Attack of the Cupids Page 3

  But the thing about Heaven is, it does go on for ever.

  Some people do remember it all.

  It’s true, by the way. Heaven is a school. Or something very like one.

  It’s supposed to be a secret, just in case anyone on Earth thinks that being stuck at the back of a class for all Eternity is not their idea of Heaven and they won’t bother to apply. But when you look at it, it has to be true.

  There’s a Head. The Head of Everything, in fact, though he doesn’t often come out of his study.

  There’s also the Governors. Exactly who gets to be a Governor, and what they do when they are one, is a bit of a mystery. Just like a school.

  There are all those big, powerful archangels and seraphs and things, who’ve been around for thousands and thousands of years. They’re the teachers. OK, so they’ve got six pairs of wings each and several thousand eyes and flaming swords, but all the same they’re just like teachers. They go into meetings together and then they come out and stride around carrying scrolls and looking important. You don’t get to be cheeky to their faces. And be careful what you do when they’ve passed on down the corridor too. Some of those eyes are on the backs of their heads. Just like teachers have.

  There are all the human souls who come in through the gates. Hundreds of thousands arrive every day, wide-eyed, wandering around looking lost and just asking to have their lunch money beaten out of them, if that sort of thing ever happened in Heaven (it doesn’t). These are the pupils, of course.

  There are rules, which in Heaven are called ‘Laws’ or ‘Commandments’. There are libraries. There are choirs. There are also clubs, debating societies, arts and drama etc. There are even some sports pitches. But above all, there are classes.

  Ah yes, the classes. That’s because . . .

  Humans have this idea that at the end of their lives they’re going to wake up perfect and knowing everything. It’s just not like that. There are so many things they still have to learn. Ask any angel you like, it’ll tell you it’s true. That’s what the classes are for.

  And what Eternity is for. Isn’t that a comforting thought?

  OK, so Heaven has a few things most schools don’t have, like Thrones and Crystal Seas and a bunch of uniformed Celestial Inspection Angels (who will come in later) and also a Department of Geography that spends half its time planning to end the world. So as schools go, it’s pretty unusual. Plus, it lasts for ever and is big enough to house everyone who has ever lived.

  Or about half of them, anyway.

  It’s also the school that everyone wants to get into. Because, whatever you think about sitting in the back of a class for all Eternity, there isn’t a lot of choice. Once you’ve seen the Other Place, you do want to go to Heaven. You really, really do.

  The way you get in is you sit an exam. It’s long and complicated, and it takes the whole of your life to complete. You get handed your results at the end of it. There’s a pass mark. If you’ve made it, great. If not, bad luck. Very Bad Luck. It was nice knowing you.

  And there’s an Appeals Board. If you haven’t got in and you think you should have done, you can go to Appeal, just like when you’re trying to get into a school that’s over-subscribed. Heaven takes its appeals very seriously. It spends a lot of time on each one. Time is something Heaven has lots of.

  This means that if you do go to Appeal, you’d better be prepared for a wait. There are folks in the queue ahead of you who’ve been waiting for . . .

  ‘Three thousand years?’ cried Mishamh.

  ‘There’s a bit of a backlog,’ admitted Doomsday. ‘One rather difficult case has been holding things up. When they’ve sorted it out everything should move more quickly.’

  ‘One case that’s been going on for three thousand years?’

  They flew together through the great Gallery of Penitence. The dark angel was like a thundercloud and his assistant like a white dove caught in a sunbeam beside him. The floor of the Gallery was thronged with souls: standing, sitting, patiently shifting from foot to foot, squatting in tents or playing endless games of cards or dice (which are generally frowned on in Heaven but are allowed in the Appeals Queue as a way of saying ‘Sorry about the Delay’). The Gallery of Penitence ended in the Stair of Sincerity, which has ten thousand steps, each the size of a football pitch. The crowd filled every inch of them. It carpeted the floor of the Hall of Lamentation, which is the length of a comet’s tail, and it zigzagged around the vast, eight-sided Lobby of the Law until it ended finally at the great dark door over which was written in letters the colour of sunset:

  The doors were of black pearl and the handles were carved from the sound of a great brass gong. Hung upon one of the handles was another sign.

