The last Smiths pub
Brrrrrring!
The doorbell chimed dimly. I didn't notice it. I was lost in thought, staring out the window with a warm cloth to a candle. Ambrose' conversation was hovering in my head. I cracked off melted wax. The breeze in my neck told me the door was still open.
"A slice of your apple pie please, and some custard if you would."
I kept my head down, looking at the candlewax in my cloth.
"Apple pies are on Tuesdays and custard we're all out of, sorry. Please close the door if you will."
"Still haven't figured it out, have you?"
Slowly, my head shifted up.
Underneath the bell stood a timid, yet familiar figure. By the sight of him, my eyes jointed. "You!"
In my hands, the candle wax was crushed to bits. "Why have you come here?" I asked harshly, putting emotions before thought, yet again. It was the Hendricks boy from before. Death. "I'm a customer," he said, showing off deep dimples in his cheeks. "I've come for your soup."
"No, you're not," I corrected. "I know the trait of a customer. You, boy, do not resemble one. Are you even old enough to be in here?"
But SimpleCheeks just smiled dumb back at me, without a concern in the world for my apparent distaste in his presence.
A harsh voice came from the storage room behind me. "Ann! How can you be so rude to a paying guest? See to that he gets what he wants- immediately!" It was the owner.
I rolled my eyes. Our guest seemed perfectly happy with this and rubbed his hands together. "It appears I'm staying" he chirped on. "What's today's special?"
I gave him a grim look, deciding whether or not to throw him out anyway. After yesterdays funny encounter I didn't like his face much. Weighing on this possibility my hands lingered. Then I flung the cloth down and grabbed a chalkboard from over the counter. "There's only one course today- like it or leave it!" I grabbed the menu from the bar and dropped it on the table in front of him.
"Broccoli...interesting. I've never tasted broccoli soup before. I'll go with that then. Did you make it yourself?"
"We have a cook" I lied. We didn't really. It was the old wife that made every meal served here, a ragged old lady with ten ears and three mouths, but she was as good a cook as any as far as I'm concerned. She would boil the water hot, drifting out into the guest rooms until all the windows had been dimmed out, throw it around in different pans until the dogs outside started barking by the noise and finally pour a big lump of it into a plate and give it to her husband for breakfast. The rest were kept in a massive saucepan throughout the day. Sometimes I would sneak in fish from Kerrigan just to pimp the taste. From bland to bland with fish! The house slogan.
When I came back from the kitchen he pushed out a chair from under the table. "Please" he gestured, "take a seat. We have much to talk about."
I tossed a look over my shoulder and eyed the owner still staring suspiciously at me. Then he disappeared into the storage room again. "Fine. But first, you tell me who you are."
"I'd rather not." our guest replied.
"-and why is that?" I said.
"I would lie"
I felt my inner lion jump forward and take control of the ship. Perfect. A lunatic. I could almost hear Sophie's voice in the back of my head going 'well, at least he's an honest one'
Honest, my ass. For two seconds, maybe.
"-and if you didn't?" I said. "Liars don't make it far in this town." I put the broccoli soup down.
"I'd make a guess and say you'd faint pretty quickly. And on the liar part, you are sorely mistaken. They may seem devious to you, but lies are a great weapon to stay alive- if you only know how to use it."
Not plausible. I sigh. "Are you saying this in faith you are clearing things up? Who are You?"
"You're awfully fond of those words, aren't you? What...why...who..." he poked around in his soup, pushing one broccoli around the edge.
"That's a good thing, really, means you're intelligent. And standing up to society...I'll be needing that."
He gestured at my elbows on the table. I quickly retrieved them when I got the idea.
Hang on, I thought. Was he...regulating me?
I'm taking orders from a 16-year-old now. Terrific. If only he wasn't being so cryptic about everything.
My blood was starting to boil. -for what? I wanted to scream, -needed me...for...what exactly?!
But I kept my manners in check, knowing I could still be scolded for not patronizing our guests.
