Jacky De’Ath

As an ardent student of Greek mythology, Jacky De’Ath had long ago concluded that the Moirai—the trinity of goddesses more commonly known as The Fates—had spun and fashioned their web of destiny so intricately and tightly that they would compel her to adopt a life of criminality. This was evidenced by an inescapable fact—she had taken up a line of work so peculiarly niche and overtly criminal that, had she been discovered, her activities would trump all other red flag priorities of international law enforcement agencies and trigger an Interpol Red Notice for her immediate arrest.

Then again, even without the intervention of the Moirai, Jacky’s saturnine personality and apt surname would no doubt have conspired to increase the likelihood that her eventual occupation would always have centred on human mortality in some shape or form. However, neither at school, college or university had Jacky expressed any interest in pursuing the career choice front-runners that appeared aligned with her character. Not for her, then, a vocation as a funeral director, embalmer, crematorium technician, coroner, forensic pathologist, and the like.

To be frank, the universal human preoccupation with death ensured Jacky was spoilt for choice. But no profession had the appeal, or could match the financial rewards, of Jacky’s ultimate choice—the decision to accept lucrative ad hoc commissions for wet work activities. Here, those in the know use ‘wet work’ as a euphemistic term for covert killings, colloquially referred to within criminal circles as ‘sanctioning’ someone. Wet work was a term that might be readily confused, in the right circles, as an activity involving water and concrete, masonry, plaster, drywalls, or paint. Which it still might, dependent on the client’s requirements. But this is not that. Neither did the term refer to ‘golden showers’ (from the Greek, urolagnia, as Jacky knew)—as niche an activity as that undoubtedly is and for which, as a provider of such a service, one could charge an exorbitant fee. Nor, for that matter, does our use of the term signify scrubbing and cleaning. Not unless it is associated, of course, with phoning to make a Dinner Reservation so one might hire The Cleaners, in exchange for a pre-agreed number of gold coins, that they might then dispose of a body and sanitise the crime scene after your wet work activities. It’s a muddled world full of topsy-turvy, double meanings.

In the shadow world of hitmen and hitwomen—or, as one should more accurately and appropriately use in view of Jacky De’Ath’s professed non-binary, genderqueer status, ‘hit person’ (singular) and ‘hit persons’ or ‘hit folk’ (plural)—hitmen and hitwomen were professional identity labels that were interchangeable. Which suited Jacky to a T. It was a dead topic in any event among most contract killers who were unlikely to turn up, say, to some awayday or convention in a public place to discuss the latest trends in professional labelling and terminology. Such public exposure would likely guarantee a short career trajectory.

Some names, or titles, did matter to Jacky De’Ath, however, who felt gratified knowing that their forename was a genderless given name or nickname; a name of English origin that meant ‘may God protect’ or ‘God is gracious.’ This amused Jacky immeasurably, as neither their protection nor grace—and certainly not God’s—had ever come to the aid of the contractual ‘mark’ Jacky intended to terminate that day. In the event of any doubt, they felt reference to their surname would put paid to any suggestion of forthcoming aid. Although unlikely ever to receive God’s protection and grace themselves, Jacky believed they could at least continue to rely on the bless’d protection of Saint Julian the Hospitaller—the Patron Saint of clowns and circus workers, jugglers, fiddle players, innkeepers, boatmen, childless people… and murderers. Which is an excellent example of fact being stranger than fiction.

If achieving a consensus concerning names and titles within the underworld felt like a lost cause, then with reputation all were in accord, for reputation meant everything. This being accepted as a given, Jacky was understandably concerned that their hard-fought for repute was presently in jeopardy, which would account for why you could currently find them sat in a waiting room, fidgeting, on a stained (but with what they were not curious enough to discover) upholstered chair that was so uncomfortable and unfit for purpose that a sadist must surely have designed and constructed it; a designer they might well pencil onto a ‘just killing time between contracts’ list to receive an unremunerated professional visit. Why there were five waiting room chairs Jacky couldn’t figure, as they never gave two ‘patients’ a same day and time booking that would risk them coming face-to-face; perhaps the chairs had come as a job lot? thought Jacky.

Unlike the conventional wider world where choice was frequently more than just illusory, in the underworld you seldom had little choice but to accept what they offered you—like sitting on a shitty chair and waiting to see a struck-off analytical psychologist cum part-time medic to establish the cause of a troubling condition that seemed to have appeared out of the blue. Juxtaposed. A world of opposites. But life has always been one of dualities, hasn’t it?

An eardrum-penetrating electric wall buzzer saved the day, announcing the Doc was ready for them. Jacky rose tackily from their chair and sauntered over to the blind receptionist’s desk.

‘He’ll see you now, Mx De’Ath.’

