Windle nodded. They stood side by side in silence, while around them was the muted roar of the city.

"You know," said Windle, "it's a wonderful afterlife. Where were you?"

I WAS BUSY.

Windle wasn't really listening. "I've met people I never even knew existed. I've done all sorts of things. I've really got to know who Windle Poons is."

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.

Death stood at the window of his dark study, looking out on to his garden. Nothing moved in that still domain. Dark lilies bloomed by the trout pool, where little plaster skeleton gnomes fished. There were distant mountains.

It was his own world. It appeared on no map.

But now, somehow, it lacked something.

Death selected a scythe from the rack in the huge hall. He strode past the huge clock without hands and went outside. He stalked through the black orchard, where Albert was busy about the beehives, and on until he climbed a small mound on the edge of the garden.

Beyond, to the mountains, was unformed land - it would bear weight, it had an existence of sorts, but there had never been any reason to define it further.

Until now, anyway.

Albert came up behind him, a few dark bees still buzzing around his head.

"What are you doing, master?" he said.

REMEMBERING.

"Ah?"

I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS STARS.

What was it? Oh, yes...

He snapped his fingers. Fields appeared, following the gentle curves of the land.

"Golden," said Albert. ‘That's nice. I've always thought we could do with a bit more colour around here."

Death shook his head. It wasn't quite right yet.

Then he realised what it was. The lifetimers, the great room filled with the roar of disappearing lives, was efficient and necessary; you needed something like that for good order. But...

He snapped his fingers again and a breeze sprang up. The cornfields moved, billow after billow unfolding across the slopes.

ALBERT?

"Yes, master?"

HAVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO? SOME LITTLE JOB?

"I don't think so," said Albert.

AWAY FROM HERE, IS WHAT I MEAN.

"Ah. What you mean is, you want to be alone," said Albert.

I AM ALWAYS ALONE. BUT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF.

"Right. I'll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the house, then," said Albert.

YOU DO THAT.

Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of view of eternity, anyway.

Somewhere, the tiny voice of Bill Door said: from the point of view of the owner, longer ones are best.

SQUEAK.

Death looked down.

A small figure was standing by his feet.

He reached down and picked it up, held it up to an investigative eye socket.

I KNEW I'D MISSED SOMEONE.

The Death of Rats nodded.

SQUEAK?

Death shook his head.

NO, I CAN'T LET YOU REMAIN, he said. IT'S NOT AS THOUGH I'M RUNNING A FRANCHISE OR SOMETHING.

SQUEAK?

ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE LEFT?

The Death of Rats opened a tiny skeletal hand. The tiny Death of Fleas stood up, looking embarrassed but hopeful.

NO. THIS SHALL NOT BE. I AM IMPLACABLE. I AM DEATH... ALONE.

He looked at the Death of Rats.

He remembered Azrael in his tower of loneliness.

ALONE...

The Death of Rats looked back at him.

SQUEAK?

Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields...

NO. YOU CAN'T RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG.

Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves...

DON'T ASK ME I DON'T KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE.

... fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze...

RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE.

... awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.

METAPHORICALLY.

And at the end of all stories Azrael, who knew the secret, thought:

I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WILL BE AGAIN.

THE END