A Fate Worse Than Death Page 16

“I think we can safely assume we’re not in Hell,” I said to Peter, who likewise had somehow managed to raise himself to his feet.

  “So we must still be in Heaven.” said Peter. “Does that mean any escape plan we make is bound to work?”

  I lowered myself to the ground and tried to think through the logic behind Peter’s presumption, but only succeeded in tying my brain into three types of knots simultaneously. Sure, I knew that in Hell things always went wrong, but did that mean that in Heaven they always went right? The idea was alluring, but it had hardly been confirmed by my recent experiences. “I suppose it means that it won’t definitely fail,” I said at last.

  “If it won’t definitely fail, that means it might just have a chance of succeeding,” said Peter, coming down to lie beside me.

  Peter had a point. A plan with a slim chance of succeeding was better than no plan at all. What did we have to lose by trying? After all, this was Heaven. Maybe things here didn’t always turn out right, but surely the big things, the ones that really mattered, would work out in the end. If I couldn’t believe that, then what could I believe?

  “So tell me more about that last plan you mentioned,” I said after a quick assessment of which of Peter’s ideas was least implausible. “The one with the guard and the wooden leg.”

  “You really want to hear it?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, so I might as well.”

  “Well, first of all we have to lure the guard into the cell.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “I don’t know. Tell him it’s his birthday and we’ve baked a cake?”

  “Sounds reasonable to me. What happens next?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “We’ll have you lying on the ground just inside the door, so as soon as he comes into the cell, he’ll trip over you. Once he’s on the ground, I’ll sit on him while you unscrew his wooden leg. It’s a right-hand thread, make sure you remember. You use the leg to hit him over the head and knock him out. Then, if you shake the leg, you’ll discover there’s a little knife hidden in a secret compartment inside. All we have to do is cut our ropes and we’ll be free.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “You’ve covered every angle.”

  “Do you really think it will work?”

  “Well, we know it won’t definitely fail, and that’s good enough for me. Are you ready? One, two, three.”

  Peter and I began to sing Happy Birthday at the top of our lungs. Almost immediately, there was a response.

  “What’s going on in there?” It was a gruff voice from the other side of the door.

  “What do you think?” I shouted back. “It’s your birthday.”

  “It’s my birthday today?” The voice didn’t sound too certain.

  “Of course it is. How could you possibly forget?”

  “We’ve baked you a cake,” added Peter.

  “What sort of cake?”

  “What sort do you like?” I said.

  “Double choc-fudge with strawberry fondant, sprinkled with icing sugar, and topped with a single glacé cherry.” I could almost hear the voice salivating as it spoke.

  “That’s the one,” I said. “That’s exactly the cake we’ve baked for you. Are you going to come in and try some or do we have to eat it all ourselves?”

  There was a pause for a couple of seconds. “I’m not sure if I should.”

  “Come on,” said Peter. “You can’t mean to tell us we’ve spent all this time baking for nothing.”

  “All right, I’ll have a piece. But only a small one, understand?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You’ve got lots of important work to do.”

  There was the sound of a key being placed in a lock, and a click as a bolt was pulled back. In a flash, I rolled across to the door just as it opened to reveal a tall, stocky shadow.

  “Wait a minute,” said the shadow. “I don’t see no cake in here.”

  Then he took a step into the cell. His feet caught on my prostrate body and he went sprawling to the ground.

  With a cry, Peter launched himself into the air, coming down with a thud on top of the shadowy figure’s back. The figure let out a yell and began to twist and flail, nearly sending Peter flying. But the old man was just able to hang on, balancing precariously atop the heaving, tossing mass like a wizened surfer atop a particularly treacherous wave.

  “Quickly, Jimmy,” he called. “Get the leg off.”

