Amy clung by her finger tips and toes to the underside of the rock face. Below her was half a mile of air. She reached forward and felt for her next hand hold. Testing the rock to make sure it was solid before she allowed her toes to relinquish their purchase. A cold wind swept around the overhang. Her feet swung free below her as she gripped the small crevasse. Amy smiled to herself with satisfaction.
The younger climbers all teased her that that she was too old at forty nine to be adventure climbing like this. This ascent was one that she had attempted several times before, but the weather or illness or something had prevented her. Now her goal was almost in sight as she drew closer to the top. She was near the rim of the last outcrop. She’d show those mocking inexperienced youths. Amy assessed the surface overhead for another hand hold.
‘Telegram.’
‘What?’ Amy turned her head. She stared.
‘Telegram.’
Bobbing up and down in mid air beside her was a short, lighly tanned man, dressed in an old fashioned telegram boy’s outfit. Amy looked below him in amazement. Nothing supported him. He was just floating, or rather bobbing in a lazy manner, like a small boat on a mild swell at sea.
‘What?’ she repeated.
‘Look I haven’t got all day. Telegram you know. Want it or not?’
Amy reached for the small envelope the man waved at her. Then she realised that the stone her one hand supported her by was crumbling. The man let go of the envelope. It spiralled away downward.
‘Oops, silly me,’ he giggled.
Amy looked down in despair and dropped after it. The man giggled again and vanished. The wind growled past the empty overhang.
‘Extra, extra, read all about it. Amy Dunstan dead, climbing tragedy, read all about it!’ Crowds bustled past the newsstand. Sara was among them. She didn’t have time to read a newspaper. She had to get home.
The girls would be back from school and want feeding. John had asked for steak and kidney pie for tea that evening. She hadn’t had time to make the pastry before leaving for work. The afternoon meeting had gone on longer than she had hoped. She was late. She’d missed lunch to save time, just having coffee, as usual.
Sara clutched the briefcase full of documents. She had to write a report that night. She had to present it to the board in the morning. Sara pushed her way down into the tube station. She elbowed her way onto the escalators. The familiar acrid smell from the tracks came upward. The overcrowded escalator grumbled and bumped its way downward. Sara still had an hour journey ahead of her.
Steak and kidney pie, clean and iron clothes, the girls’ sports gear to get ready, write the report. Sara ran through the things she had to do. The adverts slid up away behind her as the escalator bore her down.
Knowing she could not afford the delay of missing the next tube Sara forced her way to the front of the platform, a little over the white line. She must not miss the train.
‘Telegram for Mrs Sara Collins!’ The shout reached her above the other voices and noise.
‘What?’ she turned to look.
‘Telegram.’ A small envelope was waved in her face.
‘How on earth did you find me among all these people?’
‘Look you want this or not? I haven’t got all day you know. Telegram.’
Sara reached out for it. A rush of air along the track from out of the tunnel told that the train was coming. She couldn’t miss that. Telegrams meant bad news though, Steak and kidney pie, sports gear, the report, bad news.
A pain in the chest. Ignore it, telegram to read, tube to catch. A bad pain. Sara’s knees buckled and she let go of the envelope. It was whisked away in the wind of the arriving train. Sara sank lifeless to the platform. The crowd boarded the train and left her body to the few who had stopped to help her. Unnoticed, the telegram man giggled.
The tube station platform and everyone on it faded around the chuckling man. Other sounds stopped. The movement of the people slowed down. A tall thin figure dressed in a long black robe appeared beside him. The figure shook his head as he looked down at the attempts to save Sara.
‘You know Popov I don’t think you’ve quite got the hang of this. You are not supposed to assist the process,’ the figure said to the telegram man.
‘Oh but bellwether it gives them an interest. Instead of just thinking “hey I’m dying”, they think “hey I wonder what was in that telegram”,’ Popov said.
‘I know you believe you are helping the mortals, but you are not. I want you to stop this telegram business alright?’
‘Yes patroni,’ Popov hung his head.
My title is Death, not bellwether, patroni or any other euphemism you may wish to use,’ the voice was cold and hard. ‘We just collect, understood? No participation, no making it fun or interesting, just collect. How many times have I had to tell you this Popov?’
‘Er, at the last count, um, three hundred and fifty seven. Now it’s three hundred and fifty eight, monsignor,’ he added in a cheery helpful tone.