‘Yes, I got that,’ Jacky slipped back, fleetingly wondering where they might have posted the job advertisement for the position of a blind receptionist at an underground contract killers’ therapy facility—and whether a Braille version of the job description and person specification might have been available? Or even the qualifications and qualities expected of such a role? Other questions threatened to follow, but Jacky knew that going down that rabbit hole would only lead to a tea party and certain madness.

The Doc was a follicly-challenged little man in his late fifties with a potbelly, pencil moustache and perpetual five o’clock shadow. Jacky had only met him once before—a few years back, to receive treatment for an intermittent twitching of muscles in the right hand, which was most inconvenient for a hit person requiring dependable use of their trigger finger. Jacky was relieved to hear the cause, then, was not neurological in origin and only temporary… brought on by a cocktail of stress, anxiety, tiredness, and rather too much alcohol and caffeine. Fixable. However, Jacky did not think the diagnosis for their current predicament would be so accommodating. Call it a gut feeling.

‘Please, take a seat, Mx De’Ath,’ the Doc said, which caused Jacky to recall their all too recent, and sticky, waiting room experience.

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘What can I remedy for you today?’

‘Well, I’ve developed a condition that’s becoming increasingly intractable. So much so that it’s affecting my efficiency ratings and is seriously threatening to kneecap my reputation and career prospects.’

‘Oh, that is concerning’ said the Doc, who was now indiscreetly eyeing Jacky up and down as though the mystery condition in question were the skin of a chameleon about to change colour and reveal itself. ‘Please, take your time, Mx De’Ath, and tell me about this… condition.’

‘It’s, um… rather embarrassing, really. Okay. This might sound a little wild, but for the past few weeks, I‘ve experienced the shakes and felt nauseous while setting up to hit my mark and then vomited immediately after their termination. I know it’s nothing I’ve eaten, drunk, smoked or injected. And I’m certainly not pregnant. Whatever the cause, I can’t leave what I last ate all over the crime scene, Doc! Some smart SOCO will bag a sample and have it analysed. My DNAs bound to be on record somewhere, despite my precautions. It’s all a hot mess, and so will I be if word gets out that I’m not on top of my game! Someone will be delighted to make me the mark if I appear weak and vulnerable. As you know, there’s no honour among thieves, Doc, or contract killers, if the price is right!’

‘Hmm. I appreciate your concerns. What you say appears to make some sense,’ the Doc said. ‘I note from your case records that I treated you just shy of three years ago for muscular spasms in your right hand, at which time I underlined reference to your presentation of excessive stress and anxiety. I believe the physical symptoms you now describe are psychosomatic, Mx De’Ath, caused or aggravated by some internal conflict; and it is my professional opinion that the cause of that internal conflict is one of thanatophobia—the existence of which you will have been entirely unconscious.’

‘Say what now?’

‘Thanatophobia—more commonly known as death anxiety. In your case, predation or predator death anxiety, with a modicum of existential death anxiety.’

Jacky stared questionably at the Doc.

‘You see, the word thanatophobia derives from Thanatos, meaning “death.” In Greek mythology, Thanatos was the personification of death…’

‘… A daimon—one of the minor gods of the Greek pantheon, yes, yes. A child of Nyx, the primordial goddess of the night and darkness, whose children also included Strife, Pain, and Old Age. Yup, I know all that, with them being among my most admired Greek mythology characters. Well, not Old Age so much. Anyway, it’s the predatory and existential death anxiety stuff I need you to elaborate on, Doc.’

The Doc switched track from his etymology and mythology lesson to talk shop—the favourite pastime of anyone possessing a detailed knowledge of… well, anything, really.

‘You will appreciate, Mx De’Ath, we have all had thoughts at some point or another about our mortality… our eventual death. That is quite normal—although there are those who may see it as somewhat of a curse as we are, after all, the only living creatures known to be cognitively aware of our own mortality. Ignorance can be bliss, but we do not have that luxury in this case. To continue. Some people may develop a fear of death—an abnormal or morbid preoccupation that will undoubtedly present them with challenges. Their activities of daily living are likely to become adversely affected—even to the extent they can barely function.’

‘Okay, I think I’m following you so far, Doc.’

‘Well, a theory has been advanced that there are three types of death anxiety: predatory, predation or predator, and existential. The last two I have already mentioned but will elaborate on momentarily. You will appreciate the first type. To use an analogy—which you will immediately grasp—your mark’s fear of being harmed could well represent this; you are the ‘predator’ and they are the ‘prey’ you intend to kill. It is the most basic and oldest of all the death anxieties—the need for survival that triggers the fight-or-flight response in us all. Of course, I appreciate that in your line of work, Mx De’Ath, your mark is unlikely to get the chance to combat the harm you intend them and to manage their escape because they will be unaware of your intentions… assuming you are performing your role professionally and responsibly, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Jacky said, with a soupçon of back straightening and chest puffing.

