Joe IX – Mum

‘What is it about your parents? You don’t seem awfully keen to talk about them.’
I shrug and look away ‘dunno’ I say. ‘They were alright.’ Joe looks sceptical. ‘Really, I mean it. They were alright.’
‘You got on alright with them.’
‘Well, you know. Parents...’
‘I do actually. I was one.’
‘Oh’ I say. I’m surprised because A, he looks about 21 and B, he says he’s gay. I realise though that the first is misleading, and anyway he could legally have a five year old at 21. I ask about the other thing.
He thinks about it for a while, then says ‘Hey, I’m the one supposed to be asking the questions around here’ then goes on to tell me that he didn’t really admit what he was, even to himself until he was about thirty, which answers both points really. I ask about his children. ‘Just the one’ he says, ‘Kirsty’.
She was ten when he died apparently – he’s not sure what of – some weird thing where he just didn’t seem to be able to fight off infections any more. He died of pneumonia. I want to ask him what happened but sense it’s not my place. I want to say that if he needs someone to talk to... but that seems wrong too. Instead I have a brainwave and ask if his guide had been helpful, and if he could still talk to them now if he needed to. He smiles warmly at me. ‘I’m ok now, if that’s what you mean. Thanks.’ He sits and thinks for a moment. Then he looks up. ‘Anyway’ he says abruptly. ‘Your folks. What did your dad do?’
‘Various things’ I say vaguely. ‘Mum was the breadwinner really. She worked as a receptionist and secretary for a few years then got a job running a nursing agency in Brighton later on.’
‘That’s quite unusual.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You know what I mean’ he says smiling. And I do. In some ways I respect them for it, my parents, not just doing the normal thing. Why do I feel weird about it?
‘It was alright.’
‘Fair enough. I wasn’t criticising.’
‘Mum was weird though. She just had to have things a certain way, sort of arbitrarily, unnecessarily difficult.’
‘Like what?’
I think for a moment. ‘Oh, I know – like she wouldn’t have a lock on the bathroom door, “in case there was an accident” she said, but then we had to keep the door closed all the time, “in case of visitors” or something, so we all had to knock on the door to see if anyone was in there, but if it was her in there she wouldn’t answer, so I was always barging in on her when I was little, getting told off for it.’
Joe smiles sympathetically at me. ‘Bit of an exhibitionist then, your mother?’
‘God no. Absolutely the opposite. She was too polite to shout she was on the loo, so if we needed to go, either we were going round the house checking to see where she was, or we were there outside the door for ages whispering “Are you in there mum? I’m going to come in.” and eventually you’d hear a little noise in there, toilet paper ripping along the perforations or something, and you’d know to come back later.’ I shake my head in wonder. Joe is chuckling. ‘We ended up peeing in the garden a lot of the time.’
I haven’t really thought about it much since I’ve been here. It all seems funny now, but it wasn’t at the time.
‘She was fucking mad’ I observe coolly. ‘She wouldn’t let my dad say things like “germination” or “pollination”. I remember once she had some friends round and he came in and said he’d had a good germination out in the greenhouse and she went berserk.’
Me and Joe are both having a good laugh by now.
‘Didn’t she know what the words meant?’ he asks.
‘I suppose so. I don’t know what she thought. She was just... barking.’
We sit and think about it for a while, giggling a little from time to time.
‘I don’t know why I keep saying “was”. It’s me that’s past tense isn’t it.’
‘Well... tenses are a little hard to pin down here – you could be future too.’
‘But right now we’re in each others past, aren’t we.’
He shrugs a little. ‘That’s the thing’ he says sadly.
I really want to ask him, if he does go back, if he’ll be able to change things, so Kirsty won’t have to have her dad die when she’s little, but I can’t find the right words.

