The Memory of Death Read Free

close my eyes. The van smells of paint, disinfectant, cheap cologne and someone’s lunch – salami was a part of it. Nothing soothing; all the sort of thing to turn your stomach.
    ‘You thirsty? You must be thirsty,’ Towel Guy says.
    To say my mouth feels parched is like saying the denouement of Scarface was a teensy bit violent.
    ‘Yeah, a little.’
    He tosses me a bottle of water, as the van swings to the right – more screeching of tyres.
    I snatch at the water bottle – clumsily, but I catch it. The bottle’s slick with condensation. I unscrew the cap with shaking hands. Water. Fresh water. A little spills over my knuckles, and it feels good – even my skin is thirsty.
    ‘Drink it slowly.’
    How stupid does he think I am?
    I take a sip; follow it with another. The water’s at once soothing and agony as it rattles down a throat dry and ulcerated, then starts coming back up. It’s an effort to keep it down, but I’m stubborn.
    ‘I said, drink it slowly.’
    I grunt at him. He reaches over and pulls the water from my grip. ‘Get that in your belly first, and then you can have some more.’
    I grab for the bottle, then hunch over, clutching at my stomach. Try to swallow. Too late.
    Towel Guy's friend glares at me, and tosses me a roll of paper. ‘The others, they were the –’
    ‘What others?’
    He glares at me again. ‘Clean that up,’ he says.
    Towel Guy sighs. ‘Fuck, Cal, let it rest, just let it rest.’
    Cal’s lips twist petulantly. ‘It’ll stink up the bloody van, James. And it’s a rental. You’re doing the paperwork; too much paperwork as it is.’
    James gives Cal the death stare. Cal stops mumbling and passes that stare onto me. This is going to be a fun little drive. At least I have some names now. Names in my business are important. A name soothed and calmed makes it easier to send a punter to the Underworld. Much harder to negotiate with the nameless. And what did he mean about others?
    I wipe my lips, and drop a scrunched handful of the paper to the floor. Tap it gently over the mess. To be honest there’s not much vomit, it’s thin grey stuff, no more substantial than the little spew I had on the beach. I’m feeling a bit better. Got some strength in my limbs – not about to go for a run, but I could almost imagine making a dash for the door. Almost.
    ‘Leave him alone,’ James says. ‘The place this bastard’s been.’
    Yeah, the place I’ve been.
    I’m trying to piece together what happened. Where I am, and why? Last thing I remember was a great wave receding, dragging me away from Lissa.
    And … there’s a void, a deep darkness that I know I should be able to see beyond. But I can’t, or I won’t. My memory feels as bruised and as fragile as my flesh; I'm scared that if I reach for it too hard I’ll tear it away, like the frayed tissue paper it is, or worse. I know I'll remember eventually, well I hope I will, but there’s almost as big a part of me that fears its return. Maybe there are some memories better off not having.
    But I remember her eyes. Lissa’s steady stare, for all the hurt that I had inflicted.
    Before that, of course, there was blood and thunder, a scythe that decapitated a god, and a Death to whom I owed a deep and terrible debt.
    Time’s passed (it wasn’t summer when I left) but how much time I can’t tell.
    Not too long, though; I recognised the make and model of the cars in the beach car park. No hover cars there (pity) or anything outrageously different. Nor have we slipped into any of the Apocalypse scenarios that all too often played on my mind. People are still using mobiles, and listening to old hits on the radio. Unless some Twilight Zone-style revelation is at hand, the world’s done what it always does, got on with moving on.
    The most menacing thing I’ve seen in my, albeit brief, sojourn into the land of the living are these dour men with their little guns.
    ‘Where are we going? Where’s Lissa? What day is