The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet)

by Peter Empringham

  Marcel reached inside his jacket and pulled out a bottle of Old Jack Daniels, pouring a generous measure for the god. Hephaestus looked at it, grunted, and sank it in one draught. Marcel refilled and left the bottle next to the glass. The ugly short figure stared at him, and then slowly raised his hand to point at the Frenchman.

  “I know you.” He growled.

  Geoffrey beckoned Mary and Justin, who leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “He’s been shagging his wife.” He whispered.

  “Oh, great.” said Mary.

  Hephaetus drank the second whiskey and poured more into the glass.

  “I know you and you want me to let you go to Life. S’pose you want to corrupt more women there, eh?” He drank again.

  “ It’s not what you think, H. She just needed a shoulder to cry on, talk through some problems. Besides, this is a bigger issue than between me and you.”

  “Yeah, come on you ugly little shit.” Krake looked with disgust at the man drinking his way through the bottle. “There’s a crisis here. Besides, he might get killed down there. Problem solved.”

  Hephaetus, drinking and refilling the glass, was now visibly swaying and his voice was slurred.

  “She’sh no good, Krake. Saysh it’sh her job to shpread the love around.” He began to blub as the imp emptied the last of the bottle into the god’s glass.

  “Can we go?” said Marcel. The imp nodded, passed them a piece of paper authorising the visit, and waved them away.

  As they left the room, Hephaetus was in full flood. “She’sh no good. Won’t rub my feet. Doeshn’t shpread the love my way. No good, Krake, no good.” The imp was urinating into the whiskey glass prior to offering it to his co-chair.

  “Is it always like that?” asked Justin, amazed.

  “Pretty much.” Said Marcel, who had seen a few committees in action. “Oh, Mary. Have you got a mirror?”

  The fire alarm was piercing in the waiting room, and even the nymphs were squatting in the corner with their hands over their ears as Narcissus brushed his hair, careful not to dislodge the wads of paper in his ears.

  It was at the very moment that Marcel proffered Mary’s make-up mirror to him that the blister on Narcissus’ face reached critical mass and burst with a dull pop. The first thing the egomaniac saw was the yellowy green blot, which he at first tried to wipe from the glass. The nymphs sniggered and Justin went over and put his arms around them to share the joke.

  The foursome left to the sound of Narcissus’ fulsome weeping and wailing. I’ve left in my wake a distraught, cuckolded, weeping god and an utterly destabilised self lover, thought Marcel. Still got it.

  CHAPTER 15

  The shambolic nature of the Afternet Control Room was exaggerated by the buzzing and flickering of a fluorescent light tube at the end of its useful life. Perhaps it would soon be passing over to the light fitting afterworld, where it would recline on a lambswool bean bag surrounded by softly glowing energy efficient Edison screw candles.

  It was clear to Mary that despite his confident exterior Marcel was a bag of nerves at the thought of the upcoming excursion. He had stopped snapping at Geoffrey, accepted a cup of muddy liquid masquerading as coffee, and even asked if she was okay and ready for her return to the place in which she actually should be.

  “What is it, Marcel?” she asked, as they prepared the hot drinks.

  “Nothing at all. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re acting something like a human being. Are you worried about this not working?”

  He shrugged, scooping some scum from a mug which bore the legend ‘Death. The Final Frontier’.

  “If it works, it works. But I died three hundred years ago. I’ve seen what some of the people are like in the waiting world. It just seems like the bar on badness has been raised a bit since I was alive.”

  She watched as he studied the liquid in front of him. “I don’t know, Marcel. From what I gather you actually killed quite a few people, apart from anything else you might have had on the debit side.”

  “Rape.”

  “Well, yes-”

  “Arson.”

  “Easily done.”

  “Sodomy.”

  “Each to their own.”

  “Coprophilia.”

  “I don’t even know what that is, but perhaps it was a fad, like hula hoops, or tamagochi. My point is that I think you don’t have much to fear, particularly given that list, which I have a feeling I stopped before it was complete. There’s probably not much more of that, it’s just that maybe more people perhaps aren’t very…” she struggled for the right word, “pleasant.” She hadn’t found it.

