Late Payments

Archibald Thorney walked from his quarters and headed to what was known as ‘The Paradise Deck’. As a name, it confused him – it wasn’t a deck of any kind, neither of a ship or even like those springing up in British back gardens. It was just a place where you sat in your own personal paradise or engaged in your favourite pursuits. Archibald’s had been mostly the same over the past week since his arrival.

On the way, he passed a clearly unoccupied room. Yes, they were all the same hue that appeared to be 14 shades brighter than brilliant white, but this one clearly wasn’t lived in. That’s odd, he thought, making a mental note to enquire of the clerk.

To a casual observer, the space where the front desk stood was empty. No desk and no clerk. However, as Archibald approached, both came into focus like a mirage in the desert. His first day, Archibald had spent almost 30 minutes trying to work out how it was done. The clerk, whom most residents just called ‘Cleric’ (or ‘Ric’ to the seasoned residents), had watched patiently with a polite smile, observing Archibald walk back and forth a few paces seeing the desk, and Cleric, come and go accordingly.

“Morning, Cleric,” Archibald called, somewhat over-familiarly.

“Good morning, Mr Thorney,” Cleric replied impassively. He both existed, and didn’t exist, to service the needs of the residents under his charge.

“Another lovely day down at the beach?” Archibald asked, not realising that it actually didn’t change unless he wanted it to.

“Just the way you like it, Sir,” Cleric responded, “that’s what we do here.”

Archibald stopped, feeling the need to engage Cleric in conversation, as if the clerk just stood there waiting for residents to speak to him.

“How does it work then?” he asked, “Do all the people who like the beach end up in the same complex?”

Cleric grimaced slightly at the term; made the place sound like a prison or a boarding school. Or, worse still, a package holiday destination.

“Oh, no Sir,” Cleric said brightly, “each resident enjoys his or her own personal paradise, however they see fit. Each resident’s paradise blends to the person they share it with.”

“What?” Archibald was confused, “How does that work?”

Cleric attempted to sigh very quietly and failed. “Just because your each individual paradises aren’t the same, doesn’t mean you can’t share the time.”

Archibald pulled a face that clearly indicated he didn’t understand, but said nothing. He also didn’t move away.

Cleric sighed again and elaborated. “Do you remember that nice Mr Davies you were snorkelling with just the other day?”

“Yes?”

“He wasn’t snorkelling.”

“He most certainly was.” Archibald was defiant, like he hated to be told he was wrong. “He and I swapped stories about it afterwards.”

“Mr Davies,” Cleric clarified, “was skiing at the time.”

Again silence, and an even more confused look.

“Mr Davies’ paradise is skiing, that’s what he likes to spend his time doing.” Cleric paused before continuing, “When you and he engage with each other, you both perceive the other sharing your paradise.”

Another pause.

“You perceived Mr Davies joining you snorkelling, before sharing the experience in sun loungers on the beach; Mr Davies perceived the two of you skiing together and then discussing it in a chalet or ski lodge.” He hesitated. “I can’t tell the difference.”

From the look on Archibald’s face, he grasped the concept, even if he didn’t understand how. He changed the subject quickly.

“There appears to be an empty room just along from my own. I was advised that you don’t have empty rooms. The chap who got me settled in…”

“Mr Settler. ” Cleric finished for him helpfully.

“Yes, Mr Settler.” Archibald failed to suppress his annoyed tone at the interruption, “He said that rooms didn’t exist until someone needed it.”

“That’s right, Sir,” confirmed Cleric, “I’m sure it’s just, er…“, he paused, as if trying to think up an excuse, “just an administrative error, Sir.”

Archibald lifted a finger and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Cleric beat him to it.

“Will there be anything else, Sir?”

“No.” Archibald paused this time, “Thank you.”

“Right then,” Cleric plastered on his best and most reassuring smile, “Enjoy your paradise, Sir.”

