Attack of the Cupids (17 page)

Half a mile, with a ton of books and a sack of PE kit.
You
try it sometime.

They had made it, just. The last pupils were still hurrying down the corridors. Charlie B was still leaning by the lockers, finishing his breakfast (a kebab of some kind). Sally and Billie slung their P.E. bags onto
the top of their lockers and scuttled for the classroom door.

Wham!
The way was blocked by a wall of school uniforms. Quite a high wall too. Cassie, Viola and Imogen weren't really twice as tall as the twins, but this morning they looked it.

‘All right,' said Cassie. ‘Where is it?'

The twins looked up at them.

‘Imogen's oboe,' said Cassie. ‘Where have you put it?'

‘Put it?'

‘It was there last night,' said Cassie. ‘It's gone this morning. Someone's taken it. And who might that have been?'

‘Must have been whoever took the shin pads yesterday,' growled Billie.

‘That is
not
funny,' said Cassie.

There was an air of cold fury about Cassie and Viola that was worse, if anything, than the very worst they had looked the day before. Imogen was glaring like the others, but there was something trembly about her glare that made it look as if she was about to burst into tears. She was a shade paler than she should have been.

Stealing boyfriends was one thing, their looks said.
Putting dead mice in a girl's bag, OK. But walk off with an oboe . . .

‘She's got her Grade Five this afternoon,' said Cassie. ‘I suppose you'll tell us you didn't know.'

‘Oh,' said Sally.

Oh.

How do you get at a girl you really want to hurt? Pick something that matters and spoil it. Nothing mattered as much in Imogen's family as music. They spent hours at it. She and her brothers were ticking off their exams one after the other. Grade 4, Grade 5, Grade 6. There'd be a Music Diploma too, at some point, But the thing about exams was, you don't just have to be good at it. You have to be in the right place, and the right time. With your music. And your instrument.

Ameena had been right. The assassins had closed in.

‘It wasn't us,' said Sally. ‘We've just got here.'

The three looked down at the twins. At their flushed faces, heavy breathing, shirts that had come untucked during the run from home. It was obvious that she was telling the truth.

‘We'll all get “Lates”, standing around like this,' Sally pleaded.

‘Then let's do that, shall we?' said Cassie.

‘We'll say we were looking for the oboe,' said Viola. ‘And
you
were helping us.'

‘I can't do it!' cried Muddlespot.

‘Yes you can,' said Windleberry.

‘Just go!' urged the Inner Sally. ‘Things are getting really bad out there!'

‘
You don't understand!
'

They stared at him.

‘Look at me!' Muddlespot cried.

‘We are,' said Sally.

‘I mean –
I
can't go to Heaven.
He
can. Maybe you can. But not
me
! I'm everything that place isn't. I'm – I'm deceit. I'm foul. I'm pride – and proud of it. I can't
begin
to get there! And if I did, it'd kill me, just being there. Anyway, the Fluffies will tear me to pieces!'

Windleberry looked thoughtful.

‘How do you think I'm going to do it?' Muddlespot pleaded.

Still Windleberry looked thoughtful.

‘There's a song,' Sally said, ‘that Mum sings in the shower –
Three Steps To Heaven
. Step One, you find a boy to love. Step Two, he falls in love with—'

‘That won't be necessary,' said Windleberry. ‘Muddlespot,' he said. ‘Follow me.'

Muddlespot teetered on his toes. It was the first time that Windleberry (his beloved and admired Windleberry!) had ever spoken his name. The sound of it shook him to his core. It hauled him forwards. Even as every ounce of his own being hauled him back.

‘Follow me,' said Windleberry. He seemed to be climbing a set of stairs – stairs that had somehow appeared in Sally's mind. They were ordinary, straight stairs. No gold, no marble, no statues or ornate carvings. Just very, very plain, drudging steps, and each one was a little higher than you could lift your feet with comfort. He was above them now and looking down on the two of them. And his eyes said
Follow me
.

Muddlespot knew he could not even put his foot on the first step. If he did, he would be blasted apart from outside and from within. It just Could Not Be.

And yet . . .

Something within him pulled upwards. It was like a hook, fastened into his breastbone where that arrow had hit. It was a spark that burned inside him and lifted him as it burned. It wasn't fire. (He would have been comfortable with fire.) It was colder than the deepest depths of space. And it tugged at him. It tore. His body
was fighting it like a fish on a line, and yet like a fish he was being hauled where he would not and could not go. His feet were on the stair. He could not remember putting them there.

‘Good luck,' he heard Sally say. ‘We need it.'

He took a step upwards. He felt the stairs shudder beneath his feet as if there were a living thing that recoiled at his touch. He felt the fabric of Creation tremble. And still the spark in his breast tugged him upwards, and he seemed to hear a voice whisper
Yes. Yes, foul though you are, because of this one thing within you, you may rise. You may. If you can.

Windleberry was above him. He was taking another step.

‘Wait!' Muddlespot gasped. ‘I'm coming.'

Love is the reason things happen when they shouldn't.

Where is Heaven?

Up above the clouds? Really?

Up above the clouds (depending on which clouds you mean) there's the stratosphere, where the air is so thin and cold that if you jumped into it you'd freeze and burst at the same time. There's no Heaven there. Try further up.

In the Van Allen belts maybe, ten thousand kilometres above the Earth's surface? This far up there's no atmosphere at all, and enough radiation to fry whatever's left of you after you've done your bursting and freezing.

Not here either, guv.

Come on. It looks like it's further than we thought. Let's get out beyond the orbit of Mars, out beyond
those frozen, gassy monsters that we on our little rock presume to call Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. Out to places so far from our sun that it looks like no more than a pinpoint of bright light, to the vast emptiness of the heliosheath that stretches on and on until there's nothing at all. And then . . .

