First up, a disclaimer. I suspect I am a dead man.
I have meagre proof, no framed-up certification, nothing to toss in a court of law as evidence of a rapid departure from the mortal coil. I recall a gun was involved, pressed up against my skull, and a loud explosion followed.
An ancient Chinese philosopher, whose bloody name escapes me, reckoned that ‘A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.’ This was prior to the advent of gunpowder, so I’m wondering what fluff the fellow would have churned out concerning a single bullet.
Having proved my credentials—citing the crackpot savant while slinging in a footnote—allows me to get straight to the point.
There is no neat beginning with which to start things. And while debarkation here might be meaningful to the hoi polloi, so far as I was concerned?
Hardly.
My grand entrance in these parts elicited no dull, heavy, monotonous clang of a divine bell, let alone a jaunty toot-tooting of car horns. Festivities, it seemed, were off the agenda.
The climate? Well, this wasn’t balmy enough to postulate the outer suburbs of Hell, but Paradise remained well and truly lost, and one saw nary a pitchfork nor harp. I suppose a better address would be the place to find the Pearly Gates, while Saint Peter must have been gallivanting on French leave. A blessing, since I’m not one for preachy types.
Lacking, to my mind, was a suitable background score banged together by Chopin—though with Frédéric François out of the picture, it was the opportune setting for Victor Laszlo to shepherd a rousing rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’.
You might recall the suavely scarred, excessively honourable Resistance leader, from the film Casablanca?
Sadly, the man was nowhere. At times I found myself humming the melody, deprived of Laszlo’s guidance, but to be honest test pattern music would have sufficed. Alas, I was indulged with silence.
Not for my ears the faintest chorus of cicadas, wild squawk of ravens, or a reassuring rumble of distant traffic. Tiresome Christian Vespers and their Muslim stand-in, adhān, remained mute, and there appeared to be too few little darlings to belt out for me ‘Oranges and Lemons’.
In the moments that I stopped humming as I hoofed it along, I heard scarcely a sound—a reminder of the hush that prevails with snow.
Hereabouts, we’re fleeced of the sight of pirouetting flakes, so I initially considered hearing loss was a by-product of the hop, skip and lunge, from life to a possible demise. A rival thought that I’d alternatively gone insane later crossed my mind, but let’s not go there now.
Although it was plain to see this domain went through the clockwork motions of day and night, and while the feel was more terra firma than Elysian Shangri-la, some aspects were awry. For one thing, the damned weather never committed.
Occasionally, the wind picked up or a light mist draped the horizon, but there was nought I could point to and declare, ‘I say, there’s the sun.’ I marked an absence of rainfall, thunder, or hail. I missed the rain. Where I came from, it used to pour down by the bucketload.
The sky was a canvas of flinty grey looking like it was painted with a bold brush and careless abandon.
At one time, I spotted a sign writer at work up there in the heavens. If I expected ‘Surrender Dorothy’, I was thwarted—the baffling word ‘Jihi’ slowly dissipated and became nothing.
No matter how far I went, the venue otherwise refused to change.
Around me unravelled a vague, diminishing landscape with barren trees and otherwise no remarkable feature, no cities, no towns, no enticing attractions. Forget a parade or a semicircle of wagons overturned to dispel hostile assault by natives.
I was constantly struck by the dreariness of the place; as if a frumpy aunt’s discarded beige stocking filtered the view. There was the odd shack, gloomy house, a lean-to or tent—nothing registering significant—and nary a rolled-out red carpet. Some of these places had a crucifix carved on their exteriors, with the added scraping of a vertical divot on the right side of the cross. This resembled less a religious symbol than a cretin’s sloppy attempt at the number four.
The inhabitants, few and far between, hid behind rough-hewn curtains or skulked in darkened alcoves. Hence, their communication skills came across as altogether disengaged, and I thought, To Hell with them. Figuratively speaking.
