. Humanity. Earth. The city below. The stapler on the mahogany desk. One day, the sun would expand beyond the realms of the inner planets and consume it all in its burning belly. Which was a shame. It really was a very nice mahogany desk.

  He glided through the wall into the equally splendid office next door. A well dressed, yet confused, middle-aged man looked down at his own limp body.

  The dark figure stood in front of him and whispered three little words.

  'I. Am. Death.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Some days you are Godzilla. Other days you are Tokyo.

  Beneath the office lighting scientifically engineered to both increase productivity and crush the spirit, Dave Marwood stared out of the window. At twenty-five, he had learned that there were three key stages to employment:

  A) 'Oh. This is new!'

  B) 'I don't know what I'm doing.'

  C) 'Could someone please stab me with this pen?'

  Dave was toying listlessly with a chewed biro when he noticed Fiona marching over to his desk like some corporate Stormtrooper. A rictus grin carved into her face, she brandished her Blackberry like a weapon.

  'No fancy dress, Dave? Did you not get my email?'

  Dave looked over at a nervous zombie using the photocopier for personal business, then down to the calendar on his desk. 31st October. Halloween.

  'I think I've made my feelings on enforced wackiness in the workplace clear,' he said.

  'Remember, last week, I asked you to compile the weekly ACR figures into a report?' Dave had perfected the art of the non-committal shrug. 'You appear to have provided me with this.' Fiona held up a drawing of a pony. Dave winced. It wasn't his best work.

  'Is that not what you wanted?' he asked. Fiona's smile intensified. Dave was sure the temperature in the room rose with the corners of her mouth.

  'I've noticed that your KPIs are in the horizontal rather than the vertical. I think we both know what that means.'

  Confident that her point was made, Fiona sat on the desk and knocked over the action figures that Dave had spent most of the morning arranging. Something shifted inside of him, rising up from the pit of his stomach and spilling out of his mouth.

  'Have you ever wondered if there might be more to life than this?' he asked.

  'I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean?'

  'My life feels like a Bruce Springsteen song.'

  'Well, who doesn't like the Boss?' Fiona smiled.

  Dave turned from his keyboard and looked Fiona squarely in the eye. 'It's not that I don't like my job. It's more that I have absolutely no opinion about it.'

  Fiona considered this. One of her flock had questioned the faith. A corporate heretic. She licked her lips and leaned forward.

  'Can I pass onto you what I have learned over the years?'

  'Please.' Dave sighed.

  'Take all this doubt, fear and anger, screw it up into a tight ball of rage and bury it deep down.'

  'But...'

  'Deep, deep down.'

  'I never thought I'd say this, but I think I
'd like to get back to work,' said Dave. Fiona visibly relaxed. Her smile stretched even further. Dave thought he could hear tearing.

  'My door is always open,' Fiona said, beaming. 'Except for when it is closed. But when it's closed, I'm usually shouting at someone so you wouldn't want to come in anyway.'

  'Thank you. That's very... reassuring.'

  Fiona's Blackberry beeped. The call to prayer. Targets and milestones. Paradigms and synergies. Forever and ever. Amen.

  'Good talk,' she said, and marched off towards one of the meeting rooms.

  Dave spent some more time arranging his action figures so that they were returned to rows of military precision. He then took a moment to try to figure out exactly how many fucks he did not give, but the calculator's display ran out of digits, so he just watched his fellow drones. They danced around the open plan office to the rhythm of tapping keyboards and ringing telephones. The administrative ballet was soon halted by a stack of paper dropping onto his desk.

  'These need to be done by the end of the week,' said James. Or was his name John? Did it really matter? Dave needed a break. He picked up a spreadsheet printout from the top of the pile and walked away.

  Melanie Watkins stood by the vending machine as it spat out its acrid brew. She was no moon. She was a space station. Even dressed in a cheap witch's costume, the very air around her seemed to glow. Dave had never been in love before but, if love felt like a fat man - on a space hopper made of pure misery - bouncing on your heart until all that was left was soul-crushing pain, he was pretty sure that this was the real thing.

  'Nice hat,' Dave said as casually as his crippling self-doubt would allow. His heart was beating like John Bonham and Keith Moon locked in a devastating heavenly drum war.

  'Thanks.' A tight smile. No teeth.

  'How's the coffee today?'

  Melanie took a sip and grimaced. 'It's like there's a party in my mouth and everyone is drinking creosote. Can I get you one?'

  'Sounds awesome. Please.'

  'What are you having?' she asked.

  'I like my vending machine coffee like my women. Cold and of mysterious origin.' Dave considered the series of poor life decisions that had led up to him uttering that terrible line.

  Melanie pressed a button and the machine spluttered and whirred into life.

  Dave tried again. 'How's your day going?'

  'There's rumours of cake in the office, so it's all gone very Lord of the Flies. The IT department have barricaded themselves in the kitchen and the accounts and marketing teams have formed an alliance and have laid siege.' She pointed to the piece of paper in Dave's hand. 'Anything important?'

  'I have no idea,' said Dave, 'but if I carry it, I can walk around the office for hours without anybody questioning what I'm up to.'

  'Impressive.' Dave relished the compliment. 'Are you going to the Halloween party tonight?' she asked.

  'UberSystems International-endorsed employee-focused entertainment set between pre-defined boundaries?' Dave quoted from the employee handbook. 'Don't you think it's a bit lame?'

  'No,' said Melanie, 'but, then, I did organise it.'

  Dave could feel his face redden, hot needles of embarrassment pricking his cheeks. He hoped, briefly, that the ground would open up and swallow him, but then he remembered that he would just wind up landing in the Human Resources office on the floor below. That would probably make things more awkward than they already were.