‘Then there is you. Predation or predator death anxiety can arise when one person harms another, physically or mentally. I would say you qualify. Unconscious guilt frequently attends the anxiety which, as Freud postulated, is genetically encoded in the sufferer because of events in their prehistory… like their religious upbringing or their personal ethics.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Jacky said—a linguistic utterance used universally to denote affirmation or agreement but which, as in Jacky’s case in this moment, signified a lack of complete comprehension, as evidenced in their unspoken thoughts by Doc—what the fuck are you talking about! And a blank facial expression.

‘You will no doubt appreciate, Mx De’Ath, that although you might disagree with my diagnosis in that you do not believe you are consciously entertaining any thoughts of guilt about harming others it could, nonetheless, be the case that one or more events from your prehistory—an idea or impulse, perhaps—have been repressed and are in play unconsciously, allowing guilt to surface as anxiety about taking the lives of others, hence predator death anxiety, a type of thanatophobia.’

‘Wow, Doc, you’re wasting your talents in this place! I must confess I’m not following your medical explanation that well, but I’ll accept a prescription of ignorance and bliss if you’re offering any? What about that other death anxiety you mentioned?’

‘Existential?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, an existential psychiatrist by the name of Irvin Yalom said that humans are predisposed to death anxiety because—and allow me to quote here—“our existence is forever shadowed by the knowledge we will grow, blossom, and inevitably, diminish and die”.’

‘Oh, the scintillating wordplay Irvin must have had with others at the dinner table over a glass of merlot!

‘Indeed, Mx De’Ath, indeed. The point I would make about existential anxiety is that although we all know that our lives must end—sooner for some than they would have liked as fate, or you, would have it—we attempt to cope with the anxiety that thoughts of dying evokes through a process of denial. It is my view that you have been giving significantly more thought, of late, to your mortality, so producing a degree of existential death anxiety… but you are in denial over it. More precisely stated, denial has arisen concerning your acts of direct violence against others, and their demise at your hands has triggered death-related trauma shaped as existential anxiety. Taken together—that is, combining predator and existential anxiety—the mix is potent.’

‘Fuck!… But how can you be so sure that thanatophobia has caused what I have been experiencing of late… this predator and existential anxiety you have referred to?’

’I would propose the signs are clear and that you need some professional help, Mx De’Ath. But first, we must use a method for measuring the presence of death anxiety and fear, so that I may be certain of my diagnosis.’ The Doc sat back in his swivel chair and fingered his pencil moustache while contemplating his options. ‘Hmm, perhaps an imagery test? Then again, there are simple questionnaires and apperception tests… perhaps the Stroop test, or the Lester attitude death scale. No, no—something far more straightforward.’

‘I don’t care, Doc, just fix me so I can get back to killing people!’

‘We must not rush matters, Mx De’Ath. The mind is like a delicate instrument that we must finely tune if it is to function optimally. Do you know what word association is?’

‘Yes, I think so. It’s some sort of word game isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that is correct. But it is also a method used in psychoanalysis—that is, a form of psychological assessment—where a person, like you, says the first word that comes to mind when they hear a particular word from someone, like me, which may help shed light on how parts of their mind are functioning; their thought processes and psychological traits. We call it a Word Association Test, or WAT. Are you willing to try a brief assessment of this kind?’

‘Sure, Doc, in for a penny, as they say!’

‘Excellent. So, I would like you to sit back, relax your posture, gently close your eyes, and clear your mind. I will then present you with a single word, to which I would like you to give an immediate one-word response. Do not take time to think of your response; just say the first word that comes to mind. Ready?’

‘Shoot, Doc.’

‘Alright. Here we go, Mx De’Ath… Love.’

‘Hate.’

‘Joy.’

‘Sadness.’

‘Hope.’

‘Despair.’

‘Thriving.’

‘Dying.’

‘Acceptance.’

‘Refusal.’

‘Faith.’

‘Guilt.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Sinful.’

‘Broken.’

‘Me.’

‘Free.’

‘Trapped.’

‘Are you alright, Mx De’Ath? You appear a little ashen. … Mx De’Ath?’

‘Blarghh!’

‘Ah. Excuse me for one moment’ the Doc said, then pressed a button on his desk intercom. ‘Yes… Eve. Please bring in a mop and bucket of hot water and disinfectant. Oh, and some mints and an air freshener.’ He returned his attention to Jacky. ‘May I offer you some tissues, Mx De’Ath?’

‘Blechh!’

'🐾'

[Header image credit: Alicia from Pixabay (modified)].