by Mat Ridley
“As long as you don’t get too comfortable, right? I mean, if you have all the comforts of home here in Purgatory, then why bother to make the effort to escape?”
“Truly the words of someone who hasn’t been outside the city walls yet.”
“Maybe, but then no-one’s forcing me to go out there, are they? What if I just stayed here in the pub forever and ever? For some people, that probably is their idea of Heaven.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “You’re right, some people do think like that. There are a couple of faces I could point out to you in here that never seem to leave. But they’re very long faces. They can never get drunk enough to forget where they are or who they are. And they know in their hearts that this isn’t their true destiny, that they’re only hiding from God and from themselves.”
Our drinks arrived, tall and clear and beaded with moisture. I had expected to feel thirsty at the sight of them, but then I remembered that thirst wasn’t part of my new body’s design. “Besides,” said Thomas, raising his glass, “I don’t think sitting here and feeling sorry for yourself is your style, Dan. You said yourself that you want to see your wife again, and you know you won’t find her in here.”
I lifted my own glass in a toast. It was deliciously cool to the touch. “In that case—to getting the hell out of here.”
“To mercy.” Seeing the quizzical look on my face, he elaborated. “Think about it. It’s the only way any of us are getting the hell out of here—unless it’s Hell you’re intending to go to, of course. Come on.”
We set off across the pub once again, making our way over to one of the corners at the back. Looking at the faces of the other patrons we passed, I couldn’t see much evidence of mercy there. There was a brittleness about the laughter I could hear, and fear in most of the eyes that met my gaze. More than once I recognised the drawn look of combat fatigue. The cursory appearance of a normal, happy pub was just that: cursory. I realised that most of the people around us were not there to relax after a day of fighting, or to try to help each other figure out how to get out of Purgatory. They were there because they had given up, or were on the verge of doing so. Misery loves company, and there was plenty of both on offer in the Last Chance. As we crossed this sea of the lost, the name of the pub no longer seemed quite so whimsical.
Towards the back of the pub, the almost liturgical murmur of the nearly damned died away, and the dim red light spilling in through the windows yielded to that of the candles that festooned the walls. I could see two figures sitting at the table we were obviously headed for, a man and a woman. For one breathtaking instant I thought that the woman was Joanna, but as she turned to face us, I could see that it was just a trick of the light, exacerbated by the fact that her hair was exactly the same shade of fiery red as Jo’s. I assumed this must be Harper. She eyed me suspiciously as we drew near. She was good looking, that’s for sure, but as I observed her, all I felt was a sharp pang of longing for Jo, made all the more painful by my split second of misidentification. I diverted my feelings by focussing my attention on the guy who sat next to her instead. He looked like a wreck, new body or not. Only the suit of armour he wore seemed to be propping him up, and his cheeks were streaked with the grubby trails of barely dried tears. Whereas Harper’s gaze was steady, his eyes flickered restlessly between Thomas and me, an unhealthy shine stealing into them as we approached.
“Hello, hello,” he called, his voice full of fragile enthusiasm. “Please tell me you’re the ones finally coming to sort out this terrible misunderstanding. Like I keep telling this woman, it’s all a big mistake, my being here. I’m supposed to be in Heaven, not Purgatory. Saint Peter must have got me mixed up with somebody else. That’s okay, I understand. I’m sure it’s easy to do with so many people here; so many sinners, I mean.” The word sinners hissed out of his mouth with as much venom as if it had been attached to a real snake.
Harper looked heavenward and addressed Thomas as her eyes came back down. “Don’t look at me, he’s been like this from the moment I picked him up.”
“You always did like a challenge, Harper.”
“Not really,” she sighed. “Allow me to introduce my good deed for the day. He’s one of the ones who don’t believe it when you tell them about this place. Maybe he’ll listen to you instead. His name’s Abraham.”
Thomas sat down at the table opposite Abraham and looked him square in the face. “Take it easy, Abraham, and don’t let this place scare you. It’s not a mistake, your being here, but at the same time it’s nothing to worry about, either. We’ve all got to pass through on our way to the other side.” Thomas reached across the table to give Abraham a reassuring pat on the arm. Abraham flinched.
“Take it easy, you say! How can I do that when I keep hearing everyone around me talking about demons being out there? Demons! Why has God deserted me, left me in this unholy place? I was a good Christian. I went to church every Sunday. I tithed. I was faithful to my wife. And look at my reward: trapped in Purgatory, surrounded by demons! What did I do wrong?”
“You’ve given me a headache, for starters,” muttered Harper.
Thomas shot her a look. “It’s not a question of having done anything wrong, Abraham, it’s just the way things work in the afterlife. Purgatory is a bit like passport control at an airport. As long as you’ve got the right paperwork, you’ll get through, no problem; you just have to wait until it’s your turn to go through the gate. It certainly sounds as if you were living a good life before you died, so you’ve really got nothing to be afraid of. Here, let me introduce you to another new arrival. His name’s Dan.”
I gave Harper and Abraham a lazy salute. “Pleasure to meet you both, however briefly. Like Abraham here, I’m not planning on spending too long in Purgatory, either.”
Harper raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got it all figured out, eh, Newborn?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve certainly got the motivation.”
“Dan here is very keen to be reunited with his wife. She died just a few moments before he did, and has already transitioned,” explained Thomas.
“Well, yeah, there is that too. But I was thinking more about the fact that the beer here tastes like piss.” Nothing could be further from the truth, but my wisecrack (the best I could do after the surreal day I’d had) evoked a flicker of a smirk from Harper and a look of almost comical horror from Abraham.
“How can you make jokes at a time like this? Don’t you know where you are? Don’t you realise what’s at stake? That a stupid joke like that could damn you for all eternity? That it could damn us all?”
“Calm down, Abraham, calm down. I’m sure that Dan was just trying to break the ice, that’s all. Right, Dan?”
The half-pleading, half-warning look in Thomas’s eyes told me the right thing to say. I shrugged. “Sure, I was just kidding around.” Taking Abraham’s state into consideration, perhaps joking about things hadn’t been the best way to handle him, but I was already slipping into the old soldier’s habit of dealing with adversity by laughing in its face. The poor guy opposite me had probably never had to deal with anything more stressful than being twenty minutes late for work. I resolved to be more tactful if I could. “No offence meant. I’m just as unhappy about being here as you are.”
Abraham shook his head. “I doubt it. If that was true, you wouldn’t make jokes. Purgatory is a place of punishment, and the more things you say to anger God, the worse He’ll make it for us.”
Thomas shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said.
The transformation in Abraham was sudden and shocking. One second he had all the vitality of an overcooked noodle, the next he was almost frothing at the mouth. “How the fuck do you know? What makes you the expert?”
Thomas’s response was as mild as if he had been discussing the weather. “Nothing really. But I used to be a vicar, so maybe I know a thing or two. Not everything—if I knew everything, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now—but I do know that the whole point o
f Jesus being sent to Earth was that we were to be forgiven for our sins. Purgatory isn’t about punishment, at least not in the way it’s depicted in paintings and so on. I think God’s more interested in our attitude towards Him now that we’re here, rather than our actions.”
Just as quickly as Abraham had switched on his madness, he switched it off again. He shrank back into his armour. “Huh, you’re one of that lot, I see. The ones who conveniently forget all about Sodom and Gomorrah, the Flood, the fate of those who chose to worship the Golden Calf. You’re entitled to your views, I suppose. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I know that Purgatory is the place you’re sent to work off the debt of sin you’ve incurred during your life, and I’m just saying: be careful that you don’t rack up any more debt than you already have.”
As much as I was trying to give Abraham a chance, the more he spoke, the less I liked him. Rationally, I knew that I should have empathised with his circumstances. My initial impression—that his hysteria was due to the disorientation of waking up in Purgatory—was giving way to a new realisation: that he was actually terrified out of his mind because finding himself here meant that he’d lived his entire life pleasing a God that had just screwed him over. The exact point in our lives at which God had done so differed—I’d had much longer to get used to the idea than he had—but I could certainly sympathise with his frustration.
That was the side of things my better nature wanted to listen to. But my instincts said otherwise, because Abraham seemed to be exactly the kind of person I couldn’t stand: an intolerant zealot, the type of religious idiot whose every word, thought and deed was designed to shore up his own worldview, regardless of the feelings or opinions of others. In short, he reminded me of Geraldine, and therefore symbolised everything I had grown to hate about God and the Church.
Thomas, ever the diplomat, interjected before any of the bile I felt rising could spill out. “I appreciate your concern, Abraham, and I’m sure Dan and Harper do, too. Like you say, it’s never a good idea to incur God’s wrath... but there’ll be plenty of time to discuss the finer points of theology later. For now, I think we can all agree that our very presence here proves that none of us knows the right answers. Maybe we should talk about something else for a while instead, get to know each other a bit better, what do you say?”
Abraham looked suitably mollified, at least for the moment. I decided to try to help out by changing the subject.
“So what’s the story with you two then?” I asked, addressing Thomas and Harper. “I mean, Thomas turns up to the pub dragging me along, and here you are with Abraham in tow. It doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Are you guys on some kind of induction duty?”
“No, not really,” Harper replied. “But after a while, you get fed up with moping about in your own thoughts, and you start needing fresh input. To help you get a perspective on things. And hey, if you can help someone else out in the process, so much the better. Just so long as you don’t get too attached.”
I looked at her quizzically.
“People don’t tend to stick around for long. Most of the ones I’ve ever dealt with either run off and hide somewhere in the city, or die—I mean properly die, sent to Hell—or else they transition.”
Abraham chipped in. “What do you mean, ‘transition’?”
“Go to Heaven. Saved by God. Spirited away in a flash of blue light. I’m amazed every time I turn around and find the Riverboat Reverend’s still here, to be honest.” Thomas gave a wan smile. “Apart from that madman Jack, he’s the only person I know who’s been stuck here for any longer than a few days. And when someone does go, it’s not like when they die back on Earth, either. Back there you get a chance to mourn their passing, to get used to the idea that they’re dead. Here, you don’t get that, and what little time you do get to mourn, well, it isn’t the same kind of thing. I don’t know why. It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s because death isn’t a great mystery anymore, once you know where someone has gone to, whether it’s Heaven or Hell.”
