by Heide Goody
Herbert sighed deeply and mournfully.
He had been a fool to miss the signs: the grubby, poorly managed bookshop, the indifference to personal appearance and grooming, that strange obsession with toy soldiers, the utter lack of interest in finding himself a young woman. Herbert should have recognised him for the psychotic killer he was.
Herbert turned away and went to unlock the door of his own flat. The key stuck in the lock.
Of course, they had moved that satanic fool into his flat. On his recommendation. But he was back now. Surely, it was his flat once more. The fact that his keys didn’t automatically fit the lock annoyed him intensely. He would have to have words with someone.
Not overly sure where he was going, he stomped downstairs once more. Mrs Astrakhan was at the open door of her flat, slipping on her boots.
“They’re a trip hazard, Mrs Astrakhan,” said Herbert, glad he had caught her in the act.
The woman looked up at him, stunned and speechless.
“This is a communal area,” he said, gesturing to the length of the hall, “and we shouldn’t be cluttering it up with personal items. We’ve spoken about this before, haven’t we?”
Mrs Astrakhan’s faced had drained of all colour, her eyes wide with shock.
“So we won’t be leaving them here again, will we?” said Herbert with what he considered an avuncular smile.
“No, Mr Dewsbury,” said Mrs Astrakhan, her voice reduced to a stunned whisper.
“Good. I see no one’s taken the landlords to task over the loose carpet in my absence. Everyone leaves it for muggins here to sort out.”
“But Mr Dewsbury,” said Mrs Astrakhan.
“Yes?”
She prodded him cautiously on the arm to check that he was really there.
“You’re meant to be dead,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “It’s all very inconvenient.”
“But that lad’s up in crown court today for killing you.”
“Today?” said Herbert.
“Then after Mark and Graham there was Trevor. Or was it Stephen? It didn’t end happily with him. Apparently, he’s become celibate and he’s thinking of joining an order of monks. I’ve been pretty much celibate myself since then, not for want of trying.”
“Hold this,” said Clovenhoof and placed a long strand of copper wire in each of Nerys’s hands. “I always thought you and Dave... you know.”
Nerys shook her head.
“I never really considered him as a sexual being. More like a Labrador, really.” She made a noise to herself. “I was never particularly nice to him. I abused his friendship all the time and only realised he was a good friend when I lost him. And Blenda...”
“What about her?”
“I thought some very uncharitable thoughts about her. I imagined bad things happening to her. I’ve imagined that about a lot of people. My daydreams haven’t been nice things. I’ve not been a very nice person at all, have I?”
“No,” agreed Clovenhoof, turning off the switch beside a nearby power socket and plugging in the lamp plug.
“I’m rude to you and Ben,” said Nerys. “And my work colleagues. And I’ve driven away pretty much every friend I’ve ever had. I don’t even love my own family. And I was never the niece Molly deserved to have. I’m a horrible person.”
“And do you wish you had been a better person?”
“Of course I do,” said Nerys, eyes glistening wetly.
“Are you sorry for all those bad things you’ve done?”
She nodded, sending a tear running down the side of her nose.
“Then we’re ready,” said Clovenhoof. “Once you’re in Heaven, you’ve got to find one of the unattended gates and open it up and find a way of pulling me through.”
“And how exactly am I meant to do that?”
“I trust you to think of something.”
“And how I will I get there? Some sort of magic spell?”
“Not quite.”
He flicked the switch on the plug socket. Nerys’s hands involuntarily convulsed, gripping the lengths of copper wire tighter. Her eyes went wide, her teeth slammed together and a strange rasping sound emerged from her tightened throat. Clovenhoof shuffled out of the way as her legs spasmed and kicked.
He watched her the entire time and, when he judged the job to be done, turned the plug socket off again. Nerys crumpled up like a doll, upper body slumping down over her legs, her arms tucked untidily beneath her.
Clovenhoof moved closer and felt for a pulse.
On the floor, Pitspawn made a wordless mewling sound and pointed weakly at Nerys’s body. Clovenhoof frowned at him.
“Of course,” he said. “Your lamp. Did you mind me using it? Was it valuable?”
Pitspawn shook his head and began to cry.
“Okay,” said Spartacus, leaning against the wall outside the Newsmarket paper shop. “Let’s go over it one more time.”
He unwrapped the cube of bubblegum, popped it into his mouth and wafted the wrapper in front of his pet hand’s forefinger, which seemed to act as the creature’s nose.
“We’ll both go in the shop. I’ll distract the shopkeeper with some chitter-chatter and you grab as many of these as you can. Got it?”
The forefinger waggled happily.
“Good,” said Spartacus and threw the wrapper on the floor.
“Pick that up!”
Spartacus looked up to see a dishevelled and harassed-looking man striding up the street.
“I said pick that up,” said the man, stopping, red in the face and very much out of breath. The old guy had a scruffy rip in the top of his jumper and had his right forearm tucked under his left armpit as though he had hurt his hand.
“What?” said Spartacus, encircling the hand with his arm, hiding it.
“That wrapper,” said the man irritably. “You’re littering!”
