The Reverend Ever gave a knowing smile. “Oh there’s a God all right, Norman. He speaks to me quite regularly.”
“I wish I could speak to him, I’d have something to say to him, by Christ would I.”
“But you can speak to him. Of course you can. I speak to him all the time.”
“Oh yes? Well next time you speak to him ask him why he’s made it so I have to shit in a bag. Ask him that. Then ask him why he’s given me bowel cancer. And given cancer to all the other poor buggers in here. And while you’re at it ask him why, if he’s God, he does such ungodly things, ask him why some people have to die long before their time and why people are suddenly struck blind, deaf, dumb or lame and little kids get incurable diseases. And ask him about tsunamis, pandemics, famine, earthquakes and umpteen other natural and unnatural disasters that ruin the lives of perfectly innocent people. No, Reverend Ever, if there was a God he wouldn’t allow things like that to happen. And don’t tell me God moves in mysterious ways and he only lets people suffer who’ll be able to put up with it because I’ve already had that shite from the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Far from my tirade putting him off the Reverend Ever’s eyes burned even brighter. “It is all part of God’s great plan, Norman. Your death will not be in vain, believe me.”
I turned away from him. “Look, just leave it will you.” I’d heard enough.
The Reverend Ever hadn’t said enough. “You’ll see, Norman. When you go to your reward in heaven.”
What was the point? What on earth was the bloody point? Theatrically I allowed my chin to drop to my chest, shook my head at the futility of it all, uttered a deep sigh and turned to face the wall in a gesture of dismissal.
My dramatics were completely wasted on the Reverend Ever, who prattled on regardless. The only bit I caught was about my circumstances not being beyond hope as long as I drew breath and that Jesus had once visited a man on his deathbed, cured him and told him to take up his bed and walk. I considered telling the reverend that if he did the same today the authorities would be on to him like a flash for encouraging the theft of NHS property but thought better of it as it might have encouraged him to extend his visit.
While the Reverend Ever was quoting something from Corinthians Two, male orderlies two suddenly appeared at the side of my bed.
“Time to go down to the theatre, Norman,” one of them said.
The Reverend Ever expressed surprise. “You are to have an operation, Norman?”
I nodded.
All now became clear to him. “That explains it,” he said, nodding his head in what he must have imagined looked like an understanding manner but which made him look more like someone having an attack of St Vitus Dance. “You will have been sedated. I understand now why you’re not quite your usual self, why you told me to bugger off.”
“Right, Reverend Ever. It’s made me placid. If I hadn’t been quite so placid I’d have told you to fuck off.”
*
The next to last thing I remember of my time on Earth was being asked by the anaesthetist to count backwards from ten. I hadn’t bothered; I knew I would lose consciousness within seconds whether I counted backwards or not. Been there, done that, got the operation scars.
The last thing I remembered, in common with all people who are about to undergo surgery I suspect, was to wonder whether I’d ever regain consciousness.
The treatment planned was an operation to cut away the latest of the spread of cancer, followed by more chemotherapy. Apparently a new drug, some new course of ‘chemo’ - there it was again, good old chemo - had been introduced, and in trials had been successful in fifteen per cent of cases, success being judged as up to another five years of useful life. Mr Matthews had told me that I owed it to myself to try it, and in a weak moment I’d allowed him to talk me into it. Although in truth I couldn’t have cared less; I’d had just about enough of a world that never seemed to tire of kicking me in the teeth. No one was more aware than I was that I wasn’t leaving very much behind. The country had shot its bolt years back. Auntie Betty claimed she’d had the best of it and she was right. She’d been in her twenties in the 60’s when the country finally shook off the effects of the Second World War and started to swing. We’d even won the football World Cup. We couldn’t win an egg cup now. By the time I was in my twenties it was 1980 and the country had swung itself into something completely different. Political correctness had taken root and the suffocating presence of Health and Safety had begun to take effect. By 2011 both PC and H&S were rife and I’d had more than my fill of both. Too many things were now unacceptable that used to be acceptable. I didn’t really want to live in a country where kids weren’t allowed to play conkers any more in case they hurt themselves; in a land where gingerbread men now had to be called ginger persons; in a place where merchant bankers paid themselves more in one annual bonus than a nurse earns in a lifetime, just for moving money around; in a world where you couldn’t smoke inside a pub and couldn’t drink outside it (a few weeks ago I thought I’d got round this by standing in the open doorway of The Grim Jogger enjoying a fag and a pint, one foot outside and one foot inside, but the landlord had told me to cut it out, ‘to be on the safe side’); and, and without at all ever wanting to call anyone a nigger, in a nation where black people called themselves nigger all the time, nigger this, nigger that, but let a white man call a black man a nigger and his feet wouldn’t touch. What was that all about? Obsessed by celebrity and choked by apathy the country had not only gone to the dogs, the dogs had gobbled it up and shat it out. A fair dollop of it directly on me. Well fuck it, they could have it.