Let's just
think
about how far it is to the nearest star. The very nearest one. Heaven? Not on this line. Must have got on the wrong train. Go back and take another look at the departure board.

Don't look above the altocumulus and the cirrocumulus. Look above the clouds of Want and Desire. Don't reach for the droplets of water that glisten in the rainbow. Look for the lights of Hope and the colours of Charity. Pass the mists of the Aurora to one side. Rise boldly through the mists of, well, Mystery. There you will find it. The City in the Sky.

It is vast. It stretches farther than the eye can understand. Its walls are higher than thunderclouds, its towers are of pure light, its domes are of moon-glow, its banners are like comet-trails across the sky. A million, million glittering lamps shine from its windows and battlements. Splendour falls on other walls and lights them with the glory of the setting sun.
But this city glows from within, and beside it the Sun itself is the palest candle.

Cue the trumpets, please.

I don't believe it, thought Muddlespot.

He felt like an ant at the gates of the Taj Mahal.

I just don't . . .

I mean – I knew it was here, but . . .

It's even bigger than our place. And a
lot
more scary.

‘Come on,' muttered Windleberry. ‘Don't look as though you are with me. Just keep moving in the same direction as I do.'

The windows in the towers were long, thin and glowing with colour. They looked down upon Muddlespot, blank-eyed, as if they suspected he didn't belong.

There was a crowd at the gate. Above the hubbub Muddlespot heard the voices of the angels who receive the souls that come up from below. They had eyes of burning coal and swords of fire, and their song was endless. And there was more than a hint of desperation in it.

‘Please wait in line,' they chanted endlessly. ‘
Please
do not crowd the tables. Each of you will receive your
results. It's not as though you need to hurry. You're in Eternity now.'

‘Where's Saint Peter?' called a voice from the crowd.

‘I'm afraid he's busy at the moment,' replied an angel. ‘Please do not—'

‘Then where's Yama?' cried another.

‘He's busy too. Please wait until you are asked to come forward—'

A little beyond the main crush was a line of tables with angels sitting in them. Souls were being waved forward to them one by one.

‘Name?' said the angel at the nearest.

‘Er – Jeff Coulsever, it was,' said the soul.

‘Do you know your results?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Your examination results,' said the angel patiently, holding out an envelope.

‘Results?' said the soul. ‘Look, I'm sorry, I'm new here. I didn't know . . .' It opened the envelope nervously. ‘Oh.'

‘That's not a pass mark, I'm afraid,' said the angel kindly. ‘As things stand, we can't admit you. Would you like to appeal?'

The soul was looking through pages and pages
of questions and answers. Its face had turned pale. ‘Er . . .' it said.

‘You want to take a few moments to think about it?' said the angel.

‘Er, yes. Yes, please . . .'

‘Sure. Come back when you're ready.'

‘Er, thanks.' The soul turned away. Then it turned back again. ‘Look, I seem to have answered some of these questions before I was three! I don't even remember—'

‘Take your time,' said the angel. ‘If you'd like a hint, I'd have a close look at questions two thousand to seven thousand – the module on Love. That's where most appeals get lodged. To tell the truth, there's a bit of a backlog in the Appeals Board at the moment.'

‘This is WRONG!' cried another soul, pushing forward. ‘This is all wrong! You shouldn't be here!'

‘I shouldn't be here?' said the angel.

‘None of this should be here! There's no basis for you in science. You're a delusion! I shouldn't have to put up with this. It's insulting!'

‘I see,' said the angel. ‘And you are . . .?'

‘Dead,' said the soul firmly. ‘My heart has stopped beating, my brain has died, all my crucial bodily functions have ceased. I am a mass of tissues, slowly
dissipating back into the carbon cycle. And
you
do not exist at all!'

‘Are you sure about that?' said the angel woodenly.

‘Yes, I'm sure!' snapped the soul, beginning to sound as if it would have liked to be a bit more sure than it really was. ‘You're just something happening inside my head as my brain decays. I'm going to shut my eyes and wait for darkness.'

‘Would you like to look at your results while you're waiting?'

‘No!'

The angel scratched its flaming hair. ‘Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stand to one side until my supervisor gets back. He did say he wouldn't be long.'

‘It's a disgrace!'

‘Look, I'm sorry,' said the angel. ‘The fact is, I'm new in this job and all I'm supposed to do is hand out results and tell people if they've passed or not. Could you please—'

‘Excuse me,' said the next soul in the queue. ‘But could I apply for a resit?'

‘Resit?' said the young angel. Things were rapidly getting beyond it.

‘Oh yes, you can resit,' said the soul. ‘This was
my sixth attempt. I was Amon-Hotep's love slave in ancient Egypt, and when he died my throat was cut so that I could be buried in the pyramid with him. And in my next life I was a Roman centurion in Spain. And then I was an Aztec priest and did human sacrifices in the temple. And then I was a Chinese pirate, and then I was Marie Walewska and was mistress to Napoleon, and then I was a telesales executive in Bristol. I've always been borderline,' the soul finished brightly, ‘so I've always been allowed another try.'

‘Are you sure about this?' said the angel. Its tone implied that – whatever the love slave and the centurion and the Aztec and the pirate and Ms Walewska had done – the telesales executive's grades were nowhere near borderline and nothing could make them so.

High on a wall was a counter with twelve dials. The dials were made of ebony and the figures on them were inlaid with ash. The first six dials were still, like mourners waiting patiently in a church for a coffin to arrive. They read: