The Man Who Fought His Fate

Victor was a perfectly normal man. He wasn’t very interesting, or unique, or special at all; in fact he was slightly boring. On one particular, also not very interesting, quite normal-seeming day, Victor was on his way to work. He wasn’t much looking forward to getting there, but always enjoyed the way the tranquil walk soothed and refreshed his all-too-often aching brain; it was a pleasant and peaceful relief from the busy hustle and bustle of the day. And most importantly, when he was walking, nothing ever happened.

Except for on that one, extremely average, rather tedious and indeed slightly boring, extraordinary day.

The first strange thing was the woman. She looked so out of place on that grey day, with her bright red hat and coat and, although she looked thirty years old at the most, long silvery hair.

And, for some unfathomable reason, she was walking towards Victor, who could hear her humming a slow, sad tune rather like a funeral march as she strode slowly but purposefully in his direction; he glanced over and saw the slightly vacant expression on her face, her head swaying (in tiny, almost imperceptible movements) in time with the tune. Suddenly, as she was only a few paces from Victor, her eyes flicked up and gazed into his; her humming stopped instantly. Victor looked hurriedly at the ground, but not quickly enough that he could have missed that strange stare through mismatched eyes, one a bright jade green and the other deep sapphire. Both were wide open and looking straight at the man who considered himself extremely average.

‘Victor Paladin,’ she said in a surprisingly deep voice. It wasn’t a question.

Victor forced himself to look up again and meet that weird gaze.

‘How do you know my name?’ he asked, but she waved a hand dismissively, avoiding the question, and continued, ‘You are in danger.’

Victor’s eyebrows rose.

‘But how do you -?’

‘Just listen,’ the woman told him forcefully. ‘You have, ah… seven minutes to live, but I can help you.’

Victor let one eyebrow drop but kept the other raised sceptically.

‘Why should I believe -’ he started, but he was, somewhat annoyingly, interrupted once more.

‘You may not trust me, and undoubtedly you’d be right to do so,’ the strange woman said dryly. ‘However, one does not have to believe in the existence of fire to be burnt.’

Victor thought this a rather strange comment.

‘Listen,’ the woman continued, ‘and you may have a chance.’

Victor sighed, one of those ‘OK-fine-I’ll-go-along-with-this-crazy-lady-since-I-don’t-seem-to-have-much-choice’ sighs.

‘Stay away from the giant needle that could give you a shock!’ she whispered dramatically.

Victor blinked.

‘Thank you, I suppose,’ he said aloud, while privately wondering which institution she’d escaped from.

‘Goodbye, Victor Paladin,’ she said, and with that promptly strode away. ‘And good luck!’ she called over her shoulder.

‘But - wait! - but I don’t even know your… name…’ Victor protested slightly weakly to thin air. Unable to think of anything else to say, he continued, ‘Mrumph,’ somewhat inarticulately.

Seven minutes later, a pylon almost fell on him. Having heard the ominous creaks - and some part of his subconscious presumably remembering the woman’s warning - he’d dived to the ground just in time to avoid being simultaneously flattened and electrocuted, which would have been quite a disappointing start to the day.

‘What - what the…?!’ he spluttered indignantly (between much coughing) from the hard concrete, which had done absolutely nothing to make his clumsy, inexpert landing any more comfortable; if anything it had only made it more painful.

‘Do you believe me now?’

Victor yelped with surprise and leapt hastily to his feet, brushing dust and dirt from his mildly expensive suit. There in front of him stood the woman who had predicted his death, gazing casually at the fallen pylon.

‘How did you…?!’ Victor gasped, staggering backwards with his mind reeling and a finger outstretched, pointing at her accusingly. ’How?!’

The woman’s weirdly asymmetric stare shifted to Victor.

‘It doesn’t matter how,’ she said almost sadly. ’What matters is that you are still in danger.’

‘Pfblergh?!’ Victor yelled at her, too spooked for actual words (though looking back on it a few minutes later he though ’pfblergh’ was probably quite an appropriate response).

‘Listen.’

‘But I survived!’ Victor cried. ’I didn’t die!’

The woman shook her head.

‘No, you didn’t,’ she said, rather unnecessarily in Victor’s opinion. ’But you still could before this day is over.’

