Interview

Paul sat nervously on the leather sofa just beside the office door. Although he had somehow managed to stop himself from turning the usual shade of scarlet he did when on edge, he couldn’t stop his traitorous knee from jumping up and down. Thankfully the receptionist, who was the only other person in the ultra-modern decorated room, was too busy on her phone to pay attention to him. Looking around the room his eyes darted from one stylish decoration to another. From the glass coffee table to the fashionably empty jet-black vase. From the vase to incredibly basic line drawing masquerading as high-class art on the wall. Everything about the room was beginning to make Paul feel horribly inadequate.
He knew that he didn’t belong here. He knew that he should just stand up and leave. He could feel himself begin to hyperventilate as his ears started to burn. ‘Don’t. Go. Red,’ he told himself with each breath. ‘What. Ever. You. Do. Don’t. Go. Red.’
Too late. Paul began to blush. Feeling as if his face was on fire, he buried it into his hands to stop the receptionist seeing him give out enough heat to warm a pensioner’s bungalow. If only a hole would appear to fall into. A hole big enough to swallow him and his enormous, embarrassed bright red face whole.
However the earth didn’t open up and Paul remained where he was, caught in an urban, designer trap. While he was slightly aggrieved that no such chasm had materialised, at least he could take solace in his sweaty, ice-cold hands, which were nicely taking the edge of his red-hot face.
For a few minutes he sat there with his hands acting as the perfect antidote to his OAP warming visage, Paul felt his face cool, his terror melted away and he managed to recapture his breath.
Everything will be fine, he thought to himself. Everything will be great.
Clamping his clammy fingers over his ears he took a deep breath in and tried to centre himself. Searching for inspiration he imagined his brother-in-law Tim and how he’d deal with the situation.
Perhaps it was because Tim was a naturally confident person or perhaps it was because he was well over six feet and built like a lumberjack but he exuded self-assurance. Right now Paul could do with just a drop of that. He knew that Tim would get the job; he’d stroll in there, charm the interviewers and they’d be eating out of his hand. Paul would probably walk in there, freeze up in front of the interviewers and urinate in his trousers, which wasn’t really the impression he wanted to make.
He had to pull himself together. Trying to channel his brother-in-law he imagined walking in calmly, giving a firm handshake and talking in a deep, relaxed tone.
Everything will be fine. Everything will be great.
Paul was disturbed from his train of thought by the receptionist and had to rather suddenly pull his face out of his hands to avoid looking like a complete idiot. He wasn’t successful but luckily for his ego the raven-haired receptionist didn’t care about him in the slightest.
‘They’ll see you now Mr Jenkins,’ she said smiling sweetly but insincerely.
‘Thank you very much,’ he squeaked overenthusiastically in reply.
Sighing to himself and hanging his head in self-disappointment he stood up. Moving to the door he grabbed the handle and took in another deep cleansing breath.
Everything will be fine. Everything will be great.
Entering the room Paul was confronted with three pale, gaunt men each sat in a high backed black leather chair. All three were wearing a black designer suit with a matching black shirt and tie giving the impression that they worked for an extremely stylish funeral parlour.
The one in the middle considerately offered Paul a seat while the two either side of him were both comfortable enough to offer a welcoming and demoralising sneer.
‘Mr Jenkins allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Mortimer,’ he indicated by pointing a skeletal hand to himself before pointing out his companions in turn. ‘On my left is Mr Morrigan and on my right is Mr Yama. Perhaps you’d like to start by telling us a little about yourself.’
Paul opened his mouth and as he began to talk he could hear his tongue smack about an increasingly drying mouth.
‘Well, my name is Paul Jenkins and I currently work for the local electricity board reading the meters in people’s homes,’ he clacked. ‘I’d consider myself loyal, ummm, well, I’ve been at the job for about two years now.
‘I’d say that I’m thought of as a reliable member of the team, after all I do have to work alone and I could abuse that responsibility.’ He said before quickly adding, ‘but I don’t.
‘I’m friendly and respectful to customers,’ he said looking up to the roof as he began to reel off the key phrases and buzzwords he’d rehearsed. ‘I read meters accurately and efficiently, which demonstrates my ability to work to targets and timescales. I’m punctual and manage my time effectively. And I’m extremely self-motivated and hardworking, often putting in more than eight hours work each day in a six-day week.
‘Outside of work I enjoy going for long walks in the country, playing squash to keep fit as well as taking an active part of my local neighbourhood watch scheme. In fact I recently spearheaded an anti-littering campaign to clean up the streets in my local area.
