A Fate Worse Than Death Page 4

The others in the group murmured in agreement and then took turns approaching the grave. My accountant, Charlie Singbuck, was the first.

  “Jimmy, I’m always real sorry whenever I lose a client,” he said. “But for you I’m happy to make an exception.”

  The next person to approach was Stan, the barman at the Greasy Shamrock, a venue where I had spent a good portion of my waking hours. He wasn’t much better.

  “Jimmy, I just want you to know that business is booming now that we’ve finally gotten rid of you. The Shamrock has never been so busy. Thanks.”

  A group of women followed: old girlfriends or clients, or possibly people I had investigated. I honestly couldn’t remember who was who, although they obviously remembered me. They approached in turn and either cursed me, insulted me, or spat into my grave.

  “Quite a hit with the ladies,” Sally’s voice whispered into my ear as I stood, hoping to place at least one of those vengeful harpies.

  The final person to approach the grave was my old friend, Detective Clyde Harris. Surely he’d have something decent to say about me. Surely he’d be the one person to stand by me, even in death.

  He didn’t say anything. He stood for a moment, staring down at the coffin. Then he sighed, shook his head, and turned and walked away.

  The vision disappeared. The screen went blank and the old painting reappeared.

  “Nice work, Clarenden,” Sally said in a voice of treacle that would have burned through steel. “Nobody wanted you down there. Believe me, nobody wants you up here either.” She laughed again and turned to the other angels, who immediately let out loud and fairly unconvincing guffaws as well.

  “For someone who doesn’t want me here, you seem to be devoting an awful lot of attention to me,” I said.

  She turned to me with a start. For a moment, I could see the anger rise behind her eyes. Then, quickly regaining control, she ripped her gaze away from me and back to her followers.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “There’s no point wasting any more time on this sad excuse for a man.”

  She began striding back down the hall. The other two angels turned and hurried to catch her up. Soon they were nothing more than bobbing points of light, disappearing into the surrounding brilliance.

  At that moment, Gabriel reappeared through the door, holding a number of documents.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. I trust that the company was agreeable.”

  “As pleasant as a bandage soaked in salt. What have you got there?”

  “The lease arrangements for your office. Unfortunately, finding a good real estate agent in Heaven is not easy.”

  There were a bunch of obvious responses I could have made, but I chose not to. Despite my bravado, the observation of my own funeral had affected me. My life might not have amounted to much, but even a no-bit bum deserved a half-decent send-off.

  Half in a daze, I signed the papers where Gabriel pointed and took a key from him. It was only when he spoke again that I was able to pull myself out of it.

  “This way, Mr Clarenden.” He indicated the door that led back to the front of the palace.

  “Just one last question,” I said, pointing up to the painting where a few minutes ago I’d been looking at my own grave. “What’s the deal with the hidden television?”

  “One of many throughout this hall. As you may have already observed, the Master is a big fan of television. When He designed this place, He wanted to make sure He had access to one in all possible locations.”

  “Makes sense. I suppose it helps Him keep an eye on everything that is happening.”

  “Not to mention the daytime soaps. Now, if you would please follow me.”

  We went through the door, down the stairs, and out through the front waiting room. Back outside, Gabriel handed me a map of Heaven with the position of my office marked with an X.

  “Remember, if there’s any further assistance you need, don’t hesitate to call,” he said, making it clear that the more I hesitated, the better.

  I walked away from God’s palace and into Heaven proper. It was sunny and warm, but by this stage I wasn’t much in the mood for sightseeing. Eventually, I managed to find the office. I unlocked the door and poked my head in.

  The office was neat. A neat desk with an old-style telephone, and chairs neatly arranged around it. Nice neat new carpet. Large neat windows, allowing the sun to stream in and illuminate all the neatness. The tiny living quarters that I found through a door on the other side, comprising little more than a bedroom and a kitchen, were neat too. Obviously God didn’t want to spoil me.

  This was definitely not an environment that would be conducive to my style of work. Then again, work was the last thing on my mind at that moment. I collapsed onto the bed, and for the next fifteen hours I rested in peace.

  CHAPTER 4

  I WAS AWOKEN THE NEXT MORNING by sun pouring in through the window. I sat up and checked my wounds, only to discover that during my sleep they’d disappeared completely. Not only that, but my head was clear and my eyes no longer had any problem with the light. The doc hadn’t been kidding when he’d talked about the healing qualities of Heaven.

  As I got dressed, I couldn’t help noticing my clothes were surprisingly free of both bloodstains and bullet-holes, but I didn’t spend too long wondering about that. It was time to start my investigation.

  I returned to the office to make the necessary preparations. First, I did what I could to mess up the handful of papers lying on the desk. Then I looked for something I could use to cover up the windows, but nothing obvious presented itself. Finally, I took the sheets from the bed and shook them around the room, attempting to arrange a little dust over the pristine floor and furniture. It didn’t help. Dirt and grime were in short supply here in Heaven.

  There was no point sitting in a bright and airy office. If I was going to make any headway on this case, I would need to get out and start investigating. I grabbed my coat and hat, opened the door, and stepped into Heaven.

