Part 2, Chapter 11, of RFV.

                                                       ELEVEN

 

    When Roger opened his eyes he found himself lying on a grassy bank by the side of a road. Puzzled, he sat up and looked round. Rolling green fields stretched out on either side, the sun shone pleasantly warmly in a clear blue sky, birds sang sweetly in trees and a small stream bubbled and sparkled nearby. It all seemed rather relaxing somehow and Roger found himself unafraid.

    Wondering where he was he set off down the road, whistling away to himself. Rounding a bend in the road, he spotted a man wearing a white robe who was sitting on a bench. He had white hair which fell to his shoulders and a likeable craggy face. The man smiled as he approached and Roger smiled back.

    ‘He seems rather friendly,’ thought Roger. ‘Perhaps he can tell me where I am.’

    “Allo, mate!” the man called out cheerfully. “You dead then!?”

    “Dead!?” Roger said, stopping by the bench. “Me!?”

    “That’s right, mate. Dead. You.”

    Roger’s stomach quivered in fear as it all came rushing back to him �" Uhuruland, Hub Cap, Big Lucas, the execution. He swallowed. The execution. His execution. Rather weak at the knees, he slumped down on to the bench beside the stranger.

    “That’s right, mate, sit down,” the man said. “Like a good natter with a corpse, does I. What’s yer name?”

    Roger bit his lip. “Roger White. So I’m really…dead? Actually dead?” he asked weakly.

    The stranger nodded. “Fraid so, sport.”

    Roger swallowed. “Who are you then? Are you dead too?”

    The man laughed. “Well, in a way,” he replied. “I’m an Angel, an Archangel to be exact. Mel’s the name. Mel the Archangel. Miracles an Religious Sightings, that’s me.”

    “An Archangel!?” Roger asked in amazement, wondering if he should bow or kneel or something like that.

    Mel nodded. “That’s right, Roger, an Archangel but you don’t have to bow or kneel or anythin like that,” he said, grinning.

    Roger smiled in relief and Mel laughed again. He took out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit it.

    “Ah, there’s nothin like a pipe an a good natter with a stiff!” he said. “Bet you’ve never met an Archangel before?” he asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

    Roger shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve been dead,” he muttered.

    Mel grinned. “That’s what you think,” he told him.

    Roger however was frowning in thought. “Well if I’m dead,” he said, “where am I?”

    “The next plane of existence. The next life. The afterlife,” Mel answered. “Pick which one you like.”

    “Oh!” muttered a surprised Roger.

    “Didn’t believe it existed, did you?” Mel scolded, wagging a finger at Roger. “In for a few surprises then, aren’t we?”

    “Hmmm, it certainly looks that way,” admitted Roger. “Er…what happens to me now then?” he asked, a tremor in his voice, his arms, his legs, all over.

    “You died recently?”

    “Pretty recently.”

    Mel leaned over and sniffed him. “Yeah, yer still pretty fresh. In that case, you’ll be headin to Purgatory.”

    “Where’s that?”

    Mel pointed with his pipe. “Straight down the road till you hear a lot of screamin an groanin. You can’t miss it.”

    Roger swallowed. “Screaming and groaning?”

    “That’s right, mate. You lot has to be punished, you know. The things your mob get up to,” he said, tutting and shaking his head. “Wouldn’t treat a goat that way. Still, some of you do. So you’ve got to be punished.”

    Roger glanced fearfully down the road. Was that just a hint of screaming and groaning he heard in the distance?

    “Couldn’t I stay here a little while and talk to you?” he pleaded, trying to edge out of his mind what the hint had threatened.

    Mel puffed on his pipe and considered this. “Alright,” he conceded eventually. “But you’re only puttin it off, you know.”

    “Thanks,” said Roger then glanced uneasily down the road again.

    “Hey, don’t look so worried!” Mel said encouragingly, patting him on the back. “I know your story. You haven’t been a bad lad. You don’t have much punishment to come.”

    Roger brightened a little. “I don’t?”

    “Na. They’re just going to pull one of your balls off then yer square.”

    Roger turned pretty white, pretty quick.

