My brother got the top job. He always gets first dibs. He’s bigger, tougher, more serious. Grim, some would say. It’s hard to remember who’s older. It’s all so long ago. I suppose logically I came first – like an egg comes before a chicken – but that way madness lies. However it happened, he’s the big cheese and I’m the small fry. Or so he thinks.

We don’t see each other much – and that’s too much as far as I’m concerned – but today we’re working in the same building. On the same floor, in fact. We meet in the corridor. He nods slowly. Such a poser.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say, annoyance prickling through me – that instant irritation reserved for family.

He raises an arm and points to a door, black sleeve hanging from his skeletal arm. I try not to roll my eyes. I fail. I walk to the door and look in. There’s a woman having a baby.

‘The woman or the baby?’ I ask. ‘Or both?’

‘The woman,’ he says. His voice is a dry hiss, like the rusty creak of an ancient door. I could remind him that he used to sing, but I’m trying not to provoke him.

I look at the woman. She’s young. I can see the fear in her face. I can feel it in the doctors and midwives too. They’re rushing about under the white lights – lighting so stark that it must make patients think dying wouldn’t be so bad. I don’t come to hospitals much – they’re more my brother’s area.

Someone makes a decision and the doctors rush the woman out of the room, rolling the bed to the operating theatre. I look closely at her as she passes. I remember her. I can remember them all, but sometimes it takes a while. It’s hard to explain, but I think humans feel the same about cooking fancy meals or painting pictures – no one could list them all, but if someone said “remember that strawberry spongecake you made?” you would.

This woman was like so, so many others. Young woman, young man, little drunk, writhing around. Doing their best in the dark.

I should explain. I’m not here to watch the humans having sex. Well, not really. I’ve seen lots of that of course – slim ones in smooth candlelight and silk sheets, older ones with as much enthusiasm and more craft, bigger ones sweating and breathless but enjoying it all the same. Everyone likes it. Even the married ones, once they get going.

But my job comes straight after. They call it the climax. The humans mix the ingredients – sometimes a bit sooner than they’d like, making funny faces as they go – and I provide the spark, the stitch that ties it all together. I take the little egg and the tadpole and add… the future. You might call it a soul, but that’s all a bit magical for my taste. It’s just me. Life.

My brother, as you’ll have figured out by now, is Death. If he’s the Grim Reaper, I guess I’m the Happy Sower. Sewer? Hang on. That sounds bad – too drainy. How about seamstress? Forget it. Just Life.

Death is my opposite, my equal I suppose. That’s not how he sees it of course.

I think it was the scythe that finally convinced me he was nothing but a show-off. He loves that stupid thing, even though it’s totally unnecessary. He used to do it with scissors, but as the humans got better at drawing pictures and writing stories he started to love his own legend. The scissors got bigger and the outfits got darker until… well, you’ve seen him in the movies.

He almost reaches out as the hospital trolley passes, but it’s not time yet. The woman and the doctors can’t see him – or me – but all living things can feel the hand of Death.

The trolley rattles off down the corridor. My brother follows slowly, almost gliding. Not sure how he does that. I walk after him.

‘Can’t you leave her alone?’ I say, annoyed. I know I’m picking a pointless fight but I can’t help it.

He turns to face me. Even in this strip-lit hell his face is hidden in shadow. No idea how he does that either.

‘Don’t you ever feel sorry for them?’ I ask. ‘That’s a young woman having a baby. Can’t you let her be?’ I know he can’t, any more than I can deny life when I’m called.

‘You give the burden and I release them,’ he rasps. Could I punch him? Humans punch each other all the time and it looks satisfying.

‘Release them?’ I say, frowning.

He lets out a long sigh. I have to stand and wait for it to end. ‘Do they enjoy your gift?’ he says at last.

‘Life? Yeah, some of them… most of the time. Most of them some of the time. Nice to let them feel the highs and lows.’

He pauses then turns slowly and glides on towards the operating theatre. He was never much of a listener.

I pause. The couple I came to see – a nurse and a paramedic in a store room – are just getting started. But they can wait. They probably shouldn’t be having sex in a hospital cupboard anyway, come to think of it – but I’m not here to judge. Hospitals are boring as well as scary, and sex is a cure for both. I follow my brother.

I find him standing in the corner, waiting for his moment. Things have certainly got worse for the woman. She’s hooked up to loads of tubes and an oxygen mask covers her face. White and blue medics have been replaced by green-clad surgeons. There’s red blood too. My brother shifts. The blade of his scythe glints in the white light.

The medics know they’ve lost. I can tell because they try harder all of a sudden – they always give it a last burst before giving up. The scythe flashes. For all his famous grimness, my brother still moves as he always has – a rapid jerk like a fisherman striking his rod. The tip of the blade does its work and it’s over. Death happens, and with his job done he glides past me and disappears without a word. Maybe he does feel something, some pity. Maybe the long-handled scythe was chosen to give him a little distance. Or maybe it’s just meant to look cool.

I wait for a long time. It might only be seconds to you, but time is different for us. We have to be everywhere at once. It’s not a straight line of minutes and seconds, but in my terms I stand and look at the woman for ages. I see the baby too, crying and struggling as its skin meets the world. It’s a boy. He has no idea of the tragedy in progress – one which will affect him as much as anyone.

The doctors are all business, still working on the woman. Others check the baby – all the normal checks. Humans have a gift for using routine to dull the pain of these razor-sharp moments.

I move closer, looking at the woman’s face. It’s calm, blank. I shouldn’t feel sadness. Life works like this. It starts and it ends. But I feel for her. I feel for the baby. I feel for the doctors who are doing their best not to feel. There’s a weight of sadness in the room. They felt Death when he was here, but the stillness he leaves behind is worse. No fear – there’s nothing left to fear.

I begin to move away, drawn to the cupboard down the corridor – where the moment of ecstasy has come and the touch of Life is needed. I have the spark in my hand, light and gentle – the opposite of my brother’s sharp cut.

But I’m back at the woman’s side. I barely noticed myself moving, but I can’t let this happen. I remember giving the spark to her now-born baby. I knew the baby would be loved – I have a sense for these things. Maybe it’s not too late.

It turns out to be easy. She wants to live, and she feels me there. Her life jumps into my hand and pulls it back towards her body. I join them together. A single stitch is all it ever takes. They want to live – this one more than most.

She coughs. The doctors jump, then jump back to work. They’re stunned and desperate not to let this chance slip. They needn’t worry. Life is back and she won’t let go.

My brother will find her again of course, but it might be many years yet. Hopefully she’ll avoid fatty foods and be careful when driving on busy junctions. Certain things attract his attention.

I have a feeling, though, that this woman knows what she’s been given and won’t waste it. She’s got a baby to love, too. What better reason to live?

I’ve broken the rules but I don’t mind. Nothing can change the inevitable, but I’m all about the here and now. And here and now she’s alive.

This story was first published by the Rattle Tales Group in ‘Rattle Tales’, 2016, after being shortlisted for the Brighton Prize.