So it was, amid these mundane individuals and across this scenery, dull as dishwater, that I first found myself trudging.
Which way I ought to have headed depended a good deal on where I wanted to get, and to be honest it didn’t appear to matter which way I went. Despite sage advice from Lewis Carroll that getting somewhere should be just a matter of walking, no matter how much I walked I reached nowhere.
This pointless labour I undertook on shoddy paths made of clay and marked with washed-out, saffron-stained bricks, slapped down willy-nilly between the odd sprouting of wild Indian tobacco, white chrysanthemums, or rue. The surface of the roads needed a hearty levelling by one of those giant rolling pins you see at cricket matches, yet my inappropriate footwear remained grateful.
It was something else that irked me. Earlier on, I referred to the lack of visible riffraff.
Even so, up ahead on the odd occasion was a diminutive character, half my height, flitting through the scrappy woodland these paths trod. The blighter was never less than fifty or sixty feet away, so it was impossible to distinguish details aside from a scarlet anorak.
I found myself entertaining the bothersome notion that Big Bad Wolf is the role I was earmarked to play, yapping about and snapping on the coat-tails of Red Riding Hood. Let’s cut to the chase here—while my age seriously hampered physical pursuit or a potential shining career in pantomime, the only achievable huffing and puffing would have been the rattle of frail lungs.
Oh, and there was another reason I let this individual be: I once saw a suspenseful Donald Sutherland film called Don’t Look Now.
In that story Sutherland gives chase to another child-sized fugitive in red. He presumes this is his recently deceased daughter, but it turns out to be a homicidal dwarf.
Nothing is what it seems. Better to bide my time, chase nobody, and ramble solo. In hindsight, I could have easily fit into a hazy pastoral painting by William Turner: ‘Man in Bedroom Attire Crossing a Bland Brook’ or some such kerfuffle. It could sell for a fortune and add nothing special to an assiduously lit museum wall.
Artistic overkill aside, I do believe I was going to tell you a tale—but on second thought, let’s chalk this implication up as bunk.
Rather than a depressingly singular account, it’s going to be a mishmash of anecdotes, for neither the sake of brevity nor the saving of a few desperate trees. I don’t aspire to be that kind of chap. I’d say, instead, my objective in doing a merge is plainly because these anecdotes happen to interlink.
Let’s press on, shall we?
The death of a broken-down old man is, unquestionably, the least poetical topic in the world.
What then occurred, however, seemed curious at the time. Following up on brief, if considerable pain, pitch-blackness ensued.
No, I wasn’t fortunate enough to see that old cliché, the beckoning white tunnel, offering rapturous fireworks aplenty. As I say, it was too dark to apprise myself of any such thing. Cursory entertainment like chess, a pack of playing cards, a neurotic white bunny with a fob watch—all of them failed to materialize. Even if they were there, I never would have spotted the things. As you may hazard a guess, said experience was unconscionably dull, yet worse was at hand.
I set up shop in these whereabouts.
For want of a novel tag, let us dub the place the ‘Hereafter’ since I’m here, after I allegedly carked it. Here/After. Yes, I agree, an infuriating moniker and miles away from quick-witted bon mot. You could always employ your imagination to dig us up a better one. In the meantime, we’re high and dry.
After being here a while, a form of psychosis set in—I put this down to lack of stimulating company and the vapid wretchedness all about. This mental imbalance showed up in the way I harangued myself with incoherent soliloquies, a shade like this one. There was no orderly pattern to command proceedings in the old grey matter upstairs, and on countless occasions, I ended up exasperating me personally with puerile wisecracks.
Possibly it was one way in which I fended off the truth. There was no epiphany. In this particular Hereafter, Revelation had cleaned up, decamped, and taken with him all notions of figuring out the meaning of life.
