Payday

She skittered her digits across the lid of the coffin, wondering what it was made of. From a distance it looked like wood but was cold to the touch so she guessed it was copper. A huge, hideous wreath lay on top and the arrangement appeared to have been made by someone who strongly enjoyed carnations.

Thank the Gods it’s a closed casket, she thought, given how he died a showing would have been even more grim than this whole affair.

A quick succession of images invaded her mind before she could stop it. A bird statue. A fishing rod. A jar of honey. An untimely demise brought about by these three seemingly innocuous items. It was all she could do to stifle a laugh that threatened to blow her sombre cover.

She desperately hated funerals but it was a necessary part of the job. The well-worn, black Moleskine book weighed heavily in her concealed inner coat pocket and she mused that she’d have to remember to make her notes after the whole dog and pony show was over.

A foreign hand joined hers on the casket, albeit on the other side of the floral monstrosity, and she took this as a cue to move on. Stepping away from the altar she made her way down the aisle and past the mourners, many of whom were loitering by the pews anticipating the beginning of the service.

She took a seat at the very back and waited. There was always so much waiting.

This is bloody tedious, she thought for the millionth time.

***

Brian Fletcher, 40.

Born: 21st April 1978

Deceased: 18th August 2018

The pages of her notebook were filled with countless entries describing the victim (for lack of a better term) and various other supporting details. Some she added for fun, like Brian’s obsession with putting mustard on everything he ate, and others were required of her, like the manner of death.

As she completed her notes on Mr Fletcher, a notification buzzed signalling a deposit had been made.

“Finally!” she exclaimed to no one, “It’s payday.”

Often the amounts that were deposited into her account were modest, 40 dollars here, 100 dollars there. Nothing that would excite a normal nine to five type but usually enough for a nice dinner at a reasonably priced restaurant. She was looking forward to it after today’s service; it had been particularly long and arduous.

Crossing and dotting the final t’s and i's respectively she checked her balance, hoping for decent compensation. What she saw was confusing, if not downright concerning. She rubbed her eyes comically to make sure she wasn’t losing her grip on reality.

Twenty thousand dollars. 20 large. 2 racks. 20k.

Whatever you wanted to call it, it jumped out at her like a big, fat question mark. She’d never been paid anything like this amount before and she was unsure what to do.

Maybe it’s a mistake, she worried. But do I tell someone or should I just keep it a secret?

A cold feeling crept from her lower back up over her shoulders, like someone wrapping a frozen shawl of guilt around her. The remuneration was never this significant so if the money was paid to her incorrectly and she spent it then surely she’d be in big trouble.

She snapped the notebook closed resolutely and tucked it safely into the secret compartment of her dark, dense cloak.

“I’ll go talk to them,” she spoke aloud to the nothingness that surrounded her.

***

Ange, El, Dèa and Thee were standing in group conversing as she entered. They looked up and a cacophony of greetings assaulted her. With a tight smile and a quick wave she moved past the small cohort. It wasn’t that she disliked her peers, she just didn’t feel the need to hang around and engage with them.

Before she knew it, she was standing in front of her boss who was clearly engrossed in whatever was scrawled in his own notebook. It was larger than hers, she noted, in size and with more pages.

“Excuse me, Az?” she ventured, reluctant to disturb him.

Azrael looked up sharply before softening slightly.

“Ahhh, I knew you’d come eventually,” he said with a hint of smugness.

“So you know why I’m here then?” she asked, confusion brewing.

Az gestured to a chair that had materialised only milliseconds prior. She took a seat tentatively, still unsure what this whole thing was about.

“How long have you been here?” her superior asked abruptly.

“I… umm… seven or eight hundred years I think,” she responded, suddenly so unsure of herself.

“Seven hundred and thirty two years to be precise,” Az shot back referencing a page in his ageing journal. She shifted uncomfortably, fairly certain that this couldn’t possibly be good.

“Is there something wrong with my work?” she asked. Az sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead wearily.

“The problem is not your work. If anything, your work is impeccable and we appreciate what you do and how you do it.” A small chuckle burst out of his mouth. “In fact that Fletcher one with the honey was inspired!”

“Thank you,” she started, “but I don’t –”

He held up a hand to silence her and paused to consider his next words carefully.

“While you have been an asset to us, I’m beginning to feel that you’re too focussed on your work. I want you to have fun and socialise outside of what you do day-to-day. It will keep things from getting boring and stagnant.”

She absorbed his spiel and realisation began to dawn on her.

“Oh no, you’re not sending me on a sabbatical are you?” she moaned, her head falling back as far as it could go.

“I’m afraid I am. You’re one of our best,” he said earnestly, “and I don’t want you burning out or, worse still, defecting.” Az’s voice was quiet as he finished his sentence, a sign he was reluctant to even broach the matter.

“You think I’d go dark on you?” she asked incredulously.

“No no no,” he replied quickly. “I just worry that you’re too married to the job. In fact, you even named yourself after it and Them forbid you one day feel the need to start eating the souls instead of sending them on. It’s for your own good that we give you this opportunity.”

“What opportunity?” she replied quickly.

Azreal smiled kindly at her with a fatherly gaze.

“You’re going to spend six weeks as a human. That money was for you to spend however you wish and at the end of your time away I expect to see it all gone,” he said with false sternness. “I want you to see what it’s like to be one of them in this strange world they have built.”

“I do!” she protested. “I duck in to bring an end to their life at the right time, per the grand design, then I go to their boring funerals to take their souls to wherever their religious beliefs dictate, and I even use my human money to try out different cuisines.”

Her defensive tone did not go unnoticed.

“I want you to have fun and let your hair down.”

“But-” she started.

“No buts! On your way out just let Michael know what physical attributes you want and where he should drop you.”

She stood up, still working on processing the whole conversation.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, slightly exasperated.

“No,” he said with a warm smile, “and do pick a new name. I’m not certain the humans down there are going to warm to someone literally named Angela Death.”