The Beginning of the World in the Middle of the Night Read online

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ and I heard you laugh. ‘I thought they’d do better than that.’

  The last time you were here, there had been so many angry people lining the streets, but now the police outnumbered the protesters. One man holding a sign that said ‘God Abhors You’ threw an empty water bottle in our direction. The police didn’t move.

  ‘God pities your choices!’ a lady shouted as we walked past.

  ‘Oh please,’ you said under your breath. ‘She sounds like my mother … It isn’t her, is it?’

  I tried to grin. ‘Shouldn’t we … shouldn’t we say something back?’

  ‘Are you kidding? They won’t listen.’

  ‘But why do they care?’

  ‘Why do you?’

  I faltered.

  ‘Come on.’ You tugged my hand and dragged me onto the grass verge. You took the cowboy hat off my head and put it on yours instead. ‘For goodness’ sake, let’s have some fun.’

  One out of every two casualties of war is a civilian caught in the crossfire.

  Later that night, after we’d danced under naked light bulbs and laughed ourselves silly, we weaved our way through the streets back to the beach, through Victoria Gardens with hedges cut into domes. The sun was setting at the end of the pier, a wooden walkway like an aisle reaching out into the water, and you went to buy us chips.

  I pulled my sandals off and flopped down onto the pebbled beach. The heels had been cutting into my skin where my feet had swollen in the heat. I let my feet slide under the loose stones, let myself imagine that I was sinking. In the distance I could see you, pick you out from the pink cowboy hat that clashed with your red hair. You were queuing outside a kebab house. I raised my arms in the air, pretending I was falling under, that you’d have to rush over and save me, but you were looking in the other direction. I found myself laughing: I could fall right under all this, I thought to myself, my toenails catching on the edges of stray shells. I could tumble under this and never be found. It would be like a rock slide, fighting gravity, punching at the air, fighting, fighting. Buried alive.

  In 2011, after a tsunami flooded the Fukushima power station in Japan, over two hundred pensioners, calling themselves The Skilled Veterans Corps, volunteered to go and live at the power station and work to cool the reactors. They wanted to save the younger workers from radiation exposure and cancer. It was organised by a man called Mr Yamada, a retired engineer, who was seventy-two. Some people called them the Kamikaze Corps.

  Once, when I was walking through town, I said I wanted to do a survey. I said that I bet we could go up to people in the streets and ask them if there’s a war going on and that ninety per cent of them would say no. I bet that they would look at me strangely, and hurry off down the street.

  By the age of sixteen, an American child has seen, on average, 18,000 murders on television.

  I pulled myself out from under the stones and stared at the waves.

  You weren’t back yet.

  I walked into the sea with all my clothes on.

  I thought it would be dramatic. I imagined waves coming up to meet me and me shouting in their face, but I was so aware of myself that I just felt stupid and embarrassed and, anyway, the water was cold. I could tell that there were some people watching me from the pier. I could see a few teenagers laughing in the crowd.

  I stepped forward and stumbled head first into the next wave. Everything went silent. You see, if you put your head underwater then everything stops existing. Words are no longer words, but drawn-out sounds in plastic bags. It makes your eyes bulge and your chest hurt. It is wonderful and intoxicating and pulls your hair in all directions. It is beautiful and terrifying: so big that not being able to see the edges of it makes you sick, forcing you upwards to breathe. The sea pushes you back up; it saves you. I gasped, dragging myself to my feet, my clothes completely drenched.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  I turned.

  There you were. You’d left the chips on the edge of the beach and waded in, up to your knees. The cowboy hat had fallen off the back of your head, the strap cutting into your neck. I had a desperate urge to cut it free.

  ‘Did you know that war’s like this whole fucking romantic thing?’ I said, starting to shiver.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you know that? I read it in a book once.’

  Waves were hitting the backs of my legs.

  ‘But … War’s bullshit,’ you said. ‘It’s not romantic at all.’

  Your hair was plastered to one side of your face. I could hear people shouting. I bent down and picked up a pebble, shimmering in the light.

  I stepped forward and gave it to you, pressed it hard into your palm.

  And then I kissed you and, for that second, just for that one moment, the whole world and all its bullshit completely disappeared.

