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This cannot be how I die.
It really,reallycan’t.
Naturally I know not everyone is blessed with the whole old-lady-from-Titanicoption; drifting off into a toasty sleep, memories of making love to a peak Leonardo DiCaprio there to soften the blow of perishing. But choking to death at the age of twenty-seven? Delphie,no.
As I gasp for air, my brain seems unable to compute how I might save myself from this horror show and instead fixates entirely on the mortifying circumstances via which it’s playing out.
For a start I’m choking on a burger. Not even a premium or homemade burger but a cheap microwaveable one I grabbed from the corner shop after work. And then there are the clothes I’m wearing as I choke: pickle-green socks paired with the worst of all my nightwear—an over-washed, oversized atrocity with a cartoon of a grinning star above the sloganHoney, It’s Time to Sparkle and Shine!My TV is paused a quarter way throughThe Tinder Swindler,and my laptop is lit with onesolitary tab: a Google page on which I have enquired, “Are microwaveable burgers real meat?”
Who’s going to find me in this state? My despicable downstairs neighbour Cooper, who will definitely sneer when he sees my nightie? The police? Rummaging through my private belongings, hunting for evidence of possible foul play? They’d have a tricky time finding anyone with a motive, considering I only know three people in all of London—Leanne and her mum, Jan, from the pharmacy where I work, and old Mr. Yoon from next door.
Oh god, what if it’s old Mr. Yoon who discovers me? That must not happen—his heart is way too fragile to handle something as grim as this. Sweet Mr. Yoon! If I’m gone, there won’t be anyone to check he’s properly extinguished his cigarettes before he goes to sleep. And who will make him a breakfast that isn’t just a bowl of boring old cardboardy All-Bran?
At the thought of Mr. Yoon gazing sorrowfully into his cereal cupboard, I fling myself over to a rickety kitchen chair and slam my body over the top in a bid to self-Heimlich. I once saw Miranda onSex and the Citydo this, and she survived, shaken but emotionally wiser for the experience.
I bash my diaphragm down onto the chair over and over again. Then I clasp my hands together and thump myself in the stomach. Ow. Nothing. Am I punching myself in the correct place? I do it again, this time a little lower. And then again, higher up. It’s not working! This chunk of bun and possibly not-real meat is lodged in my gullet and I believe it intends to stay there. Shit.
I race from one side of my tiny living room to the other, searching for something, anything at all that might help me. My belovedBroad Citybaseball cap hanging from the hook onmy front door? Useless! Box of unopened Blackwing pencils on the kitchen table?Comeon, Delphie!My eyes zero in on my phone, peeking out from beneath a sofa cushion. I grab it to call an ambulance, but my hands are trembling so much that I can’t get a grip. The phone tumbles to the floor, skidding under the edge of my TV stand to live with an entire habitat of dust plus an antidepressant I dropped last month and never quite got around to retrieving.
Argh. Everything’s going dark around the edges. My tongue feels weird, heavy, like it’s lolling. Is my tonguelolling? My knees collapse and I flail theatrically to the ground, head landing with a thud on the lovely soft stripy rug I spent the last three months saving up for.
Oh god.
I think…I think this is actuallyit?
My grand finale.
My expiration date.
The End.
Here lies Delphie Denise Bookham.
She died just as she lived: alone, perplexed, wearing something a bit shit.
“Open your eyes…That’s it. Time to come to…Time to awaken…Aha, there you are! Hey, darling girl.”
The stranger’s voice is female, a wisp of melodic Irish cadence softening the edges. My eyes fly open. A woman smiles maniacally, small upturned nose barely an inch from mine. I take her in: springy butter-blond curls drawn into a high ponytail, voguish gold specs making the earnest green eyes she’s using to openly gawk at me look twice their size. She’s wearingan orange lipstick that’s bled onto her large teeth, both rows fully exposed to form said maniacal smile. I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I open them again, try desperately to get my bearings. My insides immediately make a fuss when I realise that I’m not in my apartment, where I pretty much always am, but sitting in a strange plastic chair, legs propped up on a floral upholstered buffet like a nana.
Where am I right now?
Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” echoes from some unknown direction, the reverberation of it eerie and dreamlike. Wide-eyed, I scan the room: pale blue painted walls, a row of aqua-green washing machines lined up in front of me, spinning and gurgling and puffing out warm lavender-scented air at even intervals. Hold up. Is this a launderette? What the hell am I doing in alaunderette? How did I get here?Whendid I get here?
Above the washers I spot a large framed photo of the bespectacled woman. She’s doing a double thumbs-up, her smile at pageant-winner wattage. My gaze slides from the picture on the wall, back to the real-life version crouched beside my chair. She beams like she could not be more delighted to see me. Then she gives me a double thumbs-up exactly like the one in the photo.
Who is this? Where am I? “Uh…uh…”
My panicked brain refuses to assist me in delivering the questions aloud.
“Clever, right?” The woman grins. “No-one ever gets scared in a launderette! Seemed smart to offset such an objectively terrifying moment with the most calming environment I could imagine. And this is it—a lobby that looks and feels like a cosylittle launderette! When I was younger and things got a littleARGH LIFE IS SO HARD,WAH WAH WAH, I’d take myself off to the local outfit and watch all the machines spinning around and around and around for hours. All those blossomy smells, all those sloshy sounds?Socomforting, don’t you think?”
I flinch as the woman jumps up from her squat, proudly flinging her arms around the room like she’s a game show host about to reveal the grand prize.
“The blue on the walls is identical to the colour of the sky just before the sun sets in the last week of June. Took me an age to find the exact right chromaticity. It’s this paint shade called Dehydrated Goose, discontinued in ninety-two. But I knew a guy who knew a gal who knew a guy who knew the right guy, and yeah, I eventually pulled it off.” She presses her lips together and thrusts her hands into the pockets of her mustard dungarees, swinging lightly from side to side. “The Higher-Ups made itquiteclear they wanted a cleaner, more ‘professional’ aesthetic, but I said to them, I said, ‘Guys, you can’t expect me to be a top-tier Afterlife Therapist without allowing me full autonomy over the environment in which I therapize the deceased. I mean,come on,guys.’…Idiots. Idiots everywhere! It’s a gorgeous shade though, isn’t it?” She gazes up at the walls, sighs happily, and runs her teeth over her bottom lip, dragging off a bunch more lipstick in the process. “It almost changes hue with the light. Sometimes a chalky lilac grey. Sometimes denim blue. Like the eyes of Jamie Fraser. You know Jamie Fraser? From the Outlander books? What a ride. He’s in my top-ten fictional romantic leads. Maybe actually top five. Maybe even top—”
“The deceased?” I manage to cut in.
