Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Arthur Peterson settled in his cosy red armchair for his usual round of after-tea telly-watching. He channel hopped for ten minutes before settling for some so-called comedy. It was bad; too much crude language for the somewhat old-fashioned ex-cop to contend with. He switched off and began flicking through an overdue library book instead. With an exaggerated groan, Arthur dropped the book carelessly on the table, upsetting his half-finished cup of tepid tea. His mind wasn’t what it used to be and concentrating for more than five minutes was impossible. Arthur was bored with the mundane routine commonly known as life, and he longed for something interesting to happen. Not that he would enjoy whatever happened; Arthur never enjoyed anything.

     Arthur allowed himself a quizzical smile as he heard a series of sharp raps on the door. He walked, or rather waddled, into the hall, undid all eighteen of the top quality locks, and slowly opened the door. He peered out and was faced with Death. Death looked much as Arthur had imagined him: tail, bony, and swathed in miles of black material. Arthur glared angrily at his visitor.

     “Pee off! It was Halloween months ago.” Death drew himself up to his full height.

     “I,” he paused dramatically, as if he’d had years of practice, “am Death.” Due to a niggling throat infection, he sounded as squeaky as a mouse on helium, taking away from the full effect of his statement. Death’s high-pitched voice penetrated Arthur’s ears and rattled his brain. Nevertheless, Arthur refused to be convinced.

     “If you’re Death then where’s your scythe?” Death sighed. “And why did you knock?” Death scratched his skull with a fleshless finger. A law had recently been passed in the Underworld that stated that all harbingers of death were to be unarmed, so as not to scare their victims. A pointless exercise but commonly believed to be a sensible one. It was also decided that all harbingers of death should knock before entering, rather than barging in uninvited. As far as Death was concerned, political correctness had no place in a modern underworld, but majority carried the vote.

     “I,” he repeated, “am Death, and you, Arthur Edward Peterson, are coming with me.” Arthur was not perturbed in the slightest and, with almost childlike innocence, he asked Death if he could possibly change his trousers first. He was acknowledged with a frosty glare and a warning that he’d better be quick.

     Arthur considered his situation as he pulled on his favourite green corduroys. Admittedly, he was scared, but who wouldn’t be? He shook his head to disperse his fears and set off downstairs.

     Death was on his mobile when Arthur found him. “No, that is completely ridiculous! How much? You tell....hey, don’t you dare hang up on....” Death shook his skull in a completely mortal manner. Arthur smiled; he had been smiling frequently today and it felt good. Unfortunately, any happy expressions looked so out of place on his old and wrinkled face that they gave him the look of an ageing megalomaniac. Death groaned piteously. “Would you believe it? They’ve given me a twenty-five percent pay cut.” He muttered something Inaudible but obviously rude under his breath. Arthur turned to Death and gave him a knowing grin.

     “So, with a pay cut like that, there’s not really much point in you, you know, doing what you, ahem, do, is there?” It took a long time for Arthur to say this but Death got the gist.

     “Well, the pay might be bad but, as we say in the underworld, I’ve got to make a dying. It’s about time we went.” Death waved a bony hand at the ground and a gaping hole appeared. Arthur looked down into the fiery pits of Hell and gasped. Again, it was much as he’d expected, apart from the neon sign saying: Welcome to Hell. We hope your stay is long and unpleasant.

     There was a long spiral staircase tunnelling downwards. Death ventured onto the first step and beckoned Arthur to follow. Tentatively, Arthur placed a slippered foot on one of the slimy steps. They were covered in some strange gooey substance that squelched and bubbled underfoot. He tried his hardest to stay on his feet but he inevitably slipped and went tumbling downwards at a breakneck speed. He landed in an uncomfortable heap and waited for the pain to subside before attempting to stand back up. When Death caught up, he was faced by a literally fuming Arthur.

     “I thought dead people weren’t supposed to feel anything. That hurt!” Death explained patiently to Arthur that he wasn’t technically dead. Well, not yet anyway.

