Beyond the Sea

By Len Cooke

Successful property investor and professional curmudgeon, Martin Cranshaw, has had yet another bad day at the office. The problem is that his appalling driving on the way home reflects it and after entering a roundabout too fast and without due care and attention, he finds himself very seriously dead.   

His second dilemma is that those charged with what to do with him in the Afterlife are stuck for an answer. However, after some serious deliberation, it is agreed that he can return to earth, albeit in someone else's body, where it is hoped he will use the almost unique opportunity to redeem himself.  

This is where, in Martin's case, theory and actuality do not always happily coincide and the ill-starred victim of both his own temperament and unforeseen circumstances, will find him taking a journey of many lifetimes in his personal quest for forgiveness, love, and eventually, the one goal we all strive for – happiness.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Panda Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393313496

Len Cooke

As with many writers, Len regards the art as being very much part of his DNA. After taking early retirement from his work on nuclear submarines, his passion for justice and decency led him to work as a volunteer in one of Her Majesty's Prisons and that collective experience, together with his travels to many parts of the world, has given him an unrivalled maturity, and at times, wicked sense of humour that can often be seen in his work.  

Book preview

2

‘Dead! Dead! What do you mean dead? How can I be fucking dead when I’m sat here talking to you?’

James had been doing his, often thankless job, for many hundreds of years and during that time he had dealt with many, many difficult people; the problem being that, experienced as he was, dealing with individuals such as Martin was always stressful and never easy. ‘Sorry to be so blunt about your circumstances, Martin,’ he said, ‘but I have found, with experience, that cutting to the chase is always best in the long run.’ He glanced at his laptop. ‘It’s all here you see, at twenty minutes past five this afternoon you entered a roundabout without due care and attention, causing a vehicle already on the roundabout to collide with you. That collision was instantly fatal for yourself and will cause the death of the other party involved later this evening.’

‘I repeat,’ began Martin, somewhat calmer but by now beginning to feel just a little bit concerned, ‘how can I be dead when I’m sat here talking to you?’

‘Are you a Christian or a follower of any other deity?’

‘No,’ said Martin, ‘what has that got to do with anything?’

‘Everything, because, as an agnostic or atheist, when you die your soul arrives here for assessment and onward direction. What you now think is your body is merely an illusion created by ourselves to make you feel more comfortable, more at home as it were. You see, your real body was very badly damaged by the impact, in fact apart from having an extremely serious heart attack, you actually bled to death.’

Martin frowned; somehow the news of his demise, however bizarre, not surprising him. ‘Onward direction to where, do you mean heaven?’ he asked.

James looked at his laptop and grimaced. We don’t really use the word heaven anymore; modern society is now so religiously diverse we don’t want anyone to feel excluded when they come here. For example, I now see that you’ve not been classified as being in any way religious. In fact, on the contrary, throughout your adult life you’ve claimed to be an atheist, with no interest in any form of religious deity. Unfortunately, under such circumstances, coupled with your aggressive and self-centred lifestyle, your onwards alternative options are limited and not particularly favourable or desirable.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Martin, amused by the man’s political correctness but for the first time since his meeting James feeling a little worried rather than angry.

James sighed and looked at him, sympathetically. ‘To be honest and once again looking at your record to date, it does seem highly likely that the best placement we’ll be able to offer you is in ifrinn, at least for a time.’

‘Ifrinn?’ said Martin, ‘what sort of a place is that?’

‘Sorry,’ said James, ‘I always use my native Scots to say hell, I don’t know why.’

‘Bloody hell!’ said Martin.

‘Not so much bloody as hot,’ corrected James, matter-of-factly. ‘Whilst it’s true to say that hell is a place of punishment, for those who sinned on earth, it probably won’t be quite as bad as you think; indeed, with good behaviour, you might only have to stay there for a couple of thousand years, then you can apply for parole and a transfer,’ he grinned, encouragingly. ‘And guess what, I’m on the parole and transfer board, so I should be able to help you there too.’ He paused and watched as Martin pinched the skin on his left wrist. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘I’m trying to wake myself up, of course,’ replied Martin, aggressively. ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks, I want out.’

James nodded with understanding. ‘Of course, yours is a fairly typical reaction, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.’