  It was a clear, blue morning. The sun shone down like a great golden bowling ball, and the birds were singing in the trees. I walked down streets lined with small, neat houses behind well-tended lawns and immaculately presented gardens. A parade of people passed by. Most of them were nothing special to look at, but they all had relaxed expressions on their faces. Many of them smiled as they approached, and a few even greeted me pleasantly. The whole thing gave me the creeps.

  I knew that beneath this veneer of contentment, deep, dark secrets were waiting to be exposed. The only thing stopping me from ripping the lid off this place was the fact that I had absolutely no idea where to begin. Heaven was about as suspicious as family day at the state fair.

  I had been wandering aimlessly for about fifteen minutes when I finally managed to spot something that was slightly, vaguely, just a little bit odd amidst this tableau of suburban serenity. I was approaching a school crossing, and standing in the middle was a figure with a large stop sign. This was unusual for two reasons. Firstly, there were no children around. Secondly, there was not a single car on the street. I resolved to investigate this sinister situation immediately.

  As I approached the crossing, I couldn’t help noticing the light that seemed to emanate from the crossing guard. It was one of the angels I’d met yesterday—the male one. I racked my brain, trying to recall a name. My brief encounter had been so dominated by the delightful Sally that I had retained very little impression of the other two.

  The name Raphael popped into my head at the exact same moment I remembered God telling me Phil was supposed to be meeting this angel for lunch on the day he disappeared. It looked like the time for aimless wandering was over. I had reached the starting point at last.

  Raphael was considerably shorter than me, and slight. He had a narrow face, with eyes that stuck out like small, dull billiard balls, and a mouth that seemed to be fixed in a permanent dumb smile. He was wearing the standard robe, but over it was a bright pink sash that proclaimed him
to be a licensed crossing official. Pinned to the sash was a little badge that stated, A smile a day makes Heaven a happier place.

  Raphael’s dumb smile turned into a dumb frown as I approached.

  “You weren’t very nice to Sally yesterday,” he said.

  “Sally wasn’t very nice to me first,” I replied.

  Raphael shook his head. “You don’t understand. You have to be nice to Sally.”

  “Forget about Sally. I want to talk about you. First of all, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m the official school crossing guard.” The smile returned to Raphael’s face and he puffed out his chest. This was obviously a great honour, in his mind if nowhere else.

  “But I don’t see any children crossing.”

  “Oh, they’re all in school now. But I like to stay back, just in case there are any stragglers.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I also don’t see any cars.”

  “There are no cars in Heaven.”

  “No cars?” Was this Heaven or Never-never Land?

  “Why should there be cars? We don’t need to go anywhere. It’s already perfect right where we are.”

  Raphael’s idea of perfect was clearly different from mine, and pretty much every other person’s I had ever met. I let it pass. I was intent on following this line of questioning through to the bitter end.

  “So if there are no cars, why do we need a crossing guard?”

  Raphael’s smile disappeared again, to be replaced by an expression of slight hurt. “To be a crossing guard is to provide a service to the community. What sort of place would Heaven be if everyone went around with your attitude?”

  Exactly the same but without crossing guards, was what I thought about saying, but I didn’t.

  “Of course, you’re absolutely right,” was what I did say. “There are a few other things I’d like to ask you about.”

  “Anything I can help you with.” Raphael was smiling again.

  “Last week, you were supposed to be having lunch with God’s son, Phil. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right. We were going to discuss setting up a charitable society.”

  “A charitable society?”

  “Of course. My chief interest is helping those less fortunate than myself.”

  “What sort of charitable society?”

  “That is exactly what we were going to discuss. I feel that Heaven needs an all-embracing organisation that is capable of meeting the needs of the underprivileged. There are so many things we need to look at. Shelters for the homeless. Toys for the poor, sick kids in the hospital.”

  “I didn’t know Heaven had a homeless problem?” I said. A moment ago, Raphael had been telling me how perfect it was.

  “Of course it doesn’t,” said Raphael, “but that’s no reason not to start up a program.”

  I had a feeling we could go around and around with this for a couple of days. And while the idea of a nonsensical debate with this absurd angel had its appeal, I wasn’t sure I had that much time to spare.

  “So Phil also wanted to set up this charitable society?” I asked, trying to bring the conversation back to the main subject of investigation.

  “Not exactly. He had some concerns. Something to do with cost-effectiveness and return on investment. That’s what we were going to discuss.”

  “But Phil never showed up, did he.”

  “No, he didn’t,” said Raphael.

  “Do you have any idea why he didn’t show up?”

  “Of course I know why he didn’t show up. He sent me a written apology.”

  A written apology from a missing man? Could this be the clue I was looking for?

  “You don’t happen to have this apology with you?” I said, trying to do my best imitation of Gabriel and not sound too interested.

  “As a matter of fact I do.” Raphael reached into his pocket and took out a small note. He handed it to me. I read it.

  Dear Raphael,

  I am sorry I could not meet you. I am extremely busy helping God out with some very important work.

