The Afterlife

When you die, they say you go up into the clouds and find yourself standing before a set of great white gates. They say Gabriel waits there with a list of names, and if yours is called, you’re allowed to pass through.

Load of bollocks.

I got hit by a bus this morning, and now I’m standing in the rain.

Not metaphorical rain, either. Proper rain. The sort that gets down the back of your collar and soaks through your shoes. I’ve been dead for what feels like half an hour and somehow my socks are already wet.

Ahead of me stretches a queue of perhaps fifty people. Nobody seems particularly sure what’s happening. A woman a few places ahead keeps crying. Someone behind me is complaining that he had a dentist appointment this afternoon.

At the front of the queue stands a metal barrier.

Not a gate.

A turnstile.

One by one, the dead shuffle through it. Each person pushes against the horizontal arm, there’s a metallic click, and the three arms rotate just far enough to let one person through before locking again.

Click.

Next.

Click.

Next.

Eventually, it’s my turn.

I push through the turnstile and find myself standing in front of a small booth. Inside sits a squat, plump man wearing a pale blue shirt and a burgundy tie. A laminated name badge is pinned to his chest.

PHIL.

He doesn’t look up.

“Name?”

“Neville.”

Phil finally raises his eyes.

“Neville…?”

He draws out the last syllable.

“Sorry. Neville Clarke.”

He runs a finger down a sheet of paper.

“Clarke, Clarke…”

His finger stops.

“Neville Clarke. Bus.”

“Yes.”

“Number forty-three?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly get a chance to check.”

He ticks something.

“Step forward, please. Through the arch.”

Only then do I notice the metal detector beside his booth.

I stare at it.

Phil stares at me.

“Through the arch, please.”

I step through.

An alarm immediately screams.

Phil sighs.

“Empty your pockets, please.”

“Why?”

“Can’t be bringing items from the mortal world through now, can we?”

He says it as though I’ve just asked why I’m not allowed to take a lit barbecue onto an aeroplane.

A plastic bucket appears over the counter.

I check my pockets.

My phone goes in first. Then my wallet. Keys. A handful of loose change. A crumpled receipt I don’t remember keeping. One of those tiny supermarket loyalty cards that goes on your keyring.

Phil gives the bucket a shake.

“Everything?”

“I think so.”

“Through again.”

I step beneath the arch.

Silence.

Phil nods, satisfied, and puts the bucket beneath his desk.

“What happens to that?”

“Disposed of.”

“My phone?”

“You’re dead, Neville.”

“Still cost me eight hundred quid.”

Phil points past me.

“In you get.”

I turn.

There’s a pond.

Not a vast black river disappearing into an endless cavern. Not a mist-covered expanse filled with the souls of the damned.

A pond.

There’s even a little wooden sign beside it asking people not to feed the fish.

Tied to a short jetty are half a dozen pedalos.

I look back at Phil.

“No ferryman?”

“Budget cuts.”

He says it completely matter-of-factly.

Of course.

I walk down the jetty and climb into the nearest pedalo. It’s shaped like a swan, although most of the white paint has peeled away from its neck and someone has drawn eyebrows on it in black marker.

Phil leans out of his booth.

“Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle throughout your journey to the afterlife. If the goldfish tries talking to you, please ignore it. And, most importantly, enjoy your trip.”

I stare at him.

“The what?”

“Next!”

The turnstile clicks behind me.

Apparently that’s the end of our conversation.

I put my feet on the pedals and start turning.

The little swan lurches away from the jetty.

For something separating the mortal world from whatever comes next, the journey is remarkably uneventful. The pedals squeak. Rain drums against the plastic body of the swan. Somewhere beneath me, something splashes.

I deliberately don’t look.

It takes less than a minute to reach the other side.

That’s when I realise something.

I stop pedalling and look to my left.

The pond isn’t particularly big.

In fact, there’s a gravel path running all the way around it.

I look back across the water at Phil.

He has already moved on to the next person.

I look at the path again.

Then at the pedalo.

I don’t know why we couldn’t just walk round.