WHO IS HE, THEN?
“Windle Poons.”
I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK.
“Well, yes.”
ALL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED.
Windle Poons did know exactly what irony meant, and he could spot sarcasm too.
“It’s all very well for you,” he mumbled.
PERHAPS.
Windle looked down at the river again.
“It’s been great,” he said. “After all this time. Being needed is important.”
YES. BUT WHY?
Windle looked surprised.
“I don’t know. How should I know? Because we’re all in this together, I suppose. Because we don’t leave our people in there. Because you’re a long time dead. Because anything is better than being alone. Because humans are human.”
AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE. BUT CORN IS NOT JUST CORN.
“It isn’t?”
NO.
Windle leaned back. The stone of the bridge was still warm from the day’s heat.
To his surprise, Death leaned back as well.
BECAUSE YOU’RE ALL YOU’VE GOT, said Death.
“What? Oh. Yes. That as well. It’s a great big cold universe out there.”
YOU’D BE AMAZED.
“One lifetime just isn’t enough.”
OH, I DON’T KNOW.
“Hmm?”
WINDLE POONS?
“Yes?”
THAT WAS YOUR LIFE.
And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a feeling that on the whole everything could have been much worse, Windle Poons died.
Somewhere in the night, Reg Shoe looked both ways, took a furtive paintbrush and small pot of paint from inside his jacket, and painted on a handy wall: Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out…
And then it was all over. The end.