by Mat Ridley
In addition to the endless ruins of the city itself, I also finally got to catch my first glimpses of its inhabitants. There was no opportunity for me to stop to talk to them, not without losing Saint Peter, but then their behaviour did little to encourage me to do so. Most of them were hiding amongst the rubble, peering suspiciously at us from behind the rocks—and the grime that smeared their faces—until we had passed on. Some were crying. Some were lying prone on the ground, only the occasional groan giving any indication that they were not in fact dead. Not that anybody seemed interested in checking on them, including Saint Peter. Some saint. Almost everyone we saw was alone.
There was plenty of time to ponder the behaviour of these people as we picked our way through the ruins. Saint Peter had already told me that most of the other inhabitants of Purgatory were engaged in battle, so it stood to reason that those we passed must have been the ones who had opted out of God’s war, the ones who had decided that it was better to stay out of it for whatever reason—fear, disgust, disbelief, denial, pick your poison. I was glad that I had chosen not to go down that route; at least not yet. Maybe some of them were already veterans of the war and had seen enough, so much so that they were even prepared to endure the known misery of life in Purgatory rather than face the prospect of eternal damnation if they were to die out on the battlefield. Without being given the opportunity to talk to them, it was impossible to tell, and it was an opportunity that Saint Peter’s pace did not let me take.
It quickly became clear where we were heading. The city wall stretched across the entire horizon, the only break in its otherwise monotonous appearance being a huge arched gateway that we steadily marched towards. The closer we got to the gates, the more frequently we passed impact craters from the Fallen, many of them still obviously fresh. The dark pillars of smoke that streamed up from them dispersed reluctantly in the wind, each gust bringing a strong dose of the smell I had first noticed when emerging from the cathedral.
As we drew closer to the wall, new sounds began to fill the air, too. It began with sporadic yells for assistance from those who had been unfortunate enough to be caught by the bombardment, or those who were trying to help them. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, these yells were joined by others that I soon determined were coming from outside the city; more shouts for assistance, but also battle cries, howls of pain, exclamations of surprise. The sharp sounds of metal striking metal—and metal striking other, less easily identifiable substances—slowly joined the symphony, until eventually they underlined everything. And most terrifying of all were the increasingly frequent and increasingly loud noises that were impossible to recognise the sources of, punctuating the general cacophony like the peals of thunder in a storm: a deep bellow; an irregular, earth-shuddering series of thumps; the whoosh of an enormous explosion; a protracted, piercing wail that felt like a knife going into my skull. With each step, I grew more and more fearful of what could be behind such an unearthly din.
Eventually, we reached the foot of the gates, thankfully closed tight against the battle raging outside them. All around us, men, women and angels rushed to and fro, all of them clad in elaborate suits of armour. For the humans, the armour was dull, the colour of slate, whilst the angels’ was a brilliant, dazzling white. That wasn’t the only difference: each of the angels’ suits also came equipped with a pair of tall spines rising up above the crowd—not wings in any obvious sense, but it wasn’t hard to see why they might be mistaken for such. Whether worn by human or angel, all of the armour looked heavy and unwieldy, but the speed with which the wearers moved suggested otherwise. Closer inspection revealed that the suits were covered with intricate machinery similar to that on the hands of Saint Peter, and I supposed that that was what gave the wearers such unexpected grace. Nevertheless, it looked horribly impractical: such delicate machinery would most likely become easily damaged in combat, at which point surely the armour would become more of a handicap than a form of protection.
We made our way through the melee towards a squat, smoking building that hunkered down by the side of the gates. This close to the battlefield, the few structures that remained standing bore the scars of war, looking as grim and bedraggled as some of the combatants that limped amongst the crowd. This was particularly true of the building that we now approached. Millennia worth of graffiti covered its walls, and on the roof, an uneven row of spikes thrust towards the sky. Although the shapes that crowned many of the spikes were unidentifiable, I could tell from the sprays of dried—and fresh—blood that trailed down from them, splattering the walls and running along the scoring of the graffiti, that they were grisly trophies of some kind. Perhaps it was for the best that they were too high up for me to be able to discern any more than that.
