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

by Peter Empringham

  “What, without a passport, you mean? Come on mate, just change the money.”

  The man looked at the cash, then back to Justin, who tried to look threatening with his jacket sleeves covering his hands. Marcel looked threatening enough for both of them, but the shop hadn’t been here so long without having the security of some very thick glass.

  “There’ll be commission.” He said.

  Justin pointed at the sign above the counter.

  “It says ‘No Commission’”.

  “That’s with a passport. You can’t come in here and wave around a wad of Haitian Gourdes, among other things,” he waved airily in the direction of some of the festering banknotes, “with no ID, and expect not to pay commission. You choose, or you can bugger off.”

  Justin looked at Marcel, who was pacing just inside the small shop. The Frenchman was of a mind to slit the throat of the usurer, but had an entirely correct feeling that the man would not be so confident if he were not entirely sure of his safety. Aware of the need for advancement of their project he gave a curt nod to Marchant.

  “How much?” Said Justin.

  “Twenty percent.” Said the Asian man.

  “Bloody Hell.” Said Marcel.

  Geoffrey was awe-struck by the everyday activity of the busy London street. Traffic ebbed and flowed as the lights relentlessly cycled, the vehicles roared or ticked past, and the endless river of people weaved with apparent purpose past the brightly lit windows. He wandered to an enormous display of television screens, all flickering the same silent pictures. Elizabeth Montgomery, her hair a motionless sheen, was silently arguing with her mother. I’ve seen this, he thought, and then looked from the twenty giant images to the mass of people passing as though she would at any moment wander past on an errand to buy something to make a perfect dinner for Darren.

  His eye was caught by the orange points on the head of an out of time punk, and he followed as the man strode down the street, entranced by the rigid hair, the high boots. Geoffrey stumbled as he blundered into a woman sitting on the floor outside a shop, a mangy dog lying beside her. A blanket under her, the woman swore at him and then, seeing his benevolent features, held out her hand and asked for some change, then swore again when he held out his hands, actually not understanding the request but to her simply refusing it. He nervously looked around and realised that Mary was nowhere to be seen, and then his eyes widened with amazement.

  He lurched into the road, a taxi screeching to a halt just inches away, the driver treating him to a selection of modern vernacular. Geoffrey just smiled and continued, weaving between the stationary vehicles going in the opposite direction and reaching the safety of the pavement. Like a child transfixed by a sparkler he walked slowly towards the sight which had seized his attention with such force.

  Mary was anxiously scanning the street for a sign of her companion. All she saw was the river of faces which barely cast her a glance. She looked at the Paddington Cash Converter window, saw Marcel pacing, Justin gesticulating. What could be taking so long? Should she go and look for Geoffrey? If she did and they came out they would have no idea where she had gone. At last the door flew open and the pair re-emerged, Justin folding the sack, now visibly less full, and tucking it inside his jacket.

  “Nice to see Highway Robbery continues to hold a place in society, even if you don’t need a horse and a sword any more.” said Marcel, his face thunderous.

  “It doesn’t matter, Marcel,” said Justin, “we got the cash, that’s the point, now we just need to find someone to buy the gold and jewels and stuff. Alright Mary?” He looked at her and immediately took in the worried look on her face. His head spun from side to side, then back to the girl. “Oh shit.’

  Marcel didn”t even bother to do the head-spinning bit. He just gave Mary a tired look. Sometimes it seemed as though the Eternal Question, for him, at least, was “Where’s Geoffrey?”.

  They had to make a guess, and to their right the shops ran out quickly as the road met a busy cross street. They were going to choose the other direction anyway, but the sound of an altercation that way occurring made their decision easier. It seemed almost certain that somehow their friend had found a way of causing an argument so many centuries after his demise.

  They were wrong, in fact. A small group of people had gathered around a shop doorway where a small woman in grubby clothing was beating seven shades out of a tall punk with orange spiked Mohican. He protected his face with his arms and she swung a battery of punches.

  “He kicked my dog! You kicked my dog you bastard!” she yelled as she thumped any visible part.