*
Suddenly, there was a white light. It took me quite by surprise, I’d been through four operations in my lifetime and in all of them it was as though no sooner had I lost consciousness than I was awake again, no white lights, no nothing.
I’d heard of the phenomenon of people who had technically died for a very short time before coming back to life, in which they’d reported a white light and a tunnel. And dismissed it out of a hand. But there was a white light. Definitely. And a tunnel too.
That was it though. Just the soft white light illuminating the tunnel and a more brilliant white light at the end of it. There was no sense of well-being, no feeling of being removed from the world, no perception of the body from an outside position, no intense feeling of unconditional love, no being presented with knowledge of one’s own life and the nature of the universe, nor any of the other fanciful things that people reported they experienced after ‘death’. Just the white light and the tunnel and the brighter light at the end of it.
The feeling I had was what I imagined it would be like to be in a womb and slowly making the journey through the vaginal passage towards the bright light, just like a baby going through the process of childbirth. Which in a way it was.
Oddly, it gave me a feeling of Déjà vu.
****
PART TWO
IN HEAVEN
CHAPTER SIX
When I came round from the operation I was sitting on a wooden bench in Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester. I noticed that I was dressed in the loose shroud-type garment that patients wear when undergoing an operation. I blinked in surprise. What was going on? How could I have got here dressed like this? I thought back. I recalled that I was in hospital. In the little ante-room where they put you to sleep before you go into the operating theatre. I remembered the anaesthetist asking me to count to ten. Then I had this weird dream about being in a tunnel.
Still drowsy I rubbed my eyes, fully expecting that when I re-opened them Piccadilly Gardens would have disappeared and I’d be back in hospital, back on Ward 12 with Mr Broadhurst, liver, and the rest of them. But when I did I was still on the bench. I tried again, rubbing my eyes harder and longer, but the result was the same. I checked my surroundings again. It was Piccadilly Gardens all right, no mistaking it; there was the Piccadilly Plaza hotel, there was the bus station, down the road a Metrolink tram trund
led by on its way to Bury.
It dawned on me that I must still be dreaming; I was still under the anaesthetic, having a dream whilst undergoing surgery, like I did the last time they operated on me when I dreamt I was being chased by a horde of delectable English Roses and no matter how much I tried to let them catch me I only succeeded in running farther away from them. More of a nightmare than a dream really; waking up in Piccadilly Gardens dressed in just a shroud was far more preferable, believe me.
I pinched myself. I felt it. So it couldn’t be a dream. But if it wasn’t, if I really was in Piccadilly Gardens, how have I got here? I couldn’t have sleepwalked all the way from the hospital, it was over two miles, through city streets. Had leaving patients in corridors due to a bed shortage moved up a level? Had one of the nursing staff dumped me here until I woke up? I wouldn’t put it past them - only yesterday a down-and-out who’d collapsed in the street had been left outside in a wheelchair for want of a bed and only prompt action by a security man had stopped the bin men taking him.