  Aunt Libby’s Coffin Hotel

  EXTRAORDINARY ANKAA: ANGEL OF DEATH

  Desperate to communicate with deceased loved ones?

  Looking for answers about mortality?

  Dare to spend an evening toying with death?

  Spend a night at Libitina Dart’s Coffin Hotel, and meet Ankaa, Angel of Death.

  Just thirteen years old, this changeling has untold wisdom collected from years spent in Hades.

  So named because she is anchored to the underworld, yet tied to the night-time sky, Ankaa is a child stuck between heaven and hell.

  A personification of Purgatory.

  A dark fairy trapped in time.

  DON’T MISS THIS ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME DEATH EXPERIENCE.*

  *Visitors are encouraged to visit multiple times.

  Each visit requires payment in full. See website for details.

  It’s all a bit much.

  I shove the fliers through the letterboxes of the bungalows on Sunshine Place, and hover at the street sign pointing towards St Bernadette’s.

  ‘Make sure you hit up the old people’s home!’ my aunt had yelled that morning, as I pulled my bike out from the bushes. ‘And the hospital! Don’t forget the hospital!’

  I remember Mrs Turner and her husband. I remember Eric and his son. I glance up at the sign once more, then push off in the opposite direction. Screw that. Cerberus barks appreciatively and runs along beside me, occasionally stopping to assault a garden gnome. He’s not supposed to be out with me on the mainland, but it’s still early and no one’s out. We reach the water before sunrise, and I tie the remaining fliers to a stone. Cerberus looks at me, head tilted.

  ‘It’d break your teeth,’ I grin. ‘This one’s not for you.’

  I pull my arm back, bend my knees, and throw it out into the lake.

  It makes a satisfying plop. The edges of the fliers curl and sag, then disappear out of sight.

  By the time I row back to the island, I have to sprint to get to our guests in time for the alarm. As I run, I take a moment to knock each doll head on the way, for luck; they swing from the willow branches, covered in dew.

  ‘Death makes a person hungry, Ankaa,’ Aunt Libby reminds me most mornings. ‘That’s why we charge extra for bacon and jam.’

  Smoke is billowing out from the kitchen window, and I can hear her banging pots and pans. Occasionally, she swears at the microwave.

  ‘Cerberus!’ He bounds over and I pull his costume out of my bag. He sees it and snorts. ‘I know,’ I coax, pulling it over his head and slipping his legs through the holes. It’s not easy dressing an Irish Wolfhound.

  ‘You look … radiant,’ I trail off.

  He scowls, knowing better.

  ‘Time to rise and shine, Mr Henderson’ I tap the top of his coffin and begin to pull out the nails. I have to stand on a chair to do it. ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  Before I have the last nail out properly, Mr Henderson pushes the lid from the inside and I almost fall over backwards. He sits bolt upright, his suit dishevelled, clutching his chest and gasping for air.

  ‘Oh, I’m alive!’ he cries, blinking in t
he sudden light. ‘I’m alive! Yes? Really alive?’

  He reaches over and yanks me into an embrace. The chair totters beneath me.

  ‘There, there, Mr Henderson.’ I gingerly pat his sweaty head. ‘Welcome back to the world.’

  ‘I saw her, you know.’ Mr Henderson lets go of me but his hands are still shaking. ‘I saw her, all of her. Blurry, she was, and there was a lot of light. They say that about the afterlife, don’t they? Lots of light. Like stars. Glowing, and stuff.’ He glances up at the light bulbs. ‘And she was talking about catching the 63 bus to the seaside, she was. We used to do that, sometimes, on our anniversary, I told you that. The 63 bus.’ He looks off into the distance, hair poking out in all directions. ‘I heard the bus, and the sea, too, I swear it.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  There’s a muffled shout from a mahogany coffin across the room. ‘You know, some of us like a quiet start to the morning!’

  ‘Don’t mind Trevor, Mr Henderson.’ I help him climb out of his coffin. ‘Would you like to shower now, or after breakfast?’

  He blinks, looking down at himself, as though surprised to see his body there. ‘Oh, afterwards, afterwards.’

  ‘Lovely. Breakfast is just through the double doors, down the corridor on the right.’

