by Brian Hughes
Jess looked around and felt more alone than he had ever felt before in his life.
He emerged from the alleyway a grimmer man.
His heart pounded in his head, determination etched into his expression.
He hurtled out with the velocity of a bullet, almost colliding with the wicker legs straddling the street beyond.
Above him Jannice kicked. That was typical. She’d forgotten all about her ‘Women’s Self Defence Classes.’ As the hand tightened its grip she reverted to the good old school of fighting. Punching, kicking and screaming loudly.
One sandal came loose in the struggle. It toppled down onto the pavement.
Behind her the darkness was filling the whole of Jess’ vision.
“Jess...” Jannice screamed above the turmoil of the threshing arms. “Try and stop it. Whatever ‘it’ is...”
Jess hunched his shoulders, put his head forwards and charged.
He collided with the giant legs.
For a moment the wicker man teetered on the edge of the void, rocking backwards and forwards.
Then it tumbled.
The darkness ran up its arm. It reached the cluster of fingers holding Jannice.
Then the wicker man toppled into the emptiness.
Jannice hit the pavement and Jess’ heart skipped a beat.
At least what was left of Jannice hit the pavement.
Still surrounded by wicker strands, she stared up in horror.
She was only half there now.
What remained was disappearing slowly.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
Sometimes when the end comes, people just knuckle down and get on with it. Jannice was obviously one of those people.
She pushed Jess’ arm aside as he struggled to pull her back.
It wouldn’t be much fun spending the rest of her life existing only from the bottom rib up. She didn’t even want to think about how she’d use the toilet.
She felt a calmness breaking through the abhorrence.
“For God’s sake Jess, put a stop to this...the world shouldn’t end this way!”
“How?”
Jess wanted to say more. But even now the words caught up in his throat. Stupid, selfish macho pride, right up to the end.
“I don’t know.” Jannice swallowed and felt a hollowness creeping up her spine. “But you’d better hurry up and find out.”
With a fizzle the darkness reached her chin and Jannice wore it like a collar.
“I love you Jess...”
Jess closed his eyes unable to watch the finale.
There followed a small pop.
It sounded similar to a toy gun firing its cork.
When he opened his eyes again, Jannice had gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two: In the Windsock of Eternity
No date…no time…no place…just Death. The great barrier we all have to cross sooner or later.
What’s it like on the other side then? What does eternity consist of? Does mankind have an eternal soul and a case to answer for? Or was the whole concept just a con? A humbug invented by men who wear frocks?
Jannice Applebotham was just about to find out.
“Hello...?” Her frightened voice echoed across the swirling void. An emptiness consisting of pastel lilacs and watery creams. “Is there anybody there?”
A shimmer of sound crossed the ghostly space in the same way that ripples cross a pond.
“’Ave you arrived ’ere now then, dear?”
A sliver of purple, similar to a stroke from a Japanese paintbrush, appeared faintly in front of Jannice. It spoke in a rich Lancashire accent.
Jannice stared, though with what she couldn’t say. She too had a body of sorts. It was thin and transparent with no limbs. But it was a body of some description and that was a start.
“Mrs Prune? Is that you?” There was a tremble of fear in Jannice’s voice. “Are you dead?”
“I bloody ’ope so, dear. I don’t want t’ spend the rest of me autumn years as a morfuzz blob wearin’ me intestines for an overcoat.”
“Where are we?”
“Limbo, dear.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Where the dance comes from.”
Jannice suddenly realised she could see for miles.
“Where is everybody? Shouldn’t somebody be here to meet us?”
“I ’spect He’s just nipped out for a fag.”
“He?” Jannice was obviously beginning to feel more comfortable. No matter how disturbing the situation she always had her beliefs to help her out. “I always thought God would be a woman.”
“Wouldn’t ’ave thought so.” Mrs Prune stiffened. “Not with the mess ’ee’s got the world in. That’s the work of a man, that is. Bloody useless ’unks of meat with gonads for brains, the lot of ’em.”
