The Things We Learn When We're Dead Read online

  They were in an open cargo area and their footsteps echoed across what sounded like a metal floor. God led her to one end of the cargo bay, where a glass partition opened, and ushered her inside a rather cramped lift that also seemed made from glass.

  ‘Flight deck,’ said God.

  Of course.

  Trinity, her dulcet tones no different from the voice she used in Heaven.

  The lift ascended through several floors of living quarters. On one floor, luxurious seats laid out aeroplane-style; on another, easy chairs set around coffee tables. The lift slowed then came to a halt. The glass door soundlessly opened.

  Flight deck.

  ‘Thank you, Trinity.’

  The inside of the cockpit at first seemed Spartan, with two seats for the pilot and co-pilot and a third seat set behind and to one side. In front of the pilots’ position was a flat pyramid that rose from the floor, its tip just extending above the bottom line of the cockpit window. However, unlike a conventional aeroplane, there didn’t seem to be any controls. The flat pyramid was devoid of obvious gauges or buttons.

  Lorna peered out into Heaven, careful not to touch anything. Although she couldn’t see any controls, she was pretty sure they were around somewhere. Looking up from the outside, the Gemini had seemed huge; looking down from the inside, it was massively huge.

  God had settled himself in the left-hand seat and motioned her to the one on his right. In the greenish light, his face looked sickly, like an old man on a turbulent sea crossing. ‘Unlike you, we think in colours,’ he said, and gestured to the base of the pyramid, ‘and when this space vehicle is readied for flight the control panel begins to light up in different shades of blue, green, and red. Down here are the ship’s more basic functions. Oxygen supply, hull integrity, that kind of thing.’ To Lorna, those seemed anything but basic, but she didn’t say anything. She hadn’t said anything since her feet had left Heaven’s floor. She had questions, but not words.

  ‘Further up the control panel, subsystems become integrated,’ continued God, his hand moving up the pyramid. ‘Propulsion becomes integrated with navigation, telemetry with environmental protection. The safety of the ship’s crew,’ said God forcibly, ‘is of paramount concern.’ His hand now moved down one side of the pyramid. He frowned. ‘I suppose I could tell you how everything works, but I doubt if you’d understand.’ He looked at her sideways, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. ‘Actually, when it comes to details, I’m pretty hopeless myself. I suppose I did once know how everything worked, but I must have forgotten. It’s been a long time, Lorna.’ He sat quietly for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought, then added, ‘When it comes to things like environmental protection systems, all that matters is that they do work.’

  Lorna coughed but still couldn’t find any words. They had become frozen at the back of her mouth.

  ‘The top of the control panel represents the most important of the ship’s functions,’ continued God, leaning back in his seat, ‘the point at which every sub-system has integrated with all the others. Only then will one last light become visible.’ He leaned forward and tapped the top of the pyramid. ‘This one, last light is the only light on the control panel that is pure white.’ He sounded wistful, having perhaps sat in that same seat watching stars unfold across space and time. ‘It means that we have hyperdrive integration. Without that, you get absolutely nowhere. That last light is the very best thing a space-pilot ever sees, Lorna. It means that we’re safe and can go places. Or get home,’ he added quietly.

  Lorna stared at the blank spot at the top of the pyramid, trying to imagine it lit up like a Christmas tree.

  ‘Us old-timers used to call it starbright, I don’t remember why.’

  Lorna immediately felt the tickle of a memory, too distant for retrieval. Small and indistinct memories kept seeping back, some welcome, others less so. But, despite being anchors to her past, they were also encumbrances; they were what she had been, not what she had become.

  Lorna found voice. ‘Starbright,’ she echoed.

  ‘In space, Lorna, you absolutely require a hyperdrive. Without it ...’

  ‘I think, God, you’ve already told me that.’

  God folded his hands in his lap and smiled. ‘You know, I do rather believe that I have. Anyway,’ he said, one hand gesturing to the cockpit window, ‘we have company.’

  Far below and advancing towards the Gemini at a brisk pace was Irene, a plume of smoke behind her. God sighed and shook his head. ‘Smoking is specifically forbidden on the flight deck,’ he said, an exasperated tug to his voice. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t.’