‘Look,’ began Martin, resignedly, ‘just tell me, what exactly do I have to do to get out of this madhouse? I mean, I’m coming around to the idea that I’m either having a bad dream or I’ve been kidnapped; well okay, I’m a reasonably wealthy man, I can afford to pay for my freedom, just tell me how much you want. I need to get back; I’ve got a business to run.’

James was studying his monitor again. ‘Okay, I’ll try and help you, our records are not always up to date even though we’ve just gone digital; let me ask you something.’ Martin nodded. ‘In way of mitigation, have you ever done anything to help another person, anything at all?’

Martin looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You mean like helping an old lady across the road?’

‘Yes, yes, that would be a sort of start.’

Martin shook his head. ‘No, coffin dodgers are a pain-in-the-arse; they shouldn’t be on the roads if they can’t cross them.’

‘Have you ever made a substantial donation to a charity, any charity?’ Martin shook his head again. I don’t believe in charity; people should look after themselves and not rely on handouts either from the taxpayer or anyone else.’

‘Have you ever done anything at all for the public good, say like reducing the rent on one of your properties, for example?’

Martin scowled at him. ‘Don’t be absurd, I own properties to make money out of them, as I’ve said, I do not believe in charity.’

‘Have you ever done anything altruistic, in fact, cutting to the chase, have you ever done anything decent with your life at all?’

‘Do you know, I don’t think I have,’ said Martin, almost sounding proud of what he was saying, ‘I really don’t think I have, I’ve been far too busy getting on with important things, like making money.’

James was sighing again. ‘You’re beginning to look a bit like a lost cause, Martin; you have very little, if anything, going for you by way of mitigation.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that we are still stuck with option one, although I have yet to discuss your case with the boss.’

‘Ifrinn?’ said Martin, frowning.

‘Ifrinn,’ agreed James.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Martin, still not believing a single word of what he had heard but, for now, content to play along with James’ version of his extremely unusual predicament until he woke up.

Whilst Martin waited for the results of James’ discussions with his boss, he was once again seated in the Reception waiting room. He had been there for some two hours or so when the solitary door swung open and a rather odd looking, curly-haired character, aged he thought around 30 and dressed in a grubby, white robe, complete with a purple-coloured sash, entered the room.  Martin’s instant opinion of the man in fancy dress was that he had an extremely high opinion of himself.

‘How do,’ said Martin, looking and sounding less than impressed.

‘How do!’ exclaimed the newcomer, visibly enraged by the lack of respect paid to his person. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’ he asked.

Martin shook his head. ‘Other than a nutter, like everyone else here, no, should I?’

‘I am Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the one-time greatest Emperor of Rome.’

‘Nero huh?’ replied Martin. ‘Well that figures, like I said earlier, this place is full of nutters. Anyway,’ he continued, by now so bored he was prepared to talk to anybody, ‘what are you doing here, why aren’t you dead?’

‘I am dead of course but I’m here for a parole and transfer board hearing,’ said Nero, ‘I’ve nearly done my two thousand years on the shovel and have been recommended for another placement.’

‘To where?’ asked Martin, trying hard not to laugh.

‘I don’t know, they don’t tell you about other options, you just get what you’re given.’

‘Heaven perhaps?’ said Martin.

Nero shook his head. ‘No chance, I bumped off too many Christians for that. It’s all very unfair really, like I told them at Reception, when I first arrived, what I did was for the public good; lion food was very expensive at the time and the Christians did set fire to my city, in fact they were nothing better than terrorists. I also did the good people of Rome another service by using them as street lamps; so, the taxpayers saved a fortune on lion fodder and oil charges, what more could I have done for them?’

Martin grimaced, realising for the first time that he was having a conversation with a true psychopath. ‘What about your mother?’ he asked, thinking about his history lessons at school. ‘Is it true you had her bumped off as well?’

‘Bumped off?’ said Nero, angrily, ‘I don’t know what you mean, I only wanted her partially murdered, I can assure you I never meant her any real harm, even though she was an interfering old busy-body. No, the accusations that I had her murdered are fake news, lies, put about by my many enemies, enemies jealous of my numerous, wonderful achievements.’

