A Visit from Death: Part 4

Jack could tell by the expression of tired disappointment on Death’s face that they were both thinking the same thing: it was like a vacuum had appeared between them that had swallowed the last thirty years of their lives and left them stranded at the point when they had last spoken.

On that day Mr. Jack Peacebolt, Esq. had accepted a position in a company that legally (and occasionally otherwise) manufactured and sold arms; guns.

‘Why did you do that?’ said Death, looking at his closed fist.

Jack recalled Death trying to talk him out of it. He had disagreed with the ethical implications of Jack’s new work prospects. To which Jack had simply replied "You’re Death! For Christ’s sake, face reality!"

‘My dear boy, if I hadn’t’ve done that then some other old fool would have. At least now we’re one less buzzing insect better orff,’ said Jack, in a patronisingly matter-of-fact way.

Death had said that facing reality was exactly Jack’s problem, and couldn’t he see it just for once.

‘Look, I’m not upset with you because this kind of thing happens, Jack, I’m upset with you because you did it…and you’re my best friend,’ said Death, with not a hint less of the sincerity with which he always spoke.

Of course, Jack had replied that he realised what Death meant by all this and that if Death couldn’t be at least a little grateful that Jack was throwing him a rather juicy bone with the workload that would come his way, then maybe it wasn’t worth them remaining friends.

‘Oh, that’s heart warming,’ said Jack, the sarcasm in his voice doing very well to conceal the fact that it was actually true. ‘I just fail to see why you are so opposed to everything I do.’
Death held his right hand out flat. There Jack saw the remains of his kill, the indistinguishable mass of crushed body parts, surrounded by a sore looking red swelling in the centre of Death’s hand. Jack squirmed, just a little.

Since that day, many years ago, it had entered Jack’s mind that he had missed something out when he had voiced the decision to stop being friends: some important point, some link in the chain. He felt responsible for a kind of betrayal, an assassination; for the premature demise of their friendship. This feeling had returned and weighed on his conscience time and again throughout his life, but each time it slipped out of his mind again, with the ease that, for example, the assassination of a bee might.

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