Heathen Heavens

“Look the auditors are due in first thing Monday morning,” said Heath Kennedy, “unless we can prove the IOQ-E P correlates to the divisional INQP, the global ASTM and the local WI, we’re fucked.”  Heath looked at Gary and Bill in desperation.  For their part Gary and Bill nodded and “mmhmm-ed” in unenthusiastic understanding as Heath returned to battering his keyboard to death.  He stopped mid-sentence and looked from Bill to Gary and back again.

“Did you hear what just came out of my mouth?”

He slid his dog-eared notepad to one side and pushed his keyboard forward to clear a six inch square in the chaos of his desk.  He lowered his head very slowly onto the bare patch and began to beat his forehead against the desk with increasing intensity.  Gary and Bill exchanged open-mouthed, wide-eyed shrugs and turned back to their monitors.

Just before the onset of concussion Heath stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and announced “Fuck this.  Life’s too short.  I’m going home, have a good weekend.”  Gary and Bill both grunted at Heath’s back as he made his way towards the office door.

“This time next week, I’ll have that desk.” Said Bill.  Gary nodded sagely in agreement.

Heath closed the door on the cramped little Validation Department of Boggett’s and moved through the open plan Engineering office.  There were twelve desks clustered in this comparatively spacious area, arranged in groups of four.  The edges of each desk were mounted with large pinboards bearing swathes of utterly vital paperwork.  The pinboards guaranteed each inmate could only see their PC screen and their two pinboard walls worth of paper.  The Engineers out here looked down on the “Validation Bods” as they weren’t “real” Engineers.  Heath, Gary nor Bill ever went home with machine oil ingrained under their fingernails therefore they were regarded with both suspicion and contempt.  Heath remembered the brief humiliation last Christmas when the three of them had had to hold their own Secret Santa.  They had all regarded each other a little shamefaced as they had opened their mystery presents.  Each of them quietly replacing the mug they had received the year before with this year’s offering.

As always Heath walked through the Engineering Department as quickly as possible. He kept his eyes on the grubby tan brown carpet as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his dark blue suit jacket.  He did his best to ignore the casual glances over the pinboard walls, the mutters and the sniggers.  As he burst through the double swing doors into the stairwell he released the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and, after a moment’s hesitation, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie slightly.

As he reached the clocking out machine he hesitated.  It was only quarter past two on a Friday afternoon and he had never clocked out this early in the seven years he had worked there.  Then realising he had already clocked over sixty hours that week anyway he threw caution to the wind and slammed his ID card against the scanner.

“Half day today Kennedy?”  Clark Wiggs, the Engineering Manager had ghosted out of nowhere to appear at Heath’s shoulder.  Heath cursed inwardly.

“Dentist appointment Mr Wiggs.” Said Heath edging towards the Main Door and the promise of a weekend.

“Oh? Nothing too painful I hope?” Heath felt Wiggs’s expression showed what he was really hoping.

“Root canal Mr Wiggs.  It’ll be a weekend of agony for me,” said Heath.

“Oh that is a shame.” said Wiggs, smiling broadly.  “Never mind, you can make up this afternoon’s hours on Monday.”  He nodded clearly satisfied that Heath was going to spend his weekend suffering at least as much as he did while under Wiggs’s control.

Heath felt his heart sink momentarily but then seconds later he emerged through the Main Door and into glorious June sunshine.  He felt the drudgery of the week slide from him as the heat began to seep into his bones and warm his soul. 

Heath swept one hand through his short straight black hair and felt glad he had only had it cut that week.  He was a little disappointed that he didn’t have his new gold rimmed aviator sunglasses to wear.  He had bought them from the House of Fraser sale and knew they looked sharp with his Hugo Boss suit from the factory shop.  They also made him feel he looked like Tom Cruise although no-one else seemed to agree. A few accepted he was about as tall as Tom Cruise.

Heath strode along the pavement, swinging his arms and puffing out his chest. A lycra-clad girl ran past and he sucked in his gut on reflex.  Not for the first time he promised himself he would hit the gym in the morning.  For the amount he was paying a month he should certainly see the inside of the damn place at least once.  The growing paunch above his belt was testimony to how rarely he kept that particular promise to himself.