“That wrapper? I didn’t drop it.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I just saw you do it,” spat the man, regaining his breath but now red in the face for an entirely different reason.
“No, you didn’t,” said Spartacus, “cos I didn’t drop it. Are you all right, mate?”
“Mate? Mate? I am not your mate, sunshine.”
“I’m not your sunshine either. I’m Spartacus.”
“No, I’m Spartacus,” muttered an old codger, stepping past them to get into the paper shop.
“Young man,” said the red-faced busybody. “I’m your elder and better and you should show a bit more respect.”
“You’re a window licker, that’s what you are,” said Spartacus.
“What?”
“Is your mini bus around here somewhere, waiting to take you back to the home?”
“I have never known such rudeness!”
“Really?” Spartacus felt a thrill of pride. “I’m only warming up to be honest.”
“Pick that up now or else,” shrieked the man.
“Or else what?” Spartacus turned to shout into the shop “Ow! Don’t hurt me mister!”
The weirdo took a step away and scowled at Spartacus.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said.
“Okay.”
“But when I see a police officer... not that there are any on the beat these days... always doing bloody admin they reckon.”
With that, the man stomped off in the direction of the town centre, waving frantically at a passing taxi.
Spartacus carefully opened his arm to reveal his pet hand.
“You all right?”
The hand ran an appreciative knuckle against Spartacus’s arm in response. Spartacus looked along the path to where the angry man was striding away, talking about “political correctness gone mad” to no one in particular.
“You ought to be glad you don’t belong to someone like that,” said Spartacus.
The hand pressed itself against him in full agreement.
The queue m
oved forward a couple of feet and Nerys shuffled forward with it. The ground beneath her feet was like hard packed sand. The sky above was a very pale blue and the summer light that warmed her skin seemed to be coming from nowhere in particular.
The queue crept forward a little more. To her left and right were row upon row of white tents and even though she couldn’t see beyond the third or fourth row, the sound of voices, activity and music from both sides suggested that she was walking through a makeshift canvas city. The tents billowed softly, more like bedsheets drying on a clothesline than any practical camping tent. She recalled then an afternoon from her distant childhood, making a den with her sister from an old bed sheet and their mother’s clotheshorse.
Nerys laughed at the memory and only then realised that she was meant to be in Pitspawn’s bedroom, had been telling Clovenhoof all the regrettable sins of her life, had thoughtlessly held onto those pieces of wire when...
“Oh.”
Up ahead, at an unguessable distance was a wall of white stone. It ran up into the sky, storey upon impossible storey until it became one with the pale sky. It ran equally, left and right, over the flat landscape until it was lost in the haze.
An angel came walking down the line. It was obviously an angel. It was wearing a white robe, had a huge pair of wings sprouting from its back and a golden halo of sourceless light surrounded its head. The fact that the angel was carrying a huge grille-fronted stage amplifier in its hands did throw her at first but this oddity seemed to be answered by the arrival of a man.
The big bear of a man wore a long scraggly beard, sunglasses and a red bandana around his forehead. He waved a fat hand at the angel.
“Eh, mate. You’re goin’ the wrong way with that. You need to take it through there for the Robert Johnson and John Lee Hooker set. Ask Red Dog Campbell where to put it. Do not try to rig it up yourself.”
“Yes, Mr Roadkill,” said the angel and departed down a row of tents.
“Excuse me,” said Nerys as the roadie was about to depart.
“What is it, love?”
“Are we...?” She pointed to the wall ahead of them.
“‘Bout half a mile from the first gate. Not long to go now. That’s if you get in.”
“If?”
The roadie shrugged.
“Don’t sweat it. Either way you should come to the festival when it kicks off. Jimi and Janis are gonna be doin’ a jammin’ session with Fats Waller and Thelonius Monk. It’s gonna be awesome.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out.”
Roadkill pointed at her and clicked his tongue.
“Diggin’ the dress, love,” he said and went off in the same direction as the angel.
Nerys looked down at her clothes. She was no longer wearing the top, trousers and cardigan she had been wearing at Pitspawn’s but a babydoll dress and black tights. She ran her hands down her sides and at once realised that she had also lost several pounds in weight. She looked at her hands, the now taut and blemish-free skin. It was if...
“Catherine’s eighteenth birthday,” she whispered.
These were the clothes she had worn to that party all those years ago. She had looked at herself in the mirror just before heading off to the party and thinking – knowing – that this was as good as it was ever going to get. Even though the evening had ended with a most unfortunate threesome, for those few golden hours she had loved and been in love with who she was.
“You don’t need to queue, Nerys.”
A dark-haired woman in a short white dress and plimsolls took hold of her hand and pulled her from the shuffling ranks.
“Don’t I?” said Nerys.
“No,” said the woman, giving her a cheeky grin. “I’ve come to fetch you.”
In the labyrinth of corridors and rooms beneath Birmingham Crown Court, Ben was relieved to see the familiar face of Mr Devereaux, his barrister. Mr Devereaux shook his hand.
“Bearing up, Mr Kitchen?”
Ben nodded glumly.
“Nothing to worry about today,” said the barrister. “This isn’t the trial. You’ll only need to stand there and answer some basic questions. Name, address, et cetera.”
