An Interview - 9. Your story is a good one, but

Chapter nine: Your story is a good one, but

'Your story is a good one, but I feel it rings false,' God says eventually, laying the coin back down on the table. My confidence wavers and I feel an icy breeze shiver through my body.

            'But there is plenty of good in humanity!' I protest. 'We have thousands of people working for charities, helping those less fortunate. Organisations that lobby for human rights and combat injustice. People that donate millions of dollars to others in need.'

            'What about you?' God asks, cutting me off.

            'Me?' I ask doubtfully, the icy breeze quickly growing into a glacial blizzard. 'I'm a good person.'

            'When we came into the building we passed an old lady on the stairs. She told us that if we were going to apartment twelve, can we ask him to pay his rent. This is apartment twelve. How long overdue are you?'

            I open my mouth but pause before telling the lie I was about to. God’s eyes seem to bore into me and I instinctively understand that he will know if I tell a lie. 'I'm three weeks overdue,' I concede.

            'Do you have the money?'

            Again, my first instinct is to lie, and make up some story, but instead I nod. 'Yes, but I hardly think being a few weeks late on rent constitutes a terrible sin!'

            'Perhaps, and perhaps not. But you entered into an agreement in moving here and you are not fulfilling your end of the agreement. What about the woman at the lift?'

            'Who?' I ask, momentarily confused.

            'The woman running for the lift yesterday at the Herald. You allowed the lift doors to close on her rather than waiting a few seconds longer.'

            'I was cranky and upset at another rejection for my book, that’s all!' I argue. 'What's the big deal that she had to catch the next lift? How do you know about that anyway?'

            'I know because I am God, and I was with her husband, who had just been hit by a car and was at the hospital in a critical condition. He died about thirty seconds before she made it to his side. The wait for the next lift took about two minutes.'

            'Bullshit that's true, you're making it up,' I accuse him. 'And even if it is true, you can't pin that on me! How was I expected to know any of that? She was a stranger.'

            'You didn't give yourself an opportunity to know any of that when you chose to press the lift close button instead of the button that would hold the doors and let her in. But I agree, you can't be expected to stop and help every stranger you meet. Can I see your phone for a minute?'

            He reaches over and scoops up my phone from the table before I can protest. I watch on, quivering in fear at what he might produce next. After consulting with Gabriel for a minute on how to work it, he spends a few moments flipping through the screens until he alights on whatever he is looking for and scrolls down.

            'How many times has your mum called in the last month?' he asks.

            'A fair few,' I concede warily. 'Maybe ten times?'

            'She has called you twenty-two times,' God corrects. 'And how many times have you answered or returned her calls?'

            I bite my lip. 'Maybe once or twice.'

            'You have not answered one of those calls, nor in the call logs can I see any indication that you have made an effort to call her back.'

            'But I find it so irritating!' I protest. 'All she does is call me and nag me about coming around to see her, check if I am eating right, worry about what I am doing. It's a drag.'

            The faces of the angels are all ashen again, while God's face is steely and unflinching. 'Raising kids can be a major drag too. Did she love you as a child?'

            'Yes, I guess,' I concede.

            'Did she feed you well? Did she teach you to read? Did she help you with your homework? Did she care for you when you were sick? Did she give up on things she loved so that she could provide gifts and opportunities for you?'

            I nod reluctantly at each of his questions.

            'Your mother loves you, and is worried about you. She is worried about your state of health particularly given you haven't sold your book and you are living here alone. And you repay this love with silence and avoidance?'

            'I'll call her eventually. She knows I love her.'

            'Does she? When is the last time you told her that?'

            I shrug, but thinking about it, I know it has been a long time. Possibly not since I was still a child.

            'And what about this?' God asks, producing a battered copy of Pride & Prejudice as if from thin air. He must have pulled it out of my room.

            'Hey, give that back. It's mine!' I demand, rising to my feet and leaning over to take it. Suddenly I am pushed back down onto the crate, a steel grip on my shoulder. I look up in shock and find Michael standing there next to me, his face an unyielding mask. One moment he was sitting next to God, in the next instant he was at my side, restraining me. I didn’t see him rise, or cover the distance between us.     

            'Is it yours?' God asks. He flips open the front cover and starts to read ‘“To my dearest Melissa. This book has been a major part of my life. It is yours now, so you will always have a piece of me with you. I love you and am proud of you. Mum.”’

            He finishes reading and looks up at me. 'Who's Melissa?'

            'She's my girlfriend,' I mumble.

            'You mean your ex-girlfriend?'

            'Yeah, I guess.'

            'This sounds like a pretty personal item of hers. Her mother died, correct? I remember her – she was a nice lady. Has Melissa tried to get it back from you?'

            'Once or twice, but we can never tee up an appropriate time,' I answer, still mumbling.

            'This text history suggests otherwise,' God counters, using his thumb to scroll down on my phone. 'It appears that she has repeatedly tried to get it back from you, but you have made sure you are unavailable each time, or simply ignored her requests.'

            I feel my anger rising and think about standing again, but re-evaluate when I look up at Michael still standing by, looking down at me. 'Yeah well, she walked out on me, abandoned me when I needed her most. She's the reason I'm in this mess, having to avoid Mrs Linton and go grovelling to the Herald just to try and make ends meet.'

            'So none of these things I've questioned you on are your fault?' God asks calmly.

            'I'm over this shit,' I exclaim suddenly. 'You barge in here, pretending to be God and waste most of my day having these pointless discussions. She probably put you up to it, didn't she? She hired you to come in here and get the book back, and try and make me feel bad about it? Well, take the book if you want, but don't expect an apology from me, because you are not going to get it.'

            God calmly places the book down on the table. 'It is not mine to return to her. I think we have overstayed our welcome.'

            'Damn right,' I mutter.

            God nods slowly, then stands. 'Thank you for your hospitality today Daniel. My apologies for wasting your time.' He makes his way over to the door, the three angels following him. Michael takes the lead as they head out the door, scanning the stairwell beyond before ushering God through. Gabriel regathers her lamp and throws me a scathing look as she exits, while Raphael's expression is one of sadness as he closes the door.

            I sneer at him, muttering 'Good riddance,' as the door clicks shut.

            I am seething, pacing backwards and forwards across the living room trying to find a release for my anger. My head is suddenly pounding, and it feels as though I am coming down off some drug. I scratch at my arms, run my hands through my hair but the feeling of emptiness inside me grows. I stagger into the kitchen and dig through the cupboard for another bottle of alcohol. I find a bottle of dark rum in the back, half empty. I drag it out, rip the lid open and start drinking. It is harsher than the bourbon, burning all the way down my throat. I don't care and keep drinking, downing the remains of the bottle in three gulps. I dump the empty bottle in the sink and then look for more, stumbling into my room and retrieving the bottle of bourbon I didn't quite finish the night before. It follows the rum down the hatch in two gulps. Feeling my head start to swim, I collapse onto the bed and curl up into a ball, rocking myself to try and distract from the intense feeling of emptiness inside.