In the stream, black-scaled, swam the new Death of Mayflies. In the forests, invisible, a creature of sound only, drifted the chop-chop-chop of the Death of Trees.
Over the desert a dark and empty shell moved purposefully, half an inch above the ground … the Death of Tortoises.
The Death of Humanity hadn’t been finished yet. Humans can believe some very complex things.
It’s like the difference between off-the-peg and bespoke.
The metallic sounds stopped coming from the alley.
Then there was a silence. It was the particularly wary silence of something making no noise.
And, finally, there was a very faint jangling sound, disappearing into the distance.
‘Don’t stand in the doorway, friend. Don’t block up the hall.{21} Come on in.’
Windle Poons blinked in the gloom.
When his eyes became accustomed to it, he realised that there was a semi-circle of chairs in an otherwise rather bare and dusty room. They were all occupied.
In the centre — at the focus, as it were, of the half circle — was a small table at which someone had been seated. They were now advancing towards him, with their hand out and a big smile on their face.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ they said. ‘You’re a zombie, right?’
‘Er.’ Windle Poons had never seen anyone with such a pallid skin, such as there was of it, before. Or wearing clothes that looked as if they’d been washed in razor blades and smelled as though someone had not only died in them but was still in them. Or sporting a Glad To Be Grey badge.{22}
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose so. Only they buried me, you see, and there was this card—’ He held it out, like a shield.
‘’Course there was. ’Course there was,’ said the figure.
He’s going to want me to shake hands, Windle thought. If I do, I just know I’m going to end up with more fingers than I started with. Oh, my goodness. Will I end up like that?
‘And I’m dead,’ he said, lamely.
‘And fed up with being pushed around, eh?’ said the greenish-skinned one. Windle shook his hand very carefully.
‘Well, not exactly fed—’
‘Shoe’s the name. Reg Shoe.’
‘Poons. Windle Poons,’ said Windle. ‘Er—’
‘Yeah, it’s always the same,’ said Reg Shoe bitterly. ‘Once you’re dead, people just don’t want to know, right? They act as if you’ve got some horrible disease. Dying can happen to anyone, right?’
‘Everyone, I should have thought,’ said Windle. ‘Er, I—’
‘Yeah, I know what it’s like. Tell someone you’re dead and they look at you as if they’ve seen a ghost,’ Mr Shoe went on.
Windle realised that talking to Mr Shoe was very much like talking to the Archchancellor. It didn’t actually matter what you said, because he wasn’t listening. Only in Mustrum Ridcully’s case it was because he just wasn’t bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the conversation somewhere inside his own head.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Windle, giving in.
‘We were just finishing off, in fact,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘Let me introduce you. Everyone, this is—’ He hesitated.
‘Poons. Windle Poons.’
‘Brother Windle,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘Give him a big Fresh Start welcome!’
There was an embarrassed chorus of ‘hallos’. A large and rather hairy young man at the end of the row caught Windle’s eye and rolled his own yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling.
‘This is Brother Arthur Winkings—’
‘Count Notfaroutoe,’{23} said a female voice sharply.
‘And Sister Doreen — I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course—’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said the female voice, as the small dumpy woman sitting next to the small dumpy shape of the Count extended a beringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger.
‘And Brother Schleppel—’
The chair was empty. But a deep voice from the darkness underneath it said, ‘Evenin’.’
‘And Brother Lupine.’ The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake.
‘And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.’
Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.
Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOooo-EeeeOoooEEEee.
‘I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘I do my best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the effort.’
‘Er … dead people?’ said Windle, still staring at the note.
‘Apathy, I call it,’ said Mr Shoe, bitterly. ‘How can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?’
Lupine started making frantic ‘don’t get him started’ signals behind Mr Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time.
‘What movement?’ he said.
‘Dead Rights,’ said Mr Shoe promptly. ‘I’ll give you one of my leaflets.’
‘But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?’ said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.
‘You’re dead right there,’ said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr Shoe glared at him.
‘Apathy,’ he repeated. ‘It’s always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they like about you and take away your property, just because you’re dead? And they—’
‘I thought that most people, when they died, just … you know … died,’ said Windle.
‘It’s just laziness,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘They just don’t want to make the effort.’
Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches.
‘How long have you been undead, Vindle?’ said Doreen, with brittle brightness.
‘Hardly any time at all,’ said Windle, relieved at the change of tone. ‘I must say it’s turning out to be different than I imagined.’
‘You get used to it,’ said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe, gloomily. ‘That’s the thing about being undead. It’s as easy as falling off a cliff. We’re all undead here.’
Lupine coughed.
‘Except Lupine,’ said Arthur.
‘I’m more what you might call honorary undead,’ said Lupine.
‘Him being a werewolf,’ explained Arthur.
‘I thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him,’ said Windle, nodding.
‘Every full moon,’ said Lupine. ‘Regular.’
‘You start howling and growing hair,’ said Windle.
They all shook their heads.
‘Er, no,’ said Lupine. ‘I more sort of stop howling and some of my hair temporarily falls out. It’s bloody embarrassing.’
‘But I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always—’
‘Lupine’s problem,’ said Doreen, ‘is that he approaches it from ze ozzer way, you see.’
‘I’m technically a wolf,’ said Lupine. ‘Ridiculous, really. Every full moon I turn into a wolfman. The rest of the time I’m just a … wolf.’{24}
‘Good grief,’ said Windle. ‘That must be a terrible problem.’
‘The trousers are the worst part,’ said Lupine.
‘Er … they are?’
‘Oh, yeah. See, it’s all right for human werewolves. They just keep their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least they’ve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next minute I’m walking and talking and I’m definitely in big trouble on account of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair stashed somewhere. Mr Shoe—’