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

by Peter Empringham

  They spent an hour or so slowly sipping their drinks, passing comment upon the clientele, who were all in tremendous spirits.

  “I think I’d find the music a bit wearing after a few months.” Mary said, as the fiddler played a particularly high-pitched solo.

  “A few minutes, more like,” said Marcel, forcing down his drink, “it sounds like someone setting fire to a bag of cats.”

  “I like it.” Said Geoffrey. “Makes me want to get up and do a little jig.” They looked at him. He was wearing a sheet that had once been white, but was now grey with a pointillist design as if someone had dropped scraps of food and sauce on it at random. Which, of course, he had. He had also cut a hole in the middle so that he could slip is over his head and wear it like some kind of poncho. It fell almost to his knees, which looked like they had spent some time in an allotment. For all they knew, and indeed all suspected, he had elected to leave everything underneath free to the air. This latter belief was enough to incentivise them to discourage anything that might involve twirling.

  “Don’t.” Justin glared at him. “Besides, we need to talk about the elephant in the room.” Geoffrey’s head swivelled rapidly from side to side as he peered into the crowded bar.

  “Is he here?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Ganesha.” He stood up quickly, causing a waft of something vaguely stale from beneath the poncho. “He’ll be at the food bar, I’ll bet.”

  “Not Ganesha, Geoffrey,” Justin sighed, “I’m talking about a metaphorical elephant.”

  “Ganesha is a metaphorical elephant, strictly speaking.” said Marcel, swirling the vestiges of his drink in the glass, uncertain whether to subject himself to any more of it.

  “Is he?” Geoffrey seemed amazed. “He didn’t look it when I saw him last. I don’t think so, anyway. What’s metaphorical?”

  “Don’t worry about that Geoff.” Mary knew it would serve everyone to head off this meandering before it took hold of his imagination. “What Justin means is that we are avoiding the big issue. The reason we came here.”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Look you bloody Dark Age idiot.” Marcel was reaching for Geoffrey’s throat until Mary restrained him.

  “Well, Mary, you have two hundred years of this and then tell me you aren’t tempted.” He put his hands down and breathed deeply, but his eyes still had a glint of incipient violence.

  “Geoffrey. We came here to have a lot to drink and see if that produces any brilliant ideas about how to stop me from being shipped off to hell. Not a big deal for you, perhaps, but I am quite keen on a resolution being found. If we don’t have any brilliant ideas, then we should just have a lot more to drink. If I drink enough, you can have a dance because I won’t give a toss, and neither will most of the people in here.”

  Justin waved his empty Guinness glass, an action spotted by a barman even in this crowd. He topped off a new pint, drew a shamrock in the head, and brought it to the table.

  “Alright folks,” the barman said cheerily, “can I get anyone else another?”

  “Bring me a bottle of Bushmills.” said Marcel, miserably.

  “Nuts?” asked the barman.

  “Probably,” said Marcel, “but I’m assuming the wine is shit.”

  “You’re going to have to take it on the lam.” Justin said when they were alone once more.

  “Perhaps, Justin, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Take it on the lam!” Geoffrey screwed up his face and repeated the phrase in a curious high-pitched voice from the corner of his mouth, in an accent that was a cross between Carlisle and the Bronx. “Take it on the lam!” he repeated.

  “What are you, a parrot?” asked Marcel.

  “Jimmy Cagney.” Geoffrey continued in the coarse squeak, face scrunched like Popeye chewing on a pipe. “Public Enemy. I made it ma, toppa the woild.” He reverted to his normal, gentle tones. “He took it on the lam.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “No idea.” Geoffrey took a casual sip of Guinness.

  “It means go on the run.” said Justin. “That’s what you’re going to have to do. Just leg it and find somewhere to hide.”

  “Brilliant. Not. Where would I hide?” Marcel was now swigging the Bushmills straight from the bottle.

