I Have a Kind of Midas Touch

No one died in the first twenty years of my life. No one I knew, anyway. The grandparents on my father's side had passed away by the time I was born. My other grandad packed in the fags. My parents looked about ten years younger than they were, and all my aunts and uncles seemed to be sports champions of some variety. I never thought about losing anyone close to me. Hospital cardiograms and drips were just dramatic devices in soap operas. Coffins were where vampires slept. Graves were where zombies came from. Only Goths wore black.

I imagine the same is true of many other people. It is an uncommon beginning, but not unbelievable. It may just be a coincidence that those first two decades set me up so well for the long fall of recent years. It may, on the other hand, be cruelty on the part of the creator. Either way, I think it is worth knowing. No one died in the first twenty years of my life.

The affliction began at the outer perimeter of my own private country, and worked its way in, stealthily. Like Gregory Peck and his band in Guns of Navarone. The first victim was a friend of a friend. I had only met him once, at a fancy dress party where the theme was Villains. He was Baron Greenback. I was Thatcher. We fought with waterbombs.

About six months after the party, one day before my twenty-first birthday, I heard he'd been killed in a road accident, in the ring road outside the city, along with another person I didn't know. I was shocked, but didn't attend the memorial service - though I was invited. My first taste of death did not seem too bitter.

The second victim was someone I saw more frequently - he was a kind of drinking buddy. I only ever met him down at the pub, when there was a group of us. Sometimes he wasn't there. Sometimes I wasn't there. He was killed in a terrorist bombing while on holiday in Italy. I can't remember who the group were, or why they did it.

This time I went through the usual motions. I rifled through my memories for clues, for portents I should have seen, but found none. I said, "It doesn't quite seem real, and, "To think, only last week¦ and, "It just doesn't seem fair. I went to both the funeral, and the memorial service, though I forgot to dress in black for the latter.

Soon after that, I stopped receiving letters from my pen pal of eight years. I didn't dare investigate further.

My grandparents passed away within a few months of each other. That, at least, seemed natural. They were happy, and had lived a long time. But one by one, news of the deaths of other family members trickled in. I didn't realise I had so many other aunts and great aunts and uncles and cousins. The funerals had me driving up and down the country every fortnight through the summer. We tried to joke about how our family was cursed, but no one could really laugh about it. "We can kiss low life insurance premiums goodbye, my sister said.

It was grim, but bearable. I began to think I was used to dealing with death, having seen so much of it in such a short time. But when my parents died together, I was utterly broken. I won't say much about how it happened, but I was interviewed by the police on several occasions. I was also angry for a long time, though I wasn't sure with whom.

My brother died only a week after being diagnosed with bowel cancer. He had never had anything wrong with him, and was preoccupied (I wouldn't say obsessed,) with healthy living. My sister, who was married, took her own life shortly afterwards. Her husband, who was the kindest man I ever met, disappeared. They ran a Missing Persons ad for him in the Big Issue. I'm just glad there were no children.

One week, I arrived for my counselling appointment only to be told my counsellor was ill. I rearranged. Next week, I got a telephone call saying she had died from a mystery virus. It was then that I started to feel the wind was truly against me.

Needless to say, it spread from my family to my friends. I had two funeral suits; both were forever at the drycleaners. I became quite good at farewell speeches, and witty anecdotes. I began to realise too how unimaginative death was. The same causes came up time and time again: car crashes, cancer, suicide.

The body count mounted, the respites between grew briefer: as well as buddies, there was my dentist, my postman, my local MP (whom I had written to once, to ask about free composters,) the family who ran my local cornershop, the jogger who went past my flat every morning. Favourite celebrities too, though I don't think they count. After all, there were a couple of harsh winters, and I tend to be fond of older actors. I had to stop seeing girls though, because they had a habit of getting into fatal accidents the moment I summoned the courage to flirt with them, and I realised it would soon begin to look like murder.

I tried religion for a while. I turned to the vicar of the nearby Anglican Church, and asked him if I was being punished by God. He didn't really have much of an answer, and died of natural causes within a month of my meeting him. Obviously, I tried to avoid conversation after that, but the affliction outdistanced my efforts easily. The last two people I made eye contact with keeled over in the street. One growling in pain, arms in an X across his chest. The other silent, like a flag when the wind stops.

I'm staying indoors for the time being. I have plenty of money, mostly through wills. I order food from Tesco Online, and leave a note on my front door explaining I have just nipped out to the offy and to leave the bags in the porch. The milkman has survived all this time because I am not an early riser. I am trying to find a career I can do from home. Freelance writing sounds pretty good.

I'm also thinking of trying to sell myself as a military weapon. They could send me as an ambassador to troublesome little countries when all attempts at negotiation have failed. Of course, they may want to eliminate me as a potential threat. If that's the case, I'm sure the general, or whoever I see, will make the mistake of reaching across the table and shaking my hand. That'll be the last of him. Then, when they send the squaddies round, I'll pick them off with glances. It won't be like the Medusa. They can't see my reflection in their shields.

I'll need a telescope and camouflage for the snipers. I wouldn't be too bothered if they got me eventually. I'm not suicidal, but on the other hand, I'm not really that attached to living. If a better offer comes along, I'll take it.

As I said, the first twenty years of my life were free of the kind of misery death brings. I'm grateful for that, though I can't help feeling that I lost on aggregate. I hope this is enough of a distance. After all, I don't know you. I've probably never seen you. All the same, whoever you are, please do take all reasonable precautions, and look after yourself.