Remember Why You Fear Me (9 page)

“Dear Martin,” it said. “Long time no speak!” And the exclamation mark dot was a happy face, just trying a bit too hard.

Martin took a breather from hanging the tinsel—Christmas decorations are always very popular in Hell—sat on the bunk, and read the card properly.

Dear Martin,

Long time no speak! How are you? It’s been ages.

This is just to wish you a merry Christmas, and let you know an old friend is thinking of you. Because we
are
old friends, aren’t we? I know we’ve lost touch, but I didn’t want you to think there were any hard feelings. There really aren’t. I only want the best for you. I only ever did.

I catch sight of you every once in a while, and I keep meaning to say hi. But either you look very busy, or I’m very busy, so it never happens. Which is so silly! We must catch up one day. That’d be lovely.

All the old gang are well, and send you their best.

Lots of love, Woofie.

And the “love” had been written with a hesitancy that made it all the more emphatic. And then, in a different pen, there was a P.S.

P.S. Look, if you’re up for it, and I’m sure you have other plans anyway—but still, no harm in asking. We’re thinking of having a party at New Year’s. Nothing very fancy. If you’ve nothing better to do, and I dare say you have, do come along!

And then, same pen, but written later:

I miss you.

Martin reread it. He wondered if he should send a card back, but really, Steve took care of all that.

“Shall I hang it with the others?” said Steve, reaching out for it.

“Sure,” said Martin. “Why not?”

And then, some time in January, the announcement came.

Hell was getting too full. There simply wasn’t the space for many more damned souls. So someone had decided they had better send an emissary to God, and find out what should be done about it. And when he came back, the emissary said that he’d looked long and hard, and it turned out there
wasn’t
a God after all. He wasn’t sure there had never been one, but if there had, he certainly wasn’t around any longer. And this had caused a bit of consternation—who was going to solve the overcrowding problem now?—until it was realized that his non-existence solved the problem in itself. After all, it seemed hardly fair to be damned for not believing in God if it turned out you were, embarrassingly enough, absolutely right.

Martin was told he could leave immediately.

“Where am I going now?” he asked. “Heaven?”

It turned out he was going to Surrey.

The day the dead came back to Earth was one of mixed emotion. Everyone seemed overjoyed to see their loved ones return; there were a lot of tearful reunions and a lot of street parties. The government weren’t really sure how to react until they realized that on the whole everyone was very happy about it, so decided in the end they were happy about it too, and acted as if it had been their idea somehow.

But no one had quite anticipated that the dead weren’t going to go back again. Had it just been a flying visit, then fair enough. But by the end of the week most people really felt that they’d outstayed their welcome. The government picked up on the prevailing mood and quickly asserted that they’d
never
been happy about this, that they’d had nothing to do with it whatsoever. And even that new measures would soon be taken against this unwanted invasion of the immigrant dead.

When Moira first saw Martin again, she hugged on to him so hard that he thought she’d never let go. She’d still kept all his clothes and belongings, suitcases full of old nick-knacks that she couldn’t bear to part with. She said everyone had told her to give them all to Oxfam, and when she’d refused well-meaning friends had got rather angry with her and worried about her mental health. “So I got rid of them. I’ve been very lonely. But I knew you’d come back for me.” Martin was touched. He didn’t want to point out he wasn’t back because of her at all but a bureaucratic quirk. “Thank God you came back.” And that there was no God to thank, and if there had been there wouldn’t have been the bureaucratic quirk in the first place. They made love that first night, and for several nights afterwards, something they hadn’t done much even when he’d been alive. And it was surprisingly nice, but not so nice that he minded when they sunk back into their usual platonic domesticity. Within a week he was lying in bed next to her, blocking out the snoring with ear plugs. And in the dead of night, when all was still, he could almost believe that he’d never died and been to Hell at all.

At work, however, they weren’t so accommodating. For old time’s sake, the boss generously gave Martin ten minutes out of his hectic schedule. “And it is hectic at the moment!” he told Martin. “Busy, busy, busy! Well, I needn’t tell you. You know what this job’s like, you’ve lived it!” Martin was told that they would
love
to take him back, they
really
would, but they just
couldn’t
, not in the present climate. “You can hardly expect to take a leave of absence that long, without any warning, and expect your job waiting when you get back.” And besides, the boss admitted when pressed, not everyone felt very comfortable working alongside corpses. Not the boss himself, of course. But even Martin must admit, being one himself, there was something funny about the way they looked. Whereas once he’d been respected for being so reliable, so solid—now, in a very real sense, he wasn’t solid anymore.

See the dead face on, and you could just about pretend they were normal—that they were living and breathing like all right-minded people. But turn your head to the side and you could see the soul, that all of this skin and bone and individuality was just a façade. It wasn’t a thing anyone liked to be reminded of. And it meant that the dead were instantly recognisable. By and large the living would ignore them, some would glare at them with obvious hostility; there were even incidents of target beatings by gangs, but outbreaks of violence became rarer when it was realized you couldn’t do anything to kill them. Within weeks the worst that a dead man walking the streets might expect was to be spat at.