‘Tell me what it felt like, to be there, in the house, with your family’ he says at the beginning of another session.
I think for quite a long time. ‘Like I was a nuisance? Like I was always in the way?’ I say finally.
‘In the way of what, do you think?’
‘Them getting on with life I suppose – stuff they needed to do – normal stuff.’
‘You felt that they didn’t want you around.’
‘Maybe they wanted someone easier, more normal.’
‘You’re talking as if you can just submit your requirements and take delivery of a child of your choice. It’s not like that.’
‘No, I know that, obviously, it’s just...’
‘What?’
‘Maybe I could have tried harder – been more, I don’t know, less individual – less awkward. It’s like, for instance, just before I... just before I ended up here we had this ridiculous fight because I didn’t want to drink instant coffee any more. I always said I’d rather have a glass of water. I didn’t mean it as a criticism but they always took it that way. I just didn’t like instant coffee.
Anyway, there was this old metal coffee pot in the larder. I think it was a present from Spain from somebody. Anyway mum said fresh coffee was too expensive so I said I’d pay the difference, but then she said she wouldn’t have me paying for food and drink all the while I lived in her house. Then she said she was worried the coffee pot might explode, so I ended up brewing up on a camping stove down in the Wendy house like it was some illegal drug fix or something. Then they found out what I was doing and took it away because they thought I might start a fire...’
Telling this now it all seems so ridiculous. Maybe I should have just let it go, for a quiet life, as dad used to say, but I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just couldn’t.
‘Whenever mum made herself a coffee she’d make one for me too and then announce “Oh I’m so sorry. I forgot you won’t drink our coffee any more” and pour it down the sink.’
‘Sounds like something of a power struggle going on’ says Joe, clearly amused at my petty drama.
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I know.’ He looks around the room, for inspiration I suppose.
‘Maybe if I could just have...’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know – just given in – let them have it their way.’
‘Why do you think they were so intent on stopping you working out your own way? I mean, you don’t seem to have been a bad kid. You weren’t taking drugs or doing anything dangerous. You were never rude or even particularly naughty from what I can see. You were creative, busy, intelligent... You did well enough at school, up until you’re A levels anyway. What do you think was going on?’
‘I don’t know. I just think.... I just think I was too... different. Maybe if I’d just been more...’
‘Maybe if you’d just been someone else?’
‘Maybe... You know what I mean.’
‘No. Sorry Gabriel, but no. The trouble seems to be they didn’t want you, and it doesn’t matter how hard you try Gabriel, you’ll never be someone else – not and stay sane. Look...’ he leans forward and takes my hands in his. Oddly enough this doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
‘When you have children, you have them for better or for worse. There should be vows at the christening except that’d be too late. It should be on the bedstead, on the condom packet, over the damn pub door.
If you have sex, even if you use contraception, you have to take responsibility for the child that may result, and you can’t just look at it later and say “This is not quite what I had in mind.”
It seems to me you think it’s your fault that you were not the type of boy your parents wanted, or even that it’s your fault you were born at all, but it’s not. When you have a child you have to go with what comes along, make the most of it, as it is. Teach it, play with it, guide it, protect it by all means, but it’s not a little custom-made mini version of yourself, or a do-it-yourself buddy. And it’s not up to the child to make everything alright for you – to give your life meaning. It’s not there for the parent’s benefit.’ He sits back, hooks his thumbs in his pockets. ‘Or not any more anyway. It used to make economic sense to have children simply so you could look forward to a relatively comfortable old age, but not any more. Now it’s a choice people make and have to take responsibility for, and yes, even when it’s an accident. I hate these absent fathers who won’t even pay maintenance more than almost anyone. Like I say the adult must accept responsibility that there may be a child, or I guess pay for an abortion at any rate.’
‘Mum would never have done that.’
‘But she’d bring a child into the world and then make it apologise for its very existence? Think about it Gabriel – I’m not convinced you owe them anything.’

