The Book of the Dead by Gail Carriger, Will Hill, Jesse Bullington, Paul Cornell, Maria Dahvana Headley, Molly Tanzer Read Free Book Online Page B

took it in turns to pop back into the station, try and get some sort of update on the situation, but we gave up on the pretence of trying to get home around the time we ordered food.
    She’s a writer, working as a proofreader for a company publishing textbooks. That was how she put it: “I’m not a proofreader that writes, I’m a writer that proofreads. Proofreading’s just what pays the bills.” She showed me some of her poems, and I smiled at the imagery. A vase, a bust, a stone nymph. “What?” she asked, not defensively. “Nothing,” I said, earnestly. “They’re very good.”
    It’s been one of those long, rambling, winding conversations you can only have when you’ve completely connected with someone: intimate, familiar, frighteningly honest, ranging over every topic from work, to family, to sex, to books, to past relationships. Her hopes, her frustrations. We’ve sat side by side, eyes meeting and then looking away; tearing up till receipts, playing with our teaspoons; she touching my wrist once, me brushing her shoulder. We’ve people-watched and joked. An hour or so after sitting down, she phoned someone called “Babe” to say she’ll be late and not to worry, and then put her phone away without explanation.
    It’s been one of those conversations that feel completely comfortable and completely familiar, even though you barely know the person you’re talking to. One of those conversations where you feel like you’ve fallen in love, all in one day. It‘s straight out of a film. She’s even mentioned Coward’s Brief Encounter once, eyes dancing, smirking slightly.
    It’s tearing me apart. I don’t think I can do this again.
    I’m dying, and soon. A month or two, maybe a year. I’ve felt it coming, and I’ve been getting my affairs in order.
    It’s different for us; not surprisingly, I suppose. Not for us the gradual senescence that robs most men of half their lives, the creeping illness and eventual betrayal of our bodies. The day before we die, we’re as strong as when we’re born. Instead, we’re visited with a growing awareness of the coming end, a feeling almost of doom. It’s a gift, in a way – a chance to make arrangements, to ensure everything goes over smoothly – although it hangs over us, crouching over our hearts, just as it does everyone else.
    That’s why I was on the train. There’s paperwork to be sorted out, payments to be made. Dying’s a more expensive and complicated affair than it once was.
    The thing is, even if I were – even if she were offering what I want from her... If she could offer what I need...
    Well. It’s too late. We won’t have the time.
    I smile back at her, and she sees something in my expression.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” I say, and fuss with my tea, add sugar. “It’s just...” I have to look at her. I owe it to her. I can’t retreat from her now, not after the time we’ve had. “This has been really nice.”
    She doesn’t answer; cocks her head and gives me that slight smirk again, knowing, coy. She lays her hand on my wrist – deliberately, leaving it there for a moment before withdrawing it. I look down at her hand, back to her face. She’s beautiful, really. Soft and expressive, with a smile that takes in her whole face.
    “But” – how do I explain? – “eventually they’re going to fix that fucking train.”
    She laughs, rips a page out of her notebook and scrawls on it. “I was kind of assuming this wasn’t goodbye, to be honest.” She hands the page to me: a mobile number, two names. “That’s my name on Facebook,” she says, pointing. “I don’t like to be too easy to find.” She shrugs. “We can keep in touch, and next time you’re in Manchester, or I’m in London, we can meet up, have coffee again.”
    I nod, tuck the sheet away, flash her a grin. “Sure. Sorry, I was being silly.”
    All flesh is dust. Nothing lives forever. That’s Maat. Even Lord Osiris died, and if the gods can die,