  “I’ve seen it on the screens,” he said, casting his eyes towards the bank of VDUs, which flickered on the opposite wall, “people shooting each other, cutting off limbs, being blown up. I’ve seen it.”

  “That’s fiction, Marcel. It’s drama. You keep telling Geoffrey that.”

  “Of course I keep telling him. But how do I know that for sure?”

  “You weren’t worried when we went to Devil’s Docks. You could have been hurt there, killed or maimed. What’s the difference?”

  Marcel finally stopped stirring the coffee, looked into Mary’s eyes.

  “If I died in Devil’s Docks, I just pop up again somewhere in the afterlife. If I die down there, that’s it. I lose my consciousness. I can never have a thought again. It’s Double Jeopardy.”

  “Good film.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think she was entirely believable. In any case, that’s what happens. Don’t tell him, though.” He tilted his head towards Geoffrey, who was sorting out the money into its various types.

  “But if your consciousness is only registering eternal pain?”

  “I’ve done that. Why do you think so many people follow religions? They all just want something rather than a forever nothing- to get it they’ll offer praise to a man, an elephant, or a knitted scarf.” He sipped the drink, screwed up his face. “Better coffee that tastes like a barium meal than no coffee at all.”

  Mary was about to say something, but Marcel suddenly stood absolutely upright, picked up a couple of steaming mugs, and turned back to the room.

  “Cups of filth up!” he cried, “ And Geoffrey, if you think you are going to Life with no back on your clothes you are a bigger twat than I thought.”

  There were two changes of clothing. Geoffrey was amazed that he could remove his cardigan in two parts, and after the application of some Germolene (Best Before June 1927) to his blistered back, was forced into a crimplene shirt and multi-coloured tank top combo which could have caused epilepsy if he had moved too quickly in front of one susceptible to Grand Mal.

  Justin refused to take the trip in shorts, a vest and a headband. Aware of the ticking clock, everyone did their best to persuade him that looking like someone from a Seventies Olivia Newton-John video would be incognito in 21st Century London, but even he was aware that two of them had not the faintest idea whether that was true and the other had a supercilious curl to her lip, and refused to move until he had been given an outfit he deemed more fitting.

  Geoffrey offered a range of smocks he had collected over the years, but Justin passed and was finally persuaded to don one of Marcel’s houndstooth suits, even though everything involved was at least ten percent too long. His hands disappeared into the sleeves and the trousers billowed over his jogging shoes, but even this ignominy didn’t tempt him to consider the alternative. That was Geoffrey holding up what looked like a short frock made of hessian with some kind of grey glutinous stain down the front.

  “Thanks Geoff, but I think I’m sorted,” said Justin, shooting his sleeves and looking like the character from Big, “you can never go wrong with houndstooth.”

  How little he knew.

  Marcel had warned Justin and Mary that the transition from the Afterworld to Life was not as straightforward as wandering through the tunnels to various parts of the Waiting World.


  “It’s another plane.” Said Marcel. “You’ve only moved between different parts of death before. This is hugely different.”

  “He has no idea.” Geoffrey whispered. “He’s just picked it up from some drunks at some party or other.”

  Geoffrey was right, although he didn’t know how right. The ‘drunks’ had come straight from a trip to The Breeders Cup horse racing in Louisiana. As the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse they had chosen that location on the assumption that cowled figures could merge with the populace, but although many present praised their bravery, the visitors did after a while have to compromise on their outfits.

  The three of them who had spoken to Marcel were swaying like the Bay Bridge in an earthquake, and he had a little difficulty in establishing that Famine had stayed behind for a while to see how things were going in Africa. The others were barely comprehensible, and told tales of stomach-churning transitions, searing shafts of light, and vertiginous climbs and swoops which left the stomach clinging on for dear life.

  “It’s like dropping acid,” said Pestilence, “only while it’s still in the battery.”