‘I’m not just here to blame other people for what happened’ I say, very quietly. I’m close to tears again. ‘I’m really not just saying it’s everyone else’s fault.’ I rummage around in my pockets trying to find a tissue. Joe picks up the box and hands me one.
‘I never said you were’ he says.
‘I know you can’t do that’ I say, too loudly now. I try to lower my voice. ‘You can’t just blame your upbringing or whatever... It’s just... I just can’t stand it being all my fault... everything... They can’t blame me for everything can they?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But it does seem like that.’
Joe nods, mulling it over.
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose and hide the evidence in my pocket. (Can’t have the others seeing me like this.)
He puts the tissues next to me and we sit in silence a while longer. It’s getting late.
‘The thing is Joe, I’m not a child any more. I should be able to...’
‘Gabriel, that’s irrelevant and you know it is. Children don’t just become adults, wham, like that, on their sixteenth birthday, or their eighteenth or twenty-first or their fiftieth for that matter. The way you are as a child – the way you were with your parents all those years... It stays with you your whole life. It might work for you or it might not or you may be able to change parts of it if you really try, but what happens when you’re a child... You can’t just alter that by force of will, because you think you aught to or because you think it’s about time. Most adults never do and teenagers certainly can’t be expected to. It’s never the children’s fault or even fifty-fifty.’
‘But what’s the point blaming them? What are they going to do about it?’
‘In your parents’ case, I suspect, nothing. Unfortunately I don’t think you can expect anything much of them Gabriel. I doubt they’ll be prepared to really think about it and they certainly won’t admit to anything. I’m afraid it becomes your unavoidable responsibility as an adult to make the best of it and try not to make the same mistakes with your own kids. That’s probably the best you can do.’
‘So I can blame my parents all I like but I still have to take responsibility for sorting out the mess myself.’
‘That’s about it, yes.’
Oddly enough that makes me feel a lot better. Strange.
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Voyage VIII – Listening skills

I have to say, I’ve noticed there are an awful lot of good-looking women on this boat – more than you’d expect (but then, I suppose they’re all looking their best here aren’t they). There’s one in particular I keep seeing around who’s really gorgeous. I don’t seem to be able to stop looking at her and a couple of times she’s caught me and she’s given me that haughty sort of sideways smile, like she thinks she’s so much better than me. I’m used to this sort of reaction but it still bugs me. It’s not like I would do anything embarrassing. I’m only looking. Anyway, she’s way out of my league, that’s for sure.
Sometimes I slip into the kind of thoughts I used to have at home – worrying mostly – Am I going to be a complete looser forever? Am I going to be alone forever? And then it hits me – I’m dead – all that’s in the past. I don’t have to worry about all that any more. And then I actually feel better than I ever did when I was alive.
Mostly people here seem to be keeping themselves to themselves (apart from Ray and the others, and Lucy and her group of course). A few friendships seem to have started. The women seem to pair off more easily – find someone so they’re not just sitting there talking to themselves. The men don’t seem to be able to do it so easily though. It’s sad. They try but no one knows what to say. It’s like they don’t trust each other. Then they try to talk to the women but they don’t really know how to. No one really knows how to behave. No one knows what’s going to happen next.

I do sometimes wish I had someone to talk to other than Ray and the others. I know there’s Joe and I don’t want to seem ungrateful because I know he doesn’t have to be here, but it is a bit like a job for him. It can’t be easy. I saw him up on deck with his morning coffee the other day, watching the water (there’s a lot of really big fish here suddenly I’ve noticed) and I stood there casually and asked how things were going and he said ‘fine’ but didn’t elaborate, so I mentioned what Liz had told me (not naming her of course) and asked if there was any way she could find out what happened to her grandchildren. He looked like he was thinking about it but had other things on his mind. I said I was quite worried about her. He suggested I get her to come and see him. I said I would try although I was not hopeful, but I could tell the conversation was over.

