You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Ian De’ath was an angel.
That’s what his ‘clients’ thought of him anyway. ‘A visiting angel.’
Ian regularly helped with Eileen’s shopping. He couldn’t drive a car, but he would ensure plastic bags full of crisps, beer, and cigarettes were delivered to order.
‘Thank you, angel,’ Eileen would say to the sky, on receipt of the goodies.
Home delivery was a Godsend!
Ian was a man of few words. He knew his job and enjoyed it.
In the past six months, a new fella had moved into the same block of flats as Eileen. She and he shared the odd fag at the bottom of the stairs. Eileen had designs on him.
Ian had spotted him in the pub at the end of the road.
One day, 6th June to be precise, Ian stood at the end of the bar. Watching.
The man looked towards Ian, and Ian sent a pint up the bar.
The fella, who was called Jim, sank whisky chasers with his bitter. He began to get 'lairy.’
‘Alright, Jim,’ said the landlord, levering him out of the double doors. ‘Your time is up.’ Jim landed, bottom first, on the pavement. The doors closed with a bang.
Ian had followed him outside. The street was deserted. It was eerily quiet, considering the jukebox was on inside the pub.
Grey clouds cloaked the sky like a shroud. Jim shivered as Ian bent down to help him.
Two weeks later, Eileen sat at the bottom of her block, in what constituted a garden ― a puny apple tree surrounded by barbed wire and a patch of yellow scrub masquerading as grass. Her bench, as Eilleen thought of it, was covered in graffiti. SKANKS LIVE ‘ERE, it said in bold red letters. Fake blood dripped from the painted words.
Eileen tried to cross her chubby legs as she read her local newspaper, but to no avail. She held her cigarette between her thin, wrinkly lips. The ash dropped onto her bare, purple-streaked thighs, and she brushed it off nonchalantly.
Turning to page eight, she sought out the Births, Marriages, and Deaths section. There were very few of the former notifications.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said aloud. The cigarette fell from her mouth and burned a hole in the newspaper. She dashed it to the floor.
James Bartlet, known as Jim, died on June 6, 2025, according to the notice. Funeral to be held at 11:00 a.m., St. Paul's Church, Anytown. All are welcome to attend. No flowers.
‘You alright down there, Eileen?’ shouted her neighbour from two floors up.
‘Aye,’ shouted Eilleen. ‘It’s just that Jim Bartlet has passed. I thought I hadn’t seen him for a while.’
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ was the shocked reply. ‘Jim, the beer?’
‘Yeah,’ let loose Eileen, ‘and he was only the same age as me. Fifty-three is far too young!’
The upstairs window closed with a clunk.
Smoky clouds enveloped the sun. Eileen shivered.
She folded her newspaper and attempted to shift her bulk from the bench. She felt hot and yet clammy at the same time.
‘Let me help,’ said a smooth voice from behind her.
Eileen tried to turn her fat neck towards it.
Ian M. De’ath laid his hand on her shoulder, and he helped her …
into a different world.
Another job done in his role as a ministering angel.
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Good atmosphere, Lynn.
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