Remember Why You Fear Me (3 page)

“Maybe you just lost it somewhere?” said his secretary brightly. “It fell behind the sofa cushions or something. I’m always doing that.” The secretary had been saying
everything
brightly after finding out that her death, in sixty-seven years’ time, would be a painless little thing, her heart giving out in the throes of sexual congress with a South American toyboy. “I should check under the cushions again,” she said, not a little unhelpfully.

The trouble was that everyone seemed to share his secretary’s scepticism, and expressed it much less complacently. They were perplexed at first by Harry’s outrageous claims he’d had no envelope, that he had been left out of a global miracle that had changed them all—as if he were the one man still claiming that the world was flat when everybody else had accepted it was a bloody sphere now, thank you very much. Then they’d get angry with the idea that he was trying to get attention. “Why
wouldn’t
you get an envelope? What makes you so special?” Typically, Harry hadn’t thought of it in this way at all; on the contrary, he had wondered why the universe had deemed him so insignificant that he was the only one to be ignored. He vaguely mused whether he preferred the idea of being singled out because he was the most important person in the world, or because he was the
least
important. And decided he wasn’t fond of either much, frankly.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go,” said his boss. “You know, it’s not my decision. But I have bosses, and they have bosses, and, you know . . .” He gave a smile. “You know how it is.”

There had been some controversy about just how much employers had the right to know about their employees’ life expectancy. Companies would argue that it was surely relevant whether or not they could expect their staff to go on providing good service, or whether they had to accommodate for the fact they might be dropping dead left, right and centre. At job interviews prospective employees lost out to candidates who could demonstrate they had longevity on their side, and those already in work found their bosses would rather ditch them quickly before they were subject to expensive health plans. The Government said something non-committal about the data protection act and employee confidentiality, but also that any organisation had the right to expect full productivity from its staff. None of which helped anybody very much. When Harry was first asked to show his death envelope at work, his inability to do so was taken to mean he had something terrible and contagious and doubtlessly fatal to hide.

His boss gave him another one of those smiles. “Really, you’re lucky,” he said. “Getting out of work is the best thing that can happen to you. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy the rest of your life. I wish I could,” he said with apparent regret, “but it seems this old ticker of mine has another forty-seven years to go. Bloody thing!” He held out his hand to wish Harry goodbye, and in spite of himself, Harry shook it.

And later that night his wife told him she was leaving.

“I can get another job,” said Harry. “Nothing fancy, I know. But there’s lots of casual labour, they don’t care whether you snuff it or not. We can make it work, Mary.”

“No, we can’t,” said Mary. And she told him how when she’d held that death envelope in her hand, scared to open it and find out how long she’d got, she’d made herself a vow. If I’ve only got a couple of years, she thought, if that’s all I’ve got. Then I’m out of here. I’m not going to waste anymore of my life. Because we only go around once, and I’m letting it slip by, I should be climbing mountains and exploring deserts and scuba diving and sleeping with people who’d do it with the lights on. That’ll be the present to myself. If I’ve got two years or less, I’m leaving, Harry.

“But,” Harry pointed out gently, “you haven’t got two years. You’ve got thirty-eight. The cancer doesn’t get you for thirty-eight.”

“I know,” said Mary. “And I was so disappointed. And then it dawned on me. If I’m
that
disappointed, that I’d rather be dead than living with you, then I shouldn’t be living with you. Goodbye, Harry.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

Mary wasn’t a cruel woman. She recognized that Harry wouldn’t easily be able to earn money, whilst in her robust and not-yet-carcinogenic state the world was her oyster. She left him the house and a lot of the money. She also left him the cat, which Harry thought rather a shame as he’d never much liked it—he’d simply never got round to telling Mary that. And Mary said she wanted to start the rest of her life as soon as possible, and was gone by morning.