  I twisted around so that I was lying on the floor facing away from the man on the ground. Then I reached backwards with my hands and grabbed at the nearest leg. It was a normal leg, no different from mine, apart from the fact that it was probably three times as thick. I rolled around the thrashing figure and reached for the other leg. I stretched my hands back as far as I could, desperately hoping my fingers would touch cold, hard wood, and trying not to remind myself how ridiculous this plan really was.

  My fingers found the leg. It was cold and hard and definitely woody. I grasped the leg firmly and gave it a twist. The guard howled in pain and began to writhe even harder, rocking Peter like a wild bull in a rodeo.

  “Hurry up!” he cried.

  “The leg isn’t coming off,” I cried back. “I can’t unscrew it.”

  “Right-hand thread!” Peter screamed. “Right-hand thread!”

  I turned the leg the other way, and suddenly it gave. I kept on turning until finally the leg came out of the man’s trousers and fell with a rattle onto the ground. I rolled towards it, but immediately found another problem. With my hands tied behind my back, I could pick up the leg but that was about it.

  “How am I going to hit him with the leg? I can barely move my hands.”

  “Your feet,” Peter yelled, his voice quavering from the strain of staying atop the bucking figure. “Grab it in your feet.”

  I dropped the leg, twisted around, and picked it up between my feet. Then I slithered along the floor like a seasick caterpillar until I was lying adjacent to the man’s head.

  “Quickly,” Peter cried. “I can’t stay on much longer.”

  I raised my legs and then lowered them again, bringing the wooden leg down upon the guard’s head with all the force I could muster. Straightaway, his movements ceased. Peter rolled back onto the ground and lay there panting.

  “The knife,” he said. “Shake the leg and the knife should fall out.”

  I raised my legs again, holding the wooden leg up above the ground and shaking it for all I was worth, but nothing came out of it.

  “You’re holding it the wrong way,” Peter said. “Give it to me.” He lifted his feet up and somehow I managed to pass the wooden leg across to him. He deftly flicked it over, and a small knife fell to the ground with a clang.

  Peter dropped the leg and rolled towards the knife. He picked it up in his hands and rolled back to me. We both twisted around so that we were lying back to back, and he cut the ropes at my wrist. I took the knife from him and cut the ropes at my ankles. Then I cut the ropes on Peter’s wrists and ankles, and we both stood up, unbound at last.

  The guard was still lying on the ground with the keys in his hand, completely oblivious to everything around him. I grabbed the keys, and then Peter and I walked out of the cell and into a dark tunnel, closing and locking the cell door behind us. We were free.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” I said to Peter as we made our way along the tunnel.

  “Nowhere in Heaven I’ve ever been before.”

  We continued walking. It was damp and musty. Water dripped down on us from the ceiling and cobwebs brushed our faces.

  “What made you think of that plan?” I said. “The wooden leg, the right-hand thread. How did you come up with all those details?”

  “Simple,” said Peter. “It’s how the detective escapes in the book I’m writing.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who wrote it.”

  �
�Yes, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  “Well I guess I can take it from here. Our next plan should be to find a way out.” I paused for a moment, listening intently. “Before someone else finds us.”

  Peter stopped too. We could both hear it now. The sound of footsteps, ahead of us and approaching quickly. We turned and hurried back the way we had come, eventually finding a small alcove in the wall. We squeezed in and waited as the footsteps grew louder. Then, out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Short and skinny, he appeared as threatening as an anorexic kitten.

  “I’ll deal with him,” I whispered. “You wait here.”

  I jumped out of our hiding spot and lunged at the little man. I grabbed him around the neck, aiming to drag him down and pin him to the ground. It all worked perfectly—except for the one minor detail that when the dragging and pinning was complete, I was the one being held to the ground. For a puny little figure, this guy was amazingly strong.

  “Are you dealing with him?” Peter called.

  “Maybe I could use a little assistance,” I yelled back as my head was slammed into the floor.

  Peter came charging out, huffing and puffing like a weatherworn locomotive. At full tilt, he barreled into the side of my tormentor. The overly-muscled midget was barely knocked off balance, but it was just enough for me to tear myself away from his grasp. Though his hands reached for me, he only succeeded in ripping a long scratch on my arm with his fingernails. Then Peter and I were gone, scurrying away along the tunnel.

