Anger Has Its Uses
CAN I TELL YOU a secret?
You are allowed to be angry. Yes, really. People might see it as some terrible sin but those people tend to be the ones expressing their feelings in other, far more damaging ways. Like tweeting (honestly, just turn the computer off and have a good shout at your pillow or something).
Anger is an emotion that was once heralded. Anger has been used to fix famines, to cure diseases. Trust me when I say that smallpox would still be around if Edward Jenner hadn’t got so pissed off with all the rashes and decided to do something about it. Vaccination made, disease eradicated. Solution found.
And yet we’re not allowed to be angry anymore. It’s dangerous, apparently. You should just dig a deep pit and pop all that rage in there, before anyone notices. Well, I’m here to say that such an idea is bordering on lunacy. Rage keeps us strong. Anger keeps us fighting.
Maybe you think I’m biased, because from the outside it looks like anger is a permanent resident in my psyche. But you’re wrong. In fact, for someone running an entirely unrewarding system, day in and day out, I’m not sure I’m quite angry enough.
He’s gone for about two hours. I think it’s two hours, anyway. The clock on the wall has moved steadily around from four o’clock to six o’clock but I can’t be sure that it is governed by the same structures of time that clocks back home are.
It feels long enough to be two hours, though, that’s for sure. After a painful stretch of time sitting staring at the walls around me, I decided to give up waiting in his office. I could feel all sorts of big and scary thoughts tickling at the edge of my subconscious and I had no interest in opening up that particular can of worms.
So I wandered off. Out the side door and into those horribly blank corridors. There had to be something else, after all. Something other than Death’s office, a lift and lines of locked doors. For a while it seemed as if that really was all there was, until finally I rounded a corner and found one door that was actually open.
Inside was a kitchen. The stark mundanity of it almost made me laugh. And perhaps that was why I decided to stay. Or perhaps it was just because it was a room that had more than one color present (if you can count beige as a color). All I know is I found myself sitting there for the next two hours, flicking through the pile of dusty and hefty recipe books on the table. Each one had a different name written in different handwriting and I couldn’t help but wonder how they had ended up there. How had Otto Sundberg’s book on Quick and Easy Curries ended up here, in an empty and lonely kitchen in the middle of a maze of deserted corridors?
But then he arrives. I don’t know how he’s managed to find me and I try not to think about it too much. Either he can somehow track me, or this place is made up of very limited rooms, and I’m not sure which one of those reasons is less appealing. He opens the door, pausing on the threshold as he looks at me idly turning the pages of the curry book. When I look up, he’s got a rather surprised expression on his face.
“What are you doing?” he asks finally, sounding genuinely bemused.
I stare at him. Considering that last time I saw him, he was furious and talking about sending me away, this isn’t quite the conversation starter I was expecting. “Um,” I begin, before glancing down at the book in front of me, “I was just looking. While I waited.”
Death comes forward so he’s standing a little to my right. I sense that he’s hanging back, giving me some space. “You know you don’t need to eat anymore, right?”
“If I don’t need to eat, why is there a kitchen? And recipe books?” I can’t quite believe I’m going along with this bizarre conversation but if it stops us shouting at each other, then fine. The past few hours have washed away the blinding screen of my own anger and I’m painfully aware that neither of us handled things well earlier.
Death drops into a chair, picks at the edge of the table with fingernails still stained with spots of pen. “People missed eating. So I made a kitchen.”
“So we can eat?”
He nods. “If you want to. You don’t have to, obviously. But you can.”
“Oh. Right.”
An uneasy silence settles over us as both of us consider whether there’s something else to say other than the somewhat difficult conversation we both know needs to happen. Finally, though, Death seems to buckle. Clearly he’s not as comfortable in silence as I can be. “So. Earlier you seemed sort of...upset.”
“Observant of you.”
Death frowns, then his expression clears. “Oh, you’re being sarcastic. I thought maybe you were giving me a compliment. I don’t know, to clear the air or something.”
