“ . . . I assure you, we have nothing to be afraid of,” said sweet, angelic Sally.
“You’re sure nobody knows about this?” I didn’t recognise the other voice. It was a man’s, very deep and somehow disturbing. Its tone jarred in my ears, like a record being played at slightly the wrong speed.
“Nobody suspects a thing,” said Sally.
“What about this detective? You don’t think—”
He was interrupted by laughter from Sally. “Jimmy Clarenden? You’ve got to be joking. The man couldn’t solve a jigsaw puzzle if it only had one piece. I promise you, we have no reason to fear him.”
I raised my head slightly and tried to peer through the window. The room looked like some sort of lounge, with a plush couch and a fireplace against the opposite wall. Sally sat on the couch, her long legs spread provocatively over its violet cushions.
“I hope you are right,” said the other voice. I couldn’t make out its owner. He stood on the far side of the room, his features obscured in the shadows.
“Don’t worry about Clarenden,” said Sally. “I know how to deal with his type. I’ll just . . . ” She paused and then turned towards the window.
I ducked down just in time. While she had been speaking, I’d adjusted my position in an attempt to get a better look at the shadowy stranger, which had caused the patio to creak again, considerably more loudly. Though I could no longer see through the window, I could hear footsteps approaching. It was time for bed.
I leapt over the side of the patio, feeling a sudden tear as my pants caught on something. There was a strange sensation of coldness on my nether regions as I scurried away―not that I bothered to look back. I didn’t stop running until I was over the wall, down the hill, and back in the tranquil streets below.
All was silent as I made my way back towards the office. By this time, there was not a light visible in any of the houses I passed. Heaven slept, blissfully unaware of the plots being hatched behind the walls of the mansion on the hill. Nothing breathed. Nothing moved. And then I heard it.
It was a low rustling, coming from just beside my feet. I looked down and saw something small sliding along the ground, propelled forward by the light breeze. I picked it up and examined it. Nothing but an empty potato chip packet. I prepared to toss it back to the ground, but something made me pause. This was only the second piece of garbage I’d seen in Heaven all day.
I took a closer look. It was utterly innocuous. From the big, bright writing to the cartoon character beaming at me from the front of the packet, there was nothing in the least suspicious about it. And yet, as I stared, I couldn’t help feeling that there was something deeply disquieting about it.
Chapter 6
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, I dragged myself out of bed. As usual, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my heart felt as light as a fully-laden semi-trailer. Somehow, I managed to dress myself, finding to my relief that during the night my wardrobe had been stocked with multiple pairs of fresh, clean, and amply-bottomed trousers. Then I trudged out into the streets of Heaven and made my way to the Pearly Gates.
When I arrived at the Gates, I walked over to the door through which I had first passed into Heaven. It was firmly shut, but beside it there was a buzzer and a small note. The note said, Please ring the buzzer for service. Be prepared for a very long wait.
I rang the buzzer. I prepared myself for a very long wait. In less than a minute, the door opened and I found myself greeted by Peter’s lined but cheerful face.
“Mr Clarenden, welcome again to the Pearly Gates,” he said as he ushered me in.
I followed Peter down a short corridor, up a flight of steps, and into a very small room.
“My humble office,” Peter said.
The room looked less like an office and more like the place where all the world’s paper went to die. There was paper everywhere: stacked up in unsteady-looking piles on the one small desk in the middle of the room; laid out over the ground like an unkempt arrangement of floor tiles; overflowing out from the drawers of the filing cabinet standing in the corner.
Apart from this extensive paper collection, the only other objects of note were a batch of books arranged on top of the cabinet. I took a closer look. Every single one of them was a detective novel.
“A small selection, I know,” said Peter, observing my glance. “As I said before, I have very little time to read. Would you like some chewing gum?” He proffered a stick.
I shook my head. “Not before breakfast.”
“This is breakfast for me.” He popped the stick into his mouth. “Keeps the old nerves in check on stressful days. And believe me, every day here is a stressful day. But I’m sure that’s not what you came here to hear. Please, take a seat.”
I shifted some paper off a chair and sat down. As he went to extricate another chair from behind the mounds of paper on the far side of the room, I quickly scanned the contents of the desk. Most of it seemed to be official paperwork of some sort or another, but one pile caught my eye. I picked up the top sheet and read it aloud.
“The Case of the Screaming Angel. A novel by St Peter.”
Peter snatched the sheet away from me. “Don’t look at that old thing.”
“You never told me you were an author.”
“I’d hardly call myself an author.” Peter picked up the rest of the pile and placed it on the floor behind him. “You wouldn’t want to look at it. You’d probably just laugh. Anyway, it’s not even half finished. Writing is a luxury I can barely afford. You can see how much paperwork I’ve got to get through. In fact, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you my undivided attention, but don’t let that stop you.” He placed a pair of reading glasses over his eyes, grabbed a pile of papers from the desk, and began to leaf through them. “So tell me, are you really working on a case? I’d love to hear about it.”
“All in good time,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me about what this paperwork involves.”
Peter looked at me over a handful of paper. “You really don’t want to know about this.”
“Try me. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I guess I don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
Peter chuckled. “No, I guess you don’t. If you must know, most of this is biographical details. You see, as soon as someone dies, a decision has to be made about whether they come up here, or whether they go . . . down below, to the other place. In order to make that decision, we need to have as much information as possible about that person’s life. All the good things and bad things they’ve done. How they’ve treated other people. Basically everything about them.”
“And that’s your job?” Suddenly I didn’t feel like I’d ever had it so tough.
“What is this supposed to be?” Peter exclaimed, glaring at the sheet in front of his face. Then he looked up at me again. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if all that biographical detailing and decision-making was your job.”
“Not exactly.” Peter picked up a pen and began scribbling furiously on the paper.
“Not exactly?”
“I don’t actually find any of the biographical details myself. We have a team of researchers that does that. I also don’t decide who is to go up and who is to go down. We have a committee that is responsible for all those decisions. Mine is purely a managerial role. I have to make sure everything everyone else does runs smoothly, and that the appropriate procedures are being adhered to, and that every last form is correctly filled. And, as you can see, there are an awful lot of forms that need to be filled.” As Peter spoke, he alternated between scrawling over the paper and waving the pen in descriptive circles through the air.