  “Let’s think,” said Justin, mockingly stroking his chin. “Infinite number of Heavens, space in the Afterworld beyond anyone’s comprehension, at least for the next fifteen years or so until everyone gets processed. You might stand out a bit then. Seems to me there are any number of places you could go. Literally.”

  The band struck up Irish Rover. Again.

  “I think I might rather die than stay here forever.”

  “Ok, forget it, then.” Justin said, signalling for another drink.

  “You can’t just give up like that, Marcel.” Mary reached over and squeezed his hand. The combined effect of the drink, his situation, and the thumping of hundreds of feet on the wooden floor in an approximation of time with the music were taking their toll. His eyes were moist and his mouth set in a downturned thin line.

  “We can find a Heaven you can live with until we figure out a better place to hide. And then we can work out a long-term solution. An appeal, maybe?”

  “You want to appeal to The Devil? That might be the last thing you ever do. Besides, I’d be sure to be spotted. These Heavens are riven with poxy demons and Gods out for a bit of fun.”

  “Like Ganesha. Still can’t see him, though.” said Geoffrey, peering once more into the crowds. Marcel was about to thump him when his point was somewhat proven.

  There was a disturbance by the door, which they assumed to be the umpteenth chucking out of the accursed interloper, but in fact turned out to be a visitation from the celestial ranks.

  It was apposite, since the Irish pub was full of Scandinavians, that the love of the Celtic drinking scene was spawned much earlier, and that the fathers of their civilization should yearn for the occasional trip down memory lane. The other customers were ecstatic, raising a massive roar, to the extent (and Marcel gave a little subconscious bleat of thanks) that the band actually stopped twiddling.

  There were two of them, and they marched in as if they owned the place and proceeded to high five the well-oiled set already in occupation. One was just massive. He looked like a pallid bag of walnuts, his arms all protuberant veins and curves of muscle, his head the size of a prize pumpkin, the straggly beard and eyebrows veiling his eyes only adding to the sense of scale around his entry. His thighs were so large he had to walk as if holding a bowling ball between his knees. This was Magni, and there was no doubt from his demeanour that he knew exactly where he stood in the pyramid of Norse Gods. When he was three years old he had lifted the leg of the dead giant Hrungnir (one of a host of Scandinavian words that sound like vomiting) from his father Thor, who was pinned with the leg on his neck, which could have been very bad news in very short order. He was the God of Strength, and didn’t give the slightest shit who knew it.

  His fellow traveller was still large, willowy and handsome, but looked like a shadow next to the massive Magni. Marcel waved a wandering hand at the pair.

  “Bloody Magni. He’s so…Goddish. It’s all ‘look at me, I’m so strong and superior. I’m the son of Thor, and he’s really hard, too!’”

  “He does look pretty hard to me.” Justin said. “Who’s the other one?”

  “Hoenir. God of silence, whatever that means. Magni just takes him around with him so that he can appear intelligent.”

  “Oh great Gods! I must pay my respects!” proclaimed Geoffrey.

  These two didn’t need any further attention, the young Scandinavians having begun a chant of “Magni! Magni!”, causing the massive God to wave regally, grinning with utter self-confidence. Geoffrey was up on his sandals, heading across the bar, and Marcel followed him before he could be stopped.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” said Mary, rising to follow, “this c
an’t end well.”

  When she got to the bar, Justin at her heels, Geoffrey was already prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched to Magni’s feet, oblivious to the fact that he was being trodden upon by a group of Norwegians in Lordi T-shirts. Marcel, by contrast, was staring directly into the God’s eyes, which required him to bend his head back at a painful angle.

  “You’re not supposed to be here, you know. Didn’t you see the sign on the door? No Gods unless on a leash?” He slurred.

  Magni smiled, and looked benignly at the rowdy crowd.

  “It’s heaven, my friend. I think it’s exactly where I belong.” His voice was extraordinarily deep, and were it not for her certainty that things were about to turn ugly, Mary may have quivered. She hadn’t heard anything quite like it since her dalliance with War.

