Yet To Come

At the tender age of fifty-six, having given my last three slices of bread to a street urchin, I choked on a piece of Cheshire cheese whilst dining alone by candlelight in my kitchen. As I tell this story you may make certain assumptions. You may think that having spent thirty-three years apparently making provision for others to have a smooth transition into the afterlife, I would have arranged a spectacular send off for myself. You may think. But actually, when my time came, I was far from ready.

Daily dealings with the mortality of others can leave one somewhat unwilling to stare into the face of their own demise. I have often spoken at length to grieving widows about the virtues of luxurious velvet linings in costly mahogany boxes, in the full knowledge that such opulence means nothing once their dear departed lie under ground. This is especially true if the full budget is spent on the coffin, leaving nothing for an iron fence to protect against grave robbing.

Obviously, I always tried to persuade relatives to dig deep into their pockets and pay for both. When they would not, I did have the option of earning additional coinage by exchanging funerary information with shady characters from the surgical college. This could make up for any income not acquired in the traditional manner. But of course, I only did this in hard times.

At our initial meeting I learned that my “underhanded” practices along with my own reluctance to deal directly with Death (and the timing of my expiration being so close to Christmas) were what drew him to me in person. These things also inspired him to give me the employment in which I now find myself. He thought me inappropriately distanced from my deceased clients. Being in the business of empathy himself, he wanted me to learn from experience to treat people with more respect and also that death is, in fact, an opportunity – for those who have lived well.

Anyway, with no one to help me and no way to save myself from the crumbs caught in my airway, I staggered round the dining table and collapsed, clutching desperately at my throat, onto the floorboards, crying for breath. I realised, before the final heartbeat sounded in my chest, that I was no more for this world. As my eternal soul left my mortal body, I found myself disorientated, wondering what on earth to do next.

Directionless, lost, I wondered if my final journey would be upward to the bosom of the Lord or downward to the pits of the Devil. But I didn’t seem to shift in either direction and had no power to choose one or the other. No longer being in possession of a physical form I could not touch anything or work out how to propel myself through space. Instead, I experienced an overwhelming awareness of my surroundings, as if I had become part of the furniture and been made one with the room.

After a few short seconds of utter confusion, I was relieved to be greeted by the mythical figure in a black, hooded cape who floated slightly off the ground, a mysterious mist curling around him. He used his scythe, with great skill, to extract me from the room, cutting a rent in the very fabric of existence and ripping my now spiritual self free of the physical world. So taken was I with this vision of the Reaper, that I later modelled myself on his grim appearance. Though he refused to allow me to carry a scythe – apparently that is reserved for him, and him alone.

Before my new role was explained, and my attention turned to the showmanship that might be involved in my wardrobe, my first thoughts were of how my own funeral would be arranged. I had left but vague instructions and only a small inheritance for my family. My life insurance policy would cover the basic requirements of paying back my mortgage and loans. However very little would be left over after that.

I'd hoped that my business associate, Mr Givings, would take care of the practicalities, and I expect that he will. Though he is a self serving man and may cut corners in order to avoid spending too much time on me. He may even follow in my footsteps and allow the worst to happen if my wife cannot pay for a fence over my grave.

These thoughts lasted only a moment. Death was upon me and had important plans. He explained that my own soul hangs in the balance between good and evil. My charity towards the homeless and destitute being almost equal and opposite to my, sometimes questionable, business practices. He offered me a way to improve my chances of avoiding hellfire and instead passing through the pearly gates.

Death, it turns out, has grown tired of the old ways. The waiting for people to pass, the weighing of their souls, their salvation or damnation based purely on the result of that single measure. He’s done a deal with the upper management and is about to launch a new process, assuming that our trial run goes well. That’s what he wants me for, and his other recruits. There are those in danger of heading south when they pass away, bound in the chains they have forged for themselves in life. His grand scheme is to see to their education before it's too late. He wants humans to be given a second chance at redemption. But he must demonstrate the need and a successful outcome with one man first. A man chosen by the rolling of his dice.

My life as an undertaker has left me well prepared, in a way, but there are key differences. For a start I’m used to dealing with a grieving family and a corpse, not being a corpse myself and dealing with a still-living individual. My induction was very clear on this issue. Death himself laboured the point that my job is now to inspire men to live better lives, not to deliver them to their final resting places. That will come later and be someone else’s responsibility in the new system.

He warned that an encounter with me might inadvertently result in an early grave for those of a frail constitution. So, I must tread carefully whilst still delivering the required stark message. A heart attack or stroke from the shock of being faced with the potential of a lonely and loveless funeral is not unexpected. It’s a major risk that the recipient of a visit from myself and my new colleagues will collapse and die before any chance of deliverance from sin. If that is to happen, our team will most certainly lose favour with the management. The whole project could be scrapped and all of our souls placed in jeopardy.

It is not for entirely selfish reasons that I hope it will be a triumph. The success of this first attempt could result in further opportunities for others to mend their ways. Perhaps the system could be applied to my business partner, Mr Givings, who is the least appropriately named man in England. If he is reached in time, perhaps he will also find it within himself to arrange a suitable burial for his old friend.

So here I am, my first Christmas dead as a doornail. I’m whisping my way through the London snow to play my part in our inaugural assignment at a somewhat grand yet barely furnished home. The timing is key. My ghostly companions will carry out their parts first, one to prepare the subject, then one pointing to the past and one to the present, before I make my own dramatic appearance to deliver the final message.

Apparently, I have to wait for the third time the clock strikes one before I make myself known. It’s probably best not to talk at all if what I say might kill a man, so I have blanked out my face to avoid the temptation to speak. I’ll simply summon up the appropriate visions, solemnly point at them, and let him draw his own dreadful conclusions.

What was the name of the chosen man?

Ebenezer something.