Fifteen minutes after leaving work he turned into his building a little disappointed that he was home so quickly.  Still feeling a little guilty for his absence from the gym he took the stairs up the two floors to his flat.  Panting slightly he let himself in and half-heartedly called “Darling I’m home.”

Silence.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat stand by the door and made his way along the hall towards the living room.  The flat was smartly decorated in a fashionably minimalist style.  Heath had taken no hand in decorating the place.  Emma had dealt with everything from the lamp shades in the hall to the plates in the kitchen.  As he reached the end of the hall he turned right into the living room and sighed.  Next to the stereo was a large packing box with ‘Emma’ emblazoned upon it.

For six months he had been looking at that box every night when he got home.  He hadn’t moved it one inch since the first night he had come home to find it there.  Everything else Emma owned was gone. She had left him the plates. 

Heath walked to the far end of the living room that led into his open plan kitchen.  The heat from the walk was starting to wear off and the inevitability of the long weekend was opening up before him.  He jerked the fridge door open and reached for a bottle of Grolsch.  He got the bottle half-way from the fridge when he looked back at the box by the stereo.

“Nah.  Fuck this.  I’m going to treat myself.”

He slid the bottle back into the fridge, marched to the door, grabbed his jacket from the hook and slammed the door behind him. A second later he returned, grabbed his sunglasses from his bedside table and set off once more.

He took the stairs back down to the street and set off towards Potter’s Bar train station.  Once there he bought himself a ticket to Charing Cross and took the next train towards the centre of London.  His spirits rose as he felt himself moving back into the heart of his city.  He loved the lunacy of London.  He missed the people, the noise, the excitement and the shops. Definitely the shops.  Today however he felt the need to really spoil himself.

He looked out the window and watched the buildings growing closer together, the flats growing ever tinier.  He thought back to the trip he and Emma had taken to Rome three years earlier.  They had been too poor to go during the summer so they had gone in December.  It had been damn cold but the sun had shone for the four wonderful days they spent there.  They had seen the Coliseum, the Palatino and St Peter’s Basilica.  At the Christmas Fair at the Piazza Navona they had huddled together at night and eaten gelato even though they were frozen to the bone.  Thus had begun their mutual addiction to gelato ice cream.  On their return they had searched everywhere but couldn’t find it anywhere.  Then they had discovered the Gelateria in Harrods’s Food Hall.  Ever since, whenever they had felt the need to treat themselves, they made their way to Harrods and gorged themselves on their wonderful gelato sundaes.  This was Heath’s first trip without Emma.

When he arrived at Charing Cross Heath picked up the Bakerloo Line to Piccadilly and then the Victoria to Knightsbridge.  He savoured the smell of the underground as he walked down the first escalator.  That was the smell that always told him he was here, in the city.  By the time he got off at Knightsbridge crushed against the tourists the novelty had worn off and the sweltering heat of the press of bodies was making him feel uncomfortable.  He emerged onto the streets panting and red-faced relieved to be able to draw a clean breath once more.

Collecting himself he smoothed his coat and set off towards Harrods, each step bringing more of a smile to his face.  He grinned as the handsomely dressed doorman held the door open for him.  He immediately made his way towards the Food hall and ordered the Knickerbocker Glory.  He winced ever so slightly at the price but soon relaxed as the tower of ice cream goodness was placed before him with a cheeky wink by a beautiful blond Russian girl.  God he loved Harrods.

Heath savoured every mouthful of his favourite indulgence.  When finally, regretfully he dropped the spoon into the bottom of the glass he felt happy and full.  He paid and heavily tipped the blond girl.  She scooped the money from the bar with a smile and turned away instantly forgetting him.

Heath let out a little sigh and made his way through the carrier-bag collecting tourists to the street.  He thought about a little retail therapy but it was another week until pay day and he dreaded to think how low his bank balance was getting.  Keeping a flat in Potter’s Bar was no easy feat on one wage.