Ray and the others just seem to want to spend their time complaining about things. Brenda especially just seems permanently pissed off with the service – not because it’s bad, which it isn’t – everyone’s very helpful here, but more I think because the staff aren’t servile enough. They’re not our inferiors. Like Joe they’ve chosen to stay behind to help out. Recently Brenda wanted to have a go at one of them about something – having to wait a while for her coffee I think it was, and she really flew off the handle at one of the girls from the kitchen. Ray wanted to call the manager but the girl just looked at them with this quizzical little smile on her face. ‘Well, there isn’t a manager, per se’ she said. Harry commented on her use of ‘per se’ but she just carried on calmly, speaking quietly, explaining where the facilities were where we could make our own coffees, should we so wish, and then with a bright smile she turned and went about her business.
‘Well...’ huffed Brenda, obviously very put out. But there was nothing she could do, except make her own coffee presumably, and she wouldn’t stoop to that, so that was it. She had to wait.

In some ways this is a lot like my old existence – going off to write or draw or to think, or just to look at the scenery, except no one’s having a go at me here.
I actually did get talking to someone new recently – a skinny little bloke with a pencil moustache. He looked about twenty-six but talked like my granddad - really nasal London accent. He had been a mechanic in Croydon apparently. I was being polite, passing the time, he was talking about his business – I wasn’t really listening properly – I’ve never been much interested in cars. Actually I was thinking about how much I wanted to get away to work on this painting I’d started. But I wasn’t exactly short of time, and I had wanted to talk to someone new. Why was I so keen to get away from him? I forced myself to listen.

I suppose some people just love talking don’t they. I don’t. Well, I say what I want to say, if I’ve got something to say. I get it over with, but some people just go on and on. They don’t just say ‘I went to the shop and got whatever it was half price’. They tell you the whole conversation – and he said and she said and then I said... Maybe that’s why I don’t have a lot of friends. You need a certain quantity of talk to fill the time to maintain a social life, and unless you’re a comic genius most of it’s not going to be that interesting is it? Or you could be lucky enough to have a friendship with ‘comfortable silences’, but that’s quite rare I think.
So I try to listen and it feels like a real effort to nod in the right places and smile and say ‘really?’ I feel like I want to go get a hammock but that’d be rude. I shift from foot to foot and try not to yawn.
‘I’m sorry’ he says sadly ‘I know I go on. I just miss her so much. I’m sorry. You go’ and I feel like a complete shit. I don’t even know who he’s been talking about.
‘No, it’s okay’ I say brightly, but I do have to sit down. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ I say, indicating the stairs down.
‘Nah, s’alright’ he says, and goes back to looking out to sea.
I want to ask him about ‘her’. I hope he didn’t notice I wasn’t really listening. Maybe he was just talking for himself, not really caring if anyone was listening. I hope so.
I couldn’t do Joe’s job. But then, maybe he’s not really listening either.
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Journey IV – The nymph

At last the forest begins to give out. The trees are not so close, they don’t crowd out the smaller plants on the ground so much, and a lively retinue of insects and birds take the opportunity to make a living.
The weather has changed too. The first time it happens I’m looking ahead through the lower branches and I spot something big and bright and golden ahead, covering the ground, almost too bright to look at directly. I wonder what it could possibly be until I almost step in it and realise it’s just the forest floor lit by sunlight. Hallelujah!
I step into it and look upwards into the rays. I can feel my body warming through, front to back, top to bottom. I drop my bag. I open my shirt. What the heck, I strip naked and just stand there, basking in it for a while.
After a while I look around me. The ground is covered in a thick and slightly prickly mat of pine needles. Blades of grass poke through them here and there.
I’ve got some shorts somewhere in my rucksack and I spend a bit of time emptying it out, looking at all my poor damp, crumpled belongings, things I’d forgotten I had here – books, drawing materials, and chocolate! Now there’s a find. I could have sworn I’d eaten it all. I search around and find some cleaner underwear. It’s still early in the day – I can see the path going on some way ahead. It’s like a miracle.
I follow the path through the morning. The trail heads down some, then flattens out, and I’m coming out into a wide valley by dusk. There’s a broad, boulder-strewn river below, the last of the sun laying a trail on it. The mountains I’ve been walking in for what seems like a year form a solid black wall behind. Mist is beginning to come down. I can see less and less and I begin to unpack the tent. I could really do with a coffee right now. I sit in the doorway and watch the dusk come in. The weird calls I’ve ignored all day get amplified at this time and the noises that go with the darkness begin to edge in. Small bodies move in the grass. I can hear the river below. This is the first evening in a long time I’ve not fallen asleep to the steady sound of rain. It’s actually hard to get to sleep.
By morning it’s business as usual – heavy rain makes the view grey and grainy. A packet of coffee and a carton of long life milk turn up unexpectedly in a side pocket of my rucksack. Something funny is going on here but I’m not complaining. Maybe I’m losing it. I get the coffee maker going anyway. ‘Thanks’ I say, loudly, looking about ‘whoever you are.’ Then, as an after-thought ‘How about some bacon? and ooh – some toast and butter, and marmalade?’ Worth a try I reckon.
The rain actually eases off as the day progresses and I pack up and move on. The sun even makes an appearance. At one point I even sing.

