Better Late than Dead on Time

He crashes in late, shoves the door too hard and almost puts the handle through the wall. In the solemn silence the bang-and-rattle is startling, and he freezes mid-stride, like it might still be possible to remain unnoticed. The hissing rain is muffled once again as the door takes a squeaky eternity to swing closed behind him, finishing with another resonant thud just to turn the last few heads. But at least he hasn't missed it.

He pulls back the deep hood of his sagging rain coat, as casually as he can manage through the heavy breathing, and like always his head feels naked. He drips his way towards a seat at the back and throws up an apologetic hand—carry on.

Still catching his breath (how limiting this bag of flesh is!), he takes the closest aisle seat next to a woman with a razor-sharp glare. Her chin raised and opinion lowered, she makes a point of huff-shuffling down the pew. Tuts at the puddles soaking into the carpet, makes a show of picking up her handbag and bringing it to the safety of her lap. The man on the other side of her, presumably her brave husband, puts a calming hand on her knee. Brave indeed. She tuts again at the water droplets on her heart-shaped in memoriam that she grips like a winning Lotto ticket. A bit tacky, if you ask him. She gently wipes dry the warped smiling face and cursive name. Lisa Walsh. Good—he’s in the right place. He’s made that mistake before, too. The woman catches him watching and gives him the same scowl he imagines she gives her husband just for breathing. He studies her face, commits it to memory. He’ll look forward to that one.

He pinches and tugs at his pants, these regular clothes stuck wet to his human body, and he rues missing his chance at the time of death. In mortal form and a week late, this is just impractical. He’s really got to stop doing this. These stupid tight pants. Problem is, he’s just one guy. He's bound to end up with a backlog. Woefully understaffed—a skeleton crew, you could say.

He waits impatiently. Scans the backs of the bereaved. Nice of them to pay homage with their black clothes. The eulogists take turns laying on the flattery, thick as honey and just as sickly sweet. Kind words and platitudes. He’s heard one, he’s heard them all. As usual the celebrant comments on the impressive turnout, truly a testament to how many lives have been touched by Insert-Name-Here.

And now here comes a slideshow of cropped, blurry, red-eyed shots and pink-tinted childhood photos. It is interesting, though, to put a story to the name. Lisa played tennis. She loved classic literature. She broke her ankle falling off the trampoline as a child. So it does satisfy a bit of curiosity. Done properly, he doesn’t know them from a bar of soap. For all the emotional impact it has, he might as well be checking off the names and collection dates of their dry cleaning. Not that he wants to make a habit of leaving it until the last minute. And he’s learnt the hard way that no amount of compelling back-story is worth the hassle of trying to collect after a cremation.

After the service, he watches everyone slowly crab-step their way along the pews and keep a respectful countenance as they file into the refreshments room. He hangs back, though after his unorthodox entrance no one’s overly interested in engaging, and he follows them in. He makes sure to linger in the corners, only go for the foods with no current takers. Best not to interact with anyone. What would he even say? Nice meeting you, and I’m sure we’ll meet again?

And right on cue, some social butterfly does make the approach. ‘How’s this rain?’ she says. ‘Even the sky is crying today.’

‘Mhm,’ he says.

‘How did you know Lisa?’

He inwardly smirks. ‘Through my work.’ And before the inevitable follow-up questions come, he grabs a fistful of shortbreads and makes a hasty retreat. He chucks one into his mouth, pockets the rest, and sidles back the way he came.

Alone in the vacated service room, he chews and strolls over to the casket. He lifts the lid and leans in close. She’s all done up—hair and makeup. Could be asleep, if not for the delicate perfume of flowers and formaldehyde.

He brushes off the crumbs he’s just left on her dress, crams another shortbread in and wipes his hand on his jacket. Sorry, lady. Excuse my tardiness. Although his apology could be misplaced. For all he knows she could have been an adulterer, or an embezzler, or the kind of person to bite straight into an unbroken KitKat. But, look, it’s been a whole week. Some people believe that if the soul lingers too long after death, it rots alongside the body, which he knows to be untrue. But he knows just as acutely that it does carry the smell for a while. Nothing permanent, but not a great first impression up on high.

He glances over his shoulder—coast is clear. He wipes his hands one last time on his pants, and places a steady hand on Lisa’s chest. The body’s lost its soft and doughy touch. He clears his throat, closes his eyes, concentrates.

From beneath his hand comes a lambent silver glow, cleaved into shafts by his fingers. And just as quickly as it appeared, it fades. He lifts his hand and the body is unchanged, but for a subtle soft-edged look.

Another furtive glance and he reaches into his jacket, pulls out his folding pocket-scythe, and hurriedly severs the tie. Takes a little more elbow grease with the smaller blade, but his go-to is a little conspicuous. He scoops an arm under the body and lifts, and up she comes, like a translucent body double. They take a while to come to, and you’d think they’d be weightless. One day his back will give out, he reckons.

Without ceremony, like she’s a sack of grain, a fruitful harvest, he slumps her over his shoulder. He closes the casket lid, pops the last shortbread into his mouth and makes for the door. One last look at the empty room, then he pulls his black hood back over his head, and steps back out into the rain.