Goodtime had been a kind of inventor. The sort of experimenter who mixes stuff together from an early age, to see what happens. He hadn’t had eyebrows since he was eight. His death, in a village in the northern Cape, was thanks to an ill-advised attempt to perfect nuclear fusion, and suffice to say that resultant glare had left him with a white front and a black back. Ron hadn’t realised that there were different whites outside of a paint swatch (‘with a hint of aubergine/cinnamon/saffron’) until he saw Goodtime, whose blasted foreparts would have sent the nastiest voodoo practitioner in Haiti running for the nuns.
As luck would have it, Goodtime was not deterred by the simple setback of death by nuclear blast, and having meandered aimlessly amongst the billions in the afterlife, began to draw together the essential ingredients for his latest project.
He turned up at “Everland”, the rather disbelief-suspending name Ron had given to his project, when the construction was still in full swing; like now, the light was fading, crickets were beginning to stir, and the assembly crew were lying on the grass, relaxing after a hard day of bashing tin.
As the darkness gathered, the form of a man, pale to the point of translucence, moved woodenly towards them. His jerking motion was, unbeknownst to those watching, the result of the cargo he carried on his back. It was if a skeleton had leapt from the earth and was bent upon a rendezvous.
“Bloody hell, it’s a ghost!” exclaimed Ron, scrambling to his feet.
“We’re all ghosts, love.” said Ethel.
The Visigoths were clattering upright, gathering shields and weapons, preparing themselves for some conflict against the Undead.
Goodtime wasn’t looking. His face was bent to the ground, the weight of the baggage upon his back almost bending him double, knees quivering as he met the beginning of the rise and staggered upwards towards the ranks of defenders. When he saw feet at the top of his eyeline, he stopped and pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t particularly impressive. He saw a short man in a flat cap and nylon jacket with a steering wheel sticking from his chest, a matronly lady with a kind face smiling slightly at him, and various sharp implements pointed in his direction by some massive blokes in fur.
He raised a hand. “Alright?” he said.
There was a lengthy silence, so he tried again.
“You Ron?”
The Visigoths bristled, exposed for the first time to someone who had decided to attack by name. Ron nodded.
‘Can I take this off?” He jerked a thumb towards his back, and the massive gourd suspended from the straps over his shoulders.
“Is it a bomb?” asked Ron.
Goodtime contemplated this. It wasn’t designed to be, but then neither was the thing that killed him.
“Unlikely.” He said. “It could go off, but the worst that would happen would be that you’d stink.” He thought a moment longer. “Or be impaled on fragments of the container, but that would be purely accidental.”
“Oh, take it off dear,” Ethel said, worried at the burden carried by the skinny figure, “put it down and tell us what you want.”
He slipped the straps from his shoulders and heaved his package to the floor, pulling himself up with cricking bones and flexing his muscles in an attempt to regain some feeling.
“I’ll show you.” he said, and turned to the massive container resting on the floor behind him. The Visigoths stared at his ebony back, gasped, and raised their weapons. Ron looked to Guntrick, as if he had just fallen for a cheap magic trick. Even Ethel widened her eyes. Goodtime turned back.
“What? I haven’t done anything.” The Visigoths took a step back.
“It’s just…” said Ron, unsure how to phrase his next comment. Goodtime shrugged, and turned again, which led to half of the Germans turning and making a run for it. They were utterly happy to front up to massive gladiators wielding sharp implements, but this ghostly figure wasn’t playing fair.
“What’s your name?” asked Ethel.
The African faced her once more, to the soundtrack of the clang of a couple of spears dropping to the floor and feet threshing through grass as a few more ancients went to hide behind the nearest building.
“Goodtime.” He said, possibly grinning broadly although it was hard to tell, since his teeth were the same luminescent white as the rest of his front.
“What a lovely name.” Ethel was definitely smiling at him.
