Peter Lingard - Issue 34

Peter Lingard, born a Briton, sold ice cream on railway stations, worked as a bank clerk, delivered milk, laboured in a large dairy and served in the Royal Marines.  He has also been a barman, an accountant and a farm worker.  He lived in the US for a while and owned a freight forwarding business in New York.  He came to Australia because the sun often shines here and Australians are a positive bunch who speak English.  Peter (plingaus@bigpond.com) is a member of the Phoenix House Writers.  He has many short stories and poems published, as well as read on the radio.  Professional actors have performed his poetry and he has aired on several literary chat shows to discuss his work.  He used to read his stories and poems monthly on 3WBC. He is currently enjoying exposure of some of his poems and stories by Chewers Masticadores.

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Letter Bomb

What the? Where am I? Wait … I was in the car when that truck rammed me. Am I dead? I must be. Shit! It’s happened a bit sooner than I anticipated. What about Marie and the kids? Do they know I’ve snuffed it? They must by now. At least the kids are grown and they’ll be alright financially. I hope Marie can handle things properly; she wasn’t the brightest tool in the box. I guess I can admit that now. She was a good, kind and loving person but maybe not the smartest. She should find someone dependable now I’m turning to dust.

I’m in some sort of queue.  There’s nothing else, just me at the end of a long line that seems to stretch to infinity. That’s a lot of dead people.  It’s like a surreal painting I saw once – or am I imagining that to fit this circumstance? Well, if I’m dead, at least there’s some sort of afterlife. I never believed in heaven, but I did like the idea of reincarnation. This doesn’t seem like either of those. It’s a nothingness – no signs of civilisation, no trees, no grass, no birds, no buildings, not even wasteland. I’m standing in line in the middle of what … white nothingness? What’s the point? Where the hell is this queue going? Hell? Is this nothingness hell? I’m not being scorched, but will I have to stand here forever?

A woman in front has turned at the waist to look at me. ‘Welcome,’ she says.

‘Thanks, I think. Do you know what’s going on?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I guess we’re waiting to get into Svarga. But you’re a Christian, aren’t you? You should go to heaven, unless my religion is the only true one. There’s a thought. Oh, it’s all very confusing.’ she says with a frustrated tone, as if said thought had just occurred to her. She shrugged. ‘Who would have thought we’d have to stand in line for whatever we’re standing in line for?’ She looks past my shoulder and smiles and I realize someone else has joined the queue.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ the newcomer asks, speaking perfect, unaccented English, as had the woman in the sari. Have we been gifted an understanding of each other? Do they hear me in their language? It’s a bit Hollywood movie-like – never mind other peoples’ languages and mores. 

I turn to see an Arabian man dressed in a thobe. I check my own attire and see I’m dressed for work. That makes sense. I was on my way to ... wait … aren’t Arabs Muslims? I’m a (half-hearted) Christian, as the woman in the sari pointed out, so why are we in the same line? The woman in front of me expects to end up in svarga. They’re not Christians, so am I out of place? Is the Arabian expecting to discover that his is the only religion? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Have we all been wasting our time and money supporting something that doesn’t exist? Could one group have got it right? If that’s true, they’ve hit the jackpot. And, if that is true, what of the rest of us?

There are seven children in front of the woman. They might be Hispanic (the song, Seven Spanish Angels pops into my head). ‘That group of children seems strange,’ I say.

‘Yes, I remember,’ the Arab says. ‘I was listening to the radio just before my heart attack and heard there was one of those shootings at a school in America. Some town in Arkansas, I think. They said there were seven fatalities. They must be those kids. It’s kind of sad to see them, knowing how they died, even if this is nirvana. 

The woman with the sari stretches out her hand to stroke a little girl’s head but the child shies away. She drops her hand. ‘Understandable,’ she says. ‘My husband got jealous when he saw me laughing with a UN doctor. When we got home, he ranted and raved and then he shot me in the head.’ There is no evidence of the wound and I realise I’m not feeling the supposed effects of my car crash.

Five emaciated Gazans now arrive behind the Arab, quickly followed by three guys in military uniforms bearing the blue and yellow Ukraine flag on the shoulder. A pair of Russian snipers, dressed in camouflage clothing with grass and twigs attached, stand behind them. There is no sign of animosity between the two groups, possibly because they see the futility of fighting when they’re already dead.  I recall a tale about, during a cease-fire on Christmas day in World War 1, English and German troops played soccer against each other. Again, I feel strangely out of place, as if my life and death were insignificant compared with those around me. I suppose heart attacks and fatal car crashes are considered mundane up here. Up? I turn to look forward again. Are we moving without walking, as if on a travelator? I don’t see evidence of one and, in this white nothingness, neither is there a sensation of progression. I attempt to step forward but my legs won’t obey me.

‘Does anybody know what’s at the end of this line?’ I ask. ‘How do we know we’re supposed to be here?’

‘Where else would we go?’ The Indian woman replies. 