    “Only jokin, Roger, only jokin!” Mel said, laughing and slapping him on the back again. “Say, you turned white quite well there. Had a lot of practice?”

    Roger nodded. “Quite a lot,” he admitted. “Turning white, flushing, swallowing, that sort of thing.”

    Mel reached into his robe and drew out a gold flask. “Have a nip of this, mate,” he said.

    Roger took the flask and drank some then started coughing. “Good grief! What was that?” he asked hoarsely, eyes watering.

    “That is pure rum an holy water,” Mel told him, gazing admiringly at the flask and then taking a long nip himself. “Aaahh, nectar!” he said, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his robe. “An Angel in Relics and Caterin gets me it,” he admitted then something occurred to him and he frowned. “Say, you’re not a vampire, are you?”

    Roger shook his head.

    “Good job,” Mel said, putting his flask back into his robe. “Otherwise you’d be rollin about the ground, clutchin yer throat with smoke belchin out yer mouth.”

    Roger leaned back on the bench whilst he recovered from the drink. He and Mel looked at the scenery awhile in silence. Although Roger was becoming resigned to the fact that he was dead, he was growing more curious about the life and death scenario. And here he was, seated next to someone who could supply the answers.

    “So how did all this start, Mel?” he asked tentatively, his voice still a little hoarse.

    “The rum prob’ly went down the wrong way,” Mel answered.

    Roger glanced at him. “No, not the coughing,” he said. He waved his arm around. “All this…Purgatory, people, everything.”

    “Oh I see. You mean life, death, the after life. All that guff?”

    Roger nodded.

    “That was Big G and the other Gods,” Mel told him casually. “They invented it all.”

    Roger’s eyes widened. “Big G? You mean G--”

    “Graham, that’s right, Big Graham. He’s a God. Him an the other Gods done it all. Clever, innit?”

    However the unexpected revelation that there was a multitude of Deities instead of just the one, temporarily eclipsed in Roger’s head the stunning marvels of creation.

    “You mean there’s more than one God?” he asked weakly.

    “Lots more,” Mel said conversationally. “Let’s see, there’s Graham or Big G as he likes to be called, He’s got Universe 1. That’s you lot �" Earth, Mars, Albania, etc. Then there’s Derwent the Sordid, He’s got Universe 2. Right b*****d He is. Who else is there? Oh yeah, Maybeline the Undecided, She’s got Universe 3. Daft Henry’s got 4 an He’s also helping out in 5 cos Titterington’s only part time just now on account of His ankle.”

    Roger was stunned. “You mean there are five Gods and they each have a Universe of their own!?”

    “That’s about it, sport,” Mel said, nodding.

    Roger sat in silence awhile as he digested these revelations.

    Mel puffed away contentedly on his pipe.

    “So what about all the people? Did the Gods invent them as well?”

    “That’s right,” answered Mel. “Happened on a tuesday afternoon if I remember right. All the Gods were round Derwent’s place. Supposed to be playin cards they were but Maybeline was late �" prob’ly couldn’t decide what to wear as usual. Anyways, they’re all sittin round waitin for Her when Derwent suddenly has this idea. ‘Look, Gods,’ He says, ‘We’re all sittin here with a Universe of our own. Billions upon billions of square miles we’ve got, good farmin land some of it an there’s f**k all happenin. Let’s invent some things called people, make up some complicated rules for them to live by an take it from there.’”

    Roger frowned. “Are you telling me that the only reason people came into existence was because the Goddess Maybeline the Undecided was late for a card game!?”

    Mel nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Roger. Bit of a come down, innit? I mean when you think that the only reason you’re here is because some bint couldn’t decide what to wear, well, it’s a bit deflatin.”

    “It certainly is.”

    “Anyways, the other Gods agreed an that’s how it all started. So Graham, sorry Big G, goes back to Universe 1, invents people an sticks them down on Earth but he gets the design a bit wrong to start with �" you know, too much hair, too much skull, not enough brain, eyes too close together.”

    “You mean the first people on Earth were social workers!?” Roger asked in astonishment.

    Mel laughed. “Not quite �" they were more advanced than that!”

    They both laughed.