  * * *

  Back on Heaven’s flight deck floor, Irene seemed oblivious to God’s displeasure. Although she had now discarded her cigarette, wisps of smoke still eddied overhead, disappearing into the darkness above. God looked at the smoke, once more shaking his head but saying nothing. Irene, Lorna had concluded, was probably unmanageable. Prohibiting Irene from smoking on the flight deck would have been like commanding the tide to turn. ‘I thought that you might be hungry, sweetie,’ she said to Lorna. ‘God, I hope you weren’t boring her?’

  Behind them, the crystal walkway had furled up back into the Gemini and the outer door had slid shut. Looking up, Lorna saw that the cockpit was once more in darkness, the giant space vessel returned once more to redundant metal. The smell of Irene’s cigarette lingered in the air.

  In Irene’s presence, God seemed less divine, less sure of himself. ‘I don’t think so. At least I hope not, was I, Lorna?’ Instinctively he fiddled with the beads around his neck, the fingers of one bony hand slickly lacing themselves between each brightly-coloured string.

  ‘No, of course not, God. Thank you. I didn’t understand very much but, well ...’ She trailed off, words again becoming stuck at the back of her throat.

  ‘In which case, young Lorna, I’ll leave you in Irene’s most capable hands.’ He said this while looking upwards at the last faint traces of cigarette smoke that were circling upwards in a hidden current. Irene pointedly ignored Him. ‘I would prefer,’ said God, ‘to remain here just a little longer. It’s been a while since I was last on the flight deck. Memories, Lorna, lots of memories.’ He bowed slightly, trying to be gentlemanly, which made Irene snort loudly.

  ‘Come on, petal,’ she hissed in Lorna’s ear. ‘When God gets maudlin, it’s time to go.’ In a louder voice she asked: ‘So, what’s it to be, Lorna? More lamb cutlets? Can’t abide them myself, but everyone to their own, that’s what I say. Or something French, perhaps? Coq au vin, or some-such muck. In Heaven you can have whatever food you want, sweetie, and whenever you want it. Night or day, isn’t that right, God?’ she asked. God, after a moment’s pause, nodded. ‘Or what about a plate of spaghetti?’ Irene continued quickly, just in case God chose to reply. ‘Pasta, pizza, and hamburgers are very popular here. Advertising, I suppose. Anyway, your choice, Lorna. What would you like to eat more than anything else in the whole world?’ Irene was teasing her.

  But she was still in a world without obvious clocks, or a sun or a moon to rise and traverse the sky. ‘Should I be hungry?’ she asked.

  Tin Man

  Many of her memories were defined by food. Her mother’s gargantuan picnics, lamb cutlets on the riverboat, a birthday picnic on North Berwick Law, the town laid out like a tapestry beneath them. Potted shrimp, tuna and cucumber, beef and horseradish. She could remember other meals: Sunday lunch after church, her eighteenth birthday in an extortionate Italian restaurant in Edinburgh. She had become an adult yet knew only to order the cheapest things on the menu, even though she’d never much liked pasta. By then, her father was only working intermittently and her mother’s job in the bakery wasn’t making up the difference. They couldn’t really afford to treat her, but it was a special birthday. Lorna would have preferred something homemade, something they could afford and which she wouldn’t have felt guilty eating. By then, her dad wasn’t eating much. Food no longer interest
ed him. He looked at his plate or the wine bottle. He was creeping further into the cupboard under the sink. He didn’t say much either.

  Indian food was her least favourite. She didn’t like spicy food. It burned her mouth and lay heavily in her stomach, making her feel bloated. She preferred homely food, bland and unpretentious: ordinary food that had some connection to where she lived. The further away the cuisine came from, the less that she liked it. It wasn’t just that she was unadventurous – although she’d often been accused of it. Perhaps it was something to do with living by the sea, smelling the tang of saltwater on the breeze, hearing the rush and pull of waves on the beach. At night, the hush of water lulled Lorna to sleep; in the morning, she would wake to the raucous call of seagulls.

  Her father knew a fisherman and from him they’d receive lobsters and crabs, mackerel and cod. In return, her dad helped with the fisherman’s accounts. Most of the catch, Dad explained, is simply put onto refrigerated lorries and sent to Spain. That seemed especially odd to Lorna: why couldn’t people, like her, eat what their surroundings provided?

