“Really?”
“Really. He doesn’t know much, but he does know the way back.”
Marcel and Mary prepared for the trip back to life. In Marcel’s case this was largely a question of wardrobe, and he finally opted for a dark suit, and given the time of year, a camel hair overcoat and cashmere scarf. Mary began with a lengthy discussion with Justin about taking a substantial share of the money he had raised through A-Bay for living expenses, a proposition the erstwhile entrepreneur was not inclined to support. The argument was settled when Marcel threatened to have Justin’s appeal solved in such a way as to make his Fiends Reunited status permanent. Justin was not sure that was in the Frenchman’s power, but wasn’t prepared to take the risk, and handed over the cash.
Finances secured, Mary broached the issue of how to find Slaven and Jenkin, who would even now be re-entering the living world. The Afternet allowed them to find anyone on this side of the mortal divide, but could provide no information as to the whereabouts of those walking the ‘real’ planet Earth. Except, as it turned out, one particular group.
Three of them had gone through the routine of finding all the background they could on Jenkin, which suggested that he would be heading back to Rutland and Much Partington to fulfil whatever project he had in mind. Geoffrey wasn’t involved, instead staring, apparently hypnotised, at the screen showing the Soprano family going through the mutual insults which seemed to characterise their breakfasts. In keeping with the underlying irony of the show itself, Geoffrey between episodes expressed his delight that TV should spend so much time on the life of someone employed in such a prosaic occupation as ‘waste management’, perhaps in the belief that turnip picking could not be far behind in the queue for exposure.
“What if he doesn’t want to go there for some reason?” asked Mary.
Marcel slumped in his chair. If they couldn’t find Jenkin and Slaven his chances of remaining in the Control Room were slim.
“There must be some way of finding someone over there.” Said Justin. Marcel shook his head.
“What about The Reaper?” Geoffrey was somehow listening even as his eyes remained glued to the carnage on the screen. Similarly, although most of his pronouncements were gnomic in the extreme, he had the remarkable habit, when his concentration was almost entirely elsewhere, of getting right to the point.
Humans couldn’t be tracked, but Gods and demons were, because they had a nasty habit of interfering in things they shouldn’t and appearing to people who really shouldn’t see them. The only other class of being whose whereabouts could be found were those engaged in bringing death, not least because their expenses had started to go through the roof and a way had to be found to optimise their travel.
Marcel, neglecting to recognise Geoffrey’s contribution, immediately logged in to the Afternet site of the Allied Association of Reapers, Grim and Horrible (AARGH). There was a complaints page that seemed to be growing exponentially now that the dead had access to the Afternet, and then they found an area that tracked members currently at work in the temporal plane.
“Good grief.” Said Justin, as he watched Marcel scroll down a list which filled several screens. “I never realised there were so many.”
“One of the few growing areas of employment round here, actually, Justin.”
“What are you looking for exactly?”
“Our Reaper. Considering the state he was in when we last saw him, he’s probably still down there somewhere.” This was indeed likely. Marcel and Geoffrey had employed a Reaper of questionable competence who had terminated Justin in the mistaken belief that he was a computer expert, and then accidentally brought Mary’s existence to an end. They had then met him again by coincidence, at which time it appeared that he had fallen victim to the attraction of concoctions of mixed spirits, of the alcoholic rather than the mystical kind.
“But he’s useless.” Justin said, quite rightly harbouring something of a grudge.
“Useless he may be, but he can find people. It comes with the job. All we’ve got to do is find him. Ah! Look, here he is. He’s marked as ‘pending disciplinary action’. Much like you, Justin.” Marcel seized a piece of paper and jotted down the last known address of The Reaper, which was in Acton, West London.
“As good a place as any to start.” He said. “At least if we can find him we have a chance of latching on to the kid.”
Mary had kept herself busy gathering together a few items she thought may be useful for the trip, within the bounds of having no idea how long it may last. She found herself, though, not thinking about what she was doing, moving things from one place to another, folding and refolding clothes, repeating movements like a tiger pacing a zoo enclosure.
Geoffrey, who had also retreated into thought after his TV programme finished, had been watching her rather than listen to the bickering of Marcel and Justin, and wandered over to where she stood in the corner, leaning back onto a table, distractedly gazing into the bag she had prepared.
“Are you alright, Mary?” She looked up at his weather-beaten face. Geoffrey’s clothes, as ever, were a stiffening mix of fibre and foodstuff. The resulting aroma, not unlike a winter broth, was one she now deeply associated with the Control Room.
“Oh. Geoff. Yes, I think so, just getting things ready.”
“You look worried.”
“No. Well, yes. Not worried, really. It’s just…” she looked up to the ceiling as though the words may be there. “Going back, Geoffrey. I hadn’t really thought I would be going back. When I decided to stay here I thought that was it. Done. I don’t know how I will feel.”
He moved alongside her and put an arm round her shoulder. She relaxed her head against his chest. He was little more than ten years older than her (not counting the thousand years or so since he died), but his life had aged his features well beyond his years. She thought of him as an old man, and he felt almost like a grandfather.