“Not really my style,” I admit, because it’s true. Compliments aren’t worth anything if they’re not genuine, in my opinion.
Death makes a thoughtful noise. He’s tugged a pen from his pocket and he slowly twirls it over his fingers. The pen lid taps against the table at the end of every twist. Like a ticking clock. “Why were you so upset? Did you know her? It wasn’t in your file.”
I stare, confused and a little suspicious because I can’t quite work if he’s joking or not. But his expression is entirely serious. “No. I didn’t know her.”
“So why did it matter so much?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?” I receive a slow nod, his eyes fixed on me intently. “Because it’s really shit to die. And maybe you don’t see that when you’re dealing with it all the time. It’s awful and scary and lonely. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be allowed to feel it. It’s when we don’t feel things properly that the problems start.”
Death’s gaze sharpens even more. “Like Violet?” He shrugs at the surprised look I’m sure I’m now wearing. “In your file. She features. Heavily.”
I look down at the table. Hearing her name hurts like a slap in the face. “I’m sure she does,” I mutter eventually. “She never quite got the hang of feelings.” I don’t want to say any more, not to this man who doesn’t understand the first thing about humans. He won’t understand how depression grabbed a hold of my best friend’s brain and twisted her emotions into terrifying, unmanageable monsters. How she would cry herself to sleep at night or, even more alarmingly, sit on the sofa and stare into space for hours. How, even now, I feel responsibility for her weighing down on me like a box of lead. So I move on, swiftly. “I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s your place to take the trauma of death away from people.”
The pen has paused in its twirling. Death stares into space, the cogs whirring at top speed. Then his gaze snaps back on me. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“That’s all you’re getting. Don’t push it.” He watches me carefully for a moment, then carries on. “Do you want to go back, then?”
I’m starting to realize that Death doesn’t really seem to understand the relative gravity of his different questions. He asks them all in the same, casual way, regardless of how earth-shattering they may be and then looks bewildered when I seem flummoxed by this.
“Back—back to Earth? How?”
Death stretches, a small smile appearing on his face at the prospect of being able to explain himself and, presumably, show off his cleverness. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually. You’re not properly dead, see? It’s not your proper time yet and you’ve not passed through the door yet. So theoretically you should be able to get back. If we do it properly.”
“How? How do we do it properly?”
Death’s grin suggests this is the right question. He hops up, beckoning me toward the door. Out of some sort of desperation, I follow him.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re not going to be able to get back home from that kitchen.”
I falter, pausing hesitantly in the corridor. “Wait! I—I don’t think I can go back to my flat. Not yet...not until we’re sure I can stay. I—I can’t do that to her.”
Death has stopped too and he turns back to me, badly hidden impatience in the crinkle of his brow. “We’re not going back there, come on.” He’s one moment away from an eye roll, I can tell. But somehow he manages to restrain himself.
Somewhat reassured, I catch him up and we make the tiresome walk back through the corridors to the lift.
Death seems lost in his thoughts, until the doors close, and he finally seems to remember I’m there. “So, this is how we’re going to do this,” he begins, like we’re planning a bank heist. “You’re not fully dead, like I said before. This version of you here, standing in the lift, hasn’t crossed through my door yet. That, plus the fact you arrived early, should work in your favor.”
“Should?”
Death shrugs, eyes flicking away from me. “It’s the best I’ve got.”
I suppose I should be grateful that there’s a chance at all, but my natural preference for order and organization does not approve of this vague, fingers-crossed attitude that Death is showing. Still, no time for that now. The lift has shuddered to a halt, signaling our arrival. I can’t help but be a little apprehensive and I glance over to Death again. “Where are we?”
Death smiles maddeningly. A little kid hiding a secret that he’s just dying to tell. I think he’s quite enjoying himself. It’s a little jarring, but it’s a nice change from the blank-faced robot that took me to fetch Jennifer.