He walked back to the underground entrance but stopped at the top of the stairs.  The sun was still beating down and he really didn’t feel like going back down into the muggy heat of the trains.  He gave a little belch and felt the bellyful of ice cream lurch a little at the thought of being crammed into another train just yet.

Instead Heath decided to enjoy one more of his favourite indulgences.  He slipped his jacket off and swung it over one shoulder.  He began strolling towards Hyde Park.  In this weather the Park was bound to crammed with the fittest women London had to offer wearing the barest legal minimum of clothing.  A good old perv would cheer him up.  He was glad he had brought his sunglasses.

Heath bought a bottle of water from a newspaper stand and set off into the Park.  The ladies of London did not disappoint him and he marvelled that such an assortment of beautiful women could exist in one place.  He strolled along through the sunshine and finally stopped noticing the women and just enjoyed the relaxing vibe of the park.  It was another world entirely from the office he shared with Bill and Gary. 

He decided to head up towards Oxford Street and have a little look at some shops after all.  He strolled along and his route took him through Speaker’s Corner.  Emma had always loved coming here.  She used to drag him along to listen to the crazies of the day spouting whatever crackpot theory had popped into their heads that morning.  He noticed a small scattered group listening to one old guy this afternoon.  As he drew level with them he stopped to give the old loony a listen.

“Religion, organised religion.  It’s all garbage.  Misogynistic mind control for the masses.  Do you believe in Thor? Odin? Why not?  Thor was the god of thunder?  That’s an important job. What’s that you say? Superstition?  Of course it is!  It’s all just superstition!  The old Vikings wanted a way to explain terrifying booming noises coming from the very skies above their heads.  Want to bet that the first one to come up with the idea it was caused by a god with an enormous hammer was a little old man who was normally ignored by everyone else?  Especially by the women.”

A few people in the crowd laughed at this.  Heath caught himself nodding a little and let out a small nervous laugh hoping no-one had noticed.  The old guy was in his fifties or sixties with a weather beaten face and wild grey hair swept loosely back from his hair.  He was wearing an old black suit with a three-quarters length jacket that looked like he’d been wearing it all week.  His white shirt and skinny black tie were crumpled and scruffy.

So how is Christianity any different?  It’s all just mind-control to keep people in line.  Most of what you hear in your churches every day was written by greedy priests a few hundred years ago.  You really believe the bible comes from the Middle East two thousand years ago?  You all have television sets in your homes.  You watch the news every night and you see fighting in the Gaza strip, suicide bombers in Jerusalem.  Tell me this; do any of the locals in the news clips look six foot, white, with blue eyes and lovely brown beards?  Of course they bloody don’t. The whole polished shiny Christianity you are used to was cooked up in the middle ages. Before that it was all brutal displacement of pre-existing religious beliefs and mass murder.  Do you think the missionary conversions of the British Isles were happy clappy love-ins?  They came here, told the tribal kings how they could guarantee themselves a wonderful after life and got them to convert their people to make sure they were all on the same hymn sheet.  Anyone who fancied sticking with the gods they already believed was slaughtered.  Once the religion was fully entrenched they set up their churches and milked the commoners for everything they had.  One way or another they’ve been doing the same ever since.”

One man in the crowd decided to stoke the fire a little, “What about Christ then? Was he even real?”

Without skipping a beat the speaker replied “Of course he was.  Lovely bloke.  Only wanted to help people.  He was big on civil rights for Jews.  Son of a carpenter though, not God.  Gullible bloke that Joseph.  Hands up any married men who’d believe all that “Honest love the Angel of God turned up last night while you were out and now I’m up the duff”?”

The crowd burst out laughing and Heath laughed along with him.  This old fella was brilliant. He was looking forward to repeating this stuff down the pub and passing it off as his own.  He had been raised catholic but somewhere during his teens he had found himself doubting anything to do with religion and given up on it.  He glanced up as another voice came from a coloured bloke at the back.  The crowd had grown since Heath had been standing there.

“What about Islam? And the prophet Mohamed?” 

