Afterlife

Gloria’s voice echoes in my ear as I weave my way down the street. I utter some apologetic words into the phone, dodge round a group of tourists and step into the road. Someone shouts and I look up and see the bus. I draw a sharp breath in, there’s a moment of sharp pain and then I’m standing in front of a pair of automatic doors.

Gloria’s voice has gone. I look at my phone. ‘No network available’. Around me stand several people all wearing similar stunned expressions. As we stand, more people appear out of thin air and stand looking surprised.

Through the glass of the doors a young woman beckons impatiently. I take a step forward at the same time as another man and I stop and wave him through first. Others step forward and I wait politely until they’re all in then step through. The doors wheeze shut behind me.

The young woman stands, twisting her hair round her finger and chewing gum. The wings sprouting from the back of her green uniform shimmer in the fluorescent light. I look at her enquiringly and she motions with her head towards a large group milling about ahead of me. I thank her and join the crowd.

A line of supermarket checkouts stretch to the horizon, manned by more green uniforms. I look for one to join but they all have queues stretching back into the distance.

“Please use the fast lane, we are experiencing increased demand in the checkout area at the moment,” shouts a plump woman. She holds a green arrow above her head with ‘SPACE HERE’ marked on it. Her wings flicker angrily.

I follow the arrow to a bank of screens and stand in front of one. A jaunty female voice greets me. “Welcome to the fast lane. Please press ‘start’ or scan your deeds to begin.”

I reach out and touch ‘Start’ on the screen.

“Please scan your deeds.”

I frown at the screen

“Please scan your deeds.”

I look round for assistance. An older man, wings drooping, slouches over and gives me a withering look. He sighs then grabs my hand and places it palm down onto the panel in front of the screen.

“Scanning items,” the voice says brightly.

My name appears at the top of the screen: ‘Colin Farnsworth’. A blur of words stream across beneath it. Two columns of numbers begin to accumulate, one fast, one ticking over occasionally. A high-pitched ping announces the end of the process. The words ‘Level 3’ flash on the screen.

“Please take your receipt from below the scanner. Thank you for using the fast lane at the Afterlife.” A slip of paper curls out from the machine. I tear it off and look at it.

‘Colin Farnsworth. Years on Earth: 38. Good deeds: 8,639. Bad deeds: 81. Destination: Level 3.’

I look up to find the old man glaring at me. I open my mouth to ask what is going on, but no words come out.

“You’ll want to see the chief.” He points to a door marked ‘Manager’ then slopes off to help a confused-looking old lady at the screens. I step up to the door and raise my hand but the door opens before I can knock.

Inside sit two people, a man and a woman, on a bench along one wall, clutching their receipts. A plain wooden door stands opposite the one I just came through. Behind a desk sits a bored-looking young woman touching up her lipstick. She nods to a seat. “You’ll be seen shortly.”

I sit down next to the man who is quite fat and wears an expensive suit. Gold rings adorn his pudgy fingers. I glance at his receipt: ‘Level 39’.

A buzzer sounds on the desk and the receptionist signals the woman through the other door. We sit and wait for a few minutes until the buzzer sounds again for the man in the suit. He heaves himself up and goes through. A few more minutes pass and the buzzer goes again. The woman raises her eyebrows at me disinterestedly. Nervously, I get up and push the door open.

Inside is a large wood-panelled office, dominated by an immense mahogany desk. The person behind the desk gestures me into a chair. Cautiously, I sit. He smiles at me.

“God?” I venture, uncertainly.

“If you like,” he grins. He is smaller than I expected. His voice has the quality of a movie trailer voiceover. “Smoke?” He offers me a cigarette. The ashtray in the centre of the desk spills over with cigarette ends.

“No. Thank you.” I manage. “So, is this…?”

He spreads his arms wide. “Welcome,” he states, then pauses dramatically, “to the Afterlife.”

“So, I’m…. dead?”

“Yes you are. Hit by a bus. Never stood a chance.”

“Oh.”

“Show me your receipt.”

“Sorry? Oh, yes, here.”

He examines the slip of paper and shakes his head sadly. “Level three, eh? Oh well.”

“What does it mean? Level three?”