That had the desired effect.
If a sliver of pink light could have grinned then Jannice would have done so right then. Instead she gave off a glow of warmth that Mrs Prune felt in her soul.
“Some people reckon it’s all a test. To make sure we’re good enough to enter Heaven.”
“Christ, I ’ope not! Pardon my French,” Mrs Prune added reverentially. “All the exams I ever took meant somethin’ worse was comin’ up. God ’elp us if it’s worse than what we’ve just bin through!”
“So what’s this place then?” Jannice wasn’t convinced that Mrs Prune’s blasphemous attitude was the best to take under the circumstances. “Is it Purgatory? Are we imprisoned here?”
“Y’ sound like you’ve ’ad enough already, dear. What’s the rush?” Mrs Prune coughed. “Might as well enjoy it...while it lasts.”
This comment confused Jannice. The distraction appeared as a faint blue glow around the area Mrs Prune had allotted for Jannice’s face.
“Let’s put it this way. Once y’ get in there you’re there for eternity.” She lowered her voice, such as it was. “That’s for ever if y’ didn’t know.”
“I did,” said Jannice.
“Well...” Mrs Prune’s gaseous form uprighted itself. “That’s long enough for anyone t’ go worshippin’ ’is Almighty Greatness’ smelly feet, and playin’ ’arps on clouds, singin’ songs about ’ow bloody marv’lous He is.”
After a short pause. “I’ll take me chances and ’ang around ’ere for a bit.”
Unfortunately Mrs Prune didn’t get the chance.
Which was a shame, because she was starting to enjoy her spell in Oblivion.
A small door appeared noiselessly to one side of them. It was surrounded by yellow light bulbs such as might be found around a dressing room mirror. Above it was a hand-painted sign that read ‘WAITING ROOM. Please Take A Ticket’.
The door opened with an unearthly creak and a very short man hobbled out in some obvious discomfort.
He was very old. The warped staff in his disfigured hand was the only thing holding him upright.
A length of whisker broke free from his beard and became entangled with his staff. The old man stumbled. Jannice and Mrs Prune simultaneously gasped.
However, he managed to steady himself and with the expression of somebody who had just broken wind and was pretending it wasn’t him, he continued towards them.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, ladies.”
Removing a clipboard from his dazzling robe, he started to check the writing on it.
“Bureaucracy and all that. What with it being the ‘END OF THE WORLD’ today and those awful quills they keep sending us. Never worked properly. I’ve ordered ten boxes but the damn things still leak. Look at my fingers.”
He held up one wizened hand, the tips of his fingers stained with blue ink.
“And it doesn’t wash off,” he added resentfully.
“I like the beard.” Mrs Prune was feeling altogether too cocksure for her own good. “Though I must admit I was expecting somebody slightly taller.”
The rabbi cocked an unimpressed eyebrow in the old woman’s direction.
“Right. Let me intro
duce myself.” Taking in a deep breath, he spoke with a powerful voice.
“I AM THE ALL SEEING, ALL KNOWING, ALL FORGIVING. . .THE GUARDIAN OF TIME AT THE PORTAL OF CHOICES!”
The words continued to echo for a few moments after he’d stopped. With some relief he broke out into a cheerful grin that revealed a row of rotten pegs.
“Very impressive,” said Mrs Prune. “Can y’ do Tommy Cooper?”
Consulting his notes again the old man uneasily rifled through several pages. He thought it best to ignore Mrs Prune’s unconvential approach to the afterlife, on the off chance she hadn’t realised she that was dead yet.
“So...it’s Mrs Agatha Boyle and Miss Priscilla Dewhurst, is it?”
“Do I look like an Agatha Boyle t’ you?”
“To be honest, you don’t look like anything much,” the old man retorted.
“There’s no need for rudeness.”
Jannice’s pale form leaned over the rabbi’s shoulder. She read through the long list of names as he drew out a pair of half-moon spectacles.
