A Conversion.

Death was bored.

 

It had done the washing up, a service It  often provided; nobody should be left with a pile of washing up after dying, though in this case no one had.

Died that is.

It was February 29, a leap year and of course Death was early.

 

It happened every four years, it simply forgot; no one everdies on the 29^th.

“I must be getting old”, It mused, “maybe I have very-late onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Or dementia,” It continued, talking to them self.

“I’ve forgotten what I can’t remember!” and it allowed itself a laugh.

There is something about Death laughing that is troubling. If the neighbours heard they would be freaking out now.

“Freaking out” It voiced. “You don’t hear that much these days”

“These days”, It said, “Who’d have them eh?”

“Groovy”, that’s gone by the way.”

“Far out!”

“Man”

“God, I loved the sixties”

“Yes, you called?” It was God speaking.

Death was embarrassed, most of the time it kept its domain and business separate from the Creator, after all, they were opposites.

“No, No,“ It answered, “I was just thinking out loud”

“Not like you”, replied The Lord, “you are much more the silent type I would have said. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. Leap year;” It added in way of explanation.

“Not my idea”, said The Holy One, “something THEY made up all on their own. I’ll leave you to it.”

And The Three in One was none.

“Knoweth not the hour of your coming, and certainly not your going”, said Death, but this time It said it inside Its head, It didn’t want to risk a resurrection.

 

It looked around; it had no other appointments, there were no neighbours It could freak out for a laugh (something It had been known to do), this house stood alone at the end of a long track that people rarely wandered.

It decided to kill time.

It smiled at the irony of the thought.

 

The kitchen where It was standing was a mess, the only two tables covered in a mound of what looked, at first sight, like a random assortment of the inconsequential and unnecessary; an unauthorized biography of Frank Sinatra caught Its eye and picking it up from the top of a pile of at least five other titles, it began to leaf through it.

There was a dedication, followed by a blank page and then an almost blank page that was inscribed with a quotation.

Reputation is what men and women think of us.

Character is what God and angels know of us.

Tom Paine.

 

Tom Paine, Tom Paine; the name rang a bell. Not literally of course,.

Madame Belle Clanger was a name that rang bells, that and her sister Annabel of course. 

And her niece, Isabelle.

And Alexandra Graham Bell of course, in more ways than most ! Death allowed itself a giggle at the thought.

“Tom Paine, however, I should remember, I was there after all. Perhaps I really am loosing it.’ Death sounded troubled, even to Itself and Death was not normally someone to let trouble trouble It.

It could consult the records, after all it kept volumes of records - noting carefully time, place and circumstance in one of very, very many ledgers which were kept under the bed.

It was a big bed, Death liked a good night’s sleep though It rarely got one.

“The Big Sleep deserves a Big Bed”, It said out loud, confident now that God was elsewhere.

`

She wasn’t.

“Tom Paine, a pain in the arse if you ask me,” the One and Only thundered. “Invented Deism for God’s Sake…. sorry, My Sake. Took all the fun out of being me!”

“Oh! I remember “, Death looked happy. “The bones, Tom Paine’s remains!!”

“You messed up there sunshine” God said.

Sunshine!

Death had been called a lot of names, but never sunshine. It quite liked it.

“A right mess!” God sounded angry.

“It wasn’t my fault”, Death complained, “It was whatsitsface., William something”.

“Corbett. He dug them up but you are responsible until rested in peace I believe.”

“A debatable point maybe but what WAS he thinking? Digging up the bones under the Walnut tree - I liked the walnut tree - and then Loosing them! The walnut tree was my idea by the way.’ Death sounded quite proud.

“Did you ever sought out the Chaplin mess?”

“That was years ago, 1978, why are you bringing that up now?”

“I’ve got nothing better to do, what about you?”

“Not really, I’m a bit bored to be honest.” Death sighed.

“Last thing I heard about Charlie was that someone dug the coffin up, were arrested and found guilty of disturbing the peace of the dead”.

“Surely you know everything about everything?” Death was surprised that The All Knowing One clearly didn’t.

“Ah, I’ve been busy these last few decades”, God was mumbling.

“Busy? What with? I thought you did the whole thing in six days and then rested.”

“I organised the floods”.

“The floods! That was yonks ago”. Death liked the sound of that, yonks. Another word lost to the age of smart-things.

“I think I’d better go, let you get on with whatever it is you are not doing, see you around”, and with that the Almighty became all-absent.

 

Death went over to the bread bin and then the fridge and made itself a cheese sandwich, and then wandered into the living room.

Once again it enjoyed the irony of being Death in a living room, sniggered like a child and then took a bite of the sandwich.

“God, that’s good.”

“I know, I created the beasts and all the things in the fields, so therefore the milk and the cheese.” God was back.

“Please go away”, Death implored. “I want to be alone; it rarely happens for me.”

“Ok.” And the Divine was nowhere to be found.

 

Death suddenly felt the silence around him, it was different, there was an absence therein and It knew that this time there would be no interruption.

The room in which It was standing was full of life and dreams.

And a photo.

Death looked at the photo and sensed something.

There was a man in the photo, and the man in the photo was looking directly at Death.

The man in the photo was smiling. 

He was wearing a yellow t-shirt, even though it was winter, and a pair of sandals.

He was younger than Death, which of course was not difficult, but when the two of them finally meet the younger man will be much older than his photo self.

Death was not sure if ageing was something that happened to itself, and wondered what the feeling was like; most people seemed to be happy if It met them at an elderly age, as if age was something people wanted to leave behind them.

Something was annoying Death about the photo, but it was unable to put Its finger (withered and bony) on it, but it was the smile that was the source of that annoyance.

Death felt like waving, but it knew that the photo wouldn’t wave back. 

The smile was not smug, it appeared to emanate honest happiness; the man in the photo was happy to be there on the other side of the room both forty years ago and forty years now.

He was smiling at his girlfriend who doesn’t talk to him anymore, so it’s just as well she too wasn’t here in the room in any way other than a memory.

And then Death put Its finger on it (withered and bony and shaking with excitement).

The photo was Its younger self.

The room was Its room.

Death was home.

And, apparently, once It had had a girlfriend.

 

 

 editor's note - some of this previously appeared in The Archives.