Thirty Things To Do After You Die — Chapter 16

Gabriel and Harold were in lounge forty-seven, the majestic Library Lounge.

Library Lounge. It was a strange name, thought Harold. Wall-to-wall shelves stacked with books; ranks of tables with small moonstone study lamps; a calming musty silence. In other words, a library. The only even slightly loungy feature was the pair of green leather sofas, one of which Gabriel was now sitting on.

‘He said he’d be here,’ said Gabriel. ‘Honestly, he’s a law unto himself …’

Harold stayed standing. It was better for him — for his continuing readjustment back to gravity — as well as for the state of his increasingly fragile plaster-cast-like suit. But also he was too excited to sit. He was mesmerised.

‘And you say this is just the first chamber?’ he said, softly.

‘Yes,’ said Gabriel, spotting crumbs on the leather opposite, ‘first of six hundred.’

‘Six … hundred?’

‘Yes. Or is it seven hundred. I forget.’

‘And all as generously stocked?’

‘Yes. Packed to the rafters.’

‘But that must be …’ He scanned up the shelves, past the seven-level wooden gantry, craning his neck up to the impossibly high oak-beamed ceiling, and then along the rows to the far wall, more than a hundred yards away. ‘… hundreds of thousands … millions.’

‘Tens of millions,’ said Gabriel, inspecting his clawhands, ‘more books than the Library of Congress and growing all the time.’

‘A true wonder of Heaven,’ said Harold, his eyes wide. He’d been an avid reader in life and, as usually then follows, a frustrated one in death. But now, freshly installed in his brand new immortal body, he could once more linger on the page, he could once more hold the book he was reading. This had quickly become the single ray of hope in this disturbing third phase of existence, even if the only book he had so far acquired was the copy of Terry’s Field Guide To the Afterlife they’d handed out at orientation.

Now his eyes had been opened. Now he was overwhelmed. But something didn’t quite fit. ‘I, um …’

‘Yes, Harold?’ said Gabriel.

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, you were going to say something.’

‘Well,’ said Harold, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘it’s just … I would never have deduced he was of a literary persuasion.’

‘Oh, he’s not.’

‘Right. Well, why then?’

Gabriel smiled. ‘He comes here when he wants to feel more learned.’

‘And?’

‘And mark my words, Harold. Feel more learned. Not become more learned. That would not be possible here, well, not unless you brought something to read.’

‘But it’s a library.’

‘Is it?’

‘Admittedly, since my arrival there have been few things of which I am certain. But this, plainly, is a library.’

‘Take a book then.’

‘Which book?’

‘Any book. How about a Dickens over there.’

Harold walked to the shelf and looked along the titles. Hard Times caught his eye. He placed a finger on the top of the spine but the book would not move. He tried again but it was stuck fast. He tried Our Mutual Friend. Also stuck. He moved to the shelf up and tried to release David Copperfield, with no success. With urgency, he stumbled across the wide reading area to the opposite wall, where he found the collected works of Anthony Trollope. Not one volume would yield.

‘They’re not real,’ said Harold.

‘Oh, they’re real all right,’ said Gabriel, ‘hand-scribed from the mortal originals, every one of them. Pinsprickling work when you think about it.’

‘But they’re stuck together?’

‘Yes,’ said Gabriel, with a sigh, ‘glued. All of the pages in every book and every book to every shelf.’

‘But, why?’ asked Harold.

‘Why do you think?’

‘I … I can’t imagine.’ Harold put his hands to his cheeks. It was an abomination. Literary vandalism of the highest order.

‘You already know enough to work it out,’ said Gabriel.

‘Well,’ said Harold, ‘is it … a grand declaration? A grave warning against reading anything other than the Bible?’

‘Nope. Actually, I’m not sure we have a copy of that here — gets on his nerves, you know.’

The door creaked open and God, barefoot and wearing a brown suede suit, ambled in carrying a tall papyrus bag that was transparent in places.

‘All right, lads.’

‘Terrence,’ said Gabriel.

Harold turned to God and looked him up and down.

‘Doughnut?’ asked God, tilting the greasy bag.

Harold returned his troubled stare to the books, seeming not to acknowledge the Almighty or the sweetly rancid whiff. He was fortunate God had had a good morning.

‘What’s up with him?’ asked God, reaching into the bag.

‘I think he may be in shock, Tel.’ The archangel got to his feet. ‘Anyway, there’s been a–’

‘Awestruck, eh?’ said God. He moved behind Harold and placed a hand on his shoulder, triggering yet another suit rupture. ‘I’ve got ’em all here, you know, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Cartland …’

Harold shook his head with a judder, almost like he was having a seizure.

‘You sure he’s okay?’ said God, turning briefly to Gabriel. ‘Still can’t part with the rebirthday suit, I see.’ The Almighty leaned in close and took two deep sniffs at Harold’s collar. ‘He reeks like a ripe cheese.’

