A Fate Worse Than Death by Jonathan Gould Read Free Book Online Page A

the way back to the office, I decided to make a pit stop at the first bar I could find. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I’d last had a drink. I needed alcohol.
    Finding a bar in Heaven turned out to be as easy as tying your shoelaces using only your thumbs, or proving that the Mafia in conjunction with aliens killed JFK. After over an hour of searching, I eventually managed to locate a small tavern with the highly unpromising name The Loaf and the Fishes . I opened the door and stepped inside.
    Having spent over a day in Heaven, I was beginning to get accustomed to its motifs. Bright and neat were two of the major ones, and this place specialised in both of them. Still, a drink was a drink. I parked myself at the bar and asked for a double scotch.
    The barman was bright and neat too. He gave me a strange look once I’d completed my request.
    “I’m very sorry, sir. We don’t serve whisky here,” he said.
    “Okay, hit me with a large gin and tonic, and hold the tonic.”
    “Nor do we serve gin.”
    “All right. What about a beer?”
    The barman chuckled. “I’m sorry, you don’t seem to understand. We do not serve any alcoholic beverages in this establishment.”
    No grog! I leapt to my feet. “I’m sorry too. If you don’t serve alcoholic beverages, then you don’t serve me. I’ll just have to move my business to an establishment that does.”
    “I wish you all the best sir, but I’m afraid you won’t find any suitable premises anywhere in Heaven.”
    I collapsed onto the stool in shock. “You mean I can’t get a drink anywhere in Heaven?”
    “I’m sorry, but that is the case. There are no liquor licenses in Heaven. Nor are there any vineyards, breweries, or elicit moonshine stills.”
    “What can you serve me?”
    “I can hit you with a gin and tonic and hold the gin. Or perhaps you would prefer a lemonade?”
    “Yeah, whatever. I’ll take the last one,” I said, barely listening to either of the options. I was in a state of shock that would probably take me years to recover from.
    The barman bought me a glass full of clear, bubbly liquid. I took a sip. The lolly-water tasted sickly sweet. I screwed up my face and pushed the glass aside.
    “You’re new here,” said a voice beside me.
    I turned. On the stool next to mine sat a middle-aged man. He was dressed in a shabby brown coat and trousers, and his face could have handled a wash and a shave and a fairly complete makeover. In other words, he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.
    “You’re new here,” he said again. “I haven’t seen you before, and I’ve got a great memory for faces.”
    “You’re right,” I said, and I stuck my hand out. “Jimmy Clarenden.”
    He shook my hand. “Alby Stark,” he said, and he handed me a card.
    I read the card and then placed it in my pocket, alongside the one Peter had given me.
    “Celebrity journalist,” I said.
    “I was the best. If you wanted any dirt dug up about anyone, I was the guy you’d turn to. I could tell you all the gossip; who was doing what to whom behind whoever else’s back. I knew it all.” The tone of his voice was angry and bitter.
    “What happened?”
    Alby shrugged. “I guess there isn’t much call for a guy with skills like mine up here.”
    “That’s too bad,” I said. “We can cry into our lemonades together.”
    “So what’s your story?” Alby demanded.
    “No story,” I replied.
    “You’ve got a story,” he insisted. “You’re just like me. You’re dirty and smelly, and you wish you were drunk. You’re not another mistake, are you?”
    “What do you mean, mistake?”
    “I’m a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. I was meant to be sent . . . down below.”
    Down below. The two words seemed to solidify in the air between us as he spoke. It was the first time I’d heard the other place mentioned, and it sent a shiver up my spine.
    “How did you end up here?” I asked, shifting on my stool to make my involuntary