  Mr Henderson tries and fails to walk in a straight line. After a few stumbling steps, he disappears out the door. Trevor starts banging furiously from inside his coffin.

  ‘All right, all right. I thought you said you like quiet in the mornings!’ I rush over to pull the nails out of the lid.

  ‘I do,’ he pouts, sitting up. He stretches his arms so high his shoulders click. ‘But I don’t want to bloody suffocate while I wait.’

  ‘I wasn’t that late.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘I was not.’

  ‘I thought of thirty more ways I don’t want to die, just lying there, and it’s awfully difficult to write them down in the dark.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘You should put a light bulb inside. Add some accessories. Like when they used to put bells inside coffins, in case anyone was buried alive.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a light bulb ruin the ambience?’

  ‘It might be cosy.’

  ‘It might also set the coffin on fire.’

  ‘Oh, true!’ Trevor pulls a notebook from his breast pocket and scribbles down Way I Don’t Want to Die #1584: Trapped in blazing coffin. ‘I don’t want that, Ankaa; you’re quite right.’

  ‘Here’s your extra bacon, Mr Henderson.’

  ‘Thank you, Libitina.’

  ‘Please, call me Libby.’ She shimmies into her chair at the head of the table.

  ‘Well, thank you Libby.’ He raises his glass of orange juice to her, and then to me. ‘Last night was just a phenomenal experience.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘And I must ask.’ Mr Henderson squints, peering over at the frosted glass in the kitchen door. ‘Where did you find that three-headed dog?’

  Cerberus whines, pawing at the glass.

  ‘Oh, it’s a fascinating story, Mr Henderson,’ Aunt Libby beams. ‘Do eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from. You see, at the end of every summer, Ankaa and I leave the Coffin Hotel for two weeks. Breaks my heart to do it, you understand, but it’s important to spread the word about us to people out there, like you, who truly need us.’

  She pauses for a second to frown at Trevor, who is shovelling baked beans into his mouth as though he’s never seen food before.

  ‘We have a mobile version of the hotel, parked just round the back. It’s a converted RV, with ten coffins, quite comfortable. Plenty of choice between the wood, and linings, Mr Henderson. We didn’t want to cut any corners; just because we’re travelling doesn’t mean the customers should miss out on quality. We tend to set off at the end of September, just when the autumn’s coming. It’s a beautiful time of year to drive around the country, just beautiful.’

  Mr Henderson nods in agreement, egg yolk caught in his moustache.

  ‘I knew you’d agree, a fine man like you.’ She sips her coffee. ‘So, we spend about two weeks driving around the neighbouring towns, telling everyone we meet about our dear little Ankaa and her extraordinary talents. We’re fully booked every night, with those who want to rent the coffins and experience a night of death. Those who do turn up when we have no room at the inn, so to speak, Mr Henderson, tend to visit our website, and often travel across to visit the hotel during the coming year.’

  ‘And, er, you found the dog during one of those trips, is that it?’

  ‘Very perceptive of you, very perceptive.’ She pours him another cup of tea. ‘You see, your sixth sense has been awakened after only one night in our hotel. We did find Cerberus while we were out travelling. Sometimes we team up with a company run by my second cousin, you see, perhaps you’ve heard of him, Mr Henderson? He runs Christopher’s Cabinet of Curiosities, not to be confused with Foley’s Freaks; Mr Foley is not a nice man, Mr Henderson, I’m sure you’ve seen the reviews. He displays people pretending that they are magical or mystical, sometimes well-known mythological creatures, but really, they’re all wearing costumes. Costumes! Can you imagine, Mr Henderson? It’s a disgrace!’

  ‘Terrible, terrible.’

  Cerberus growls.

  ‘I knew you’d understand. My cousin, on the other hand, does no such thing. He has travelled the world collecting true human oddities, and mythological creatures. He found Cerberus’s mother at Cape Matapan, already pregnant, and allowed us to keep one of the litter. His Cabinet of Curiosities really is something to behold, Mr Henderson. I can give you his contact information if you’d like to look him up; we make sure to exchange details with our customers, considering we both dabble with the Unknown. But, as I was saying, he has all manner of wonderful creatures in his care – chimeras, nymphs, sea-goats, sirens. He even had a werewolf for a while, which gave me a bit of a turn, though he turned out to be a true gentleman, actually. Which reminds me that one shouldn’t believe everything one reads, Mr Henderson. History can be very cruel about those who are different. Take Ankaa, for example. She may be a death fairy in human form, but does that mean she should be treated as a second-class citizen? Absolutely not.’