  The souls nearest the door looked up as Doomsday approached. They looked a bit tired and worn, as well they might after having to wait in silence for three thousand years. They bowed respectfully to Doomsday and he bowed back. He had passed them many times before. Ignoring the door handles (which would let off gong-noises if anyone touched them, of course) he placed his palm on the door of black pearl and pushed. It swung silently inwards, revealing a short passage that opened at the far end into a huge space. On one side of the passage was a small opening. Doomsday ducked through it and led Mishamh up a long flight of narrow stairs, to emerge at last on a high gallery that swept all the way around a huge room like the upper circle in an opera house that had been built for giants.

  Directly opposite Mishamh, against the far wall, were three mountain-high statues that rose from floor to ceiling. One was of white marble, one was of red sandstone, one was of grey granite. Their faces were huge and passionless, like the Sphinx of Egypt. Their carved wings were folded around their shoulders and down their sides. Their chests were muscular and bare. And on their foreheads were carved the words MERCY, JUSTICE and (more worryingly) VENGEANCE.

  At their waists the carvings ended. They became smooth blocks like pillars that fell all the way to the floor. It was as if the heavenly sculptors had got that far and then given up in exhaustion, thinking, That’s enough. Anyone who sees them will get the idea. Anyway – why would they want legs? These guys aren’t going anywhere.

  They were not. They never had been. They would carry on standing there until the end (whenever that might be). They were in no hurry. They looked down on the soul before them with the same appraising, unchanging stare. They had not blinked once in three thousand years.

  The soul was a woman. She stood alone in the centre of that vast chamber. She was tall, handsome and dressed in a plain white robe of the sort worn by a civilization that had collapsed thousands of years ago. Her hair was dark and done in ringlets. Her skin was lightly tanned. She wore no jewellery, because no one does in Heaven.

  Before her, on a table made of pure, polished rose-petal, lay a golden arrow. Attached to the arrow was a thick roll of parchment. Even in Heaven, where nothing ever gets old, the parchment had gone a bit yellow and curly and looked as if it had lain exactly where it was for rather a long time. Seated high up in the galleries, Mishamh, with his angel’s eyes, could make out the first line easily. In handwriting that was both neat and absolutely clear, it read:

  ‘If you are not completely satisfied with our service . . .’

  Beyond the woman there was a strange and forbidding hole in the floor. It took up nearly one third of the central area. Mishamh could not see down into the bottom. It just dropped into blackness. He wondered if it even had a bottom, or if, supposing he happened to fall in there, he would just fall for ever. (Angels do not like the thought of falling. An angel who Falls is generally Bad News, so anything to do with falling is pretty much a sore point.)

  Two more figures stood on either side of the woman. The nearer one was another angel, who was at that moment addressing the Board. But the other was grey-skinned and red-eyed, with . . . yes . . . horns.

  An extraordinary, crawling feeling came over Mishamh. He could not quite believe what he was seeing.

&nb
sp; Here? How was it possible?

  Could it really be what he thought it was? Surely it should be – well, cackling, salivating, dancing wildly and making rude gestures with its fingers?

  Its very stillness disturbed him. Its eyes were half closed. It too looked as if it had been where it was for a very long time.

  ‘Sir . . .’ he whispered. ‘Is that . . .’

  ‘It is The Enemy. One of them.’

  Mishamh shuddered. ‘Why . . . that is, I mean – nobody’s smiting it!’

  ‘It has immunity. It is here as a witness. It is also here so that if the Board says “Take Her Down”, the taking down can be done with suitable effect.’

  Mishamh looked at the hole in the floor and shuddered. ‘But – it’s disgusting! We’ll be gratifying its cruel lusts! We’ll be pandering to . . .’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Can’t we do anything?’