After several minutes, Mrs Prune broke the silence.
Something had been bothering her. Not just of late, but throughout her entire life. There was something she’d always intended to do and now appeared to be the most appropriate time to do it.
“I’ve got one or two complaints t’ make...”
A yellowing scroll appeared in front of her purple ribbon, unfurling across the tempestuous sky.
The little old man looked up confused.
“Now then. Number One.” Mrs Prune attempted to raise a finger she didn’t have. “Cancer an’ other nasty diseases.”
Somehow she lowered the scroll again, giving the impression of peering over the top of her spectacles.
“There’s not much call for that sort of thing really, is there? I mean! What d’ y’ think you’re playin’ at? Y’ can’t blame that on Mankind. God knows they’ve done all they can do t’ try and stop it. C’mon. Give ’em a break.”
The little man blinked, staring in silence as the scroll was lifted back up.
“Number Two. Adolph ’Itler.” It went down again. “What an ’orrible sod he was. What the ’Ell was goin’ through your ’ead when y’ came up with that one?”
“Yes...” The rabbi paused, cocking his head on one side so that he resembled a sick parrot. “I think you might be operating under a misapprehension.”
“Number Three.” Mrs Prune marched on valiantly. She had a long list to get through and there wasn’t time for arguments. “Virginia Bottom bein’ minister for ’ospitals. Now that’s just goin’ too far.”
If she could have wagged a finger she would have done so.
“Yes. Right. Mrs…?” The word trailed off, inflecting itself into a question.
“It’s Prune. P. R. U. N. E. As in the laxative!”
This brought a look of surprise to the old man’s face, a virtually toothless smile appearing in the middle of his whiskers.
“Albert Prune’s wife? We had him through here a number of years back. Splendid fellow.”
That threw her for a moment.
It threw Jannice as well. Somewhere in the back of Jannice’s mind she knew that Mrs Prune had been married once. However, she was such an independent woman it was hard to imagine what sort of husband he’d been.
Probably just a harmless old man on reflection. The old man took the lull as an opportunity to continue.
“I’m not altogether sure who you think I am, Mrs Prune.”
There was another pause.
“Aren’t you God?”
“God? Good heavens no!” There was a tremble of shock in his voice that was fast turning into humorous wonder.
“Well ’oo the bloody ’Ell are y’ then? Wastin’ me time moanin’ at y’.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Oh, I’m so sorry...I could have sworn I had done.” His voice had acquired an ironic tone. “Oh well, here we go...”
He took a deep breath and mouthed in a voice the volume of planets colliding, “I AM THE ALL SEEING, ALL KNOWING, ALL FORGIVING...THE GUARDIAN OF TIME AT THE PORTAL OF CHOICES!”
Mrs Prune took her metaphysical fingers from her ears and cocked an eyebrow at the sarcastic Jew.
“And what does one of them do when ’ee’s at ’ome?”
“Well...now...let me show you...”
Curling his hairy toes and spreading out his arms the little man thumped an invisible surface on the clouds with his staff.
The heavens rumbled as though constructed on pistons.
Clouds parted.
A table-sized relief map appeared between them. It ground to halt with an echoing click.
The rabbi looked round at the two astonished smudges, beaming.
“What’s this?” gasped Jannice.
The little man dropped his voice to a whisper.
“This is a map of all the universes.”
The three of them leaned over the detailed object.
Millions of tiny galaxies no bigger than thumbnails, all spinning in the vast eternities of space.
It was odd but if you looked hard you could travel anywhere across the map, picking out the individual planets, the individual countries, even the people. All those humans milling around, getting on with their lives without a care in the worlds.
One universe in particular was having problems.
It was smaller and more apathetic than the others.
Like one of those brown sprouts that get shuffled to the side of a dinner plate.
I wonder ’oo’s that is, Mrs Prune thought to herself.
