Afterlife Admin

Sorry.

Marcus Henley whispered the word into his Nokia 3310—the only phone that seemed immune to spectral interference—while Mrs. Pemberton's ghost dictated her final letter to the Tesco customer service department. Something about a dodgy tin of peaches from 1987 that had apparently haunted her for thirty-four years.

"Tell them the syrup was too thick," she insisted, her translucent form hovering near his cluttered desk in the cramped Stockport bedsit. "Unnaturally thick. Like treacle made from despair."

Marcus typed dutifully on his ancient Dell laptop, the screen flickering whenever Mrs. Pemberton grew agitated. Which was often. The dead, he'd discovered, carried grudges with supernatural persistence.

His mobile buzzed—three missed calls from his sister Amy. He'd promised to help with Dad's birthday party planning, but that was before Mr. Ashworth (deceased 2019, cause: choking on a Polo mint) had demanded a strongly-worded letter to the manufacturers about "insufficient hole diameter specifications."

The whole mess had started innocently enough. Dad's stroke last year had left him struggling with basic tasks, so Marcus had offered to help write a complaint letter about the hospital's appalling tea selection. Simple enough. But somehow—and Marcus still couldn't explain how—Dad's late mother had appeared during the process, desperate to add her own grievances about the ward's uncomfortable chairs.

Word spread through whatever network the deceased used for gossip. Within weeks, Marcus was receiving ghostly visitors at all hours, each clutching supernatural NDAs that materialized from thin air. The contracts were binding, apparently, even across dimensional boundaries. He couldn't discuss his work with anyone—not that anyone would believe him anyway.

"Right then," Mrs. Pemberton announced, "that's the Tesco matter sorted. Now, about my complaint to the Royal Mail regarding that postman who kept delivering my pension letters to number forty-seven instead of forty-nine..."

Marcus's stomach cramped. He'd survived on nothing but instant noodles for three days, too anxious to leave the flat in case he missed a ghostly appointment. The irony wasn't lost on him—he was slowly dying while helping the dead with their bureaucratic afterlife.

His phone rang. Amy.

"Marcus? Where are you? The party's in two hours and you promised to—"

"I can't," he interrupted, watching Mrs. Pemberton rifle through a phantom filing cabinet. "Something's come up."

"What could possibly be more important than Dad's seventieth?"

How could he explain? That he was contractually obligated to help deceased residents of Greater Manchester resolve their outstanding earthly complaints? That his life had become an endless customer service queue for the afterlife?

"It's work," he mumbled.

"What work? You're freelance, Marcus. Just say no to whatever client is taking the piss."

Say no. The words felt foreign. When had he last said no to anyone? Not to Dad when he'd asked for help. Not to his first ghostly client. Not to the dozens who'd followed. Each spectral visitor arrived with such desperate politeness, such genuine distress about unfinished business, that refusal felt monstrous.

"I'll try to make it," he lied.

After Amy hung up, Mrs. Pemberton settled into his one armchair—purchased from a charity shop and now permanently indented with the impression of phantom posteriors.

"Lovely girl, your sister," she observed. "Reminds me of my Brenda. Haven't seen her since the crossing over, of course. Different departments."

"Departments?"

"Oh yes, dear. The afterlife's frighteningly well-organized. I'm with Unresolved Earthly Grievances, subsection Consumer Complaints. There's also Incomplete Conversations, Unfulfilled Promises, and Unexpressed Emotions. Terribly busy, all of them."

Marcus felt something cold settle in his chest. "How many... departments are there?"

"Hundreds, I'd imagine. And they're all chronically understaffed for living-world liaisons. You're quite popular upstairs, Marcus. Very accommodating. They're considering offering you a permanent position."

The laptop screen went completely black.

"Permanent?"

"Cross-dimensional customer service representative. Excellent benefits package, though I suspect the commute might be challenging."

Marcus stood abruptly, knocking over his cold tea. "I need some air."

"Oh, but what about my letter to the BBC? That weather presenter in 1983 promised sunshine for the church fête, and it absolutely poured..."

"Later," Marcus gasped, grabbing his jacket.

He stumbled down three flights of stairs and onto the street, gulping Manchester smog like it was mountain air. His phone buzzed constantly—Amy, probably wondering why he was sabotaging Dad's party. But he couldn't think about that now. He needed to walk, to move, to remember what it felt like to exist without spectral supervision.

The high street was mercifully solid and warm. Living people with living problems: arguments about parking spaces, complaints about coffee temperatures, discussions of weekend plans. Normal human friction that didn't require interdimensional mediation.

He found himself outside Waterstones, staring at the bestseller display. Books by people who'd found their voices, who'd taken risks, who'd said something worth saying. When had he last written anything for himself? When had he last had a thought that wasn't borrowed from someone else?

His reflection in the shop window looked hollow. Translucent, almost.

"Marcus?"

He spun around. Amy stood behind him, holding a birthday card and looking concerned.

