Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  No one had ever thought it worth blowing up before.

  The bus had been less than half full. Two aged monks and a crowd of jabbering tourists impressed by the precipice and the yawn of scenery drifting below into the haze. The driver had brought his son. The boy was on school holidays and eager to get away from the daily tedium of watching the goats. He sat just behind the driver’s seat, dreaming of driving an even bigger bus when he grew up.

  The dark man had been sitting mid left, suppressing excitement. He had not been afraid. This was glorious martyrdom. His hands flicked at the bag around his neck. He waited only just long enough, impatient in anticipation. He ignited his small parcel when the bus was within just a mile of the monastery, climbing the twist of road immediately below. The bus disintegrated like splintered metal shavings. The explosion was not powerful enough to reach the old stone building above. Besides, only six monks still lived there, dividing their time between prayer, the little kitchen garden, and collecting donations from the tourists. Two were on the bus.

  Fourteen people were killed and two injured. It was the injured who suffered.

  The fourteen dead had found their conversations interrupted, a great shower of sparks shattering into a blue oasis, a sensation of heat turning to a trickle of weightlessness, and a sudden incomprehensible noise. Then they began to crawl from the remains of the bus.

  At first there was the hell of panic and fear. Then all the stench of destruction, the acid of the bomb and the billowed chemical smoke, the broken bodies and their smashed brains and bones and arteries, the baking heat which cooked blood and oil and petrol, and all the smells of the scorched countryside were annihilated as surely as the bus. Finally, even stranger than the dread of fire around them, the perfume of running water blew in like a prayer.

  They called to each other in confusion, reaching out arms for friends and family. The two badly injured lay trapped under twisted metal and wedges of blood sodden plastic upholstery. The others tried to help, to reassure and to remove the imprisoning fragments of steel. They discovered, almost immediately, that their hands would not grip and their efforts were irrelevant. Then they discovered their own bodies, inert and smashed. They recognised their physical remains. It was, without exception, a sickening shock.

  Through smoke, soot and the swirl of ashes, a thicker haze formed, enclosing them into surreality. For a moment they were blind. One of the wounded men had regained consciousness and had started to groan but he was now invisible to the others, the desperate voice of life now hidden from the dead.

  “It’s my husband calling,” screamed the woman. “I can’t find him. What’s happening?”

  “God be praised,” murmured one of the monks. “No one sent straight to the fiery gates of hell after all.”

  “Listen,” said one man. “Let’s be logical. We have to keep together. Does anyone need help? Is anyone in pain?”

  A shuffle of self-discovery, of communal examination. No one was in pain. There was a distinct lack of bodily sensation. “We’re all as light as air,” said another man. “So good. Well, at least fair enough. We’re all dead, aren’t we? The bus had an accident. Killed the lot of us.”

  “This was no accident,” said the bus driver, striding into a clearing in the mist. “This was sabotage. Terrorism. A bomb. Some bastard blew us up.”

  He had his son by the hand, staring around, belligerent. Before the explosion only the two monks had understood the language of the driver. The other passengers had been tourists from other countries. Six or seven languages and a general isolation of misinterpretation. Now, inexplicably, everyone understood everyone else.

  One of the monks was sitting on the ground, nursing his head. “I find this utterly confusing,” he complained. “Where is Brother Martin? Why are we sitting on this dusty road? If we are indeed dead, why are we not in Heaven?”

  “Because no bugger expected us, I suppose,” said the logical man. “Is Heaven set up for unexpected terrorists? And who is the one we have to thank for all this, anyway?”

  The skinny dark man with the satchel still around his neck, was standing a little apart, staring urgently through the mist away from the gaggle of bus passengers. He was waiting for glory to claim him and did not understand why he was still standing, clamped to the company of his victims when he should, as he had always been assured, be snatched into immediate golden paradise and hailed as hero, sacred martyr, lion of God and sainted saviour of the cause. He should by rights have already been standing at the right side of the Lord, garlanded with flowers, a jewelled cup of some kind of ambrosia clutched in his hand, ready for elevation to the highest of all honours. The prolonged wait for such recognition was becoming markedly inconvenient.

