The Things We Learn When We're Dead

by Charlie Laidlaw

  ‘I’m in Heaven,’ echoed Lorna, taking a deep breath and pinching herself hard on the palm of one hand with fingers from the other. Her lungs worked, she could experience pain. ‘Then that presumably means I was a good girl.’ All good girls go to Heaven, everyone knew that.

  ‘Were you?’ asked Irene.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Irene lit yet another cigarette and offered Lorna the packet. Strangely, she couldn’t remember whether she smoked or not. Irene appraised her for a moment. ‘Anyway, you won’t find many of us who are judgemental. As far as we’re concerned, it doesn’t really matter whether you were good, bad, or indifferent. Believe me, we’ve all been here too bloody long for that kind of crap. But we are, I assure you, rather interested in why you’re here.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be here? After all, I’m dead.’

  ‘Technically, yes.’ Irene blew smoke at the ceiling and refilled their glasses. Lorna stared intently at the floor. ‘True, you were involved in a road accident. You remember that. True, you’re dead. I think you now believe that, don’t you?’ Irene peered closely through another exhalation of smoke. ‘Also true, your ashes were scattered on North Berwick Law. But none of that gets closer to explaining why you’re here.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, frankly, neither do I. It is rather a puzzle, you see. Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘I’m dead. Dead people go to Heaven. Or did I miss something in Bible class?’

  Irene was scaring her again. Why was she suggesting that Lorna had arrived in Heaven on false pretences? And why the hell couldn’t she remember more about her former life? All she could remember were fragments; spinning shards that didn’t fit together.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about Bible lessons, Lorna, because they are somewhat irrelevant in Heaven. Irrelevant and inaccurate. Not, of course, that I’m blaming scholars or prophets, but all your great religious texts don’t quite describe Heaven as it actually is. They describe how ancient scholars thought how it might look. All complete bollocks, of course. You really don’t have the smallest inkling why you’re here, do you?’

  Lorna shook her head warily.

  ‘Everyone who comes here is here for a reason.’ Irene let this sink in before continuing. ‘Although the realities of Heaven and eternal life are not exactly what you learned in Bible class. Actually, persuading you of your death was the easy bit,’ Irene said with a sigh. ‘Believe me, explaining the next will be a little harder and may require ... how should I put it? ... A certain suspension of disbelief. It might be best if I left that until tomorrow.’

  ‘Irene, I really do believe I might be dead,’ countered Lorna. ‘Believe me, that has already taken quite a lot of suspended disbelief.’ Didn’t everyone go to Heaven? Or just everyone with a spotless soul? I’ve never done anyone any harm, she wanted to say, just in case it made a difference. But she simply couldn’t remember. Maybe she’d been a mass murderer.

  Irene stubbed out her cigarette, her lips curled downwards. Lorna was again struck by incongruity; Irene was Kate Winslet, but wasn’t. Her voice was all wrong; it held an edge of harshness, and her eyes were again hard and appraising. ‘To be blunt, this facility isn’t quite the Heaven you might have imagined.’

  That word again. Facility. ‘Until a few moments ago, I wasn’t certain that Heaven existed.’

  ‘Well, clearly it does or you wouldn’t be here.’ Irene drew her to her feet and motioned Lorna to follow her to the closed curtains. ‘Don’t worry, young Lorna. But perhaps I should show you what your new home looks like.’

  Irene drew back the heavy curtains to reveal a large observation window, through which Lorna looked out on the vastness of space. A hundred metres away, the same giant hull she had seen earlier, crystal walkways leading between there and here. On its flank in burning gold letters, HVN. It shone in a celestial fire, bathed in starlight from surrounding galaxies, the most breathtaking, impossibly large, and beautiful thing that Lorna had ever seen. Earlier, thinking herself alive, it had caused her to faint; a final impossible fact on top of too many other improbabilities. Now, dead and scattered, Lorna saw it through different eyes, the eyes of the child who had watched a Star Wars video and been transformed. If there was a Heaven, it had to be among the stars. She had known it, always known it. She pressed her fingers to the cold glass. The other hull was simply enormous: it stretched far to her left and right, its great length illuminated by a universe she didn’t recognise while, inside, Heaven’s newest occupant stood awestruck and incredulous. In that transfixing moment, Lorna truly believed. Nothing on Earth could have conceived or constructed a thing of such immense beauty and placed it among the stars for nobody to see.