‘It’s going well. Discarded roadside rubbish is noticeably down,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Good to know,’ Mr Mortimer stated manner-of-factly. ‘And why do you want to work for us Mr Jenkins?’
‘Well, I’m at the age now where I’m looking for a career rather than a job and I think that I’d be a good fit for your business. I’ll give everything I have.’
While Paul smiled to himself happy with his answer the two vultures either side of Mr Mortimer smiled carnivorously at each other as if they were approving a waiter’s suggestion of the day’s special. The head interviewer however appeared less than convinced.
‘What exactly do you know about the job Mr Jenkins?’
‘Well,’ Paul began, ‘I heard about the vacancy through my brother-in-law, Tim Howley. He works in your marketing department.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘He said that you were looking for a repossessions man who was able to work independently, put in a lot of hours and was willing to travel.’
Mr Mortimer chewed on the answer given to him and thought about whether he liked it or not.
‘I suppose that could be considered to be true. Though it probably doesn’t do justice to the position,’ he stated. ‘What has your brother-in-law told you about our organisation?’
Paul wracked his brains for any potential nugget of information. In truth he knew nothing about the company; all he knew was that it was a well-paid position that he was applying for. He didn’t really care about his arrogant brother-in-law and so had never bothered to either ask about his job or listen when he had talked about it. He didn’t know what they did, what their share price was like or who owned the company. Right then, he couldn’t even remember the name of the corporation. However that wasn’t something he wanted to let on about.
‘I know that the company is already an impressively large and successful one with plans to push on and become even more profitable,’ he blagged.
Mr Mortimer did not seem convinced.
‘Mr Jenkins do you know what we do here at Afterlife?’
Ahh, Afterlife. That was it. Now if only he could remember what they did.
But he couldn’t and obviously the dark figure before him could tell that from the gormless expression plastered all over his face.
‘We’re a high-pressure, growing business that deals in death Mr Jenkins,’ he explained nonchalantly.
Yet again sensing that Paul couldn’t find the words his interviewer gave them to him.
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he commanded. ‘I’m not saying that we deal in death as a hyped up expression for being weapons manufacturers. What I am saying is that we are the reason people die. We choose when and how people die. Nothing more, nothing less.’
Paul appeared to now be the master of the vacant expression.
‘…What?’ he mustered.
‘Death, Mr Jenkins,’ Mr Mortimer answered. ‘Simply stated, we are Death. We’re who the ancient Greeks considered to be the boatman who carried people across the river Styx. We’re the angels that Christians expect to direct them heavenward. You, Mr Jenkins, might even think of us as the Grim Reaper who you’ve seen in all those films.
‘We are responsible for people’s crossing from this life to the next. We’ve been doing this all over the world in one form or another since the beginning of time and without bragging,’ Mr Mortimer said, clearly bragging, ‘it’s fair to say that we’ve cornered the market.
‘Last year we were responsible for the deaths of approximately six and a half thousand million people. That’s about a hundred and fifty thousand people a day. And while that sounds impressive, we don’t rest on our laurels here and we have high hopes to increase that number.
‘We’re constantly looking for new and innovative means to achieve our targets, which means recruiting innovative people to implement these changes.’
Paul looked the black-clad man dead in the eye and wondered if he was insane. If he was why hadn’t the other two stopped smiling menacingly and said something? Unless they were mental too.
Of course it could be that Paul had gone mental. Perhaps the stress of the interview had caused him to have a stroke and this was all a rather peculiar dream.
‘You don’t believe me do you?’ Mr Mortimer queried.
‘It’s nothing against you sir, but it is a lot to accept,’ Paul explained respectfully.
‘I see your point Mr Jenkins. There’s nothing wrong with being sceptical, after all we do live in a world full of lies,’ the dark interviewer replied standing up. ‘Perhaps a practical demonstration would sway your mind.’
As he stood up Mr Mortimer revealed that he was nothing more than a collection of bones in a tall, pale bag of translucent skin. He was by no means a physically intimidating figure but there was something about him that unsettled Paul if he’d taken his soul by the testicles and given it a good shake.
Silently mocking all the magicians Paul had seen as a child, the suited spectacle pulled up his sleeves and displayed his empty hands, front and back, showing that he had nothing to hide. He gestured slowly to the potted plant that he was now standing by and with his hand now shaped as if holding a gun he shot an imaginary bullet toward a creeping, green leaf. As if paint were running down it the leaf’s natural colour quickly changed to an unhealthy brown before Paul’s eyes. In a matter of seconds it had spread to the rest of the plant and suddenly the leaves plunged to the floor as if they were cowering in fear from the man looming over it.
