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‘I think it’s because I wasn’t invited to many parties when I was a kid,’ James said, eyeing up the blocks.

‘Ah,’ said Death. ‘It’s going to be one of those stories.’

‘Don’t suppose you already know everything I’m going to tell you,’ he replied. ‘Otherwise I won’t tell you anything, and then you really will never know.’

‘Okay.  Please continue.’

James Naylor tapped the brick he’d been scrutinizing with the tip of his finger, and when it budged slightly pushed it all the way out from the centre of the tower and placed it on the top.

‘It all stems from invitations of parties,’ he continued, ‘or the lack thereof.  If I’d have been recognised as an individual, with true, very puissant feelings, then they would’ve asked me to come along.  But since they were only kids, as was I back then, they didn’t see this.  They saw me as a spotty, fat little kid who wasn’t cool enough.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Death, pursing its lips. ‘Don’t feign originality with all this.  How many grown adults have you spoken to who’ve said the same?  How many lovers, friends, relatives … Most people go through that during adolescence.  I’ve spoken to seventy percent of all mankind – all deceased mankind, anyway – and they all give me that same, tedious crap.  Please.’

It extended a thin, white finger, nudged a brick on the left side of the tower, near the bottom.  It moved very little.  He pulled back, examining the entire stack of Jenga bricks again.

‘I’d rather we stayed quiet,’ it continued. ‘You’re teaching me nothing new, Mr Naylor.  Nothing new.’

‘Neither are you.  Can’t you give me even a little hint?’

‘No clue at all, Mr Naylor, as to what’s after me.’

*

‘So,’ he said, putting his head in his palms whist his eyes climbed the tower. ‘Who’s this Rebecca?’

‘Just take your brick.’

‘Was she cute?’

‘She was eight.  She made me laugh, and she’s been the only soul to ever do that.  That’s why she was the coolest.’

‘I bet I could make you laugh.’

‘I’m sure you couldn’t, Mr Naylor.  In fact I’m certain you’d thoroughly exhaust me simply by trying.’

‘Okay, here’s one,’ he said, eyes shining in the dull void and a grin flashing across his lined features. ‘At the gates of Heaven, Saint Peter’s desperate for a fag-break, so he whistles for Christ to take over for him.  “Hey, Jesus,” he says, “look after the gates for me for a while, would you?”  Stop me if you’ve heard it.’

‘I’ve not heard it,’ Death said with a sigh.

‘Okay, good.  Right, so Jesus looks blankly at him for a moment, then replies, “Um, I’m not sure what to do …”  So Peter says, “Alright, whenever someone comes to the gates, you ask them about their life: job, family, that kind of thing.  If they sound like they’ve been good, and they’re not lying, you simply let them in.”

‘ “Sounds easy enough,” says the Messiah to himself, and takes Peter’s place while he goes off for a smoke.  After a while this old man with a big white beard comes up, and Jesus asks him about his life. “Ah,” says the old man, “that’s quite an interesting story.  I used to make things, you see, all kinds of things, even my family; I made myself a little boy, and he was so very, very good all of the time … And he had little tiny holes in his hands and feet …”

‘Jesus stares at him, aghast. “How long has it been,” he asks, “since you last saw your son?”

‘ “Ooh, many a year,” replies the old man. “A long, long time.  I left him to it, you see.  Thought he’d learn more that way.”

‘Understandably Christ is pretty pale by this point, because all of what the old man is saying has a kind of resonation with him … He’s shaking a little, and sweating, because he’s not seen his Dad in a long time, either.  He leans across the desk, looks the old man right in the eye, and, his voice shaky, says, “Father …?”

‘And the old man’s eyes go wide, and he looks at Jesus and says … “Pinocchio?” ’

Death didn’t seem amused.  It simply grunted lowly, nodding at the stack. ‘It’s your move.’

‘You didn’t find that funny?’

‘Not really.  Your move.’

‘Alright.  There.  Not even a wobble.  You sure you can beat me, Mr Reaper?  I’ve never lost a game.’