  ‘We can have Patience, Mishamh. The Enemy has lived with this soul all her life, just as our Guardian colleague there has. Its evidence is a necessary part of the Appeal. You must remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the angel obediently.

  ‘However. If you should happen to catch it in the corridors . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Then you may jostle it a bit.’

  Mishamh looked glumly at the horned figure. He doubted that it would be unwise enough to step even an inch outside the courts. But if it did, then yes, there would be a jostle. Quite a jostle.

  He was planning a hundred-metre run-up, for a start.

  Because The Enemy were working against the Great Curriculum! They spread Ignorance. They spread Fear! They met the fresh, bright-eyed souls on the path to Heaven and said: ‘You don’t want to go there. That place is only for posh kids. Come behind the bike sheds and see what we’ve got.’

  Creation was infested with them. Because of their evil influence barely half of all human souls made the pass mark in the Entrance Exam. There was no getting rid of them. As long as the world existed they would be there to twist the truths of Heaven and make them a trap for the unwary.

  And that was why the world had to end. It was obvious. The purpose of Heaven was to make things perfect. The Earth could not be perfect. Therefore the Earth must be destroyed. It was the only way, now, that the Great Curriculum could be rescued. Man must be set free, to enter Heaven at last amid general rejoicing. Then all the unpleasant subjects like Sorrow and Greed and Death could be dropped and everyone could settle down to studying the real stuff for all the rest of Eternity. Mishamh was quite looking forward to having a small tutorial group of, say, ten thousand souls or so, with whom he would spend the next few million years on the subject of Wonder, explaining all the marvellous things in the physical universe that they had so sadly missed during their time down below.

  But before then there was a rescue to perform. Fates had decreed that he, Mishamh, would be the liberator. He clasped the file marked more closely under his arm. It nestled there, fierce and firm, like the hilt of a fiery sword.

  One of the statues spoke. It had a high, cold voice, but because its lips did not move it was hard to tell which of the statues it was. By turning his head and moving his position a bit Mishamh worked out that it must be the one of marble, marked Mercy. Mercy was questioning a witness.

  At length. Using a lot of long words.

  In fact it wasn’t really asking questions at all. It was more sort of . . .

  ‘. . . the proposition that your Department knowingly and materially interfered in this candidate’s examination, causing the suspension of Free Will, and her subjection at the very least to Desires, and arguably to Influences that could be said to represent Divine Intervention, whereupon the answers she entered to questions 2304(a) through to 6823(d) part iii upon the examination paper concerning Adultery, Illegal Marriage, War and Destruction were materially affected, implying that the responsibility for the answers submitted rest properly with your Department and not with the candidate . . .’

  When it fell silent, which happened some time later, it did so with an air of satisfaction. And although not one of the stone faces changed in the slightest, there was a perceptible brightening of the atmosphere, as if the three great presences were somehow pleased by the way the question had been asked. Which they were. In their book, using no fewer than three thousand seven hundred and thirty-two words to say ‘Come on, admit it – it was all your fault, wasn’t it?’ was an achievement worth celebrating.

  The speech had been addressed to the witness box, where the witness was situated. This was a cupid.

  It is not difficult to recognize a cupid. For a start, they are shorter than anyone else in Heaven. The cupid was not only standing in a box; he was very probably standing on one.

  And cupids are always stark naked. No one knows why, but they are. It’s not as if their bodies are anything to boast about. Their cheeks are fat, their bellies are round, they have at least two chins each and their little willies hang down like points between their flabby thighs. In Heaven, which has a fairly strict School Uniform Policy, meeting a cupid can be a shock. The first reaction is almost always to avert your eyes. (The second is to wonder, since cupids are after all a sort of angel, what they could possibly be using those little things for.)

  ‘Wozzn’t us,’ said the cupid. Its voice was startlingly deep. ‘Woz some guy ‘oo’s left.’

  There was a moment’s pause. Even after millennia of dealing with cupids, the Appeals Board couldn’t help feeling that there should have been more than this.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said the red sandstone statue (JUSTICE), in a voice as dry as desert wind. ‘Wait. We’ve been here before . . .’

