Death Comes for the Fat Man

17

It’s crisis time for Andy Dalziel.

Despite all his efforts of will and attempts at distraction he is back in the deep darkness, pressing against the fragile membrane between himself and white-light Elsewhere.

Into his mind drifts a zephyrean greeting.

Welcome back.

“You don’t fool me.”

Don’t I?

“Nay. I’ve been thinking about thee and I know what you are.”

Indeed? May I presume that knowing that means you are ready to come through?

“No, it bloody well doesn’t! ’Cos what I know is you’re nowt but summat I’ve invented. You’re a figment, that’s what.”

You mean you are talking to yourself?

“That’s it, sunshine.”

Sunshine…I remember sunshine. One of my better ideas. But this is very interesting. So how would you describe yourself? As an existentialist, perhaps? Or merely a Pyrrhonist?

“Eh?”

Oh dear. That’s a bit of problem, isn’t it? If you are talking to yourself, surely you should be able to understand what you are saying to yourself?

“Not necessarily, clever clogs. I’m forever surprising myself.”

That must be very disconcerting. But if you do not believe in me, why would you take the trouble of inventing me?

“’Cos I like a chat and there’s no other bugger to talk to here.”

And where do you think here is?

“Not there.”

And where is there?

Dalziel tries to think but finds he has nothing to think about. The weight of darkness presses heavy upon him. There’s no familiar voice, no big-band brass, no ceilidh skirl, not even an irritating skein of prayer to lead him back to that universe of sound and color and smell and texture which he can no longer imagine let alone recall.

The darkness is on him, soon it will be in him. The only way out is to exert that drachm of extra pressure which will explode him through the gossamer membrane into the glory of light that waits beyond.

Better to make the decision yourself than have it made for you.

Was that me or it? he wonders.

But there is no it, he reminds himself. Just me. Which is likely why it sometimes makes a bit of sense.

One last decision and then we’re done.

He’d never been afraid of making decisions so why was he hesitating now?

One last decision…

He made it and burst through the membrane into the light.