  ‘I really am dead,’ she said finally.

  ‘Afraid so, petal.’

  ‘There is a God, isn’t there?’

  Irene nodded. ‘We all need someone to look after us, Lorna. Of course, there’s a God.’

  ‘Will he tell me why I’m here?’

  Irene cleared her throat. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that he will,’ Irene replied, sounding uncertain and avoiding eye contact. ‘But to be blunt, God isn’t the person you think he is either.’

  ‘Will I get to meet him?’ she asked.

  Irene looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Actually, you already have.’

  Lorna let this pass, still looking outwards. ‘Then does it matter what we’ve done on Earth?’ she asked. The cold, white lines of the giant hull now seemed almost antiseptic. ‘All those sins that we’ve committed. The really big ones, Irene. I mean, is God a forgiving kind of God?’

  Irene put a hand on her arm. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, sweetie. We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Even God?’

  ‘Believe me, petal, mostly God.’

  Then Lorna found herself on her knees, her forehead pressed against the glass. Her legs must have buckled from under her and she struggled to stand up again, utterly exhausted. It was as if a huge weight had been loaded on her shoulders. ‘But I don’t want to be dead,’ she said, finding it hard to speak.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do, sweetie.’

  ‘And my memory seems to have gone haywire. I can’t remember stuff.’ She put her hands to her head. ‘Christ, I can’t remember anything!’

  ‘Your memories will come back, Lorna. It might take a few days but they will. They always do.’

  There was a bedroom next door to the wood-panelled living room and Irene half carried her to a giant four-poster bed. It had snug cotton sheets and a grandmother clock in one corner that gently counted out the seconds. There was also an en-suite bathroom, with a large cast-iron bath with lion’s feet. They’d had one at home in North Berwick, nearly the same, except that this one was in pristine condition, without chips and cracks in the enamel. She’d played with her brother in that bath, floating battleships to one another and then sinking them with soap. Toothpaste and a toothbrush had been laid out.

  ‘I’ll get some other stuff tomorrow,’ said Irene. ‘A girl can’t survive without lippie, can she?’

  The dead weight was still on Lorna’s shoulders and she was too tired to think. She tried to stay awake, to think back, to find a point of singularity that would explain what had happened to her, but the only person she could remember was Joe, the heartless bastard.

  Scarecrow

  She was alone in the flat and had just settled down to a Clint Eastwood film and reheated pizza when the doorbell rang. He was on the doorstep, carrying flowers and cognac, with a look of divine remorse on his chiselled features. Her heart fluttered. She should have shut the door in his face – and would have done just that if he’d phoned in advance. She would have had time to say no, to tell him exactly what she thought of him, to build her defences. But he hadn’t phoned, so she had no defences against his charmer’s smile. She knew he must have planned it this way, to catch her off-guard. Instead, almost without conscious thought, she held him tight, her eyes squeezed shut.

 
; He put his hands upon her and she felt the warmth of his fingers. He kissed her forehead, drawing her face to his with both hands. His fingers felt rough against her cheeks and musty, like mothballs. She knew what was coming next, as his hands now traversed her back, her spine arching. He was whispering endearments, pressed against her on the sofa, empty platitudes meaning nothing. One part of her resisted, the good girl jilted who feels an explanation is in order. That part of her knew Joe best: his heavenly good looks providing easy and practised access to the bedroom. She tried to resist, pushing against his chest to ward him off, turning her face away from his. But there was another part of her that was more accommodating; this part of her suspected his motivation, but didn’t mind. And so she allowed herself to be undressed, turning her face to his, succumbing to him, tasting the familiarity of him and, eventually, tugging at his belt, pressing his face to her breasts, pulling him to the floor.

  Afterwards there was an unexpected ache, like an unscratched itch. She looked down at him cradled in her arms; a lost boy up to no good but who had, at least, returned to mama. But, try as she might, the clock wouldn't run backwards. This wasn't Joe – just someone who looked like him.