There was a slight hush as the laughter died away.  Somehow laughing at Christianity was ok but Islam, well that was another matter.  In this age of religious terrorists the average Londoner thought much more about Al’Qaeda than the IRA.

The old speaker looked out across the faces as everyone looked at him.  He paused and the crowd fell quiet, waiting for his response.  Heath realised he was holding his breath. 

“Never met him myself.  He seems popular right enough.”  He grinned a big toothy smile.

The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief, the tension gone.  The speaker obviously realised he had lost his crowd and stepped down from his crate as the people spread out and dispersed.  Heath stood still for a moment watching the old guy.  He couldn’t shake a feeling of familiarity or déjà vu or something.

Finally he shrugged and set off for Oxford Street.  It was getting late and rather than shopping his mind turned to dinner.  He moved across the busy junction at the top of Hyde Park and joined the late evening crowds on Oxford Street.  As he strolled along gazing into the occasional shop window he decided to blow a sizeable chunk of the cash he had left on dinner rather than rush for a train and spend the journey home starving.  He didn’t fancy frozen pizza tonight.

He ducked into one of London’s many chains of Steak Houses and ordered an over-priced sirloin steak with chips and a pint of lukewarm bitter. As expected, ordering the steak rare guaranteed it arrived on his plate only slightly cremated.  He endeavoured to enjoy his expensive dinner even though he ate too fast.  It was always the same when he ate in restaurants alone.  He did treat himself to a second pint and felt himself relax even further as the alcohol and food began to filter into his system.

Finally he checked his watch and his train timetable.  It was time to head off and catch the last train back to Potter’s Bar.  Even so he ordered himself another quick whisky. Just one final indulgence, he promised himself.

Heath left the steak house feeling happy, well-fed and a little light-headed from the booze. It was getting late and was nearly full dark.  He swaggered along the pavement towards the underground station and vaguely wondered if he would get to Charing Cross before his treacherous bladder would have him praying for a toilet.  He stumbled ever so slightly as he bumped down over a kerb.  He heard someone shout and he jerked his head up.  He looked down the small alley he was crossing and blinked to sharpen his vision.

About forty yards away he could see an old man walking up the alley towards him leaning on a walking stick.  Behind the man he could see three youths running slowly up the street after him.  They were shouting something at the old man.  The youths were all wearing trainers, grubby tracksuit trousers and hoodies with the hoods pulled up over their heads.  Heath stopped as he realised the old man was the anti-religious nut he had listened to at Speaker’s Corner earlier in the afternoon.

As they got a little closer Heath could hear the youths were shouting abusively at the old man although he couldn’t hear what they were saying.  The man was still twenty yards from Heath when the youths caught up with them.  They surrounded the old man and started shoving him.  Heath was about to say something when he caught himself.  This was the city, you didn’t get involved. Ever.

Heath gasped when he saw one of the youngsters slip some kind of large stick from his sleeve and swing it at the old man’s head.  The man ducked and swerved away from his attacker and then straightened up and smartly knocked the youngster to the ground with one hand.  The light from the nearby streetlight glinted and Heath realised one of them had a knife.  The thug swung the knife at the old man, screaming as he lunged at him.

Heath shook his head and blinked rapidly.  The young attackers and the old man were moving with incredible speed.  The youngsters thrust and swung at the old man and he in his turn bobbed away from their attacks with apparent ease.  Then the third attacker pulled something from his pocket and pointed it at the old man.  Heath’s jaw dropped. He had a gun.  He was going to see an old man gunned down in the street.  He wanted to run before he was spotted but he couldn’t move.

Heath watched paralysed as the gun jerked in the young man’s hand.  He was barely five feet from his target and couldn’t miss.  But he did.  He must have because the old man was still standing.  Then the old man raised his right hand and pointed at the younger man.  His hand ignited in a ball of flame that immediately shot towards the youth and engulfed him.  Heath blinked again and the youth was gone, as if he had never been there.  The old man roared at the two remaining attackers.  For their part the youngsters looked at the spot where their companion had stood just a second before and broke into a run.  They sprinted down the opposite end of the alley from where Heath was standing and disappeared around a corner.  The old man chuckled and bent slowly down to retrieve his discarded walking stick.

