Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish (23 page)

"Actually, a similar thing has been happening to me all day. These messages keep pouring into my head. All in all, it's been a rather unusual day."

"You're telling me. I've been trapped in here all bloody day."

"What happened here? How did you end up trapped in here? Where's everyone else, and"—pointing a questioning finger at Eggnog as he executed a tricky-looking break-dance maneuver—"what exactly is that thing?"

Celina let out a sigh and perched herself on the edge of a table.

"I don't even know how to explain it. The day began normally, everyone showed up a little late as usual, and then security alarms started to get tripped all over the place. The last thing we saw on the security cameras was a fuzzy black shape climbing over one of our fences and then everything went haywire."

Nigel processed all the information as quickly as his brain would allow under the circumstances, but something clicked when Celina said
fuzzy black shape
. He let out a sort of half laugh.

"I don't suppose the black shape could have been a cat?"

"I really don't know," said Celina, "we'd have to check the video feed."

"And where is that located, exactly?"

"The security centre, one floor up. But what about everyone else? I don't even know if they're still alive."

Nigel stood and picked up his mop. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that."

"And why not?" said Celina, a little hurt that this seemingly nice gentleman didn't seem to care about her colleagues.

"Because no one's dying today," he said matter-of-factly. "We need to get to this security room, and on the way I think it'd be a good idea if we kept very quiet."

"What about him?" asked Celina. Both of them looked at Eggnog, who was doing the Funky Chicken with remarkable grace.

"Bring him," said Nigel.

Chester Kronkel sat lazily in his favorite chair for two simple reasons: firstly, he had absolutely nothing better to do, and secondly, he was in mourning. Incidentally, Chester's chair was located in a lovely little cottage in Upper Ramsbottom. When caught in civilized conversation, which Chester made a habit of avoiding, people often asked where he lived, and he would automatically reply, "Upper Ramsbottom."

After forty-three years of life, the joke had worn thin, to the point where he'd begun ignoring the whole thing. Chester Kronkel was the manager of a prominent bank that had international ties and political endorsements that would make the Prime Minister of England blush. Chester had not gone into work today, as he was still mourning, much like the previous week and a half. The reason he was mourning was because Chester had gone and lost his biggest and most important client somewhere, who so far showed no signs of being found.

Chester flicked the channels and stopped on a channel that featured a wolverine taking apart some sort of water rat. For a brief moment, Chester wished he was a rat, then decided he'd rather be the wolverine, and then did a complete turnaround and tried to decide what he should have for dinner.

The client in question was none other than Raymond Miller; once an Olympic swimmer, inherited lots of money from his drug-dealing grandmother, hit by a bus in Portugal and whisked away in an orange swirly thing before trading bodies with an unhappy penguin.

Chester did not know this.

Mr. Miller had made a it a sacred tradition to check in with Chester every couple of days or so and in turn, Chester would cater to whatever needs Mr. Miller had with regard to his vast fortune that was carefully scattered all over the world, and to which, together, Chester and Raymond were the key.

Raymond trusted only Chester to move his money and Chester could not access Raymond's money without one of his voice-activated passwords, which could be delivered over the phone from anywhere in the world. Chester was mourning because the last he had heard from Raymond was a week and a half ago when he had checked in and then, later that day, a report faxed to Chester stated that Raymond Miller met the nasty end of a bus and vanished into thin air.

Over the past four years, Chester made it his life's mission to ensure that Mr. Miller's accounts ran like clockwork; in fact, the mission had become more of an obsession.

Chester changed channels and settled on the national news; he let out a depressed sigh and wondered where in the world his most important client could be. The name Ian Grubman appeared at the bottom of the television screen and the camera came to focus on a slightly balding man with sharp, little eyes and a crooked nose.

"You're watching the National News, I'm Ian Grubman," said Ian Grubman importantly.

He shuffled the pile of papers that all newscasters keep in front of them, although no one really understood why. Ian Grubman first did a recap of the day's big news of the dead not dying and the new theories proposed, which included some sort of claim of responsibility from the IRA. Funnily enough, at that exact moment, the IRA was planning a bomb attack and had claimed responsibility for the dead not dying in order to distract the world away from their impending attack.

Ian Grubman finished talking, shuffled his papers again, took the top sheet, quickly folded it into a swan and threw it off camera somewhere.

"In other news today," he said, "two fugitives are being sought after their escape from a hospital in the Bahamas. The two men were being held for questioning before overpowering guards and escaping onto a plane to London's Heathrow Airport."

Chester's leg began to itch so he scratched it accordingly. He fumbled around for the remote control and was about to change channels when his entire body froze solid. A hand-drawn sketch which looked unmistakably like Raymond Miller filled the television screen while Ian Grubman droned on.