‘As you know,’ Death replied, ‘neither have I.’

James sighed heavily, and yawned. ‘Why d’you think people are depressed most of their lives?’ he asked. ‘I’m starting to think it’s more hormones than life events.  Chemical imbalances and all that.  It must be, I think, because everyone’s depressed, even people who should be happy.  Rich people and super models with nice hair …’

‘You think those things should make you happy?  Money, and nice hair?’

‘No.  Actually, I deeply respect people with messy hair.  It shows they’ve more important things to think about.’

Death grunted.

‘Maybe it’s because I was a tutor.’

‘How do you mean?’ Death asked.  It barely seemed interested, more absorbed in finding a safe block to tease from the stack.

‘I used to teach a creative writing course at a university.  Now that’s depressing.  All angst-ridden teenagers writing about their woes and misfortune … D’you know how many times your average creative writing student’ll use the word “melancholy” in the same piece?  About a gazillion.  It’s all very gloomy, I tell you.  Makes one miserable.’

‘And talking about it helps, does it?’

‘Not really.’

‘So stop talking about it,’ Death mumbled, its brow creased.  It took its move. ‘There.  Could we hurry this up, please?  A tanker just went down near Greenland, and there’s a bit of an influx.’

‘I gather you’re omnipresent.’

‘That’s right.  All over the place, I am.  But there’s only one of me, not a different Death per person, like some people think.  No escape.’

‘But if a million people all around the world want to play you at Buckaroo, all at once, would you lose your concentration?’

Death sighed again. ‘Please, Mr Naylor, just make your moves as quickly and conversation-free as possible, so that I might send you on your way and be done with this.’

‘Well now,’ said James quietly. ‘Who would’ve guessed mythical figures get moody …’

‘I’m clearly not mythical if I’m sitting here playing Jenga with you.’
‘Does it bother you that some people don’t believe in you?’

‘Not at all.  By the time they get here …’  He took out a brick, one on the edge, and the tower quivered slightly … ‘they believe.’

‘But you are a bit touchy, you know.  Do you feel anger?’

‘Do you want to find out?  I’ve not shown you my scythe yet.’

‘Ooh!  Humour, if a little dry …’

‘I don’t think “Cheery Reaper” has the same ring, do you?’

‘I dunno.  Has a kind of cadence to it.  Do you ever feel love?’

Death went quiet then, suspiciously so, as it stroked the bricks to find a loose one, being careful not to apply too much pressure, and then when it found one that seemed movable he pushed it out halfway, then pulled from the other side and successfully rested it at the stack’s apex.

‘Interesting,’ Naylor said. ‘I wish I was still alive to write a story about this.  I don’t know how entertaining it’d be.  Probably too much of a cliché, I think, playing for the chance to go back to one’s former life …’

‘Why do you want to go back?’

‘I have a daughter,’ said James.

‘Called?’

‘Are you really interested?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Then I won’t go into it.’  James took his turn, then gazed about himself until it was time to consult the bricks again.  His chair was floating in nothing, as was the table, yet both seemed firmly rooted somewhere, and were satisfyingly solid to the touch.  Like real furniture.

‘Unless,’ he added.

‘You want to know what Rebecca said to make me laugh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You first, Mr Naylor.’

‘My daughter’s called Vicky.  She’s beautiful, Death, and I’m not saying that just from the parental perspective.  Looking at her gives me the same feeling as when I look up at the Milky Way, or at a blossoming tree, or the sun on rain-troubled water.  She’s dark hair, like mine, and her mother’s brown eyes.  But her smile’s her own; it’s like rays of moonlight through a forest canopy.’

Death had looked up from its slouch, and was eyeing him intently.  It parted its cracked blue lips.

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about,’ James said quietly, ‘do you …?’

*

‘Don’t you ever go over there,’ he asked, frowning, ‘stalking the people, following, waiting for the moment when they’re just about to die?  Aren’t you there by their death-beds, on the battlefields, in the crashing aircraft?  Haven’t you ever seen any of these things?’

