Don't Fear The Reaper
Page 4
‘Yeah sure, mate,’ Alex said, crossing the floor and going behind the bar.
Larry resumed his position on the stool and stared despondently at the glossy surface he leaned on.
‘What’s wrong?’ Alex said, sliding the full glass of orange juice towards him.
Larry gave him a distasteful look.
‘Well, apart from the fog,’ Alex added, blushing.
‘The fog’s not gonna lift in half an hour, and I need to get back to Sammy.’
‘You’re all welcome to stay the night if this fog hasn’t cleared,’ Alex said aloud so everyone in the pub could hear him. ‘Just call her and tell her you’re staying here the night. She’ll be cool.’
Larry shook his head, refusing the offer.
Pierce came over, pale and sweating. ‘I’ll have a Scotch. Numb my nerves.’
Alex nodded approval.
‘If the fog doesn’t clear, Alex mate, I’ll take you up on that offer. So will the old farts.’
Under ordinary circumstances, Alex would have laughed at the “old farts” comment. Tonight he simply nodded. ‘Tell this stubborn bugger to do the same, will you?’ he said, gesturing to Larry.
Larry told Pierce the reason behind his refusal. Then he shook his head adamantly when Pierce said the same as Alex.
‘Why?’
‘Well, that’s why I called you and arranged to meet you tonight,’ Larry said. ‘Sammy’s pregnant.’
Pierce’s lips were on the verge of curling up at the sides when the motion halted and a noncommittal look replaced it. ‘I thought you s…’
‘That’s why we waited until the first scan, and the first tangible signs to prove there was no doubt. Baby’s due, God-willing around Christmas and New Year.’
Pierce smiled broadly then. His eyes lit up and the crows’ feet spread out from around the corners. He leaned over and embraced Larry, clapping him on the back. ‘That’s bloody marvellous,’ he said, breaking contact. ‘But I still don’t get why you can’t stay here. I mean the fog and everything…’
‘She’s on pins and needles. Worried that after all the years of being unsuccessful, something might go wrong. And with good reason, considering what the gynaecologist told her. She’s delighted, don’t get me wrong, but she’s really worrying over the tiniest of things. She sounded nervous on the phone just now. I’m gonna give it half an hour then make my way home.’
Pierce rubbed his chin, contemplating what his best friend told him. ‘How many you had?’
‘One.’
‘You just make sure you put your fog lights, headlights on full beam and drive at a snail’s pace. No use getting yourself in an accident.’
*
Twenty minutes later one of the elderly men announced, ‘Fog seems to be easing off. Not much, but a bit.’
Larry had finished his drink, shook Pierce’s hand. ‘Maybe the fog was nothing more than really dense after all, huh?’
Pierce shrugged. ‘Maybe. But you saw the bright green light though.’
‘Could’ve been the traffic light,’ Alex said.
Larry nodded at the plausible explanation.
Pierce shrugged again. However, he looked unconvinced.
‘Drive safe,’ Alex called out, as Larry headed for the exit.
‘Will do,’ Larry said, giving the thumbs’ up signal. ‘Take care.’
When Pierce ever thought of his best friend, Larry Moretz from that day on, he’d envision him standing in the small foyer, smiling and content.
*
Larry made his way to his Vauxhall. The fog had indeed dissipated and he could see ten feet in front of him. The white blanket didn’t swirl as it had done when he’d first seen it. Instead it sat languidly, docile in the village.
Aided by the headlights on full beam and the fog lights, Larry manoeuvred the car out of the space and out of the gravel parking area onto the main road. He pressed the button to open the driver’s and passenger’s door windows, enabling him to listen out for traffic. If or when he did he’d blast his horn to let the other road users know vaguely his location to avoid collision.
The road he needed to take was straight ahead, past all the shops on either side, vanished from sight. For a moment, Larry wondered why he even brought the car in the first place. He only lived half a mile away, on the other side of the park. Then he remembered why. In five days, Sammy would turn twenty-nine.
He’d gone to the Asda to buy her some flowers and a big box of Cadbury’s chocolate. The flowers he intended on giving her tonight. The chocolate would have to wait until her birthday. He’d also bought her an expensive gold necklace; a crucifix with a diamond embedded into it.
Unlike her brother, Sammy wasn’t too sure if she believed in God. She wasn’t an atheist or against religion, she merely had a hard time putting her faith in something only to discover she’d been fooled. Also, not being able to bear children of her own turned her away from God. In fairness, she didn’t ask much out of life. She didn’t particularly care for worldly possessions, unless they were essential. She didn’t live anywhere close to beyond her means. Sammy was quite happy to curl up with a good book or watch an RSPCA show on TV.
Now that a “miracle” had occurred – the doctors’ words which she reiterated – Sammy had found faith.
It brought tears to Larry’s eyes thinking about her, so grateful that she believed in God, not for her own means, but to thank Him for granting her, her one and only prayer.
Larry shook his head to rid himself of the reverie. He desperately needed to concentrate on the road ahead and nothing else. He leaned forward, chest almost touching the steering wheel and recoiled instantly at the towering figure that had appeared through the fog out of nowhere.