“I’ve got six brothers and sisters. We are all- were all- given happy names. I’m Goodtime, then there’s Good-day, Goodnight, Goodlife, Goodshot, Goodtaste and Goodgrief. Mum and dad weren’t expecting Goodgrief.”
“That’s lovely. Are they all still…at home?”
He looked around, then back to Ethel. “Who knows.” He said.
She could almost feel the heads of the Visigoths peeking out from behind the unfinished Entertainment Complex behind her.
“I’m sorry about everybody running off, Goodtime. It’s just, well you know you look a bit different when you turn around. They think it might be magic. Like everything else, I suppose.”
“It’s alright. I’m used to it. I suppose I’m someone people like to see the back of. Or front, depending on what colour you prefer.” He waved a hand at the massive package behind him. “Anyway…”
“Oh yes! What have you got there?”
What he had there was a real boon. They do say that an infinite number of monkeys, given an infinite amount of time and typewriter ribbon would produce a bit of Shakespeare, and Goodtime’s mixing of things he found around the Afterworld were somewhat more considered than that.
“Beer.” he said. Ron turned to where the Germans were beginning to creep back from their hiding places.
“Stand back!” he said with authority. “I’m going to have to test this before we know whether it’s safe for you to come out.”
Within half an hour the allure of alcohol tempted even the most trepid from their hiding places, and all agreed that Goodtime may not have a secure hold on nuclear physics but he had discovered the route to a pleasing result from a more benign chain reaction.
“Can you make more of this, Goodtime?” asked Ron, savouring the surprisingly refreshing fizz and verve of a cup of cloudy amber liquid.
“Well, yes, if I can scavenge the ingredients. I’ve got a whole load of yeast, so that’s a start.”
“We’ll help.” said Adrael, draining his cup to much muttered assent from his compatriots.
“Excellent.” Ron said. “I think we’ve found the drinks supplier for our Entertainment Complex.”
9
Mary outlined the plan; she and Marcel would head off into the tunnels to try out some Heavens, hoping to find a suitable environment in which Marcel could lie low. They would pursue a low-key existence, and once they found somewhere Marcel could stay for a while without attracting attention, Mary would return. Geoffrey and Justin meanwhile would ensure that his absence wasn’t brought to Satan’s attention, and if he somehow found out, they were to deny all knowledge of his whereabouts.
“How will we know where you are?” asked Geoffrey.
“You won’t.” Marcel said. “That way it won’t be hard for you to deny it. You know what you’re like. If anyone remotely connected to the top comes anywhere near, you’ll lick their boots while telling them everything.”
“That’s a bit unfair, Marcel. I just think we have to show due deference to the gods who have made our world such a wonderful place.”
“So you’d tell them?”
“Yes.” Marcel regarded Geoff with the baleful eye of someone whose point has just been proven.
“Why would anyone ask, anyway?” Justin asked.
Marcel sighed. “He’s the Devil, Justin. When he makes his mind up about something he kind of wants to get it done.”
“Do you really think he’s all that bothered about you? We’re giving him- well- The Afternet is giving him 300,000 irredeemable bastards a day. What’s one more?”
“I suppose it�
�s a point of principle.” Mary suggested, “If he lets this irredeemable bastard slip through his fingers, people will think he’s a soft touch.”
“Yep,” said Geoffrey, “and he may be an irredeemable bastard but he’s our irredeemable bastard.”
“Does everyone want to stop calling me an irredeemable bastard now?”
“Which part of it is it that you think is incorrect, Marcel?” Justin asked.
“I’ve warned you before, deadman. I could get you boiled in chip fat with a click of my fingers.”
“Point proven, I think.” Justin said.
“Don’t worry, Marcel,” Geoffrey said, “your secret is safe with us.”
“Unless anyone asks.” Justin said with a smirk. Mary took note of Marcel’s threatening look and jumped into the discussion.
“Right. Enough of that. Now are you two going to be okay on your own here?”
