The Life of Death

by Lucy Booth

  He’s looking at me. Straight at me. Like he knows who I am. Knows where I’ve been and who I will be. For the briefest moment the lights dim, the crowds fall into darkness, and he and I stand alone, lit in high relief. Eyes locked. Breath held.

  Alex looks over. Sees the girl next to me. Standing alone at the bar waiting patiently for a pint of Guinness to swirl and settle.

  ‘That’s Fran, mate. What are you on about? Steve’s girlfriend. You’ve met her, like, a million times …’

  ‘Not her,’ he replies. ‘Her … I keep seeing her around.’ Nods his head towards the bar once more. But when he looks back, that girl, of locked eyes and held breath, is gone. To him, Fran stands alone, waiting patiently for the pint of Guinness to settle and swirl.

  And I’ve gone. Vanished to carry on my life, my deaths. He has been seeing me most days now, this face he can’t place. This face that replaces Kate’s on every street corner, with every reflected headlight on rain-soaked tarmac. In the corner shop as he picks up a pint of milk and stops to have a chat with Aasim. Crossing at amber flashing lights on the road ahead. He’s the only one who sees the real me. Hair tied in a knot, body clad in the simple shift that I’ve worn for hundreds of years, but almost passes for modern. He smiles when he sees me. Always a smile. Raises his hand in an occasional greeting, a puzzled smile playing on pursed lips when once again I get away from him, when once again he can’t get close enough for a hello. But I can’t let him too close. Certainly can’t let him close enough to speak. And so I vanish. Behind a parked car, a budding tree, a shelf piled high in a packed corner shop. Keeping my distance until the time is right.

  And on I go, vanishing from Tom’s view to morph into the mothers, sisters, daughters I embody. Leaving on the wind to tend to the many, to occupy the very final seconds of all the ones who are ready to go. It isn’t our time yet, Tom. Not just yet.

  The pint turns into two, three, four and the curry house swings open its doors to three friends as the pub closes its own. It’s the longest he’s been out of the house in months. He realises as they’re plied with poppadums, as they muse over madras, that for the entire evening he hasn’t turned mid-conversation to include Kate, hasn’t heard her voice from across the room. She’s with him, but she’s not there, not the ever-present presence of the preceding months. A weight is lifting. Day by day, it’s taking its time. But it’s lifting.

  He walks home, heads straight to the shower. There’s only one toothbrush in the mug by the sink now. Only one bottle of shampoo by the taps. Towels hang, straight and dry on the rail, no longer left to moulder in a damp heap on a sodden bathmat.

  Walks through to the bedroom, a towel slung loosely around his hips. I sit in the corner and watch as he dries off. Content in his solitude, he walks round the bedroom naked, hanging his trousers in the wardrobe and chucking his T-shirt into the laundry basket. The trail of destruction that has followed him for the past few months has petered out to a restored order. Eventually, everything is in its place, and he settles into bed.

  Breathing becomes deep and even. His limbs lie heavy, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, legs sprawled to cover the width of the bed. I pull back the duvet. Slip naked between the sheets. Run my hands down his chest. In his sleep he twitches. Reaches up to scratch at the feather-light touch he can feel on exposed skin. He finds my hand, entwines my fingers with his. I move closer. Press my lips against his. And he responds. Kisses me back. Reaches his hand up to cup the back of my neck and draw me in deeper. To flick his tongue against mine. I shift in the bed to straddle him. Sit astride his waist and lean forward to drop a smattering of kisses across his chest. Hands hook under hips while lips dip to nip lips and soft skin slips beneath calloused fingertips.

  When he wakes the next morning, he wakes with a smile. Hardened by the memory of a dream, of bodies moving in sync, of the unknown girl in the pub stretched the length of his naked body, and driving him to orgasm. Of limbs linked in ecstasy and skin that prickled and shivered at her touch. Of light hairs that stood on end as lips lingered and fingers fluttered. It’s so clear in his mind, so real. But it was just a dream, nothing to waste too much time on.

  Of course it was, Tom. Just a dream.