I do concede a little grief that there was no Virgil, or any other Roman poet resurrected by Dante, waiting with a street directory. Neither was there a cowled footman out to menace tourists with a garden hoe—and manna was struck from the carte du jour. Perhaps Cerberus, the triple-headed guard dog of the Underworld, had fled his post to go chasing three sticks, while Charon, with his dinghy to Hades, was amiss.
This was actually a windfall, since I’d been marooned without coinage in my mouth or anyplace else, so it would have been difficult to bribe the man or invest in steaks for the hound.
By the by, don’t go fooling yourself about a handy hardcover ledger atop a podium made of gold, one in which we could tally up a person’s lifetime pros and cons in separate columns—brandishing a baptismal balance and a funereal one, written with some celestial feathered quill. Such a tome was also amiss, and the only pedestals I came across were one or two decidedly out-of-place plastic milk crates, along with the random stumps of cadaverous cypress trees.
Talking of decrepitude, I felt I could pip Methuselah in the age stakes. Far older than the twilight years I’d lapped up in the land of the living, because at least in that place I had purpose. Here I meandered through the choice off-cuts of oblivion, and the ragged grey beard I had sprouted was a sign.
While I’ll admit to having vaguely doubted the continuing growth of hair and nails after death, I was never inclined to think I would become proof of the pudding.
Well, disclaimers pushed to one side, a personal introduction is in order to avail you of the ledgerless bugger steering this monologue—since tawdry is how it may appear to others.
My name is Wolram E. Deaps.
The ‘E.’ stands for Evelyn, an appellation that can be applied to both men and women, dismally more often the latter. In the past I tended to share this middle name with few people, though reticence appears to have been scrubbed away after my bow-out from the mortal plain, last hurrah and all that. I’m quite unfussed handing it over to you now.
When I presumably kicked the bucket I was seventy-one years old, just a month and three days shy of seventy-two.
Even at my over-ripe age I kept track of the date—I was fond of celebrating my birthday and liked to mark the big occasion with panache. I’m not sure a single other soul shared the joy, but that’s beside the point, is it not?
I’m trying to remember a conversation from before I expired, one that I had with my secretary, since she was in charge of organizing the all-important annual event. How did the chat go again…?
‘Judy, cancel my reservation at Holberg’s, will you? The place has been shut down since that nasty DLU business. Not the best atmosphere, should it ever reopen.’
I’m convinced I masked my inner-Wolram—the smug one that tends to behave poorly on the back-end of profitable mischief. Rarely clever to display that face to others.
‘Let’s shift the party to The Knave of Hearts,’ I then suggested. ‘Their service is more bohemian, it’s spacious, and they do fine tarts. Get Tenniel on the line. He’ll make it happen at this late notice.’
Now, what was her reply?
The words weasel in and out of my antediluvian memory. Their very triviality makes them harder to grasp—it was something she said repeatedly over thirty years of service. Was it ‘Yes, sir’? ‘Right away, Mr Deaps’? Perhaps ‘Three bags full, Your Worship’. She was an excellent woman, very good at her job, never argued. Made a sterling cup of tea.
You know, I often now find myself wondering about Judy.
Here was a woman in her late fifties, unmarried I think, who had spent half her lifetime in my employ. What were her aspirations? Who was the real Judy behind the hard-working veneer? Why can’t I dredge up her family name? When was her birthday?—I never thought to ask. Did she like working for me? Or did she spit in my teacup during the steeping, and then smile when I took a sip, smug on the rear-end of her mischief?
Anyhow, aside from the pricey restaurant soirée, a surreptitious birthday present to myself was the brave new world I had mapped out over the course of several years—a prize since rendered a vagrant pipe dream.
More irritating, and to exacerbate matters somewhat, I’d been knocked off in a wardrobe that consisted of a smoking jacket, a cravat, slacks, a pair of Jolly Roger boxer shorts, and lounge slippers. This apparel remained my only possession, along with an antique pistol brandishing the name Webley-Fosbery. I didn’t know what I was doing with the silly thing, and had it shoved in my right pocket.
