Alex Kicks The Bucket Read online

  Alex Kicks the Bucket

  By Jason Purdy

  Copyright © 2017 Jason Purdy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Alex Kicks the Bucket – By Jason Purdy

  For Bronagh

  For always calling dibs on the first draft.

  24:00:00

  Alex’s room was thick with heat and the stench of his own sweat. The unseasonably hot British summer threatened to rip through his curtains and turn him to ash, and he was just about to load up a video on his phone and start masturbating, when he realised there was a stranger standing at the foot of his bed.

  That didn’t usually happen on Mondays.

  On weekends, sometimes his house mate brought home a girl who happened to be too out of it to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without getting lost on the way.

  Usually, he didn’t mind, because they’d be wearing nothing but one of Paul’s old t-shirts, and they’d stand in the door way, turning back and forward, the t-shirt flicking over their upper thighs while they wondered well the hell they went wrong. In more ways than one.

  Today was different. It was a man in a Hawaiian shirt and brown chinos, wearing brown sandals and ray bans sunglasses. The stranger was hovering close to Alex’s CD collection with a thoughtful look on his face. He seemed to be appraising the collection.

  Any normal person would probably scream, launching themselves across the room towards the man, or towards the door. Maybe even out the window.

  Alex wasn’t particularly normal, and he’d had enough night time visitors thanks to Paul, that he had learned to keep quiet when a stranger walked in. He’d even learned to occasionally slip one of his hands under the sheets, while they stood there, drunk and confused.

  He proceeded to do that right now, except he was grasping for his phone rather than, well, you know.

  “Awful,” the stranger said in a quiet voice, inspecting the CD rack with a great deal of interest.

  He had a strong American accent, with a Californian vibe. Alex found his phone hiding somewhere between his back, his arse, his boxers, the duvet, and an empty bottle of Lucozade.

  “I can’t believe people still listen to this stuff. Are you all incapable of moving with the times?” The stranger said.

  He was examining a copy of AC/DC’s Back in Black.

  “I mean, this shit is good, sure, but the world moves on. I don’t see why you have to try so hard to be alternative.”

  He turned to Alex, who was doing a bad job of pretending to be asleep while his phone loudly called 999.

  The man raised a bushy eyebrow at him. He was one of those weird people who had thick eyebrows, but thin, wispy hair. What little follicle fortitude remained, he had manoeuvred into an Ace Ventura style quiff.

  He looked like a fourth place runner up in a Morrissey lookalike contest.

  “Alex, put the phone down,” the man said, stepping closer towards the foot of the bed.

  He passed into a shard of sunlight and for a moment becomes transparent, insubstantial. Like smoke, or a Happy Meal.

  Alex doesn’t reply. He waits for someone to pick up his call before he is molested, murdered, or worse, forced to discuss the merits of AC/DC with a home invader.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” the man said, grinning to himself.

  The call connects.

  “Police!” Alex barked, into the phone.

  “What emergency service do you require?” An exhausted operator, minutes from finishing an all night shift, answers him sarcastically.

  “He needs the police,” the man said, suddenly beside Alex.

  He was so close that you could smell the tanning lotion and Old Spice. Alex screamed, and threw the phone at the man. He snatches it out the air, and tries to swipe to end the call.

  It takes several tries.

  “Fucking smartphones,” he said.

  Alex scrambled across the bed, tossing the decades old Star Wars bed sheets onto the floor as he dodges around the foot of the bed, heading for the door. The sheets fall in a heavy, stiff pile.

  “Leave me alone!” Alex howled, screaming for help.

  The cries went unheard. Paul was away to work, and nobody else in the building was likely to help him, due to his habit of listening to awful music until four in the morning, while hot-boxing in his disgusting room.

  The man sighed, running his hands through his fluffy hair. He stopped to fix it in the reflection on the dusty screen of Alex’s flat screen TV. It was as filthy as the rest of the room.

  “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said, watching Alex in the screen as he tries to open the door.

  “Sit down, relax, put some clothes on,” he added. “I can see your junk.”

  Alex tried to open the door with one hand while cupping his balls with the other. He succeeded at neither.

  The door wouldn’t budge. A lock clicked, and Alex looked at the handle as if it was eating him alive.

  “This door doesn’t have a lock,” he said quietly.

  His hand fell away from the door, but the other one stayed over the front of his stained boxers.

  “It does now,” the man said, fitting at the foot of Alex’s bed.

  He patted the space beside him. It looked more sinister than he intended it to.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” Alex said.

  His eyes darted from the man to the window. He looked like a cornered rat. He slowly edged towards the window.

  “I told you, I…” the man stopped, shaking his head furiously. “God, I forgot how frustrating you all are! I may as well talk to the bloody wall.”

  The stranger put his head in his hands, and Alex took this chance to dart for the window. He pulled the grimy curtains open, and starts to work at the handle. He fumbles with sweaty hands, cursing under his breath.

  The man rose slowly from the bed. His Hawaiian shirt was perfectly pressed. There are few things in the world more unsettling than a man who chooses to iron his own clothes.