The doors open and we step out into the world once more. I take a second to get my bearings in the wholly unfamiliar landscape, blinking in the sudden sunlight. Wherever we are, it’s morning. I can tell from the way the sun is peeking over the mountains off to our left and the anticipatory silence that lingers around us. A day is hatching, potential seeping through the cracks.
“Rachel.”
It’s my turn to look bewildered. “It’s Daisy.”
Death rolls up his sleeves with a sigh of exasperation. “Rachel is the name of the town. Well, not really a town. More just a—a collection of houses and people.”
I look around again and I can see his reason for the clarification. There really aren’t enough houses here to qualify as a town. And between the few buildings, all I can see is flat ground stretching out for miles and miles. Middle of nowhere doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Right. And dare I ask why we’re here?”
Death stops adjusting his sleeves and places his hands in his back pockets. “Rachel is the nearest settlement to Area 51. You know—the one with all the aliens and crap?”
“Is it crap?” I interrupt, suddenly wondering if he’ll know the answer to this.
Death glances at me, trying to decide if he can waste any of his precious time on this question. Finally, he seems to decide it is. “Put it this way: if they exist, they’re not coming through my department.”
A surprisingly sensible and courteous answer. “Right.” A pause, which Death doesn’t fill, so I give him a gentle verbal nudge: “Go on.”
“Well, I figured that people living near Area 51 won’t bat too much of an eyelid if you appear out of thin air.”
“But if I appear here, won’t I just be stuck in the middle of a desert, finding my own way home?”
Death shoots me an indulgent look. “Daisy, if you manage to appear here during your first attempt, for long enough that you need to get yourself home, I will personally find a UFO to fly you there.”
Well, that puts me in my place. “So this isn’t going to be a quick process?”
“No, Daisy. Returning from death is not a quick process.”
Deciding that I can ignore his withering tone for the moment, I move on: “Fine, OK. How do I return from death, then?”
Death clasps his hands behind his back, straightening his posture somewhat. I smell a lecture coming. I’m not disappointed. “Despite what you might think, I actually believe certain emotions to be incredibly important.” I raise an eyebrow at this, but he carries on. “In fact, it has long been said by the wise philosophers of the universe that emotions are what make us truly alive.”
“Which philosophers said that?”
Death squints at me and my incredulous tone, sensing a trap. “Plato?”
“Don’t think so.”
“The other one.”
I can’t help but laugh at that, crossing my arms. “The other one, right. I forgot there were only two wise philosophers of the universe.”
“It’s really not important, Daisy. May I?” Smirking a little, I gesture for him to continue. Clearly my grilling has exhausted him so much so that he feels the need to sit down, which he does on a nearby rock. “Emotions are closely linked to your being, your essence. Your living soul. All those different and complicated emotions make us true, living humans.”
“Us?”
It’s a question asked out of pure curiosity but I notice a slight tightening in his jaw as Death corrects himself. “You. Them. Whatever. Anyway, I think that is what could bring you back to the living world. A strong emotion and a shove.”
“A shove?” I’m trying hard not to sound too disbelieving but a shove just seems far too simple to be involved in the process for bringing me back to life.
He shrugs. “That’s the idea. The line between life and death is fragile. It’s old and stretched. If you’ve got the right amount of ingredients, the recipe is pretty simple.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to decide if I really trust him. He sounds fairly confident and relaxed, but that does seem to be his general state. Then again, I can’t really see how it could go wrong. Either it will work or it won’t. There is one more thing nagging away at me, though. “Have you tried this before?”
Death shifts a little on his rocky seat, then shakes his head. “But I checked with Natasha and she said my theory was sound. She questions my approach to paper clip storage, so if she thinks it’s all right, I must be pretty close.”
I have to smile a little at that. Then I nod. “All right. Let’s do this.”
Grinning, Death jumps up and moves over to my side. “Cool. OK, you’re going to need to think of something that makes you angry.”
