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Rain
By Andy Warren
- Open as a word document

The bloated grey clouds, which hung in the twilight sky like a flock of enormous sheep, finally succumbed to the pull of gravity and allowed their watery contents to wash onto the city below.  In the midst of their onslaught there sat a house that seemed as atypical as any other, yet which on this night would play host to one of the most unusual events of the past millennium.  Having been partly modernised on the exterior, the house nestled somewhat uncomfortably in the middle of a large Georgian terrace.  The manner in which it presented itself gave it a similar appearance to that of a small, inoffensive businessman, who inadvertently finds himself lodged between the winner and runner-up of “The fattest bastard in London™” accolade.  Located in the older, slightly quieter suburbs of the capital city, the houses’ outward appearance suggested that it contained vast quantities of luxury, although this belied the truth.  In actuality it had improved little since Will Scully had first seen it, at which time it was hardly any more than a shell.  Despite the lack of anything in the way of furniture or decoration, and the noticeably meagre grounds, Scully had instantly fallen in love with the house, and progressed to sell most of his worldly goods to match the necessary price.  That was little over a week ago, and now with all the documents signed and personal artefacts sold to raise funds, the house became occupied once again.

Now let’s get one thing straight: Will Scully is not, has never been and, until now, never thought he would be a DIY enthusiast.  It started with a failed attempt at an Airfix kit (easy level) at the age of seven, his first and last participation of that particular hobby.  What should have been a majestic, soaring B52 bomber ended up as a bizarre creation with a wing and a half, no front end and a rear gunner glued to the undercarriage.  Much later in life, when he acquired his first “put it together yourself” shelf rack, it took him half an hour to open the box, and another twenty minutes to open the right end.  And yet now here he was, all alone, with an entire house in need of decoration and slight electrical work, and his pulse was racing.  What pleased him most was that, although all rooms had power, they had no light bulbs, and replacing one of those was one feat that Scully was proud to be good at.  Not that the bulbs comprised the entirety of his tasks, as he also had to apply a plug to his new lamp, and make the doorbell work better than it did at present.  In this case “better” constituted the production of an audible tone, whilst refraining from the supply of a small electric shock to the instigator of the sound.  Once these mammoth tasks had been accomplished, the decoration of each of the rooms could begin.

The slightly balding armchair let out a contented creak as Scully lowered his moderate frame into its accommodating bulk, and with that motion he let out a long sigh of relief that had been building up all day.  With the tasks of the day complete, he had moved himself and his minimum collection of furniture into his new abode.  The living room now played host to a television, his old chair and the new lamp that he had bought and wired this very day, whilst upstairs dwelled his large bed, and in the kitchen a jar of coffee and a kettle presently resided.  His plan for the next day was to either begin decoration of his chosen bedroom, or to journey into the city centre to buy a telephone, find a job and pick up some food.  High hopes indeed, but the truth was that the day would probably begin with good intentions, but those ideas would be rapidly replaced with the notion that sleeping in until half past eleven, to celebrate the previous days’ electrical triumphs, was by far the more superior course of action.  The latter part of the day would more than likely be spent in much the same manner as the first, except this time the sleep would be downstairs in front of the television.  Not that he didn’t deserve a rest after todays’ betrayal of his nature as a lazy git, but as he sat staring intently at the vast expanse of wall that lay before him a stunning sensation enveloped his senses.

He finally felt a feeling that had been completely alien to his life for so long, such was its rarity.  It was the same feeling that first reared its head at the age of eighteen months, when he proudly completed his very first finger painting, and recurred only on select occasions such as the reception of his first pay packet from his paper round.  He felt the warming sensation of achievement and ownership, and all at once he knew that he had finally found a possession that was truly his, and his alone.  He rose to his feet, and bounded up the single flight of stairs, taking the steps three at a time until he reached the upper level, all the while lovingly caressing the banister as he went.

When he arrived at the top, slightly out of breath but grinning profusely, he looked back and surveyed his territory.  His territory, as this was his house, and the bulbs had been placed by his hand and none other.  He couldn’t resist tapping the grey plastic switch that clung like a limpet to the wall of the main bedroom.  A beaming smile crossed his face as the room was suddenly illuminated by a glow which to most people simply looked like a normal light bulb, but which to Scully appeared as bright and pure as the face of God.  He involuntarily blinked as he clicked the light off, and again raised a smile when it flared back into life moments later by his command.  This process was repeated at least a dozen times, until he had become so passionate about the whole thing that he couldn’t help muttering the immortal words “Let there be light!” prior to the illumination of the room.

