For a female angel in Heaven, it’s incredibly difficult to find tickets to a game of football. Not only do most female angels prefer to banish matches to the belching depths of Hell, most male angels prefer to banish females from football matches, since they tend to spoil them by talking, or not understanding. However, this morning, I cunningly reattached Fred West’s false beard, and I’ve stuffed napkins from the greasy spoon into my overcoat shoulders, to bulk them up.
The ex-demon at the Twin Towers box office eyes me suspiciously as I say through the beard, in a gruff voice, ‘Er, ahem, can I have two tickets to Dead England veez Dead Hungary, please?’
I think it’s a safe bet buying England tickets – there’s nothing better to get a man’s testosterone flowing than patriotism and balls. After a slightly awkward conversation with the ex-demon about seating plans, I take the tickets and scuttle away from the Empire Stadium, towards the pink sex cloud, made even pinker by the perky sunrise.
The sweet-and-sour stench of Cloud 8 gets into my lungs as I slip through the crowds of copulating acrobats. Keeping my hand pressed to my mouth – to keep the beard from falling off, and to keep my breakfast down – I follow the trail of uneaten cheese footballs back to Shed 4123. As per usual, the door’s locked. I decide not to knock. Instead, I push one of the tickets through the large gold letterbox, which doubles up as a peephole for passing perverts. I keep my eyes shut tight, until the letterbox shuts again with a heavenly clunk.
Jittery and excited, I hop back towards Cloud 4, using the small altocumulus clouds as stepping-stones. The football doesn’t start for another couple of hours, but I want to get seated, and psyched up for Stevie’s arrival. I hope he turns up. I hope he can sacrifice sex for ninety minutes, to see his beloved Dead England demolish Dead Hungary, and unwittingly bump into his beloved ex-girlfriend again.
Stomach knotted, I trek round the periphery of the Empire Stadium until I come to Turnstiles 1100–1125, then hand my ticket to the ex-demon at the window. The red-headed beast frowns, letting me into the empty 82,000-capacity stadium almost two hours before kick-off. The pitch is still tucked under its protective plastic sheets, though rain seems unlikely – doesn’t the groundsman realise we’re above the clouds?
I skip up the thirty-nine steps to the Royal Box, and take my seat directly in line with the centre spot. With one of my shoulder-pad napkins I buff the scarlet seat next to me, ready for Stevie. Then, I rip off the false beard and undo the Vanilla overcoat, revealing my Very White polyester halterneck to the empty stadium. The wind whistles.
I spend the next hour shaking the royal row, bouncing up and down on my seat as the stadium slowly fills up. Dead Hungary play in a green and white striped uniform – their fans make the south stand look like it’s sprouting mould, as the clock ticks. I take a Matchday Programme from one of the wandering vendors and bury my head in it, killing time.
There’s still no sign of Stevie when the corpses start warming up, half an hour before kick-off. The stadium cheers and swoons when Dead Hungary’s handsome centre-forward, Miklós Fehér, jogs onto the turf, freshly hallowed by Pope John Paul II. Apparently Miki died of a heart attack aged just twenty-four – hence, he’s left behind a beautiful cadaver. In contrast, most of the other players are decrepit old codgers: Stanley Matthews has to play with a cane; scrawny Wilf Mannion looks like a dithering goalpost; Ferenc Puskás has to be pushed out in a wheelchair.
I keep an eye on Miklós as the teams mumble their way through the national anthems, then line up in formation at opposite ends of the pitch. The game’s just about to get under way when I’m choked by the sweet-and-sour stench of sex again. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands – at first in disgust, then in delight when I see Stevie slowly making his way towards the Royal Box.
‘Stevie!’ I say, not sure whether to wrap my arms around him. Instead, I just touch his elbow politely.
‘I I th-thought I’d find you here,’ Stevie says, sitting down on the gleaming seat next to mine. As his bum hits the ruby velvet, the whistle goes. Dead Hungary start out by passing the ball amongst themselves, drawing out a huge dot-to-dot puzzle in the grass.
I’ve been gazing at Miki so much, Stevie seems somehow plain in comparison. But maybe that’s the point – in Heaven, you can lust after as many beautiful, imaginary bastards as you like, but nothing beats rediscovering the one long-lost love of your life. And it’s good to see Stevie with clothes on again.
‘What have you been up to?’ I ask, smiling away inanely.
