The Limpet Syndrome

One thing was for certain, John was dead. Everyone knew it. The ambulance crew, the fire brigade, several witnesses and, most importantly, the decrepit old man hurrying suspiciously from the scene. Only one person didn’t know, and that was John. He couldn’t be totally certain because he didn’t feel dead. He assumed that death meant you didn’t feel anything at all. But he was convinced there was certainly something not dead about him.

It wasn’t a pleasant way to die, although there are very few good ways to go. If he’d been asked before the event for his perfect exit from the world, John Hewson would have opted to be smothered by two scantily clad, sex-crazed, nineteen-year-old models feeding him an unlimited supply of alcohol and more illegal drugs than you could shake a stick at. Unfortunately, not everyone is lucky enough to go with a smile on their face and he definitely wasn’t wearing one. Anyone who had the misfortune of witnessing John’s untimely demise would have described the look as horrified panic. It wasn’t an altogether inappropriate facial expression, given that he was crumpled up in the driver’s seat of his car, its bonnet fused to a red postbox with all the handiwork and finesse of a drunken welder.

Initially, John was nursing nothing worse than a cut to his head and a broken foot, both mere trivia compared to the realisation that he smelt the rich and pungent aroma of petrol. The smell wouldn’t have bothered him had it not been for the fact he was totally unable to move from his position. It wasn’t long until his worst fear came true, the fear of an uncontrollable spark. A spark that had soon turned the car into a fireball and John into something entirely indefinable.

How long ago the crash was, or what circumstances had led to it, was no longer in focus. He was struggling to identify what he was, let alone when he was. The one certainty was a dark and icy chill had infiltrated his body. Although he wasn’t sure it was necessarily feeling that he was experiencing. It felt weird, whatever it was.

Very slowly strange entities formed in the darkness around him. There was a sense of electricity pulsating in the air that occasionally passed straight through him. This power source collected to form a dozen miniature electrical storms that drifted and bobbed elegantly at a height some two feet from the ground. They weren’t the dark grey that you would associate with geological weather. These storms were electric-blue and discharged small sparks chaotically into the air. In the gloom they swirled, occasionally bumping into each other fighting for dominance and crackling with energy. They all shared one familiar behaviour. They were all floating along in the same direction towards, what John sensed to be, a doorway.

Attempting to get to his feet to follow them, he immediately answered one of the questions that was circling above him. He had no feet. He wasn’t sure what he did have but feet were deficient to the tune of two. It didn’t seem to matter because in the same manner as the other storm-like objects he, too, was drifting along and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he appeared to be in a queue. In contrast to their lawless structures, one by one these little blue storms were patiently taking turns to go through a dimly lit doorway at the end of an otherwise vacuous space. As John got closer to the object floating next to him a sensation of curiosity washed over him, as if someone else’s emotions were trying to supersede his own. The blue sparks were more than just electricity, they tingled with life.

Eventually it was John’s turn to enter the door at the end of the room. Once inside there was no sign of the objects that he’d witnessed previously, as if the doorway itself had provided them with a permanent exit. All he sensed here was a shabby, woodworm-ridden desk lined with green leather, the sort you might expect to see in the office of a first-rate accountant. Behind the desk sat a woman who seemed as old as, if not older than, the desk itself.

Every disappointing and unpleasant experience that the world offered was etched over this woman’s persona and yet her grimace suggested she was expecting more. Barely able to see above the table, her extreme age and gravity having conspired together to force her downwards, she sat scribbling on a pad unobservant of John’s arrival. In an attempt to get her attention he tried to cough, the only result being a self-induced electric shock that vibrated through his mass. Finally she lifted her head. Her skin, shrink-wrapped to the bone structure fearing the consequences of letting go, dragged with it curly white hair, afflicted in places by lightly stained nicotine-yellow patches. As she spoke the air around her mouth ran for cover into the corners of the room.

“John Hewson, take a body please,” came the stern voice, bouncing back at John from around the small and empty space.

In response, John’s mass tingled with apprehension whilst a cascade of unanswered questions tried to force their way out simultaneously.

“Okay, enough,” said the old woman. “Let me stop you there for a second. I can only answer one question at a time.”

John couldn’t remember asking any, at least not out loud.

“First things first. Yes, you are dead, boohoo, sob sob, poor you. Second question, where are you? You’re in a place that we refer to as Limbo,” said the woman, answering some of the questions that John had.

So that was it, then. At the tender age of thirty-three, John Hewson was no more, which was quite inconvenient really because there were so many things that he still wanted to do. All those plans that he’d considered making, ambitions that always seemed to be laid aside for something more important or urgent, would stay forever unfulfilled. Why had he spent so much time achieving nothing in his life? Why hadn’t he just got on with it when he’d had the chance? ‘Oh bugger,’ thought John, ‘I had a date on Friday night with Gemma from Purchasing. I suppose being dead is a good enough excuse for my absence.’

“Question three, why are you here? You’re here because you’re a neutral. Which means they need to judge you, decide what to do with you next. Now, for them to judge you, you need to be suitably dressed for the occasion. That’s why I need you to go into that wardrobe on your right and pick a body,” expired the woman in an uninspiring tone that indicated this was not the first time today she’d had to explain it.

On John’s right he did indeed sense what resembled a wardrobe. He looked at it with surprise, as if it had appeared out of thin air. It was an ornate, old-fashioned piece of furniture constructed of oak, and adorned with intricate white gold handles and brackets. The doors were open but John didn’t know how deep it went, as there was apparently no back wall. Nine feet wide and at least twelve high, on either side of a central space were two lines of outfits hanging from the ceiling like carcasses in a meat truck.

Still disconcerted by the comment, ‘take a body,’ he drifted towards the entrance to examine its contents. What he found was not outfits, but two rows of bodies, females on the left and males on the right. Hundreds stretched down the lines in every demographic you could wish for: fat, thin, black, white, bald, freckly, handsome, ugly, beards, big ears, small lips, even one with a huge wart right in the middle of its forehead. These bodies were best described as full body prosthetics, not fleshy forms but flaccid plastic skins of people previously sucked from their shells.

Each body was hung from the head by a piece of string, attached in turn to a hook on the wardrobe’s ceiling. The bodysuits were all clothed, the male versions in smart but boring suits, the female versions in sensible and unattractive black dresses. John went to touch one and found that he had no hands to carry out such a task. He drifted back out of the wardrobe, where the elderly creature was tapping her fingers on the table in anticipation of the next tiresome question, eager to give the usual scripted answer and get on to the next.

“No, you don’t have to find your own body. You can pick anyone you want, but I would suggest you don’t take all day: they don’t like it when people are late for their own trial. If you want to get inside, just float towards the mouth of the one you want. It will know what to do,” she droned.

’It will know what to do’ made it sound as if these bodies really were alive. John returned to the wardrobe. It was an interesting experience picking what you wanted to look like. Wasn’t this every person’s secret fantasy, to look like someone else? The chance to rid yourself of some hideous genetic disappointment that you’d always hated, all without the pain of expensive cosmetic surgery.

For the first time since a strong petrol smell filled his nostrils, John felt mild excitement. Crackling with energy, a now familiar blue spark emitted in front of him. He had a split second instinct to be a woman, but then realised he wasn’t sure what was likely to happen to him. Although having breasts might be an interesting although slightly distracting novelty, he wasn’t sure how impressed he’d be if he had them for the rest of eternity.

John floated past the column of male bodies examining each one and finding that he’d become incredibly picky. Too spotty, not tall enough, not sure about the moustache, big nose, freaky scar, funny hair and so on, as he went down the line. Eventually he came to a body he felt he might get away with. It was a Caucasian of about six feet, deep blue eyes, short, black hair, trim, and with interesting facial features. Most importantly there was nothing abnormal about it, although there could be some later shock when John got to look under the clothes.

