Page 1 of Drink Up, Darling
Chapter One
Five days after his intended untimely death, Dariel stepped out of his apartment complex to be met with the tears of God.
He thanked the doorman, swiftly stepping out with one hand gripping his faux-feather coat tight to his chest, the other firmly gripped to his black case. He almost marched straight into the storm, but abruptly stopped at the top of the stone steps, still hidden under the canopy of the building, and rolled his eyes at the scene before him. With a sigh and shoulders slouching, he weighed his options.
It could have at least tried to snow,he thought.
Three women strode past using their cropped leather jackets to form tents over their heads, muttering merry squeals between each other as their flared, low-rise jeans soaked up the stream from an overflowing drain. One of them wore novelty 2007 glasses, another had tinsel in place of a belt. Dariel hadn’t slept a wink the last few days; people up at all hours, bashing around neighbouring apartments and floors. Apparently New Year’s Eve isn’t enough. Or maybe he was getting old. He didn’t really have the patience for things like that anymore. There would have been a time where he’d party for days on end, forgetting himself in music and booze, but not anymore. Not now.
The dams of the earth literally bursting from above that very moment didn’t help his mood. He’d just done his makeup and blow dried his hair. The first time he’d made an effort since his agent dropped him last month.
A taxi pulled up a moment later, sludging up to the curb and covering the reflection of rippling red and green lights in the puddle over the drain, cutting Dariel’s thoughts short. With a deeper sigh, he threw his bag over his hair, and hurried out into the rain, slipping into the back of the cab.
He wasn’t miserable, you must understand. This just wasn’t how he’d planned to start this new year.
He was meant to die.
Well, sort of.
Plans changed.
“Where to, mate?”
The soul currently going by the name Dariel Hale had lived many lives. Some he loved, others he’d much rather forget, but ‘Dariel’ had been his longest stint, and he was sad it had to come to an end. He had it all planned out, and had financed for months. The media would devour it; his face plastered over the front of newspapers with his name mentioned on radio stations. He was somewhat of a celebrity in the fashion world, you see; finding his niche and shooting to fame in the late nineties. Dariel Hale jackets were all the rage, you’d see them everywhere. But like everything, he had an expiry date. Agencies eventually grew tired of him, his designs no longer kept with the times—he was no longer relevant. So in keeping with the demise of his career, the media would get over his death, and everyone would move on. Probably very quickly. You might find some of his jackets listed on second hand sites.Rare! Unworn! Hanging in the backof my wardrobe for years!Even then though, he doubted the general public would care.
He would have long left London before he could measure how valued he really was in the designer scene though—having already settled into life number five by then. He’d thought about changing his age this time; beginning at twenty no longer seemed old enough. His face might not show his age, but he sure felt it. He considered trying out his actual age, which was twenty-four. Give or take forty years.
Twenty-four would work. It would be ambiguous enough to allow at least fifteen years before people would start questioning his moisturising routine. Then he could gauge the adequate age to kill himself again. Or he might just disappear. He’ll decide when the time comes.
For now, his plans had been put on hold though. Dariel Hale’s body was meant to be discovered in his bathtub nearly a week ago. That damn email really threw a spanner in the works.
Who sends emails on New Year’s Eve anyway? Isn’t that an internationally recognised day ofnotsending emails?He’d thought as he sat at his desk in his frustratingly empty apartment, chewing on his nails in the shadows; the glow of the laptop screen burning his retinas. He’d had to downsize his apartment recently because no one had hired him in months, and his money had quickly dwindled. Keeping up appearances is far too expensive, and he’d always had expensive tastes, even in his previous lives. He never bothered unpacking the boxes in his new flat, since they’d all have to get packed away again once the place went back on the market. No point in further inconveniencing the strangers who’d have to distribute all his belongings after his death since he had no living relatives on record. He didn’t bother writing a will, there really was no point. He was in the process of writing out a note to his lovely cleaner, Sheila, and organising the concoction of drugs he’d stashed upfor that evening, when the email popped up. He could have ignored it, gone ahead with his plan: getting his silk pyjamas on, climbing into his bathtub with a Talisker in one hand, the prop pills in the sink beside him, and forcing himself to vomit. It was the evening of the last day of the year, so they wouldn’t have found his body until at earliest the following afternoon, or maybe even later, depending on how many people noticed he’d not been down for his daily newspaper. Regardless of how long it took, they’d find him, make an easy conclusion from the scene, realise his heart was no longer beating, and after failed resuscitation attempts, he’d be pronounced dead at the scene. Such a tragedy.
He hadn’t quite worked out the logistics of escaping the morgue, but he was sure he’d manage it. He didn’t even need his eyes open to use his manipulation on humans around him, and he’d used his abilities on enough people in his many lives to know it would all go swimmingly. Perks of being the inhuman man he was.
Maybe the defibrillator would restart his heart after forty years, he had wondered if that was a possibility, but he brushed it off. It was highly unlikely. Nothing else had.
Anyway, this plan was all for nothing, because as it happened, Dariel Hale decided to open this email, and the following Friday, he was in the back of a taxi, lighting up a cigarette on his way to a grand manor house two hours away, preparing to meet a man he would become the personal designer for. A month-long job; his first for a long while.
Maybe rebirth could wait.
“You off to a party?” The driver made sure to take a good head to foot gaze at Dariel’s ensemble. It was clear he didn’t recognise him, which was a good thing, but the prolonged, strained-neck stare was—Dariel quickly decided—highly unnecessary. Surely the homemade feathered jacket and midnight-sparkled eyeshadow was not the most extravagant thing he’d seen in the back of his cab over the holidays.Surely.
“Just a meal,” Dariel deadpanned as the taxi pulled away into the night, splashing a poor bloke walking past on the pavement. Dariel adjusted himself in the back seat, sliding his case to the space beside him as rows of streetlights bleared through the window in pulses. Maybe he had one too many layers on, shame none of them were waterproof. Hopefully by the time they arrived at the destination, an entirely new season will have emerged. The duality of British weather.
“Looking very dolled up, mate. You one of those, erm,performers?”
Oh great, he’s a talker.Dariel held his tongue and smiled into the wing mirror.Let the bloke fluster and try to figure it out.
“Listen, not like I got a problem. You do what you want, you know. I got a mate who erm… he, she, it, no… you know, dresses up and…” The driver waved his hand to finish the sentence.
Okay, I don’t have the energy for this.Dariel tilted his head to rest against the window, the condensation cold against his skin. “I’m just a man who likes his fashion.” He said it matter-of-factly, with the hope it would put the conversation to bed.
It did. For a long time.
They drove through the city for over an hour, Dariel allowing himself to observe everything going on that evening. At some point he asked the driver whether he minded if he had another cigarette, and the driver responded with a simple “sure.” Dariel wound down the window a little to let the smoke out this time, tipping his head back against the seat and closing his eyes as the smoke swam into his lungs. The sounds of life swirled around him from outside as the rain grew lighter and the night grew on.
He wound the window back up as they reached the outskirts of the city and the lights dimmed, inviting the silence, and letting himself dwell on everything that led up to this point.