  Almost at once, we heard the midget’s footsteps in pursuit. He was as surprisingly quick as he was surprisingly strong, and the footsteps gained rapidly. Luckily, not far along the tunnel, we found another hollow in the wall. Right in the nick of time, we darted into the tiny space as the little man raced past the opening.

  “Looks like we’ve given him the slip,” whispered Peter.

  “Yes, but for how long? We can’t play cat and mouse in these tunnels forever. We need some sort of weapon to fight him.”

  “What about the knife?”

  “The knife?” I plunged my hands into my pockets, but all I could find were the keys I’d taken from the guard. “I thought you had it.”

  “I gave it to you.”

  “I must have put it down when I picked up the keys. Damn, we’ll have to improvise. Do you have anything in your pockets?”

  Peter reached into the pockets of his robe.

  “Not much,” he said, holding up the spoils—an old pen and a packet of chewing gum.

  “Give them to me,”

  He handed them over. I unscrewed the pen and removed the ink cartridge. Then I took a stick of gum and put it in my mouth. I chewed until the gum was soft and sticky, and pulled the small wad out of my mouth.

  “Weapon,” I said holding up the empty pen in one hand. “Ammunition,” I added, holding the soggy piece of gum in the other. I handed the packet of gum back to Peter. “I’ll be the gunman. You keep me supplied with ammo.”

  Peter immediately pulled out a stick, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew. I loaded up the pen with the piece of gum I was holding and waited. It didn’t take long for our pursuer to realise he’d been sidetracked, and we soon heard his footsteps returning. When I figured he was in range, I placed the pen to my lips, poked my head out of our little nook, and blew.

  I miscalculated. He was much further away than I’d hoped, and the gum fell harmlessly to the ground at his feet. Now aware of our presence, he flattened himself against the side of the tunnel.

  “So that’s your game, is it?” we heard him call to us. “Well, two can play at that.” Then, from down the corridor, we heard the sound of chewing.

  “Hurry up,” I said to Peter. “He’s armed too.” Even as I spoke, a wad of gum sailed across the front of our hiding space and stuck to the wall right next to my head.

  “I’m chewing as fast as I can,” Peter mumbled as he handed me another wad of gum. I reloaded, stuck my head out, and shot. This time, I narrowly missed his face. He returned fire, and I only just managed to pull my head in as the gum flew past.

  So the gumfight continued to rage. Soon the tunnel was thick with flying gum. It was all over the walls and ceiling, smearing down like fluorescent pink stalactites. But with each shot, our enemy seemed to be creeping closer. We could hear him as he slid along the tunnel. In barely a minute, he would be onto us.

  “Come on, chew faster,” I urged.

  “This is the last piece,” Peter gasped as he handed it to me.

  This was our final chance. Desperate action had to be taken. I lifted my knee and snapped the pen into two pieces.

  “What are you doing?” said Peter. “That’s my favourite pen.”

  “Was your favourite pen.” I placed a piece of the gum in each of the broken pen halves and I handed one to Peter. “You shoot for the right eye. I’ll shoot for the left.”

  At that moment, the little man jumped in front of our hiding place. He laughed and raised his pen to his lips.

  “Now,” I cried, and we both shot. Two perfect bull’s-eyes. The man screamed and reeled back, clutching at the gum that was embedded in his eyes. I grabbed Peter by the arm.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  We dodged the little man as he stumbled blindly around the tunnel, and we raced away. Finally, after what seemed like miles, we reached the end of the tunnel. We passed through a door and found ourselves in a white corridor lit by fluorescent tubes.

  “I know where we are,” said Peter. “This is the lower level of the Pearly Gates.” He turned and looked at the door we had passed through. “And this is the door to the broom cupboard.”