We came to a stop at the back of a short queue that led through a set of tall, forbidding metal gates and into the building. “Here we are, Daniel. This is the Forge, the first port of call for all of the Newborn once they have left the Temple, and the final stop on our journey together. This is where you will be given the final pieces of equipment you need for the trials ahead.”
“Wait a second. I thought you were going to take me to meet my new comrades.”
“Look around you, Daniel, and take your pick. But your sword and your armour are as valuable a pair of allies as any other you will meet during your time in Purgatory. They await you within; and once you re-emerge, it is over to you. I would wish you luck, but faith will be more useful. I truly hope that you will be able to resolve the conflict that you have with God, and that you will not need to remain in this terrible place for long.” Saint Peter extended his hand towards me, and I instinctively shook it, even though if I had thought about whose hand it was and whom he represented, I might not have. His hand was surprisingly warm.
As he turned and left, I felt a sudden pang of fear. All the while I had been walking with Saint Peter, I had known that I was safe from harm; I mean, no-one is going to let Saint Peter die, right? But now I was moving out from under his wing, so to speak, being left to fend for myself, and judging by the sounds coming from the other side of the city gates, I was soon going to be in grim trouble. Even with all the desire in the world to get back to Jo, even with my new body and all the arms and armour I could carry, I would be fighting against an army—and not just any army, either. All it would take would be one slip, and I’d be going to Hell, with no chance of seeing Jo again, ever. With that thought, the helplessness I had felt when I first came round in the Temple of Rebirth slid back into my mind like an icicle.
“Cheer up! It’s not like you’re on the outside yet,” said the man standing in front of me, poking his thumb towards the city gates, “and the speed this queue’s going, you won’t even get to see your sword and armour before curfew, let alone use them.”
“Curfew?”
“Uh-huh. Every now and then, the angels blow their trumpets and there’s a temporary stop to the fighting. All of the Purgatorians come back inside the city, and we shut the gates up for a while, nice and tight. It’s supposed to give us poor suckers a chance to stop and think about our spirituality, but most people are just glad of the rest.”
“But don’t the demons keep attacking? Surely if no-one’s out there holding them back, they just keep coming and coming? If there are as many of them out there as it sounds like, why don’t they just build a human pyramid, or an inhuman pyramid, and climb right over the walls?”
“I’m sure they try. But once the gates are sealed, that’s it; we’re safe. The Temple might be the only thing here that God protects directly, but the angels look after the rest of the city, at least all the while curfew is in effect. Don’t ask me where they get the energy from to defend a place this big; it’s just one of the many great mysteries of the Lord,” he said, wiggling his fingers in the air as if he were casting a spell. “Just be glad that they do. At least it gives us a sporting chance to recover. If we had to keep fending the demons off all the time with no break, we wouldn’t stand the proverb
ial snowball’s chance in Hell.”
“And what happens when curfew’s over? Don’t the demons just wait by the gates and tear us to shreds the second they open?”
“No, because the angels go out ahead of us and clear them away. To them, it’s as easy as dusting off a chair before you sit down on it. Heh, you almost feel sorry for the demons, until the next time you’ve got one trying to bite your head off. Not that the angels’ work seems to thin their numbers very much. By the time the end-of-curfew trumpets have sounded and you’re back at work, there’s no shortage of the bastards to go round.” The queue shuffled forward a few paces. “My name’s Thomas, by the way.”
“I’m Dan. Pleased to meet you.” It was a great feeling to shake the hand of another human again. With that simple act, everything else that had been dumped on me so far seemed more manageable and less unreal. For a moment, I was reminded of my first day back in army training—which I suppose is exactly where I was once again. “So, er, have you been here long?”