  “Him,” said the woman who had sat on the bus seat just behind him.

  Although it was now quite empty, the man dropped his satchel at once, and stared around him wildly. “Keep back,” he warned them. “Any moment, God will claim me. Keep away, or I shall defend myself.”

  “Oh yes,” sneered the bus driver. “How? What will you do now? Blow us up? Kill us again?”

  The woman whose husband was still alive and moaning, flew at the skinny man, grabbing his hair. The terrorist squealed. Nothing was going to plan. “The Lord will strike you all,” he screeched. “I am in the Lord’s service and He will avenge me.”

  The bomber dropped to his knees, ready for immediate vindication. The smoke, both physical from the explosion and swirling blue from the haze of confusion, swept around him and obscured his desperation. The silence seeped in upon them all. Now the moaning from the injured passenger ceased completely. The wreckage of the bus and the blood smeared road were lost in the fogs. There was no sound of crackle and blister, falling debris or the imminent detonation of the bus’s petrol tank. Nor, noticeably, was there any sound of heavy breathing, the panting of exertion or panic. Either everything was muffled by smoke, or there was nothing to muffle.

  The silence became eerie. A heavy set man walked forward and very deliberately kicked the terrorist in the face. Dead, spirit, phantom, or otherwise, the blow connected and the skinny man tumbled backwards with a yowl. He clutched his nose, but it did not bleed.

  One of the monks, sitting still on the invisible road near to the fallen bomber, looked up and sighed. “Punishment, as this young man has pointed out,” he said quietly, “is now for the Lord our God. If we are dead indeed, and it seems to be so, then we should pray for our souls and for each other.”

  “A bit late for that,” remarked the logical man. “No doubt we should have done our praying before now.”

  The second monk was already deep in prayer, crouched away from the others, his fingers so gripped in supplication that the joints appeared fused. His chanting was silent, but he seemed quite desperate to finish whatever it was he begged.

  The woman who had lost her husband began to cry. “So much for God and Heaven. What on earth are we supposed to do now?”

  “For myself,” said the bus driver, who still had a fast grip on his son’s hand, “I’m just pleased the way things are looking. I was never sure about what happened, afterwards as it were. I’m dead alright. I saw the body, large as life, stuck behind the driving wheel with its head crushed through the broken windscreen. In a terrible mess. But I’m still alive, so that’s a relief.”

  “I know what you mean, though you’re not making much sense,” said another woman. “And I suppose someone will come and tell us where to go in a while, when they see what’s happened to us. Angels or whatever. In the meantime, I’m Ethel and this is my husband Ron. We’re on holiday, our first big extravagance after we retired. Bad timing I suppose. Ron was a policeman, weren’t you dear?”

  Ron nodded. “And if I was still alive, I’d know what to do, too. As it is, I suppose arresting anyone is a bit pointless.”

  “We’ll miss the kids,” said Ethel. “It’ll be a nasty shock for them. And Mayleen’s pregnant. She wants a boy.”

  The logical man
said, “My name’s Will. Wilhelm Van Brecht. Look, maybe we can’t arrest the slimy little bastard, but we can kick the hell out of him. He’s murdered us all, for God’s sake, are we going to let him get away with it?”

  “For God’s sake,” interrupted Father Spiro from his place beside the weeping widow, “is surely the whole point here. We must now let God decide in His own domain.”

  “If this is God’s domain,” said Ron, “then I don’t think much of it. It’s not what I would have expected.”

  “Nor him,” laughed the bus driver suddenly, nodding towards the distraught bomber. “He was expecting God to greet him at the golden gates I reckon, complete with awards and laurel wreathes, kiss him on both cheeks, thank him for his brilliant service in murdering infidels, and hand over a couple of virgins as the spoils of heroism. He’s looking a bit green, just finding himself stuck with us.”

  Father Martin looked up briefly, then bent his head back in prayer.

  Father Spiro was still sitting, the skirts of his coarse robes tugged over his bony knees. His beard had become caught in his rosary. “God does not reward violence and hatred. The boy is discovering the truth, alas, too late.”