  He kissed her. ‘How’ve you been? Still doing the lawyer thing?’

  She shrugged, not entirely sure. Those were the kind of questions that should have preceded sex, not followed it.

  ‘I got myself another job,’ he was saying. ‘Not much of one, but it’s better than working in the bar.’

  ‘That's good,’ she replied without conviction. She realised in the silence of the living room that she no longer knew this man. Joe, who had briefly been at the epicentre of her firmament, the bright star towards whom she had journeyed, was a stranger to her. He had come again into her life without explanation or invitation. Her equilibrium had been shifted.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what it is?’ Joe seemed crestfallen, one hand fluttering.

  She probably didn’t, but asked anyway.

  ‘Radio DJ,’ he said with some pride. ‘Edinburgh FM. I sent them those demo tapes from back home.’ Joe, ever the dreamer, had always wanted to make it big. He’d often talked about doing radio. Back in Melbourne he’d cut his teeth on a hospital station, charming old ladies with hip replacements. ‘It’s not much of a radio station, to be honest, but it’s a start.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. It’s a start.’ She felt weary, not wanting to share his excitement. She’d never heard of Edinburgh FM.

  ‘I do the early show,’ he was explaining, hand fluttering again – a new gesture, one she didn’t remember. She watched his hand warily, fingers now bunched against his palm. ‘Six til eight, Monday to Friday. You should listen in. Maybe I’ll play you something. Would you like that?’

  ‘Whatever, Joe.’ But what could he play? Something sad? Remorseful? Tender?

  His eye had been caught by a placard propped against a wall. ‘Still marching for the whales, I see.’

  ‘Someone has to, Joe. They can’t do it themselves.’ Joe wasn’t a demonstrator, although Lorna had never blamed him. She’d been happy to march for both of them. It was something that she was compelled to do, to turn conviction into action, rather than stand on the sidelines and do nothing. It was her way of being more than a useless student, her way of saying she cared, and not just about whales, standing shivering outside the Japanese consulate in Edinburgh and waving her placard, the one he now seemed to be poking fun at.

  ‘Don’t you ever care about stuff, Joe?’ Without meaning to, she laid her head on his shoulder, smelling the mustiness of him. He smelled of someone she might once have loved. Then she frowned, realising she’d framed this thought in the past tense.

  ‘Not like you, I guess. Maybe when I’m a bit more settled, with a career ... all that shit. Right now, that’s what’s important.’ He laid a hand on her hip, then slipped it round her waist. ‘I’ll leave saving the world to you.’

  She removed her head from his shoulder to look at him. His eyes were closed, his lashes fluttering. Was he still poking fun? With Joe it was sometimes difficult to tell: something in his Aussie accent, the unfamiliar intonations. His hand was now caressing her back, the way she remembered. She knew what was on his mind.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s about saving the world, Joe.’

  ‘Just whales.’

  ‘And other things. People, for a start. People without voices, Joe. Don’t people matter?’

  But Joe was no longer listening, his lips forming moist kisses across her shoulder, and she would once have rolled towards him and held him tightly, willing him to become part of her. Now she found herself resisting, still angry at the way he had belittled her. This time there were no whispered endearments, merely his urgency as if she might change her mind. His body gave her no pleasure: the carpet rubbed against her back. He felt heavy and clumsy.

  Afterwards, they lay on their backs, not touching. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘It's been fucking weeks, Joe. You could have phoned.’

  She saw that he was unnerved. He had expected gratitude; he had expected forgiveness, to be making plans, to be asked to her bed. She realised that Joe had assumed that all he had to do was walk through the door and she would rush to his arms. Which she had done, holding him tight with her eyes squeezed shut. Now at least, he had the good grace to look uncomfortable.

  She felt a tremble in her voice, a black box opening in her mind. ‘Why are you here, Joe? I mean, really – why are you here?’

  ‘To see you, of course.’ The question seemed to offend him.

  ‘It’s been weeks!’ she repeated, the lawyer making sure that the defendant understood the charge. ‘You could have got in touch before now. Anyway, what happened to your trollop?’

