Death of an Obit Writer (4)

Out of the blue I got a phone call from Gary.  "I hope you don't mind our changing your obit slightly," he said. "Only we spotted a couple of errors in the quote you used."

 

That bastard Spider. Never trust a Guardian journalist as far as you can spit him. "Not at all," I said. "I was just surprised, that's all, it being such old news. I didn't mean to course ructions, sorry it's gotten back to you even."

 

"Good. Well I just wanted to check up on you. You're doing a splendid job I hear."

 

"I'm enjoying it," I said. "I'm writing about everyone from the Blue Peter kitten to the host of a cross-stitch magazine show on the cable network."

 

"Good," said Gary, he seemed to enjoy using the word, as if he'd encountered it for the first time that day and found it amusing. "Well, we must do lunch again again some time. Until then..."

 

"Absolutely," I said. "I'll see you soon," but he'd already hung up.

 

If I'd have been thinking straight I'd have realised the danger immediately, packed a few essential things in a bag, withdrawn all the cash I could get hold of and drove off to somewhere where I wasn't known, to live a life as quiet as a mouse until the danger had past.

 

But I wasn't thinking straight. I was a journalist, a profession where you're trained to think whatever bent and twisted thoughts your editor wants you to think, and the very opposite thoughts the next day if they want you to. I was too good at my job to have a clue what was going on.

 

I continued writing irrelevant obits, reading revised obits of the dead on the secret back-end of the Times' obit site and wondering what the hell was going on in the world.

 

I didn't really understand until I saw the new obituary. My obituary. I recognised the detail of the content, mostly, it was my life after all.  The big news, the thing I didn't previously know, was that I'd been brutally murdered in my own house by burglars.

 

It was then I realised I needed to pack my bags, withdraw all the cash I could get hold of and drive off to somewhere I wasn't known, to live a life as quiet as a mouse until the danger had past.

 

But I'd left it too late.

 

Even as I sat there plotting my exit, my eternal exit had arrived. I heard the smash of glass and dull thump of a dumb thug smashing his way into the house.

 

This was it. They'd come for me, and I'd left it too late, there was no way out. The only exit involved passing the killer on the staircase.

 

I didn't panic. I still had some time. They had no idea I had access to the website. I quickly set about amending my own obit, with any luck they'd publish it without checking, it seemed ready to go. I had 30 seconds, a minute at most, my chance to tell the truth, inform the world what was happening.

 

It might not sound much, but in these times 30 seconds of truth is a luxury few will ever enjoy.