  “God’s not making noticeable rewards in your direction either,” said a tall, blonde man, “for all you’re a monk. Anyway, standing around here makes no sense to me. We should start walking.”

  The girl at his side was pretty and very young. “I’m Inga. I’m his girlfriend. He’s Sven. I think he’s right.”

  Ron said, “I’m all for walking. So where to? In what direction? And do we leave that little son of a bitch behind to face his righteous and just deserts?”

  “I think all directions are the same,” suggested Inga. “We just have to move on, you know, and leave this behind. Forget regrets. Forget anger.”

  “Forget being murdered?” said the heavy set man. “Might be easy for you. I’ve left family behind, and a good business. That’s a lot of misery, for them as well as for me. And for what? Some whining fanatical little bastard out for blood and revenge, picking on innocent strangers and thinking it’ll earn him eternal Heaven? Eternal damnation, more like.”

  Where the road had been, with its scattered destruction amongst the dust and scrubby bushes, a light was moving like the passage of a river bed, first dry, then shining with flood. It was not liquid; it was the sheen of simple brilliance but beneath it the gurgle of water continued, a sound like cool, distant music.

  “I’ve left my mother,” said Inga. “I’ve left everyone I love. They’ll be so sad. But that’s not the point anymore.”

  “Come on,” said Ron. “Who agrees to move on? We’ll drag that little arsehole with us, and watch him suffer. I’m not leaving him behind.”

  “I’m not coming,” said Mary quietly. “My husband’s still alive somewhere here. I heard him moaning, poor darling, and I’ll not leave while I might find a way to help.”

  “I’ll stay with you if you like, honey,” said Ethel. “You shouldn’t have to stay alone.”

  The light was becoming brighter, and the scent of fresh water was merging with its melody. Mary said, “No, you go on. I don’t mind waiting alone. I can hardly be afraid of Heaven, can I?”

  “People keep talking about Heaven,” said the man who had kicked the bomber in the face. “I don’t see any Heaven. I see fog. This is purgatory. Don’t you lot read your Bibles?”

  “Purgatory isn’t in the Bible, idiot,” said Sven, arm, possessive, around Inga. “It’s an invention of the old church.”

  “Well it’s surely not my idea of Heaven, whatever else it is or isn’t,” said Ron. “So, do we walk or not?”

  “We walk,” said Sven. “Let’s spread out. I need air.”

  The believer in purgatory sniffed. “Air? Why do we need air if we’re dead?”

  “Well I certainly feel as though I’m breathing,” said Sven. “And you haven’t introduced yourself, which isn’t polite.”

  “Me? I’m Francesco,” said the other man. “My wife, Cinzia, and her brother Sergio. Is that enough for you? Or would you like the full details of my family history?”

  “My other brother was with us too,” interrupted Cinzia. “My little brother, a doctor. Dearest Alessandro. We’ve left him in the bus, still alive I suppose. I hope someone finds him. He was unconscious. But I hope he survives.”

  “Poor bugger,” said Will. “It’s us who’ve escaped all the pain and fire. The two left alive, they’ll have all the suffering.”

  “Well, thank you for pointing that out,” said Mary, folding her arms with a sniff. “Insensitive lout. Keep your stupid remarks to yourself.”

  They continued to stand, grouped around the terrorist and the monk who were both still sitting on the invisible road, now supported by the blurred luminescence beneath. The older monk, relaxing the fierce clasp of his fingers, ceased to pray at last, sighed as if assured that forgiveness had surely now been awarded him, scratched his neck and struggled up onto his flat, sandaled feet. The younger monk helped him up and they stood together, gazing hopefully into the light.

  Then as the gold swelled, distant forms began to shape within its halo, and distant voices like the warm buzzing of bees on the breeze. Inga pulled away from her boyfriend and turned, as if recognising something. Her face infused with the increasing light. “It’s my father. Sven, look. My father’s come for me. He died eight years ago, but he’s here, clear and happy and holding out his arms. And my grandfather. Look, can’t you see?”