There’s a tiny woman in my backpack. Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. At first I thought it was just the product of my fevered, sex-starved, post-adolescent imagination, and I’m still not sure, but we’ve been talking a bit and I feel better so I’m going with it.
It was earlier on today she appeared. It’s been my third day walking along the side of the valley, and I came to a place where the river simply fell over the edge into another gorge way below and I could have just sat and wept. Well, I did weep, and kicked stones over the edge. The only path I could see headed steeply up a slope at an angle from the lip of the fall and disappeared into the haze as the cloud base came down once more to meet me, bringing drizzle and greyness with it. It was about mid morning. I sat on a tussock and looked at the view. I wanted to throw myself off but I knew I wouldn’t die, just hurt myself so what was the point? What had I thought was coming? Did I think now that I was in some pleasant, relatively flat valley I’d find civilisation, a place to stay, people to talk to?
Yes of course. That’s exactly what I’d thought. I didn’t realise until it obviously wasn’t going to happen. Shit.
Some large woolly animals with huge curved horns were looking at me from the khaki coloured slopes above. They didn’t look predatory – they looked like yaks. I asked them what the fuck they thought they were looking at. In return they ambled off, dislodged some stones and I had to run to avoid getting hit. I screamed abuse at them, at the hillside, at the cataract, at the people who weren’t there, at everything. I tore my clothes off and threw them in a tree. I threw my back-pack in the river and it floated away. It sounds very comical now but it wasn’t at the time. I’d had enough. I was getting rid of everything, getting ready to get rid of myself, again.
That was when I heard her voice – it was coming from the river and it was swearing at me. I could only just make her voice out above the muffled roar of the water below, but I could tell what it meant. I went over and looked. I couldn’t see the bag but one of my red socks was on a rock in the middle and there seemed to be a tiny, pale pink woman with long red hair wearing it, shouting at me. I could see her mouth opening and closing. She seemed really pissed off at me, or really scared.