  27

  HE MEETS ME IN THE DRESSING ROOM. SLIPS IN between the curtains to hang a selection of clothes onto the hooks on the wall. Steps back as I move forward to look at them, to feel the weight of the fabric. My first set of my very own modern-day clothes.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there while I get changed?’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t seen before, Little D, nothing I haven’t seen before.’

  He settles on to the stool tucked into the corner of the tiny cubicle, legs stretched out in front of him. ‘Can’t have you reappearing to the world looking like you’ve just been dragged out of the sixteenth century, can we? Imagine the headlines!’ He smirks. ‘And I think you deserve a treat. A new outfit to celebrate your re-entry to the world. You’ve not made it easy for yourself, have you? Far too emotional …’ He tuts under his breath. ‘But you’ve nearly done it. I have to hand it to you. One more teeny-tiny death and you’re free.’

  One more teeny-tiny death … And the rest. Deep breath. One more day of this and I can get on with my life, with living. I can’t let myself think of the people out there, going about their day-to-day lives, looking forward to the gig they booked tickets for months before. Some of them just like me, crammed into a cubicle to find the perfect outfit for the perfect night. Some already in the pub – lunch and a couple of pints before they head over to the park. Some of them have been looking forward to this for years. For a lifetime. The unexpected reformation of a classic rock band from the seventies, music they’ve grown up with, that they first heard on vinyl records with their dads. Music that bonds them with the generation before, an overlap to tie them together despite the multitude of differences between them. One last chance to see legends at work. Not that they know it yet, but today for them is one last day.

  I reach up for the skinny jeans that hang from the wall beside me. Wiggle and tug them up my legs underneath the brown hessian dress that I’ve worn day in, day out for the past four hundred years. Bounce on the spot to drop into them. How do people wear these things? I feel trapped – lower body encased in rigid denim, waist cinched into a tight belt. When I appear to the dead, to the dying, I’ve never realised until this moment that I never feel the clothes they’re wearing. Never really noticed the difference between those and my own plain dress. But Lord above, these things are uncomfortable.

  I look over my shoulder to where He sits in the corner, waiting for my full transformation. My own need for privacy and personal dignity is completely disregarded – I am His project and He’ll be as involved as he wants. Back turned, I lift the heavy dress up over my head to expose my naked back and shoulders, masked only by the curtain of hair hanging down my back. I loop the arms of a bra over my shoulders and my breasts strain against the thin fabric as they’re thrust forward for me to reach round to my back and try once, twice, three times to hook the two ends together. I don’t hear Him move, but a finger is drawn down my back while hands push mine out of the way to finish the job. A kiss dropped on my shoulder seals the act. My skin crawls at His touch. Get off me. Just get off me.

  Arms scoop into a silk blouse that droops casually off one shoulder. Feet slip into ballet pumps to wiggle toes to the very end. My transformation is complete. I turn to look at myself in the changing-room mirror. A girl stares back, kohled eyes peeking out under a heavy fringe, recently streaked blonde hair styled into shaggy layers. My face. My body. I barely recognise her, but staring back from that changing-room mirror is a modern-day me. Lizzie, Lilibet, Bess.

  *

  At this height, in this tiny flat at the teetering top of this towering block, birds swim languidly past in the humid summer air. Once again He watches me dress. In the nondescript bedroom of a nondescript block. The council cleared the flat last week, shunting sq
uatters from a safe haven.

  The air in here hangs heavy and thick. Thick with the musty smell of the unwashed, of lingering stale smoke. A broken glass pipe lies abandoned by the wooden leg of a cracked leather sofa and the door sags sadly on splintered hinges.

  I stand before Him. Exposed in a white cotton bra and white cotton pants. Stripped to the essentials, skin tacky with sweat. He places cold hands on my shoulders.

  Cold hands that offer misplaced relief on this stifling day. Those same hands turn me around, to face myself in the mirror. Though I can feel Him behind me, can feel the ice-light touch of His fingertips and squirm at cold breath on exposed shoulders, in the reflection in front of me I stand alone.

  He takes my hand in His. Twists His fingers through mine and brings my hand to rest softly at my waist. Cold breath teases tiny hairs upright to prickle and shiver.

  ‘It’s time, Little D.’

  My reflection stares back at me, its gaze unavoidable.