  Sven shook his head. He saw only shapes, dark and hazy like aliens in a cartoon film. “What are you doing?” He grabbed her back. “Where are you going? There isn’t a road that way. I can’t see a thing.”

  Inga said, “I’m going with my father. I can see the path. It’s very clear.” She pulled away again and Sven found he was holding nothing but the spangle of brightness. Inga had completely gone.

  “Shit,” said Sven.

  “So that’s how it works,” said Father Spiro. “Interesting. Well, at my age almost everyone I ever loved has died and gone ahead. I wonder if one of them will come back for me too.”

  “It’s salvation we need, not family,” muttered Father Martin.

  Behind him other shapes were forming, voices softly calling. The bus driver and his son turned, smiling. “Little Vassili, come with us,” said the voice. The boy laughed and ran immediately into the light.

  The bus driver reached out, and caught only rainbows. “I know your voice,” he said. “It’s been so long, but I know my own mother’s voice. You’ve taken Vassilis, why not me? I’m your son. Take me too. Where are you? I can’t see you anymore.”

  He twisted, turning around and around, confused and miserable, his son gone, the voices faded. “Not your time yet, my child,” said Father Spiro. “We must all wait our time it seems.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” said Francesco. “I want to beat the hell out of this murderous little bastard first. And if that costs me a few extra years in purgatory, then so be it. I want his miserable blood on my hands. I want to break his legs, as he’s done to poor Sandro, my good brother–in-law.”

  The dark skinny man with the satchel curled where he lay, protecting his head with both arms. He began to sob. There was no golden staircase to glory, no panting, waiting virgins, no rewards or praises. He felt the first kick like a hammer against the side of his head, and the second crunched onto his shoulder. Then a boot stamped on his ankle, and he thought he felt it snap. He wailed, beseeching his God and his dead uncles, his esteemed tutor who had died only recently, and even his little sister who had been killed by dysentery two years ago. But it seemed that no one heard him and he felt the other ankle break with a pain that made him sick. He curled over, retching and heaving, his sobs catching in his throat like a gargle as he spewed, and then cried again.

  “For pity’s sake, leave him,” said Ethel. “We all despise what he’s done, but three wrongs don’t make a right. You’re just being unnecessarily brutal.”<
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  “I’m not killing him, am I?” demanded Francesco. “He killed me. Whatever I do, I can’t be as bad as him.”

  “Well, it’s interesting,” said Ron. “The son of a bitch seems in a bad way. You’re doing him damage, no doubt about it. I can hear his bones rattle. Now, who’d’ve thought you could bash a guy up, who’s already plain dead?”

  Wilhelm Van Brecht stood to one side, his smile extending. “This Heaven business certainly isn’t turning out the way I’d have expected.”

  “I don’t know what I expected,” said Sven, watching with interest as Francesco paused, one foot still raised and aiming. “Actually I didn’t think there’d be anything at all. Just worms. But I don’t see why Inga went away without me. That seems pretty unfair. I mean, we were engaged. We died together, after all.”

  “And my son,” moaned the bus driver. “My little Vassili. The pride of my life. Taken from me now, after all this time.”

  “Well,” said Mary, looking reluctantly behind her, still hoping for the appearance of her husband. “You know your son’s alright. I mean, he’s dead of course, but he was taken off by someone who came specially for him. Who was it? His granny? Well, perhaps she’ll come back for you presently. You know you’ll all be together soon. After all, you’re both safely dead.”

  Francesco kicked the terrorist again, bringing one large boot down on the back of his head. “I’ll break his ugly skull open for him. See if he’s got any brains inside at all.”

  The young man screamed, high pitched and sudden. “God will strike you. You will suffer for everything you do to me. My God will protect and avenge me. I am one of the glorious chosen.”

  “Looks like it,” snorted Francesco.

  His brother-in-law caught his arm, pulling him away. “That’s enough. Use your sense. Think of your own salvation.”

  “See if the bugger can walk now,” grinned Francesco, grabbing at the fallen bomber. “See if his spindly legs’ll carry the bastard, now they’re broken like poor bloody Sandro’s.” He hauled the young man up, dragging him partially upright.