Mary had yet to entirely understand that Geoffrey would never comprehend the line between fact and fiction (or that ‘reality’ TV would only erase any progress that had been made). She was trying to explain that The Young Ones was a comedic slant upon the kind of life and living which typified late adolescents attending university. Even as she said it, and heard Marcel grunt with suppressed laughter behind her, she realised that she opened up any number of opportunities for him to pursue misunderstanding.
“What’s University?” Asked Geoffrey.
“It’s a place where young people go to continue their education.”
“What’s education?”
“It’s the study of things- er, literature, history, science. To learn what things mean.”
“What’s-”
“Never mind.” She cut him off abruptly, realising that this could go on forever. He was a fifteen hundred year old five year old.
“Didn’t you teach him anything?” she asked Marcel.
“What would be the point?” he said, “He forgets everything within days anyway.”
“No I don’t.” Geoffrey looked hurt. “I remember lots of things. I know all the words to Kraftwerk’s Autobahn. I saw them on Top of The Pops.” He looked as pleased as both Mary and Justin looked nonplussed, trying desperately to think whether there were any words in Autobahn.
“And University. Now you’ve reminded me I know what that is too. That bloke who turned out to be a Dalek went there, talked about the world starting from some explosion or something. As if anyone would believe that!”
“Dalek? You mean like Doctor Who?”
“That’s it. Ridiculous. Except this Dalek isn’t in it. He just comes on now and again talking all Dalek-y about space and time and things. Dalek. Short sighted Dalek. With Specs.”
“You mean Stephen Hawking?” Justin cast a glance at Mary, who couldn’t meet it because she had her head in her hands.
“That’s the chap. Why hasn’t he got one of those sucker things?”
Thus it was that the arrival of Tawhirimatea possibly saved the situation from deteriorating into a meltdown for the more recent arrivals. Marcel had been hearing something like this for centuries. ‘Hearing’ rather than ‘listening to’ because he had long since stopped paying any attention to Geoffrey except when he needed help in getting angry, which wasn’t very often.
Just as Geoffrey posed his question, the foursome heard a distant rumble of thunder and a howling wind shrieked down the corridor outside the control room. Justin stood and looked around.
“What the hell was that?”
Another rumble followed, and shortly after a bright light flashed briefly under the door. Marcel looked dismayed.
“It’ll be some bloody God.” He said, “just when you think things are going well. Remember what happened last time one of them came along.” The others looked into the air, remembering the deadline they had been given to fix The Afternet. The thunder was louder this time, and some of the sheaves of paper piled upon shelves began to flutter to the ground as the room shook. Another light illuminated the doorframe.
“Doesn’t that shorter gap between thunder and lightning mean that the storm’s getting closer?” asked Justin, remembering his childhood folklore.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Moments later the door was flung open by a gale force wind, proving that not all folklore is rubbish. The door thrashed back against the wall. Sheets of paper flew madly around the room. An enormous figure filled the doorway, its outline difficult to make out, as though it constantly swirled and morphed. Clouds hung around its head, and a cacophony of thunder threw its basso into the room as shards of lightning sprang spontaneously into the air.
Justin and Mary had, even in their short time in the afterlife, been privileged to meet a couple of Gods, and to be frank had not been very impressed. This was an entirely different kettle of noise altogether. Geoffrey was genuflecting on the floor. Marcel looked tired of the whole affair before it had begun.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, with the voice of one who didn’t really want the answer. He got it, nonetheless, and in a voice so loud and deep it made the thunder sound like The Chipmunks.
“I” said the figure, “am Tawhirimatea. Or Tawhiri to my friends.”
“You have friends?” asked Marcel.
“Not many,” admitted the God. “I am the Maori God of weather.”
“Do you have any good weather?” asked Mary.
“Not really,” he said, “I am clouds and storms and winds, and thunder and lightning.”
“That’s not really weather, is it?” said Marcel. “That’s just bad weather. Bloody typical.”