“Angry?”
Death nods. “Really angry. Steaming at the ears angry. I feel like that’s something you’ve experienced before.”
Can’t argue there. “Why anger, though?”
“Because, as much as people like to pretend that happiness or love are the most powerful emotions, you can’t really deny that angry people get a lot more shit done.”
I want to argue but I have too much evidence in my short life to support Death’s claim. For someone naturally quiet, rage has always been a surprisingly comfortable place for me to visit when necessary. When you’re called Daisy, people like to assume you’re a bit droopy. And sometimes those people need to be put in their place. Clearly some of these thoughts show on my face because Death shoots me a small, knowing grin.
Sighing, I take a step away from him and turn my back. I need to concentrate and I can’t do that with him gawping at me. I close my eyes, force myself to think of a time when I’ve been truly angry.
Well, there’s one that comes to mind immediately. One where anger seemed to lodge itself right in the core of my bones, seemed to rot away part of my heart.
It was only about a year ago. Violet had been going through a rough patch with her depression and had taken a few days off from a dancing job to get herself back on track. It had been days filled with weary tears and bitter arguments as I tried to help her out of bed and out of her own dark thoughts, as she clawed her way back into rational thoughts and fought for the right to a day not filled with utter lethargy and hopelessness.
Finally, after four days, she managed to pull herself out the other side. The next day of work for her was a Saturday so I said I’d go in with her, so she didn’t have to face the Tube and the other dancers’ stares and the director’s glare alone. She did so well, kept her head up high as she marched back into the theater. I was watching her make this confident beeline for the director when I heard them; a small group of other dancers loitering by the door with matching sneers.
I heard she was off because she went mental. That’s what Denise told me. Apparently, she was sending her texts all Wednesday night. Whining about how she couldn’t see the point anymore, or whatever.
Such an attention seeker, probably just wanted an excuse for dancing like shit last week.
And that was all it took. For my protective instincts to rear up and roar. Because they hadn’t seen how hollow Violet’s eyes had been all week; they hadn’t heard her desperate, exhausted sobs in the middle of the night; they didn’t understand what it was like to be attacked from the inside.
My fists have clenched, I can feel my nails digging into my skin. A tingling feeling begins, then spreads, from my chest right to the tips of my fingers. Somehow I know that this is it, the moment I’m aiming for. I take a deep breath, nodding rapidly in the hope that Death sees this and takes it as the sign that I’m ready. I can’t open my eyes, can’t risk losing the threads of the deep, painful rage, because I know they’re so fragile that the smallest distraction will send those threads fluttering away in the breeze.
It seems he gets the message, though, because a moment later I feel a firm hand on my back which then shoves me rather forcefully forward. I stumble, almost falling to the ground. Then I feel something within me, like a little shiver deep inside. My eyes snap open and I look around me, desperate for some sign of my shift from death to life.
There’s a glorious moment when it’s just me on the dirt ground, alone. Death is no longer standing beside me, confirming my shift from his world to mine. But then comes the shiver again and, like a television with bad reception, Death reappears, his appearance slightly hazy and jittery for a second. Then the tingling on my skin is gone and he’s standing there, clear as day.
“I had it, I did!” I gasp, somehow out of a breath that I no longer even require.
“I know,” Death says. I can see he’s impressed, but he’s trying to hide it. “Pretty good for a first try, well done.” Wow, actual praise. Clearly my pleasant surprise is showing on my face because he clears his throat and turns away a little. “But obviously we need to keep practicing.”
So that is what we do. We keep practicing until the sun is high up in the sky and the flocks of alien conspiracists start arriving. Then Death moves us on somewhere else, deciding that appearing in front of so many people, even people with a healthy attitude to the paranormal, is not a good idea. We visit the middle of the rain forest, in the dead of night with a moon glowing high above us. We practice trying to appear again and I manage to do it for long enough to startle a loitering bird, but then I’m gone once more. Death blames it on the humidity, takes me to a tiny alpine village and tries to get me to appear in front of a field of sheep by the side of the road. But this time I can’t even manage a second.
