The Machine of Death

I couldn’t believe it. I know I’d suspected that someone was stealing my mail, but this guy was so blatant about it, he’d opened my letter in the communal hallway, he hadn’t even bothered taking it to his room.

“Excuse me,” I said, “that’s my mail.”

“I’m sorry?” He looked up, puzzled, as if I’d just asked him something nonsensical, like where he’d hidden Bambi.

“That letter you’ve just opened, it’s for me, it’s from the Huxtable Company, I’ve been expecting it.” I gestured to the company logo, clearly visible on the letter.

“I thought it was odd,” he said, “the letter makes no sense at all. But it’s addressed to me, look, Terrence Oblong.”

“But I’m Terrence Oblong, and that’s my address.”

He laughed. “Well we clearly share the same address, but it seems that we share the same name as well. Wow, I knew it was a common name, but I think you’re the first Terrence Oblong I’ve actually met. Strange, when you think it’s such a common name. Nice to meet you.”

He held out his hand, so I had no choice but to shake it.

“Hi, I’m Terrence, nice to meet you too,” I was forced to say, though in truth I still had my suspicions.

He did look like a Terrence Oblong; handsome features, neatly trimmed beard, a fashionably smart shirt and just the faintest twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“I’ve seen you around,” I said, “but I had no idea what your name was. It’s amazing nobody else in the house has picked up on it. How long have you lived here?”

“About a year.”

“Same as me. It’s amazing we’ve never confused our mail before.”

We both realised the truth at the same time. I was the first to speak.

“Did you ever know a girl called Claire?” I asked him, “Know here really well I mean.”

“My God, so she did send the photos. I thought she was just teasing me.”
“I’m really sorry, you can have them back. They are a bit messy though.”

“Yum. I think I’ll pass thanks.”

He handed me the letter, which he was still holding. “Sorry about that, he said. If I‘d realised I wouldn‘t have read it. It‘s clearly very personal.”

“That’s okay,” I said, “I just hope there’s nothing else we’ve mixed up.”

Another thought struck me. “Have you had your machine of death results by any chance? I mean, the chances of our tests clashing is remote, but I just wondered…”

He answered before I finished. “ I had my results six months ago, I received them on 23 June.

“Oh shit, I got mine on the 22nd. When did you have your test?”

“About a week before.”

“Me too.”

I ran upstairs, rummaged in my drawers for the relevant piece of paper and came straight back down.

“In here,” Terrence called from the doorway of one of the rooms. I followed him inside.

I sat on his sofa and we compared our results. Both pieces of paper were headed The Machine: Date of Death Results (100% accuracy guaranteed).

Mine read:

“Name: Terrence Oblong

Test Date: 16 June 2022, Test Time: 14:02

Date of Birth: 25 June 2003”

His was nearly identical:

“Name: Terrence Oblong

Test Date: 16 June 2022, Test Time: 14:03

Date of Birth: 25 June 2003”

We were both lost for words for a while. He spoke first.

“Just by way of interest, when are you going to die?”

I turned over my piece of paper to show him. “Tomorrow,” I said, “I’ve got a rare condition.”

“Shit,” he said, “I am so sorry. Christ, that’s so young, you’re the same age as me.”

“Thanks, I’ve sort of learnt to deal with it. The Huxtable Company has helped, they’ve paid me a fortune. I’ve left them my body for medical research, so they can play around with it, find out more about the condition, what it does to the body. Hopefully it‘ll save other people down the line. The money’s been great too, I’ve spent it on the most amazing holidays. I’ve been to Egypt, America, Russia; I’ve just got back from Scotland.”

“Nice.”

“It was actually. The thing is, when you realise you’re going to die so young there are different ways of dealing with it, but I just made sure I grabbed the most fun I could out of every single second. Did everything I could possibly want to do in the time available.

“Anyway,” I said, “I don’t want to wallow in my own personal misery. When are you going to die?”

He turned over his letter. The date of death read: 21 April 2092.

“A nice old age,” I said.

“Yes. More than my four score and ten. It’s nice to know you’ve got a few years after you retire, so you can save up, look forward to a life of leisure. I‘ve been making plans.”

We both looked at the two letters again, pouring over every word as if they were holy texts.

“You know,” I said, “apart from the one minute difference in the time of the test, and the 71 year difference in the date of death, the letters are absolutely identical. Neither of us has a middle name, for example. Neither letter mentions details of our parents and both letters just give the house number, there‘s nothing to indicate which room they‘re meant for.”

“No,” he said, “you’re right, they’re indistinguishable. You can‘t tell them apart.”

We both sat there on his sofa for a long time saying nothing, just staring at the letters.