Work Text:
It was a dark night, and a bitter November wind swept through the streets of Derry. Sitting inside a two-bedroom terrace, a man sat in a cozy armchair with a newspaper and a cup of tea.
Suddenly, the TV crackled with static. The man was no longer alone.
A figure stood in front of the TV, robed in black, a hood pulled low to obscure his pale, bony face.
“Ach,” said Colm McCool. “Here ye are, so. You gave me a wee fright, so you did, appearing in such a way. Not a big fright, mind, or even a medium fright, or even what you might call a small fright. Just, as I said, a wee fright."
The figure inclined his head politely.
"Now," Colm went on, "a small fright, well, I had one of those, just last March I think it was. Yes, I’d just had my hair trimmed, which was, as I say, in March.”
PARDON ME, said Death.
“So I says to myself, ‘Colm,’ says I, ‘you’re in a fright, so ye are.’ Now, I don’t mind a wee bit of excitement, y’know, to get the blood pumping. They say that’s good for your heart. But a fright o’ this size is something on the old system, I'll tell you.”
AHEM, said Death, rather pointedly. 1
Colm was undeterred. “As I said, this was a small fright last March —“
In Death’s vast experience being present for people’s final moments, he was used to a range of reactions from those on the precipice of that final step into the great unknown. He was also, not to put too fine a point on it, difficult to bore.2
This, however - this was something of a head scratcher.
He raised a bony hand. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?
Colm eyeballed him contemplatively. “Ach, laddie, have we met before? Now, I don’t tend to forget a face. Why, over in Ballymoney, not five years ago, I spotted William O’Neill in the square, must've been nigh on fifteen years since I'd seen his face. And I said to him, says I, ‘Why, William O’Neill, it’s yourself, so it is.’”
Beneath his dark robe, Death’s skeletal shoulders were beginning to stoop.
WHAT IS HAPPENING? he said.
“Now, William O'Neill may not have the most memorable features, but, as I say, I don’t forget a face, and sure, I knew him the moment I spied him. ‘Colm,’ he says, says he—“
The television crackled with static. Deep in the cowl of his robe, Death’s eyes glowed a vivid blue.
WELL, said Death. THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.
“Nor is it likely to happen again,” agreed Colm philosophically. “Now, I don’t complain about a bit of déjà vu myself —“
From the front hall came the sound of the door opening.
TILL WE MEET AGAIN, said Death. 3
“— for, as I’ve said before, and I'll say again, a rerun of an episode won’t spoil my evening —“
Mary bustled into the room.
“Evening, Colm. Who’ve you been speaking to? You haven’t been talking to yourself, now, have you?”
“Evening, Mary. No, I was talkin' to that fella who gave me a wee fright. Now, I should clarify, 'twas not a big fright, nor even a medium —“
“What fella is that, then, Colm?” Mary interrupted, casting a glance around the empty living room.
Colm blinked.
Outside, on the streets of Derry, Death stood in the bitterly cold November wind. He did not feel the chill, but he'd been blown over by something.
WELL PLAYED, COLM MCCOOL.
Death gave his white steed a soothing stroke with his bony fingers, before mounting Binky in one smooth movement. Then together, they turned and vanished into the dark night.
“Strange fella, he was,” said Colm, sitting comfortably in his armchair inside his cozy two-bedroom terrace. “But as you know, Mary, I never forget a face. Now, not five years ago, in Ballymoney, I spied —“
—--------------------------
1 His scythe glinted, also pointedly. [return to text]
2 This included dealing with the particularly loquacious. As the poem goes: "because they could not stop (talking) for Death — He kindly stopped their breath —" This is also sometimes known as the Final Shush. [return to text]
3 Perhaps following a strategic investment in noise-cancelling headphones. Unfortunately, they have a limited effect on a, er, being without ears.[return to text]