This does grant me an opportune moment to insert footnote number two, since possession of a firearm does wonders for a person’s confidence.
I’ll own up to being a pompous windbag, embarrassing underwear be damned—but let me tell you that having a cadaver perform the Greek Chorus on the side is a fairly good thing.
I need not lecture you that the moment we’re torn out of our mother’s womb, screeching and punting, we’re held hostage by inherited behavioural kinks. Or that these are thereafter twisted by the irascible conduct of one’s parents and the second-rate habits of everyone else—in collusion with the straitjackets of common culture, society, health, wealth, the goddarned weather.
Riding roughshod over these quirks are hidden agendas.
While I remained an aged bag of breathing flesh, I had these latter jewels to spare, with several sparkling ones proudly sewn onto the sleeve of my Harris Tweed, like military epaulettes, keeping fine company with the suede elbow patches.
A garden-variety example? That old favourite, an eye for an eye.
Hamlet dabbled with the notion, while the cantankerous people behind the Old Testament ascribed to this law of retribution. In life, sweet revenge assails us with intoxicating creative juices. Name for me one individual that hasn’t, at some sour point, cooked up recourse against an adversary, former lover, a backstabbing friend, or blood-thicker-than-water-spilling family member.
Easier still, step back and take a gander at me. Go on, then.
If I were a spritely (living) person, brimming with the decanted blend of vengeance, I might get rowdy enough to concoct a story—a little ditty about the demise of a gentleman I know named Floyd, my daughter’s killer.
This is the same man who, I’m positive, shot me in the head in the middle of a lovely glass of bubbly.
Said ‘ditty’ would need to be penned in the debilitated pulp style Floyd embraced—I picture it sandwiched between two dog-eared, faded covers, with a gaudy image on the front of a mostly-naked lady. The name of the publication would be Dime Store Detectives, Flotilla Magazine, The Noir Visage, or some such nonsense.
You know, for someone at least half my own age, he certainly acted rather past his prime.
I’m not above giving it my best shot, however, to conjure up this fitting yarn—in the name of settling scores and of appeasing that sweet tooth I mentioned. While hardly leaving much up to one’s imagination, I do like the coup de grâce, the vendetta appeased:
The first thing she does is she powders her nose.
She unzips her tobacco-coloured Louis Vuitton purse in the same manner a lioness, basking in the sun on an African savannah, tends to flick her tail—in a deceptive, lazy kind of way, but in reality it’s a quick and precise gesture.
She drops her hand in the bag and fiddles about a few moments before her long, slender fingers emerge with a compact. Leaning toward the half-length mirror attached to the wardrobe, as I said, she powders her nose.
I’ve never seen anybody do it with such style.
Straight after her eyes in the mirror shift to mine, she smiles a fraction, then changes her mind and blows a kiss.
I’m pretty certain it misses, and that was the point. Attention returned to herself in the mirror, she adjusts the bra strap on her left shoulder, straightens out the dress strap next to that, rotates both shoulders to make the ensemble sit better, and pushes her hair back.
‘What’re you looking at, babe?’ she says in a distracted kind of way.
I don’t answer. I just stare at the beauty in that reflection and find it remarkable that such a serpent could sit so pretty.
‘Snake got your tongue?’ She seems to know my every thought, and I find that spooky. Not that it matters now, I guess. Her laughter is husky and it drifts around me. I loved that sound. I loved her. I thought the feeling was mutual, but I’m beginning to cotton on that I was wrong.
She’s on top of me now, the aroma of lilacs intense, pressing her face as close as possible to mine, so that our eyes meet and her two hazel peepers become one in my struggling vision.
‘Cyclops,’ she whispers—it’s our age-old game of affection, yet right now her tone sounds more vicious than vivacious.
Straight off the bat she breaks away, sits up, and stares down at me. ‘Well, you are boring today, my love. You could put in a little more effort.’