  “Does your father know you’re out?” asked Marcel. “Why don’t you get the band to sing ‘If I had a hammer?” He turned to the smaller deity, who was looking as if he would rather be somewhere else. “And you. What’s up? Cat got your tongue?”

  Hoenir glared at the swaying Frenchman, and Magni, lips pursed, simply nodded to those crowded around him.

  Marcel was grabbed by both arms and legs and carried to the door, which was opened so that he could be flung bodily into the street, where he narrowly missed landing on the regular ejectee, who was just on his way back in. Mary and Justin rushed out behind him. He was on his stomach on the floor, face turned to one side to reveal a split lip and bleeding nose.

  “There you go Marcel,” said Justin, “no problem whatsoever with you travelling incognito in one of the Heavens.” Marcel grunted.

  “Where’s Geoffrey?” said Mary, then realised that, not for the first time, he had been left behind. He was in fact still on the floor of Na Gopaleens, Magni standing on his back as the turnip picker thanked him.

  “What a lovely God.” Geoffrey said as they shepherded him into the street. “Never said a word, you know, just wiped his feet on me. No airs and graces, that one.”

  They decided that Marcel was best not trusted to travel on his own looking for a suitable hiding place amongst the Heavens, his presence in the Irish pub having appeared on Faithbook only hours after his confrontation with Hoenir and Magni. The former’s timeline was, unsurprisingly, entirely blank, but the Son of Thor was only too happy to post pictures of Marcel in mid air, like Superman in Clark Kent guise, as he was bodily ejected from Na Gopaleen’s. There was a further posting of Hoenir grinning as he stood atop the prostrate figure of Geoffrey, which pleased the victim to an inordinate degree. That he, a humble root vegetable farmer from the frozen north of England, should be used as a rug by a previously unheard-of deity! For the next hour he marched around the control room as if he had won Parsnip of the Year.

  “I’ll go with him,” said Justin, after they agreed that someone would have to accompany Marcel to find a suitable hiding heaven. “This needs someone with a flexible approach, conscientiousness, and the ability to relate to people in all environments and situations.” He was quoting from a CV sent to him by an applicant for the post of warehouseman.

  “Ah. Couple of problems there, Justin, my old mate.” Marcel swung listlessly on his chair, “Firstly, you have none of those attributes. And second I can’t stand you. I might as well take my punishment as go on a road trip with you, with all due respect.”

  “There isn’t any respect in that statement, Marcel.” Mary glared at him.

  “As I said, all the respect that is due.”

  “I could go with him,” Geoffrey looked up for a moment from his TV screen. The other three glanced at each other in dismay. The chances of Geoffrey exerting any influence on Marcel, or more particularly helping him keep a low profile, were very slim. Just as Marcel was a very short fuse and likely to explode into violence at any point, so Geoffrey had an unfortunate habit of getting lost, getting trapped, or getting set on fire. Sometimes by Marcel.

  “But.” said Geoffrey, “I have reason to believe Samantha could be about to leave Darren, in which case I want to be around to pick up the pieces. It’s something in the way she talks to Tabitha. Like it’s a code.”

  “Geoff,” said Justin, apparently recovered from the non-revelation of Marcel’s hatred, “you’ve watched Bewitched from beginning to end at least twenty times that I know of, and you were already watching it when I arrived.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any of it twice. There are occasional similarities in some of the situations, but then our days have long periods of repetition, don’t they?”

  “But Geoff. You must notice that the same things happen over and over? How many times do you think they can have Darren’s boss over to dinner?”

  Geoff looked at him, mouth pursed, then reached for a notebook and flicked through the pages. Finally he looked up.

  “Two hundred and twelve.”

  “Does that seem likely?”

  Geoffrey shook his head and adopted the smile of one who sympathises with another failing to grasp an advanced concept.