  “We’re on the fifth floor,” he said, shaking his head, “and last time I checked, you lot can’t fly.”

  Alex decided he’d rather take his chances outside. He unlatched the window and wrenched it open. It was one of those extremely safe windows that swung open merrily like a door.

  He clambered onto the sill, trying to steady himself. He failed, and disappeared from sight. He dropped like a sack of shit, his scream trailing behind him like the siren of a passing ambulance.

  “Every fucking time,” the stranger muttered.

  23:30:05

  “How are you feeling?” the man said.

  He leaned over Alex, his face obscured by the glare of the sun. Alex was lying on the pavement, in the middle of the alley beside his flat.

  He had managed to miss the bins, the pile of sodden boxes, and even dodged the warm of rats. It’s a shame he couldn’t dodge the concrete too.

  “I’m fine,” Alex said.

  He was, despite the fall from the fifth floor. He hit the concrete so hard that he had left his mark on it. There was a spider web of trailing cracks leading away from the point of impact.

  He sat up, brushing dirt and dust off his bare back. He turned over his shoulder to see the outline of his body writ large on the ground like a snow angel. Or a crime scene.

  “They always find o
ut this way,” the man said.

  He offered his hand to Alex, who ignored it, pulling himself to his feet. The stranger got down here suspiciously fast. Unless he took the same express route that Alex did.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Alex said. “Who are you? Why aren’t I dead?”

  “Three very valid questions”, the man said, grinning.

  “I’m calling the police,” Alex said.

  “That went so well for you last time, didn’t it?”

  Alex slumped to his arse, and hugged his knees to his chest. Slumped in an alleyway at half past nine in the morning, wearing nothing but his boxers. Meet Alex.

  “Cheer up Alex,” the stranger said, “it’s a big day.”

  The man beams at him. Alex decides he has had enough.

  “Get fucked,” he said. “Just piss off, and leave me alone.”

  The man sat carefully beside him, smoothing out his chinos, pushing away a few dried rat turds.

  Alex scooted away from him.

  “I need to talk to you, Alex,” he said.

  “All you need to do is leave me alone,” Alex said. “You’ve shit all over my day already. I bet I’ve broken every bone in my body and I’m in shock right now. I’ll be in the hospital for the rest of my life. I’m late for work, I’ll lose my job. Everything is fucked; it’s all your fault.”

  He took a deep breath, and tried not to sob. The stranger laughs.

  “You’ve been late twenty times this week already,” he said. “This one is on me, but the rest were all you, baby.”

  “Fuck off,” Alex replied.

  “I’m just saying, there should be a fair delegation of blame here…”

  “Delegate this,” Alex said, flipping him the bird.

  “Every minute you bicker with me,” the stranger replied, “is valuable time wasted.”

  He patted Alex on the shoulder. Alex leapt to his feet, and the man followed. Alex threw a punch that couldn’t penetrate a paper bag, and his fist went right through the stranger.

  Like he was made of smoke, like he wasn’t really there at all. Alex stumbled, nearly falling flat on the ground again.

  Alex stared at him, his mouth agape.

  “Can we cut the crap, kiddo?” the man said. “The clock is ticking.”

  Alex turned away from him, heading towards the mouth of the alley. The man appears in front of him, in an instant. Like there was no space between the two of them. Like he started at A and skipped straight to Z, telling the rest of the alphabet to shove it.

  His sunglasses were gone, and Alex could see his strange brown eyes. They burned holes through his skull.

  “I’ll be straight with you,” he said, planting his hands on Alex’s shoulders. “You’ve got one day left to live.”

  His strange brown eyes were locked on Alex’s. At that moment, he knew it was true, but there was still no way he could believe it. He went straight to the important questions.

  “Do you mean one day, as in until midnight, or as in, like, twenty four hours from now?”

  The man laughed, and Alex took the opportunity to wriggle away from his grip.

  “I knew you’d be a fun one,” he said.

  “Bully for me.”

  “Here’s the scoop,” he started, “you’ve got twenty four hours left, minus whatever time has passed since you called the feds on me.”

  “The feds?” Alex made a face at him.

  “You know, the fuzz, the cops.”

  “Oh right.”

  “Twenty three and a half hours left.”

  Alex started to pace back and forward.

  “How do you know this?” Alex asked.

  “I’ve got a watch,” the man said.

  The timepiece that he waved in Alex’s face definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. Alex makes a face that collapses his head into a gurning mass of greasy hair and beard.

  “No,” he said slowly. “How do you know that I’m going to die?”

  “It’s not quite dying…” the man started. “If I explained it all to you, it’ll kill about half an hour of your day. Maybe an hour, if you’re slow. Yeah, let’s say an hour.”

  Alex missed the insult.

  “Well you’ve wasted half an hour already, so what’s a little longer?”

  “Another hour, like I said.”

  Alex turned to face the man, who was giving him a sneaky grin.

  “You’re a cheeky bastard,” Alex said.