It took quite a while to sort it all out. The water must have been close to freezing, mist was settling, the rocks were very slippery to walk on, and yet jagged to stumble against. I splashed about, trying to get out to where she was, all the while pathetically conscious of how tiny my willy had become. No woman had ever seen it before (except family obviously). I found it hard to concentrate.
I managed to get out to the rock she was perched on and she pointed further on. I tried not to look at her too much. She didn’t have anything on either. I tried to concentrate on where she was pointing. I couldn’t make out what she was yelling. I went to pick her up but she wouldn’t let me. She got very fierce about that. I got down, lowering my self into the frigid water and put my ear close to her. ‘Bend down further’ she shouted. I crouched down and felt her surprisingly warm little body jump onto my shoulder and settle on my neck.
Rising carefully to avoid slipping, and wading in the direction she had been pointing I couldn’t help being aware of her legs spread either side of my neck. I thought how typical it was of me to be in this much trouble (to have got myself in this much trouble – I had no one else to blame) and still just be thinking about sex – with a woman only ten inches tall at that. Between her legs seemed very hot on my skin indeed. I was glad my willy was shrunken. The alternative would have been intolerable.
She’d been pointing at the rucksack of course. It was lodged between two rocks with water rushing between them at the very edge of the drop. I felt my way forward gingerly, reaching forward as I went to steady myself. The water was remarkably calm near the edge, and there was a deep pool I had to swim across a couple of strokes. I could feel her hanging onto my hair at the back and making encouraging noises.
The bag floated remarkably well – it was designed that way she told me later, and everything in it was dry. I waded back to the bank with it in tow, her standing on it looking very proprietorial, like a mini whale hunter with her catch.
I didn’t say anything as I towelled myself off and found something dry to wear, then I went and retrieved my other clothes from where they were, hanging soggily in the leafless, stunted tree or scattered on the ground beneath. When I came back she had covered herself with one of my shirts, which was a relief because it meant I could talk to her properly, without worrying about getting a hard-on. I sat on a hump and looked at her long, oval, rather serious face and pale grey eyes. She was covered in freckles. Then she looked at me a little sideways, cool and naughty at the same time, and I thought she was rather attractive, in an odd sort of way.
‘I’m so sorry’ I said ‘I didn’t know you were...’
‘I know’ she said quickly ‘I should have...said something...before.’
I was glad she seemed as awkward as I did. ‘Haven’t you got any er...clothes?’ I said, trying to be chatty, trying not to offend her.
‘They don’t really work at this size’ she shrugged. ‘Physics...’
‘I didn’t think physics really applied here’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it must do... a bit’ and she looked around as if there might be an answer in the grass.
I was glad she didn’t know everything and seemed as uncomfortable with the situation as I did. I felt stupid enough as it was. She smiled at me in a tentative friendly sort of way and I got out some biscuits and the coffee making paraphernalia for us. ‘Can you eat?’ I said and she smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
It turned out she’d been in my backpack almost all the time since we’d left Jeannie and Duncan’s place. She told me Kev had arranged it so that I’d have a guide without being aware of it and reminded me how dangerous it was to travel here without one. Guides apparently get some special tricks as part of their training to keep the wildlife here at bay and keep the travellers safe, but it’s a risky business all the same. As she talked I watched her trying to move to get comfortable without exposing herself. She did it very elegantly considering. She would have been quite tall if she’d been normal size, taller than me I thought, and quite slender, and probably quite a bit older than me – maybe thirty or more. Her voice was small but very clear.
‘So, what are you, exactly?’
She looked very amused. ‘You mean am I a fairy?’
‘Are you?’
‘I don’t think so. I can’t fly. I can move surprisingly fast when I have to. Can I have some more of your coffee?’ I set the cup down on the ground and watched her drink, her little red head over the edge of my cup, her little freckly hands on the brim. She covered herself up again and sat back. ‘There’s a lot of odd ways people are here' she continued, ‘I think a lot of the legends and myths and fairy stories in the world are based on things people have come across here.’
‘I’ve heard that’ I said, and we sat and looked at the river for a while.
‘Maybe you’re a nymph’ I said. She laughed a little and fidgeted in my shirt. ‘Maybe’ she said. I didn’t realise what I’d said until later. It was so embarrassing.
We sat in silence for a while, sharing my coffee. I lit a candle.
She told me she’d spent the whole journey in my pack. It was designed so there were ways through from one compartment to another and she could burrow about very quickly in there without me knowing. I asked about the clean laundry and the food. She said yes, that was her, but wouldn’t explain how she did it.
We sat and looked out for a while. Evening was coming down fast. I wasn’t sure what to say next. It did seem a very odd situation, even by the standards of the afterlife so far. I tried hard to think of something intelligent to say but I couldn’t think of anything.
‘Did you used to hike a lot, you know, before?’ she said eventually. I wasn’t sure what to say. I thought about my drunken stroll into oblivion on the South Downs. I didn’t really want to tell her about that.
‘No, not really’ I said ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – you seem very at ease with it. You know – most people would have gone bonkers by now, given up.’ I look down at her beside me and she’s huddled in the shirt looking up at me. ‘Actually, do you mind if I...’ and she shifts toward me on her bottom, struggling to keep the shirt in place. ‘If I could just...’ and I feel her snuggle up against my leg.
‘Oh I’m so sorry – you must be freezing. Why don’t you let me...’
I looked about for something warmer for her to wear. ‘Maybe in my pocket?’ I suggested. I had a hooded sweatshirt on with big pockets at the hips. I held one open. She looked in doubtfully and I knew what she meant – a bit too close for comfort. Then I had a brainwave  - ‘What about my hood? Can you get up?’ After a moment’s hesitation she literally jumped at the chance and was up on my shoulders remarkable quickly, like a squirrel. ‘You really can move, can’t you’ I said.
‘Physics’ I heard her say as she got herself settled up there. ‘Excellent’ she said at last ‘Now I don’t have to shout.’
I looked across the river, at the screes beyond. It was nearly dark. It was the time each day when I was most likely to see dark things moving about, shadows shifting, never sure if they were real, or just my eyes making things up. Sometimes I thought I saw lights, or eyes. There were a couple of nights early on when I just sat rigid half the night, watching, waiting for the moment when they – whatever they were – would rush forward and mutilate me, but nothing came and I quickly got used to just getting into the tent as soon as it got dark and shutting them out. Now I could feel the tiny weight of her up there on my back and I felt safer.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, after a while ‘I used to sit up on the top of the pack like this when you were walking along. You never noticed me did you?’ I said I hadn’t. Or had I noticed there were small transparent panels in the rucksack she could look out from inside? What had I thought they were for? I had to confess I had noticed them but not given it much thought. So much here seemed inexplicable. I said she certainly had a very cosy way of getting about, apart from the grubby underwear of course. ‘And the getting chucked in the river is not much fun either’ she said. I apologised again but I could tell she was just having me on.
‘And I don’t mind your underwear’ she added. ‘You don’t smell too bad anyway – for a bloke.’