  “It’s about a man marrying a witch, Justin. She does magic by twitching her nose. Her mother is a witch, and so is her daughter. Her aunt is even rubbish at magic and falls down the chimney. Most ridiculous of all, she marries an idiot. None of it seems likely.” This was miraculous. It seemed he had finally grasped the concept of situation comedy.

  “Which makes it all the more interesting as a living document of life in the twentieth century.” Or not.

  7

  Unlike the boardrooms of earthly multinationals, which were mainly male and predominantly white, the Apocalypse Committee of the Gods did at least have a spread of races. The choice of businesswear, though, would have caused a raised eyebrow even in the studiedly liberal headquarters of Google. In his infinite wisdom, God himself took the decision to invite the Godheads of a whole raft of religions to discuss a unified approach to the End Times, a decision that, staring around the room at the assembly, he was beginning to think might have been unwise in the extreme.

  Even given his omnipotence, accepting that the majority of this diverse bunch were versions of Him tested his suspension of disbelief. The majority, of course, because it had been necessary to set up a separate room for charlatans whose interest in religion was less the wellbeing of their flock and more the calming of their own tortured minds or enhancement of their own bank balances.

  He deputed Jesus to sit in judgement on the inevitable appeals from those who felt that they had a right to be amongst the deities in the central part of the Symposium. Most of the religions dispatched to the back room had no illusions about their place in the firmament, indeed their founders were either in a Hell or wandering the Afterlife waiting for their fateful judgement, but some of them were misguided enough to think they had an argument. He couldn’t help thinking that ever since a brief spell as the earthly prophet, his son had taken a somewhat lackadaisical view of his responsibilities. Ok, he had suffered, but he had never really admitted whether he had sex with ‘that woman’, and his last two thousand years had involved a great deal of moping around in his room complaining about the standard of the carpentry. He accepted this new task with a surly protrusion of his lower lip, a flick-back of his shoulder length hair (for My sake! Get it cut!), and queries to his father as to why he, of all sons of gods, had to be the one who could not immerse himself in a bath. He grudgingly agreed to chair the Access Sub-Committee when his father managed to convince him that some of the stuff he would hear would be ‘better than Python’.

  “So,” he said, referring to the notes on the table in front of him, “Mr…Rutherford.” Jesus peered over the top of the plain-glass reading glasses he wore for gravitas, “…you stated, whilst in charge of The Jehovah’s Witnesses, that 144,000 believers will be saved after the Revelation? That they will rule over the Earth with, er-“ he glanced again at the paper in front of him, “-me?”

  “Well, yes, only 144,000 rule, but the ones who joined later would be on earth, b
eing, well, looked after.”

  “Yes, well I suppose you had to change that, did you? After you had to change the dates of the presence of God, and of the Revelation, and so on?”

  “It’s hard to be exact of course. We study the scriptures so that we can re-interpret to ensure accuracy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. When you have $950 million a year coming in, the last thing you want to do is tell those who contribute that Heaven’s full, isn’t it?”

  “We work for you, your glorification.” The man was squirming, running his finger around the neck moistening in his stiff collar.

  “Don’t want it, don’t need it. Thanks Mr Rutherford. Go and sit with the multitudes next door.”

  “But, I-“

  “That’s the word of God, by the way. Or the next best thing. Goodbye.”

  Jesus took a sip of coffee and watched as the next appellant was ushered into the room; a tanned man in his seventies, looking very fit for his age. Jesus thought he looked a little like one of the old men in Cocoon, a full head of hair behind an admittedly receding hairline, but wiry and confident. Terrible teeth, though.

  He shook the punctured palm of the Son of God.

  “So, do I call you Ron, or do I call you L?” he asked.

  “I prefer Ron. What do I call you?”

  “A figment of the imagination, from what I’ve been reading.” He leaned forward on his elbows and stared into the eyes of the man sitting opposite. “And that,” he said, “would seem to be a serious miscalculation.”