“Well, it’s hard to tell, what with the passage of time here being so messed up. But long enough to know that I’d definitely rather be somewhere else.” Thomas grinned, but there was a slight edginess to it.
“That makes two of us, and I’d hazard a guess we’re not the only ones. It’s worse than a bloody prison here. At least back on Earth you’d get a chance to appeal your sentence. Here, it’s life for everyone, no matter what they’ve done wrong, no matter what they’ve done right. How about you? What was your great crime against the Almighty?”
“Careful, Dan. That can be a touchy subject. Me, I’m quite happy to share—it’s my own stupid fault I’m in Purgatory—but like any other prison, there are a lot of people who don’t like to be reminded of their presence here, especially when they’re convinced of their innocence.” Thomas considered. “In some cases, they might even be right. But they don’t have to just suck it up. You were almost right a moment ago when you said about there being no appeals procedure for getting out of here; there isn’t… unless you count prayer. Are you a religious man, Dan? Or, should I say, were you a religious man, before you came to Purgatory? I mean, a lot of former disbelievers suddenly find that they believe in God a whole lot more once they’re here. It’s kind of hard to deny evidence on this scale, eh?”
“No, I wasn’t religious, not exactly. It’s not that I didn’t believe in God as such, more that He and I had, er, a little falling out.”
Thomas nodded understandingly. “Sounds familiar. ‘A little falling out’ is pretty much the root cause behind everyone being here, one way or another. But I’m not going to pry; like I said, I know it’s something a lot of people don’t like to talk about, especially with someone they’ve only just met. I don’t mind, myself. I’ll tell anyone that’ll listen about how I came to be here, about my life as a vicar back on Earth, on the off chance it will… what?”
My newly reformed face must not have been very good at hiding my reaction to his words. “Let’s just say that I’m not exactly fond of the clergy. Look, no offense, but in my experience, and with only one exception, the more strongly someone claims that God is the centre of their life, the more likely they are to fuck mine up.” All the old hatreds were straining at the leash, but I tried my best not to growl at him.
“Come on now, Dan. You can’t really tar everyone in the Church with the same brush. You’ve just said yourself that there was an exception.”
“Yeah, an exception. One.”
“Okay. But don’t you think it’s possible that if there’s one, there might be others, too? I mean, if I hadn’t just told you I was a vicar, you wouldn’t be any the wiser, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to upset you so far, right? And just because I was a vicar, it doesn’t mean that I still am. Our former occupations count for little here. Once you’re reborn into Purgatory, you just join the rest of the helpless souls all trying their best to make it through to the other side safely. That’s the only job any of us have now.”
In the face of his earnestness, I did my best to bury my instincts. For the moment, I succeeded. “So tell me, then, what did you do that was so terrible? Even if you’re not a vicar anymore, I thought you guys had the whole ‘getting into Heaven’ thing pretty much sewn up.”
“Ah, but just because a child knows it’s wrong to steal from the biscuit tin, it doesn’t mean that he won’t do it. That’s human nature for you.”
“So go ahead, spill the beans. Or the biscuits. I’m all ears.”
Chapter 11
“Well, like I said, I used to be a vicar, for thirty-six years, almost right up until I died. I think I was a pretty good vicar, too, for most of those years, at least as far as I can tell. It was only towards the end that things fell apart. After I moved to Tiverly. You ever hear of Tiverly, Dan? Probably not. It’s one of those small villages tucked away in the English countryside, just the kind of place you dream about when you’re training to be a priest, and just the sort of place you want to be as you’re approaching retirement, like I was. I was over the moon when I found out I was being stationed there. The only downside was that the church building itself was fairly run down, and after a few months it became clear that it wasn’t big enough either; like I said, I was a pretty good vicar, and attendance at Sunday service was rising.