  Yours sincerely,

  Phil

  I had to stifle a chuckle. I’d seen more convincing excuses coming from school kids with missing homework. Then, in response to a tingling in my nose, I held the note up to my face. It reeked of tobacco. That confirmed my suspicions. Clearly this was little more than another of God’s attempts to cover up His son’s disappearance. As a clue, it was as helpful as a telephone operator with laryngitis.

  I made to hand the note back to Raphael, but he was kneeling in front of me, looking at the ground. Eventually, he stood up and held something in front of my face.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  “It’s a chocolate wrapper,” I said, because it was.

  “It’s rubbish.” Raphael screwed up his face as he carefully folded the wrapper and placed it in a pocket of his robe.

  “Can we get back to the subject of Phil?” I said, trying once more to return the note to Raphael.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, taking it from me. “It’s just that Heaven has become such a dirty place lately.”

  “I understand.” Perhaps I lied just a tiny bit, but if Raphael wanted to believe that one piece of garbage on an otherwise pristine street made Heaven a dirty place, I was quite prepared to accept it. “So what do you think about this note?”

  “I think it’s pretty clear. Phil was too busy to meet me.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  Raphael thought for a moment. “It’s funny you should ask that. Most people in Heaven seem to be too busy to meet me. They’re always washing their hair or mowing their lawn or changing the channel on their television. But not Phil. Phil’s usually the one who’ll always be there, rain, hail, or shine.”

  “So why do you think he couldn’t make it this time? Do you have any idea what might be keeping him so busy?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I do recall Phil saying something about . . . ” Raphael’s voice petered out as he lost himself in his recollections.

  “Something about what?”

  “It was something about . . . ” Raphael seemed to be having a lot of trouble remembering. I began to wonder if he really couldn’t remember, or if he was perhaps too frightened to.

  “Tell me.” I grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to shake the memory out of him.

  “Oh my goodness, I just remembered,” he cried, jerking himself away from my grasp.

  “What was it? What did Phil tell you?”

  “It’s not about that. I just remembered my meals-on-wheels service was meant to start five minutes ago. Can you please take this? I have to go right now.”

  Before I could say anything, I found myself standing alone in the middle of the school crossing, holding onto the stop sign as Raphael ran off down the street.

  I stood there for quite a few minutes, just in case there were any stragglers.

  * * *

  On the way back to the office, I decided to make a pit stop at the first bar I could find. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d last had a drink. I needed alcohol.

  Finding a bar in Heaven turned out to be as easy as tying your shoelaces using only your thumbs, or proving that the Mafia in conjunction with aliens killed JFK. After over an hour of searching, I eventually managed to locate a small tavern with the highly unpromising name The Loaf and the Fishes. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  Having spent over a day in Heaven, I was beginning to get accustomed to its motifs. Bright and neat were two of the major ones, and this place specialised in both of them. Still, a drink was a drink. I parked myself at the bar and asked for a double scotch.

  The barman was bright and neat too. He gave me a strange look once I’d completed my request.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. We don’t serve whisky here,” he said.

  “Okay, hit me with a large gin and tonic, and hold the tonic.”

  “Nor do we serve gin.”

  “All right.
What about a beer?”

  The barman chuckled. “I’m sorry, you don’t seem to understand. We do not serve any alcoholic beverages in this establishment.”

  No grog! I leapt to my feet. “I’m sorry too. If you don’t serve alcoholic beverages, then you don’t serve me. I’ll just have to move my business to an establishment that does.”

  “I wish you all the best sir, but I’m afraid you won’t find any suitable premises anywhere in Heaven.”

  I collapsed onto the stool in shock. “You mean I can’t get a drink anywhere in Heaven?”

  “I’m sorry, but that is the case. There are no liquor licenses in Heaven. Nor are there any vineyards, breweries, or elicit moonshine stills.”

  “What can you serve me?”

  “I can hit you with a gin and tonic and hold the gin. Or perhaps you would prefer a lemonade?”

  “Yeah, whatever. I’ll take the last one,” I said, barely listening to either of the options. I was in a state of shock that would probably take me years to recover from.

  The barman bought me a glass full of clear, bubbly liquid. I took a sip. The lolly-water tasted sickly sweet. I screwed up my face and pushed the glass aside.

  “You’re new here,” said a voice beside me.

  I turned. On the stool next to mine sat a middle-aged man. He was dressed in a shabby brown coat and trousers, and his face could have handled a wash and a shave and a fairly complete makeover. In other words, he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.

  “You’re new here,” he said again. “I haven’t seen you before, and I’ve got a great memory for faces.”

  “You’re right,” I said, and I stuck my hand out. “Jimmy Clarenden.”

  He shook my hand. “Alby Stark,” he said, and he handed me a card.

  I read the card and then placed it in my pocket, alongside the one Peter had given me.

  “Celebrity journalist,” I said.

  “I was the best. If you wanted any dirt dug up about anyone, I was the guy you’d turn to. I could tell you all the gossip; who was doing what to whom behind whoever else’s back. I knew it all.” The tone of his voice was angry and bitter.