I try to walk. I find the process to be reassuringly unchanged and a moment later I’ve managed to seat myself in the chair.
In the somewhat cold reflection of his eyes, I can see something resembling me. A silhouette, the curve of my hair. I wonder if it’s matted with blood; I suppress a wince as the crack of pavement hitting head rings through my ears.
He looks at me for a good two minutes, or at least it feels like that. Then he rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. “Blimey, they do get younger every century—did he sweep you off your feet? Or was he just very rich?” I have a horrible feeling he’s trying to be funny. “Hey, at least you got to wear the dress before you came here, eh?”
I have been typically quiet up to this point, but Death’s final words bring a halt to that. Irritation always manages to do that for me it seems. “What are you talking about?” I ask, and then let out a sigh of relief at hearing my voice, shaky but still existent.
Death watches me with amusement, then glances down at the file on his desk. He picks it up and gives it a little wave in a way that’s presumably supposed to make everything clear (it doesn’t).
“This. It says: Tiffany Aberdale. Recently married. Beaten to death in a robbery.” He reads this from the white sticker stuck to the top. I notice that a bubble of air is trapped in its edge, and I wonder distantly how the afterlife still has such menial problems. More consciously, though, I’m concerned by what he’s just said.
“That’s not me.”
“What?”
“Tiffany Aberdale, that’s not me. I’m Daisy. Daisy Cooper. I—I think I tripped.”
“You did what?”
“Yes, I tripped on—on the ice.” I swallow, finding it difficult to talk under the intensity of Death’s gaze. He looks utterly perplexed and I feel a strange sense of pride: I, average Daisy, have flummoxed the Grim Reaper himself. He flicks open the folder, flipping through the sheets with gathering speed. Then he drops it back onto the desk and dives down to pull open a drawer.
“Daisy Cooper, you say?” he calls up from the depths of the drawer, and I make a somewhat dazed noise of agreement. Maybe this is all an accident, a big mistake? Maybe I can go home.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead the time ticks by until Death reappears, holding an identical folder in his hand. The phone trills on the desk, a harsh sound for the almost eerie silence around us. At the very same moment, a mobile phone hums a bizarrely jaunty ringtone until Death pulls it from his pocket and furiously taps the screen a few times. Then he turns back to the file, opening it up and scowling at its contents. “Daisy Cooper, you say? Daisy Cooper of 1b Brownview Road, London? Daughter of Claire and Gary Cooper? Sister to Oliver Cooper? Currently living with Violet Tucker?”
I nod mutely and he smacks the folder down on the table, the action making me jump. “Well then, Daisy Cooper of 1b Brownview Road, London—what the hell are you doing here?”
It’s not quite the response I was expecting. I was thinking he might give me a pat on the shoulder, apologize for any inconvenience then send me back. That would be professional at least. Instead, he drops the file and comes around the desk to examine me more closely, as if I’m a wriggling bacteria under a microscope. “Well,” he states, after a long, uncomfortable moment in which he simply stares, “you look pretty dead to me.”
He lets out a sigh, ignoring my small whimper of despair, and moves to sit up on the top of the desk. As he leans across to grab the red phone’s receiver, I notice distantly that he’s wearing white Converses like the ones I myself own. Owned. Except his are still dazzlingly white, while mine were the gray of an English summer.
Then he starts speaking again and my gaze snaps up. But he’s just on the phone. “Right, listen. I want to know which half-brain, sham of evolution sent me Daisy Cooper when she’s not meant to be dead yet. No. Sorry, do I really have to repeat myself? Daisy Cooper isn’t meant to die for another sixty-nine years. Yes, I’ve read it right!” He hangs up then, dropping the receiver down onto the handset with a look of impatience. When he turns back to face me, however, he’s all smiles.
I know that look, though. It’s the look my boss gave me when I asked if I was ready to move on from just being a marketing assistant. It’s the look that the real estate agent gave Violet and I when we asked what we could afford in London with our budget. It’s the look of “hold your nose because here comes the shit.” This is why my breath stops—and I wonder for a moment why I’m even bothering to breathe anymore? And how?
As if he can see my thoughts scrolling above my head, Death grimaces. “Force of habit,” he explains with a careless wave of his hand. Then he stands and walks back around to his side of the desk, rubbing his jawline thoughtfully.
“Let me break it down for you, Daisy.”
“Break it down?” I raise an eyebrow quizzically.
He doesn’t seem to notice my little interruption, though. Instead, he shuffles his papers and adjusts his collar. “An admin mix-up has meant that the major life event which was meant to leave you with severe concussion has left you dead instead. Do you see my problem?”
I shake my head. Honesty is most definitely the best policy in this situation, even if it causes Death to rub small, irritated circles around his temples before going on.
“You can’t go onward because you’re not due yet. You can’t go back to your life because you’ve seen too much. The cutoff time for when a dead person can return to their body is during the whiteout—that bit when all you saw is white,” he clarifies, as clearly my expression of bemusement gets too severe, before continuing. “Somehow, some cretin allowed you to wander up here without checking your status in the system. And now, Miss Cooper, you’re stuck in the middle: you cannot go forward, and you cannot go back.”
I stare. What else can I do? He’s spoken to me as if I understand the intricate workings of postlife, when, funnily enough, it’s not my area of expertise. From the way he’s tapping his fingers rhythmically against the desk, I think I’m meant to respond.
“I...” I begin, and then trail off again. “Sir, uh... Mr. Death—”
“It’s just Death.”
“Right. Uh...if I can’t go forward, and you don’t want to let me back, where the hell am I meant to go?”
He shrugs a little. “You don’t go anywhere. Not until you’re due. You’re stuck in the middle, in Administration, as we call it, until your time comes. In sixty-nine years, according to your file.” His phone goes off, the mobile only this time. Sighing, he stands and moves toward the door to the side. “Please, wait here. I’ve got to deal with this. Someone will find a solution, probably.” He turns away without another word, already interested in his phone call. Before I can mutter what I think is meant to be a thank you, he’s gone.