Still, with the spoon in his soup, he continued, "I'm looking for someone...who can do me a favor. It's a special one before you ask. And not something just any a drifter could do. But my meal would be cold should I implicate all the details."
Then he frowned, having glanced back over my shoulder. "Who's that?" he added, lifting his spoon. I followed his eyes. They landed on the stranger who came in the other day. Still in his ragged old uniform, he was standing in the corner of the room making a phone call.
My face twisted. "Just another pass through. He's been here for a few days now. Why, what do you want with me?"
But Death ignored me. "Did he give a name when he came in?" he asked, staring hauntingly at the stranger.
I shook my head. "You'll have to ask Sophie about that. But she's off now."
"Couldn't you check the record book?"
"Look, I don't know who that is, and I'm not gonna check unless you give me a better reason to do so. Now, what will it be?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"How about...a trade?" Death said, eying me. "Or a favor for a favor if you please. You clearly don't like this guy," he continued, without any explanation as to how he knew that- "and I might happen to be able to do something about that. So...I help you...you help me. Easy peasy."
I considered this for a moment, but couldn't give him a clear answer. Did I want this person gone? He had hung up the phone but was still standing in the exact same spot as before, staring at the wall. Slightly discomforting if you ask me, he didn't strike you as the type to run off with the fairies that easily. When Death saw my confused face, he continued. "I'm guessing I'm not the only customer questioning this mans...way of being, am I right? That uniform...tattered as it is-doesn't look very British to me. Can't be good for The Smith's reputation."
I was eyeing Death as more as a trickster now more than ever when our stranger suddenly hung up. On the uniform part, he might be right though. Even if I couldn't place it myself it gave me the shivers every time his medals chimed or he dragged his heavy boots across the floor. The stranger had never spoken, likelihood was that he'd gotten his tongue cut out or worse. Traitors never made it far. Call it intuition if you like, but Death saw in this moment what I saw, and it was a man trying to hold onto his life even after defeat. "What do you know?" I asked Death in a spiteful tone. "I don't like anyone. And right now, as for strange, you're the weirdest one in here. What's your name anyway, boy?"
"Alfie. Alfie Hendricks."
"Alfie? I thought that was your brother..."
"Don't you think I'd remember my own name?"
"That's not what I meant." He smirked, clearly enjoying giving away his name after all.
"So," I continued, "Alfie Hendricks. It appears I do know who you are. Very well so, even. And if you don't stop talking in codes now, I'll very soon pick up that phone right over there, and give your mum a call telling her exactly where you are."
Death didn't seem to budge on this either. Not even when I got up and picked up the phone, pretending to dial someone. I'd gotten as far as to hear the static on the other end when suddenly his voice turned to a grave whisper.
I had a strange feeling wash over me as I realized we were the only ones in the room. All the other guests had left, out to a dark and stormy night outside, yet somehow, when he spoke to me, his presence became darker and more wild than what could ever await outside in the storm.
"Something weird has been happening to you lately, hasn't it?" He said, poking around in his food. "Cancer will do that to you."
I frown. He took another spoonful and continued eating without looking my way.
I clung to the phone, my hands had turned ice cold. The buzzing sound was still in my ear. "I don't appreciate people snooping in my private life, thank you." I felt a slight burn to my face. Nobody had said that out loud for years. How did someone even come up with that? But I reconsidered. No. He had to have known from before. It's not something one could guess just by looking at me. Short-haired women were in vogue right now so I blended perfectly in. He must have known. Somehow. "What do you want?" I snarled, starting to feel how the room somehow changed when he wanted to. I didn't like it.
"Refill?" He asked, suddenly blissfully radiant while holding up the empty bowl.
There was a crackling next to me and I saw a man sitting by the fire, reading, that I'd thought left earlier. We weren't alone anymore. Perhaps we'd never really been fully alone, but I didn't understand how.
Death was jumping in mood swings. It seems both ways was somehow chillingly natural, cheerful or grim, but neither more real than the other.
He held up the empty bowl to me.
