Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

at least prior to the possible descent into Hell, began to experience a throbbing headache, greatly magnified by the scratchy voice of the Angel. Finally, it was over and the Angel stuffed his papers into the white briefcase, hardly bothering to look at Arthur’s answers. “You’ll hear from us in a year or two,” he said, unfolding his wings and preparing to fly through the ceiling.

“A year or two,” Arthur moaned. “What am I supposed to do until then?”

“Well,” I suppose you could haunt the public house,” the Angel said off-handedly.

The third man entered quite normally, pushing open the bar door. Whereas the Devil was smooth and dark and the Angel was pink and plump, this man was quite ordinary. His battered cloth cap covered wiry black hair, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves showed sinewy arms that looked as if they had carried heavy loads for decades. “Don’t listen to Lord Twaddle there, or Sir Monty Mephisto,” he said. He sat at the table. “See you later, Twaddle,” he called, and waved the Angel away. He looked at Arthur and gave a tired grin. “I know,” he said, “I should be giving you the standard sales pitch, but I was never very good at it. I was working class all my life and I’m proud of it. Give me an honest day’s work and a few pints and I’m happy.”

“But, surely you’re dead,” Arthur protested.

“Damn right I am, but I can still do an honest day’s work.” The man stuck out his hand “Jimmy Wheeler, at your service.”

Arthur liked this man. Jimmy Wheeler was happy in his work, no doubt about that. “You seem like a nice bloke,” he said. “But I’m not going to sign up for a lifetime in Hell.”

Jimmy shuddered. “Do I look as if I just came from down there,” he said. “I told you I was no Angel, but I’m no Devil either.” Arthur frowned and the man went on. “I’m from the Third Way. That’s what we call ourselves. My official title is ‘Grand High Potentate in charge of Limbo Recruitment, England, Central Region” He smiled ruefully. “Some of the lads like that type of title, reminds them of the organizations they used to belong to when they were alive. What I am is a recruiter for the Limbos.” Arthur looked at him questioningly. “There are hundreds of them,” Jimmy said airily. He pulled a brochure out of thin air. “Here, take a look at them.”

Arthur gaped at the bright glossy pictures. “Got the technology from Heaven,” Jimmy said. “Bit of industrial espionage.” He sat back. “You’ll hear a lot about industrial espionage soon, I’m sure.”

“I can choose?” Arthur asked. He flipped through pictures of smiling well-fed workers in well-kept factories and cheery pubs where foaming beer flowed. “I’ll take this one,” he said, indicating what appeared to be the biggest and brightest layout.

“It has to be local,” Jimmy said. “Take your time. Makes sense that you want a local Limbo, where everyone knows you, and you know everyone – so to speak. You have to be somewhere where everyone speaks your language, and understands your accent. You don’t want to make a mistake.” The recruiter sat back and lit a cigar. “You understand, I can’t offer you one of these,” he said, puffing out smoke. There are all these silly rules about bribery, mostly imposed by the Angels. Afterwards, though, we can have a smoke and a drink to celebrate your choice.” He looked at Arthur thoughtfully. “You were killed in a bar-fight.”

Arthur felt a twinge and looked down. The knife was still there, between his ribs. “First one I’ve ever been in,” he said. “At least, the first one where I got knifed,” he added, silently to himself.

“I can tell you’re a decent bloke,” Jimmy said. “Tell you what I can do. I’m sticking my neck out, usually leaders are chosen from within the existing labor force, but I think I can swing a leadership position for you.”

“I only know foundry work,” Arthur said.

“Of course, of course. But as a leader you can do anything you want.” He shuffled his papers. “Naturally,” he went on, “you can’t just walk in and take over one of our deluxe Limbo. Some of our occupants have waited centuries to get to that position. Remember, you will be a Governor, – do what you want, fix the place up.” He waved his hands. “In no time, you’ll have a top-notch place.” He handed a document to Arthur. “Just sign here.”

“I see your point,” Arthur said, “but I’d really like to…”

Jimmy frowned. “I’m going out on a very thin branch for you, my friend,” he said, “because I like you.” He started to gather up his papers. “If you don’t want this opportunity there are hundreds of others who do. This is a fast track to Heaven I’m offering you.” He sighed. “I’m a busy man; I don’t have time to argue with you.” He began to get up.

“Alright, I’ll take it,” Arthur cried.

“Ah, good,” Jimmy beamed. He shoved the contract over and Arthur signed. “At last,” Jimmy laughed, “no more dim bars and dimmer spirits for me.” He chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve filled my quota for the month, I can take a couple of days off,” he said happily. “Goodbye.” Half way out of the door, he turned. “Oh. Yes.” he said distractedly. He fished in his briefcase and tossed a tattered envelope at Arthur. Nice doing business,” he said, vanishing.

Arthur stared at the envelope. “Well, you’ve done it now,” a voice said. The smooth Devil was back, horns clearly visible. “He really made a fool of you,” the Devil said spitefully.