And, of course, a lot of people out there were following Mary’s example. Those who realized that the end was in sight decided that this was their last chance to see the world. Thousands of elderly English people flew to America, and thousands of elderly Americans flew to England—until, at the end of the day, roughly the same number of the diseased and the dying were roaming the streets in both countries, just sporting different accents. With typical brilliance, Disney decided to exploit this new trend in end-of-life tourism. They used a motto—“Make the Last of Your Life be the Time of Your Life,” which had a certain catchiness. If you could show proof you had three months or less, you were entitled to discounts to
all
the theme parks, and V.I.P. treatment once you were through the turnstiles. There was a special queue for the nearly dead, and a soberly dressed man-size Mickey Mouse or Goofy would respectfully show them to their rides. As it turns out the venture was so wildly successful that the Nearly Dead queue was often longer than the regular one, but that didn’t matter—the ticket holders still felt they were being given special treatment. And attendance went up all the more when the elderly, who had always sworn that being spun through the air on a rollercoaster would be the death of them, now had concrete evidence that, in fact, it wouldn’t.

Harry wouldn’t have much wanted to visit Disneyland, but if his time were soon to be up, he’d certainly have wanted to have gone
somewhere
. But he couldn’t afford a holiday. Unemployment benefits hadn’t exactly been
abolished
, but it was hard to justify why you should be given a free hand-out when your death envelope demonstrated you had another fifty years of health in front of you and weren’t just about to die in penury. And any attempt Harry made to get some money was thwarted by the absence of that envelope. So when, one morning, it came through the letterbox, Harry was delighted.

At first he couldn’t believe it was really there. He’d given up hoping it’d ever turn up. But there was no mistaking it—that off-brown colour that you just didn’t find anywhere else, the softness to the touch.

He opened it hastily. He didn’t care
when
he died, or
how
he died. Just so long as he had proof he did, in fact,
eventually
die.

“HENRY PETER CLIFFORD,” said the stamp.

And then, typed:

“Awaiting Further Information.”

Harry stared at it. Unable to believe his eyes. He turned over the card, hoping for something else. Something telling him it was a joke, not to worry, he was due to be impaled on a wooden stake that afternoon, anything. But instead, in ballpoint pen, someone had written, “Sorry for the Inconveniance.”

As the day went by, as he did what he normally did—had breakfast, fed the cat, watched afternoon TV—Harry wondered whether the scrawled apology might even be God’s very own handwriting. Still, probably not. He’d probably use one of his underlings, some saint or angel or vicar or someone. He’d always imagined the handwriting of a Divine Being would be a bit more ornate. And that he’d be able to spell “inconvenience.”

The next morning he thought there might be another envelope, a follow-up to the last. There wasn’t. But there was a knock at the door.

At first Harry saw the envelope rather than the man who was holding it. “I think you should read this,” he said, and he held it out to Harry nervously.

Eagerly Harry read the name on the top, was immediately disappointed. “Jeffrey Allan White. That isn’t me.”

“No, it’s me,” said Jeffrey Allan White.

“I don’t understand,” said Harry. He held out the card for Mr White to take back. “This isn’t me,” he repeated uselessly.

“Please,” said Jeffrey. “Read the rest of it.”

And Harry did. Then he read it again. He stared at Jeffrey for a few moments, and saw a man in his late fifties, a bit unkempt, shorter than average, plump, and just as scared as he was.

“Can I come in?” said Jeffrey. Harry nodded, and got out of his way.

Harry didn’t know what to do with his strange visitor. He led him into the kitchen, wordlessly indicated he should sit down. Jeffrey smiled a thanks awkwardly. The cat was excited that someone new was in the house, and jumped up on to Jeffrey’s lap. “Sorry,” said Harry. “Do you like cats . . . ?”

“I’m a bit allergic,” replied Jeffrey. “But it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“A coffee or a tea . . . ?”

“A coffee then, thanks.”

“All I’ve got is decaf . . .”

“Decaf is fine.”

“Milk?”

“Yes. Thanks.” And there was silence from them both as Harry busied himself with the kettle. It wasn’t until the water was nearly boiled that Harry thought he should say something.

“But I don’t even know you.”

“No, I know.”

“But I don’t. So why . . . ?”

Jeffrey smiled, but it was a nervous smile that had no answer. “Thanks,” he said as he took the coffee. “Thanks, this is fine,” he said again.

“Why did you come here?” asked Harry. “I mean, I’d have run away.”

“But really. Where would I go?”

Harry shrugged. “Well. Anywhere.”