  After a long walk through what seemed an endless series of dimly lit corridors, the foursome arrived in a bright foyer with garish plastic chairs arranged around the outer wall. On the far side, two trolls were playing patience, which was clearly some kind of therapy. On the right was a door around 5 feet high, circular and with what looked like a very complex series of locks and bolts. LEDS flashed changing numbers and a thick tube filled and emptied green liquid. It looked like the vault at Fort Knox.

  Apart from the guard duty, that is, which in this case was a short Spaniard, bewigged and stockinged, wearing a somewhat tattered gold filigree frock coat and dabbing his nose with a lace kerchief. On the lapel of his coat was a badge which read ‘GARY. Here to help.’ He peered at the new arrivals with distaste.

  “Pass?” he said, reaching out a hand even as he shrank back against the wall as though he were about to be attacked. Geoffrey handed him the piece of paper given to them by Hephaestus.

  “Quiet in here.” he said, “thought you’d be busier than this.”

  “It would be normally.” said the custodian of the door, “but there was a big bust up in the sub-committee. Apparently someone pissing in the god’s whiskey. Anyway, you’ll be next.”

  They waited, nervously listening to the whooshing sounds emanating from behind the enormous door, each apparently lost in their own thoughts. Finally, a large green light began to flash at the entrance to the tunnel, and the doorman turned to them.

  “Right. That’s the all clear; your path back to life is free of obstruction. Have you got travel insurance?”

  “What, in case we die?” Justin sneered.

  “In case you live, actually. Or loss of luggage. Which I note you don’t have.” Still holding the handkerchief to his nose, he reached into a bag and gave each of them a laminated sheet. With obvious reluctance he tucked the perfumed cloth into his pocket, and looked at the travellers.

  “Please take the time to read the emergency instructions I have just given you,” he began. They almost in unison gazed at the blank laminated sheet and then turned it over. “This tells you what to do should an emergency arise during your transit.”

  “There’s nothing on it.” Said Marchant, flipping it over and over as if this would make words appear.

  “That’s because there’s nothing you can do. If this goes wrong you are, I believe the nuance de nos jours is, toast.” He paused for dramatic effect, which was hardly necessary. The four exchanged worried glances.

  “Have you actually lost anyone?” asked Mary, who after all had more to lose than the others.

  “We have no idea.” responded Gary. “I’m supposed to count you all out and back in again, but no-one ever checked, so I stopped bothering.”

  “So there could be loads of dead people wandering around down there?”

  He shrugged. “Possibly. Or none for all I know. Anyway, do you want to go or not, because I have to do this rigmarole before you go in?” They looked at each other again and nodded. He sniffed and began.

  “In the case of any emergency during your transport you may hear the words ‘Brace! Brace!’. You may at that moment want to put your head between your legs but it’s not necessary because it is almost certainly a hallucination since no-one is there to talk to you. The emergency exits are there.” He raised both arms and pointed straight ahead. Four pairs of eyes followed the pointing fingers to a door on the far side of the wall above which was a bad picture of a man running.

  “Er, how do we get to that door from in there?” asked Justin.

  “You can’t. That’s for me. If anything goes wrong in there I’m off. As I said, you’re brown bread. Now, when you want to come back, which must be within the time granted, you MUST come back through the entrance at which you arrive. When you enter the tunnel you will see a large lever which you must pull downwards when you are ready to travel. Do not push it upwards. The consequences could be horrendous. For you, naturally. I’d be through that door. Any questions?”

  “Will you be serving food?” asked Geoffrey, who was feeling the lack of stored nutrition in his replacement clothing. The Spaniard looked at him askance and stroked his moustache.

  “You may find some food in transit, but unless you are sure it came with you in the first place, you should think twice about consuming it.” As this warning sank in, Gary turned towards the vault door. A bank of thick titanium bolts was serried in a line down the right hand side, a digital keypad in the centre sat below an LED display, and a huge shining wheel was in the centre. They waited for the satisfying clangs and thuds of the security system moving aside for their entry. Instead, the Spaniard reached out to a small wooden handle, tipped it downwards, and opened the door. He turned and beckoned them in. They all looked at the half-metre thick door which had swing open, the flashing lights, keypad, and redundant bolts, and then back to Gary.

