The Life of Death

by Lucy Booth

  ‘Sorry.’ A mutter. A shamed stutter.

  ‘What you don’t seem to have taken into account, though,’ He settles down on to the barrier beside me, legs stretched, ankles crossed, ‘is that I’m actually quite enjoying this little game of yours. D’you know, I like watching you squirm and struggle. Fight with that conscience of yours … And I had such great plans for your final task! Such great plans … But, if you’re not bothered, then …’

  ‘I am! Bothered. Please.’ Tom’s face, fresh in my mind’s eye. Tom’s voice breaking through the white-noise hum. I need him. I want him.

  ‘Go on, then. Go back to him. Get yourself back on track. And when I’m ready, I’ll find you. And we’ll see, shall we? We’ll see what future we have.’

  A coach thunders past, blowing grit into my eyes, my hair into my face. When the dust settles, leaving the carriageway bathed in a milky moonlit wash, He is gone.

  The possibility of a second chance. Do I deserve it? Should I take it?

  Of one thing I am sure – I have to see him. I have to see Tom.

  23

  THE LOUNGE LOOKS LIKE A BOMB’S HIT IT. IN THE corner a standard lamp rests its head awkwardly against the wall, shade cocked on its broken neck from being hurled to the ground. Hurled to the ground and then kicked when it was down. At my feet, a dark, wet stain where an overturned mug has spilt cold, milky tea to soak slowly into the pile. A bookshelf has been tipped, volumes lying open on the floor, their pages spread to flutter in the breeze. Faint strains of an opera swim through the early morning air and through the window, the first buds of spring blossom wait, poised, to bloom on naked limbs. Tom is nowhere to be seen.

  Through to the kitchen. Letters lie on the lino, swept from their heap by the phone. Plates, smashed to pieces, form a pathway that crunches under every step. A cupboard door hangs limply on one hinge to reveal a motley assortment of cups cowering on the shelf. Anything that can be thrown has been. A lone red warning light flashes on a washing machine stuffed with damp clothes left to slowly mould.

  And on into the small dark passageway that links the rooms of this tiny flat. The music gets louder as tenor weaves with soprano to billow softly from the bathroom door, mingling with the gentle pitter-patter and clouds of steam of a too-hot shower.

  He stands before me, under the shower at the far end of the deep, white tub. Stands with his back to me. Head bowed on strong shoulders as scalding water rains down on the nape of his neck, turning it the fleshy pink of a fresh slap. On the radio, Rodolfo clasps Mimi’s cold hand and in the bathroom Tom’s shoulders begin to shake. Kate had loved this opera.

  He’d taken her to see La Bohème at the Opera House years ago. In their early twenties, living the life of the grown-ups they thought they should be. Perched high up in the slips on those hard wooden benches, looking down at the audience below in their opera finery. When the lights dipped and the horns burst forth in the opening bars, she’d leaned forward as far as she could over that balustrade. As if those extra inches could somehow help her absorb the music better. And as she watched the stage, so he watched her. Couldn’t look away from wide eyes fixed on the love story unfolding below. He watched as the tuberculosis took hold far below prompting tears to chase themselves down hot cheeks like raindrops on glass. He can barely remember seeing the opera himself, so much did he focus on the girl sitting beside him.

  And here, in this bathroom, as the crescendo builds, the memories of that night, of that girl, are overwhelming. He slumps against the cold white tiles before his body slips and slides down the smooth wall to curl into a tight ball. Cocking my leg over the high side of the tub I climb in. I know that he has no idea I’m there, but I also know that he can sense me. In his office, in his bed. In his head. He can sense me. And I know that as long as he is life and I am Death I can offer no tangible solace, no physical body to cling to, but I can’t just stand back and watch. I won’t just stand back and watch.

  As I settle down, press my lips against wet hair, there’s a shift in his shoulders. A slight turn to allow him to rest his head against mine. To drop his chin to tuck his forehead into the crook of my neck. He hooks his fingers around my forearms to draw my embrace tighter round him, to swaddle him like a blanket. Hot drops rain down on naked skin and his shoulders shake with finally released sobs. Sobs that rip and tear at his throat. Sobs held back for weeks.