"I was buying Dad's present and saw you through the window. You look terrible."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're disappearing, Marcus. When did I last see you properly? Not rushing off to some mysterious client meeting or too busy to talk."

She studied his face with the particular intensity she'd inherited from Mum. "What's going on? And don't say work. I know your work. You write blog posts about garden sheds and technical manuals for industrial dishwashers. Nothing so urgent it can't wait for Dad's birthday."

The weight of months pressed down on him. The sleepless nights, the constant anxiety, the gradual erosion of his own thoughts and desires beneath an avalanche of other people's unfinished business. The way he'd become a vessel for everyone else's voice while his own grew fainter and fainter.

"I've been helping people," he said finally. "People who can't help themselves."

"That's lovely, but you can't help everyone, Marcus. Sometimes you have to say—"

"No." The word came out stronger than he'd intended. "I know. I need to say no."

Amy blinked. "Well, yes. That's what I was—"

"I need to say no to all of them. I need my life back."

Something shifted in his chest, like a door opening. He could feel Mrs. Pemberton's presence pulling at him from three streets away, along with the familiar anxiety that accompanied her supernatural NDAs. But for the first time in months, he felt something stronger: his own will, pushing back.

"Come on," Amy said, linking her arm through his. "Dad's been asking about you. He wants to show you his new greenhouse."

They walked toward the bus stop together, and Marcus felt increasingly solid with each step. His phone buzzed—probably Mrs. Pemberton wondering where he'd gone—but he didn't answer. Let the afterlife find another customer service representative. He had living to do.

"By the way," Amy said as they waited for the bus, "Dad mentioned you helped him with some letter about hospital tea?"

"Yeah, just a complaint about—"

"He said it was the best letter he'd ever read. Really powerful stuff. He's been telling everyone about his writer son."

Marcus felt a flush of something he'd almost forgotten: pride in his own work. Not pride in efficiently channeling someone else's grievances, but genuine satisfaction in words he'd chosen, sentences he'd crafted, thoughts he'd shaped.

The bus arrived, and as they climbed aboard, Marcus made a decision. Tonight, after Dad's party, he'd return to his flat and inform Mrs. Pemberton and any other spectral clients about his career change. He'd help them find alternative representation—surely the afterlife had proper channels for these things. He'd been their unpaid intern long enough.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from an unknown number: Are you the gentleman who helps with unfinished business? I have a situation involving a disputed will and three very angry cousins (deceased). Urgent assistance required.

Marcus showed Amy the message. "Look at this. How do they even get my number?"

"Delete it," she said immediately. "Whatever weird niche you've carved out for yourself, it's eating you alive."

He stared at the message, feeling the familiar tug of obligation. Someone needed help. Someone was distressed. How could he just ignore—

No.

He deleted the text.

"There," Amy said approvingly. "See? The world didn't end."

Marcus laughed—the first genuine laugh he'd produced in months. "No, it didn't."

They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence, and Marcus watched the city scroll past through clear windows, unobscured by spectral interference. When they reached Dad's house, he could hear voices and laughter from the garden. Living voices. Present-tense conversations about real, immediate things.

His phone buzzed one more time. Mrs. Pemberton had sent what appeared to be a formal termination notice, complete with afterlife letterhead and a surprisingly professional signature. The message was brief: We understand you're transitioning careers. Thank you for your service. Your replacement will be in touch.

Replacement? Marcus felt a moment of panic, then stopped himself. Not his problem anymore. Someone else could handle the interdimensional customer service queue. He had his own unfinished business to attend to.

As they walked up Dad's garden path, Amy squeezed his arm. "You know what you should do? Write about this whole experience. Not for clients, not for anyone else. Just write your own story."

Marcus paused at the front gate, considering. His own story. His own words. His own voice, telling truths only he could tell. The idea felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I might do that," he said.

Dad appeared at the front door, beaming. "Marcus! Perfect timing. Come see the greenhouse. And Amy told me you're thinking about writing a book?"

"Maybe," Marcus admitted. "Something about... customer service."

"Brilliant! You always were good with words. Remember that letter you wrote for me about the hospital tea? Pure poetry, that was."

They spent the evening in the garden, surrounded by the warm chaos of family celebration. Marcus found himself actually listening to conversations instead of mentally drafting responses to complaints. He ate proper food and remembered what it felt like to be present in his own life.

Around midnight, as he helped Dad clear up, his phone received one final message from an unknown number: Heard you're no longer taking ghostly clients. Shame. I had a fascinating case involving a Victorian inventor and a disputed patent for self-buttering toast. Your loss.

Marcus smiled and deleted the message without hesitation.

Walking home through empty Manchester streets, he felt lighter than he had in months. Tomorrow he'd clean out his flat, donate the ancient laptop to charity, and start writing something entirely his own. Something about the strange space between living and dying, between helping others and losing yourself, between saying yes to everything and finally learning to say—

Sorry.