“Oh we’ll be great, won’t we Justin? We’ll be like old ranch-hands round the campfire, telling tales of the old times.” Justin looked aghast. They had all heard every one of Geoffrey’s stories of his days on earth, which were in truth few. Depressingly familiar tales of frostbite, grinding hardship, and root vegetables.
“Well, we’ll see about that, Geoff. I’ll be busy anyway, with my new app.” The way he said this suggested that he was the creator of something significant. Brought to this place early from life due to the actions of an incompetent Grim Reaper and a serious misunderstanding about his knowledge of computing, Marchant’s contribution to anything worthwhile concerning the Afternet was largely limited to the misuse of jargon.
He maintained, nonetheless, the blithely confident front that had allowed him to make a small fortune (for himself) as CEO of Worldbest IT which he had somewhat misguidedly seen as the first step towards making Neasden London’s Silicon Valley. For years now he had turned on his office chair pointing to screens and drivelling about REM, RIM, and Digitification. Geoffrey was utterly convinced and the other occupants of the Control Room were happy for him to continue on this arc of self-delusion, although on occasion Marcel, when feeling the old mood upon him, took some comfort from puncturing the balloon of misguided self-assurance.
Mary’s main aim was to give Justin something to play with. Marchant had left behind none of the capitalist yearning that characterized his life, and was committed to making a fortune from the lost souls wandering the Afterworld.
“What will you do with this cash, Justin, should you actually make any?” Mary asked.
Fair to say she had adjusted somewhat more rapidly to their situation than he. If Justin’s death was an error, that was partly due to the propensity of twenty-first century publicity to make everyone appear a star in their chosen field. Mary was collateral damage. Wrong place (Neasden cemetery), wrong time (pissed after a boozy work lunch), wrong Grim Reaper (should have been sporting ‘L’ plates). The upside for Marcel and Geoffrey was that it turned out she was an absolute genius when it came to IT, a fact that had been routinely ignored by her white male employers. The upside for her (the very thought of which may seem counter-intuitive), was that this afterlife was in the main significantly more interesting than her real one. There were longueurs, of course, spells when she would have paid to escape the claustrophobia of the Control Room, the repetition of the conversation, the awareness that this was forever. Even so, none of these feelings were ones she had not felt when at her office desk, and there, despite the infinite possibilities real life could present, she was unlikely to have Hermes drop in with a message, or go to a party and get off with War.
Marchant had whispered the answer to her question to her at a party to celebrate the four thousand five hundredth anniversary of the Great Flood. Mary wasn’t entirely convinced a Pool Party was in the best of taste, and Noah, to be frank, had a massively amplified sense of his own importance. He had a gaudy house with an entire wall of glass doors opening out onto the pool deck, and wandered around the party in a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators high-fiving the guests and speaking street.
“Yo! Noah! How’s it Hangin’?” said Justin, proffering a palm, never one to be thought off-trend.
“S’good. Ch! Me ‘n’ mi man Japeth bin deekin’ subs, yo.”
“Woah! Epic!” exclaimed Justin, though he had no idea what Noah might have been talking about.
“Hey! Jeez he doin’ it agin!” Noah headed off to discourage Moses from parting the pool, a trick that drew some oohs and aahs the first time, but became a bit wearing on repetition. Geoffrey was as usual grovelling embarrassingly. Here was a man dressed in a filthy knee length shamwar, sandals made from old tyres, and a hat that was actually a nappy, attempting to simultaneously stand to attention, kiss feet, prostrate himself, and salute. He quivered like a neutron gagging for proton penetration.
Justin had just lost 300 shekels to Job in a backroom game of patience, an entirely predictable outcome. He stomped along the side of the pool in a fit of petulance, oblivious to the sight of Neptune bursting from the waves in his customary ‘fashionably late’ appearance.
“What is it with you and money, Justin?” Mary grasped his arm and shepherded him into a small pink cabana, gave him a drink. “It doesn’t mean anything here. What’s the point?”