  We rock back and forth, we two. We cry together. For Kate, for Hywel, for Rose, for Rob. For what I have done and what I have become. For what I want, for what he can’t have. Gradually those anguished cries that have ripped from his lungs begin to subside, settle to a groan, a gentle moan. To whispered words over the raindrops of the shower. The same word repeated over and over. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

  I don’t know, Tom. I just don’t know.

  Together we rock gently, limbs entwined as I hush him, I shush him. Calm him as he clutches at me in his grief. Tom, my Tom.

  24

  WHEN I WALK INTO THAT LITTLE RECORDING studio, in that run-down little industrial estate off the Westway, there’s a spring in my step. The sun shines brightly against breeze blocks, the sharp angles of those squat buildings throwing the door I’m looking for into deep shadow. He’s waiting for me. Sitting in the corner, head bent over the neck of a guitar, fingers working the frets as He makes minute adjustments to tuning keys. The same sequence of chords, played over and again. A tweak. A twitch. A thrum. The same chords, over and again.

  I knock. A tiny tap on the doorframe to let Him know I’m there. He ignores me.

  I clear my throat. A soft cough. Open my mouth in greeting. His hand flies up to silence me, pick pinched between finger and thumb. ‘I’ve waited long enough for you, Little D …’ His voice weary, carrying a warning.

  The spring in my step softens, slowly deflates in His presence. So I stand. And I wait. Stand awkwardly and wait in silence in the doorway, eyes following the slither of black leads that snake their way across the floor from mic to amp to keys to amp to guitar.

  Finally, He speaks. ‘So you’ve pulled yourself together, have you?’ He settles the guitar into its stand. ‘Had a good, long think to yourself about all of this?’ Leans back on the bench to rest against the wall. Long, slim fingers pinch the bridge of His nose in louche, studied exasperation.

  ‘Let’s go over a couple of things shall we? Hey? I didn’t force you into this, remember? This pernicious little game of yours. You came to me. You came to me.’ He crosses His long legs at the knee. Bounces His foot gently. ‘And how do you repay me? The going gets tough and you disappear on me. You kill the “wrong person” and you go to ground. I told you, Little D, I was watching you. While you were avoiding me. Watching you supposedly getting on with your job, but ultimately, let’s be honest, failing. Failing those people while you flail around trying to carry on. People aren’t getting the deaths they deserve – won’t get the deaths they deserve – all because you’re moping around. Beating yourself up because you “failed”. Because you’ve had a taste of something you want and you don’t think you can have it any more.’

  ‘You were clear! You told me I had to kill those people. Those particular people. And I didn’t. I did fail. And do you know what? I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’d take that option every time. Ellie didn’t deserve to die. It wasn’t her time!’

  He snorts. ‘Didn’t deserve to die … Who exactly does deserve to die, Little D? Did Ian deserve that? When he’d been lured by you? Ellie dangled in front of him like bait? He wouldn’t have gone near her if it wasn’t for you!’

  ‘But he would’ve gone near someone! He had those thoughts – you put them there! It was a matter of time before he did something like that and I stopped him before he could.’ I’m resolute. I was right. And I disappeared to accept the consequences alone, in my own time. ‘What were you even thinking? Ellie’s a child! What kind of person even thinks of doing that?’

  He holds both hands to His forehead and smooths back a lock of hair that has f
allen over one eye. Mouth twists into mangled grin as He nods slowly. ‘I get it now. That’s it, isn’t it? This is my fault. You going missing. Hywel dying. Rose. Rob. Ellie. Ian. All of this is my fault, isn’t it?’

  He waits for an answer. I don’t have one.

  ‘The thing is though, Little D. It’s not my fault, is it? You ask me what I was thinking? What I was thinking? D’you know, I do wonder what I was thinking, even going along with this stupid little idea of yours in the first place. “I want my soul”, “I don’t think I can do this any more”, “A seven-year-old?”’ All of this said with a mocking whine, a merciless whinge. ‘Boo hoo, Little D. Poor Little D. Boo fucking hoo.’