‘That good enough Mr Jenkins?’ he asked.
Admittedly it was a decent trick, Paul thought to himself, but a wilting plant isn’t enough to convince me that had complete control over who lives and dies. Even the thought of someone being Death made him smile, just ever so slightly, and unfortunately Mr Mortimer noticed that.
‘You remain unconvinced?’ he stated. ‘Well, perhaps another demonstration is needed.’
On edge, Paul sat back in his seat as the sinister skeleton advanced towards him. Cracking his knuckles, the dark figure let loose a smile that broke his face in half. It wasn’t a friendly smile; it wasn’t one that Paul saw and couldn’t help but mirror back with genuine warmth. It was a cold, empty smile that was more of a threatening display of dominance showing how much its wearer revelled in his malice.
In a tone that suggested what he was saying was a complete lie the interrogator announced, ‘relax Mr Jenkins. This won’t hurt a bit.’
Leaning towards a nervous Paul who had rapidly ran out of chair to escape into, Mr Mortimer put one finger next to the interviewee’s temple before lightly tapping it.
Everything went black.
In the darkness, terrified and overwhelmed by the emptiness that he had been enveloped by, Paul searched for any sight or sound to grab on to. Worryingly the only thing he could hear was his heart beating hard and fast in his ears. And then, even more disturbingly, he heard it slow it down.
He felt his body cool as with every beat it took a little longer for the next one to hit. Rather quickly Paul found himself waiting for a beat that never came and oddly noted how painless his apparent death had been.
In the distance, from within the darkness, a pinpoint of white emerged. Feeling as if he were strapped into a rollercoaster ride Paul was propelled towards the light. While he felt strangely exhilarated and accepting about his end, going to a better place, he wished for a little more time to do the things that he’d put off. Plus he couldn’t help but make a mental note that when he saw Tim next he was going to give him such a kick in the balls for recommending him to apply for the job.
As the light surrounded him and he felt it scour him, Paul was taken back to being child being given a bath, with his mum trying to find every spot of dirt and wash it off. Except as his memory started randomly rolling, he knew that the light was looking for all his past sins and suspect thoughts.
He tried to think pure thoughts thinking of the random old lady he’d helped wither luggage the other day or chasing after the gentleman who’d dropped a twenty pound note but as he tried to waterproof his mind he couldn’t help let one sinful notion escape.
Can you kick people in the balls in heaven, he wondered.
Abruptly he felt the light stop probing him and had to watch as it backed away as if it had found something wrong with him. Paul felt his peaceful contentment disappear to be replaced by a sense of rejection.
Suppose you can’t kick people in he balls in heaven, he thought. Or at the very least it’s frowned upon.
As quickly as it appeared the white light disappeared, vanishing into itself in the same manner it had first materialised. In the dark he felt the sluggish, cold feeling again flow through him as he wondered what other alternative now awaited him.
He thought about his sins. He hadn’t done anything major; he’d never stolen or beaten someone up, in fact he was the type of person who felt pangs of guilt when he littered. However suddenly his mind switched to his girlfriend and not listening to her, preferring to be in the pub with his mates than with her. He thought about the times he’d walked past homeless people pretending never to have any change. He thought about that secondary school Chemistry quiz that he’d cheated on, stealing the odd answer from the person sitting next to him. He thought about the gloating he had done when his football team had won. He thought about how he envied Tim and how he had secretly wanted him to fail spectacularly. Perhaps he wasn’t as innocent as he had thought.
Sitting sadly with his fate, Paul felt his chest explode back to life.
One beat.
Two beats.
Quicker.
Stronger.
He could feel the heat in his blood once more and as the dark swirled away into itself Paul found himself back in the interview room, which now seemed more vibrant. Looking around, he found the skeletal Mr Mortimer towering above him.
‘Convinced?’ he asked smugly.
Nonplussed but without fear, Paul nodded respectfully as the interviewer returned to his seat
‘Good,’ he stated as he tucked his chair back underneath his desk. ‘Now Mr Jenkins, back to the proceedings at hand. How would you describe yourself in three words?’
Caught off guard.
A scientific miracle.
The new Lazarus.
Feeling emotionally numb.
Bewildered but enlightened.
Weirdly, calmly accepting.
Apathetic about the interview. Damn, four words. Pick another three. Any will do.
‘Practical, reliable, capable,’ he offered coolly.
‘Right,’ Mr Mortimer said as he noted down the answer on the clipboard.
‘Excluding the last few minutes, have you had any experience with death Mr Jenkins?’ the skeleton asked with a smug smile.