  ‘Sarah-Ann? Look, Lorna, it was a stupid mistake. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m sorry. I apologise. Fact is, I’d like us to get back together.’

  ‘A mistake,’ echoed Lorna.

  ‘We all make them.’

  ‘You especially, Joe.’

  He poured brandy into a glass and handed it to Lorna, who refused it. Rising from the floor, she searched for her clothes. She had made herself available, but cheaply, for old time’s sake. It didn’t feel right; it felt like an ending. Through the window, she could see Edinburgh Castle. It was lit up and seemed to float above its rock.

  ‘Suzie will be back soon.’ She felt tired, at a turning point. ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘Lorna, I know what I did was stupid. OK, I know I should have got in touch. I just didn’t know what to say,’ he added, pulling on boxer shorts and jeans, watching her carefully. He reached a hand to her; she brushed it away.

  ‘Just go, will you, Joe.’ She was aware that her voice had risen, reaching that dangerous level beyond which self-control might slip. Her mind lurched, a giddying emptiness rushed upwards. She put a hand to her head.

  Joe sulked. ‘I said I'm sorry.’

  Lorna rounded on him, her voice still rising. ‘No! That's just it! You didn't say you were sorry. You just fucked me on the floor. Twice!’ she added for good measure, her back still tender from carpet abrasions.

  ‘But you let me.’ He seemed genuinely affronted. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, trying to be conciliatory, ‘I prefer the term making love.’

  ‘It’s not a term I ever remember you using.’

  Lorna's mind had lurched: this time a sharp stab of pain in her forehead. She put a hand to her face and was surprised to find her cheeks wet with tears. Joe looked on, as if from a great distance, his fine features encasing someone who had become someone else. Moonlight played across his face, a reflection from the TV caught in his eyes. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘You'd better go,’ she said.

  His face was flushed, hair tousled. He bent to tie the laces of his trainers. But he kept watch on her, frowning. At the door he paused, jacket casually across one shoulder, a lock of brown hair over one eye. It was his classic
pose, his James Dean, the one she remembered best.

  ‘Well, um, so long,’ he said, looking unsure of himself.

  Lorna thought for a minute, savouring the moment and his patent discomfort. She had longed for this man; now, at the end of longing, she simply wanted finality.

  ‘It’s goodbye, Joe.’

  ‘You make it sound like a line from a film.’ He tried to laugh, to regain the situation, to win over her affection.

  She nodded towards the television, the sound turned down low, as Clint Eastwood, gun in hand, dashed from doorway to doorway. ‘All the world’s a play, Joe. You should know that. After all, you got what you came for, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure I did.’

  A weight pressed on her forehead, but from inside. She felt her head balloon out, the skin on her face taut. ‘Just get the fuck out,’ she said.

  ‘Lorna –’

  ‘Now!’

  The word emerged high and shrill, unsettling the dust under his shoes as he turned for the door. He appeared on the point of protesting, but thought better of it.

  The door closed, with Joe safely on the other side, his footsteps receding into distant silence. Whatever she had done, she had done it. Instinctively she looked from the window. She saw him appear in the street, saw him hesitate. Her Adonis, her burning star: he didn't know what to do! She frowned through the glass, shielding her face with one hand as a shaft of light pierced her eyes. Her mind raced. She ran to the bathroom and was copiously sick. Happier memories of Joe were intermingled with darker thoughts. She ran a bath and soaked in it. Then she was sick again, cursing Joe and her cheap availability. The shadows at the back of her mind jostled in. She saw his face forming and dissolving in the steam. She had cast him adrift. Later, she found the one photo of the bastard she hadn’t already torn up and hurled it from the bedroom window. It caught the breeze, turning and tumbling, rising high above the rooftops until it was lost from sight.

  * * *

  In the morning, despite being dead, Lorna felt oddly refreshed. Sleep seemed to have rearranged the jigsaw of her new existence. She knew other revelations would lie ahead, but she now accepted the biggest revelation of them all. A cream polo shirt, blue jeans, sensible underwear, and red trainers had been laid out for her.