As Harper spoke, the memories of what had happened to Jo just before I died battered their way through my mind. What she had said about mourning was absolutely right, and I realised that this was the first time since my arrival in Purgatory that I had been able to properly stop and reflect on what had happened to Jo. It wasn’t just those last, fatal shots and her final scream that came to mind, but a rush of other memories, large and small, a tsunami of recollections that threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn’t fight to suppress them. Every one of them taunted me with reminders of what a treasure I had lost, that I might never see her again, or hold her again, or tell her that I loved her again. I just wanted her back, that was all. But the feeling was so raw and so sudden that it threatened to tear me apart.
Chapter 13
My inner struggle must not have been quite as internal as I thought, because I looked up to find all three of my companions staring at me uncomfortably. Harper was the first to speak.
“I’m sorry, Dan. I know it can be tough adjusting to being here, and from what Thomas said just now, about your wife, I guess you haven’t had a chance yet to come to terms with what happened to her back on Earth. I didn’t mean to bring up any painful memories for you. Or you, Abraham.”
Abraham grunted. “No problem. My family were all fine when I left them. They probably think I’ve gone to a better place. Little do they know!”
Harper continued. “Well, I’m still sorry. I know I don’t like being reminded about my old life.”
In contrast to Harper’s sensitivity, Abraham was only too eager with questions. “So how exactly did you and your wife die, Dan? Murder? Suicide? A car crash?”
I thought about the horrific sequence of events that had taken place on the evening Jo and I had died. “More like a train wreck, actually.”
“But you both died at the same time? And she’s already gone to Heaven?”
“Pretty much. I’m still trying to get my head around it.”
“Was she a believer?” Abraham asked, his eyes burning with the fervour that thrummed in his voice.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Abraham seemed to draw strength from Jo’s rapid transition from Purgatory to Heaven and my being stuck here instead. That was more the way things were supposed to work. It wasn’t so much the truth of the matter that made me want to hit him, but the way he almost seemed to be gloating about it. I know that what I said next wasn’t particularly mature, but I couldn’t help it. Being separated from Jo hurt.
“Yeah. I guess God’s only interested in welcoming true believers, not bigots or insensitive arseholes. That must be why He sends them here instead.”
My comment hung in the air like a poisonous cloud. I was dimly aware that Thomas and Harper were talking, both of them trying to defuse the situation, but neither Abraham nor I paid them any mind. All that existed was the two of us and his desire to beat the heresy from my lips, and I was sure that the only thing that held him in his seat was his fear of what a fistfight might do to his chances of going up to Heaven. Perhaps he remembered the name of the pub.
I don’t know how long we sat there like that, Abraham and I; probably only seconds, although it felt much longer. Either way, the moment was brought to an abrupt, terrifying end, as with no warning, a deep, resonant note suddenly sounded from somewhere outside the pub, filling the air and sending our glasses dancing around the table. There was no mistaking the source of the noise: the angels’ trumpets were sounding once again. I looked at Thomas and Harper in alarm, but they seemed unperturbed. Abraham had gone back to looking as small and scared as when I had first met him, our bickering instantly forgotten in the face of the common anxiety we shared at this new, unexpected twist.
Slowly, the sound receded. As it withdrew, a few people around the pub started to get to their feet.
“What the hell was that?” Abraham spoke to no-one in
particular.
Thomas finished his drink and stood up in a single motion, tapping me on the shoulder to indicate that I should do likewise. Across the table, Abraham sat petrified. Petrified apart from his eyes, that is, which rolled around wildly, looking for somebody who would answer his question. He tried again.
“I said, what the hell was that?”
“That,” said Harper, looking distinctly weary, “was the factory whistle. It’s time to go to work.”
For a moment, it looked like Abraham was going to burst into tears, and then, numbly, he reached out and took hold of Harper’s outstretched hand. She hoisted him effortlessly to his feet. “Cheer up, Abe, the angels hardly ever let anyone die on their first foray out of the city. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just try to think of it as a rite of passage. Like getting baptised.”
“Or losing your virginity in the prison showers,” I muttered under my breath.
On the surface, I tried to present the attitude of cool indifference that had served me so well in similar circumstances in my army days, but on the inside I felt as terrified as Abraham looked. The familiar rush of pre-combat adrenaline began to flow through my veins, or at least those of the strange new body I had been given. I only hoped that in the imminent ordeal, this body wouldn’t let me down as badly as the last one had when I was most depending on it. I had already lost Jo once, and next time I died, there would be no more second chances.
We joined the small trickle of people leaving the pub. Most of the other patrons remained seated, unable to hear the summoning sound of the trumpets over the din of their own inner wailing. It was a relief to leave. The moment we stepped out through the door, the atmosphere back inside the pub already seemed unreal and dreamlike, as uncomfortable as a New Year’s party in a cancer ward. Outside, at least you could remember where you were and what that meant. In there, it was all too easy to forget, to turn your back on the strange reality of Purgatory, to hope that what was out here was the dream instead.