"The two fugitives, one pictured here, are believed to be in London somewhere. If anyone has any information, please contact your local police department. A picture of the second fugitive will be made available as soon as someone can clearly remember what he looked like."

Chester missed the last part of the news program, which mentioned something about a woman complaining about her neighbors who had recently adopted a large amount of ducks, because Chester had already grabbed his keys and headed out the front door. Four hours later, he arrived in London.

At that particular moment, the former body of Raymond Miller was having the time of his life. All the people whizzing by provided such fabulous entertainment for Gerald that he almost completely forgot about his hangover. Rupert the cab driver had been going on and on about the different kinds of soaps he'd collected from hotels around the world, but neither passenger listened, which didn't seem to impair his enthusiasm for speaking in the slightest.

Death, on the other hand, was pondering as only an Angel of Death can. Something about this whole situation wasn't really making too much sense. God was always in the mood for a practical joke; Death fondly remembered when He had created the platypus: half duck, half beaver, laid eggs. God thought that was hilarious. But this seemed a little farfetched, as the world had been tossed into chaos. The human mind wasn't equipped to deal with things like angels and dead people getting up and walking around.

"There was this one place in Las Vegas," went on Rupert, "all the soaps were in these little heart shapes, very classy, I thought."

The question that was really nagging away at Death was, why had God let him quit if he'd known it would cause all this craziness? If there was one thing Death knew, it was that God didn't do anything without good reason. There was always something behind it all, some underlying theme, or question, or reasoning. But Death couldn't put his finger on it, and then there was the man sitting next to him who used to be a penguin. Aside from all the other strangeness about Gerald, he always remembered who Death was, and that was not a human trait, as holding any memory of Death in a human's mind was like trying to collect a beach full of sand using a pair of tweezers. It was too much work for the mind, so it always ended up giving up, which was why no one ever remembered seeing angels.

"The thing about soap, ya see, is that it never depreciates," said Rupert.

Death looked over at Gerald.

"Gerald?" said Death.

"Yes, Death," said Gerald, still glued to the window.

"Did you really used to be a penguin?"

"Yup."

"A real penguin, black and white, flippers, little waddle, the whole bit?"

"Yes," said Gerald and nodded enthusiastically.

"Hmm," said Death, and carried on pondering.

"The last hotel I went to was a right disappointment," said Rupert, "no bars of soap, just liquid soap, didn't stay there for very long."

"Death, why don't people remember you?" asked Gerald.

The question caught Death by surprise, as so far, Gerald's questions had been all Earthly-based: Why is the sky blue, what's this for, why is it doing that, how come that woman is sticking her middle finger up at me?

"Well, it'd be very hard for us to move around and complete our tasks if people could see us all the time. So instead, we just fade from people's memories."

"What kind of tasks?"

"Well, it varies depending on the Angel's function. My job was to guide dead souls to the afterlife. Some help people, a little nudge here, word of encouragement there. Other Angels simply watch and document human lives."

"Even when they're in the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. And no one gets to see you guys?" asked Gerald.

"They see us, but they forget quickly."

"Hmm," said Gerald, turning back to the window, "must get pretty lonely."

"Yes," said Death solemnly.

"Then again I suppose if you didn't complete your tasks, the world wouldn't really work anymore, would it?" suggested Gerald. "How come I can see you anyway?"

Death smiled.

"I think it's because you used to be a penguin."

"Ahh," said Gerald, "so, who's this God fellah we're off to see?"

Death leaned over the front seat.

"Here! Stop here!" Death turned back to Gerald and pointed across the street, "He's the creator of the universe and sometimes he works as a wine waiter at that restaurant. Let's hope he's working today."

Jeremiah floated upside down in his bowl; he didn't know why, he just enjoyed the sensation of everything being the wrong way up. He giggled, as only a fish can giggle, at his castle that leaned a little to the left while hanging from the ceiling.

The feeling that suddenly reached out and gripped him was like nothing that he had ever felt before, although it did feel familiar in a distant kind of way.

A blurry knowledge of foreboding and impending doom settled itself around Jeremiah's bowl, causing him to hide in his castle. The messages, premonitions, and feelings that Jeremiah normally experienced always had a purpose for someone else and the little fish sensed this, which was why he always flung them out of his head instantly.

The deep dark sensation surrounding him felt different; Jeremiah knew that this sense of fear wasn’t for someone else. It was for him. He shivered a little bit and looked out from the castle window as if something could jump out of nowhere at any second and take him away. The moment passed, and the feeling slid from his mind, leaving him wondering why he was floating in a castle and shaking like a leaf as only a fish can.