I turn to my right with the intention of walking away but am somehow prevented from doing so. I attempt to lift my arm sideways, but an unseen barrier prevents me.

‘The only alternative is supposed to be hellfire,’ the Arab says.

‘People are whispering about a vetting desk ahead,’ the Indian whispers. ‘They’re sorting people by religion and sending them to other queues specifically formed for those of the same belief.’ 

‘Why do we need to be vetted? Does whoever think we’ll lie about our religion, or lack of it? That seems pointless now.’

‘It’s because there are people who will claim to be Jihadist warriors who died for Allah,’ says the man behind me. ‘They believe there’ll be seventy-two virgins waiting for them in Islamic paradise.’

‘So how will they determine a person’s beliefs at the vetting desk?’

‘I have no idea,’ he says. ‘At least those humanoid robots won’t be able to get in. AI is out of our lives for evermore, thanks be to Allah.’ 

His statement makes me want to smile, but smiling seems odd, given the situation. We fall silent for a while as we glide forward and contemplate what might be ahead. I feel alone, despite the others in the queue. Where are you, Marie. What are you doing right now? Is time different on earth? Am I already buried? I wish you were here with me. No! I don’t wish that. You’d have to be dead, too, and I don’t want that for you. Live well, Marie.

We reach the sorting desk eventually. It probably took a long time, but I seem to have lost the sense of time, if that’s possible. Everything seems to be getting progressively weirder. The Indian woman chats to an agent before joining a line marked for Hindus. 

The agent I front up to smiles and says, ‘Our records show you gave to the Roman church regularly, so you can tag onto that line over there.’ She nods in the direction I should go. 

As I leave, the guy behind me says, ‘I’m a Muslim so I guess we won’t see each other again. Good luck.’

I turn to shake his hand, but my arm won’t lift. I give him a resigned but friendly smile.  ‘Good luck with the virgins, mate.’ 

He grins. ‘I’m too old for that, and I wasn’t a warrior anyway. Not that I believe the story.’ Then he widens his eyes and looks worryingly about, and I wonder if he’s feeling guilty of sacrilege. 

An angel with shimmering wings leads me to a queue beneath a sign that reads Christians.  ‘Welcome,’ he says. ‘Heaven is the third door along on the right. The gates are made of pearl, so you can’t miss them. The gatekeeper is called Peter. He’s a good guy but he can get a bit cranky sometimes. Bear with him, he’s been doing the job for quite a while.’

It seemed like another eternity before I arrive at the pearly gates. Seven Spanish Angels is repeating in my head for the umpteenth time and I’m working on Pythagoras’ theorem about right-angled triangles to dispel the tune. A bearded old guy in white robes beckons me forward. ‘Welcome to heaven.’ 

There is no fanfare.

I am surprised I can walk up to him. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Do you know I’ve been queuing outside for ages? There are thousands out there and most have no idea as to what’s going on.’

‘Yes,’ said the gatekeeper, ‘but the entry before you was a multiple affair and these things take time, as you’re about to find out. Mind you, you’ll have to rethink your version of time in here. Name?’

‘Eduard Crumpsall.’

‘Nice to meet you Mr Crumpsall. Is that with a w or a u?’

‘A u.’

‘Oh dear. Yes. That’s a problem.’ I wonder if I’m going to be refused admittance because I spell my name with a u. ‘The people down there put the wrong name on your death certificate. We’ll have to make a note about that. Do you have an eraser on you?’

‘Eraser? Get a grip. What do you mean, the wrong name?  The doctor was a friend.  We golfed together.’

The gatekeeper commiserates.  ‘It wasn’t the doctor, it was his new assistant, the robot.  She wrote …’

‘Helen’s a robot?!  Do they make them that advanced? Does doc know?’

‘Probably, though I don’t know how many robots there are in the job market so he could be ignorant of the fact, especially if he got her through an employment agency.  I’ll let you know once he gets here.  As I was saying, she entered your name as Edward instead of Eduard.  Why am I saying she?  It wrote your name as Edward.  It was …’

‘You’re Peter, right?’

‘Saint Peter, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Yeah, sure.  So, Saint, how do you know she’s a robot?’

The gatekeeper sighs.  ‘Well, there’s a distinct lack of communication between us, plus on the sole of her left foot there’s a statement; Made in China.’

‘How can you know this but not know whether Doc’s aware she’s a robot?’

‘There are billions of people on Earth, and you expect me to be in the heads of those who don’t believe in us?  The intelligence I get is sketchy, at best. I won’t know what’s in the doctor’s mind until he arrives to join us, if he comes to join us.  He might be heading for a couple of doors to the left. As I was about to say, it was a simple mistake.  Anyone could have made it, robot or not.  Nobody noticed until the lawyers arrived to start divvying up your estate.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘We prefer it if you don’t use expressions like that here.  Curses involving Satan are acceptable, if you must.  What about your hoard of Bitcoins?  Did you tell your accountant about it?’  