  “Thanks.”

  Alex kicks away a rat with his bare foot.

  “Well I’ve got no plans for today, and I’ve likely been fired, so you can take the time to explain it all.”

  “It’s your last day of life,” the man said. “You might want to, you know… make plans.”

  Alex snorted.

  “Well if I believe your story, then sure,” he said. “We’ll have a party, get a few drinks in, whatever.”

  “And if you don’t?” the man said.

  “If I don’t, will you please fuck off?”

  The man grinned at him.

  “Deal,” he said.

  He offered his hand to shake, but Alex’s passed right through his, making his skin tingle.

  “Sorry,” the stranger said, looking embarrassed. “I’m working on that.”

  23:05:00

  After getting dressed and grabbing his phone, Alex ventured back into the alleyway. He took the stairs this time.

  When he was in his room, he watched the strange man from the window. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all true. After all, he’d survived the fall with no pain or damage at all.

  If it was all true, then for the next twenty four hours, the sky was the limit. Alex wondered how things might have been different if the stranger had of been around to strike the same bargain the night that his brother died.

  He tried not to think about it. That was his usual way of dealing with the tragedy.

  The two of them went for breakfast at a nice little greasy spoon close to Alex’s flat. It was his go-to place the morning after a hangover. It was probably the worst café in all of London, maybe even the entirely of Britain. Anyone who has ever spent any amount of time in the UK would know that this was a tall order indeed.

  “What’s good?” the stranger asked Alex. He was looking at the menu with outright confusion.

  “Nothing really,” Alex said.

  “Why are we here then?”

  “I’m here for a full English and a full explanation of what the hell is going on.”

  A waitress approached. She had a face like a bulldog liking piss of an electric fence. She looked like she’d rather murder the pair of them with an axe than serve them food.

  The walls were stained with grease, and the ancient specials board mentioned a special edition burger to celebrate the ’96 World Cup.

  She glared at Alex while he explained how he wanted the fat cut off his bacon and wanted his egg yolk buttery. Runny, but not too runny, just runny enough.

  She gave him a blank look.

  “Full English,” she muttered.

  Before Alex could protest, she turned to the stranger. She raised one eyebrow at him.

  “What kind of coffee do you have?” he asked, giving her a sunny smile.

  Her eyes were like two black holes rimmed with smudged, cheap eyeliner. Her hair was greasier than the fryer out back.

  “We’ve got coffee.”

  “Do you have Arabica?”

  “Coffee,” she said, maintaining her death stare. “Black, or white.”

  The man’s sunny smile did not falter

  “Just a coffee then please, darling,” he said.

  She tutted, as if that wasn’t the answer she wanted, and stormed off. The man watched after her.

  “I love this lot,” he said.

  “What?” Alex asked. “Women? Waitresses? People with faces like slapped arses?”

  “No,” he replied, “I meant people. You know, like you.”

  “People?” Alex asked.r />
  “Yeah, humans.”

  Alex snorted laughter and glanced around the café, looking for the cameras, waiting for someone to tell him he’s on TV. To tell him that he was about to end up on YouTube. He was waiting for the guy in the backwards baseball cap to tell him it was just a prank, bro.

  “Did Paul put you up to this?” Alex asked.

  “No jokes,” he replied, “one hundred per cent cold, hard, Christian truth.”

  Alex sat back and folded his arms. He surveyed the man with contempt, his bushy black eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

  “You have until my fry arrives to explain yourself.”

  The man glanced over at the counter, where the waitress was frantically texting on her phone. The notepad with their order on it lay on the counter in front of her. In the kitchen, he could see a greasy cook picking his nose.

  “I’ve got time,” he said. “You’ve got twenty three hours. Ish.”

  “Convince me,” Alex said.

  “Wouldn’t you rather just go along for the ride?” he replied. “Come on, live a little. You’ve only got a little left to live.”

  Alex said nothing.

  “Alright, here we go.”

  The man put his hands flat on the table, and leaned forward. A stream of sunlight cut through the grease streaked window. Once more, he became ethereal. The noise of the café collapses in on itself, and to Alex, nothing exists but the stranger, and his strange story.

  “Okay, imagine the afterlife, what’s that like?” the man said. “Tell me your dumbest theory.”

  “I’m an atheist,” Alex said, sounding absurdly smug.

  “Of course you are,” the man said. “You all are now.”

  He rolled his eyes, and they wouldn’t stop. He put his fingers on his eyeballs to stop them.

  “You try so hard to be non-conformist, just like everybody else,” he said.

  “Get back to the afterlife,” Alex said.

  “Pretend you do believe. Or at least pretend to pretend. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try,” Alex said, shrugging.

  To Alex, the idea of an afterlife was a lie in that you never have to wake up from. A night on cheap cider without the hangover. You never stumble into work with a hangover. You never feel the crippling loneliness of another night by yourself while your room mate brings another ten out of ten girl home. You don’t have to feel jealous, not because of the girls, but because he has someone to lie beside him. Someone to hold, even just for a little while.