  It’s time.

  He lifts my arm and in the mirror glass I watch as it raises slowly, gently, floating in the fug as if of its own accord. Shoulders shrug into soft, cream calico. Heavy. Weighted. Through thin fabric I can feel every lump. Every bump. Pockets and seams bulge lightly and droop under the weight of the nails, the screws, the lethal ball-bearings packed into secret compartments waiting for their moment. Brown paper packages plugged into pockets. Brown paper packages waiting patiently for their moment. For the flick of a switch that will send them on their way to unleash their hell. Twisting into soft flesh, grating against bone. Ploughing messily through spongy tissue that cedes too easily in their path.

  My skin pinches between the leather and metal as fingers fiddle with buckles and straps. Soft cotton straps threading through shining buckles. He tugs. Cinching me in until my breath comes in short gasps. He smooths the fabric where it catches. Rearranges the packages for a smoother line. Slips a silken blouse onto silken shoulders and stands back as my fingers fumble with buttons.

  I don’t look away from the reflection standing in front of me. Won’t look away. Stare myself down in the mirror. Throw down the gauntlet. Who blinks loses. Reach into the pocket to trace the edge of the trigger and straighten my back against the weight hanging heavy at my shoulders. What if I did it now? Flicked the switch here, in this tiny room. Stopped this whole sorry mess before it even has a chance to start. It might blow out the windows. Might hit a passer-by in the street, cause a passing car to swerve and crash. But in the main, those ball-bearings firing out would lodge into plaster instead of flesh. Would smash through windows instead of bone. The nails would hammer into wooden struts, not slice silently through tissue.

  But as I stroke that smooth plastic disc, I know I can’t. His words have run circles in my head all morning. ‘This is my game, Little D. If you want to play it, you play by my rules. And today, I say where, and I say when. And if you don’t like it, well, you know what you can do …’

  So I stand still. And I stare. Watch myself in the mirror, the lumpen lines under soft folds of silk. I watch my reflection run its fingers down from my shoulders, over the lumps and the bumps to rest on my waistband. Smoothing. Soothing. I watch this reflection that stands apart from me. And I wait.

  ‘Hands up,’ He commands.

  I raise both arms above my head. Drop into cotton-soft darkness as a huge sweatshirt is slipped over my head. Pulled down over my ears, my arms fed through ballooning sleeves. He dresses me like a child. It swamps me this sweatshirt. Too heavy, too hot for this weather. But it hides what lies beneath.

  Those lumps, those bumps. Those brown paper packages packed full of sin.

  He rests both hands on my shoulders. Gives them a squeeze. Turns me back around to face Him.

  ‘There,’ He says. ‘Done.’ Strokes His thumb along my lower lip. ‘I want you to stand proud today, Little D. Go out there with your head held high for the world to see. None of this hiding away until you’re needed. When you set foot outside this flat, I want you visible to the world.’ He squeezes my shoulders once more. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Now. Ready?’

  My mouth is dry. A droplet of sweat winds its way down my back, picking a cautious course beneath a fatal shroud.

  I nod. ‘Ready.’

  He turns me back around to face the mirror. And once more, in that reflection I stand alone.

  Ready.

  28

  FIVE P.M. AND I’M ON MY WAY. HE LEFT THE FLAT an hour ago, squeezing out between boards hammered across a busted doorframe. Leaving me to make this final journey on my own.

  Soft-soled shoes pad along sun-softened pavements. Tarmac, melting in the heat, yields with every step and the North London streets wallow in the warm late afternoon light. My hair, drawn into a ponytail, hangs limply, trailing tendrils that cling wetly to the damp skin on the back of my neck.

  At the station, lift doors open and hot air blooms from within. Sucking passengers in and down to the hell of a summer’s afternoon underground. The carriage is packed with excited gig-goers crammed together to get an early start and a good spot on the grass for lazy beers while the sun’s still up. They sing despite their confines, snippets that fly from one group to the next until the length of the carriage hums to the same tune. I tuck myself into a corner. Tight, rigid against the wall of the train. Holding my body, my bulk clear of anyone who risks brushing too close. Anyone who risks feeling the hard edges and unnatural lumps beneath an unseasonable, unreasonable outfit.