“Not my fault. You should meet my brothers. They are Terrible Rain, Prolonged Rain, Hail, and Sleet.”
“Hell’s teeth! Christmas must be a blast round your place. Actually, don’t ask them round, if it’s all the same with you. So, not many friends then?”
A bolt of lightning set fire to the kettle, and dark clouds began to obscure the screens.
“I find it difficult to sustain relationships.” Said Tawhiri.
“No shit.” Said Justin, holding the burning kettle under a sudden downpour in the corner.
Marcel tried in vain to lift Geoffrey from the floor where he was kneeling in his customary approach to anyone proclaiming themselves as a God, however irrelevant their powers seemed to be. A case in point stood before them now, his shape shifting constantly as dark clouds swirled, and massive bursts of light and noise erupted from his head. Geoffrey remained on his knees, looking in awe at the unfolding weather map in front of him.
“I assume you’ve come with some threat or other?” Marcel was never one to expect the best out of any situation.
“No, but with a message.” The voice, as deep as the ocean, rumbled between two passing pillows of dense cumulo-nimbus that began to deposit a downpour on the filthy carpet.
“Can you turn the sound effects off?” asked Marcel. The shifting figure seemed to think, as though this was the first time he had been asked this question.
“What, you mean no weather?”
Marcel nodded. “We won’t tell anyone.” He said, aware of the fierce self-image most Gods strove to protect.
After a moment’s thought, Tawhiri seemed to shiver, and the room fell silent, apart from the odd drip. It was incredible, after the sudden onslaught the God had brought with him. Geoffrey staggered to his feet and rubbed his hands together in supplication.
“Bless you for honouring us with your presence, Oh God.” He simpered.
“And for pissing on our floor.” Muttered Justin, to Marcel’s approval.
“I’d better hurry,” said Tawhiri, “this is just the eye of the storm. It will all kick off again in a minute. God wants to see you.”
There was a stunned silence.
“Which God?” asked Mary.
“God God.” Said Tawhiri.
“Ah, that God. What for?” Marcel looked unimpressed.
“Dunno. Anyway, there will be a cloud along shortly, just follow it.” He belched, and the room turned dark. “Bye.” He said. He turned and began to make his way down the corridor. After a few paces the eye of the storm had clearly passed, and the whole room was illuminated as claps of thunder and the sound of torrential rain first almost deafened them and then began to fade slowly into the distance as the Pacific deity wandered away.
The silence in the room was elemental. Mary looked around at the chaos left by the visiting God. She had been present for only a few such visitations and was still amazed that every time they seemed to leave havoc. They had only just had the wall repaired where Hermes had made a catastrophic entrance. Now there was paper everywhere, half of the screens were at bizarre angles from the high winds, and the beneath her feet the carpet oozed an inch of filthy water.
“You’d better get started on clearing this up, Mary.” Said Justin. He caught the look on her face, which made Tawhiri seem like Bambi. “Joking.” he said
.
“Wow, the Maori God of weather.” Said Geoffrey, a dream-like look on his face. “To think that I, a lowly turnip puller from Cumbria, should be in such company.”
“Oh come on Geoff.” Marcel was trying to shake a sodden carrier bag from his foot. “He’s not even a major in the South Pacific area. Bad weather on a localised level. It’s like meeting the guy who plays triangle in the orchestra.”
“He’s a God, Marcel. I suppose it would be different if it was one of your curly tailed little red imps.”
“Not really.” Said Marcel. “They’re all a bunch of self-important little shits.”
Marcel looked as if he were about to launch into a further diatribe when a small white cloud wafted into the room and hovered at the door. It looked expectant, insofar as cloud can project an expression.
“What do we do now?” asked Justin, looking from the cloud to the sodden floor and then to his companions.
“Follow it, I suppose. Go to see God or whatever.” Marcel did not seem too enthusiastic about the imminent appointment with his maker. Geoffrey rummaged through the piles of discarded paper until he found a dry sheet. “What’s that for?” asked Marcel.