At the time I thought Kev was some sort of genius – to give me a female companion, but in such a way that nothing could possibly happen between us – it was a very good idea. I thought what it would have been like with a full size woman accompanying me. I knew it wouldn’t have worked. Of course in reality I was just desperate for company and she knew that. I didn’t ask too many questions because I was afraid she’d disappear and leave me alone again.

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Joe III – Options

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Joe casually after I'd sat down.
‘Oh, ok’ I shake my head dismissively and shrug.
‘How have you been filling your time?’
‘Oh you know, staring at the sea, eating. I found the library’ I add mock brightly.
‘Bored?’
I think for a moment, puzzled ‘No, actually. I feel pretty good.’ I realize I actually feel remarkably relaxed. I spend hours, days, nights, I don’t know how long, sitting up on deck, in a lounger, in my sleeping bag, looking out to sea. It’s amazing. ‘Most of the time I just feel, well, content I suppose.’ I shrug again.
‘Some people get very low’ he says, leaning over to get his coffee from the shelf behind him. ‘This voyage is supposed to be like a decompression stop, or convalescence if you prefer. It’s best to go with it, enjoy the ride, get some rest. We’ve a long way to go yet. What’s wrong?’
‘I keep thinking about home and everything. I want to cry a lot of the time.’
‘That’s understandable. It’s not just them. You’re grieving too. You’ve suffered the loss too, leaving them all behind. It’s hard.’
‘I won’t ever see them again, will I?’
‘Not the way you did, no.’
‘But I can be reborn – to the same life all over again?’
‘Exactly the same except for the things you change. Well... that’s not strictly true... But anyway...’
We pause and I look about, he looks at me, sipping his coffee.
‘So who are all these people?’ I nod my head at the door. I mean the other people on the ship, Ray and the others in particular.
He smiles broadly, like it’s funny. ‘It’s very interesting actually’ he says. He straightens and puts on a deep ‘portentous’ voice and a ‘sincere’ expression. ‘You wish to know, mere mortal, how you and all these other people were selected from among the countless billions of the dead to accompany each other on the long journey of the spirit?’ I nod. He continues. ‘What arcane equation thrust you together on this eternal quest?’ He adds pompously. I wait patiently. ‘Well,’ he continues conversationally, ‘sorry to disappoint you but the fact is these are merely the hundred people that happened die about the same time you did in the same part of the world.’ He sits back smiling to let the idea sink in. ‘Cool isn’t it?’ he adds. I sit back too, incredulous. ‘It’s worked out regionally’ he continues. ‘You were in southern England. We waited until we had our hundred, and we set sail. That’s it.’ He grins at me happily. ‘Now if that’s not proof of God’s omnipotence I don’t know what is.’ I laugh a little. It’s ludicrous. We relax a little. I feel quite peaceful.