‘He’s perplexed by the gluing of the books, Tel. And we’re dealing with the clothing. Now look, can we–’

‘Perplexed?’

‘Yes. He can’t work out why.’

‘Thought you said he was smart, Gabe?’

‘Tel …’

‘Well it’s no big mystery, son, you see, truth is I’m not a big reader. Don’t get the time, and there’s a lot of books here …’

This didn’t seem to ease Harold’s troubles.

‘… besides, I know everything anyway.’

Gabriel started chuckling.

God didn’t.

Gabriel stopped chuckling.

‘Think about it,’ said God, ‘even with all of eternity to play with, I’d never get through this lot. So imagine how I’d feel coming in here if they hadn’t all been glued together … all those unread books, all crying out, “Read me! Read me!” … I’m busy, I’m stressed, we all are these days. Last thing I want is a load of needy books hassling me as well.’

‘So …’ said Harold. He slowly turned his head as he seemed to come out of his trance. ‘The glue means they can’t be read?’

‘Blingo!’ said God. ‘And if they can’t be read, I can’t get stressed about not reading them. Pretty clever, eh?’

‘But … but the t-time, the dedication,’ said Harold. ‘I’m told every work has been hand-scribed?’

‘Well it’s not like I could order them online, lad,’ said God.

‘But … but if you’re never going to read them, why not just have a façade?’

‘Fakes? What good would that be? How am I going to bask in the glory of literature then?’

‘I … I …’

‘That’s the whole beauty of it, son. Here I can bask in it, without the guilt of not reading it. Genius eh? Have me cake and eat it, so to speak.’

He offered the doughnuts again.

Harold sank to the floor, mortally fracturing the seat of his trousers.

‘Go on, have a doughnut, lad,’ said God, leaning over Harold and thrusting the bag in his face, ‘perk you up no end.’

‘Look, Tel,’ said Gabriel, ‘we need to talk.’

‘We are talking.’

‘It’s about Bootstrap … There’s, well, there’s been a development.’

‘Who?’

‘Christian Bootstrap,’ said Gabriel, frustration rippling through his plumage, ‘the mortal who was writing the book, with the scenes of you, of here.’

‘Oh yes, the coincidence monkey.’

‘That’s the fellow.’

‘And?’

‘And he’s started writing something else.’

‘Well I hope it’s a bit more complimentary this time.’

‘Yes. I, I think you’d better take a look for yourself. You, er, may want to sit down.’

They left Harold on the floor and retired to the sofas. Gabriel handed God the new manuscript:

‘What the hell,’ said God, ‘apart from the title, it’s bloody word for word. So I suppose you’re gonna tell me this is a coincidence, Gabe?’

‘Not this time.’

‘So where’s he getting it? I thought all the earthly copies were destroyed centuries ago?’

‘They were. But it’s possible someone, perhaps long ago, made an illicit additional copy, and, well, perhaps it’s fallen into the hands of this mortal.’

‘Bloody hell. So what’s his game?’

‘Well, we’re assuming he’s typing it up as a prelude to publication.’

‘Publication?’ said God, leaping to his feet and sending the doughnuts flying. ‘Let the cat out of the bag? Bloody hell. This is bad, Gabe, this is a real hot bobby, we’ll have nothing but believers down there … so no fresh blood coming here, no artists, no writers, no celebrities … no celebrities, Gabe, no celebrities.’

‘Tel, please, calm yourself. I agree it’s bad on first glance, but on closer inspection, I don’t think we’re in too much danger.’

‘Oh no?’ said God, hands on his hips.

‘First of all, he probably won’t be able to get it published.’

‘But what if he did? Any beefwit can get into print these days, he could do it himself.’

‘Well okay, let’s suppose he does. So a few people read it, and a handful of them take it seriously and become devout. We lose them to the other places. Big deal, they probably wouldn’t have been coming up to us anyway, so end of story.’

‘I don’t know, Gabe, I don’t know …’ said God. He bent down for a doughnut, streaked it on his left lapel and took a bite, chomping with urgency.

‘Tel, relax, the wider populous wouldn’t give it a second glance. Maybe if it had come to light in the Middle Ages, it could have presented a risk, maybe … but now? No chance. People are too sophisticated, too savvy, too cynical.’

God ruffled his hair and sat down. ‘Well, I trust we’re taking a closer interest in him all the same?’

‘Absolutely, we’ve upped the surveillance, we’ve got him covered at all times, day and night.’

‘All right … all right, well … keep me posted.’

You have been reading an extract from the novel Thirty Things To Do After You Die, by Colton Lazars. Available from existentially astute retailers everywhere.

If you liked this why not enjoy an espresso martini on Jesus while taking in my recent proof of the non-existence of gods?

(Okay, proof is a little strong, but then Christianity has been making far more outrageous claims for millennia, so I don’t feel too bad 😉)