‘Erm, n-not much. Just just just the shed,’ he replies.
My smile falters. Heaven knows where he gets the stamina to please these multifarious slappers. I stare at the pitch again in a mild huff. For a bit, I watch Jackie Milburn dribbling near the corner-flag, and he hasn’t even got the ball. What a mess.
‘Have you missed me?’ I ask, still looking the other way.
‘Y-yeah,’ Stevie mumbles.
‘You know, I felt awful when you died. Like, I was … thinking of going the same way, you know. I thought it was all my fault.’
‘W-why?’
I bite down on a hangnail. While I’d rather Stevie didn’t know I was intentionally nasty to him in the delicate days leading up to his death, I think it’s high time I told the truth. More than anything, I want him to know I’m not a cruel person, deep down – it was all just amateur dramatics. All just an act that backfired.
‘Er,’ I start, finding it difficult to breathe, ‘well, first I want to say I’m sorry. See, I think I was horrible to you, before you died. I don’t know why. I ruined your athletics kit. And I made Lucifer bite through the telly cable, so we didn’t have to watch the Boro.’
Stevie looks down and smirks bashfully. He whispers, ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Naw, but it gets worse,’ I explain. ‘I … like, it didn’t mean anything or anything, but I accidentally had a kiss with someone, when me and Polly went to China White that time.’
I feel about five centimetres tall, shuffling my sandals on the cold concrete. Stevie blows out a gust of air. A dark gloom descends on us. He wriggles uncomfortably on his seat while I keep my eyes down, bracing myself for a slap across the chin, or an earful of abuse. And I deserve it.
‘S-seriously, don’t don’t don’t worry,’ he says eventually, scratching himself. He looks out across the grass before taking another sharp breath and adding, ‘Well, I I I I feel bad now. Er, see … there’s s-something I’ve got to tell you … I, well, I I don’t know how to s-say this … but, I’d been s-sort of seeing s-someone else before I died.’
A force like a huge red cannonball grinds at my chest.
‘Who?’ I snap.
Stevie makes a slight gagging sound, and says, ‘This N-N-Natalie … she’s this p-pentath-thlete … from the club …’
‘Never,’ I grumble, feeling even smaller.
‘I felt awful. I w-wanted to tell you, but I di-di-didn’t want to hurt you. I d-didn’t know how to break up with you.’ Stevie takes a breath. ‘I’m s-sorry about that note. I di-didn’t get raped by a s-s-s-seal. We went to S-Seal Sands, but but but that painful growth I told you about … it wasn’t from a s-s-seal.’ He takes another breath. ‘It was from N-Natalie. She d-didn’t know she’d been c-carrying g-gonorrhoea. And I d-didn’t want to give it to you … and I di-didn’t know what to do …’
Despite being surrounded by 81,998 noisy football fans, somehow me and Stevie manage to sit in awkward silence for a minute. Eventually – whether genuine or not – Stevie starts to cry from his one good eye.
‘And I I I think I got her pr-pregnant,’ he adds, between sniffs.
I shake my head, remembering Natalie’s bump at his funeral. And her tears.
I want to strike him across the face, but I’m rendered useless by the shock. I ask him, solemnly, ‘Why did you cheat on me? What did I do?’
‘I I I’m sorry, I d-don’t know. C-complacency, or something,’ Stevie offers.
‘But I was just
pretending to be nasty. Just pretending.’
‘It’s n-not that. P-p-people just get bored.’
I feel like an idiot. If only we’d known we were tired of each other, we might’ve made it into our thirties. As it turned out, we were both too timid for our own good. We were so frightened to break each other’s hearts, we ended up breaking everything else in sight instead. All it would’ve taken was something along the lines of, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ or, ‘You’re a boring bastard – I’m leaving.’ Any of those words could’ve saved us.
I bite down on my nail again and draw blood. I think about the common seals, basking on the rocks at the Sands. I wonder why Stevie chose such an absurd lie. Then again, if you’re planning on being unfaithful, you’ve got to be prepared to come up with some far-flung, pathetic excuses for it.
‘B-but, I dunno, I I think you’re right, you know,’ Stevie says. ‘It’s a bit unfulfulfulfilling, b-being with all them weird women.’