  Lorna realised she knew nothing of her Heavenly benefactors. Her concerns had all been about herself. ‘What do you people eat?’ she asked Irene as they once more negotiated the sets of blast doors, giant locks grinding.

  ‘The same as you, sweetie,’ said Irene, a cigarette to her lips. ‘I suppose we must once have eaten something else but I guess we’ve forgotten. You have to remember we’ve been here for rather a long time. Now we just eat whatever you eat.’

  ‘But how can you forget something as basic as food?’

  Irene smiled, the last of the blast doors grinding open. ‘Our brains can’t remember everything, that’s the truth of it. A lifetime of memories, that’s what you get, and then you die. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Instead, we’ve been here for many, many lifetimes. Too many memories for one brain, sweetie. So, old memories get erased to make way for new ones.’ She stopped to deposit her cigarette into another white receptacle that had soundlessly appeared from the wall, then continued in a quieter voice: ‘Few of us remember much about our home planet or the people we left behind. Some of us keep photographs, but it’s sometimes difficult to know who they were. Brother? Sister? Husband or wife? You see, Lorna, it’s all but a distant dream now – a long, long way away and a long, long time ago. Earth now provides our inspiration.’ Irene coughed and took a deep breath. ‘As I said, pizza and hamburger are popular, although there are a number of gastronomes among the crew who insist only on fine dining. Maybe,’ she concluded brightly, ‘our own food was crap.’

  ‘What was the name of your planet?’

  ‘Arthuria,’ replied Irene, sounding wistful, and coming to an unexpected halt. ‘It was beautiful, I think. It had mountains and seas, rivers and valleys. Big cities, small villages. Forests and deserts. Even now, I can remember blue skies and cold rain.’

  ‘You make it sound just like Earth.’

  ‘We are much the same, you and I,’ replied Irene, looking Lorna up and down. ‘The same weight and mass. The same internal organs. The same hopes, fears, and dreams. Given our striking similarities, it stands to reason, Lorna, that our planets should also be similar.’

  They had stopped at a transporter. The corridor wall slid soundlessly open. ‘Entertainment complex, please.’

  Of course, Irene.

  As the transporter set off horizontally, Lorna asked: ‘Do you miss your home?’ Even as the words came out, they sounded inane.

  Irene glanced at her sharply. ‘This is my home, Lorna. And yours, although it may take a while for that to sink in. In any case, and like everyone else, I’ve pretty much forgotten everything about home, and you can’t miss something you’ve forgotten about. I only know Heaven.’

  But memories are what shape us, Lorna thought, wondering whether the same thing would happen to her. I am what I am because of what I was, she thought, and if we learn from experience, surely it’s only the memories of those experiences that are the teachers. If we forget that it’s bad to put a knitting needle in an electrical socket, aren’t we doomed to make the same mistake twice? Like celestial dementia, would her old memories be silently erased, even the good ones? Would she wake one day and not know where she came from? Would the push and suck of the North Sea be forgotten? Already Lorna could see amnesia and boredom ahead, with nothing to look forward to, not even death.

  Irene sensed her thoughts. ‘Don’t look so glum,’ she chided, the transporter rushing upwards. ‘As with anywhere, Heaven is what you make of it. Use your time wisely and you’ll be happy. Believe me, sweetie, I should know. I’ve been here long enough!’

  But Lorna was still thinking about home and how long it would take to forget about it, crystal memories becoming sepia then fading altogether. ‘Am I allowed to talk to people on Earth? Can I do that?’

  ‘It is forbidden.’

  Lorna took a deep breath. ‘God told me that smoking was forbidden on the flight deck.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you chose to disobey that particular rule.’ She removed a hand from the handrail and waved it for emphasis. ‘Oh, come on, Irene, please! All I want to do is let people know I’m OK. Surely that’s not too much to ask?’ Grief had always unsettled her, particularly other people’s grief, and she was reminded again of the Arab women with the baby, its angry eyes piercing hers. She didn’t like to think of friends and relatives grieving over something that hadn’t really happened.