  'Thanks for the drink,' he said with a smile as weak as the coffee. He spun on his heels and headed back to his desk, forgetting to take the cup from the machine.

  That afternoon, Dave watched an axe-wielding maniac attempt to unjam a printer. He had been temping at UberSystems International for two years now. In his opinion, there were three types of people who did this kind of work: those that were trying to find a job, those that had just lost a previous job and those that couldn't think of anything better to do. Dave was concerned that he had become the latter. Some mornings he laid trapped in his bed, crushed under the weight of his own apathy. He was stuck on amber. What if he just stood up, walked out and never came back? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? Would Melanie?

  He played their last conversation over again in his mind. An infinite loop of humiliation. Squeezing his eyes closed did nothing to shut out the image and when he opened them again, he saw Melanie striding purposefully across the office. Another drone tried to engage her in conversation and she deflected him by holding a spreadsheet up in his face. Dave allowed himself a smile. Of course he would come in tomorrow. What else was he going to do?

  At precisely five thirty, Dave stepped from the glare of the office into the soft phosphorous glow of the streets. He sidestepped a family staring at a mobile phone as they slowly spun around trying to align themselves with Google Maps.

  'Bloody tourists,' Dave muttered under his breath.

  Some people are born in London, some move to London and some have London thrust upon them. The city had lost its charm for Dave. Like the seaside pebbles he had collected as a child, what once sparkled with pretty promise had quickly faded to dull stone. The cynicism hung in the air like the commuters' breath. It stuck to them like the grime pumped from the idle engines of the gridlocked cars. The unknown soldiers in the city's war of attrition against the soul.

  He followed the path of least resistance and was swallowed by the anonymity of the crowd flowing into the underground station; a waterfall that splashed down the escalator and pooled on the platform. He jumped on the first train and, as it pulled away, he put his wrap-around headphones over his ears. Normally the warm cocoon of sound would be his one chance to unwind, but not this evening. Something was distracting him in the corner of his eye; almost imperceptible, like a smudge on a photograph.

  It was the young man stood across from him. At first, Dave put his spectacular moustache, fedora hat and tweed suit down to a hipster affectation, but he seemed out of place. More than that, he seemed out of time. They made eye contact. A schoolboy error. The man said something to Dave, but was muted by the music. Gripped by the traditional English fear of awkward social situations, he reluctantly removed his headphones.

  'I'm sorry?' said Dave.

  'You can see me?' repeated Fedora Man, who seemed genuinely relieved.

  'Of course.'

  'You're looking at me. Not through me. At me.'

  'You're not trying to sell me something, are you?'

  Dave felt the woman next to him take a step away. Looking around, he could sense that all the other people on the carriage were deliberately avoiding looking his way. He turned back to the man but he was no longer there. Dave knew that he hadn't been in the first place. He had been talking to the dust motes dancing in the air.

  This was not the first time that this had happened. As a child, he soon learned not to mention to others what he saw for fear of ridicule or worse. It started with his imaginary friend, Emily. His parents had been concerned with the amount of time he spent in his room playing on his own – playing with Emily – but she had disappeared from his life as he grew older and the matter was eventually dropped. Dave sometimes wondered where in his unconscious she had gone to play hide-and-seek.

  The visions had increased since he had moved to the city. Dave often saw and heard things in the dark shadows of the architecture. Things that nobody else noticed. Odd things. Odd even for London. He originally put it down to working too hard, but conceded to himself that that theory was probably unlikely. As with everything in life, Dave took a pragmatic approach to his hallucinations and decided that, as long as they weren't telling him he was the Messiah or that he should hurt himself or others, he would treat them as a mere inconvenience, like a delayed train or a poor mobile phone signal.

  Once he was back on the surface, Dave joined the hordes of vampires and zombies roaming the East End streets where he lived. Rows of Victorian houses that had somehow survived the blitz and slum clearance, but not the property developers. Their interiors ripp
ed out, shifted, squeezed and reshaped into barely affordable flats. After his conversation with the man who wasn't there, Dave wondered whether he should relax a little. As he reached his front door a plan began to formulate. A two birds, one stone interface as Fiona would probably have called it.

  He let himself into the flat and walked into a living room that would have tested the euphemisms of the most devious estate agent. His housemate Gary was sprawled on the sofa, staring blankly at the television. A grunt and a fart was his acknowledgement that Dave was home and welcomed.

  'Remember,' said the show's presenter. 'You can get in touch by phone. Or text. Or email. Or Twitter. Or Facebook.'

  'Television has turned into my mum,' Gary shouted. 'That's how they track you. It seems innocent enough, but that's how they know what you're thinking. Where you are. What you're up to. Where's the remote control? I swear there's a wormhole in time in this house through which all my stuff disappears. A prehistoric tribe probably worshipped three remote controls and nineteen odd socks as Gods.'

  Dave believed that Gary was a man who would start an argument with himself if left alone in a room for long enough. As far as Gary was concerned, the glass was not only half empty; it also contained a mind control drug placed there by the military-industrial complex. He had recently split up with his girlfriend by telling her: 'It's not you. It's them.'

  Dave rolled his eyes, took a deep breath and asked the question that would change everything. 'Do you want to go for a drink?'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Number Fourteen, Meadow Close was a deceptively large and well-appointed three bedroom semi-detached house situated in a sought after location. Close to well-regarded schools and within walking distance of the local amenities and railway station, the property benefited from a south facing rear garden, a newly refurbished kitchen and an unspeakable horror lurking within.