  “I never!” The punches drummed into his stomach, rattling the chains tying his shirt to his tartan trousers. “It went for me!”

  The dog, having moved to the blanket when its owner vacated, yawned. An attack seemed unlikely unless it was a ruse to gain a warm seat. A by-product of this confrontation was to draw in many of the passers-by, and in the clarity of view this brought about, Mary, turning her head momentarily from what was a quite intriguing catchweight confrontation, spotted on the other side of the street an apparently aged figure stock still on the pavement gazing into a shop.

  “Got him!” she exclaimed, and pulled Justin and Marcel away from the sideshow. They crossed and half-ran to where Geoffrey stood transfixed in front of Papadopoulos Fruit and Veg (established 2006). Yiannis of that ilk had, it should be admitted, done a great deal to make sure that passers by would stop and gape at his display, prior of course to being served some stuff from the back which upon unpacking at home would be found not to match the perfection of the colourful, aromatic storefront.

  Pyramids of plump ripe tomatoes, deep red, glistened next to bright oranges, lemon and limes; kiwi, grapefruit, bananas, apples of all shades and mixes of red orange and green beckoned the passer by with promises of crunch and juice. Bananas hung from hooks across the top of the open front, dark plums sat alongside vivid apricots and tumults of grapes. Even the bilge emitted by the streams of passing vehicles could not entirely erase the sweet and tempting smells of the beautiful fruits, and the shock of colour sucked the eye from its regimented path and the purse from the deepest of pockets.

  Justin, Marcel, and Mary puffed up to Yianni’s store to find that Geoffrey had eschewed the opportunity to breathe these complex fragrances and feast his eyes on the yellows, reds, oranges and greens of the carefully built display. He stood transfixed before a pile of dirty potatoes, twisted celeriac, cream parsnips, and a tray of turnips imported from Ghana. The latter rose before him in a ziggurat of vegetable tedium. His eyes were wide, a child on Christmas day.

  “Geoffrey. You okay?” Mary jostled his elbow to awaken him from the reverie.

  “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, eyes not moving from the tuberous delights before him. His eyes moistened.

  Yiannis himself sidled towards them, a gentle look of care on his face.

  “He’s been here for ten minutes. Alzheimers? My dad’s got it too. Thinks he’s a fishmonger.” He spat on the floor and then re-adopted his concerned look. The look took in the black girl, the tall spiv and the guy wearing someone else’s suit, and ruled out consistent family ties.

  “He just loves these things, actually.” Said Justin. “It’s like vegetable porn to him.”

  Yiannis looked less sympathetic. “Bloody hell.” He said, “you mean he’s…”

  “Quite possibly.” Said Justin, “Don’t worry, we’ll take him now.”

  It sounded simple, but it didn’t actually happen until Marchant had fished a fiver from the stack of notes issued by Paddington Change Converters (who, by the way, now had a ‘CLOSED’ sign up and had already booked a flight home to Chittagong to see the family) and purchased for Geoffrey a Ghanaian turnip with a side order of beetroot.

  “You should have those on the top shelf, mate.” Said Justin as they hurried away, he and Marcel on either side of Geoffrey for security.

  “Perverts.” Said Yiannis Papadopoulos.
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br />   CHAPTER 17

  It seemed an interminable trek for Ron, Ethel, and their companions back to their little segment of the Afterlife. The outbound journey had been shortened in their minds by the sense of purpose, the crusade, the belief in their cause. Now, returning, the idea that they could materially change the environment in which they were stranded, that they had rights, was dashed. The later part of their journey took place in almost complete silence, apart from the occasional moan from Franzel, when his sword chafed, and once the sound of a very tired Lucius dropping his head and grumbling loudly as he fumbled blindly to retrieve it.

  They heard the hubbub long before they knew its source. The low hum could have been, in their various memories, the hail of abuse from the walls of a besieged city, the mutterings of a crowd hearing propositions of freedom for the enslaved, the animated discourse of the imprisoned excited by the prospect of escape, or traffic nose to tail on a bank holiday getaway. It was, in fact, none of these, as they discovered when they crested a hill and looked down upon the teeming valley below.