    “Where was I?” said Mel. “Oh yeah, Big G tryin to get the design right. Well a million years go by an He’s getting it better �" they’re startin to look like people but then He has to go away to a conference. Derwent the Sordid’s lookin after the place for Him an what does He do? Only goes an puts big bleedin dinosaurs on the planet just for a laugh! By the time Big G gets back, the dinosaurs have killed an eaten everyone!”

    “Good grief! What happened then?”

    “Big G went nuts! Made Derwent get rid of the dinosaurs right away.”

    “Ah-ha! So that explains why dinosaurs mysteriously disappeared from Earth all those millions of years ago!”

    Mel nodded.

    “So what happened next?” Roger asked.

    “After the dinosaurs? Well Big G got better at designin people an after a few million years there’s lots of perfectly formed people roamin around. The trouble is though, they’re all worshippin trees or mountains or Cleopatra’s c**t or stuff like that. So they’ve got to be put right. Told all about Big G so they can worship Him.”

    “So how did He do it?”

    “Sent down one of His lads. Jesus, His name was. Nice chap. Did some joinery for me, breakfast bar, garden shed, that sort of stuff. So He sorts them out, puts them on the right track an then what happens?”

    “Lots of different religions start soon up afterwards,” responded the for-once astute Roger.

    “Exactly!” said Mel. “You start havin Holy Wars an kill each other off for the right to worship your own version of Big G. Then the arguments start as to whether Big G’s lad actually lived among you or not. S**t, He even left some of His clothes around for you to find but what happens then? Even more arguments about whether they’re actually His or not. What the bleedin hell did you expect, labels on them sayin ‘Cohen’s �" Robe Makers Of Bethlehem’!?”

    Roger sniggered. “You can’t really blame people for disbelieving though,” he said. “I mean, look at all the suffering they have to go through.”

    “Sufferin!?” Mel retorted, eyebrows raised along with his voice. “Sufferin? You b******s don’t know what sufferin is! You lot have it easy compared to Derwent’s mob �" they don’t get any fun, none at all. Look at all the things your mob have got  to amuse you �" booze, drugs, big bouncin tits to play with, 3d computer games, cut price holidays to Mars an still you moan, f**k how you lot can moan!”

    To Roger’s amusement, Mel laid his pipe on the bench and stood up to do his impression of a ‘suffering’ human.

    “Oh, I’m constipated!” Mel moaned, holding his stomach and arse, “God must hate me!” Then he held his groin. “My willy’s too small �" she’ll laugh at me!” Then he held his side. “I’ve a pain in my side �" it’s probably cancer, there must be a curse on me!”

    Roger laughed and Mel picked up his pipe and sat down again. Just as Roger was about to ask something, a bare-chested man came running along the road from the direction of Purgatory. He was wild-eyed and panting and he clutched at his shoulder where an arm had been torn out. When he saw Roger and Mel he cut off the road and started running across the fields.

    “Waste of time, mate!” Mel called to him.

    The man turned and tried to make an obscene gesture then remembered he only had one arm. He turned and ran off over the grass.

    “Waste of time tryin to escape,” Mel remarked to Roger. “They’ll get him shortly.”

    Roger shifted uneasily at this Purgatorial reminder. “So what’s it like in Derwent’s Universe?” he asked quickly, trying to recapture Mel’s attention. “Is it bad?”

    “Bad?” said Mel, “It’s f****n awful! His lot have no fun at all. No sex, no tv, nothin. Sorry, tell a lie, it stops rainin s**t there on Friday nights so the bodies can be cleared from the road sides. “

    “Sounds horrible,” said Roger.

    “It is. Some of the people there have big slimy slugs growin out their ears an the slugs eat them.”

    “The slugs eat them!?”

    Mel nodded. “They have to wok hard as well �" twenty hours a day from the age of five with half a day off every fifteen years. Hardly any pay. Huge horrible monsters roam round the place rapin them. It’s a miracle if they’re only workin up to their waists in s**t. An if they complain, if they so much as take Derwent’s name in vain, by hell they’re in trouble.”

    “What happens then?”

    “They lose their half-day.”