Paul thought about the question and wondering if what he was about to say qualified.
‘My dog died when I was thirteen. His name was Mr Dog.’
The malnourished gentleman clacked his tongue against his teeth to show that what Paul had said had not indeed qualified.
‘Mr Dog? You must have been an imaginative child Mr Jenkins. However that wasn’t what I was after. Have you had any direct contact with death?’
Paul sat straight in his seat and stared unblinking straight into the eyes opposite him. ‘How do you mean exactly?’
‘Well,’ Mr Mortimer started, pausing to find the appropriate words,’ for example, have you ever worked as a hit man?’
‘No,’ Paul replied emptily.
Undeterred the interviewer pressed on. ‘Ever shot somebody in cold blood?’
‘No.’
‘Warm blood?’
‘No.’
‘Ever set fire to a paedophile?’
‘No.’
‘Strangled a midget?’
‘No.’
‘Bludgeoned a traffic warden with a big stick?’
‘No.’
‘A small stick?’
‘No.’
‘Turned off a grandparent’s life support?’
‘No.’
‘Kicked a neighbour’s cat to death?’
‘No.’
Exasperated Mr Mortimer rubbed his brow as if physically pained by the answers given to him before explaining in soft, mellow tones. ‘Mr Jenkins, you’re not giving me a lot to work with and I am trying to help you here. Now, have you had any experience with killing, or at least harming, another living being?’
Wracking his brains Paul uncomfortably switched his thoughts to his childhood where he could see himself playing with his magnifying glass in his back garden.
‘Well, I did burn up quite a few ants as a child,’ he put forward.
‘Ahh, there’s a start Mr Jenkins!’ Mr Mortimer said enthusiastically.
‘And I do have a tendency to accidentally step on more than my fair share of snails,’ he added.
‘Right.’
‘And I did clip a fox on a motorway once’ he said, not feeling the usual sadness that he experienced when remembering the incident to himself.
‘Well, why didn’t you say before? You’re quite the killer Mr Jenkins,’ he commented with an expression at least masquerading as sincerity.
‘And where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’
If you became Death, Paul thought, where do you go from there?
‘I imagine that I’d be settled in my job role and continuing to deliver the high standards that you’d expect of me,’ he replied robotically.
‘Right. And in twenty years?’
‘Still in the company I hope. Hopefully married, perhaps with children.’
‘A hundred?’
Confused Paul gave a puzzled look along with his answer. ‘I’ll be dead I imagine.’
‘Hmm,’ came the unimpressed reply. ‘Hopefully you’ve realised by now that our organisation is a little different to others. We think long term and we’d expect you to share our vision. We’re not recruiting a flight by night employee who’s going to be here one century and gone the next.’
‘Is that possible?’
Mr Mortimer’s raised eyebrow told him everything he needed to know.
‘In which case, I’d like to say that I’d work for you until you deemed it necessary for me to retire or die,’ Paul said going through the motions.
The interviewing board nodded in unison approvingly.
‘And now for the practical part of the interview,’ Mr Mortimer announced as he pressed the intercom button to speak to his assistant.
‘Audrey. Bring in the trolley,’ he commanded as he fell back in his seat. Authoritatively the gaunt figure brought his skeletal fingers together, as if he were holding an imaginary monkey by the head, and allowed a knowing smile to half creep across his face.
Seconds later the door slowly opened and the raven-haired receptionist appeared pushing a trolley with a cloth covering the top. With great care she pushed it to the right of Paul before whipping away the cloth with a dramatic flourish.
Paul was unsure of what to make of the trolley. It wasn't often that he came across such a comprehensive array of weapons. In fact he was so engrossed by the arms on display that he paid no attention to Mr Mortimer who had leant beneath his table to produce a cage, which he had placed precisely in front of him. When Paul finally looked up away from the lead pipe he’d been eyeing he’d was greeted with a blank stare from a white terrier with a very familiar nametag around its neck.
‘That’s right Mr Jenkins,’ Mr Mortimer announced jovially. ‘It’s your childhood canine companion Mr Dog.’
‘But how?’ Paul asked perplexed.
‘Mr Jenkins, as I said before we command nothing less than total power over life and death. Conjuring up a deceased dog is not that taxing,’ Mr Mortimer answered disdainfully. ‘Now, let’s have some fun.’
With a sweeping hand Mr Mortimer gestured to the trolley in the manner of a bizarre and deeply disturbing facsimile of a game show host.
‘Mr Jenkins, please select a weapon from the trolley beside you and kill Mr Dog.’