  ‘You’re dead, petal. You’re therefore not OK.’

  Lorna tried again. ‘But you were smoking on the flight deck, Irene. That’s forbidden.’ If Irene could do what was forbidden, then surely she could too.

  ‘Unless a spaceship is actually about to go somewhere, it’s perfectly safe to smoke on the flight deck. There’s nothing to catch fire, so there’s nothing to worry about. Therefore, God’s stupid edict can be safely ignored.’ Irene’s eyes met hers; the flinty edge was back, her lips unsmiling. ‘However, there is a higher law of space and time we must all obey. The law of projection, Lorna, surely God explained that to you? Without that universal law, we wouldn’t have the secret of space flight. It’s what allows us to make transitions across space and time. But it also governs everything in the universe. The simple fact,’ concluded Irene, finally realising that simplicity was the best course, ‘is that no one object can exist in two places at the same time.’

  ‘But I’m not an object,’ sulked Lorna.

  ‘Maybe not, sweetie, but you are a temporal anomaly. You’re dead in one place and alive in another. What that means is that the dead can’t talk to the living.’

  Entertainment complex.

  ‘Thank you, Trinity. Come along, petal.’ Irene was smiling again, and reaching into a pocket for a long-overdue cigarette. She found time to squeeze Lorna’s shoulder before lighting up. ‘Time for lunch and, afterwards, a spot of retail therapy.’

  * * *

  In her short stay in Heaven, Lorna had become accustomed to surprises, yet at first glance the entertainment complex looked no different from the kind of shopping centre she was used to on Earth, but without the crying babies or litter. For a moment Lorna could have been in a town centre anywhere in Scotland, Britain, or the world, and was disorientated by finding herself in familiar surroundings.

  ‘We’ve even got a McDonalds,’ whispered Irene, and pointed with the tip of her cigarette. Sure enough, across the circular atrium over which they were now walking, were the familiar golden arches. ‘It’s a bit naff,’ conceded Irene, ‘but the crew like it.’

  From the centre of the atrium Lorna could see everything around and above her. The level they were on seemed filled with a variety of sandwich and fast-food outlets. Apart from McDonalds, there was a Burger King, Costa, and Pizza Express. As her eyes travelled upwards, Lorna’s sense of wonderment was restored. The next level, reached by an escalator that looked sculpted from glass, contained retail outlets. She exhaled slowly, not knowing
whether the likes of Armani, Versace, Dior, Jimmy Choo, and Prada could be described as mere outlets.

  The third level, reached by another crystal walkway, offered Dolce & Gabbana, Jean Paul Gaultier, Chanel, Rolex, Fendi, Valentino ... the list went on and on – all of the world’s greatest and most luxurious brands gathered in a place where nobody on Earth could possibly buy them. She slowly turned, open mouthed, her gaze flitting from one shop to the next, her eyes ascending towards the upper galleries, and to the panorama above. The ceiling, three levels away, comprised one vast expanse of glass. Beyond the glass, the blackness of space and boiling light from surrounding galaxies. Inside, from behind display cases, fiery diamonds on watches, bracelets, necklaces, and rings twinkled back at the stars.

  ‘We also have a Marks & Spencer,’ Irene told her, as if this might make Heaven seem more civilised. She pointed upwards with her greatly-diminished cigarette. ‘They do such nice underwear, don’t you think?’

  * * *

  For no reason, Lorna remembered she had been wearing Marks & Spencer knickers the evening she lost her virginity.

  She was seventeen. Her boyfriend, Austin Bird, was deputy head boy and captain of the school First XV. Like her brother, rugby was in his blood. It was their names, of course, that had drawn them together. Wouldn’t it be silly, they’d joke, if we went out together. What would people say! They joked about it so often they eventually did go out, just to see what people would say. They got on well and, almost without thinking, he morphed from friend to boyfriend. Sometimes they went to the cinema in Edinburgh, usually to friends’ houses for a party. The school year was drawing to a close. It would soon be the end of schooldays for both of them. Lorna had never really had a boyfriend before: the word seemed alien, new. She’d concentrated instead on passing exams, making sure she could leave North Berwick eventually. Austin was a departure; like her brother, he smelled different.