However blasphemous his exclamation may appear, it was strangely appropriate to the situation, as Scully had indeed become the God of his own home.  What was his command became the houses’ unquestioned action, all of its elements were loyal and unbending disciples to God Will.  Just as he was about to command the toilet to prove its flushing power for the third time, the loudest noise so far that evening pierced its way through the calm night air.  In Scully’s mind, for the doorbell to ring was a most unusual event, primarily because none of his associates were aware of his current location, and secondly because he had attempted to repair the doorbell earlier today and was unconfident of his success.  About half of the time it would produce the desired tone, at the correct decibel level and with a pitch that was pleasing to the ear.  However the remainder of the time it would simply whine an exceptionally quiet tone as before, except without the threat of physical abuse that was present prior to its amendment.  Having excluded the possibility of friends, Scully concluded that the guest was surely a neighbour bearing greetings, and hopefully food.  He considered himself to be lucky that the bell had chosen this occasion to function as it should, and enable him to get to know the people next door.  Even if he had tried as hard as any living man could possibly try, he could not have been more wrong.

He descended the staircase with a positive spring in his step, his spirits uplifted with the realisation that he finally owned his potential dream house.  As he approached the door he felt a pang of hesitation, but this was rapidly superseded by a desire to acquaint himself with his terrestrial cohabitants.  As he opened the door with a smile on his face, the man standing there in the rain caused his features to sink slowly.  His stance was one that accentuated his altitude, for he stood perfectly straight, and reached a height of at least six feet.  To describe the mans’ features as gaunt would be somewhat akin to describing the Sahara desert as tepid, such was the extent of his sullen composure.  His skin was of a pallid complexion, and the artificial light, in conjunction with the now fine sheet of rain, exposed the stark contrast of his black suit and deathly white skin.  The lank strands of dark hair, which jutted haphazardly from within his scalp, further heightened his almost disturbing composition, and created the illusion that tiny streams of black ink were jetting forth in disarray from the confines of his head.  Despite the strong cheekbone definition and peculiar lack of any stubble, what disturbed Scully most about the man were his eyes, sunken deep in the hollows of his skull.  As anyone can testify, much can be seen in the eyes of another, emotions are often exposed via an unknown visual connection that betrays the voice and reveals love, remorse and the other soulful traits.  Yet in the man’s eyes Scully saw nothing; the pupils refused to dilate and each iris was the same monotone grey.  In Scully’s opinion, the eyes were totally dead.

When the man spoke, he did so in a voice that, until then, no-one had ever heard without being later unable to divulge it to anyone.  Although the mouth of the man moved, his voice appeared to emanate from everywhere, both in the world around Scully and from inside his head, and such was its clarity and purity of tone that he was almost moved to tears for the second time that day.  The first time involved the awkward crushing of a very delicate part of his anatomy, instigated by his falling from a treacherously perched stepladder.  The words spoken by the man were concise, for there were but three, yet those three little words instilled in Scully the most pure terror that he had ever experienced.

“Hello,” said the man “I’m Death.”

---000---

Being a rational man, Scully decided that the best way to avoid Death was to scream like a girl and slam the door in his face.  By less than coincidence this was exactly what he did.

“Oh bugger,” exclaimed the man who was unquestionably the anthropomorphic personification of Death “this always seems to happen.  Whenever anyone sees me they always assume that I’ve come for them.”

“Go away.” Said Scully in a calm manner that expertly belied his true emotions.

“Can I come in?  It’s only a social call, not business.”

“Does Death make social calls?” Although normally cynical, especially with respect to anything religious, Scully couldn’t help but notice the aura around the man.  As he looked through the glass he saw that the man was still standing in the rain, becoming ever more sodden and looking suitably dishevelled.  Yet still his feeling remained, and hearing the voice again clinched it; the man was most certainly Death.

“Not until recently,” the voice was muted slightly by the heavy pine door “but my therapist has suggested that I should get a life.”

“I thought that was your job.” Great thinking idiot, thought Scully, your big mouth has just mocked Death.

“So I thought,” continued Death, ignoring the quip “that I’d spend some time socialising with my future clients.  You know, understand your target audience and all that.”

“Is this your first social call?”

“No.” The answer came quickly and abruptly “but most of the people ran away.  Either that or they went mad.”

“Nice.  So you want to come in?”

“Yes please.”

“And you promise not to kill me?”

“Well I’ll have to eventually, can’t possibly let you live forever, but not tonight.”

What the hell, thought Scully, spending an evening with Death beats watching repeats of “Auntie’s Bloomers”.  With that he pulled the door open and made way for Death, who proceeded to walk calmly and quietly into the house.

“Nice place,” remarked Death as he scanned the house.  Scully noticed that despite appearing to be saturated outside, Death was in fact as dry as a bone.  “Of course I’m dry, I only appeared as wet to appeal to your sympathy.”

