Read Online A Fate Worse Than Death by Jonathan Gould - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Gould
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shining, the birds were singing, and my heart felt as light as a fully-laden semi-trailer. Somehow, I managed to dress myself, finding to my relief that during the night my wardrobe had been stocked with multiple pairs of fresh, clean, and amply-bottomed trousers. Then I trudged out into the streets of Heaven and made my way to the Pearly Gates.
When I arrived at the Gates, I walked over to the door through which I had first passed into Heaven. It was firmly shut, but beside it there was a buzzer and a small note. The note said, Please ring the buzzer for service. Be prepared for a very long wait .
I rang the buzzer. I prepared myself for a very long wait. In less than a minute, the door opened and I found myself greeted by Peter’s lined but cheerful face.
“Mr Clarenden, welcome again to the Pearly Gates,” he said as he ushered me in.
I followed Peter down a short corridor, up a flight of steps, and into a very small room.
“My humble office,” Peter said.
The room looked less like an office and more like the place where all the world’s paper went to die. There was paper everywhere: stacked up in unsteady-looking piles on the one small desk in the middle of the room; laid out over the ground like an unkempt arrangement of floor tiles; overflowing out from the drawers of the filing cabinet standing in the corner.
Apart from this extensive paper collection, the only other objects of note were a batch of books arranged on top of the cabinet. I took a closer look. Every single one of them was a detective novel.
“A small selection, I know,” said Peter, observing my glance. “As I said before, I have very little time to read. Would you like some chewing gum?” He proffered a stick.
I shook my head. “Not before breakfast.”
“This is breakfast for me.” He popped the stick into his mouth. “Keeps the old nerves in check on stressful days. And believe me, every day here is a stressful day. But I’m sure that’s not what you came here to hear. Please, take a seat.”
I shifted some paper off a chair and sat down. As he went to extricate another chair from behind the mounds of paper on the far side of the room, I quickly scanned the contents of the desk. Most of it seemed to be official paperwork of some sort or another, but one pile caught my eye. I picked up the top sheet and read it aloud.
“ The Case of the Screaming Angel . A novel by St Peter.”
Peter snatched the sheet away from me. “Don’t look at that old thing.”
“You never told me you were an author.”
“I’d hardly call myself an author.” Peter picked up the rest of the pile and placed it on the floor behind him. “You wouldn’t want to look at it. You’d probably just laugh. Anyway, it’s not even half finished. Writing is a luxury I can barely afford. You can see how much paperwork I’ve got to get through. In fact, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you my undivided attention, but don’t let that stop you.” He placed a pair of reading glasses over his eyes, grabbed a pile of papers from the desk, and began to leaf through them. “So tell me, are you really working on a case? I’d love to hear about it.”
“All in good time,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me about what this paperwork involves.”
Peter looked at me over a handful of paper. “You really don’t want to know about this.”
“Try me. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I guess I don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
Peter chuckled. “No, I guess you don’t. If you must know, most of this is biographical details. You see, as soon as someone dies, a decision has to be made about whether they come up here, or whether they go . . . down below, to the other place. In order to make that decision, we need to have as much information as possible about that person’s life. All the good things and bad things they’ve done. How they’ve treated other people. Basically everything about
When I arrived at the Gates, I walked over to the door through which I had first passed into Heaven. It was firmly shut, but beside it there was a buzzer and a small note. The note said, Please ring the buzzer for service. Be prepared for a very long wait .
I rang the buzzer. I prepared myself for a very long wait. In less than a minute, the door opened and I found myself greeted by Peter’s lined but cheerful face.
“Mr Clarenden, welcome again to the Pearly Gates,” he said as he ushered me in.
I followed Peter down a short corridor, up a flight of steps, and into a very small room.
“My humble office,” Peter said.
The room looked less like an office and more like the place where all the world’s paper went to die. There was paper everywhere: stacked up in unsteady-looking piles on the one small desk in the middle of the room; laid out over the ground like an unkempt arrangement of floor tiles; overflowing out from the drawers of the filing cabinet standing in the corner.
Apart from this extensive paper collection, the only other objects of note were a batch of books arranged on top of the cabinet. I took a closer look. Every single one of them was a detective novel.
“A small selection, I know,” said Peter, observing my glance. “As I said before, I have very little time to read. Would you like some chewing gum?” He proffered a stick.
I shook my head. “Not before breakfast.”
“This is breakfast for me.” He popped the stick into his mouth. “Keeps the old nerves in check on stressful days. And believe me, every day here is a stressful day. But I’m sure that’s not what you came here to hear. Please, take a seat.”
I shifted some paper off a chair and sat down. As he went to extricate another chair from behind the mounds of paper on the far side of the room, I quickly scanned the contents of the desk. Most of it seemed to be official paperwork of some sort or another, but one pile caught my eye. I picked up the top sheet and read it aloud.
“ The Case of the Screaming Angel . A novel by St Peter.”
Peter snatched the sheet away from me. “Don’t look at that old thing.”
“You never told me you were an author.”
“I’d hardly call myself an author.” Peter picked up the rest of the pile and placed it on the floor behind him. “You wouldn’t want to look at it. You’d probably just laugh. Anyway, it’s not even half finished. Writing is a luxury I can barely afford. You can see how much paperwork I’ve got to get through. In fact, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you my undivided attention, but don’t let that stop you.” He placed a pair of reading glasses over his eyes, grabbed a pile of papers from the desk, and began to leaf through them. “So tell me, are you really working on a case? I’d love to hear about it.”
“All in good time,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me about what this paperwork involves.”
Peter looked at me over a handful of paper. “You really don’t want to know about this.”
“Try me. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I guess I don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
Peter chuckled. “No, I guess you don’t. If you must know, most of this is biographical details. You see, as soon as someone dies, a decision has to be made about whether they come up here, or whether they go . . . down below, to the other place. In order to make that decision, we need to have as much information as possible about that person’s life. All the good things and bad things they’ve done. How they’ve treated other people. Basically everything about
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