“I understand that.” He said. “I’ve been back a few times, but everything is so different from when I lived that it’s not like going to the same place. I can see it will be different for you.”
She nodded. This had just come upon her suddenly. It wasn’t like there was any person who would make her wish she were still there; she just didn’t know how the whole experience would feel.
“If you want my advice.” Said Geoffrey. She looked up at the weathered face.
“Don’t get mixed up with anyone in waste management.”
Nothing much had changed in the waiting room for the transition back to life, although the copies of Metro on the coffee table were more recent than they had been on their previous trip. The attendant, Gary, was leaning against the wall flicking through the personal ads, his periwig somewhat askew and frock coat perhaps even more shabby than they remembered. Whatever he had been doing since they last met, it wasn’t attending customer service seminars.
He raised his head to look at them with barely a flicker of interest. This is like shopping in Dixons, thought Mary. Gary raised a grubby lace kerchief to his lips, dropped the newspaper to the floor and walked to the computer terminal on the desk beside him.
“You’ve gone automated, Gary.” Said Marcel.
“They never asked me, did they? Just creates more work, I’d say. Haven’t even had a bloody holiday since 1941. Last time I go to Hawaii.” He tapped a couple of keys in a desultory manner, like a child forced to practice piano. Justin and Mary approached the desk, and the bewigged Spaniard looked at them more closely.
“I remember you.” He said at length, pointing a hand and handkerchief at Mary. “You stunk this place out with curry last time. The tunnel was like the Taj bloody Mahal for weeks.”
“Sorry about that.” She said.
“Yeah, well, don’t do it again unless you bring an Airwick. I don’t need to go through all the safety claptrap, do I?” They shook their heads, clear that he had no intention of doing so, whatever they said. He slapped the ENTER key and sighed deeply.
&n
bsp; “You’re next.” He handed them each a sick bag. “Bring it back if you don’t use it. They never stock me up. Actually, bring it back anyway.”
“Anything we can get you, Gary?” asked Marcel, fingering the bag and wondering under which circumstances it had found its’ way here.
“Wine gums.” Said the Spaniard, ushering them to the vault like door.
Inside the tunnel they stood nervously in a cool electric blue light, waiting for the journey to begin. Both remembered the feeling of being turned inside out that the trip caused, and the bizarre hallucinations it brought on.
“You ok?” asked Marcel.
“Think so.”
And then, without warning, it began.
The gate at which they arrived on the other side was in the ladies toilets at an all you can eat ‘World Cuisine’ restaurant in a Shepherd’s Bush shopping centre. The upside of this was that clients were not entirely unfamiliar with people emerging looking distinctly ill, even if knowing glances were cast when those emerging were one of each gender. Luckily, most patrons were too busy piling their plates with mountains of monosodium glutamate, and trying not to spill black bean sauce on their velour tracksuits to worry too much about this couple apparently consumed with lust after a plate of fajitas. Marcel and Mary staggered into the garishly lit restaurant, hooked arms for support, and weaved between the troughing patrons to emerge gasping into the cold petrol-heavy air of a December evening.
A dozen hours earlier, the sight of a bespectacled, tall thin man with sandy hair and a gangling youth emerging from the facilities in a similar state of dishevelment had barely raised a glance from the north African cleaner vacuuming the deposits of congealed food from the grey and blue carpet. Since her illegal arrival in Britain she had seen things that would once have caused her outrage or incredulity. The grinding hours at less than minimum wage, and increasing familiarity with the perverse lifestyles of the natives made this latest sight seem no cause for a second glance. The ill-matched pair swayed past towards the door and she simply assumed it was an MP and his ‘assistant’ or something to do with Catholic education.
Slaven and Jenkin had arrived with the morning rush hour in full spate, and they leaned for a while with their backs against the plate glass window of the restaurant. The transition between the Afterlife and this plane caused in each individual a series of mental images that delved deep into the psyche. Rarely a pleasant experience, even for those who were almost wholly good, and both of these travellers needed a little time to clear the pictures that had weaved into their subconscious during the trip. This, coupled with the cacophony from the crawling traffic, made their heads ring and stomachs churn. Slaven, hyperventilating, grabbed the youth by the arm and almost dragged him a few yards down the pavement and into a coffee shop, once inside pulling him to a table as far as he could find from the quotidian maelstrom.
“Jesus” he breathed, collapsing into a chair. Jenkin looked across at him. He tried to keep his face straight but he was on the verge of tears, and had been from the moment the vortex first grabbed him and began to force his atoms in directions for which they weren’t designed. Slaven was absolutely ashen. Had they not been living with ghosts for quite some time you would have said they had just seen a humdinger.
They ordered coffee and a coke, and as they waited for their arrival both began to calm down and breathe more regularly. The noise of the traffic was muffled and the low conversation from the other tables was strangely comforting.
“So,” said Slaven, the first time they had exchanged a word since materialising in the toilet cubicle. “Where are we going?” He knew that Jenkin was from somewhere in the Midlands and assumed that this mission would take them in that direction. Slaven himself had run his bogus religion in an isolated spot, the better to pursue his objectives, and had not enjoyed the brief exposure to this city’s routines. He would welcome the opportunity to head somewhere quieter, more rural.