Before I could think of another test of my consciousness - I was still far from convinced, despite pinching myself, that I wasn’t dreaming - a tall man carrying a brief-case and a clipboard approached me. He was aged about thirty-five and dressed in casual but expensive-looking clothes. His long, thin, pleasant-looking face smiled down at me as he indicated the place on the bench beside me.
“Mind if I join you?”
I was still too wrapped up in wondering what on earth was going on to answer. He sat down next to me nevertheless.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m The Archangel Phil. Your mentor. I’ll be meeting with you from time to time until you’re nicely settled in.” He opened a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. “I believe you indulge in these things?”
My mouth fell open. I looked from the man to the cigarette packet and back. He indicated the clipboard. “My information is correct? You do like a smoke?” He took a cigarette from the packet and pushed it into my hand.
My mouth opened and shut silently a couple of times. Words eventually came out. “Can you tell me what’s going on here? Why am I in the middle of Piccadilly Gardens?”
“You aren’t; you’re in heaven.”
“What?”
“Heaven.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I’ve fallen off a flitting? This is Manchester. I know Piccadilly Gardens when I see it.”
The man nodded. “Yes, we always start off new arrivals in familiar surroundings. But after that it’s entirely up to you. Many people head for the continent or the Americas; California and Rio de Janeiro are popular; The Bahamas too. The Maldives, of course. Personally I prefer England’s green and pleasant, especially when the sun shines as often as I want it to.”
Alarm bells started to ring. Suspecting shenanigans I looked around me.
The man picked up on this. “It’s not a hoax if that’s what you’re thinking. There are no hidden cameras. Jeremy Beadle isn’t going to suddenly leap out at you with that inane grin and cackle of his.” He produced a cigarette lighter and snapped it alight. “A light for your cigarette, Norman?”
I sat up. “How do you know my name?”
He referred to the clipboard. “Norman Smith, fifty two years of age, single, 12 Hugh Gaitskill Street, Harpurhey, Manchester?”
“Besides, Jeremy Beadle’s dead.”
“As are you, Norman.” His tone was authoritative, matter-of fact.
Despite the lack of evidence of any cameras or sound booms I was still far from convinced it wasn’t some sort of wind-up. I sneered and dismissed this bloke who claimed he was an archangel with a wave of my hand. “Get away with your bother.”
“You were having an operation, correct?”
“Are you deaf as well as daft?”
“In an effort to cure your cancer,” he continued, disregarding the slight. “You were in quite severe pain, I believe. Are you still in pain?”
“A lot.” As though to confirm this I put a hand to my stomach. But there was no pain there now, nothing, not even discomfort. I pushed down on my diaphragm, gently at first, then quite firmly. Still no pain. I looked at the man in hope. “Was it a success? The operation?” I didn’t give him chance to answer. “Well it must have been, otherwise....” I paused. “But....I mean how come I’m in Piccadilly Gardens?”
The man shook his head. “The operation failed. The reason you no longer feel any pain is because you died on the operating table and have risen to heaven.”
I pushed on my diaphragm again, as hard as I could, trying to make the pain come back. Nothing. Then I realised something. “My colostomy bag! I haven’t got a colostomy bag anymore.”
“That’s right; everyone starts with a clean slate in heaven.” The man paused for a moment then added as an afterthought, “Unless of course you want to have a colostomy bag. However I haven’t come across anyone yet who does.”
I took a few moments to digest the revelations of the past few minutes. Could it be true? What this man who claimed to be an archangel was saying? Heaven? It didn’t look like heaven. Not the heaven of people’s imagination with angels sitting on little white clouds playing harps, like Mr Fairbrother, liver and onions, had jokingly suggested it would be. It looked just like Manchester. I took in my surroundings yet again. My eyes again confirmed it was Manchester. And yet....there was something different about it, something out of kilter, something not quite right.
It took a moment or two before I realised what it was. The buildings. They were the same size and shape as before, mainly Victorian structures littered with a few late twentieth century tower blocks, mostly hotels. But they didn’t look half so grimy as they usually did. It was as though they’d all been newly built. And yet it was Manchester.