Heath stood frozen at the entrance to the alleyway.  He gasped, his mind reeling at the enormity of what he had just witnessed.  Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He could hear his own breath rattling in his chest, fighting for escape.  As he watched the man recover from his struggle Heath’s entire being urged him to run before this old man could turn his baleful gaze upon him.  Ever so carefully he took a first, tentative step away from the alley.  His shoe grated on the loose grit by the kerb stone and the world slowed.

Gallup Fairfoul lifted his head sharply at the sound of movement at the mouth of the alley.  His deeply shadowed eyes met Heath’s and pinned him in place.  He rose slowly from his crouch beneath the street light.  His tall, angular frame unfolded with threatened malevolence.  His face was still flushed from the fight and the deep lines seemed more pronounced.  His breath came quickly, billowing into the night.  His dishevelled grey hair caught the artificial light and framed his face in a neon halo.  He straightened the collar of his suit jacket and shrugged out the sleeves.  The dark material seemed to Heath to absorb the light, to suck in luminescence, a shadow given physical form.  Gallup began to advance towards him, his arms hanging perfectly straight, the fingers twitching restlessly, a parody of the gunslingers of the Westerns of Heath’s youth.

As he approached Heath, Gallup’s right hand slowly raised towards him, the first two fingers gradually extending.  Heath braced himself, his uncooperative feet treacherously refusing to move, to carry him from this predatory apparition.  He knew what he had seen and he knew he couldn’t be allowed to just leave with such knowledge.  Such things had to stay in the dark.

As the old man drew closer Heath could not take his eyes from the tips of those two long bony fingers, anticipating the flash and searing agony he knew was coming.

Gallup approached further, his fingers spearing towards Heath and then past him.

“Pint?”  His fingers pointed towards the Dog & Whistle on the other side of the street.

Heath gazed at Gallup’s back as he watched the old man saunter across the street towards the door of the pub.  His mind felt numb as if it simply could not process the last few minutes.  Gallup paused as he placed a hand on the handle of the pub door and looked back over his shoulder. “Coming?” he asked.  Without waiting for an answer he pulled the door open.

Wide eyed, Heath looked up and down the street as if looking for someone.  As if someone else could tell him what the hell had just happened and what the hell was going on now.  There was no one else to be seen.  He seemed to reach a conclusion, shrugged so hard his shoulders hit his ears and stumbled towards the pub.  Halfway there he realised his mouth was still hanging open and closed it.

The comforting sounds of a quiet pub helped to orientate Heath back in the real world.  The chink of glasses, the low rumble of men’s voices interspersed with high pitched laughter from a group of shop girls sipping wine, the tacky game-show enthusiasm of the fruit machine’s sound effects.  The Dog & Whistle was plain and unglamorous.  Its last real bout of decorating had been at least ten years ago and the deep red carpet and white and gold striped wallpaper were showing signs of wear.  The old barman was showing at least as much wear as the carpet although he at least greeted them with a half-hearted nod.  Gallup returned the nod and proclaimed, “two pints of your finest lager Sir.  He’s paying.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards Heath and thumped over to the table in the corner, winking at one of the shop girls on the way.

Heath gave the barman a vague smile and watched as he set about serving up two pints of Lager.  He pulled a tenner from his pocket and looked up, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror obscured by grime and optics.  He looked pale and his eyes were a little red rimmed.  He blinked quickly and shook his head a little.  He still felt vaguely relieved to be alive.

Heath made his way over to Gallup a little unsteadily.  Lager slopped over the edge of the glasses and ran down jis hands, the glasses slick.  He was relieved to set the glasses on the table without dropping them and slumped into a chair with a sigh.

Gallup winked, grabbed his glass and took a long, deep swallow.  He let out a sigh of contentment and lowered the glass back onto the table and then let forth an enormous belch.  Two of the shop girls looked over disapprovingly, then went back to their wine.  Heath blushed a little and smiled an apology at their turned backs.