And then, for the first time since Archibald arrived about a week ago, the desk and Cleric disappeared in front of his eyes, leaving him stood looking at a very empty, very white space.

Annoyingly, Mr Davies walked past at that moment and couldn’t resist a jibe. “Keep up watching nothing happen for too long, Thorney, and maybe they’ll make it an Olympic sport!”

Archibald was still facing the opposite direction, so he rolled his eyes, sneered a little and then reset his features before turning to trail after his fellow snorkeller/skier.

“Hey, Davies!” He called as he trotted to catch up, “How did you enjoy snorkelling the other day?”

“Excellent fun, Thorney!” Davies clapped Archibald on the back enthusiastically, “Should do it again sometime!”

“Wouldn’t you rather be,” Archibald hesitated again, “skiing?”

“Only if you want to, Thorney!” Davies smiled and laughed as he spoke, which did little to unbaffle Archibald.

“I’ll take a rain check for now,” Archibald reassured his companion, “or should that be a ‘snow check’?” he added with a wink.

It was at that moment that Davies had stopped laughing and didn’t begin again following the pun.

“I’ll catch up with you another time, Thorney.” Davies stalked off quickly, leaving Archibald feeling ever so slightly alone suddenly. Archibald closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head and then re-opened them again before heading to the beach. Or is this a ski resort, he thought to himself, taking in the golden sand, gently swaying palm trees and tropically clear sea, which crashed softly at the water’s edge rhythmically.

“Enjoy your own personal paradise,” Archibald paraphrased Cleric’s words and let them sink in, “I think I will, thank you very much.” With that, he took his place on a sun lounger and dozed off.

Some time later (as if time really even mattered here), a shadow cast over Archibald, making him stir and awaken.

He opened his eyes and squinted in the brightness, struggling to make out who was invading his own, quote, personal paradise, unquote. Archibald tried everything to shield his eyes from the light, mostly because he wasn’t sure if there even was a sun (it was just bright during the day and dark at night), but ultimately he gave up and used the time it took his eyes to adjust to sit up and get cross.

There, stood over him, blocking his ‘bright’, was a tall, dapper man wearing a dark suit and a serious expression.

“Mr Thorney, is it?” he asked, somewhat too officiously.

“Who’s asking?” Archibald didn’t like the sound of even the first enquiry.

“Mr Archibald Horatio Thorney, born 22nd May 1978?”

“Who’s asking?” Archibald repeated, attempting to buy time to understand the reason for the question.

“Sorry, Sir, how rude of me. My name is Mr De Zeest and I work for a post mortem financial retrieval service.” De Zeest did not extend a hand with his self introduction.

“You’re a debt collector?” Archibald may be careless enough to be dead, but he didn’t consider himself stupid.

“Yes, Sir,” De Zeest confirmed, “an afterlife debt collector.”

Well, thought Archibald, at least he’s not shy about it.

“With that in mind, Sir,” De Zeest continued, “I’m here regarding monies unpaid to the -” he consulted his notes from a small pad that appeared from nowhere, “- the Oldham and Rochdale Amalgamated Loan Company.”

“What of them?” Despite the short nature of the conversation so far, Archibald was losing patience already.

“It seems, Sir,” De Zeest checked his notes again, “that you expired with an unsecured debt of £57,218 and 46 pence owing to the…”

“Oldham and Rochdale…”

“For expedience,” interrupted De Zeest, “let’s just refer to them as the ORAL from now on?” He smirked and held up an apologetic hand, “I know, Sir, makes me laugh every time too!”

Archibald wasn’t laughing.

“In case you had failed to notice, Sir,” Archibald spat the last word of a hissed sentence, “those loans became void when I passed away.”

“Oh yes, Sir,” De Zeest flipped a couple of pages in his notebook, clearly looking for some specific detail, “no children to speak of, no siblings and unmarried.”

“There you are!” Archibald spread his arms in triumph, “No-one to collect from!” He felt smug again.