‘Shit!’
Larry spun the steering wheel in haste, swerving out of the way, and fought to regain control but went careering into an immovable object. The windscreen shattered as the bonnet folded up like an Indian tent. The steering wheel crushed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as he was crushed between the column and the driver’s seat. The seat belt that had initially stopped him from plummeting headfirst through the windscreen and being thrown like a rag doll into the open now choked him. His arms were pinned to his sides. Larry couldn’t even feel the slightest of tingling in his fingertips, never mind be able to use his hands to click the button to remove the harness. He shifted in his seat, hoping to fight for some room to manoeuvre himself. His attempt was futile, and as his weary eyes searched beyond the confines of his car he saw why.
The open tailgate of a pickup truck had smashed the windscreen and the bollard in front of it to the right on the side of the pavement had been uprooted and lay beneath the front tyres.
Larry had been fortunate that the bollard had been there otherwise the open tailgate of the pickup truck would have burst through the windscreen and buried itself in his head before he even saw it.
Fidgeting in his seat was only increasing the pressure on his crushed larynx and constricting his lungs. If he thought he’d had trouble breathing in the confines of the Crown Pub then this was what it must feel like to live as long as you could without the use of oxygen.
In his peripheral vision, Larry saw a shrouded darkness gracefully float towards him through the fog, as though it was an apparition (which was Larry’s first assumption to its identification).
The Grim Reaper came around to the front of the Vauxhall, towing the long-handled scythe. If Larry still had control of his bodily functions he would’ve winced at the grating of metal scraping across concrete. Instead his chest bucked and he coughed up a wad of crimson blood.
An arctic frost froze him to the core when the mythological entity lowered itself so its hood and all that lay beyond it encompassed the driver’s side window and Larry’s vision completely.
The last thing Larry saw was the perpetual darkness that welcomed him after the most ghastly visage was revealed to him in its glowing pallid light.
*
The crumpled grey heap that used to be a Vauxhall sat desolate after having gone into the rear end of a stationary pickup truck. The front left wheel had buckled on impact and the right front tyre had been punctured by a steel rod protruding from the space the bollard occupied. Seven inches of the open tailgate of the pick-up disappeared beyond the cracked glass of the windscreen. And amidst the Stygian interior, if one cared to look close enough (as sure enough the first witness would the following morning) was the body of Larry Moretz – his eyes huge, shining orbs, jaw slack against the fierce grip of the seat belt. Veins as thick as cables surfaced on the frozen face of terror, lightening blue and maroon.
There was no sign of a towering, pale skeleton figure in a long black cloak with a hood anywhere in sight. However, there was a very indistinctive scratch from one side of the road to the other where Death had left its mark.
5.
Diary of Rev Anthony Perkins.
Fri 16 June 2006
CAN HARDLY BELIEVE what I’ve been told! The shock of the news hasn’t even begun to register in my brain yet; that I do know. It’s the sorta thing that happens to other people when you turn the TV on and see the news, not to someone you know or are related to. And here am I sitting here like a fool, writing it down in a rush to see if I can make any sense of it.
My poor sister! Hasn’t she been through enough? Obviously not, according to my ebbing belief. Those who believe in God say that good people (servants of God) who endure hardship are being tested. Perhaps my opinion is a biased one, as this is my sister, but I think she’s been tested enough. She’s proven herself to be a truly, honest, decent human being. Why this now on top of everything else.
And what the hell was Larry thinking driving home in such treacherous weather, anyway? I shouldn’t be thinking bad thoughts never mind writing them down like this about the deceased, but it does make me wonder. Of course, I know the answer. He was heading home to be with his pregnant wife.
According to the medical examiner, Larry had cracked some ribs and crushed his larynx from the collision. What shocks me most though is the reported actual cause of death – heart attack!
It doesn’t sit right with me somehow. Larry wasn’t the type of guy to get scared. He didn’t show bravado; like most self-proclaimed “hard men”, his toughness was the real deal. He didn’t need to behave in a certain way to demonstrate a tough guy attitude. He knew what he was and was content. Larry was a black belt in karate and had fifteen amateur boxing bouts, fourteen wins and one disputed draw.
I’m not saying crashing won’t cause a massive shock, but a fatal heart attack for a fit man in his early thirties? I’ve never been the sceptical type, but even now I have to admit it does sound kinda strange.
I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I want to be by Sammy’s side. She needs me now more than ever. She needs as much support and love as she can get, both for her sake and the baby.
I know one thing I won’t be doing – praying.
Look where that’s got me and my sister! Thanks for the support Big Guy. Nice to know I can count on you when the chips are down. Cheers!
*
Bishop John Hayes caressed his sweaty brow. He and Rev Perkins were seated around a plain oak table in the vestry. The old man with only a mop of lank hair and indented wrinkles running over his leathery face couldn’t hide his shock, hearing the news his colleague and friend had just given him.
‘Well, for what it’s worth,’ the Rector began, ‘congratulations on becoming a Godfather.’
Rev Perkins nodded sardonically. ‘Aye. Don’t tell me – every cloud has a silver lining.’