“Autograph” said the turnip man.
They followed the cloud down numerous corridors, up and down flights of stairs and through many doors, until they finally arrived in a small garden. A number of gods were in one corner falling backwards into each others’ arms, to show that they had inter-deity trust. God himself was looking bored in a conversation with a skinny bloke with a goatee beard and ponytail, and immediately upon noticing their arrival broke off the discourse and beckoned them over.
“He’s a lot smaller than I had imagined,” whispered Mary to Justin.
“He can be however big he likes, apparently” said Marcel, who had overheard. “There’s a talent.”
Justin had switched on the video on his mobile phone. The words God, You Tube, and fortune milled around in his head, always combining to his benefit.
Despite the fact that in the human form he had adopted for the team-building the Supreme Being was in no way remarkable, and actually wouldn’t have looked out of place Morris dancing at a country fete, Geoffrey, Mary, and Justin were utterly in awe. Marcel at least affected complete indifference and couldn’t help noticing that the crew in the corner seemed very reluctant to stand behind Ganesh, the elephant God, and catch him as he fell.
“So you are the ones who fixed the Afternet?” said God, benignly.
“Indeed we are, your supremeness.” Said Geoffrey, eyes cast to the floor.
“Yes, I know. It was rhetorical. I know everything.” He went on to explain that he would be happy to offer a small reward, because they had got the system ticking over again. Heaven had subsequently been blessed with several million babies who otherwise would still be screaming their heads off in the hinterland. There was an awkward silence as the four thought hard about what you might want when you were dead.
“The Control Room is a bit of a mess.” Said Geoffrey eventually.
“Ah, yes. Tawhiri. I’ll send a cleaner. Is that it?”
“Actually,” said Justin, “there are still a few billion souls in the afterworld and it will be a long time until they are all processed. Why don’t you put some terminals linked to The Afternet around the place, give them something to do.” Mary looked at him, amazed. Where had this come from?
“What a marvellous idea.” Said God. “When you have a few years to wait a game of Donkey Kong will really help to pass the time. Consider it done.”
The audience was over, it was clear. God smiled, congratulated them again, and wandered over to the group trying to prise the Elephant God from a couple of minor deities struggling beneath him.
“I can’t believe it,” said Marcel, as they tramped down an endless staircase in pursuit of a small white cloud, “we’ve just been offered the opportunity of any reward by the creator of everything and the best we could come up with was some computers for that rabble.” At the bottom of the staircase they opened a massive door and at once recognised the corridor at the far end of which was their workplace. The cloud did a little loop the loop and disappeared in a puff of moisture.
“I think it’s very thoughtful of Justin to wish to provide entertainment for the poor souls waiting for their final destination.” Geoffrey was panting at the exertion.
“Actually,” said Mary, “what is that about, Justin? I don’t know you particularly well, but as far as I do, such a concern for others seems a little out of character.”
Justin tried his hardest to look hurt at this monstrous slur, then allowed himself a satisfied grin.
“Money.” He said. “Just think of it. All those people with their pockets stuffed with whatever they had when they bought the farm, and now we can find endless ways to separate them from it.”
“For what purpose?” asked Mary, “We’re dead. What will we do with money?”
It appeared that this was the first time Justin had given thought to the purpose of wealth in the afterlife and he was momentarily silenced. Marcel, though, was less nonplussed.
“Not bad, Justin. Just when I thought you were a complete waste of space. Sorry Mary, but apart from the sheer joy associated with taking what belongs to others, there is no possible sane situation in which it isn’t better to have more wealth rather than less.”
“What about Benedictine Monks? They live in poverty.” Geoffrey looked pleased with himself.
“Like I said. No sane situation. Only a fool chooses to live his life eating gruel and distilling disgusting alcohol in the hope of a reward after death. Look at them now, wandering round the hinterland eating grubs.”
