Reaper Man

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden timer. The firelight glowed redly on the glass. He put it away again.

Part of the roof fell in.

SQUEAK.

Bill Door looked down. A small robed figure marched between his legs and strutted into the flaming doorway.

Someone was yelling something about barrels of brandy.

Bill Door reached back into his pocket and took out the timer again. Its hissing drowned out the roar of the flames.

The future flowed into the past, and there was a lot more past than there was future, but he was struck by the fact that what it flowed through all the time was now.

He replaced it carefully.

Death knew that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world. He knew this. The knowledge was built into him.

To Bill Door, he realised, it was so much horse elbows.

OH, DAMN, he said. And walked into the fire.

"Um. It's me, Librarian," said Windle, trying to shout through the keyhole. "Windle Poons."

He tried hammering some more.

"Why won't he answer?"

"Don't know, " said a voice behind him.

"Schleppel?"

"Yes, Mr. Poons."

"Why are you behind me?"

"I've got to be behind something, Mr. Poons. That's what being a bogeyman is all about."

"Librarian?" said Windle, hammering some more.

"Oook."

"Why won't you let me in?"

"Oook."

"But I need to look something up."

"Oook oook!"

"Well, yes. I am. What's that got to do with it?"

"Oook!"

"That's - that's unfair!"

"What's he saying, Mr. Poons?"

"He won't let me in because I'm dead!"

"That's typical. That's the sort of thing Reg Shoe is always going on about, you know."

"Is there anyone else that knows about life force?"

"There's always Mrs. Cake, I suppose. But she's a bit weird."

"Who's Mrs. Cake?" Then Windle realised what Schleppel had just said. "Anyway, you're a bogeyman."

"You never heard of Mrs. Cake?"

"No."

"I don't suppose she's interested in magic... Anyway, Mr. Shoe says we shouldn't talk to her. She exploits dead people, he says."

"How?"

"She's a medium. Well, more a small."

"Really? All right, let's go and see her. And... Schleppel?"

"Yes?"

"It's creepy, feeling you standing behind me the whole time."

"I get very upset if I'm not behind something, Mr. Poons."

"Can't you lurk behind something else?"

"What do you suggest, Mr. Poons?"

Windle thought about it. "Yes, it might work," he said quietly, "if I can find a screwdriver."

Modo the gardener was on his knees mulching the dahlias when he heard a rhythmic scraping and thumping behind him, such as might be made by someone trying to move a heavy object.

He turned his head.

"‘Evening, Mr. Poons. Still dead, I see."

"Evening, Modo. You've got the place looking very nice."

"There's someone moving a door along behind you," Mr. Poons."

"Yes, I know."

The door edged cautiously along the path. As it passed Modo it pivoted awkwardly, as if whoever was carrying it was trying to keep as much behind it as possible.

"It's a kind of security door, " said Windle.

He paused. There was something wrong. He couldn't quite be certain what it was, but there was suddenly a lot of wrongness about, like hearing one note out of tune in an orchestra. He audited the view in front of him.

"What's that you're putting the weeds into?" he said.

Modo glanced at the thing beside him.

"Good, isn't it?" he said. "I found it by the compost heaps. My wheelbarrow'd broke, and I looked up, and there -"

"I've never seen anything like it before," said Windle. "Who'd want to make a big basket out of wire? And those wheels don't look big enough."

"But it pushes along well by the handle, " said Modo. ‘I'm amazed that anyone would want to throw it away. Why would anyone want to throw away something like this, Mr. Poons?"

Windle stared at the trolley. He couldn't escape the feeling that it was watching him.

He heard himself say, "Maybe it got there by itself."

"That's right, Mr. Poons! It wanted a bit of peace, I expect!" said Modo. "You are a one!"

"Yes," said Windle, unhappily. "It rather looks that way."

He stepped out into the city, aware of the scraping and thumping of the door behind him.

If someone had told me a month ago, he thought, that a few days after I died I'd be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding behind a door... why, I'd have laughed at them.

No, I wouldn't. I'd have said ‘eh?" and ‘what?" and ‘speak up!" and wouldn't have understood anyway.

Beside him, someone barked.

A dog was watching him. It was a very large dog. In fact, the only reason it could be called a dog and not a wolf was that everyone knew you didn't get wolves in cities.

It winked. Windle thought: no full moon last night.

"Lupine?" he ventured.

The dog nodded.

"Can you talk?"

The dog shook its head.

"So what do you do now?"

Lupine shrugged.

"Want to come with me?"

There was another shrug that almost vocalised the thought: why not? What else have I got to do?