“I’m going to be a Governor,” Arthur told him.

The Devil cackled. “Ah, yes, a Governor. That means you won’t have any friends because you’re management. Of course, you won’t be able to manage anything. The joint Council will be down your throat every five minutes, with ‘do this, do that. Keep up your quota, deliver us some souls. No, deliver us some souls. You’re a sinner, sending souls to Hell; no you’re a fool, sending sinners to H… – up there.”

“Jimmy gave me a good deal,” Arthur said feebly. “He’s working class, just like me.”

“Ha!” the Devil cried. He never did an honest day’s work in his life. Used to peddle liver pills and snake oil in that new place – America. The black-suited apparition chuckled again, wisps of smoke puffing out of his ears. “Jimmy’s happy now. He unloaded that awful place on you and now he gets to go upstairs for a nice holiday. “Ha!” he said again, and a small fireball spat from his mouth and whooshed up through the ceiling. “I hope that catches up with him before he gets to the Pearly Gates,” and the Devil disappeared with an angry bang.

Arthur picked up the envelope thoughtfully. The pictures of his Limbo were not reassuring. Grimy houses hunched over mean narrow streets. Miserable workers trudged wearily through dark rain, and in the background, a huge foundry belched black smoke at the dark, yellowy clouds. Arthur thought of Gladys, and his mates, and the warm fireplace in the pub in what he still thought of as the ‘real’ world.

“What have I done,” he muttered.


Chapter 3 – Settling the Score
Jimmy the recruiter reappeared moments after leaving for the Pearly Gates. “I almost forgot the orientation.” He said. “That Devil threw a thunderbolt at me, but I bounced the damn thing back.” There was an explosion outside, glasses rattled, and flakes fell from the ceiling. “There it is,” he added cheerfully. “Now,” he continued briskly, “I have to officially escort you through one of the entrances, and give you a quick introduction to the place.”

“I’ve changed my…” Arthur began, but he was suddenly standing in a nondescript street.

“Just turn that corner and keep walking,” Jimmy said hastily. “You’ll soon reach the foundry, you can’t miss it. Ask anyone and they’ll set you straight about what to do.” He gave Arthur a shove, and Arthur, grabbing a lamppost, made a left turn into a grimy street of crumbling houses and dim gas-lamps. He rushed back round the corner and staggered, holding his sore nose, which seemed to have been hit by a wall of thick glass. “Good luck!” a voice said, high above him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Arthur mumbled to himself, looking at the sooty houses. He began to realize that, far from being a new friend, Jimmy Wheeler had made a complete fool of him. Arthur was not used to looking foolish, but now twice, within a couple of hours he had been done in. Admittedly, the first time he had been bested was thirty years before, but the memory was fresh, and the smiling face of the flashy Londoner merged with the smiling face of Jimmy Wheeler. Somehow, the fact that they were working class like him, made his anger more acute.

Arthur walked up the gloomy street, kicking stones into dirty rain-puddles. It had been raining steadily since he arrived at Limbo56, a situation that, from the general sogginess of his surroundings, seemed to be permanent. His nose healed remarkably quickly, and he supposed that this was one of the advantages to being in Limbo, possibly the only advantage. He was wet, tired, and depressed. Determinedly he struggled on, towards the outlines of a square black building that he assumed to be the foundry. The street was deserted, until finally three figures emerged from the gloom, pushing a hand truck. The central one was huge, and the other two had a square, solid look that he associated with foundry work. They stopped three feet away from him, and he stopped and looked at them. “What is this?” the big one said. “It’s the middle of a shift, so why aren’t you at work?” The others chuckled.

“What about you three?” Arthur countered. He had been tricked into governing this dismal place, almost hit by a thunderbolt, and thrown into his job with no training. He was not feeling diplomatic.

One of the men started to move forward, but the big one held him back. “We’re going to pick up some parts from the gateway,” he said.

“In a hand truck,” Arthur said incredulously. “Why not use a horse and cart?”

“This is Limbo, not a rest home,” the big man told him, a statement that Arthur was to hear, and say himself, many times. “We have no animals here.”

“I’ll have to do something about that,” Arthur said, and the men burst out in rasps of laughter.

“What’s a skinny looking tyke like you going to do about procuring horses,” one of them said. “Are you sure you don’t want to get a fleet of them new-fangled motor-cars.”

The big man, however, had noticed Arthur’s arms and hands. “You’ve worked in a foundry before,” he said.

“All my working life.”

“Boys, we’ve finally been given someone who knows what he is doing,” the big man said. “He can teach us all how to avoid getting our hands and feet burned off. Did you just arrive?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. “I’m supposed to report to the foundry so someone can show me the ropes.”

“I need someone on my crew,” one of the men said. “If he’s as good as he says he’ll be a big help with our quota.”

“I’m not going to be working in the foundry,” Arthur told them. “The recruiter found me an executive position.” He shrugged. “I would