The last thing John needed after a stressful day was some stranger knocking on his door. Especially this stranger.
‘There must be a mistake.’
The stranger sighed and checked the details on his smartphone.
‘Are you John Howard Pettifer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Born 25th June 1990?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there’s no mistake.’
John felt sure this was a scam but couldn’t for the life of him figure it out.
‘Wait – how do I know you’re who you claim to be?’
‘Seriously? Come on – I’m Death. I don’t carry ID.’
‘But – those clothes….’
John gestured at Death’s outfit: an orange sweatshirt with a white D on the chest and baggy blue shorts.
‘These? I just fancied lightening things up for a change. That black shroud is horrendously drab.’
‘Aren’t they rather…. inappropriate?’
‘Give me a break. Fifty million times a year, I do this.’
John was surprised to find himself sympathising. Nevertheless, he wasn’t ready to submit just yet.
‘Listen, I realise you’re appallingly busy, but can we talk?’
‘Sure. I’m omnipresent; I’ve got infinite time. Unlike you….’
John gestured for Death to step inside and take a seat.
‘Look, I don’t want to tell you your job, Mr Death….’
‘Please, call me D.’
‘Right. The thing is, D, I’m only 31. I’m in my prime.’
‘You know, I’ve never understood this “prime of life” thing. Who decides if you’re in your prime? There’s more to it than just being young, right?’
John took a deep breath.
‘It isn’t a question of age, per se. It’s a quality one recognises in one’s self….’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘…. or that others recognise in you.’
D studied John for an uncomfortably long time.
‘Help me, John. What am I looking for?’
‘Well, I’m young….’
‘Didn’t we discount that?’
‘….and I’m bursting with creative potential. I’ve a plan, well, an outline sketch, for a business. And a podcast, possibly. I may even write a book.’
D waited.
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s more than some people I could mention.’
‘That’s, what, a ten-year plan?’
‘Quicker, probably.’
‘Great. So, if I come back when you’re forty, you’ll be done?’
‘Ah, no, I’m not saying that. In fact,’ asserted John, as if quoting established doctrine, ‘the end of a person’s prime can only truly be recognised retrospectively.’
‘After they’re, say, 100?’
‘Or thereabouts.’
D sighed.
‘I have to say, John, I’m surprised you didn’t mention your wife and children. Where are they, by the way?’
John was puzzled.
‘I’m not married. I don’t have any children.’
D frowned. He swiped at his phone until he seemed to find what he was looking for.
‘Well, I’ll be damned. Un-be-fricking-lievable. Another John Howard Pettifer, exact same birthdate as you.’
‘I knew it!’ shouted John. ‘Didn’t I say you’d made a mistake?’
D grinned wickedly.
‘I’m messing with you, man. It’s definitely you on my list.’
He stood and reached out his hand.
‘Come on, Johnny, time to go. Someone else can decide if you were in your prime or not.’
Winner of the Thame Art & Literature festival Flash Fiction Competition 2021 https://www.talfestival.org/flash-fiction-winners/
Cheesewring 