I look up at him. Despite everything, it feels like as good a time as any to touch his arm again. In life, as in death, we’ve both cheated on each other numerous times. We’ve both been timid, and we’ve both been terrible people. And, weirdly, we seem to have more in common now than ever before.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I say. ‘A lot. And, I dunno, it seems like those girls are just using you. I reckon, anyway. And I bet they’ve got crap personalities …’
Stevie says nothing. He glances at the football, then back at me, then back at the football. He keeps shuffling from side to side, making it difficult for the angels behind us to see Alan Ball sky one over Dead Hungary’s crossbar. Half the stadium goes, ‘Ooooohhhh!’ while the other half goads, ‘Aaarrrrhh!’
‘I wish we’d just stuck together …’ I say, once the crowds calm down again.
‘Mm, I I I know. I m-meant it, in that note, when I said I l-loved you.’
A smile tugs at my lips. Despite our behaviour, I still think we’ve got a chance of happiness. While the match carries on beneath us, I can feel the north stand shaking, as the cheering builds to an almighty crescendo. I’m not sure if it’s me who’s just scored, or one of the players. Just to make certain, I ask, ‘See, you could always move into mine? I’ve got space – it’s in Methuselah Block.’
‘Mm …’ Stevie hums, mulling it over. I hope he’s thinking about me, more than the girls in Shed 4123.
‘You reckon we might make a go of it again, you and me?’ I ask.
I feel like a junior schoolgirl. Stevie scratches his neck, then rubs his lips and replies, ‘I d-d-d-d—’
I wonder if it’s actually a stammer, or if he’s trying to answer my question in Morse code. I cross my arms, concentrating on the ‘d’ (the one coming from Stevie’s mouth; not the ‘D’ at the edge of the penalty area, where Dead Hungary have a free kick). Does he or doesn’t he want to be my boyfriend?
‘I d-d-d—’ Stevie carries on, red-faced, until finally: ‘I d-d-do.’
Dead Hungary smash the free kick into the back of Dead England’s net, but I still clap my hands on my thighs and grin. Everyone groans as I wrap my arms around Stevie’s neck and give him a long, overexcited kiss. Stevie’s a little taken aback, but he returns the kiss with a satisfying amount of passion. I cling to him gleefully for the remainder of the match (which ends up 6–3 to Dead England, but it’s of no interest to me), then we battle through the angelic, antagonistic crowd, down the terraces and back onto mushy cloud matter. As we float by, everything looks beautiful around us: the police unicorns, the floodlights, the litter bins, the embracing hooligans.
Holding hands, me and Stevie fly at top speed towards the Crystal Castle, trying to keep a conversation going, but the g-force does nothing for his stammer. He seems in good spirits, though, and I can’t wait to get him back to Methuselah Block B, to hug the hell out of him under my glass bedcovers, and start our relationship afresh. He might need a shower first, mind you. All those sluts need to go down the plughole.
‘Do you fancy something to eat?’ I ask, once we’re up in my dormitory.
Stevie perches on the edge of the bed, wearing a wide grin which makes his eye-patch crinkle. He says, ‘Er, y-yeah. Wh-what’ve you got?’
I flutter-hop into the kitchenette. In the fridge there’s half a Big Mac and a bar of Galaxy. I feel uncivilised, like a bachelorette bringing a boy back for a one-night stand, not a long-term relationship. I wriggle awkwardly on the mother-of-pearl lino, umming and aahing, trying to be cute.
‘Umm, aah,’ I say, ‘tell you what: you make yourself at home, love. Have a shower, or whatever. I’ll nip over to Cloud 2 and get us something special. Maybe some Doritos and cheese footballs? And a can of cold Carlsberg?’
‘Y-yeah, alright,’ Stevie sniggers.
As Stevie strips off (something he’s got used to recently), I coyly avert my eyes and slip back out of the dorm. I whizz down the banister, grinning indiscriminately at all the angels that mocked me only two months before.
Back out in the open air, I feel light as a feather, bounding from one cumulus to the next. It feels amazing to have Stevie back, especially knowing that daft, mortal cow Natalie’s still toiling down on Earth, out of Stevie’s reach. I hope she’s suffering from post-natal depression.