Now something else occurred to me. Although it was a cold December day - I recalled seeing snow on the roof of one of the hospital buildings through the windows of the ward - it was a lovely sunny day now, more like July in a good English summer.
The man seemed to have read my thoughts. “I spruced it up a bit for you and got the sun to shine. It’s Manchester in heaven.”
“What?”
“There’s a Manchester on earth, and a Manchester in heaven; and an earth in heaven of course. Have you ever heard of a parallel universe?” I nodded. “Well it’s a bit like that.”
I struggled to take it all in. “So there’s a London, too?”
“Yes, just like on earth.”
“And a France. And an Australia?”
“Of course.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Jesus.”
“A Jesus too. Dead and well in Jerusalem.”
“What? No, I wasn’t asking if....”
The man smiled again. “I know. Just a little joke. You like a joke I believe? Big fan of Peter Kay?” He indicated the clipboard. “It’s all down here.” He tapped the side of his nose with an index finger. “Word to the wise though. Try not to use ‘Jesus’ as an expression of surprise now that you’re in heaven; our Lord Jesus isn’t too keen on blasphemy, as you can well imagine. God neither. Do not take His name in vain and all that. Try ‘Upon my soul’. Much more appropriate.” The friendly warning delivered he folded his arms, sat back and returned to business. “So then Norman, what would you like to do today?”
“Do?”
He checked his watch. It was gold, expensive-looking, like his clothes. “It’s quite early; you have the rest of the day in front of you.”
Still more than a little doubtful about the whole business I wrinkled my nose and said, “What was your name again?”
“The Archangel Phil. But you must call me Phil, everybody does. And you will believe it, I can assure you. So then, what’s your pleasure?”
Only because I couldn’t think of a good reason why not I decided to go along with it for the time being. “You say I can do anything I want?”
“Apart from altering your physical appearance or becoming younger. You have
to stay the same age you are when you arrive here.”
I thought about it for a moment. “What day is it?”
“What day do you want it to be?”
“What?”
“It can be any day you wish.”
“I can choose what day it is?”
“You’re in heaven; you can do anything you please.”
“Can it be Saturday?”
“Every day can be Saturday. Time is timeless in heaven.”
“And I can do anything?”
“Apart from the things I’ve mentioned.”
I didn’t even have to think about it. Not if it was Saturday, which apparently it could be just because I wanted it to be. “I’d like to go and watch Manchester United at Old Trafford. It’s still the week we play....?” I broke off. What was I doing? Had I lost it completely? “Oh this is bloody ridiculous,” I said. “I’m having a dream. I’m having the weirdest dream anybody ever dreamed; I’ll wake up in a minute.”
The Archangel Phil bloke smiled his patient smile. “Not a dream, Norman.” He re-crossed his legs, put the clipboard down and sat back. “You were about to say?”
I accepted the situation, mad as it sounded. Besides, what had I got to lose? So, climbing aboard the nutter’s express again I said, “It’s still the week I died is it? United are still playing Spurs?”
“They can be playing anyone you wish.”
“Anyone?”
“You’re in heaven.”
It was getting better by the minute. “Can they be playing Liverpool?”
“They’re playing Liverpool.”
And better. I saw snag however. “It’s always an early kick-off when we play Liverpool. To control the drinking. What time is it?”
The Archangel Phil shook his head. “You still haven’t quite grasped how things are, have you?”
“What?”
“It can be any time you want. It can be ten-o-clock in the morning or ten-o-clock in the evening, it can be any day from Sunday to Saturday, any day from Boxing Day to Pancake Tuesday, it can be Saturday every day of the week if you want it to be, it’s entirely up to you.” He added a word of warning. “Although if I were you I wouldn’t do it too often or you’ll very quickly become bored with it. The vast majority of people here stick to normal earth timekeeping sooner or later.”
I'm in Heaven Page 6