How the hell did he do that?  Scully was soon to be answered.

“I can read your mind you know.”

“Would you mind, if it’s at all possible, not ever doing that again please?”

“Sorry.” Death swallowed dryly.

“Would you like a drink?” Scully decided to change the subject “I just moved in, as you know, so I only have coffee.”

Deaths’ demeanour changed instantly to a forlorn expression.  “I can’t drink coffee I’m afraid.” His eyes turned leathwards.  “My central nervous system can’t handle it you see, it’s not what it used to be.  The last time I had a cup of coffee I became as hyperactive as a three-year-old who just finished drinking a whole bottle of Lucozade.  I accidentally offed thirteen people that day, terrible shame.”

“Oh, okay then.” Scully stared at Death, unable to fully comprehend the surreal new turn that his life had taken.  He decided that for the sake of his sanity it was probably better just to go with it.  “Incidentally, why me?”

Death stared blankly.

“I mean, of all the interesting people in the world, why come down and talk to me?”

“No reason really, it was an entirely random choice and chance occurrence.”

“Oh.” Great conversation piece that one “Where did you leave your scythe and horse?  You do really use them don’t you?”  During this they had moved to the living room, so Will sat down while Death leant against a wall.

“I used to,” replied Death, as what could loosely be described as a pained expression crossed his face, “but I had to get rid of them.  The scythe was too bulky, and a little bit retro-rural for my new style.  And the horse was impractical for city life,” he blinked, although for what purpose was unclear “you know there are no stables in London?”

Scully didn’t, and was about to reply that he could probably have left it in Trafalgar Square and taken the tube, when Death started talking again.

“I tried to combine both tools once, the reaper and the transport.  Unfortunately it relieved my arrival of any style whatsoever, I’m sure you can imagine how I appeared to some of my clients.  Pulling up to reap their souls with a celestial combine harvester is hardly the most fearsome of spectacles I can tell you.  In fact a lot of my clients on that day laughed themselves to death, ironic how fate works really, isn’t it.”

“It really is.” A smile was on Scully’s face, he was beginning to like Death despite his bad reputation.

“Anyway, I couldn’t go on like that, so now I just walk everywhere.  Apparently it’s better for the heart, not that I have one, but it’s nice to know I suppose.”

“What about the scythe?”

“Well nowadays I just use this.”  As he spoke, Death pulled a tiny, ornately carved dinner knife from the inner pocket of his jacket.  The handle was of the purest black, such that not even a glimmer of light reflected back from it, and the blade seemed to contain every imaginable colour and four new ones.  It appeared to Scully to be only slightly in our plane of existence.

“It’s only slightly in our plane of existence,” remarked Death, “and it’s only used to sever the soul from its physical body.  I don’t eat with it or anything like that.  I don’t eat at all actually, except trout.  I love trout.”  Death seemed to be thinking of something else, until he remembered the curious implement in his hand and continued to explain its use.  “It’s much more streamlined than a scythe, I think you’ll agree.”

And so the evening progressed in much the same manner, with Will asking a seemingly simple question, and receiving an answer that reached to the very ends of the cosmos.  In that night Will Scully learnt about life after death, the hierarchy of the souls, the music of the spheres (and listened to a recording of it that Death took along on CD) and also the mysterious place where all lost items of laundry end up.  Contrary to primary opinion, Will found himself having the most enjoyable, informative and plainly bizarre night of his life.  Such was his uplifted mood that when Death announced that it was time for him to return to work, and made his way outside, Scully was hesitant to end the evening.

“It’s been great,” his eyes told the same story “so feel welcome any time.”

“I’m afraid that I’ll only see you again in forty three piers, and it’ll be business, not pleasure.  But thank you for not running away from me, or going mad, it was nice to get away the demi-gods for a while.”

“Well then, I’ll see you in forty three years,” Scully waved at the departing figure.

“Years?” Death turned back to Scully and stared quizzically.  “I said piers.”

Scully tilted his head, “What’s a pier?” he asked.

“Oh, sorry.” Death returned to the doorstep. “It’s a long wooden thing that sticks out of a beach.” Death grinned.  “It’s also how we measure time in the afterlife.  I think it’s equivalent to about one and a half…” the soulless eyes in front of Scully began to move erratically as if trying to perform an impossibly hard sum, during which time Scully’s heart was doing Mach three. “Er, years I think, anyway, must be going.”

“Thank God.” Sighed Scully.

“Which one?” Death replied, then turned to leave.  As he walked away, he failed to hear Scully’s goodbye in much the same way that Scully failed to hear Death’s final remark.

“Or was it days?”