Reaper Man

Except for the Bursar, of course. He didn’t eat much, but lived on his nerves. He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him.

And it was the Bursar’s unfortunate fate to be sitting opposite the doors when Windle Poons smashed them in because it was easier than fiddling with the handles.

He bit through his wooden spoon.

The wizards revolved on their benches to stare.

Windle Poons swayed for a moment, assembling control of vocal chords, lips and tongue, and then said: ‘I think I may be able to metabolise alcohol.’

The Archchancellor was the first one to recover.

‘Windle!’ he said. ‘We thought you were dead!’

He had to admit that it wasn’t a very good line. You didn’t put people on a slab with candles and lilies all round them because you think they’ve got a bit of a headache and want a nice lie down for half an hour.

Windle took a few steps forward. The nearest wizards fell over themselves in an effort to get away.

‘I am dead, you bloody young fool,’ he muttered. ‘Think I go around looking like this all the time? Good grief.’ He glared at the assembled wizardry. ‘Anyone here know what a spleen is supposed to do?’

He reached the table, and managed to sit down.

‘Probably something to do with the digestion,’ he said. ‘Funny thing, you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell it’s actually for. It’s like when you’re lying in bed of a night and you hear your stomach or something go pripple-ipple-goinnng. It’s just a gurgle to you, but who knows what marvellously complex chemical exchange processes are really going—’

‘You’re an undead?’ said the Bursar, managing to get the words out at last.

‘I didn’t ask to be,’ said the late Windle Poons, irritably looking at the food and wondering how the blazes one went about turning it into Windle Poons. ‘I only came back because there was nowhere else to go. Think I want to be here?’

‘But surely,’ said the Archchancellor, ‘didn’t … you know the fella, the one with the skull and the scythe—’

‘Never saw him,’ said Windle, shortly, inspecting the nearest dishes. ‘Really takes it out of you, this un-dyin’.’

’The wizards made frantic signals to one another over his head. He looked up and glared at them.

‘And don’t think I can’t see all them frantic signals,’ he said. And he was amazed to realise that this was true. Eyes that had viewed the past sixty years through a pale, fuzzy veil had been bullied into operating like the finest optical machinery.

In fact two main bodies of thought were occupying the minds of the wizards of Unseen University.

What was being thought by most of the wizards was: this is terrible, is it really old Windle in there, he was such a sweet old buffer, how can we get rid of it? How can we get rid of it?

What was being thought by Windle Poons, in the humming, flashing cockpit of his brain, was: well, it’s true. There is life after death. And it’s the same one. Just my luck.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘what’re you going to do about it?’

It was five minutes later. Half a dozen of the most senior wizards scurried along the draughty corridor in the wake of the Archchancellor, whose robes billowed out behind him.

The conversation went like this:

‘It’s got to be Windle! It even talks like him!’

‘It’s not old Windle. Old Windle was a lot older!’

‘Older? Older than dead?’

‘He’s said he wants his old bedroom back, and I don’t see why I should have to move out —’

‘Did you see his eyes? Like gimlets!’

‘Eh? What? What d’you mean? You mean like that dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street?’^{8}

‘I mean like they bore into you!’

‘—it’s got a lovely view of the gardens and I’ve had all my stuff moved in and it’s not fair—’

‘Has this ever happened before?’

‘Well, there was old Teatar—’

‘Yes, but he never actually died, he just used to put green paint on his face and push the lid off the coffin and shout “Surprise, surprise—”’

‘We’ve never had a zombie here.’

‘He’s a zombie?’

‘I think so—’

‘Does that mean he’ll be playing kettle drums and doing that bimbo dancing all night, then?’

‘Is that what they do?’

‘Old Windle? Doesn’t sound like his cup of tea. He never liked dancing much when he was alive—’

‘Anyway, you can’t trust those voodoo gods. Never trust a god who grins all the time and wears a top hat, that’s my motto.’^{9}

‘—I’m damned if I’m going to give up my bedroom to a zombie after waiting years for it—’

‘Is it? That’s a funny motto.’

Windle Poons strolled around the inside of his own head again.

Strange thing, this. Now he was dead, or not living any more, or whatever he was, his mind felt clearer than it had ever done.