by Heide Goody
Arbuthnot looked to the prosecution and the representatives from the Crown Prosecution Service.
“Is this so?”
“A clerical oversight,” said the barrister for the prosecution.
“You knew of this?”
“They assure me that it will turn up.”
“Turn up? It’s not a TV remote or a pen to be lost down the back of the settee!”
“Indeed, your honour,” interjected Mr Devereaux. “A search has been made of the mortuary and the body of Herbert Dewsbury cannot be found.”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” said Judge Arbuthnot.
“And may I suggest, your honour,” said Mr Devereaux lightly, “that without a body there cannot be a murder trial.”
The Disneyland metaphor seemed increasingly apt to Nerys. The cobbled streets were spotless. The angelic staff were all smiles and helpful comments. The spires of beautiful white towers rose in the distance like an infinitely more tasteful version of the Magic Kingdom’s castle. And yet, like the very worst theme parks, the place was overcrowded, noisy and seemed unreal, ready to crack at the seams.
Joan seemed to read her mind.
“Over ten billion people crammed into a cube not big enough to contain them. We’re not at saturation point yet but it’s not far off.”
“A lot of people sleep rough in the parks,” said Evelyn. “Someone started up a free blankets programme but that was stopped by the KHH squads.”
“KHH,” nodded Nerys. “Keep Heaven Holy.”
“All overseen by the Doctrinal Diligence Ministry with the Archangel Michael as its figurehead.”
“One moral slip-up and you’re out,” said Joan.
“I think I’ve met Michael,” said Nerys. “Several times. I suspect he might be a complete git.”
“The worst kind. He thinks he’s doing the right thing. Now we’ve got to get you to the next gate so you can let your friend, Clovenhoof, in.”
“You want to help me?”
“Of course,” said the woman in white.
“But he’s the devil.”
“And he was an angel,” said Evelyn. “The angel, in fact.”
“Heaven has a problem,” said Joan, “and I think we need his help to fix it.”
“How far away is the next gate?” said Nerys.
“Five hundred miles along the wall.”
“Five hundred miles? Can we... fly?”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll take the monorail.”
“Monorail. Of course,” said Nerys. What theme park would be complete without its own monorail?
“The monorail station-” began Evelyn but had the words knocked from her as Joan suddenly pushed the three women through an open doorway and into a gallery hung with illuminated manuscripts.
Nerys looked around.
“What are we...?”
“Shush,” said Joan and looked out through the doorway. A quartet of figures, two angelic, two human, all wearing a purple sash strode past.
“KHH squad,” said Joan.
“Are they looking for us?” said Nerys.
“If not already, they will be,” said Joan. “Particularly when they find out we’ve got these.”
She raised a pair of large keys in her hand.
“Are they St Peter’s keys?” said Evelyn.
“Uh-huh. I picked his pocket when his back was turned.” She slipped them back beneath her breastplate. “And that’s not easy to do while wearing gauntlets, I can tell you.”
Judge Arbuthnot stared at Mr Devereaux over steepled fingers.
“Are you trying to suggest that Mr Dewsbury, the alleged deceased is not, in fact, dead?”
“I don’t think I would be quite so presumptuous,” Mr Devereaux replied.
“I think that to make such comments would be upsetting to the deceased’s family.” The judge raised his eyes to the public gallery, looking for a grieving wife or, at least, some misty-eyed friends but found none. “And it would be time-wasting flimflammery of the highest order,” he added.
“I present these facts to you with an open mind, your honour,” said Mr Devereaux.
“We are all in agreement are we not that a man has died and that that man is Herbert Dewsbury?”
“Of course we are, your honour,” said the barrister for the prosecution.
“Except...” said Mr Devereaux.
Judge Arbuthnot cleared his throat.
“Except what, counsel?”
“There have been some issues with the forensic evidence also.”
The judge glared at him.
“Do tell, Mr Devereaux. Speak plainly, omit nothing and, above all, do be quick about it. This is my court, not yours, so stop playing to it.”
Mr Devereaux consulted his notes.
“A number of samples taken from the scene of the crime have gone missing. To be plain and omitting nothing, the West Midlands Police forensic service have no blood, tissue samples or other genetic material belonging to Mr Dewsbury.”
“Another clerical error?” said Judge Arbuthnot.
The barrister for the prosecution shrugged.
“They have the bags, beakers or whatever it’s stored in,” said Mr Devereaux, “but they are empty.”
“How is this possible?”
“I do not know, your honour, but may I submit to you that, while the coroner’s office and police force put their house in order, it would be illegal to keep a man imprisoned for a crime that may never have happened.”
Heaven’s monorail was silent, fast, efficient and clean and bore no relation to any British form of public transport Nerys had ridden on. It was however crowded and most people had to travel standing up, making it very much like the best of British transportation. Despite making stops every few minutes, it had apparently covered most of the five hundred miles to the next gate in less than half an hour.
