Story for performance #817
webcast from London at 07:16PM, 15 Sep 07

I hate my job. I warn people. I am a warner. I stir doom into days like others stir milk into coffee. I make arrows of the hours. I shoot them at targets. I hate my job. I’m warning you.

The main problem with being a professional warner is it gets boring. There are days when I wake up and can’t face warning people that they are to be victims of a half-arsed and personal apocalypse. It’s depressing. Some days I wake up and groan. I say, ‘for fucks sake’. I cover my face with a pillow. Mostly it’s the sadness I can’t face. People get sad when you tell them their days are numbered. They cover their noses with tissues.

Today is one such day. I woke in the arms of a girl and for a moment I forgot all about the hectic schedule of doom forecasting that dominates my life. I just smiled, kissed the girl’s hot back and contemplated returning to sleep. It’s often said that those in my profession, those charged with leading humanity into a neutrally decorated room and telling it the bad news—it is often said that we don’t appreciate the simple things in life. This isn’t true. I do appreciate the simple stuff. Eggs, for example. I adore eggs. This morning as the kiss dried on my lips I thought how nice it would be to purchase some eggs and to cook them in a style that appealed to this girl. Poached, perhaps, or scrambled. But then I remembered the nature of my job. I recalled the space in my diary that corresponds to today and my eyes closed. ‘September 15th,’ I had written, ‘tell her about The Cover Up’. I thought, bollocks. I did. I covered my mouth with a sideways palm. Beside me the girl woke up and removed her sleeping mask. I climbed on top of her and lowered one closed eye down onto her closed mouth. I pressed hard. I felt the eyeball sink into the socket. We held this position silently for a minute.

We are staring at each other across the pillow.

‘What?’ she says.

‘What?’ I reply.

It is often said that the golden rule of my profession is not to get involved with those individuals who one is sent to warn. I have broken this rule with this girl. I broke it because she is beautiful and because her top lip curls and disappears at moments of doubt. Three days ago I was handed a photograph of this girl and told to find her and to tell her about The Cover Up, that is to say, to warn her that she is going next, that she’s up. I found her easily. I found her in a field in the South of England. I pitched a tent. We kissed all night and held each other tight. I broke the golden rule.

‘What?’ she says again, reaching across the bed to cover my eyes.

‘Nothing,’ I say.

The Cover Up, as I understand it, relates to a process by which human existence will disintegrate and disappear. You see, life is being deleted person by person. It is my job to let the relevant people know. To take them for tea and say to them, ‘you’re next. I’m sorry.’

The Cover Up is what we used to know as death. It’s depressing. When I found her in that field I should not have pitched that tent. I should not have marvelled at the behaviour of her top lip. I should have simply approached her in my smart grey suit. I should have shaken her hand and said calmly, ‘you’re next.’

Back in the bedroom.

She says, ‘What are you thinking about?’

I say, ‘Nothing.’

‘You look scary.’

‘It’s nothing.’

She gets out of bed and goes to bathe. I shut my eyes and I worry. She returns with a towel around her waist and I watch her select underwear from a drawer. She tries on a bra that leaves her nipples revealed. She changes her mind. ‘Stop staring,’ she says. ‘You’re a pervert.’ She smiles.

When she starts covering her lips in pink lipstick and combing black mascara into her eyelashes I have to leave the room. I go downstairs. I hate my job. I hate the covering up of life with death. The burning and burying of corpses. Sometimes I go to the funerals. Relatives kiss the air either side of my face and say, ‘thank you for coming. And for the warning. Thank you.’ Sometimes I even go to the wake and I stand alone with a triangular sandwich. Egg, normally.

Upstairs I can hear the girl singing along to some music. She has a deep voice. I sit in the room below her. The bathroom. I sit on the toilet covering up my face with my hands, rocking. I hate my job. I hate its nature and I hate the hours. When I told you it was boring I was trying to be cool. It is not boring. It is only hard. I cannot befriend others in case they are next. Next to be covered up. I broke the golden rule because I was lonely.

I run both bath taps on full in an attempt to cover the sound of her singing. I picture my bed. My bed is broken. It is knackered. Splintering brackets and ruined springs. My bed is a fat man, positioned at an injured angle, full of broken bones and organs.

I should have warned her. I leave the bathroom and I climb the stairs to the bedroom. Her singing is gone. I turn off the stereo and breathe. I locate some silk pyjama bottoms and I drape them over her face. I should have warned her, I think, kissing the silk-covered tip of her nose.

I put my phone on charge and I check the train times.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Joe Stretch.