Justin’s lower lip slid beneath the top one. He thrust his hands into his pockets and she could see moisture in the curve of his lower eyelids.
“You don’t understand. You never will. I lived with nothing. We had nothing. The house wasn’t heated, we ate cold tins of spaghetti. I had to piss in a pan. The walls ran with damp, there was mould growing up from the floor. There were rat droppings everywhere. And the smoke! Everyone smoked. There was fag ash in the sink, butts all over the floors. The sofa looked like it had been shot at with a machine gun. The curtains were never open. The room was always dark, there was a stink of rotting food.” He paused, shivered, “God…” he said. Then, as if as an afterthought, “and then when they came home they beat me up. They were always pissed, stinking of beer, and fags, and Jagermeister. And crisps. And they just walked in and saw me and it was as if something went off in their heads, and then they pummelled me.” There was no hiding the tears now, his eyes in full flood.
“Oh, Justin, I’m sorry,” she said, “I never realized your upbringing was so terrible.” She reached for him but he drew away.
“Upbringing? What are you talking about? This was at University.” She pulled her arms into her sides.
“I got those bastards, though. Not one of them ever had a job worth a light. They’re all saying ‘Go large for fifty pee?’ Fucked them good and proper.”
“I’m not sure that explains why you want to line your pockets in a place where there is nothing to spend it on.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Escape.” He said, then leaned back and nodded as if he had just imparted the wisdom of Confucian monks.
“Escape?” she said. “From death?”
“Yeah, but I’m not supposed to be dead, am I? It was a cock up by that caped plonker. I figure that if I can get enough cash together I can buy my way out of here.”
Mary looked at him. He had the appearance of a man selling dirty books behind a Catholic Church, head swivelling to check for a rush of suspicious nuns. In her head, she played out the possibility of convincing him that there was a finality about his fate that no amount of folding green would ever ameliorate. However unjust (and even misguided) the actions that brought him to this place may be, they were no more so than the cruelty of terminal disease or traffic accidents for those who lived a life of healthy purity, or took utmost care when in proximity to automobiles. But she had, through no fault of her own, spent a good deal of time in the company of Justin Marchant, and there would be as much point to this as in telling him that he wasn’t a business genius.
So, he had ‘designed’ A-Bay, a bartering system made possible by the proliferation of Afternet terminals around the Afterworld, from which he skimmed a small commission from each transaction. Well,
he had mumbled something about such a system, and Mary had designed it. The money from that, however, had been spent on funding a journey back to the living world for Marcel and Mary for the trivial purpose of averting an apocalyptic meltdown in the afterlife. Thor had put a stop to A-Bay when his valet sold his hammer to a percussionist in the Afterworld who wanted to get a decent sound for his band on their rendition of Elbow’s Grounds For Divorce.
What Justin now described as ‘my new app’ paid a familiar debt to his efforts, that is, none. As soon as it had become apparent to Mary that she was going to have to be the one to accompany Marcel in his hunt for a safe haven/Heaven, two things had begun to prey on her mind.
The first was that she had spent some time alone with Marcel before, when they returned to London to spike the Devil’s plan to unravel The Afternet, and she was not entirely comfortable with the feelings for him that had developed in that time. The Marcel she knew now was a physically attractive, erudite and protective charmer, with, admittedly, a barely constrained propensity for irrational violence. All a woman ever wants. The Marcel who had lived, who came to this pass, who had, it would seem, annoyed even The Devil enough to be singled out for personal attention, was a philandering murderer, amoral and cruel. She just found him hot, and wasn’t sure why.
The second was that when they left Geoffrey and Justin together there was just a chance that Marchant, confronted with the reality of the suppurating boredom of life with Geoffrey that Marcel had endured for decades, might convince himself that he was actually an IT expert and begin playing about with the Afternet. Sure, the central system was protected, but in her experience blunderers were just as likely to break a sophisticated security system as so-called experts, and there was just a sliver of a chance that Justin could accidentally hit some keys in a damaging sequence.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 69