“So...where’s God?” she asked, not one to let go of an idea. She’d wanted to have a go at the bugger all her life and it seemed a pity that she wasn’t going to get the chance.
“I’ve no idea,” replied the guardian. “I’m not a religious man myself. Have you tried the state of nirvana?”
“Where’s that? America?”
“It’s my job,” he went on heedlessly. “To sort people out. You know, help them decide where to go?”
“What do you mean ‘Where to go’?” Jannice was growing intrigued.
“There are two forms of life.” The guardian erected two of his fingers and pointed knowledgeably at the first of them. “One’s physical.”
He pointed at the other.
“One’s spiritual. The consciousness. The Spirit? The Soul?”
Jannice was staring at the tanned walnut of his head, her expression somewhat blank.
She’d understood what he’d said. It was just hard to tell with no distinguishing features to gauge for reactions.
“‘I think thereforee I am’, and all that.” The rabbi gurned a smile surrounded by hair.
“And the two things are separate?”
“Sort of...the ’Spiritual Being’ needs the ’The Physical Body’ to survive. It anchors itself automatically. Drifting through universes to find a body to call its home.”
“What about the other way round? I mean...” Jannice struggled momentarily. “The physical body? Does that still work without a soul inside it?”
“Not properly. There are thousands of people wandering about out there without any souls. Automatons if you like, waiting for a life force to plug them in. Or into them.”
“How do you know the difference?”
“Oh it’s obvious. Just watch them. They’re the ones that play rap music on hot afternoons when the last thing you want is something fast that clogs up the brain. Those that work from nine ’til five and never question why they do it, or if there’s any more to life than that. People who think Michael Barrymore is entertaining. You’ve got to admit, that’s a sad excuse for a life.”
“So God’s not ’ere then?” said Mrs Prune.
The guardian wearily relented, shaking his head so that his beard swung. “Not unless he’s hiding from us.”
“Double bugger!”
Jannice, who now wanted to solve the Meaning of Life, caught the old man’s attention again.
>
“So, how come the spiritual ‘Us’” She used the term carefully. “How come ‘We’ actually exist in the first place?”
“Ah...now that is the Mystery of Life.” The guardian had suddenly acquired a sense of drama. He wagged an ink-stained finger knowingly, beckoning Jannice into his confidence.
“Bugger, damn an’ bugger.” said a petulant voice from somewhere behind him. “What a bloody waste of time!”
Speaking that little louder to drown out the profanities, the rabbi continued.
“Imagine what it would be like if you didn’t exist.” He stooped down to what he considered was Jannice’s ear.
Then he grinned.
“I’m afraid I can’t...” muttered Jannice, disappointed by her honest answer.
“Exactly. That’s because we exist simply because we cannot do otherwise.”
Jannice thought about that.
It was impossible for her not to exist.
All she’d ever known was being alive.
Therefore it logically followed that if she didn’t exist she wouldn’t have been asking the question.
Ipso facto, she existed, therefore she had to exist and that was that.
“Got any sandwiches?” said Mrs Prune not wanting to be left out.
“My job,” said the host, who was now growing selectively deaf in one ear. “Is to help you choose what body you want, give you a push in the general direction and hope for the best.”
“’Ow do y’ get a job like that then?” Mrs Prune muscled in. There was a certain amount of scepticism in her voice, as if she was making a statement rather than asking.
“It’s voluntary work actually.”
The old man leaned into his staff, reluctant to talk on that particular subject. Not that you could blame him. Mrs Prune had to admit that being ‘Unpaid’ and ‘Unskilled’ put the mockers on the fancy voice with the echoes a bit.
“Voluntary? Why do y’ do it, then?”
“Well...” She’d caught his attention now. There’s nothing better for catching people’s attention than getting them to talk about themselves. “The hours are all right. And you get your own uniform...”
Pulling out the toga the old man frowned. “Such as it is.”
It wasn’t exactly the height of fashion. Traditional perhaps. But not very practical for wearing in a place full of breezes.