“Well, you know, it could be worse. But then again, it could be a lot better.”

“But I’ve always tried to be a good person. Look at the number of good deeds.”

“Well, there was your first mistake, right there.”

“Mistake?”

“Yes. You see, level three is… not a great place to be. Not as bad as level one, mind,” he shuddered, “but definitely not good.”

“What’s not good about it?”

“Well, it’s really too hot. And the clothes are itchy. And the other people are just annoying. Bitter, whiney individuals, full of self-pity and regret. No fun at all.”

“But, I always looked out for other people, always tried to help. I wasn’t greedy, I gave to charity, I volunteered at soup kitchens. I didn’t drink or smoke or swear.”

“Well, smoking and drinking are fun. You really fucking missed out.” He blew a smoke ring towards me. It dispersed around my head, making my eyes water.

“But what about the meek inheriting the earth?”

He laughed. “I can’t believe people buy into all that religious stuff. That’s all about controlling the masses, keeping peace and order. Not coveting your neighbour’s ox or whatever. Nothing to do with me.”

“But what about Jesus?”

“Oh yeah. Real nice guy. He’s been in level one for like, two thousand years, and boy is he pissed off about it.”

“But why is he in level one? Why am I in level three? It all just seems so… so unfair.”

“There’s nothing unfair about it, buddy. It’s just the way life is. Life is there for those who go out and grab it by the balls,” he demonstrates with a viciously cupped hand. “Look,” he goes on, “the clues were there. Look at the successful people, the ones with the money, the men who get the hot women, the philanderers, the gluttons, the selfish, the liars, cheats and thieves. The ones who would sell their granny for the right price and buy themselves a Lexus with the proceeds. They’re the ones who get it, who understand. They’re the ones going to the higher levels.”

I digest this for a moment, then ask, “What are the higher levels like?”

“Well, they get better obviously, as they go up. Level forty-two is the best; it’s hard to describe how incredible it is, what with all the food and drink and great sex and the finest TV. It’s amazing. I just love hanging out there.”

“But I have to go to level three.”

“Afraid so. Here, you’d better take this.” He passes the receipt back. “Never mind, eh? You want me to say something about you in my voice?”

“Sorry, what?”

“You know, ‘Colin Farnsworth was a man on a mission’ that kind of thing? Some people like it. Makes them feel they’re in a film. Takes their minds off the eternity of misery they’re facing. No? Suit yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. No, it’s okay, thank you. I don’t want to keep you.”

“I have all the time in the world. Just step through that door.”

I stand and walk to the door that appears in the panelled wall. It opens onto a brightly lit space. I look to God who waves briefly as he lights another cigarette. I turn back to the light, take a deep breath and step through.

It’s a bus terminal. A confusion of signs adorn the metal structure pointing every which way. My head spins and I sink onto a metal bench. Staring at my receipt with its tally of good and bad deeds I feel the anger grow.

All those times I put other people before me. When I lent the money I saved up for a new TV to my brother and never saw it again, when I told my best mate I wasn’t interested in Debbie Grant and then watched him go off with her. Those times I volunteered to walk home in the rain because there wasn’t enough space in the car, all the helping ungrateful, smelly old people with their shopping. I always, always let someone else have the last biscuit in the packet.

“Hey you.” The fat man in the suit is standing in front of me. He waves his receipt at me then gestures at the chaos around us. “Can you work out what the hell is going on here? I need the bus to thirty-nine.”

“Yeah, sure, let me just see that.” I grab the receipt from his hands and shove him hard. He falls to the floor, then I’m off and running, his bellows ringing in my ears. I run out onto the concourse and see a bus, ‘Level 39’ displayed above the window. I leap on and flash the fat man’s receipt at the driver. He nods me back to a seat and pulls the lever to shut the doors. The bus starts to move.

I hear shouting and the fat man is running up, his face a dangerous purple. I take my receipt, screw it into a ball and flick it out of the window. He bends down, desperately grabbing at it, and I watch him tear it open and stare at it as the bus moves away.

His howl of anguish fades away as I settle back into my comfortably cushioned seat and accept a glass of champagne from the attractive hostess. It tastes really, really good.