She eases herself off my lap, heads into the kitchenette, and pushes two slices of bread into the pop-up. The cap’s off the tequila and she’s swigging straight out of the bottle. She’s wandering that savannah again, eyes pushing wild, before a return to civilization and pouring a shot into a glass.
She paces the kitchen waiting for the toast. The way she walks takes her out of my sight every now and then, but I can hear her breathing and can smell the perfume.
‘You got any Vegemite?’ she asks. ‘Oh wait, found it!’ Her next pace takes her to the fridge, where she peers inside. ‘Oh crap. Margarine? I hate margarine, you know that. Why couldn’t you get Western Star butter? A girl might get the feeling that you don’t care about what she wants.’ The toast pops, and then she’s laughing to herself as she spreads condiments. In her next breath she’s singing Foghorn Leghorn. ‘Oh, doggy, you’re gonna get your lumps. Oh, doggy, you’re gonna get some bumps…’
The way she stands there on the linoleum floor, I’m watching her from behind. She definitely knows how to move that body of hers in that tight satin dress—truth is she always did, especially in my field of vision. Her hips sway as she spreads and serenades, and it’s a mesmerizing sight.
Finally breakfast is over, followed by a sizable slug of tequila, and she comes back into the bedsit—with the bottle—to stand before me.
‘I’d offer you some brekky,’ she says, ‘but I have a feeling you’d just play mum. You know?’ After she swirls the tequila around, she glances at it and back to me. ‘So, what’s your poison? …Oh, wait, you’ve already had it.’ She leans over me on the couch and pries away the empty tumbler that’s been stuck in my mitt for the past half hour. ‘How’s that paralysis coming along, babe?’
She puts a playful finger to my mouth, though I can’t feel it. At all. I also can’t catch the lilac any more.
‘No need to answer. Shouldn’t be long now. Probably your vision will start botching up next.’
I can see her clearly enough, but the edges of my sight are starting to get haggard, and that haggardness is creeping in from all sides. She sniffs the glass that she took from me and frowns.
‘Say, you can smell the extra bonus stuff a mile off. You really have only yourself to blame. Someone who was a bit more cautious would’ve whiffed this before the first sip. But you just love your booze, don’t you? Down the hatch before you even stop to breathe.’ She sighs. ‘Well, I was nice anyway—at least this concoction isn’t as painful as others. It’s also not very quick. Sorry about that.’
She’s right. At the moment I’m feeling nothing, my senses numb, but as I say it’s been over thirty minutes according to the big, kitsch, 3D crucifixion-scene clock on the wall.
There is a query nagging away at the back of my noggin. I just wish I could enunciate it through dead lips, or express it to her via some kind of mental Morse code. Hell, sign language would be fine, if my fingers still worked.
The question was a simple, one-word no-brainer: Why?
She picks up the phone and makes a call, and right about then the lights go out.
Ahh, revenge.
The thing is, as I mentioned to you, I’m presumably dead. This situation renders pointless such exercises in an imaginative dénouement. It’s passive aggression without a punch line.
John Milton and old Gandhi had their merry thinking caps on when they asserted that revenge festers old wounds and/or makes one blind, and personally I do like to think Mark Twain receives his tick for the quip that revenge is a lot of unnecessary pain hanging onto anticipation of the beast.
It’s also not good business, and death, as it shapes up, is a great leveller.
Living it up here, I’m not in a position to affect comeuppance—I very much doubt I’m capable of haunting anyone. Place a sheet over me and I’d scare only Little Miss Muffet.
Hence, roiling with post-homicidal notions of reprisal is a wasted effort, and a far better recourse—in truth the only decent one available after that gentleman so kindly (probably) placed a bullet in my belfry—would be to leave Floyd altogether out of the picture. To ignore the man. To deflect all memory of his uncouth inanities and twee judgment calls of liberté, égalité et fraternité.
Sad, really.
Shall we tarry forth—tally ho, and all that jazz?