  He gets to His feet, and strides across the room towards me. Brings His face close to mine. Coffee-laced breath warm on my cheek. He speaks through gritted teeth. ‘None of this is my fault, you little idiot. none of it. And what kind of person thinks of doing this? You tell me. Because let’s not forget, you came to me, Little D. You came to me. You might do well to remember that.’

  With each spat syllable I flinch, eyes lowered to avoid His stare. He grabs hold of my hair, pulling my face up until there is no choice but to raise my lids and look Him straight in the eye. The initial grasp softens as His fingers massage the base of my scalp, and His voice softens to the gentlest of purrs. ‘I have done nothing, nothing, but support you, offer you my years of experience to guide you through this whole ridiculous process. And you don’t even have the decency to thank me? You refuse to come near me for weeks?’ His thumb strokes my cheek, the palm of His hand cupping my face. And His voice hardens once more. ‘This isn’t a game, Little D, and I never asked to play it. And now, now that I’m actually beginning to rather enjoy it, you’re trying to take it away from me. No dice, Little D. You started this, and I have the mother of all plans for you to finish it. Now, do you want this “life” of yours or not?’

  We hold the pose. Hold the stare. Blue eyes so cold they burn.

  ‘I do. And I will. Finish it.’ A long breath, emptying my lungs, my head, my heart of everything that’s gone before, filling my mind’s eye with Tom, slumped and sobbing in a steaming stream. ‘I’m ready. If the offer is still open, I’m ready.’

  He releases His hold. Breaks the stare. Leaves me to slump, exhausted, to the floor.

  ‘I’ve lined this one up for you, Little D. I know who, I know where, I know when. Most importantly for you, I know how. And, d’you know, I’m rather pleased with myself. I think I’ve come up with rather a fun plan.’ He pours me a glass of Scotch. Clinks His glass against my own before we tip our heads back in unison. Even I, with my limited senses, can feel the burning liquid scorch the back of my throat. It’s vile. I bare my teeth with a hiss while He swirls His own mouthful beneath puffed cheeks to savour the peaty flavour.

  We’re sitting side by side on the floor of the studio, legs stretched in front of us, backs against the wall. A song plays over the speakers. A classic from the seventies, the obligatory ballad offering from a popular rock band who are gearing up for a final reunion concert. A classic ballad with a big chorus that will have the crowd roaring the lyrics in unison while the tiny figure of the lead singer conducts them from the stage. ‘Don’t walk away, Don’t turn to say, I love you …’

  On the other side of a huge window, a man sits behind a vast desk studded with buttons and knobs, with sliders and switches. Remastering the track for a new audience, for a younger crowd whose ears jar at the flawed, scratched perfection of the original recording.

  ‘He hates this song, you know,’ He says, cocking His ear towards the speaker.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Stephen. Stephen Saunders. Number five. Of course, he’s the one you should aim for. He’s the one you need to “get”, so to speak. To win this funny little game of yours. But there will be others. Almost certainly I’d say.’ He chuckles to himself. Toys with an ice cube with the tip of His tongue while He waits for me to speak.

  ‘Others? What are you talking about? We agreed five. One more. No more.’

  ‘We agreed you’d do things to my satisfaction, Little D. And let’s just say that recently I’ve been finding you sadly lacking. My game. My rules. And Stephen is the target, he’s definitely the target. There’s no avoiding that.’ He takes another swig. ‘But for you to achieve what you’ve set out for, there has to be more than one, Little D. At least one more. And you of all people can’t avoid that. You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?’

  My head falls back against the wall and I close my eyes. Of course. It makes perfect sense.

  ‘Me.’

  I feel the jog of my arms as He clinks my glass with His own once again. ‘Quite right, Little D. Quite right.’

  ‘All along. It’s always had to be me, hasn’t it? The others – Hywel, Rose, Rob, Ian even – they were just, what? For your own amusement?’

