Extract
Lizzie has just died. She simply hasn't realised it yet.
You'd be amazed at how often this kind of thing happens. Usually to
people who were never very popular in the first place. When everyone
starts completely ignoring them, they just accept it. Like they'd always
thought it might happen, anyway. Sooner or later.
This wasn't the case with Lizzie, though. She was a popular girl. She
just happened to have a lot on her mind on the afternoon in question.
Anyway, what happened was, Lizzie was cycling home from work. Weaving
her way through the cars and, most of the time, going faster than them.
On the Ranelagh road she got caught by traffic lights. "Come on," she
muttered. "Change!"
As soon as the green light appeared she took off like a hare out of a
trap. She cycled out into the clear road, heading for home. Next thing,
her bike slid on a patch of oil. In slow motion she saw herself flying
straight into the path of an oncoming Volvo. She watched the wheels
speed towards her. Far, far too close to her head. This isn't happening,
she thought.
A film-reel of pictures raced behind her eyes. All of them about her.
Aged four, falling out of a tree. The dog she'd had when she was seven.
The coolest pair of cowboy boots she'd got when she was twelve. Her
first romantic kiss. Her last day at school. Meeting Neil for the first
time. Moving in with him. Going to work this morning. Leaving work this
evening...
And then everything stopped. No more pictures. For a few shocked seconds
she lay on the greasy road. Her cheek was pressed against the tarmac. So
close that she could see hundreds of pieces of tar-coated gravel. They'd
been smoothed by a million car tyres. So many little stones, she
thought. Then, I wonder if I'm badly injured?
Slowly, carefully, she told her leg to move. It did so without sending
hot agony shooting through her. This could only be good. She tried her
other leg. No pain there, either.
Testing each limb, she gingerly climbed to her feet. All the while, she
expected some body-part to object. But to her relief it looked like she
had no bones broken. In fact, as she checked herself, it seemed that she
wasn't even cut. How lucky was that!
It was then that she saw that the driver of the car had got out. He came
towards her. His face was twisted into a mask of horror.
"It's okay," she said, shakily. "I seem to be in one piece. Luckily!"
To make him feel better she faked a laugh. But he paid her no attention.
From the shapes he was making with his mouth, he seemed to be trying to
talk. But he wasn't having much luck.
"I swear to God," she insisted, "I really am fine! Don't ask me how, but
I am."
Still he didn't speak. Suddenly she went weak. She was hit by a longing
to be at home.
Abandoning the driver to his silent mouthing, she got on her bike. By
some miracle it was undented. And away she cycled. Leaving her still and
bloody body lying beneath the car wheels.
As she wobbled off, she almost bumped in to someone. A tall pale figure
in a long black hooded cape. He nodded and waggled his scythe at her in
a friendly way. But she hardly noticed.
She hadn't realised what had happened. She didn't notice the crowd of
curious and worried people gathering around her body. She didn't hear
the ambulance siren in the distance. She didn't see the huge queue of
cars along the Rathmines Road delayed on their way home because her body
was blocking the road.
But if she had, she would have burned with shame. Because she was
wearing her worst knickers. They were arm-pit high and the colour of
porridge. How could she not have realised that they'd get an audience?
It was as good as guaranteed.
Most days she arrived home breathless and sweating, with her thigh
muscles on fire. The cycling was yet another of her many efforts to get
fit and skinny. Especially skinny. But today the journey felt oddly
effortless. She seemed to sail along, as if the entire route was
downhill.