  ‘We’ve been here before at least twenty times,’ said the grey granite (VENGEANCE), and its voice was like a landslide that buries a city.

  ‘. . . and what we said,’ said the red sandstone, determined not to be interrupted, ‘was that we should consider all acts performed by the nominally separate persons of cupids, cherubs, winged messengers and the specific manifestations known variously as Venus, Aphrodite, Aidin, Branwen, Chalchiuhtlicue, Erzulie, Hathor et cetera et cetera, to rest in substance within the Department of The Angel of Love. Are we to understand that the Department now wishes to submit further arguments for consideration on this point?’

  ‘Wozzn’t us,’ said the cupid again.

  A sigh rustled around the nearly empty chamber. The woman bowed her head. She shifted her weight slightly to the other foot.

  ‘We shall naturally entertain any new arguments the Department is pleased to put forward,’ said the sandstone. ‘The mere assertion that the Department of Love was not responsible, however . . .’

  ‘What did she do?’ whispered Mishamh.

  ‘She fell in love with a man,’ said Doomsday, ‘and left her husband for him. There was a war and a city was destroyed.’

  ‘She destroyed a city?’

  ‘I believe that was question ten thousand and something,’ said Doomsday. ‘The Board is still looking at her answers to questions two thousand to seven thousand, which are mainly about whether it was her fault that she fell in love. It’s a test case. A lot of other appeals you saw waiting outside will depend upon what’s decided here.’

  Mishamh thought about this.

  ‘When you say “a lot” . . .’

  The dead are not numberless. Not to an angel. They’ve set up a counter on the wall just inside the Pearly Gates to keep an exact total. But it’s quite hard to get a reading because the last dial is a bit of a blur.

  ‘. . . Don’t they all fall in love?’

  ‘Most of them do. At least, they say so.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . shouldn’t they hurry this up? There’s a deadline from the Governors!’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Doomsday slowly, ‘that the Governors will put back the deadline to allow time for the appeal. That’s what they’ve always done in the past.’

  Asteroid (38562975) Zebukun. Six month
s to impact. If the deadline was put back, Zebukun would not happen. Nothing would come of all the work and thought he had devoted to it. Nothing, except that his plan would be shelved . . .

  In the Library.

  It would be placed in the huge Library of Geography, where the bookcases were already stuffed with plans for the end of the world, all of which had been dutifully written to meet the Governors’ deadlines. And which had been postponed, one after another, because . . .

  Now Mishamh understood the meaning of that library. He understood why none of those plans had ever happened. A pit seemed to open in his stomach, as deep and dark as the one in the floor.

  ‘But they can’t! There’s the Curriculum . . .!’

  The file pressed beneath Mishamh’s arm: solid, meticulous, beautiful – and betrayed.

  ‘Can’t they just get it decided?’ he cried, desperately.

  ‘B♥gger ♥ff!’ said the cupid.

  A delicate shudder ran around the Court. The Board was (momentarily) lost for words. The marble column turned a shade of pink. Then Vengeance spoke.

  ‘The remark of the witness contravenes the Rule laid down in Governors’ Memo No. 88463 “Re: Conduct of Appeals Board Business,” it grated, in tones like a slide of shale.

  ‘♥♥♥♥ all of you!’ said the cupid.

  ‘This is unacceptable. The witness will stand down until further notice. We wish to discuss his conduct with the Angel of Love.’

  ‘Love, you see, comes from Heaven,’ said Doomsday, as he left the chamber with his assistant trailing sadly alongside him. ‘It is itself a part of the Great Curriculum. Suppose, then, that a woman falls in love, and because of her love a city is destroyed and she fails her examination. Should she be handed over to The Enemy for that reason?’

  ‘No, sir. Not if the Department of Love made it happen.’

  Doomsday’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. ‘I see that you will never be a philosopher, Mishamh. You have made your argument in just eleven words.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’