The elevated monorail presented an excellent viewpoint of the Celestial City. Leaning over a seated couple who were conversing in what appeared to be Latin, Nerys watched the vast cityscape roll past. She was no expert on architecture but Nerys could see that the city was an unplanned mish-mash of building styles. Red brick apartment blocks and mansions of stone stood beside long wooden halls and rude earthen huts. Among the stout temples and soaring cathedrals were white wooden churches and squat stone chapels. Domes, ziggurats, minarets, towers and spires, any of which might have ranked among the wonders of the mortal world, were commonplace.
“It’s not as green as I’d expected,” said Nerys. “Those Jehovah’s Witness leaflets painted a false picture.”
“There’s no room for green spaces,” said Evelyn.
Joan consulted the route map on the carriage wall for the umpteenth time.
“Speaking of which,” she said, tapping the stop labelled ‘Blessed Animal Sanctuary’, “we can get off at the next stop.”
“About time,” said Evelyn, stretching as much as she could in the crowded carriage.
“It might not be soon enough,” said the woman in white.
Nerys followed her gaze along the carriage to the furthest door. Nerys saw the purple sashes.
“But are they specifically looking for us?” said Nerys. “Let’s just act casual. Wing it.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” said Joan.
The Keep Heaven Holy squad were working their way down the carriage, speaking to every person in turn.
“What is everyone showing them?” said Nerys. “Were we meant to buy tickets?”
Evelyn produced a laminated card from her pocket. Nerys peered at it. It had Evelyn’s photo on it, a date of death and a complicated paragraph of words that might have been an address.
“Residency permit?” read Nerys.
Joan and the woman in white had cards also.
The KHH squad were coming closer. By unspoken agreement, the four women began moving along the carriage, away from the sashes. Nerys apologised repeatedly as she squeeze through the press of bodies.
/> “So Heaven is a totalitarian state,” she said to Joan.
“Always was,” said Joan. “Just used to be a benign one.”
“And God allows this?”
“Who knows? Access to the Empyrium is restricted.”
“The what?”
“Empyrium. The seat of the Holy Throne. Where God lives.”
They had reached the end of the carriage with no way to progress further. They positioned themselves at the door with the other three women arranged in front of Nerys.
“I thought God was everywhere,” said Nerys.
“Yes, he is. And he’s in the Empyrium.”
Evelyn looked ahead along the track.
“Not far to the station,” she said.
“Too far,” whispered Joan and then gave a cheesy grin to the sash-wearing man who was now standing before her.
“Permits,” he said flatly.
“This is mine,” said Joan loudly and thrust her card in his face.
The man gave it a cursory glance and tried to pass it back to her.
“Do you think that picture does me justice?” said Joan.
“Your card, madam.”
The man pressed the card against Joan’s breastplate and let it drop. He clicked his fingers for the others to pass theirs over.
The three other KHH sashes had finished with the other passengers and now approached the women. The woman in white made a big show of searching herself for her permit.
“I’ve only been here three weeks,” she said, grinning. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
“For your sake it had better be,” said an angel.
Three weeks, thought Nerys.
“We’re coming into the station,” said Evelyn.
“Permits,” said the angelic sash and held out his hand to receive them.
“Here it is,” said the woman in white and held it up for inspection.
“Got mine here,” said Evelyn and waved it vaguely at them while she looked out of the window.
Nerys could feel the monorail slowing.
“Your card, madam,” said a sash and, without looking, Nerys knew he was talking to her.
“This is hers,” said the woman in white, passing her own card over again.
“No,” said the man. “This is yours.”
There was a platform beside the door now but the monorail had not yet stopped.
“Do you want to see my card again?” said Joan and thrust it into one of the angel’s faces.
“Madam,” he said, looking past Joan at Nerys, his sandy hair ablaze with light, “your permit. Now.”
“I’m over six hundred years old but I think I can still pass for nineteen, don’t you think?” said Joan.
The angel stretched an arm forward and gently but implacably swept Joan aside.
“Hey,” she said, “you can’t push me around.”
As the monorail came to a halt, the angel gave the French martyr a contemptuous look.
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Joan and rammed a gauntleted fist into his nose, flattening it against his face.
The automatic doors shushed open and Nerys leapt out onto the platform, followed rapidly by her three friends and, shortly after, by four KHH sashes, one of them clutching his smashed nose.
“Stop!” yelled one of the sashes.
“No!” yelled Joan and the four women ran.
“No, your honour,” said Mr Devereaux. “I am not offering an opinion on whether Mr Dewsbury is dead or alive. What I can say is that the Crown Prosecution Service holds no evidence to suggest that any corpse was found in Mr Kitchen’s flat.”
“With your permission, your honour,” said the prosecution barrister, “there is the photographic evidence. The scenes of crime officers took many photographs of the body.”
“And have these photographs been mislaid as well?” asked Judge Arbuthnot, a little giddily.
“No,” the prosecution assured him. “I even have copies here with me.”
“He does indeed, your honour,” said Mr Devereaux. “Photographs of what appears to be a human corpse.”
“Appears?” said Judge Arbuthnot, his voice shooting up halfway through the word.
“Mr Kitchen is a gifted model maker. My learned friend’s photographs will no doubt feature the paints and model-making materials that Mr Kitchen has throughout his flat.”