  “What?” he said.

  “Never mind.” Said Marcel, and ushered the others forward. None were overly confident as they stepped into the tunnel. A cool blue light cast an eerie glow on the small chamber they entered, tube-like but for the floor beneath their feet. There was a low, dull, hum. Behind them, the Spaniard peered in.

  “Hasta la Vista,” he said, “have a nice day.” The door closed with a hiss and weighty thump.

  The transition from life on earth to existence of whatever kind in the afterlife has always been relatively straightforward. Once the bodily systems shut down, the person in question simply transfers to the eternal plane and leaves behind a carcass to provide work for undertakers and professional mourners. In the pre-Afternet days the new arrival would get a personal interview and be allocated to either Heaven or Hell. There was a period when the process was subject to some interior design when the Irish Goddess of Beauty, Niamh, managed to persuade some sub-committee or other that the whole shebang needed a bit of a facelift to make death a bit more of an event.

  Niamh was persuasive at the best of times but the committee had bargained without her beginning her makeover after a long and drunken lunch at The Styxside with Flidais and Brigid, respectively in charge of ‘Wild Things’ and Fire and Water for their followers in the Emerald Isle. Each was a challenge met separately, but together they were like a supernatural Corrs with a very un-Catholic undercurrent of filth and misbehaviour. Before anyone knew it there was a huge set of Pearly Gates which would not have been out of place in Liberace’s bedroom and Niamh had decided to add drama to the death experience by shining a bright light into the eyes of all new arrivals.

  Despite the embellishments, nevertheless, there was nothing in the experience for the recipient that was much different to walking from one room to another. For those travelling in the opposite direction, however, a path the would-be saviours of The Afternet were about to follow, there was a definite price to pay.

  The four stood in the low-lit tunnel, a
thin trail of lights on each wall and the ceiling stretching into infinity ahead of them. Nobody spoke. They shuffled from foot to foot, gazed studiously at their surroundings, focussed on the converging lights running ahead of them. There was no countdown, no rising hum of energy. It just began.

  Geoffrey. Something reached into his stomach and began to pull the organs and entrails away from him, forcing him to thrust forward in order to follow. As the innards went ever faster, so did he. The trail of LEDs became thin streams on each side, and as he turned to look at one of the hyper-trails of light, a naked chicken, travelling alongside at the same speed, turned to him and winked. Even when he faced front once again he was aware of the chicken, its comb quivering in the head-on wind. The chicken appeared to ignore the infinite stream of fast moving root vegetables which now hurtled towards Geoffrey at lightning speed; upright carrots, tumbling turnips, Jerusalem artichokes with smiley faces, and shoals of beetroot like tropical fish. He bobbed and weaved to avoid them even as he tried to accelerate to retain contact with his large intestine.

  Justin. He felt as if the front of his brain was being forced through the back of it. His face seemed contorted as though subject to extreme G-Force. A purple light fractured and fragmented kaleidoscopically, as indistinct shapes appeared to reach out to him. He closed his eyes but this made the sensation worse and his stomach churned. Opening them up again, the shapes solidified into the forms of nubile young women, reaching out to him, murmuring into his head ‘Justin, choose me, choose me.’ The psychedelic sound and light show zoomed towards him, blonde, brunette and redhead demanding his attention even as his head churned in upon itself. With a huge effort he raised his arms and stretched them out in front of him, only achieving this by lowering his eyes to watch the effects of the effort. Gritting his teeth he stared at his arms as they slowly rose to the horizontal, the hands claw-like reaching out and then feeling soft cloth, beneath it soft flesh. A wind now howled around his face as he strained to raise his head again, look forward to where his hands had latched on to the bosom of one of those beauties requesting his attention. Despite the shower of sparks now hurtling towards and past him he could see the faces of the disappointed beauties denied his selection, see the extended arms and the hands on the ample breasts. Of Margaret Thatcher. You fool, she said. You are such a fool.