“I almost didn’t come,” said Jeffrey quietly. “When I first found out how I was going to die . . . I almost laughed, it was so specific. My wife, she’s one of the cancer ones, how can she avoid that? But if you know you’re going to die at the hands of Henry Clifford at 23 Sycamore Gardens on 16th September, it seems such an easy thing to prevent. If you’d asked me last week,” he said, as he took a gulp of his still too hot coffee, “I’d have said this was the last place in the world I’d have visited.”

Harry waited patiently for Jeffrey to go on. Jeffrey couldn’t meet his eyes, looked at the floor.

“But if it
isn’t
true . . . if I
could
prevent it . . . then it’s all meaningless, isn’t it? Isn’t it? I’m not sure I could go on like that. I’m not sure I could cope with tomorrow, when I’m not supposed to see tomorrow in the first place. What would it all be for? My son,” he added. “My son and I never much got on, we hadn’t spoken in years. Once he found out I was going to die, he got back in touch. We’ve been going to the pub. Chatting. Like friends. Not as family, but
friends
.” He looked up at Harry imploringly. “You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to do this. It says . . .”
and he fluttered the envelope at Harry weakly, “it says you do here.”

“I don’t know how to stab someone. I’m not sure I could go through with it.” Silence. “I mean, it’s the actual sticking it in . . . I think I could do it if I had to shoot you, you know, from a distance. . . .”

“It says stabbing.”

“Yes, I know.”

They both finished their coffee.

“Maybe,” suggested Jeffrey at last, “you could just hold the knife. And I could run on to it.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “We could try that.”

Both Harry and Jeffrey were shaking as Harry pulled open the kitchen drawer and looked at the knives. “Do you have a preference, or . . . ?”

“Best get one that’s sharp,” said Jeffrey.

The first time Jeffrey ran at Harry’s knife, Jeffrey kept his eyes closed. The problem was that Harry did the same. And so they didn’t collide correctly, and the worst Jeffrey sustained was a cut on
the arm.

“Ouch,” said Jeffrey.

“Sorry,” said Harry.

“There’s no way that’s fatal,” said Jeffrey. “We should try again.”

This time Jeffrey, at least, kept his eyes open. Harry
tried
to, but at the moment of impact he couldn’t help flinch. So all he felt was Jeffrey’s body groan against his, and a strange sucking as the knife was pulled out. When Harry dared to look, he was horrified to see there was blood everywhere, on his hands, on the floor, and on Jeffrey’s stomach, of course, which was the point at which the knife had obviously entered.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

Jeffrey laid on the floor, sobbing, clutching at his wound. “Again,” he said. “Again.”

Harry looked at all the blood, at Jeffrey’s agonized face, and balked. He left quickly, closing the kitchen door behind him.

An hour or so later he pushed the door open gently, as if trying not to wake his guest. “Jeffrey,” he whispered. “Are you still alive?”

“Please,” said Jeffrey, his voice now guttural. “Finish me off.”

Harry stared. And then—”No!” he said to the cat, as it poked its way into the kitchen, and began to lick at the blood with curiosity. “Out of here, come on! Shoo! I’ll close the door,” Harry said to Jeffrey gently. “Leave you to it.”

Harry tried to watch the television, but it was hard to concentrate. Later that evening he went back to see how Jeffrey was holding up. Jeffrey couldn’t speak, but looked at him with big desperate eyes. Harry hesitated. Then picked up a heavy rolling pin, stood over his victim, took aim at his head.

“No,” croaked Jeffrey. “Stabbing. Says it’s a stabbing.” And Harry left once more, determined to watch whatever was on the telly, and
make
himself concentrate on it.

Sometime before midnight Harry braved the kitchen again. He was relieved to see that Jeffrey was, at last, dead. And had indeed died on the 16th September, even if the actual process had taken rather longer than either of them had anticipated. Harry looked at Jeffrey’s eyes, as if trying to find some truth in his death, but all he saw was a glassy stare. He thought about moving the body, but realized that with all the worry he’d put into the actual killing, he’d not given a moment’s thought to what he should do afterwards. And so he decided to go to bed, face that problem in the morning. After all, it wasn’t as if Jeffrey Allan White was going anywhere.