Page 43 of A Match Made in Hell
And the row doesn’t end.
I sag. ‘I can’t . . . I need a rest.’
Nobody responds. The Sorter’s disappeared. I have no idea when it happened. I just know I’m alone and there’s nobody tohold me up, and I can’t do this.
Why did I think I’d be capable of completing these tasks? I’ve always fallen short at everything I’ve tried to do, no matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much effort I put in. And this, out of all the things I’ve wanted, is the most impossible thing of all. The row of slabs stretches further and further ahead into an invisible horizon. Slumped against the nearest one, my eyes drift shut.
I jerk.
Inhale deeply. I can’t fall asleep.
Then again –
If I’m going to fail, there’s no harm in having a lie-down first. The Sorter’s gone. No one will find out. It’s not quitting if nobody knows.
‘Getting tired?’ Sath’s voice is like a defibrillator to the chest.
Jolting upright, I find him standing less than a metre away, arms folded. Skin fresh and dewy like he’s had a refreshing night’s sleep. Well, good for him. I hope he swallowed a spider when he was snoring away.
My tongue is heavy and thick; I can’t remember when I last had a sip of water. I have to unstick it from the roof of my mouth to ask, ‘When did you get here?’
‘You can stop, if you like.’ He ignores the question. ‘Do you want to stop?’
I’m about to sayyes, obviously, but I’ve enough awareness to realise this is part of the test. Clipboard. Where’s the next clipboard?
‘No, thank you.’ The words on the paper blur. I imagine one of them saysliar; the rest of them certainly have. We’re all lying about something. No rivers of blood though – I’m a special case in that regard. I glower at the lever as I send them to Asphodel. ‘I’m having a lovely time.’
The slab before me turns into a bed. Plush pillows, asumptuous mattress, a duvet that’s thick enough to wrap around me three times over. My knees go weak.
‘You don’t need to complete these duties.’ A warm hand settles on my back, nudging me forward. ‘You can rest now. You can finish tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. That would be good. I’d sleep, then wake re-energised. I’d complete it faster then.
I said the same thing about that job application. I’ll send it after my weekend away. One final read through, like it hadn’t been proofread ten times before. Like I hadn’t saidtomorroworthere’ll be other jobs, I’ll apply for the next onefor all the other emails I never sent.
And then I died.
‘I’d rather finish now,’ I say.
‘Do you think you can?’ he asks. The syllables may be different, but all I hear isyou’re not good enough.You’re a failure.That warped version of Mum’s voice is in my head again.Give up now, Willow. You can’t do this.Quitting is all you know.
It’s too late.
She’s wrong. They all are. I’ll show them. I know the consequences of quitting now, of giving up, and I’m not going through them again. ‘I can do this.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Sath says. ‘Get into bed, Willow.’
I grit my teeth. ‘No.’
‘It’s never-ending, this room. Carry on for miles and there’ll still be another body. More work to do. More responsibility. Wouldn’t it be easier to not do the work at all?’
It would. My eyelids threaten to close again. His hand shifts higher, and a thumb digs into my shoulder blade. The rush of pain-pleasure shooting down my spine spurs me onwards, and I sort another five bodies in rapid succession.
‘It’s impossible.’ Sath dogs my every step. ‘Being in charge ofall this. All these afterlives in your hands. Why should you have that responsibility? Why should any of us?’
‘Someone’s got to do it.’ The next chart says:murderer. I freeze. What do I do? My hand wraps around the lever. It’s a man. His knuckles are bloody. Who did he kill? How many?
He must deserve what I’m about to do to him. He must.