“No big deal,” Thomas shrugged. “We just started a redevelopment programme, like any other church would. Imaginations ran wild, lots of ideas were thrown around, and by the time the plans came back from the architects, we were looking at something costing more than half a million pounds. That’s a lot of money in a place like Tiverly; but church communities like nothing more than a good, faith-affirming challenge. All kinds of fundraising activities quickly sprung up in the village, and six months later, we already had nearly a third of the money we needed. Ah, you don’t how exciting that was, seeing such abundant provision from God in response to our prayers… but then it began to tail off a bit. Everyone had already given as much as they could afford, and there are only so many jumble sales you can hold. The project began to languish, and morale began to flag. Attendance started to wane a little, too. Nothing obvious at first, but people soon began to avoid coming to church, knowing they would be asked to dig deep into their pockets yet again, and feeling laden with guilt if they didn’t or couldn’t.
“And then one morning I had an idea—why not use the money we had already raised to help generate the rest? They always say you need to speculate to accumulate. But the problem was that every sound method of investing the money I could think of would take years, maybe even decades, to come to fruition… and I couldn’t wait that long. Not if I wanted to get things sorted before I retired. Out of sheer frustration, I started to consider other ways of putting the money to work. It was just in my head at first, but before too long, I found myself thinking quite seriously about gambling. Well, not exactly gambling as such; I mean, can you really call it that if there’s no risk involved? What if you know you’re going to win? The way I saw it, if it was God’s will that His church flourish in Tiverly, then surely He would make certain that any bets I put down would pay off—and the more I thought about it, the more I was absolutely positive that that was His will. But like any good Christian, I also wanted to be sure; after all, the idea could just as easily have come from Satan as from God. In the end, I decided to test whether or not I was right by placing a small bet—out of my own pocket—on an upcoming horse race. I know it says ‘thou shalt not test the Lord thy God’ in the Bible, but I had to do something.
“That Saturday, I got up early, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and caught the train to London, somewhere I was sure I wouldn’t bump into anyone from the local congregation. The last thing I wanted was to have to explain myself to someone I knew, and maybe that should have been warning enough that what I was doing was wrong. But I wasn’t thinking of anything other than the bet. I didn’t have to look around too long before I found a betting shop, although I didn’t have the courage
to walk in there straight away. Instead, I found a bench in a nearby park, sat down, and prayed. Partly I prayed for protection against sin and that what I was doing was the right thing… but most of all I prayed that God would guide me to pick a winner.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that prayer doesn’t work, Dan. By the time I was finally ready to go and place the bet, I felt invincible, that I was like David going out to meet Goliath, that I couldn’t fail. And I didn’t. The horse that I picked finished two lengths ahead of the others, and before I knew it, I was holding better than three hundred pounds in my hand. I went back to the park bench, intending to offer up prayers of thanks, but I couldn’t focus on the words. All that kept rushing through my mind was how God had blessed me. Me! Here was a clear indication that He would provide us with the means to build His church. I was so excited that I just had to try again. I exercised common sense for possibly the last time in my life and only allowed myself to bet another fifty pounds, but for the second time, I picked a winner, and from then on, I think I was lost. I can’t remember how many more races I bet on that afternoon, but by the time I returned to Tiverly, I was carrying almost a thousand pounds in my pocket. It was all I could do not to run laughing through the streets, and as soon as I got home, I had to have a drink to celebrate; and that was the beginning of the second problem that led to my downfall.
“That’s how it went for the next few months. Every Saturday I would go into London, taking larger and larger sums of money with me, and when I came back home, it was always with more than I set out with. The celebratory drinks became a little more frequent, and I wouldn’t always wait until I got home—or even the weekend—before indulging myself. But I didn’t see it as a problem; after all, Jesus Himself told us to drink wine in remembrance of Him. And I did remember Him. I never once skimped on my part of the deal: all my winnings would go right back into the project fund, and every Sunday I was able to tell everyone in the congregation that another anonymous donation had come in, inching us closer to our goal.