Reaper Man

‘And Brother Lupine.’ The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake.

‘And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.’

Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.

Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOooo-EeeeOoooEEEee.

‘I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘I do my best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the effort.’

‘Er … dead people?’ said Windle, still staring at the note.

‘Apathy, I call it,’ said Mr Shoe, bitterly. ‘How can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?’

Lupine started making frantic ‘don’t get him started’ signals behind Mr Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time.

‘What movement?’ he said.

‘Dead Rights,’ said Mr Shoe promptly. ‘I’ll give you one of my leaflets.’

‘But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?’ said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.

‘You’re dead right there,’ said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr Shoe glared at him.

‘Apathy,’ he repeated. ‘It’s always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they like about you and take away your property, just because you’re dead? And they—’

‘I thought that most people, when they died, just … you know … died,’ said Windle.

‘It’s just laziness,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘They just don’t want to make the effort.’

Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches.

‘How long have you been undead, Vindle?’ said Doreen, with brittle brightness.

‘Hardly any time at all,’ said Windle, relieved at the change of tone. ‘I must say it’s turning out to be different than I imagined.’

‘You get used to it,’ said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe, gloomily. ‘That’s the thing about being undead. It’s as easy as falling off a cliff. We’re all undead here.’

Lupine coughed.

‘Except Lupine,’ said Arthur.

‘I’m more what you might call honorary undead,’ said Lupine.

‘Him being a werewolf,’ explained Arthur.

‘I thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him,’ said Windle, nodding.

‘Every full moon,’ said Lupine. ‘Regular.’

‘You start howling and growing hair,’ said Windle.

They all shook their heads.

‘Er, no,’ said Lupine. ‘I more sort of stop howling and some of my hair temporarily falls out. It’s bloody embarrassing.’

‘But I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always—’

‘Lupine’s problem,’ said Doreen, ‘is that he approaches it from ze ozzer way, you see.’

‘I’m technically a wolf,’ said Lupine. ‘Ridiculous, really. Every full moon I turn into a wolfman. The rest of the time I’m just a … wolf.’^{24}

‘Good grief,’ said Windle. ‘That must be a terrible problem.’

‘The trousers are the worst part,’ said Lupine.

‘Er … they are?’

‘Oh, yeah. See, it’s all right for human werewolves. They just keep their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least they’ve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next minute I’m walking and talking and I’m definitely in big trouble on account of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair stashed somewhere. Mr Shoe—’

‘—call me Reg—’

‘—lets me keep a pair where he works.’

‘I work at the mortuary on Elm Street,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘I’m not ashamed. It’s worth it to save a brother or sister.’

‘Sorry?’ said Windle. ‘Save?’

‘It’s me that pins the card on the bottom of the lid,’ said Mr Shoe. ‘You never know. It has to be worth a try.’

‘Does it often work?’ said Windle. He looked around the room. His tone must have suggested that it was a reasonably large room, and had only eight people in it; nine if you included the voice from under the chair, which presumably belonged to a person.

Doreen and Arthur exchanged glances.

‘It vorked for Artore,’ said Doreen.

‘Excuse me,’ said Windle, ‘I couldn’t help wondering … are you two … er … vampires, by any chance?’

‘’S’right,’ said Arthur. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘Hah! You should not tvalk like zat,’ said Doreen haughtily. ‘You should be prout of your noble lineage.’

‘Prout?’ said Arthur.

‘Did you get bitten by a bat or something?’ said Windle quickly, anxious not to be the cause of any family friction.

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblahblah … great-great-uncle … blahblahblah … only surviving relative … blahblahblah … may we be the first to offer our heartiest … blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgo-master to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.’