Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,31

noise from the street outside. At its peak, moments before screeching to a deafening halt and clicking to indicate the water was boiled, the broken banshee screams of the forty year old appliance could rival any pneumatic drill.

Conversation between Michael and Naff stopped. All eyes, including those of James and Chip -- currently trying to work an equally antiquated games console in the living room -- turned to look at the kettle.

The screaming died, the kettle whipped a mechanical click, and then conversation resumed as if nothing ear-destroying had just occurred. Even James Waddington, previously unaccustomed to the kettle, continued on as normal.

Michael began pouring hot water into three cups. “You have to help me,” he told Naff as he measured out the steaming liquid before returning the clunky kettle to the stove. “Azrael said that this problem started with your department.”

Naff accepted a cup from Michael, warming his hands on the heat that transferred through the ceramic. “I don’t really want to get mixed up with this, or with Azrael,” he said honestly.

Michael handed a drink to Chip, leaving James out. The recently deceased man had initially been deterred at not being able to drink coffee until he saw the coffee -- cradled in a grimy jar like the moist droppings of a swamp monster.

In the kitchen Michael said: “Apparently you already are, and if you don’t help me it won’t look good for you will it?”

“That sounded like a threat.”

“Fuck off, that wasn’t a threat.”

“It certainly sounded like one.”

“Do you want me to threaten you? I can threaten you if you want me to threaten you.”

“I don’t think--”

“I’m not going to threaten you.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Naff put his cup down on the counter. “I can’t do this, I really don’t think--”

Michael interjected. “Do you really want to piss off the Angel of Death?”

“Now that was a threat,” Naff snorted. He picked up his cup and slipped the rim to his mouth. “But you have a point.”

They took their drinks to the living room.

Chip had managed to work the games console. He found the correct station on the television, tuned it in, worked out a kink in the power lead and unearthed both controllers -- a task he usually faltered at during one stage or another. He was preparing to play a game with James, the screen slowly loading, but the arrival of his flatmate had come during an argument.

“Spirit or not,” Chip said. “I don’t want your naked arse cheeks on my couch.”

Michael took a seat opposite the couch, Naff plonked himself down on a hard-backed chair opposite him.

“I don’t think they’re actually touching,” James said, lifting himself up to double check. “I mean they are, but, well, do they even exist?”

Chip wasn’t in the mood for existentialism. He shrugged that one off, letting the dead man rest his buttocks in peace, adding, seconds later: “And for fuck’s sake keep your legs closed.”

“How you feeling?” Naff asked James, for want of anything better to ask.

James smiled back. “I feel...” he paused, shrugged. “Content I guess. Happy.”

“Were you happy when you were alive?”

“I guess so. I mean, I had a lot to live for. I had a family, a beautiful wife.”

“Turning into a dog every month must have been a downer,” Chip chimed.

“Well, yes, but--”

“You can control it though, right?” Naff butted in. “You can change when you want?”

“I can, but sometimes, during a full--”

Chip hadn’t finished. “Waking up naked in the woods, covered in blood and not knowing if you’ve spent the night raping sheep or eating them.”

“Well--”

“And if your kids found out, God, imagine that,” Chip stated almost dreamily, allowing his voice to drift into the heavens for a moment’s thought. “And when the police find your body, all naked and torn, left alone in the woods. Everyone will think you were a fucking lunatic. Or a sex fiend.”

“I don’t think your wife would be too pleased either,” Naff added.

James looked immediately dejected but still maintained a sense of calm.

“Leave the guy alone,” Michael jumped in. “I don’t think there’s any depression in death, but keep it up and I’m sure you’ll find it.”

James grinned at the reaper. He received a nudge from Chip, gesturing for him to press a button on his controller. Chip leaned forward and prepared himself for a game before another loading screen cut-in. He groaned and flopped back.

“So, you’re the grim reaper then?” James asked Michael.

“Not the grim reaper, just one of them.”

James nodded like he understood,