John glided forward for a closer inspection. The body’s mouth was open and at the back of its throat John sensed a valve made of white plastic. As he came closer to it he experienced a sudden sucking sensation pulling him forward with incredible strength. He tried to resist it, but the pressure was much too intense. After a short and pointless struggle, John gave in. What was the worst that could happen? After all, he was already dead.

Darkness took John once more. Not the icy darkness he had already experienced. This nothingness was not trying to create fear or doubt, it felt purposeful and organised. Every part of his energy and emotions was being stretched and distributed, as if he was expanding outwards into the many folds of a blow-up doll. After ten minutes the sensation stopped and for the first time, John felt as if some kind of normality had returned to death.

Before this moment none of his senses had been working properly, but in a strange way he had a sense of them all. Now he was able to feel with real touch rather than perception, see with real vision and hear true sounds. Opening his eyes he saw a line of female bodies hanging from the wardrobe opposite. He swung loosely above the floor, still hanging from the string that he’d seen attaching the body to the wardrobe’s ceiling.

“Help!” John shouted.

To his astonishment he heard a voice shouting for help. It wasn’t the voice that John had known for the best part of thirty years, but it had definitely come from him, whoever he was. The old woman lurched slowly down the corridor, holding an overproportioned pair of scissors.

“You’ve done it, then,” she said to John, lifting the scissors in the general direction of his head.

She really didn’t look strong enough to wield such a device, let alone use it. The scissors snipped wildly, accidentally shaving off part of his ear in the process, before eventually managing to cut the cord holding him in place. John fell to the wardrobe floor two feet below him.

“You’ve cut my ear, you silly hag!” he yelled, pulling a piece of plastic earlobe from the side of his head.

“Did it hurt?” replied the old woman inconsequentially.

John took a second to think about it, to double-check that feeling had returned as he’d first believed.

“Actually, no, I didn’t feel a thing. Why not?”

“It’s not your ear, is it?” she replied, in a style that John recognised as utter sarcasm.

“If it’s not my ear, then…” John’s attempt to respond came to a shuddering end.

“Look, I’m just the Tailor and I’ve got another fifty-three to do today. So if you wouldn’t mind taking yourself, and your body, down to the waiting room, I can get on with my thoroughly fulfilling job.”

John followed her out of the wardrobe and back to the desk, which now stood next to a set of iron doors. Above the door, in big, bold, old-fashioned font were the words, ‘Waiting Room.’

“That wasn’t there before, was it?” John asked the Tailor.

“Oh, just get on with it. Why do you all have to be so inquisitive? Even after death the human soul is still so bloody nosy! It doesn’t matter, just go through it and let me explain the situation to the next poor sod that comes through my door, asking no doubt the same stupid and repetitive questions you asked me,” she croaked, returning to the mountain of paperwork that occupied her desk.

John took the hint. As he wasn’t quite sure who or what this woman was, or what powers she possessed, he decided to do what he was told. John moved towards the wrought-iron doors with his new hands outstretched in front of him. They behaved almost exactly like his old ones used to, although they felt stiff, not yet calibrated to his specification. Although they appeared heavy, the doors swung open with almost no strenuous effort. On the other side was a room furnished by three moulded plastic chairs, the type that John recalled he would often get his bottom stuck in back at primary school.

He took a mental note of the two doors in the room in case another should appear whilst he was off his guard. Opposite the one he’d come in through was an even bigger door, strangely mesmeric in appearance. He was sure it was made of metal, but of no type he’d seen before. The liquid moved chaotically in its frame, manipulated by whatever forces were being restrained on the other side. At the side of the door a skinny man with a short but crooked nose smiled, his hand outstretched in welcome.

“Hello, I’m hoping you’re John, since I have no idea what you look like. Although, come to think of it, nobody knows which body you’ve chosen, so even your own mother wouldn’t recognise you. How is the vessol, by the way?” said the man, chuckling at his own joke.

“Sorry, did you say vessol?” asked John.