  ‘Now now. Not my amusement per se, little one. What do you take me for?’ He has the audacity to look hurt. ‘No. I told you at the beginning. Every action must have a reaction, and if you wanted to go back on our agreement then there would have to be consequences. You would have to earn that right. That’s what the others were for. They were payment, Little D, payment for the return of your own soul. But the actual process of regaining it, the actual manner in which you are able to live again? Yes. For you to live, your incarnation as Death must die.’ He smirks. Laughs that irritating little inward laugh of His. ‘I must admit, Little D, I thought you might have cottoned on a little sooner than this. I mean. Five deaths? What are they to anyone? How could they possibly be worth the return of your soul?’

  What are they to anyone? They’re everything. Everything.

  To Darren’s mother. Getting the bus out to that prison week in week out. She’d known her son was in with a bad lot. Known deep down that he hadn’t kicked the heroin. But murder? He was never a murderer. And yet she lives her life in the shadow of one night with Death in tow.

  To Hannah. And Dom. Turning to share a joke with the one person who can no longer laugh with them. Catching the flash of blonde in a scruffy ponytail ahead of them in the queue, on the train, in the shop window reflection. Hearing the howling miaow of the cat as he pads from room to room but never finds who he’s looking for.

  To Beth. Fighting the urge to vomit when she hears his voice. And she hears his voice wherever she goes. Fighting the urge to push the kids away when they crawl into bed after the nightmares take hold and they call for Daddy and Daddy isn’t there. She loves them with a fierceness she didn’t think possible, but their touch burns with an indelible reminder of his absence.

  To Rebecca. Sitting late into the night on a single bed shrouded in candy floss cotton, cuddling a tiny frame who is now terrified of the dark, of shadows, of the sight of headlights sweeping across the wall of her bedroom. On Rebecca’s wrist, a talisman. A pink towelling hairband, baggy from overuse, attached to a plastic disc, scratched and fading – Cinderella going to the ball. She stares, night after night, at the pile of toys in the corner of Ellie’s room, lips dry, lost in a terrifying world of what might have been.

  They were everything, those deaths, my actions. Everything.

  ‘So if it’s about me, why does there have to be anyone else? Why does this … Stephen … why does he have to be involved? Can’t we just stop it? Stop it now. You’ve had your fun. Why do I even have to die? What’s the point? This whole thing was designed to enable me to live.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? Must I spell it out?’ Apparently so.

  ‘When I came to you in that market square, you made me a deal. You exchanged your soul for eternal life. And you died, in the fire, burnt to the core while the crowds howled and the smoke blotted out the sun. You are still apparent to me, to those people you help day after day, but to those around you – your family, the outer world – you were gone. For ever gone. And because you made that deal, because I benefitted from your willingness to relinquish your inner being, I smoothed the way.
Your death was pain-free, you slipped from one side to the other with the minimum of fuss. You didn’t feel the bones crack and the flesh cook on your bones. You didn’t feel your skin peeling and fat melting in that searing heat. You slipped, softly and gently. Passed seamlessly from a living incarnation into the life of death. And so, for the reverse to be true, Little D, for you to live as normal, for you to return to life, so you must relinquish your current incarnation. For you to live, you must die as Death.’

  ‘But what happens then? After I’ve died?’

  ‘The reverse of what happened last time. Your body will become apparent to those around you. All those things that you so desire, you’ll be able to feel. Food will have taste, the sun will have warmth. You’ll be able to take that lungful of air you so crave. And feel the touch of Tom’s fingers trace your skin. You won’t see me any more – you’ll have passed once more into the world of the living. But the thing is, I don’t have the same disposition from all those years ago. I have no interest in making this easy for you, Little D, in smoothing the path and clearing the way. You’ve escaped it once, so this death, this rebirth of yours, will carry along with it everything you would expect to feel. The helplessness and hopelessness. The searing pain, the choking, the gasping for breath. All the things that people usually feel. You will come through it, you will see life on the other side, but you’re going to have to fight for that life.’

  ‘And Stephen? What’s he got to do with this? Why not just me? Just count me as number five.’

  ‘Well, you don’t count, Little D. Not as one of the five. It’s not all about you, you know. I said the game would be conducted by my rules and so it shall. Stephen is your cypher – the one you must kill for the game to be won, for your life to be lived. And, as I say, he hates this song. Above all else, he really, really hates this song.’