“Legally, Sir, no-one to collect from.” A quick glance at the notes, “Long term relationship with a Ms Lydia Spencer, going back approx. 17 years. Mortgage on your shared house is in her name -” De Zeest flourished with a finger in the air, “- meaning that the ORAL couldn’t collect against the property.”

“That’s right.” Still smug.

“And, despite all that time together, you consistently refused to marry Ms Spencer because -” De Zeest checked those notes once more, ”- in your words ‘that’ll teach those bastards at the bank’.”

Archibald paled as his own words, recited verbatim, came back to haunt him. He looked around quickly, seeing other residents enjoying their own 'personal paradise’ (stupid Cleric, he thought) but none of them seemed to notice the invader.

“No use looking for help, Sir,” De Zeest smiled as he understood the reaction, “these people would only see you having a pleasant conversation with a Dutch gentleman.”

If it was possible, Archibald paled further. But then he regained some composure.

“So what?” he retorted. “So I screwed the ORAL out of fifty-odd grand.” The corners of De Zeest’s mouth curled up at the reference again, “I’m still dead, aren’t I?”

“Technically, Sir, yes you are dead.”

“I’ll bid you a good day then, Sir,” Archibald spat the word once more.

“This is where the people I work for hold their speciality.” Archibald was unsettled by the over-confident tone of De Zeest.

“Just who do you work for?” Archibald enquired.

“It doesn’t really matter who they are,” De Zeest dismissed with a wave of his hand, “all you really need to know is that they own your debt.”

“Why would anyone buy the debt of a dead man?” Archibald asked uncomprehendingly.

De Zeest smiled again as he replied, “For two very good reasons.” He paused for effect, “One - they are very, very cheap.”

“And the second?”

De Zeest leaned in as he spoke, as if it was a secret, “Two - I am very, and I mean very, good at what I do.”

The colour drained from Archibald’s face again.

“How cheap is ‘very cheap’?” he enquired, hoping to buy time.

“Oh, still four figures, Sir, but starting with a very low number.”

“But how do you propose to collect? There’s no money here.”

“Quite right, Sir,” De Zeest confirmed, “but there is a chain of interested parties behind this endeavour.”

“‘Interested parties’?” It was at moments like this that Archibald wished he understood the inner workings of the universe, living or dead. Truth be told, De Zeest wished it too - he could get so much more done in a day.

“That’s right, Sir,” De Zeest took a long breath before going on, “Whilst there’s no monetary or resource cost to sustain your post-mortem, non-existence up here, there is a kind of ethereal cost to the universe. I won’t claim to fully understand it, but I’m reliably informed of its existence.”

“‘Reliably informed’?” Archibald was speaking mostly in short questions now, “By these ‘interested parties’?”

“That’s right, Sir,” De Zeest confirmed again, “those that operate and control this particular version of the afterlife don’t seem to mind us helping restore a certain moral balance to the universe.”

“Why not?” Archibald gulped as he realised the conversation wasn’t going his way.

“Just take a second to consider this -” De Zeest took another of those pauses, “- whilst it’s generally accepted that this place is infinite, would you want to be the person in charge if it turned out that particular assumption was wrong?”

“Wrong?” Archibald replied, somewhat more dimwittedly than before.

“That’s right, Sir.” All this positivity was irksome to Archibald.

“If yet another person shuffled off the mortal coil,” De Zeest explained, “and arrived here to find there was no space for them, how would that go down with the overall person in charge?” De Zeest pointed upwards to reinforce his meaning.

“Not too well?” Even Archibald was surprised that it came out as a question.

“Exactly, Sir. So the supervisors up here don’t mind us removing the odd resident with less moral fortitude than the records suggest.”

In a somewhat ironic twist, as the stark realisation of what an unoccupied room actually suggested, Archibald now went deathly white. Although he did appear to have run out of questions for the moment.

“In answer to your previous enquiry, Sir, those up here provide some kind of ‘imbursement’, if you will, to those down there.” This time he gestured downwards to annunciate the sentiment.