We practice for hours. We visit another three places: a sleepy village right out of a fairy tale, a Japanese shrine on the edge of a tranquil lake, an ancient-looking fort atop a hill that overlooks an overcrowded town. But I don’t ever appear for more than a few seconds.
Death gets a slightly desperate look in his eyes, then. He’s already rejected about six phone calls and he knows he’s running out of time, but I don’t think failure is something he deals with very well. I feel emotionally drained. The act of reliving a moment of intense anger over and over is beginning to take its toll on me.
But Death is not giving up. And with a still slightly wild look in his eyes, he drags me from the dusty courtyard of this strange, faraway fort and back into the lift.
“We’re trying something else,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Last try, then I’ve really got to get back.” Yes, I imagine he does. I’m sure Natasha will be furious at him for being gone so long.
Then the lift doors open and all thoughts of Death’s deadlines leave my head. Because of all the places in the world, did it really have to be here?
We’re standing on my street. It’s a wintry midafternoon, judging by the fact that the sun is almost behind the row of houses. A bus whooshes past, a plane screeches through the sky. Far away I hear a siren, off to another scene of changed lives. But here, on my street, everything seems the same. There’s still the cracked wall by number nine, there’s still the lazy tabby cat stretched out on number thirteen’s fence. Number seven’s letter box is still wonky, the hedge is still haphazardly trimmed from that one weekend of sun a few weeks back when the old man living there got a little overexcited. For a moment, it’s like I’m alive again. Standing in front of the iron railings after a long day at work, ready to go inside and enjoy my evening with Violet. An evening of laughing ourselves to tears, usually at something inappropriate, while the simple joy of being together chases away the cold sneaking through the cracks in the walls.
As if she’s sensed my wistful imaginings, Violet arrives.
It can’t have been more than a day now since I left her, but the change in her is clear. Her hair is scraped back off her face and tightly confined to a bun, which is something Violet never does as she owns her curls with intense pride. She’s dressed in her old jogging bottoms and her huge netball team sweater from university, which is half covered up by her fluffy dressing gown. Rings circle her eyes, and her face is devoid of any makeup. Another complete rarity for her. Her feet are bare, even though there’s still a definite February chill in the air. She clutches a small bunch of flowers in her hand, knuckles prominent from how tightly she’s gripping. Like she’s afraid someone is going to take those from her too.
She comes up from our basement flat, then makes her way down the street toward the corner shop. But she stops before she reaches it, instead kneeling down to one spot on the pavement. I think this must be where I died.
For a moment the world around me fades to nothing. It’s just me and Violet, lost in two entirely different forms of grief.
Then I feel it. That weird tingling sensation all over my skin but this time it’s stronger, and there’s a tugging feeling in my abdomen as well. Like someone has wrapped rope around my stomach and is pulling with all their might. But I don’t understand; I’m as far away from angry as I could possibly be. There’s just cold, visceral grief now. And yet I feel like I’m inches away from breaking through from death to life.
Death clearly senses it somehow because a second later I’m shoved forward with the usual suddenness and ferocity. I stumble, coming to a halt right in front of her. “Violet?” I call, my skin feeling like it’s covered in frantically moving ants.
Nothing.
I turn around to Death, feeling desperate frustration welling up inside me. “What the hell were you thinking, bringing me here? This isn’t fair! I can’t be here, not yet!”
Death runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it up with a grimace. “Maybe not,” he sighs. “I thought it was worth a shot...”
I want to shout at him some more, to make him see that this isn’t some fun experiment. This is my life.
But then I hear a gasp.
I turn, not quite ready to hope yet, but at the same time feeling a lifting sensation in my chest.
The gasp, of course, has come from Violet, as she sits among the paving slabs, bathed in the last scraps of winter sunshine. Staring right at me.