“I understand,” said Ben.
A young man came up behind Mr Devereaux and, standing on tiptoe, whispered something in the barrister’s ear. Ben couldn’t hear what was said but saw the man’s eyes widen. The barrister was silent for a while.
“Tell me, Mr Kitchen,” he said. “Have you heard of the concept of habeas corpus?”
The woman in white led Nerys onward at a brisk pace, overtaking the wide, slow queue of people waiting to get to the gate.
“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?” said Nerys. “I have very specific views about queue jumping.”
“I know you do,” said the woman in white.
“There was this time at Disneyland Paris... Europeans have no notion of how to queue.”
“It’s what makes us British,” said the woman.
“Exactly,” said Nerys and then wondered if the woman was making fun of her.
Up ahead was a tall pair of gates, wrought from a brilliant white material and criss-crossed with intricate filigree.
“The pearly gates?” said Nerys.
“One of twelve,” said the woman.
Nearer to the gates, wooden barriers divided the queue into channels that herded and corralled those hoping to get into Heaven. At the gate itself was a checkpoint and a turnstile which seemed thoroughly modern.
The angels at the gate allowed some people through but a significant number were herded away through a covered walkway that disappeared into the city of tents.
“Herbert said the entry requirements were being tightened,” said Nerys.
“They’ve turned it into a bureaucratic nightmare,” said a blonde woman stepping in beside them.
Nerys looked at her frowning and then realised why she recognised her.
“You’re the vicar of St Michael’s.”
“Was. Evelyn Steed.”
“Nerys,” said Nerys. “I’m sorry you died.”
“Ditto,” said Evelyn.
“I thought you did a lovely job with Briony’s funeral. Even if Jeremy did his best to ruin it.”
“Quite,” said the woman in white.
They had slowed their pace as they approached the gate.
“They’re turning people away on the flimsiest of excuses,” said Evelyn. “I saw them turn a farmer away for keeping two different breeds of cattle in the same field.”
“That’s a sin?” said Nerys.
“If you look hard enough, you can find anything you like in scripture. I hear they might turn on people with flat noses next.”
“You’re having me on.”
The woman in white shushed them with a wave of her hand.
“We’ve got to time this perfectly.”
“What are we doing?” whispered Nerys.
“Sneaking you in. We’ve just got to wait for Joan to distract him.”
They were maybe fifty yards from the gates and up ahead, at the checkpoint, a man with what appeared to be a computer tablet in his hand was deep in heated discussion with a teenager wearing heavy plate armour.
“Joan of Arc?” said Nerys.
Evelyn nodded.
“You’ll like her. Beneath that armour is one hell of a party girl.”
A gaggle of hopeful entrants into Heaven had clustered around Joan and Peter, joining their voices to the argument that was going on.
They approached the barriers to the left of the gate. The nearest angel casually looked their way. Nerys smiled automatically.
“He’s going to stop us,” said Evelyn out of the corner of her mouth
“Just keep walking,” said the woman in white.
Suddenly, Joan of Arc pointed off to the right.
“Oh, my goodness!” she shouted. “A rampaging elephant!”
Angels and humans turned to look. The crowd around the gate swelled and shifted.
There were shouts and cries as people alternately hurried to get away or get a better view.
Evelyn pushed Nerys under the barrier. The woman in white hopped over it nimbly. They walked on briskly, past the turned backs of angels and to the open gate.
Behind them, the man with the tablet PC shouted for order. Nerys did not look back. They went through the gate and into a wide city boulevard lined with yellow-flowered acacias and thronging with crowds.
“That went better than expected,” said Evelyn with a relieved laugh.
A hand came down heavily on Nerys’s shoulder. She gasped.
“So pleased to meet you, Nerys,” said Joan of Arc.
“Er, yes. And you,” said Nerys. “Nice armour.”
Joan gave an ambivalent tilt of her head.
“I’m thinking of changing my image to be honest. It’s not very practical. Or fashionable. Whereas you...”
Joan gestured at Nerys’s party outfit.
“This old thing?” said Nerys.
“And that basque and stockings thing you wore for the Devil Preacher concert.”
“Um,” said Nerys, not sure if that kind of attire was suitable conversation material in Heaven.
“Do you think it would suit me?” said Joan.
The business of establishing the most obvious details of Ben’s upcoming trial seemed to take an impossibly long time. Across court number one, between defence and prosecution, court clerks and judge, empty words went back and forth, names and dates and addresses and legal formalities. Ben, in the dock, felt a desperate need to be somewhere else and yet did not want to miss a word of what was being said, particularly after what Mr Devereaux had suggested to him less than an hour before. When it did come, Ben was so wrapped up in nerves and distracted thoughts that he almost missed it.
Mr Devereaux got to his feet.
“I do have one matter that I wish to bring to your honour’s attention,” he said.
The bewigged judge, Judge Arbuthnot, looked meaningfully at the clock.
“Make it quick.”
“It regards the body of the alleged deceased,” said Mr Devereaux.
“Alleged deceased?” said Judge Arbuthnot.
“Quite, your honour. A source has informed me that the city coroner’s office appear to have mislaid the body.”