     “You still have one chance left.” Arthur was led into a small cave-like room. It wasn’t the most pleasant of places. The walls oozed darkness and the only furniture was a wooden table with a rickety old chair on either side.

     “Ah hal” cried Arthur triumphantly. “We’re going to play chess! If I win then I live, but if you win then I am doomed to a life, or death, of misery!” Arthur spoke these words with relish. Death, meanwhile, shuffled uncomfortably on the spot for a moment or two, then looked up.

     “Urn, not quite. There’s been a sort of decision, down here you understand, concerning this chess business. It has been decided that chess is too, arm, complicated for some people.” Death paused to pull a loose piece of thread off his robe. “You’ll never guess what we have to play now.” He shook his head disgustedly. Arthur had always had a soft spot for guessing games and he started this one with gusto.

     “Draughts?”

     “No.”

     “Scrabble?’

     “Nope.”

     “Pictionary?”

     “Getting closer.”

     This carried on for ten minutes until Arthur finally gave up after asking if it was rugby. “Give up? Death asked. Arthur nodded. Death bowed his head and mumbled something that only he could hear.

     “What was that?” Arthur asked.

     “I said that we’ve got to play snap!” shouted Death, who was feeling very embarrassed about the whole episode. On the other hand, Arthur was having the time of his life.

     “Snap?!” Arthur slammed a hairy fist on the table and wiped the tears out of his eyes as he tried to stop laughing, He was no longer afraid of Death. He was just another bloke doing a job under difficult circumstances. Death was on the verge of a nervous breakdown by then.

     “Look, we’d better start, I’ve got a road accident in ten minutes,” He shuffled then dealt the cards out. Arthur started the game with the nine of clubs. Then came a ten, four, five, seven, queen, queen....

     “SNAP!” Arthur again slammed a clenched fist on the table, picking up the cards and grinning manically at his opponent. Death grunted and placed another card on the table. Play resumed and was soon In full swing. The scores were pretty even, with each player having about half a pack each. Arthur cried out in fright as a hideous ringing sound filled the cave. Death stuck his hand into the mass of material swathing him and pulled out his mobile.

     “Death here. Yeah, I’m still here with... Send Ernie. I know he’s not qualified, but what the hell? If we didn’t break a few rules then we’d all be in Heaven anyway. OK.... yes. Bye.” Death flicked his mobile shut and turned to Arthur. “Get a move on,” He flicked over the top card and set it down in front of Arthur.

---*---

Ernie was excited, This was his first proper assignment and he’d got a road accident. Surprisingly, Ernie wasn’t going to collect the elderly woman hit by the out-of-control car but the car’s teenage driver, The pathologist’s verdict would be “a heart attack caused by shock”. Ironically, It was the sight of Ernie that caused the driver to swerve into the old lady, which resulted in his fatal heart attack. Unfortunately, the doomed teenager failed to see the irony in the situation.

     “Dennis Patrick Pascoe,” Ernie cried importantly, “This is your death.” Dennis blacked out just as eighty-seven year old Gwyneth Phillips stepped off the pavement.

---*---

Death smiled triumphantly as he won the game. It had taken a long time but it was finally over now,

     “Hm. I suppose this is, as they say, it?” Arthur said. “What happens now?” He cleared his throat and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow.

     “I shall send you back to your home where you will die a peaceful death in your armchair.” Death spoke impatiently, trying to hurry Arthur along,

     “Will I be going up or down, so to speak?” Arthur felt panic crawling up his throat as he waited for the reply,

     “I’m afraid you’ll be going to that dreadful Heaven place,” Death shuddered. “It’ll be hell for you.” Arthur couldn’t quite figure out what was meant by this but he let it pass.

     His last thought as he drifted slowly upwards was, “Did I switch the gas off?”

     Death, meanwhile, had other things on his mind. A certain banshee had caught his eye and, unless he was very much mistaken, tonight would be his lucky night....