  “I guess someone had a lot of brooms they needed to store,” I said. “Looks like they’ve been digging right under your nose.”

  “Well, they’re not digging themselves out now,” said Peter, slamming the door shut. “Give me those keys.”

  I handed over the keys and Peter locked the door. Then we dashed up the stairs and burst into his office, where we found the bellhop sitting at the desk. For an instant, his face betrayed shock and disbelief. But he quickly composed himself, stood up, and smiled.

  “Peter, thank heavens you’re all right,” he said, pretending to sound pleased and doing a frighteningly good job of it.

  “What are you doing?” Peter demanded, eyeing the papers that the bellhop had been rummaging through.

  “I’ve been looking after your paperwork,” said the bellhop. “With you gone, someone had to accept that responsibility.”

  “Don’t believe him,” I said. “He’s the one. He’s their man in your organisation. Without him they could never have dug those tunnels under the Gates, or breached your security when they kidnapped you.”

  “Peter, you can’t believe what he’s saying,” said the bellhop, and his voice was silky smooth. “Surely you’d take the word of one of your employees over a no-good derelict.”

  Peter looked closely at the bellhop. “So you’re one of my employees. Funny, I can’t seem to place you. Can I please have a look at your ID?”

  The bellhop started to reach into his pocket. Then, without warning, he sprang across the room and lunged for the door. But he never made it. I grabbed him and pushed him hard against the wall. Savouring every moment, I raised my fist and pounded it into his face. As the impact of the blow sent his head jerking back, I noticed a small object falling to the floor. For a fraction of a second, I caught a glimpse of his face, eyes wide open but alert to nothing. Then he collapsed with a thud.

  And that’s when I knew him. That’s when I figured out who his accomplices were, trapped in the tunnel below. That’s when I realised exactly what their plan was, and suddenly I was very, very afraid. I turned to Peter.

  “Shut the Gates. Now,” I ordered. “Don’t let anyone into Heaven until I give the word. And lock this dirtbag in the broom cupboard with the others, right away.”

  “Why? What in Heaven is happening?”

  “I h
aven’t got time to explain. I’ve got to speak to God. The very future of Heaven as we know it is at stake.”

  CHAPTER 16

  AFTER MY BRIEFEST CONVERSATION with God yet, I was able to quickly convene an impromptu meeting of the Heavenly Council, or at least what was left of it, plus a few extra attendees. We met in a grand hall whose walls were decorated with vast tapestries depicting some of God’s greatest moments, including the creation of man and woman, the parting of the Red Sea, and the invention of the remote control.

  The splendid atmosphere of this fine hall was in no way reflected by the mood of the other four participants at the meeting. God sat at the head of the table, His head resting in His hands. He looked like the weight of the world was sitting upon His shoulders, and when it came down to it, I suppose it was. On either side of Him sat Sally and the Devil, each carefully avoiding the other’s glance while concentrating the fury of their gazes upon me. Slightly apart from the others sat Jessie, whom I had demanded the Devil bring up with him. She was still wearing her street mime bodystocking, and her eyes were focussed on everything in the room except me.

  I stood up. It was time to get the meeting started.

  “First of all, I would like to apologise on behalf of Peter, who is unable to attend this meeting due to some important matters he is dealing with. Therefore I will be taking his place today.”

  “This better be important, Clarenden,” muttered the Devil. “I’ve had to cancel my squash game to be here.” This was plainly true. The Devil was wearing shorts and sneakers, and a racquet lay on the floor at his feet.

  “If you think we don’t have better things to do than sit around listening to you, you’re a bigger fool than we took you for,” added Sally with a flick of her golden hair.

  I laughed grimly. “Oh, you want to listen to me. Especially you. You’re the one who’s always so keen on keeping undesirables out of Heaven. Well, let me tell you, it’s too late. The undesirables are well and truly here. Just take a look at all the rubbish and the filth piling up on the streets outside.”

  “I don’t have to look outside. I can see it right in front of me.”