“But how does that translate to money in the real world?” Archibald’s slow curiosity was back.

“Those downstairs sow some kind of mischief in the real world to ensure my employers are rewarded for services rendered.”

“How well rew-”, Archibald started before De Zeest cut him off with a raised hand.

“I’m not privy to the details, Sir.”

“And you reside up here, amongst us?” Archibald gestured around at the other residents.

“Oh, no Sir. I’m very much still office based for the most part - my real world existence is waiting for me once my task is completed.”

Archibald felt it was set to be completed soon, although he still wasn’t sure how - he knew he didn’t really want to know, that’s for sure. “How do you get here then?”

De Zeest smiled broadly, as if he liked answering this question. “By plane.”

“By plane?” Archibald spluttered, “As in aeroplane?”

No, Sir,” the smile remained a fixture, “ethereal plane.”

Archibald still didn’t appreciate the wordplay. He also didn’t appreciate the device De Zeest had produced from his almost black suit jacket. Sure it was a small device, but it looked a lot like a gun of sorts.

“So, if I can summarise,” Archibald scrunched up his face as ticked off the points he’d learned on his fingers, one at a time.

“Your mysterious, real world employers purchased my unsecured £50k+ debt with the ORAL -” Archibald growled inwardly, “- for a pittance?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You come up here, via plane,” he sneered at the pun, “to collect from me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And those that run up here are happy enough to let you do so, just to save a few imaginary quid and not get embarrassed by ethereal physics?” He grimaced at what felt like an oxymoron.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And those ‘downstairs’,” Archibald also pointed downwards to clarify, “will be rewarded by those up here in some way?”

“Try not to get bogged down with the finer details, Sir.”

“I’m almost there.” Archibald now raised his own hand to gain a moment, “And those ‘downstairs’ will then break the rules of the universe, in some way, to physically pay your employers?”

“Handsomely, Sir.” De Zeest’s smile was annoying Archibald, “It’s very lucrative, Sir.”

Archibald struggled to think as De Zeest started tweaking settings on the gun-type device in his hand.

“If you belong in the real world,” Archibald panicked as he tried to stall proceedings, “how do you get back?”

“By plane, Sir.” Archibald felt he should have seen that response coming.

“So you think you can just frog-march me out of here, past all these other residents?” Archibald was thinking quickly - finally.

“Oh, no Sir,” De Zeest was only too happy to clarify that point, “As I’m sure you are already aware, we would just be assimilated into all their own ‘personal paradises’.” Archibald repeated the last two words with De Zeest. Stupid Cleric, he thought again, unreasonably.

“Besides,” De Zeest continued, “I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“You can’t kill me,” Archibald tried one last show of defiance, “I’m dead.”

“We’ve already established that, Sir,” De Zeest still levelled the device at Archibald.

“So, what then?” Archibald was puzzled one final time.

“You’ll be obliterated.”

“Obli-” Archibald never finished the question that would have become his epitaph.

Obliteration isn’t like they show in the movies. No dramatic and slow process, where the obliteree ages, decomposes and disintegrates. No last scream of agony. No cloud of dust or sparks that fizzle away quickly. De Zeest activated the device and Archibald ceased to exist, instantly.

“And by the way, Mr Thorney,” De Zeest started as he replaced the device in his jacket, “because I’m sure you would have asked. There is something faster than the speed of light -” he paused for an effect only he could appreciate, “- the speed of obliteration. You literally don’t see it coming.”

De Zeest straightened his tie and pushed discreetly on an earpiece.

“Operative 1180, Joss De Zeest reporting. Case file 62023, Archibald Horatio Thorney, is resolved. One to return.”

While he waited the short period of time it took to return him to the real world, De Zeest stiffened to attention and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know why that requires clarification - it’s only ever one to return.” He paused again, “Apart from that one girl…”

And with that, none of the remaining residents observed the inconspicuous Dutchman disappear.