  All three of them turn to stare at me.

  Cerberus starts barking.

  ‘Can we let him in?’ Mr Henderson makes a move to stand up. ‘I’d love to see him up close.’

  ‘Best not, Mr Henderson.’ Aunt Libby rests her hand on his arm. ‘As much as we love our dear Cerberus, he is quite vicious. He’s a descendant of the underworld, after all. He’s been through a lot. He’s had to learn to be tough. He’s trusting with Ankaa, of course, because she knew his ancestor, from her time before birth, so she’s like a kindred spirit to him, really. But everyone else should stay well clear and just admire him from afar.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Mr Henderson sits back down. ‘Don’t want to antagonise the beast. Fascinating stuff, though. So, er, Ankaa. If you don’t mind me asking. What was it like in the underworld?’

  ‘Oh, it was very … dark,’ I offer.

  Aunt Libby tries to kick me under the table but gets Trevor by mistake.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Trevor. Talk of the underworld makes me jumpy. Let me give you some more beans. Do go on, Ankaa.’

  ‘It’s all very hazy, really,’ I say. ‘Sometimes it was so hot I felt my skin would melt. Sometimes it was freezing. I wasn’t quite formed. I was just a young fairy. But they say that adult fairies trapped in the world of the dead want to help their young escape. They use magic to implant them in the wombs of humans so they can grow up in this world, instead. It’s not easy to come across from the world of the dead, though. A sacrifice has to be made.’

  ‘Which is why my sister died, Mr Henderson,’ Aunt Libby chimes in. ‘During childbirth. We didn’t know the father of the baby, she wouldn’t tell us anything about it, rest her soul, but we suspect perhaps he was Death in dis
guise.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘Yes, it was all rather distressing, Mr Henderson. She just turned up at my house one day. Eight months pregnant, and distraught. She gave birth to Ankaa, here. On the very table we’re eating at.’

  Mr Henderson pales.

  ‘And when she gave birth to Ankaa, she passed away. Just like that. Well, not “just like that”, there was a lot of blood, of course; it took her a while to die. But her passing must have formed a pathway to the afterlife, you see, and Ankaa was able to descend and come to life in the form of her child. Some sort of changeling, Mr Henderson. And, even though she technically killed my sister, what could I do? I couldn’t throw her out into the wilderness, it’s not in my nature. I had to take care of her. I’m not one to judge hastily, you see. And she’s got a good soul, really, our Ankaa. She hasn’t killed anyone else. She’s more of a keeper of death, if you will. And that’s why we’ve set up our Coffin Hotel here because, ever since she was born, the boundaries between life and death seem so much weaker on this island. As I’m sure you will have experienced last night.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Henderson pats his moustache with a napkin. ‘It is a remarkable place you have here, Libitina.’

  ‘Thank you. We take great pride in what we do,’ she beams. ‘And now that you’ve finished breakfast, perhaps you’d like a tour of the funeral parlour?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ He scrapes his chair back. ‘Is there a Mr Dart who helps run the business?’

  ‘He passed away fifteen years ago.’ Aunt Libby clasps her chest, a well-practised gesture.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s just the two of us here now. And Zima.’

  ‘Who’s Zima?’

  ‘She runs the hotel for us when we go on tour, so we don’t have to close. It’s very important that we’re always here for those who need us, Mr Henderson. We can’t offer our whole range of services with Ankaa absent, of course, but we can offer the basics. Zima’s not here at the moment so you won’t be able to meet her. She’s a lovely girl, if a little odd. Just turned eighteen. Descended from a family of vampires, and suffers from insomnia. Vegetarian, though, which is a comfort. It’s an ideal end-of-summer job for her; she loves it, and we can go off in the RV knowing that this place is in safe hands, which is a relief. It’s apt that three women run the place, Mr Henderson.’