Death shook its head slowly. ‘I’m just always here.  They pass through afterwards, sometimes even without a word.  I’ve heard stories, though … Whenever something comes up that I’ve not heard before, I have to listen.  It interests me, I suppose.’

‘But you’ve never seen it, walked around a bit, sat on a park bench by a lake?  Never seen children climb trees?  Never seen a city slowly light up with a thousand bulbs when the sun goes down?’

‘No, not any of those things.  But I’m a master at Scrabble.’

James laughed. ‘Death, if you weren’t stopping me from seeing my beautiful child one more time, I’d probably like you.  But, seriously, if I offered to show you around, would you accept?  Or have you heard that offer before as well?’

‘Times heaped thousands upon thousands.  Almost every soul.’

Naylor whistled. ‘Obdurate.’

‘Did you ever think that maybe I couldn’t go with you, even if I wanted to?’

‘Is someone stopping you?’

‘I can’t answer that.  But if there was, there’d be nothing you or I would be able to do about it.  And if it was something else entirely … Well, then that’s just as moot a point, I think.’

‘Well, Mr Reaper, I wish I could show you my Vicky.  She’s what I’m playing for, at any rate.  You know how important she is to me.  But, if I lose —’

‘Which you will.’

‘— Then she’s old enough to look after herself.  She can handle it, I think.  She managed fine when her mother died.’

‘You said she had her mother’s eyes.’

‘That’s right.’  He stopped speaking, thought about taking his turn, but then looked at Death instead and asked, ‘Do you want me to tell you a story?’

‘If you like.  It’s probably something I’ve already heard a million times.’
‘I’ll tell it anyway, if you’ll bear with me.’

‘Take your turn, first.’

James enticed a yellow brick from the tower and put it where he was supposed to.  The whole thing teetered precariously, but stayed upright, a vertical testimony to his proficiency at the game.

‘Funnily enough, Laura and I were playing a game when we met.  Hide and seek.  As students we’d all go up to this huge house for the summer, every year since we finished school so we’d all stay friends, and when we got bored we’d muck around like kids again.  Sometimes we’d play indoors, but it was bright and sunny so we went outside.  Richard was “it” that day, so the rest of us ran and hid; I found a place underneath the great canopy of this massive tree, and it hung down like a thick leafy curtain right to the lawn, and concealed me.

‘As soon as Richie stopped counting, the curtain burst inwards and there was Laura, rushing to find a place to hide.  She grinned at me and we stood together, waiting to be found, ‘cause it wasn’t that good a hiding place, really.  But it got chilly after a few minutes, and began to rain, and we huddled together for warmth and comfort as the downpour hammered against the green ceiling above us, dripping through occasionally and shooting icily down our backs.

‘We ended up kissing, and then we were lying down together in the wet grass right there with the rich earthy smell and the chirping of birds and the patter of rain, and when we came out together – still not found by Richie, and rather glad of it – there was this great rainbow stretching right over us, vivid and almost concrete in the sky.  That was when we suspected we’d end up together, forever.’

Death nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the tower of bricks again, and made its turn.  The stack had gotten taller and more precarious, wobbling whenever either of the players tested one of its components.

‘Now it’s your turn,’ Naylor said, hopefully tapping a safe-looking block.  It wouldn’t budge; solid.

‘I’ve just had my go.’

‘No, I mean your turn to speak.  I told you a story, now you tell me what made this little Rebecca so cool.’

‘I don’t think it’s a fair trade,’ said Death.

‘Rubbish.  We made a deal.’

‘Sorry, I just don’t think it’s an even exchange.  You would have to tell me more.’

‘Oh, right.  Now you want me to talk.’  He successfully made his move.  He didn’t think there were any movable bricks left in the tower.

‘If you want me to answer your question, then yes.’

‘Ok.  What d’you want to talk about?’

‘More of the same.’