‘So why? What’s all this about? What’s it for? Why are we here?’ I ask earnestly.
He looks more seriously into his empty cup, turns and puts it back on the shelf. ‘Honestly?’ he says, ‘I really don’t know.’
Clearly I don’t look like I believe him.
‘It’s true. We’re not told. We, the guides are just like you, except, well, for a lot of us we just weren’t ready to be born again yet, if ever. Or we want to help. I like to think I’m in the latter group. Basically there’s four options. A, you go through the whole journey and are reincarnated, if you think it’s worth a shot – if you think there’s some fairly specific changes you’d like to make, assuming you remember anything when you get there. We need to talk more about the details at some point, but anyhow, option B. Some give up – nothing to be done about their lives – nothing they can imagine changing that would make enough difference.’ He pauses. ‘It’s pretty horrible a lot of it, how people have died, and suffered all their lives, powerless to... Well, anyway, that’s why I came back – try to stop them throwing themselves over the side.’ He stops to gather himself.
‘Anyway, option C is that you find somewhere here to stay. Later on in the journey you’ll find places where people have settled here and there – real little utopias some of them, bloody frightening places some of the others. You’ll see them.’
‘That sounds alright’ I can see from his face there must be a catch.
‘Except it is forever. Wherever you stop, you’re there for eternity. It’s kind of a big decision. You get some time to make up your mind, I’m not sure how long, but after that, that’s it. People tend to get what they always wanted here. It’s not always a pretty sight.’
‘But if you don’t choose somewhere you just go round and round for all eternity.’
‘Exactly’ he says.
‘Bloody hell’ I say wonderingly.
‘Well there’s lots of details we can talk about some other time. Right now...’ He begins to stand.
‘What was the fourth option?’
‘What? Oh, option D. Just a temporary fix I’m afraid – do what I did, become a guide. I need to look around a bit more before I decide. Come on. Let’s get some fresh air’ and he gets up to leave. I follow him up on deck. Standing at the rail he turns to me as I pass. ‘We are going to need to do some work on your past at some point you know.’
‘Oh. Right’ I say uncertainly. I suppose we will. I head for my room.

Lying in my crib – with its cut-out plywood side, linen sheets, watching the tops of the waves and the birds outside (actually It’s a nice bright day out. The weather seems to be improving of late) I can think. I spend quite a lot of time down here, it’s quiet and comfortable, and nobody bothers me, thankfully. I do some reading, writing, drawing, and some you-know-what... I think a lot about Lucy. I know she doesn’t fancy me. I think I can tell by now. I made a twat of myself enough times at school. Still... I lie naked in the light from the porthole and imagine her in a little black dress with no knickers on...

There are really only two options when you think about it – the utopians and the lost spirits. Heaven and hell. Everything else is just going round and round. There must be more to it than that.

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