"We're all out I'm afraid. The pub's about to close." I went back and picked up his bowl and cutlery. Now If you'll excuse me I'm going to tend to th-" I turned around but he held my hand back. It snapped out so quickly, I almost dropped the empty bowl when I jumped. The spoon slid off the edge and hit the floor.
Slowly, Death turned my hand over. My torn up, damaged hand, now with abnormally large, spiky nails. "So it's true," he said, dragging back the weary feeling from earlier. "She really did pick you." He drew a long finger over my swollen hand. "I suggest you stay away from the acid," he said, "It'll only make things worse. Think of it as a gift- kind of twisted one but still, it's the thought that counts, am I right?"
I drew my hand back and he let go. "Who's she?"
Death smiled.
"She choose you. I'm sure you've seen her. She sits outside your window every day now." It seemed like he expected me to understand everything he said, and just go with it. But who the hell was he?
"Yes, yes, yes, alright. I know what you're thinking" he fuzzed, with a theatrical undertone. "And the answer is- Because I am Death, keeper of the non-living, and tonight- I'll do you a favor."
"You're -" Now the soup was dripping to the floor as well.
"-not after you tonight. Don't worry, you'll be fine." Death frowned and blinked at me from under two bushy eyebrows. My face had just taken the form of a marionette puppet with no strings attached. "You have a bunch of questions, I'm sure. But I'm afraid it'll have to - why are you doing that?" he said, frustrated that I'd just thrown my head back and burst into laughter. "So you're Death?" I giggled, unable to stop myself "Good to know! You're an entertaining kid, you nearly had me."
His face turned red. "Will you stop that?"
"When you give me proof I will."
"How does killing the entire room sound?" he asked, a bit more spiteful.
"Terrific," I said and returned to the bar. "Go right ahead."
Death turned his head, slightly pink now. There were very few guests to pick from. An elderly man sleeping by the fire to his right, two fishermen taking quietly on the corner of the bar, and another one with his nose stuck far into a newspaper. Neither of them seemed capable of hearing our conversation.
Death starred intensively at each and every one of them. With a laidback grin, I followed his eyes, waiting for something to happen.
"What wrong, out of power?" I mocked.
"That's not it," he said. "I shouldn't be meddling."
"Meddling? I thought that was what you did, leaving families broken. Are you sure you want to take on the title as death of all things? At this time and age?"
"Now, where did that guest of yours go?" Death said, clearly not enjoying my line of thought. "I did not like the look on his face- been dead for at least a month, that one." Embarrassed, he made his way to the staircase in the back. "The rooms are on the first floor, yes? I guess I have to check in sooner or later. Mind if I have a look?"
"Certainly," I welcomed, and he disappeared up the stairs. At this point, I would send him wherever not to see his face again. And as far as the stranger was concerned, I couldn't care less. He would be out of here sooner or later anyway. They all did. You don't come to Whitby to stay. Not unless you had the weight of repentance swept down upon you like a see-through curtain. This wasn't a place for games, it wasn't a place for ideas or open-mindedness. The young had left or died, and it was hanging like a ghost on the face of every citizen around here.
So whatever stories Freckleface Alfie Hendricks were telling, he had a long way to go until someone would be interested or even batter an ear to listen. It was a humorous idea that he might turn the entire town around with his stories, intriguing indeed, but not a realistic one. I bit my tongue thinking how it might all pan out when the stranger would drag the dimwit of a boy down the stairs and out on the street. Oh, well, it's your own death. I wouldn't poke about the veterans if I could avoid it. Never knew who you might offend or what wounds would be ripped open once more. But as I threw the broken wax away and returned to the window sill my eyes landed on something curious.
At every single table in the room, where I'd just gone over with fresh cloth, vases, candles and cutlery, all the flowers were hanging, withered away. My fingers crushed the petals of a coltsfoot by the window. I watched in awe at the small fly lying on his back underneath it, fighting for its life, shaking around, bouncing, shivering, until it could fly no more.
***