‘No…’ Victor murmured. He was suddenly overcome with an urge to go home and tell his wife, who was so much more beautiful and un-average than he could ever hope to be, that he loved her.

‘If you survive this time,’ the woman continued, insensitively giving Victor no time to wallow in his own self-pity, ’that’s it. Death with let you go until you’ve lived a long, full… happy life.’

‘What do I have to do?’ he asked, trying not to cry in front of her, for although he didn’t know who she was, he had a feeling she was an Extremely Important Person, and he made a habit of not looking stupid in front of those.

‘That’s the spirit,’ the woman said, a little uncharacteristically. ‘However, it will be harder this time; Death’s sent a person to kill you.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’

‘Your killer should be hiding behind a tree in the square when you get there.’

Victor clenched a fist until his knuckles went white.

‘No, he won’t,’ he said with a determination in his voice that he wasn’t sure he felt on the inside.

The woman smiled. ‘You’ve got seventy-seven minutes.’

For the first time since meeting her, Victor also grinned.

‘Easy.’

Fifty minutes after his second encounter with the Death Prediction Lady, as Victor now thought of her, he’d almost finished cutting down every tree in sight of the square, under the pretence of being a council worker (he’d stolen a hat, coat, clipboard and hacksaw. Victor wasn’t sure why the real council worker he’d stolen these things from had a hacksaw, but it worked for him).

‘Last one,’ he grunted, making the final cut in the trunk of an old silver birch that was too thin and spindly to hide behind, but best to make sure.

Then the tree fell on him.

‘Yeeeaaaaaargh!’ he yelled as it crushed his legs. ‘Help!’

But, rather oddly, there was nobody nearby to hear his desperate cries. Except one person.

‘Hello, Victor,’ the Death Prediction Lady said calmly, pulling a gun from the pocket of her scarlet coat.

‘What?’ he moaned through teeth gritted against the pain in his lower body. ‘This isn’t…’

‘Fair?’ the woman asked sharply. ‘Nothing is.’

‘Why are you…?’ he gasped.

The woman shrugged. ‘Entertainment. No fun just straightforwardly shooting someone, is it?’

She flicked the safety catch on her pistol off, smiling.

‘But, you know, you’ll kick yourself now… oh no,’ she giggled, ‘you can’t because your legs are under a tree.’

Victor felt like strangling something.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘if I hadn’t said you were going to die in this square, would you have come here? And of course, you wouldn’t have tried to cut that tree down, it wouldn’t have fallen on your legs, and the rest, unlike you, wouldn’t be history. You wouldn’t be in this, erm… predicament.’

Unable to suppress the urge any longer, Victor throttled her leg annoyingly.

‘Please stop that.’

‘Why didn’t I see you?!’ he demanded furiously.

The woman tittered.

‘Where did I say the killer would hide? Behind a tree?’

Victor’s head lolled in a grotesque imitation of a nod.

‘Well, I lied. I was in one.’ She gestured towards a pub on the edge of the square. Victor couldn’t read the sign but knew it well; it was a pleasant place called The Old Oak.

‘Anyway,’ the woman continued, ’where was I?’ She though for a moment. ’Ah yes, if you didn’t know you were going to die, you wouldn’t be about to!’

Suddenly her jovial manner vanished as she checked her watch.

‘How long do you think it’s been, Victor?’

She waved the timepiece playfully in front of his face.

‘You’ve had seventy-seven minutes,’ she told him in a sing-song voice.

Victor slumped dejectedly.

‘Any last words?’

He spat on the ground at her feet.

‘Shove your last words up your -’

Bang.

‘That’s not very nice,’ Death said, annoyed, as she slid her gun back into her coat.

Whistling a sombre tune, she strode out of the square and onto the main street, accidentally brushing a heavyset man as she turned a corner.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ the man grumbled, but Death turned and grabbed his shoulder.

‘Andrew Smith,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.

The man’s eyes widened as he saw hers.

‘How do you know my -?’

‘You have seven minutes to live,’ she told him, ‘and I’m in a bad mood so I don’t think I’ll tell you how to avoid that one.’

The man laughed.

‘Seven minutes… that’s a good one, lady!’

Seven minutes later, the building he worked in spontaneously combusted.