As I dash into Somerfield, my heart pounds with joy and lack of exercise. I fill up a basket with Jacob’s cheese footballs and Doritos, then waltz merrily out the back exit, taking the long-cut back to the Crystal Castle. Stevie’s well known for taking ages in the shower (he shaves his legs and chest), so I take my time, tiptoeing from one wispy stepping-stone to the next. I’m so famished, I crack open the Jacob’s canister right away, and kick cheese football after football into my goalmouth. I look out across the Earth’s curved, blue horizon, thinking of all the lovely miracles me and Stevie might be able to conjure up for the folk down there. I could introduce him to my new friends: we could help Donald win the Lottery, clean the faeces and vomit out of Polly’s back garden, and earn the Ristorante di Fantasia a few extra Food Hygiene Stars.
All in all, though, there’ll be no bigger, better miracle than me and Stevie being back together, in Heaven.
I can’t stop laughing, darting around the clouds in a daze. On my ascent back up to the Castle grounds, I accidentally bump haloes with a fellow daydreaming angel – this youngish man with blond curtains and a green and white kitbag.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, with an accent.
When I look up, my heart suddenly pounds in a different direction. I drop the Jacob’s canister, and all the cheese footballs fall to Earth like yellow hailstones. And all thoughts of Stevie fly away on the next gust of wind.
‘Fucking hell …’ I breathe, far too overexcited, ‘er, you’re Miklós Fehér, aren’t you?’
Miki smiles, peering at me through his blond curtains. His mouth opens, but no words come out of it. All of a sudden, the altocumulus beneath my sandals evaporates, and a bright red, open trapdoor appears. I don’t even have time to scream. As I fall, Miklós watches me, astonished, his beautiful eyes becoming smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller. When I’m at least 666 metres into the abyss, a self-righteous voice booms at me, ‘Kimberly Clark! You have been warned! You’ve just committed blasphemy. And swearing, too! And you had your mouth full! Off to Hell! Off to Hell!’
‘No!’ I scream, but it comes out soundless.
I desperately try to grab on to something, but by this time Heaven’s a mere cheese football-sized speck above my head, and the abyss appears to be bottomless, and without a fire exit. It’s no use. Hell’s Bells cry out all around me, nearly-but-not-quite drowning out that self-satisfied, self-righteous voice: ‘And as for you, poor Reader, you’re going with her! Off to Hell! Off to Hell! Off to page 413! Now!!’
NOT THE END
Part 3) Karma Kimberly
Samsara – the constant cycle of suffering (also known as everyday life, death and rebirth) in Buddhism – is like being on a not-very-merry-go-round with all so
rts of wild animals and lost souls, spinning spinning spinning so fast, it’s near enough impossible to get off. The Tibetan Buddhists think of it more like a ‘swamp’ or a ‘dark prison’.
At first, I think the Grim Reaper wants to play ring-a-ring-a-roses with me. He takes my hands and spins me in circles: not the nicest thing to do when someone’s just been in a car accident.
As we spin, the penthouse suite gradually becomes formless and furnitureless, leaving just a bright, white void where the bright, white, minimalist kitchen-diner used to be. I wish I had a pair of sunglasses. It’s like being in the centre of a slow-motion nuclear explosion.
‘OM ĀH HŪM! OM ĀH HŪM!’ I whisper, desperately wanting to please the deities and not be reincarnated as a muddy puddle, or a piece of cat litter.
I wish I’d paid more attention to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Or, at least, I wish I’d paid less attention to the gruesome, turd-guzzling bits and more attention to the bits about improving my karma. After all, the only way to escape the spinning, suffersome Samsara – and attain enlightenment – is by devoting yourself to the mantras, not snacking on your own humandirt.
The Grim Reaper lets go of my hands and I fly into the void. I shriek, clenching my eyes shut, feeling my flesh and bones turning to kaleidoscopic, metamorphic magic dust. When I was young, I often wondered if I’d grow up to be a pop star, or a famous female astronaut, or a good mother, but now all those hopes are dashed. When you find yourself accidentally pushed into Buddhism by the Grim Reaper and a dice-wielding bookworm, suddenly your hopes are different: I wonder if I’ll grow into a flower, or a giraffe, or a wave in the ocean, or a tuna fish, or a cucumber.
A loud, high-pitched purr emits from the Bardo sunburst, like somebody rubbing my head around a giant Day-Glo Tibetan prayer bowl. Soon I feel my DNA gently remoulding itself, stretching me into a scaly sausage shape. When I reopen my eyelids, I’m pleased to see I’m not a muddy puddle, or a piece of cat litter. Instead, I’ve got fangs and sour saliva, and even eviler eyes than last time. And I don’t know if that means I’ve been a good girl or a bad girl.
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