Death of a hermit

He reminded me of a majestic goat. There was something sturdy about him, a pack animal cheating with walking boots and hazy yellow eyes, wide and red-rimmed like bloody crockery. I imagined years of devoted farmyard service bending his back double, as if accommodating some old burden that no longer exists. He did have a cane of some kind – red wood, made by a distant grandchild, I swear he told me – but even the most honest of us need something a little stronger to prop us up.

An old stick of oak was never going to be enough scaffolding to uplift what was left of his brain. No, no. This demure parish priest wanted to go higher in his grand old age. Good citizen that I am, I granted a dying man’s wish.

I came right up to his house – a lovely Sussex cottage, all festooned with wisteria – even though I don’t tend to offer home visits. His wizened laugh was like cracked plaster, barking at me like the daschund he’d tied up on the porch. Here’s the magic-man, he says. Here’s the doctor.

They look at me like I’ve done something immoral. It’s dreadfully unfair. Dreadfully unintelligent. There’s no supply without demand – I say, did they never go to school? This old man wasn’t an angel. He wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to source me otherwise. And oh, what great lengths he went to! Through the fabled grandchildren, the buyers, the sellers, the myriad of middlemen, and finally, the maker. The magic-maker. Maybe that’s what he called me. I see a lot of people.

He was going to go out no matter what. We all go to the devil in our own way. I was simply there to provide a private soirée at the end of his world.

Put yourself in those weathered walking shoes. You’re facing a black door, your black dog, death itself. If some kind soul offered you all of the fun you’ve never felt – everything you never dared to touch, the needles, blotters, angel dust – you’d say yes. Of course you would. Nobody wants to pass through a boring door into a dreary underworld. Not when there’s a fire exit over there.