Death

Join me for a drive, won’t you? We’re going to Eastcote, in North West London, where my friend Matthew lives. Or lived. The year this drive takes place in is probably 1978, and I’m guessing Matthew has moved on since then. I remember this particular drive, because my mum told my brother and I that Matthew’s dad has died. A sudden death, at far too young an age. I’m only 5 or 6 when this drive happens, so this was a brand new concept for me. I’d never known death before.

Matthew’s dad had, not so many weeks before, played a pirate video at his son’s birthday party. How cool was that? Remember, this is the late 70s. Few people had a video player. Fewer still had access to pirate videos. Was his dad some sort of criminal top dog, you might be wondering. Perhaps, sort of. He was a policeman. The video was Star Wars. We were blown away.

We arrive at Matthew’s house, and mum gives us both a final reminder. We mustn’t talk about his dad. Don’t mention it. The little chap is very sad. Don’t mention the dead dad under any circumstances. Got it? No dead dad questions. Promise? Good. Out you get.We get out the car, walk through the front door into a very somber house full of adults. I find Matthew and we go to play. “Is your dad dead?” Yes, he is. “What did he die of?”. He had a heart attack. “Why?”. I don’t know. “Are you sad?” A little bit. But not really, says that true little British trooper, prepping his upper lip for a lifetime of culturally obliged stiffness.

Enough of the 70s, we must return to the current day. Death puts in seemingly random appearances in life, and I’ve come across his nefarious activities on many occasions. I saw Gory Death run over the head of a scooter rider in Bangkok. Tragic Death knocked the life out of a small child outside our home in Mexico City. Weary Death has taken the lives of elderly relatives who had simply reached the end.

More often though, Death comes when I’m not present, and I simply hear about it later. Stupid Death took a boy at my school who decided to surf a tube train at night. You can’t see the bridges at night, you know. Beer Death took a friend who drank a little more than he should have, and went out back for a lie down and ultimately drowned in his own vomit.

Either way, Death is rarely a welcome visitor, though I’ve long been of the opinion that the important thing is that he visits someone else and not me. Thus far, I’ve dodged his attention. I’ve kept out of the coffin. There have been a few close shaves. But I have had the upper hand so far. Touch wood. However, I have the feeling that the old fella is stalking me at the moment. So I’m cautiously checking round every corner. Looking under the bed. I’m making sure the cupboard under the stairs remain unoccupied.

Throughout much of the spring, summer and autumn, conspiracy theorist Covid deniers suggested that the general public would not know there was a pandemic from looking out their windows. If it weren’t for the media, they postulated, we still wouldn’t know. And they’re right, because none of us have windows that look out across multiple countries and continents. The same suggestion would apply to those who lived through Spanish flu and the Black Death.

It’s not a sound bite that works very well anymore, certainly not in the U.K. So the conspiracy theorist community have, by and large, moved on to new soundbites. Because Death is no longer making fleeting, occasional visits. He no longer lurks in the shadows, swiping a new recruit when no one is looking. He is brazenly wandering amongst us, striking at will. Death is engaged in a wanton orgy of human carnage. He cares not who sees him anymore.

Covid Death has taken a half dozen people that I have met. He seems to be in the process of taking a handful more. Hopefully some will slip free of his grasp. But I suspect several won’t. Almost everyone knows someone. And then there are so at the second degree of separation. A colleague has lost two family members. Folks I’ve never met, likely never would have, but now most certainly never will.

There are also those close shaves, of course. Several persons I know have been hospitalised, some of whom are close. Some of whom are still there. And then there are those who have simply been sickened, but are right as rain with a week or two in bed. as I write this, I sit alone in an office that should have three of us hard at work. People are dropping like flies all around me.

But they mostly get up again, which is why we don’t live our lives in complete terror and try to get on as best we can. We all have a date with Death at some point in the hopefully distant future. There is a date on his calendar marked with each one of our names. I can but hope that it is Amicable Death or Peaceful Death who are sent to fetch me, not Plague Death or Stabby Death. Or Train Death.

That brings us to the photo above. It is a platform at a station I work at from time to time. A station with a particularly tragic reputation. Some people, sadly, feel they cannot wait for their appointment with Death and they come here to seek out an earlier meeting. I recently walked along it early in the morning, applying salt to the frozen edging. I wondered how many ghostly shoulders I had brushed against.

For now I am simply doing my best to ensure Covid Death passes by my door without stopping. And passes by my friends and neighbours doors too. I keep my distance. I wear a face mask. I wash my hands. Death needs no extra encouragement, folks. So do the decent thing and stay safe. These days will pass.