I shake my head – emphatically at first, until it slows with some doubt.  ‘You don’t tell people about money you have safely stashed away.  Do that, and everyone from the government down will come visiting with their hand held out.’

‘Oh dear.  I feel your family will have lost all that, what with your name having been changed.  Perhaps it would have been more prudent to have paid taxes on that income.  Your wife’s robot lover is eager to get its hands on as much as it can, if eager is the right expression.  

‘Marie has a lover?  A robot!’

‘Yes.  It’s been going on for about three years now.  It seems she doesn’t know he’s a robot and is rather fond of him.  I don’t know why humans are so keen on robots.  I can see why firms have them in factories et cetera, but in social lives?  Earth is running out of space, but they build mechanical versions of themselves to take up more space.  I put it down to vanity.  Not, like you, hoarding money away, but flaunting it.  Humans need to cull themselves to better use the planet, allow breathing space and improve the quality of everything.  Natural disasters and wars help.  The two world wars did a great job of that, but the current American President looks like he’s uninclined to initiate another one that’ll have robots killing humans. We would be busy that day. I understand the man wants to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. His dithering over the coronavirus didn’t help a lot, like others around the globe.  Mind you, at the end of that, Earth was a very different place.’

‘Enough of this killing off the people stuff!  I’ve got to get back before my wife’s robot steals my children’s inheritances.’

‘Oh, it’s already happened … well, just about.  Your lawyer has applied for a grant of probate with both your correct name and incorrect one.  That mistake of the ‘w’ in the spelling of your name is assisting the amorous robot to get his hands on some of your hard-earned riches.  Your wife’s misguided ideas of ultimate happiness are helping him.  She calls him Bob, by the way.  I don’t find Robert The Robot very imaginative and I know she doesn’t realise it’s a robot, but some juveniles around here find it titillating.’

‘There are other connotations for ‘Bob’.’

‘Really?  What?’

‘Actually, it doesn’t apply if she doesn’t know it’s a robot.  Besides, you don’t want to know, Saint.’

‘That bad, huh?  As I was about to say, our researchers believe the affectionate device is programmed to attempt to take a sizeable slice of everything that was yours and give it to its masters.  They’re trying to ascertain if the doctor’s robot, Helen, intentionally assisted him.  If it did, it signals a whole new complication in AI.’ 

‘Its masters!  Who in hell are its masters?’

‘Oh yes, I do like that!   Who in hell.  That’s an oldie but still a goodie.’

‘Never mind that.  Who owns the robot?’

‘We suspect it’s the Russians.  They’ve tried all sorts of ways to subvert every country, but the human-like robots are the master stroke.  They’re everywhere.  Mind you, I don’t know how many times they’ve achieved the same staggering success as the one with your wife.  That’s truly remarkable.’  

‘We can drop that, if you don’t mind.  Look, I find it hard to see how you can know how a robot is programmed but have no idea what’s going on in peoples’ minds.  Why don’t you lot do something?  It’ll be no use Lording it over a ruined planet.’

‘We can’t do anything.  You’re like those unfortunate people who ask why we don’t intervene in illness and death.  It’s beyond our remit.  We must allow nature to take its course.’

‘Isn’t nature another creation of yours?’

‘Creation?  Not exactly.  Let’s say it’s an independent contractor.’

‘Rubbish.  You should consolidate your assets and improve the general quality of life for the people of Earth.’

‘Not that easy.  Shiva, Brahma, Vishnu, Muhammad, Siddhartha Gautama, Judah, Guru Nanak and many other founders of religion are all here.  This place is like a clearing house for all who are greedy for redemption.  What can we do?  You think religious wars on Earth are bad, you should be here on feast days!’ 

‘They’re all here?’

‘Of course.  Where else would they go?  And then there’s the beings from other planets. We have different entrances, these pearly gates are mine, but there are other portals around almost every corner.’ 

‘Were you having a dig at me because I didn’t go to church?  Hell, you know how busy I was!’

‘Hell?’

‘You know what I mean. Plus, I gave the church ten-thousand dollars for each of my daughters’ weddings.  Thirty thousand, plus other donations, isn’t to be sniffed at.  It’s probably more than most of your arriving believers give in their lifetimes.’   

‘True.  However, I believe we should have had more out of you, given your circumstances.’

‘We’ve got to do something,’ I stress. ‘For God’s sake, send me back.’

‘For God’s sake? Really? You’re going to have to clean up your vocabulary if you want to stay here. Free speech is one thing, but there are limits. Anyhow, going back isn’t an option.  Think about it.  Because the time spent for you to arrive at this point, largely due to Americans continually shooting each other and cutting AID to foreign countries, the Israelis wiping out Palestinians and Russia trying to take over Ukraine, your body has already started to decompose.  If you go back as a new-born, you won’t be able to change things for a considerable number of years.  No, Eduard, you’re here to stay and those still on Earth will have to fend for themselves. Welcome to Heaven.’