One Way Ticket

One Way Ticket

I awoke with a start. The dream of a figure cloaked in impenetrable shadow slowly caressing a blade that reflected the moonlight already fading into oblivion as my faculties returned to the here and now.

The train had lurched to a stop but I knew not where. The station was in darkness and as far as I could see there wasn’t a soul in sight, in fact there was no sound either. No footsteps, no muffled voices or even the incomprehensible speech over the tannoy. How queer, I mused.

Collecting my threadbare briefcase from between my feet I shuffled across the carriage and descended the steps onto the platform. It was utterly deserted. I stood perplexed for a few a short while before hearing the sound of approaching footsteps to my right. I turned to the sound and moments laters a woman appeared before me.

She was younger than me, maybe mid-thirties with her strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore horn rimmed glasses that framed her ice blue eyes and crimson red lipstick to accentuate her pouting lips. Her clothes were very much of the office variety, a smart buttoned jacket over a white blouse and a skirt that stopped short enough to show off some shapely pins but not so short as to be considered nothing more than a belt.

“Mr Harris?” She enquired, her thinly trimmed eyebrows raising momentarily above her glasses.

“Y-yes,” I stuttered, a trifle lost for words as I hadn’t been expecting someone to meet me at the station. “Are you from SJG & Sons?”

She smiled. “No, though funnily enough I will be going there this evening to collect someone.”

“Oh, right,” not fully understanding her meaning I let it ride.

The officious professional kicked in again. “Please follow me, Mr Harris, we don’t want to keep Him waiting.”

“Who?” I queried. “Mr Watkins?”

“On no,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Certainly not Mr Watkins.”

If I wasn’t confused before then I certainly was now. “There must be some kind of mistake, young lady. I am Henry Arthur Harris and I am due for a meeting with Mr Watkins at SJG & Sons in approximately 20 minutes.”

“First of all,” she frowned. “There is no error, WE don’t make errors. Secondly, do not call me young lady, that is just a hop, skip and a jump from calling me darling or sweetheart. Thirdly, you will definitely not be attending the meeting.”

“Why not?” she was starting to get my goat up and feel the faint stirrings of anger boiling up inside me.

“To put it quite simply, Mr Harris. You are dead. It is my job to take you to Him.” This statement was followed-up with another smile, perhaps with a hint of apology in it. “I can tell you don’t believe me Mr Harris, which is perfectly understandable. However, if you would be so kind as to look closely at the train that you have just disembarked you will notice that you are still sat, slumped in your seat.”

I squinted through the gloom towards the train and, sure enough, there I was. To all intents and purposes I appeared to be asleep. The giveaway was my eyes, they were wide open, and with my mouth also slightly open I gave the impression that I had died of fright. Perhaps my odd dream had caused my heart to fail on me.

“So you are taking to heaven then, my dear?” I said, rather sadly.

“I’m not your dear and, no, you are not going to heaven.” Any trace of a smile left her lips, even the colour of her eyes seemed to change to a pale grey colour. “I shall be taking you to the other place, Mr Harris.”

“You can’t do that,” I protested. “I died with no hint of foul play. I must surely be going to heaven.”

“It’s not how you died that dictates your final destination, Mr Harris.” She said, her hands locked firmly behind her back. “It’s how you lived that makes that decision”

Dumbfounded, I could do nothing but stare open-mouthed at this laconic lady before me. 

“I’m afraid to say,” she continued, “you have hardly been a model citizen for the 50 years, 7 months, 19 days, 12 hours and 43 minutes that you have lived. If anything, you’ve been a positively ghastly excuse for a human being, true scum of the Earth. A vile and despicable individual that would say or do anything for personal gain. Presumably you know that what I say is true?”

“But...but…” I stood in a daze. “This can’t be happening.”

“Stop snivelling, Mr Harris,” she said rather crossly, “it is most unbecoming of you. Perhaps you would like some examples of your less than charitable moments in life? Yes?” She continued without waiting for a reply. “How about the incident when you were just 17 for starters.”

“I was a good lad when I was 17.”

“And a liar at 50! You were not a good lad at 17. Not at all. You stabbed that boy in an alleyway one night with your ivory flick knife, robbed him and left him for dead.” 

“I needed the money,” I mumbled, the scene coming back to me with crystal clarity. “Desperate times called for desperate measures.”

“Your marriage would be another good example,” she said.

“I never laid a hand on her, I swear.”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “Physically, you never harmed her, but mentally you destroyed her over the 24 years of marriage. Little by little you tore away any scrap of self respect and confidence that poor woman had. Is it any wonder she took her own life?”

“I loved her.”

She shook her head sorrowfully. “We must go, Mr Harris. He will not be best pleased if we are late.”

I hesitated. “One thing before we go. Are there endless depraved parties down there with copious amounts of alcohol and suspicious substances?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “Though unfortunately for you, there will be none of that sort of behaviour for you for quite some time.” The laugh and any trace of a smile vanished from her lips. “That young boy you stabbed to death was marked for greatness by Him, and you deprived Him of this.”

“What does that mean for me then?” I was unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

“That means, Mr Harris, that there will be no lude parties with nude ladies doing rude things, there will be no copious amounts of alcohol and there will be no suspicious substances. Therefore He has other plans for you.”

“I can’t help feeling that I shall find the experience rather unpleasant.” I said.

“Mr Harris. You will wish that you had been the one that had been stabbed to death in that alleyway 33 years ago. You will know pain like never before, eternal agony and suffering at His hands.”

I was no longer listening to her words, my gaze was fixed firmly over her shoulder at something 50 yards away. It was a rickety wooden sign fixed roughly into the earth, and in childish writing it said “To Hell.” However it was not this that caught my eye so much as the young man that leant against it, he was dressed in blood stained clothes and holding an ivory flick knife.

He was mouthing something but I couldn’t hear what it was but judging by the malicious sneer on his mouth I had a fair idea what it was.

The lady glanced over her shoulder and laughed once more. You’re about to have a reunion with His son. Won’t that be nice for you?”

The End