They entered the Control Room and were stopped in their tracks. The place was spotless. The sodden carpet had been replaced with a rather luxurious shag pile, admittedly with nasty sixties fashion swirls, the walls freshly painted in the obligatory magnolia. The endless piles of paper (the content of which was not clear to anyone) had been tidied into a bank of pristine filing cabinets- they were later to discover everything was filed under ‘Stuff’- and the old cathode ray tubes replaced with a new bank of swish flat screens.
Geoffrey was beside himself with joy. Even when he and Marcel had first moved in the place hadn’t looked this good, not least because it had previously been used as storage for some loaves and fishes which had been mouldering away whilst awaiting re-use in a miracle. Two centuries later the place still had a whiff of rotting pike. He jogged around, touched the screens, and opened the fridge to discover that various mouldering remains of century-old meals had been removed.
“New kettle!” he said, clicking a switch on and off.
“How did they get this done so quickly?” asked Mary
“It was probably the little birdies and rabbits and things. I saw that in a film. They’re brilliant.” Said Geoffrey, sniffing a packet of processed cheese slices thoughtfully left as part of a “Welcome Pack”.
“That’s Disney, Geoff, not real.” Mary said, gently.
“Yeah, right.” Said Geoffrey. “And I suppose elephants can’t fly using their ears, either.” Given that none of the other three wanted to get into a discussion of the laws of aerodynamics, they dropped the subject.
“Make us some tea Mary.” Said Justin.
“Make it yourself.”
“But I’ve just had the idea that will make us rich!”
“It’s really cracking on now.” Marcel pointed to the Afternet screen, which was a blur of characters as the computer processed the backlog of souls. A counter at the corner of the screen showed that it had reached 7 judgements per second, which was around 60% of its’ capacity. The speed had been building through the year since the system had been fixed. Of course, since it was only processing babies it didn’t really have a lot of work to do, and when it moved on into the toddler environment it would face a much sterner test. How could it be sure whether they are actually bad or just going through a bit of boundary tes
ting?
“Just as a matter of interest, won’t adding money-making programmes to the system rather slow down its’ core performance?” asked the Frenchman.
“Of course it will,” said Mary, “which, if I recall correctly, is rather against your suggestion to God that you were looking to improve the waiting time of those waiting for a decision. The more you give them to do, the longer they’ll have to wait, ironically.”
Justin shrugged as though any such concerns were immaterial. “Time is the big thing they’ve got, Mary. Might as well be able to enter an online tax return.”
Three
There was central truth in what Justin said. If there was one thing the dead had on their hands it was time. If they had died in the last seven hundred years, chances were they would still be wandering around the neverland populated by the failure of the Afternet. If they had died before then, or by a stroke of luck had somehow been processed since, then they still had forever. What you didn’t want for your birthday in this environment was a watch.
Amongst the billions who mooched, meandered, milled and occasionally murdered as they waited for someone, somewhere, to provide their final judgement, many of those who had banded together for company were odd bedfellows.
A typical group was the combination of Ron and Ethel; a car-crashed middle-aged couple from Chigwell, and a band of Visigoths slaughtered in the siege of Adrianople in the early four hundreds.
The Visigoths were unique in that they had actually refused to wait for Judgement when it was being doled out by St Peter (not that it would have taken long for him to send them in the right direction). They spent a few centuries simply avoiding ascension to the Pearly Gates. St Peter’s retirement and the problems with the Afternet provided them with the opportunity to run for it, into the wide-open spaces of nowhere.
One day, of course, the system would catch up with them, and nobody was quite sure what would happen then. The Visigoths, led by Guntrick, had lived thirty years of villainy, wanton slaughter, and perfidy. They now had one and a half millennia under their belts during which they had become increasingly pleasant and would have held quite a nice conversation with your mum if you had invited them to Sunday tea. White clouds or the burning pit?
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 31