  A huge banner, unfurled above a rough and ready stage, advertised their arrival at The 29th Annual Deadstock Music Festival. A river ran through the valley, and in the green land surrounding it Elizabethans walked in knickerbockers and ruffs, Kalahari bushmen stood with spears clicking at each other, a battalion of Australian soldiers bearing horrible wounds mingled with similarly marked men in the uniforms of the German infantry, the wrinkled and decrepit old, perhaps aware that their end was nigh, with running children, teenagers and young families whose demise had been more untimely.

  There were hundreds of people. Ron looked at Ethel.

  “How come we never knew this was happening?”

  Ethel looked down at the throng.

  “Well, Ron, we never really knew it was happening when we were alive.”

  “What’s a Music Festival?” Adrael inadvertently pricked Ron with the spear protruding from his chest. “Sorry. Actually, what’s a Festival, come to that?”

  It occurred to Ron, as he watched the Visigoths, almost by habit, gather behind Adrael for Ron to enlighten them, that he had actually enjoyed the role he had adopted as the fount of all knowledge. This was partly due to his intrinsic enjoyment in propounding his own views but also, in fact, because he had by pure accident become the father to a ravening murderous horde. By even greater accident he had served to change them into information-seekers who just liked the odd murder now and then to keep their hands in. He also realised, looking at the faces before him, that he was now playing a similar role for one of the greatest reformers the world had seen, and a war-hero. This was a big step up for a retired actuary.

  Ethel basked in the reflected glow at his side as he gave an overview of festivals. This information was largely based on his knowledge of his local fete, and so suggested that in general there would be morris dancing (cue much craning of necks in a vain search for jingling men with hankies); exhibitions of the ancient art of rolling a coin down a slot to try to land it on a square smaller than itself; fortune telling, in which a woman from the local council estate would pass herself off as a gipsy (without a massive requirement for suspension of disbelief) and make up things about your future; and bowling for a pig, which required some explanation given that in most modern versions neither bowling nor pigs were involved.

  When Ron finished, with arms outspread and the dramatic phrase, “and that, my friends, is a festival!”, his audience looked at the rambling multitudes beneath them in a failed attempt to spot any of the features previously described, and then back at Ron, who had performed a similar abortive sweep of the view.

  “Of course, this is a Music Festival, which is different.” Ron hurried on in the hope that no-one would question why he had spent so much time describing an event unlike the one they were viewing. He rifled through his mind for memories of outraged television coverage of The Isle of Wight, Hyde Park, and Live Aid. The nearest he had personally been to a music festival was when he had seen Bobby Crush perform ‘There’s no-one quite like Grandad’ at the opening of a new Iceland in the precinct.

  He told tales of unspeakably loud music from long-haired bands, huge crowds of people dancing with their arms waving wildly, mind-expanding drugs, and ladies with their tops off. It was a curious melange of half-absorbed wisdom, but it rekindled widespread interest amongst those hanging on his every word. After a short discussion it was agreed unanimously that they should go down and have a look.

  There are few places where a tribe of Visigoths, an American President, an officer in the RAF, and an elderly married couple from Esher would fade into the background, but Deadstock was one of them. Even at Devil’s Docks there was something about the group, perhaps the absence of clinging putrescence, or more likely their demeanour, which said that they were just visiting. Here, the range of deceased humanity, and its intermingling, was of such breadth that they were quite possibly amongst the least odd combinations. Cherokees swapped jokes with Seventh Cavalry, Conquistadores shared ship’s biscuits with Incas, and Frenchmen accepted treasured wine gums from Englishmen.

  There was the sound of conversation and laughter from all quarters as the group walked wonderingly through the crowds. Knots of people waved and yelled hellos, and after initial withdrawn nods the Visigoths began to wave back and smile as Lincoln tipped his hat. They walked through the crowds and inadvertently came to the front of the stage. Groups of people sat chattering, and then at once came to their feet as a man in a silver sparkly jacket bounded out in front of them with a crudely formed loud hailer.