Bemused and distraught Paul looked beseechingly at his interviewer.
‘In your own time. No hurry,’ came the reply to his unasked question. As a friendly bonus the death monger accompanied his reply with a dismissive wave aimed at the trolley.
Following the non-verbal suggestion Paul turned his attention back to the weapons in front of him. No question it was an embarrassment of lethal riches. Taking in the arsenal before him he weighed up his options. Paul looked at the lead pipe, then the dog. He looked to the rope, then the dog.
Gun.
Dog.
Knife.
Dog.
Hammer.
Dog.
Grenade.
Dog.
Wrench.
Dog.
Wrench.
How much did he want the job? He didn’t want to read electricity meters for the rest of his life and becoming Death would definitely be a major rung on the career ladder.
Paul looked at Mr Dog. He was his childhood pet; at one stage of his life he’d been his best friend. He took up a part of his heart that nothing else would ever touch.
Of course technically Mr Dog was dead. He’d already had his chance and had lived a full canine life. Letting him live again was unnatural, wasn’t it? And surely of all people, or pets, he’d want him to get the job?
Paul picked up the wrench. He felt the weight of it in his hand. It was reassuringly heavy. He knew that he could just allow it drop and let gravity do his work for him. In a split second, with minimum effort, Mr Dog’s head would be replaced by a blood smear covering the cage. Admittedly he’d probably be picking bits of childhood chum off of himself for a while but he’d also be picking up a large life-affirming pay packet each month.
Could he live with himself if he did that?
You’ll get over it. Things die every day. People kill things all the time and sleep perfectly well at night. Just think of yourself as a vet putting a dying creature out of its misery. After all, they only live for about fourteen years and looking at Mr Dog he must be at least seven. Seven more years of life left, what’s that in the grand scheme of things?
That’s seven years though.
He could be struck down by any number of diseases or disasters at any point and you wouldn’t benefit at all. You’d just be left with a dead dog. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.
But what about the moral implications?
For goodness sake, he’s a dog. Look at him. He’s happy licking his own balls. Stupid little insignificant thing completely unaware of what’s going on around it. How many dogs have died to test medicines and what not? They die all the time. What’s one more?
But he’s my Dog.
Do you want the job or not? Kill him or don’t. Get the job or don’t. Be a man, take a choice.
‘Mr Jenkins,’ Mr Mortimer said, interrupting Paul’s train of thought. ‘Do you want the job or not?’
Taking a deep breath to focus himself, Paul stared with loving intent at Mr Dog as he gave his answer.
‘Not.’
Expelling a displeased sigh, the bony gentleman nodded in begrudging acknowledgement. ‘That’s a fair choice Mr Jenkins. I can imagine that some would even call it admirable but you can see that from our perspective it’s a little disappointing,’ he explained with a displeased frown. Standing up and motioning towards the door he added, ‘perhaps you should take your dog and leave now.’
‘Really? I can take him?’ Paul asked joyously.
‘Of course Mr Jenkins, after all what I’m I going to do with a West Highland terrier?’ he asked rhetorically, unconsciously licking his lips. ‘I think it’s better for all concerned if you took him.’
Standing up excitedly, he opened the cage and picked up his dog before offering his hand to shake to the panel in front of him. Too happy to be bothered by the refusals of the two silent men, Paul vigorously shook Mr Mortimer’s hand, thankful for his unexpected gift.
‘You’re quite welcome. Enjoy your time together.’
Ruffling the fur of his canine companion, Paul felt him nuzzle his neck as he playfully waved a paw in the direction of the unimpressed board. In spite of what they obviously thought, he knew that he’d made the right decision, happily snapping the door shut behind him.
Despondent, Mr Mortimer sat back down and pressed his intercom button.
‘Audrey, send in the next applicant.’
As the door creaked back open Mr Mortimer felt the air in the room chill with ominous dread. Slowly a hooded figure emerged and the interviewers’ hearts skipped a shared beat. The newcomer appeared to be cut from the same cloth as the interviewers; he was pale to the point of anaemic, painfully thin and had a look in his eyes that suggested he’d slit each of their throats in a second if the mood took him. In short he was perfect. Admittedly he was a walking skeleton but the board wasn’t prejudiced and if anything that was another positive.
Thrilled by the prospect of an employee that revelled in defying life by simply existing Mr Mortimer’s eyes lit up.
‘Excellent,’ he declared. ‘You’re hired.’
‘Fantastic,’ announced the newcomer in delightfully sonorous and awe-inspiring tones. ‘My partner Derek will be most pleased.’