“Yes, the thing you’re wearing. A vessel that holds a soul, it’s called a vessol. Is it comfortable, because sometimes we get all sorts of problems? Only last week we had one where the soul ended up inflated in just one leg.” The man puffed his cheeks out and pointed to his leg in mock impression, as if John might have forgotten where it was. “Terrible mess, took ages to sort that one out. I bet you were tempted to have a female vessol, weren’t you? You wouldn’t be the first, you know. This bloke picked a female one a while back and I just couldn’t get his attention, kept staring at his chest the whole time. The funny thing was…”

“Sorry to be rude, but who are you?”

“Oh, did I not mention that? I do get carried away. I’m the Clerk of the court for your trial, lovely to meet you,” replied the man, still holding his hand out in the hope that John would finally shake it and complete the formality so he could put it down again.

John didn’t and finally the Clerk gave up.

“I guess you have a few questions, then?” said the Clerk.

“A couple of things on my mind, yeah,” John replied with a sarcastic inflection in his voice.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve got a little pamphlet for you. It saves me repeating it to everyone I ever meet, which is a lot, I can tell you. This will answer most of your questions.”

The Clerk passed John a small and beautifully printed booklet which was entitled on the front in handwritten calligraphy, ‘Welcome to Limbo – so you’re neutral’.

“If this doesn’t answer your questions, I’ll be happy to help. Grab a seat and have a quick read,” he added.

John noticed it was subtitled, ‘All you wanted to know about being dead, but didn’t like to ask’. After rereading the front about fifteen times, hoping that he might find it said something different but satisfied it wasn’t going to, he turned the page.

So you’re neutral – what does that mean? Most people believe that when you die, your soul is released from your body, and they’re right. If you are not most people, sorry, but get used to it, there’s much bigger surprises in store for you. Here’s the science bit. What few people know is that the soul has both mass and charge. Every memory or emotion contained inside your human form was created by a physical reaction. Each of these emotions is constructed of conversely charged atomic particles. These are fixed inside a neural network in the brain to form a map of your character and personality. The combined mass of all of these emotions defines the quality and overall charge of your soul. Positive souls are a reflection of a surplus of positive emotions linked to the good deeds you did during life.

Right, here’s the important bit. Positive souls are immediately attracted to Heaven when they leave the constraints of their physical body. Negative souls are, as you might expect, the reverse. Evil deeds (or sins as you may know them) create emotions and memories formed of negatively charged particles. Of course these souls are immediately attracted in the opposite direction, Hell.

Very occasionally, and it’s a pain for us, I can tell you, a soul will have no charge at all and these are neutral souls, like you! They have no dominant negative or positive charge, an unlikely balance of both evil and good deeds, or quite possibly somebody that’s spent their entire life in complete isolated boredom, never interacting with anyone or doing anything mildly exciting. Whichever it is, these souls have to be accounted for in some way. They can’t be left to linger around or all sorts of nonsense will happen. So someone has to decide, on a balance of probability, whether they should be sent to Heaven or Hell. For more information refer to the document, ‘My trial, what the hell’s going on?’

John searched the sheet for further information. The only additional passage read: ‘Please ask if you would like the agnostic version of this pamphlet, if you still need convincing’. John thought it highly unlikely.

“I’m confused. How can a soul be charged?” John said to himself, looking up from his pamphlet.

“That’s an interesting question, and not the first question people normally ask if I’m honest,” the Clerk replied, who John had completely forgotten was standing perfectly still in the background. “They usually start with, ‘Why me?’ or, ‘I’m not ready,’ and ‘What about all my family?’ That sort of thing. One person once asked if I’d take a bribe, which was really very silly…”

“Uh hum,” coughed John. “Anyway, so the charged thing?”

“Oh yes…well, the soul is a complex thing. It’s made up of tiny particles only visible under very specific conditions. They emit small electrical charges and travel around like a gust of air, or a little storm as some describe it. The combination of the charged particles can be positive, neutral or negative,” explained the Clerk.

“So that’s what I sensed earlier on. Those little blue storms were other people’s souls,” said John, thinking back to his first experiences of Limbo.

“Yes, just like you, except now you are inside one of our bodies,” replied the Clerk.