“We’re staying in London, actually. So we’ll have to find somewhere to stay. Somewhere with an internet connection. And I need a computer.”
Slaven sniffed. He took a sip of his coffee, which tasted to him like rabbit droppings, but he persevered, needing something in his churning stomach. Like all of the condemned he had become used to everything he consumed tasting foul, although in this case he had no reason to know that the coffee shop owner was cutting his Colombian with rabbit shit to eke out his profit margins.
“What are you actually going to do?” He asked.
The young man gave him a calm stare.
“None of your business. This is just your part of the deal.” The temptation to reach across and throttle him was almost overwhelming. The older man could not understand why this youth seemed to have absolutely no fear of him. No matter, he thought. He would find out in due course, and when the deal was fulfilled, and Slaven was running the Afternet, Jenkin would have reason to regret his lack of respect.
When they re-emerged into the grey daylight, the traffic had calmed somewhat, although the noise level was still shocking compared with the afterlife, unscarred as that was by the internal combustion engine.
Slaven had been given a debit card for an account held by a Mr Z Bubble, and withdrew enough money for them to get through the first few days and to buy the tools Jenkin demanded. He couldn’t resist checking the balance and was gratified to see that his boss had put by an eye-watering nest egg for whatever business he or his people might need to carry out.
Having shopped for a suitable laptop, they checked into a small hotel in White City that offered a two-bedroom suite, free wi-fi and exemplary double-glazing. The traffic streamed silently past on the Westway and beyond, the walls of Wormwood Scrubs rose through the gloom.
Whilst Jenkin unpacked the kit, plugged himself in, and began to do whatever it was he had come for, Slaven slumped on a sofa in the small lounge area and flicked through television channels. In the week before Christmas, the broadcasters were offering a heavy diet of advertising for purchases of things no one could possibly need, advice on cooking things no one would ever eat, and hastily assembled seasonal episodes of programmes that were rubbish in the first place.
Jenkin, having set up the computer on the double bed in his room, stood and walked to the door, moving to close it as the TV in the lounge blared out a guide to hiding an orange in a Christmas pudding.
“Leave it open.” Said Slaven, not moving his eyes from the screen.
“Why?”
“Because I say so.”
“Do I have to leave it open all the time?”
“If I say so.”
Jenkin considered arguing, but then shrugged and slouched back to the bed. He had a week with this guy and then he could get on with his death. He opened up the laptop and began to search.
Mary and Marcel marched through the damp streets as cars hissed by. It was cold, and Marcel was glad that he had brought the coat, which he hugged around him. All of the bars and restaurants were flooded with people, desperately celebrating the proximity of Christmas, spilling onto pavements with drinks in their hands, sashaying with arms linked and eyes glazed, singing and shouting. The shops were still open, every window ablaze with light which bounced off enormous baubles or lit fake snow.
Mary held the A-Z they had bought, and checked the scrap of paper with The Reaper’s address as they crossed junctions. The shops faded behind them as streets became more residential, tall houses with grand bays, windows adorned with fairy lights, some with Christmas trees sparkling in the night.
“Are we nearly there?” said Marcel, “I’m bored with all this festive stuff.”
“That will get a lot worse before we go back. It should be the next left.”
It was. This street was less grand. The houses were clearly mainly sub-divided into flats, their scant front yards crammed with wheelie and recycling bins, many daubed with the number of the house and the letter of a flat.
“Fifty four. This is it.” They looked up at a shabb
y three-storey house. The ground floor window featured a spindly silver Christmas tree with a couple of derisory baubles. The higher floors had windows shaded with shabby curtains or blinds and their owners had clearly yet to discover the Christmas spirit, at least publicly.
“Top floor.” She said, checking the note. They pushed back a rusty gate and walked the few paces to the door, where there was an entryphone with three bells. Mary pressed the top one. There was no reply, so after a minute she pressed it again, then there was a buzz and she heard the front door lock click open. They entered a hallway crammed with bicycles and piles of junk mail.
“God forbid there’s a fire.” She said as they squeezed slowly around the bikes to get to the stairs.
“He’d be alright, “said Marcel, “he’s Death.’
After two flights of stairs they arrived at the top floor flat. A dingy door was hung with a huge poster of Jimi Hendrix smoking a cigarette, the white wreaths of smoke curling around his dramatic afro hairstyle. Marcel rang the bell.
There was the sound of thudding inside the flat and then a shuffling sound as someone approached the door, which was then opened slowly, as if with suspicion. A small man stared at them. He had long hair to his shoulders, and a straggly beard. A black waistcoat hung over a white grandad shirt, and he hunched forward slightly, hanging on to the doorknob as though to help with stability. There was an overwhelming smell of cannabis, both on him and from within the flat.
He looked from one face to the other.
“You got my stuff? Where’s Garth?”
“No. And I don’t know.” Said Marcel, helpfully.
“Oh, man. You from the social?” The Frenchman looked to his companion. Having understood the first questions he was now on unfamiliar ground.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 45