“Aah that’s the stuff.  Go on, get it down you son.  You look like you need it.”

Heath didn’t argue but took a small sip from his pint. As he placed the glass on a beermat he could contain it no more. “What in the name of fuck just happened?”

“Oh! Straight to the point” said Gallup.  “I like it.  But first of all I think introductions are in order.  I am Gallup Fairfoul.” He paused slightly as if expecting a reaction.  Heath gave Gallup a blank stare. “Hmm and whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Heath Kennedy.” Said Heath with markedly less enthusiasm. “Now, seriously, what the fuck just happened? What did you do to that boy? Why are we in a pub? And why, for all that’s fucking holy, can you shoot fire out of your fucking hands?”

Heath’s voice had been rising as he spoke and he suddenly found he had placed both hands on the table and risen slightly from his chair.  This was obviously the last straw for the wine loving shop girls who finished their drinks and left quickly, the word “weirdoes” left hanging in the air as they made their escape.

Gallup’s face immediately became serious and his voice was strained as he said, “Sit down and shut up Heath.  Don’t make me tell you twice.”  Heath sat.

Gallup took another long drink from his pint.  Just as Heath’s patience was about to snap Gallup spoke.  “Do you believe people can shoot fire from their fingers Heath?”

“No, of course not but-“

“Good.  You don’t believe something you have seen happen with your own eyes.  Remarkable.  I bet you have an exceptionally dull job don’t you Heath? Yes, it’s almost certainly something where you spend all day sitting in an office with magnolia walls. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Heath caught himself nodding and quickly tried to regain control of the conversation.  “But that boy. You, he, fuck it, he burst into fucking flames and bloody well vanished into thin air.”  Heath slumped back in his chair as if saying the impossible had drained all the energy from him.

“Oh don’t worry so “said Gallup shaking his head and smiling slightly. “That wasn’t a real boy.  Think about it, do humans burst into flames and burn away to absolutely nothing in the blink of an eye? Of course they don’t.  That would be ridiculous.”

“But I saw it happen,” said heath slowly.  “What the hell do you mean “not a real boy”?  He wasn’t fucking Pinocchio mate.”

“Actually in a funny way, he was.  He wasn’t real he was an imp pretending to be a human.  A tiny demon dressed up in a human body sent to annoy the shit out of me for another’s amusement.”

Heath slapped a hand to his forehead, “a demon. You’re nuts mate, absolutely crackers.”

“Oh come on Heath, where’s your imagination?  Has your magnolia office stifled it completely?  Why can’t there be demons in the world?  There are stranger things in books, movies, comics, fucking soap operas every day.  It can’t all be made up.  It had to come from somewhere.  There had to be some basic iota of truth there in the very beginning in order to breathe life into all these stories.  No?”

Heath was thinking of the extensive library of comic books, novels and dvd’s back in his flat.  He loved ghost stories if not exactly horrors.  He had to admit he was willing to accept there could be some basis in reality for all those stories.  After all he had just seen fire shoot out of a man’s hand and incinerate someone instantly.  If ever there was a time to be broad-minded this was probably it.

“All right I’ll give you that but what about the bloody fire?  That was just impossible.”

“Not so much impossible as much as unlikely,” said Heath as he scratched his nose distractedly.  “It’s just a bit of physics really, excitation of molecules, energy changes form from one to another and what’s the most common way for a system to lose energy?”

“Heat.” Heath grunted.  “I’m an Engineer.”

“In a magnolia office no doubt about it. Couple more pints?  How about some whisky to go with them eh?  Don’t be a tight arse.”

Heath’s mind was swimming by now and he found himself ordering more drinks and fetching them back to the table.  His brain was trying to scream “Excitation of molecules? Bollocks!” but somehow he found himself accepting this explanation as plausible at least if not exactly possible.  Based on the evidence at hand he reached a conclusion. 

“I’m pissed.” He announced.

“Excellent!” Gallup cheered.  “Barman – Tequila!”