Tick (Short Story)

Tick

"Next, please!"

I stretched my stiff legs beneath the desk and yawned widely. Looking at my watch, I registered that my next break was in three years and seven months' time. Well, you couldn't have everything, I suppose. Surveying the area and taking in the queue that comprised of several million irate, stressed and, in some cases, downright unpleasant people, I wondered for the thousandth time what possessed me to take this job. True, it pays well, but money does not have much use if you're forced to stay behind a desk, ticking never ending amounts of boxes, for the rest of eternity. It's difficult being the keeper of the gates to the afterlife.

Having drifted into a daydream about life beyond the four bland walls of this endless corridor, I was rudely interrupted from my reverie by a large hand slamming down onto my desk. I hastily arranged my papers and smiled up at the person, who turned out to be a burly, six foot man with the face of one who had somewhere to be and did not want to waste a second more in getting there. Which was fair, considering that he had probably been waiting to stand before my mighty plywood desk and my box-like computer for several years.

"Ah, yes, welcome to the Afterlife Corporation. On behalf of my company, I apologise for the wait - as you can imagine, we have a large amount of people that wish to be Evaluated, and unfortunately-"

The hand came down again, with twice the force. The desk shook and splintered. I gulped. "FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, GET ON WITH IT! You complete and utter-"

"Sir, sir," I interrupted, desperately trying to calm him down. "We ask customers to keep their voices down in the entrance hall. We want to avoid as many cases of an unsatisfactory result as we can." Not wanting to delay the man any longer, as his face was turning puce, I quickly clicked some buttons on my ancient computer and brought up the form which would determine the rest of his life. Well, not exactly life- hearing the man making a sort of growling noise, I brought my attention to the screen. "Right, let's get this over with, then. Name?"

"About time. Richard Slater."

Resisting the urge to enquire about the origin of the uncommon name of Mr. About Time Richard Slater, I kept my face impassive as I typed his details. "Age?"

"Thirty-seven," he grunted.

Another few taps. "Reason for death?"

He shifted uncomfortably, looking embarrassed. "I, uh, that's a personal question. Do I have to answer that?"

I stared at him.

"Alright, alright." He shifted, looking around awkwardly. "I broke into a shop. It was a big shop, ok. A really famous one in London - they wouldn't've minded if I took a few things - and there was no one about, so I didn't hurt anyone. Not that I would've, of course, even if there had been-" catching sight of my look, he abruptly cut off his babbling. In my experience, the deceased often try to do this - paint themselves in the best possible light, explain away any wrongdoing. It never helps them, in the end.

"Carry on, Mr Slater."

"Well, I had just filled my bags with stuff and, um... well, it was late, you know, and pitch black, and I couldn't find my way out. Like a maze, it was. So you can't really blame me - when I was running down the escalator, I tripped, and then I ended up here." He shrugged in mock nonchalance, when really his face had turned a flaming red colour. I calmly finished typing my sentence. Rule number one of Gatekeeping- show no emotion.

"Doesn't even scrape my top-ten most embarrassing death list, but I have to admit, that is not the best way to meet your end." Safely saving Richard's story to the database, I prepared myself to ask the rest of the questions. The questions that would tick the all-important boxes and secure his future. "Now, I have a few more things to ask you. Answer them as fully as you can, and we shouldn't have any problems."