Once upon a time, if you’d wanted to separate a race from the rest of society, to make a people stand out and be judged, you’d bring out the yellow badges, you’d start shaving heads. Woofie’s masters had done it. But no one had to isolate the dead; with their souls flapping about for all to see, they’d done it to themselves. And the worst part of it was that they felt ashamed of each other too. A dead man seeing another dead man would turn his eyes in the same way as a living man would; once in a while there might pass a look of sympathy, of understanding, but they’d hurry on, not daring to talk to each other, not daring to reach out and say ‘I am one of you’. As if for fear that the vacancy in their eyes, the deadness that had so much more to do with the heart no longer beating and the lungs no longer filling, might be what you looked like too.

Moira didn’t like to mention to Martin the fact that he was very nearly two-dimensional. But even her discretion used to irritate him. She’d try to ignore it at first, then to make it go away. She’d make him his favourite meals, fried and fatty, and she’d say it was because she loved him, that she’d missed cooking for him, that she just wanted him to be happy. But he saw the truth.

“You’re trying to fatten me up!” he said.

Moira blushed, and admitted that she thought he could do with a little padding out, his body might lose some of its
flatness
, if only if . . .

“But the food doesn’t go anywhere. I eat it, then it vanishes. It doesn’t stay in the stomach, I don’t have a stomach. For God’s sake, I can’t even shit.”

Moira cried, and said he’d changed, he’d never used to be like this, he didn’t love her anymore since he’d changed.

And he wanted to say of course he’d bloody
changed
, he’d died, hadn’t he? He’d died and gone to Hell, and she
hadn’t
died, she’d just stayed cosily alive, what had they got in common anymore? He’d gone to Hell and fallen in love with someone else, he’d fallen in love with Hitler’s dog. But he couldn’t say this, even Martin couldn’t be so cruel. It gave him no pleasure to see his widow crying all the time, it just revolted him. “I can’t even shit,” he repeated numbly. And then, as an afterthought, “I want a dog.”

Moira pointed out he didn’t like dogs. He was allergic. They made him itch.

“I want a bloody dog,” he said, “that’s all I bloody want. Get me a bloody dog.”

They called the new dog Wuffles. Martin had wanted to call it Woofie, but couldn’t quite do it, it was all a bit too raw. Maybe in time he’d rename it, he didn’t suppose the dog would mind. Moira had wanted to name him Snoopy, but Martin calmly pointed out that was a bloody stupid name, Snoopy was bloody stupid. Besides, Snoopy was a bloody beagle, wasn’t he, and this wasn’t a bloody beagle, it was a bloody dachshund, you stupid bitch, it was a bloody sodding buggering dachshund. And then he kissed her gently on the forehead and told her she’d done well, it was a lovely dog. And if she could now bloody well leave him alone to play with it.

The thing was, Wuffles didn’t like Martin. He
loved
Moira—he’d wag even at the sound of her voice, wait outside the bedroom door for her, was never happier than when she was petting him or stroking him or touching him. From Martin he’d just recoil. Martin supposed he could see his soul, the same as everyone else. And he quite respected the dog for it—at least it wasn’t a hypocrite.

Still, he’d try. He’d take Wuffles out for walks—
drag
Wuffles out for walks, pulling the resistant pet by the leash until it had no choice but to follow. They’d go to the woods. Martin would find a nice fat stick, and throw it.

“Fetch,” he’d say.

Wuffles would just stare at him blankly.

“Fetch,” Martin would repeat. “Fetch the stick.”

Wuffles would look to where he’d thrown it, look back at him, then lie down. He wasn’t going to chase after a stick. Not for
him
. For his mistress, anything. But for this flattened dead man, the dog refused to follow orders.

One day Martin dragged the dog to the car instead. They drove far far away. He opened the passenger door. Threw the stick he’d brought with him.

“Fetch,” he said.

But Wuffles made it clear that if he wasn’t prepared to chase a stick in the woods, he certainly wasn’t inclined to do so on the hard shoulder of a motorway. So Martin pushed the dog out of the car anyway, and drove home without him.

Moira was distraught. “It’s all right,” he reassured her. “He’ll be fine. There are lots of rabbits for him to chase out there, probably. And if he
isn’t
fine . . . He was a good dog, he never bit or scratched. He loved his mistress. So at least he can be sure he’s going to a happy place.”

Martin never saw Wuffles again. But when a few weeks later he opened the door to a dachshund who had rung his doorbell, he thought that his unwanted pet had tracked him down. That he’d have to take him on an even longer journey up the M1.

“No, no,” said the dog. “It’s Woofie. How are you, Martin?”

“Woofie,” repeated Martin. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, it has been a long time. Can I come in?”

Once inside, Martin asked his old friend whether he wanted anything to eat or drink, wanted to sit down, wanted anything, really. “No, I’m fine,” said Woofie. “Nice place you’ve got here. Very cosy.”

“It’s not mine, it’s hers,” said Martin. “It’s nothing to do with me. How did you get out of Hell?”

“Oh, they’re letting all sorts out now. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing hasn’t shut down before too long.”

“And how did you find me?”

Woofie smiled. “A dog can always find his master. If he wants to hard enough.” He let his words sink in. “You do know you’re my master, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Martin.

“I only think sometimes. That if I’d met you. Right from the start. If I could have given my love to
you
, and not to Hitler . . . I’d never have gone to Hell in the first place. I could have been great. And I think, too, that with me there beside you, you wouldn’t have gone to Hell either.”