“So if I’m just a ball of electricity. How did I experience those things before I got into this vessol?”

“I guess it’s a kind of extrasensory perception. Your soul is built on emotions, characteristics and memories, which have feeling, sense and awareness. Alive but not quite living.”

“But why is my soul neutral?” mused John.

“That’s not for me to say. There may be any number of reasons, but that’s what will be explored in the trial,” answered the Clerk, checking his watch as if concerned by the schedule. “You’ll be in soon, and you can find out. The reason can often be explained by how you died. Out of interest, how did you die?”

Although his last mortal moments were still very fresh in his mind, most of the details were clouded by a hazy veneer. It was as if his new anatomy was shrouding his vision and placing a veil over his closest memories. He remembered being in his car driving to the office when it had happened. He was a stickler for punctuality and routine, so it must have been about eight o’clock. Driving in a state of autopilot, he’d looked down momentarily to tamper with the radio. “This country will no longer be under the grip of fear…” John cut off the Prime Minister’s announcement in mid-sentence. He hated politics these days and rotated the radio dial to more comfortable listening.

That’s when she appeared. Right in front of him. Almost on top of his tired and battered Audi. In the middle of the road a young girl, no more than eleven, was standing calmly smiling at him, her bleached-white hair flowing around her like wisps of fog on a breezy day. The only other thing he remembered was his instinctive need to swerve away, his last conscious memory of her.

John visualised the moment he came around. A warm trickle of blood was running down his face and into his eyes as the smell of petrol fumes overpowered his nostrils. In the corner of his eye, through the rear-view mirror, he saw the shadowy figure of a man. The last fraction of memory was of a huge explosion, the sound of splintering metal being ripped apart around him and then darkness.

“I’m not sure why I died exactly, but I was definitely involved in some kind of car crash. It’s all a bit vague,” stuttered John, struggling to rewind the memories in an attempt to clarify them further.

“Some of your memories need time to adjust to their new setting. It’s not unusual for you to remember more later on,” said the Clerk, seeming almost sympathetic to John’s situation as if he knew at first hand how he felt.

“Where is Limbo exactly?” asked John, not altogether happy to be recounting the manner of his own death.

“Well, the simple answer is it’s on Earth. I’m not allowed to tell you where exactly. You’re deep under the Swiss Alps and it’s about time you saw it in its full splendour,” said the Clerk, putting on a black robe that was nestled over one of the chairs and making his way to the liquid metal door.

“Wait! I’m not sure what to do?” pleaded John.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything when we’re inside. This door opens directly onto the court, the very heart of Limbo. It’s made of a metal similar in characteristics to mercury, but unlike anything else on Earth. It’s designed to stop souls escaping out of the chamber. Once you go in through this door you won’t come back this way again.” The Clerk held the key to eternity, but spoke with the simplicity of a tour guide.

He beckoned John to stand next to him. When there was no response he took him by the arm and led him towards a door that was deficient of lock, hinge or knob. Without knock or ritual he pulled a hesitant John straight into the liquid, which even for a soul protected inside a plastic body was an experience like swimming in a metallic hot tub. The metal solution flooded over him and began a frantic search for any gaps or openings in his vessol, welding them shut where they were found. It took several breathless minutes to reach the other side. As he finally broke through to the space in the next room he took a huge gasp of air, seconds away from drowning. No breath was forthcoming, an unnecessary, if not impossible, function for a dead person.

On the other side of the door was a sight of jaw-dropping beauty and wonder. A thousand metres in diameter, a huge, metallic sphere, made of the same substance as the door, opened up in front of them. One of the only non-metallic structures in the room was a white column. Like an oversized stalactite it stretched from the very middle of the ceiling almost to the floor. At about six feet from the bottom it stopped above a dock made of an intricate array of ivory benches. The room had no natural light, but was bathed by the glow from four huge pyres that jutted out of the sphere at equidistant points along its circumference. Below him, a less than obvious stairway flowed down to the centre.

“Welcome to Limbo,” the Clerk added matter-of-factly.