‘Love?  It’s never the same.  Never.  Sometimes it’s the worst thing in the world.  Surely people have talked about heart-break with you.’  Death nodded. ‘It’s horrible at times.  But I do have a theory.  I believe that – metaphorically speaking, of course – the heart is like a piece of paper that’s stretched over a kind of void.  Whenever the heart is broken, the paper folds in half.  You see?  Then you get half of the void to deal with.  And the next time your heart breaks, it folds again, and now there’s more darkness than there is heart.  You become jaded.  A little stony-faced, maybe, less responsive.  And every time the paper folds, the void begins to take over.  But d’you know what the beauty of this theory is?  What kept me going whenever I went through heart-break?’

‘What’s that?’ Death asked.

‘A folded piece of paper, however small it’s become, can always be unfolded.  I like that idea.  It always gave me hope.’

‘It’s a nice theory.  I’ve not heard anything like that before.’
‘It’s your move.’

‘I know.  I don’t think there are any movable bricks left.’
‘Will you concede?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’  He tapped one of the blocks, and it remained immobile. ‘What do you think about good and evil?’

‘Oh, we’re getting into the heavy stuff now, aren’t we?  Good and evil, and all that.  Well, before my stroke today I would’ve told you I never believed in any of the nonsense involving God and the afterlife.  But if you exist … Well, you seem to imply that there is a Heaven and a Hell after all.  But good and evil, that’s a different matter.  I believe everyone has the capacity for both, however stuck in their ways they seem.  But I also think that once you add a drop of darkness to a soul, it’s there forever.  It doesn’t mix in; there’s no grey.  The light and dark just swim around each other, always apart, like colours in a lava lamp.  A man just has to learn to keep the darkness in the middle, on the inside.’

Death said, ‘Hmm.’

‘Interesting?’

‘Surely.  I also believe that light and dark are inseparable, yet distinct.  They are connected and also eternally, irreparably removed.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way, Death, because you’re generally seen as a dark figure, and I’d hate to think I’m going somewhere unpleasant.  Of course, I’d rather not go anywhere at all; I’m attached to life; I love it.  I never want to die, yet here I am.  To me death can never be a good thing, even if you’re up somewhere dancing with angels.  Life is all about music, and carnality, and spring, and the turning of the wheel.’

‘I don’t know what you mean by that.  Ah-ha.’  Death had levered a block out from the right hand side, and placed it securely on the top of the stack.

James said, ‘I believe everyone is attached to a great wheel; the wheel of life and death; of fortune and misfortune; of good and evil.  And sometimes the wheel’s turning and you’re heading up, and everything’s fine, and you can see the road ahead and the wind is in your face; but other times you’re revolving downwards, and you’re stuck with your face in the dirt and the grit, and you can’t see a damn thing.  But always the wheel turns, and you come back up again.  That’s why I love life, and never wish to depart from it.’

Full of enthusiasm and hope and passion, his fingers caressed the precarious wooden tower, found a block they seemed to like, and he pushed.  It slid gratingly halfway through, and he leaned and took it in his grasp on the other side and tugged gently, easing it out as much as it would without bringing down the whole structure.  He pulled it out.  The tower wobbled, but remained upright.

He smiled at Death, and then placed it on the top, on the side.  The tower leaned, the equilibrium lost.  The bricks slipped out from the back and it began to collapse.

‘This is it, I guess,’ James said mournfully.

‘I’m afraid so, Mr Naylor,’ Death replied impassively, as the bricks came apart, wrenched downwards by gravity.

‘Nice speaking to you.’

‘And you, Mr Naylor.  Would you like to know now what Rebecca said to make me laugh?’

‘I’d love to.’

‘She said to me, “How can you kill so many people and not be sorry for it?”

‘And I replied, “I have to, otherwise the world would fill up, and there’d be nowhere left for people to sit, and everyone would get so old that they couldn’t move anyway, and it would be chaos.”

‘And she looked up at me, this sweet little eight year old girl, and she said … “Fair enough.” ’

James frowned. ‘And that made you laugh?  I don’t get it.’

As the pale bricks hit the table and scattered themselves – the tower inevitably toppled – Death said nothing.  He just smiled, unhappily.

 

*

 

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