“Is this so?” said Judge Arbuthnot and Ben, who had been watching the proceedings with an anxious detachment, realised that this question was addressed to him. “Was the corpse in the trunk a model?”
“Jeremy told me to make it as a model for Pitspawn,” Ben heard himself say.
“Please, your honour,” said the prosecution barrister. “Mr Kitchen readily confessed to the murder. Without prompting.”
“As might any man in Mr Kitchen’s fragile state of mind,” said Mr Devereaux.
“Fragile?” said Ben.
At the base of the stairs leading down from the monorail station was a narrow street, a row of closed up buildings and a wrought iron gate leading into a park area. Nerys grasped the gate, pushed and then saw the padlock and chain.
“They’re coming!” yelled the woman in white.
Nerys read the wooden sign pinned to the gate.
“Sanctuary for Blessed Animals. Closed for Redevelopment.”
“Duck!” shouted Joan.
Nerys turned as one of an angel with a broken nose came swooping down on an eight-foot long wingspan. Joan stepped forward and swung her broadsword upward, neatly clipping the angel’s wing and sending it slamming face first into the wall next to the gate. She turned and, continuing the same stroke, brought the sword down on the chain securing the gate. The chain shattered.
They barrelled through into the park and ran on towards the colossal wall that marked the city limits. As she ran, Nerys realised that the body she had possessed as an eighteen year old, the body she now possessed, was far fitter than the one she had left behind on the floor of Pitspawn’s room. Sprinting through the parkland, past animal enclosures and pastures, was an almost enjoyable experience.
An angel in a purple sash landed with a thump on the path ahead of them. He pointed a silver spear towards the women.
“Through here,” said Joan, vaulted a fence to the side, sliced through a wire mesh fence and ran on through a herd of pure white horses. She slapped one on its hindquarters with the flat of her blade to scatter the herd.
“Joan’s enjoying herself,” said Nerys as they followed in the wake of the now stampeding horses.
“I don’t think she gets out much,” replied Evelyn.
“Over there,” said the woman in white, pointing.
Nerys looked.
“Are those lions and lambs lying down together?” she said.
“Mmmm,” nodded the woman in white. “Do the lambs look nervous to you?”
“Through here,” cried Joan.
Nerys glimpsed a larger group of purple sashes off to the left but was distracted by events over to the right where the stampeding horses had crashed into an enclosure for large mammals. A great animal cry went up.
“We’re not exactly being subtle,” said Nerys.
“Can’t be helped,” cried Joan, skirting a deep fishpond and joining a path that ran towards the city wall.
A man in a brown robe with what appeared to be a giant grizzled wolf on a lead was hurrying towards them along the path. Nerys couldn’t sure if he was hurrying to intercept them or hurrying because the snarling beast on the lead was pretty much dragging him along.
“Twespassers! Vandals!” he cried. “The sanctuawy is closed!”
The shadow of an angel passed over Nerys.
Joan ducked sideways and leaped into another enclosure. Nerys leaped after her. Something squeaked and slipped beneath her feet.
“Not the wabbits!” cried the robed man. “Have you no wegard for your fellow cweatures?”
“Sorry, Frank!” called Joan, kicking aside a fat w
hite ball of fur.
They scrambled up an embankment at the far side of the rabbit enclosure. In the distance, the lisping curator was berating someone else. There was a cry of “mind the whinocewos” and then an almighty bellow of animal, human and angel voices.
Evelyn pointed.
“There’s the gate.”
It was a gate very much like the one by which Nerys had entered Heaven albeit closed and unattended.
They put in a final sprint to the gate and, with the sounds of animal confusion fading behind them, it seemed that they had left their pursuers far behind. But then, emerging from behind a row of trees, came a band of half a dozen KHH sashes, and at their head was a man Nerys had glimpsed less than an hour before, although he hadn’t been wearing such an expression of fury before.
Joan skidded to a stop.
“St Peter,” said the woman in white, almost running into the back of her.
“Do you think he wants his keys back?” said Evelyn.
“Mr Kitchen has had a traumatic year,” explained Mr Devereaux, “and has had a number of stressful encounters with the law.”
Ben felt the urge to ask his barrister what on earth he was on about but, since the man was apparently working for his benefit, he did his best to nod in mournful agreement.
Mr Devereux picked up a sheet of paper and read.
“He was briefly detained following a police raid on a rock concert at the beginning of the year and although no charges were brought, your honour, I believe the incident had a profound effect on him. Only a few months later, he was captured and tortured by a known bank robber in a case of mistaken identity. The police arrested him yet again and, once again, he was released without charge.”
“Are you suggesting Mr Kitchen is being persecuted by the police?” said Judge Arbuthnot.
“I’m painting a picture, your honour.” Mr Devereaux consulted his notes. “Then there was the nasty business of the house fire.”
“Is this relevant?”
“Mere scenery, your honour. Mr Kitchen has obviously been under a lot of pressure and has been caused a great deal of embarrassment of late. Shall I mention the woman’s head?”
“Woman’s head?”
“Found in his wardrobe by the police. Not a real head of course, your honour. It was part of a – how shall I put it? – a mannequin. A marital aid, if you will.”