‘And how long have you been one of my assistants?’
‘Um, er, a week your gracious omnipotence sir?’
‘You will be the death of me Popov. No more interference! Do I make myself clear?’ boomed Death. The tube station had faded away and they were standing in a sunlit green field full of buttercups.
‘As the grave magnificent one, as the grave.’
‘Popov, I’m warning you. Now go and collect your next passing. Let me see,’ Death pulled a scroll from his pocket and unrolled it. Death glanced skyward after he had studied the list of names. ‘Lord, what have I done to you? I don’t know why Popov, but you are to collect Charlie the clown from Tyacks circus. Now no jokes and definitely no “making it interesting”.’
‘But your worship he’s a clown. Couldn’t I -’
‘No, nothing. NOTHING. Just go and collect him, understood?’ Popov hung his head once more.
‘Yes great soul custodian,’ he mumbled and Death disappeared. Popov turned to see a collection of large caravans clustered beside a cheerful stripy big top tent. Flags and banners streamed out in the breeze. Jugglers were practising in the sunshine. Popov smiled.
‘I expect Charlie’ll miss all this, the big top all picture perfect candy stripes under this sunny sky.’ Popov said to himself, ‘Jugglers too, cool. Wonder if they’ll let me have a go when I’ve finished with old Charlie?
That must be his caravan there with the people stood around looking sad. Not right for a clown’s passing that everyone looks glum like that. Well, I’m sure his worship wouldn’t think there’d be any harm in me wearing a small sort of red nose, would he?
No, oh and just a short wig of fuzzy ginger hair. But that wouldn’t look right without a huge red mouth outlined in white and the elongated shoes that flap and- the jacket, you have to have an oversized patchwork jacket with a big flower in the button hole.,’ He entered the caravan, ‘There, now I can collect him proper. Hi there, you Charlie the dying clown?’ Popov addressed the elderly man lying under a purple satin eiderdown, with three women kneeling beside him crying.
‘I’m the one lying in the bed aren’t I with all these here wimen with long faces hanging over him? What have you come as?’
Popov grinned with pride and squirted water from the large flower, one of the women looked up as though she thought the roof was leaking.
‘I came as a clown, I thought –‘
‘I’m dead right?’ said Charlie.
‘Yep, you’re right, it’s no joke,’ grinned Popov and Charlie heaved a sigh.
‘You mean to say I can’t even get away from it in death. Christ, hardly worth passing over. You Death are you?
‘His assistant.’ Popov said, a little crest fallen at the clown’s reaction to his costume.
‘Bloody hell, I don’t even warrant the top man. Don’t suppose I can have a fag can I?’
‘Er, no, sorry.’
‘You look a right pillock in that gear.’ Said Charlie, ‘Where’s the scythe thing then? Or don’t you junior assistants get one of them things then in case you hurts someone?’
‘Yes I’ve got one,’ said Popov affronted, ‘but I thought you’d like – well, this outfit.’
‘Everyone over on this side dress like that, do they?’
‘No.’ said a deflated Popov
‘Well that’s something anway,’ said Charlie, rising up from the bed. ‘Come on take me to the sensible people then. Am I up or down by the way?
‘Sorry, up or down what?’
‘You know. Go on you can tell me,’ said Charlie in a confidential tone as he slipped his arm into the crook of Popov’s. ‘After all I’m going to know soon enough. I reckon as how it’ll be down. Been lusting after wimen all me life I have. But I was so ugly I never got meself one. Now I’m goin’ to hell I expects all the wimen will be after me but they’ll be so ugly I won’t want them. An eternity of torment I’ll spend being chased by ugly wimen.’
‘Sorry,’ said Popov. ‘I can’t say, I just escort clients to arrivals, that’s all.’
‘Well you’d best get on with it me old Coco the clown.’ said Charlie. ‘Ha, don’t make me laugh. If I never see another clown face it’ll be too soon. No.. don’t say it..I’ll be sentenced to eternity as an ugly clown being chased by ugly wimen who look like clowns. I’d rather come back as a conjuror’s rabbit. Can’t get me in upstairs can you?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ said Popov. ‘Put a word in like, even though it’ll mean extra work for me and I’ll have to go behind my boss’ back. Not easy when you work for an all seeing you know.’
‘Anything I can get to make it worth your while?’ Charlie wheedled.
‘Since you ask, I’m sure we can come to some agreement.’ said Popov grinning.