  I hold my breath. Close my eyes against the surrounding melee. The nerves have set in and my lips move in silent prayer. Whispered words to comfort, to protect. Mouthing them to the rhythm of iron against steel: ‘It’ll be over tonight, It’ll be over tonight.’ I block out what I can of the surroundings. The sounds of singing dulled to a muted mumble. The movement of the figures around me softened to a Vaseline-smeared sway. My head feels unsteady. Too heavy for my neck.

  The stuffed vest is tight. Too tight. Breathing is hard in this saturated air, and the earlier trickle of sweat has become a torrent. ‘I have to get out, I have to get out.’

  Doors slide open. Gig-goers swell through parted doors in a laval ooze. Swim to the surface to gasp for fresh breath, although the overground world offers little relief. The air is still thick, still heavy in this heat, though the sun has fallen far from its zenith.

  On the street outside, I bend. Crouch to the floor. Bottom lip is sucked and scraped between teeth until I can taste the iron tang of blood. I take what gulps I can of what air there is. Breathing becomes more regular and the melody returns clearly on all sides. Snippets of songs pitched high, pitched low. I stand straight, using all of my strength to pull my body upright. To rearrange the straps on my shoulders and face the walk ahead.

  I’m ready.

  Along the Seven Sisters Road we’re driven forward in a herd of excited bodies swarming towards the gates, tickets clutched in sweaty hands. Shouts of excitement pitch and swirl in the air around us and the singing continues – a chorus of a greatest hit sung by one group of friends bounces through the crowd until snippets are heard from all directions. There’s a festival atmosphere – the smell of grilled burgers and hot-dogs hangs in the late afternoon air to tempt and tease. Long-limbed girls ride on the shoulders of broad-backed men as kids grip on to the hands of parents and leap from foot to foot in excitement and we flow relentlessly towards the ticket gates.

  At the entrance the bubbling, churning flow swirls and slows to a pool of people lapping at the gates. Luminously clad security check tickets, check bags. Pat down jackets and usher the clamouring congregation into the field within.

  Luminously clad security check tickets, check bags. Pat down jackets. All jackets. I hadn’t thought.

  A fresh bouquet of sweat blooms on my upper lip. I look from one queue to the next to the next. I assumed I would pass through no question, the ticket He gave me curled damply in my fist. But they have dogs, these guards, and the dogs will sense me. Th
ey always do. Even if I wasn’t standing before them cloaked in explosives and oozing the sweat-sharp tang of fear. They sense me. Barking into thin air with a snarl. Drool dripping from slavering jaws. While their owners droop in this heat, the dogs are eager. Fresh. Sniffing at bags, nipping at heels.

  As I slip through the turnstile, head down and ticket held out, the head of the Alsatian ahead is already turned in my direction. Low growls emanate from choked throat as he tugs on his lead, tugging the arm of the burly guard he has in tow. He barks. Snarls. Pulls hard to leap at me. His paws, huge and heavy, brush at my chest. His face, hot breath panting, inches from mine. But the burly guard tugs him back without even a glance in my direction. As he’s dragged in the opposite direction, off to a group of lads doing their best to smuggle cans of lager in the hoods of their jerseys, the dog turns back to me. Confused. A soft bark. A gruff ruff. Teeth bared in warning.

  But he can growl all he likes. I’m through. Shaken but undeterred.

  Although the band isn’t on until nine, the grass in front of the vast stage is filling up with the crowds flooding in from outside. I need to find Stephen somewhere in this soup, this mob. I take a wander, check out my best position. Somewhere to herd him to when I track him down. Too far back, not enough people. Too far forward and we’ll have to force our way through a tightly packed throng to get into position and risk someone feeling misshapen lumps beneath a well-worn sweatshirt. I settle in front of the sound booth, watching and waiting as the tide of fans ebbs and flows around me. There’s time. Time to catch my breath, collect my thoughts. I have to find him before it gets dark and faces merge into one, blurred and distorted by setting sun and swooping lights. Here seems as good a place as any from which to set forth – a stoma in the continuous skin of bodies stretched across the grass. I’ll lead him here. But how to track him down in this throng?