  “Ladeez and Gentlemen!” He bellowed, “Back for the 24th year by popular request!” The crowd cheered as though they knew what was coming. “I give you- BUDDY HOLLY!!!”

  To Ron’s eyes, and he was one of only two amongst them who might have had any idea, Buddy was not in good shape. The 1959 air crash had given him some distinguishing features he had never aspired to, among them a nose so flat you could have used it to pick a lock, and his trademark glasses were bent and in possession of only one, cracked, lens.

  For all that, his enthusiasm for his work was undimmed by the repetition of time. He threw himself into ‘That’ll Be The Day’, and it appeared that the audience, some of whom had kicked the bucket centuries before he was thought of, had taken their eternity as a cue to learn the words.

  ‘THAT’LL BE THE DAY’ thousands sang along with the slight, battered figure on stage, who continued to finish the line; they chanted the title again, and Buddy responded. They could feel the crowd tense with anticipation as the battered figure trilled the next two lines and threw the response open to the crowd who with one voice confirmed that would indeed be the day that they died.

  CHAPTER 18

  Marchant was amazed that his mobile phone worked. Sometimes he had been forced onto the balcony of his third floor flat in freezing February winds to order a takeaway, so poor had been the signal. Now he had a right to do a double take when discovering that despite having been prematurely topped by an incompetent Grim Reaper, transported to the Afterlife, narrowly escaping death in the iniquitous docks and having his insides torn out in the tunnel back to life, he had a full battery and a full signal. Marcel wasn’t going to stand and wait, nevertheless, whilst Justin fulminated against the inconstancy of third generation mobile technology, and he had been allowed only a couple of declarations of wonder before making the phone call they needed.

  Lot The Latvian, (who had changed his name by deed poll to avoid being confused with both Lot The Serb and the Polish National Airline) had expressed his surprise at hearing from Justin, not least because he had heard on the grapevine that Marchant had done a runner and was soaking up the sun on the Costa Del Crime. It took a good deal of persuasion by Marchant, closing with the magic password (‘Cash’) before Lot revealed that yes, he did have some hookey computer equipment, and yes, he might be in the market for some jewellery and precious metals, no questions asked.

  The foursome he
aded back up the Edgware Road, sacks of cash swinging. Three of them kept an eye on Geoffrey, whose delight in the worldly environment was manifested by constant cries of “Ooh look!” and sudden stops to look, poke and prod something much like he had seen on TV in the last few decades. Just as his head swivelled from side to side to take in every sight, so Marcel stared to the pavement, frequently bumping the shoulders of those coming in the opposite direction, Mary watched Geoffrey and Justin stared ahead to identify anyone who might think snatching one of their bags was a good idea.

  He did, however, glance to one side at a particular moment, as the window of The Kings Head occupied the inward side of the pavement, and stopped in his tracks.

  “Bastard!” he yelled. Geoffrey, who had been staring at a couple kissing passionately by a bus stop, ploughed into the rear of the now stationary Marchant and apologised.

  “Not you!” He gestured with his chin towards the pub window, through which a figure seated alone at a corner table was clearly visible. “Him!”

  Mary and Marcel, having initially not realised there was a hold up, had ploughed onwards, but now returned to stand alongside Justin and follow his gaze to the figure in the pub, hunched over a table, black cowl pulled back onto his shoulders, white faced. A sickle leaned into the corner behind him.

  “Oh, don’t tell me,” said Geoffrey, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “it’s…er…oh. Marilyn Manson! She’s great.” Justin was gone, storming through the pub door; Marcel followed with a sigh, and Mary grabbed the turnip man, knowing that he could by no means be left on his own. She pulled him into the gloomy pub just in time to see Marchant point at the figure in the corner and shout “Murderer!”. Worryingly, at this point at least three people in the pub sped guiltily from the scene. Marcel grabbed Justin by the arm and pulled him towards the table where the solitary figure was staring rheumily back at the new arrivals.