The Rector shook his head, displeased. ‘There’s no need to be facetious, Anthony. I honestly don’t know what to say regarding the grim news. Sorry doesn’t quite cover it. And I know you said your faith was wavering – God knows this is hardly going to restore it by any stretch – but the parish needs you. I need you. Because of your laid-back approach more and more people are coming to church; not just on Sundays but during the week as well. You played a pivotal part in that. Don’t use this mishap, for want of a better word, as an excuse to surrender. Please.’
Rev Perkins had hung his robe up on a hanger and now wore his jeans and a striped hooded sweater with the numbers 84 in blue on the front. His shoulders slumped. His whole demeanour was that of a man struggling to keep himself vertical. ‘I gotta have some time off. I gotta be with my sister. She’s grieving really bad. Who can blame her? And if anything happens to her baby…’
The bishop raised his hand in a gesture that said it wasn’t necessary to say any more. ‘Of course you can have time off. But I really need you not to give in.’
‘Do you really believe what the prophet said about there being an apocalypse heading our way?’
The older man removed his black lens spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I believe there’s good and evil in everyone and it’s always all around us, everywhere you go. You can’t escape it, whichever you choose. Whatever tragedy befalls the world, what amazes me more than anything else is how so-called non-believers even find the fortitude to do the right thing. The good thing. Whether it’s helping someone out of rubble after an earthquake or donating spare change to a charity. For every sign of evil there is a glimmer of hope to show us the way. I know you’re finding that hard to believe that by now, but when – or if – this apocalypse does hit us you will believe.’
Rev Perkins appeared more solemn than he had been all week when he said, ‘Is this the apocalypse the prophet was talking about? Is this the anarchy?’
Bishop John Hayes opened his hands, palms facing to the ceiling. ‘I don’t think the accident involving your unfortunate brother-in-law has anything to do with that, but I’ve been wrong before. After all, the apocalypse is a synonym for the end of the world. Maybe for Larry he succumbed to his own apocalypse.’
Perkins resisted tears. He shifted from one foot to the other.
‘When’s the poor soul’s funeral?’
‘Next week. Probably Thursday or Friday.’
The bishop blinked surprise. ‘How come such a delay?’
‘The medical examiner wants to do some other tests and get a second opinion. That’s what keeps me up in the night. If he’d gone through the windscreen or the car had blown up, then he’s not Superman. But to survive the crash and then die of a heart attack.’
‘Take two weeks annual leave,’ the Rector said. ‘Don’t dwell on this. Stop thinking so much. Get some sleep; your eyes look like two piss-holes in the snow… and never give up all the hard work you’ve put in. Yours is the light that forever outshines the Devil’s darkness. Remember that when times are hard. It’s easy to have faith when everything is going great, but not quite so in times of suffering.’
With that the Rector rose, came around the oak table and hugged his friend. It was then the floodgates opened and Rev Perkins cried for the first time in thirteen years…
6.
PAUL DICKENS hadn’t felt himself since Monday morning when he’d awoken to the thickest fog he’d ever seen in all his forty-six years. He’d fallen asleep the night before at 9pm and slept right through. The nine and a half hours of undisturbed rest had done him the world of good he vaguely recalled. His body felt energised which he hadn’t experienced since his early thirties when he still had time to go to the gym.
His brown Labrador, Macho, had passed on five years ago, otherwise Paul would have taken him for a walk if not for the fog; he was feeling so energetic. Instead he made himself a cup of tea and stood on the doorstep, smiling to himself, thinking he wouldn’t have to go to work today because of this impenetrable veil in front of him like a solid grey wall, yet fluxing simultaneously.
The air seemed to have a certain tang to it, although he’d never be able to say what. It was neither an unpleasant odour nor good. B
ut what caught his undivided attention was something pulsing, shining through the constant swirls of the fog. He squinted, leaning forward, perplexed. Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him there appeared to be a bright green light, and had it not been for the thick fog the light as bright as that of a halogen lamp would have blinded him.
Something that had troubled him since that Monday morning right up to today still spun in his mind cyclone-style. For the life of him he couldn’t recall the time it took for him to cross his front garden to the gate at the end of the path. He assumed he must have wanted to take a closer look at the strange neon light.
But why?
Curiosity, I suppose.
But why had he a clear memory of standing on the doorstep and moments later (it could only have been moments as twenty minutes had passed from the time he’d left the house to the time he returned) standing at the gate, but complete blankness between that time?
Shit! It’s not an early sign that I may have – or will get – Alzheimer’s, is it?
That had been his last thought before last night’s dream. The dream where a towering robed figure and a pale white horse came to his house and escorted him into the luminous green light.
Now he was awake, but not alive.
*
Paul Dickens had gone through the entire week in a dazed condition. He and his colleagues had finished on the building site for the day, having completed the house they’d been erecting. He usually had good camaraderie with his friends, but after Tommy Wallace had asked him what was wrong and got a curt, ‘Nothing is wrong,’ Paul’s workmates left him to get on with his work by himself. There were four bricklayers and one labourer, including Paul on the site. Everyone had tried to be extra nice so Paul would either return to his old self or tell them what was bothering him that made him become introverted all of a sudden.