As Martin tried to remember the name of the world leader who, only recently, had also spoken with such indignity about his treatment by the media, the door opened to reveal a smiling James, indicating that his wait was over and that he should now follow him down the corridor back to his office.

‘Thanks for rescuing me from that head-banger,’ said Martin as they left the waiting room.

James grinned. ‘Ah yes, a class-one fruitcake is our Nero, there are a few of them in ifrinn; he works on the same shift as Joe Stalin you know, he’s another one who fell out of his tree a few years ago.’

‘Will he get parole?’ asked, James as he re-took his seat in the DSD’s office.

James scoffed. ‘Is the pope catholic? The only reason he’s been given a hearing is to satisfy our commitment to human rights, with a bit of luck he may even get added years for wasting the Board’s time. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’ve had a word with my supervisor about your case and she’s somewhat sympathetic, in that at the age of thirty you would have had time to reform, had you lived. We’re also currently trialling special deals, to selected ifrinn candidates, this month and next.’ James turned to his laptop and began tapping on the keyboard. ‘Yes, here it is, we’re prepared, subject to certain conditions being fulfilled, to allow you to return to earth and live a normal life as a decent member of society.’ I know that in your case that is a big ask but it means you avoid___’

‘Ifrinn?’ helped Martin.

‘Yes,’ agreed James, ‘and if it helps your decision making you’ve already been pencilled in as working on the same team as Henry the Eighth and William the Conqueror.’

‘What are the conditions?’ asked Martin, for the first time finding himself vaguely amused by one of the strangest dreams he had ever had.

‘Well, Ray Dixon, the man who collided with your badly driven car, is set to die from a brain haemorrhage, caused by bumping his head against a door pillar, at precisely five minutes to eleven this evening. He’ll leave a seriously impoverished young wife and three children without any life insurance and no means of sustaining themselves, other than by handouts from the State.’

‘Why is he so poor?’ asked Martin.

‘Because Ray is one of life’s victims,’ said James. ‘He was a failure at school, a failure as a husband and a failure in the workplace; in fact, with the exception of one very important area, Ray Dixon’s life has been a failure, period.’

‘What is the very important area?’

‘Decency,’ replied James, ‘he’s the sort of man who would do anything for anyone, he’s always pleasant and polite and if you asked him for his last fifty pence, he would give it to you.’

‘More fool him,’ said Martin. ‘What does his wife think of his foolishness?’

James shrugged. ‘She has learned, to her cost, that her husband will never change; she’s therefore left him and gone back to live with her mother. However, in all fairness, she’s a very seriously flawed woman herself.’

‘And now?’

‘And now, he’s leaving her, permanently, at five minutes to eleven, tonight.’

‘So?’ said Martin, without interest, ‘what has this got to do with me?’

‘We have looked in some detail at your track record during your time on earth and whilst it does not make easy reading, we think we’ve found a circumstance that could mitigate your appalling attitude towards decency and altruism.’

‘Which is?’

‘Your father was a banker, is that not so?’

‘Well...yes...why?’

James merely chuckled and shook his head. ‘Your options, Martin, are as follows. You can draw a shovel from stores right now and go straight to ifrinn or, in recognition of your youth and the appalling start you’ve had in life you can go back to earth. Once there you can try to become someone half-decent, so that the next time you appear here, hopefully in many, many years to come, we can offer you a much better placement.’

‘How can I possibly go back to earth?’ said Martin. ‘You said yourself that my body was in a particularly bad way.’

‘That’s not a problem, we’ve sourced a replacement body for you; a young man of 28 who is set to die tonight at five minutes to eleven.’

‘Ray!’ gasped Martin. ‘You can’t be serious, anyway, what about his brain haemorrhage?’

‘Oh, we can fix that,’ said James, ‘and as soon as his soul leaves his body yours will take its place and you will become Ray Dixon.’

‘And where will his soul go?’

‘Heaven of course, Ray qualifies on most counts.’

‘But if this Ray Dixon is such a great guy why don’t you offer him a second chance?

‘It’s not permitted. Ray, I’m afraid, has come to the end of his allotted time on earth, and the heavenly authorities, who have primacy in this area, want him. You see, so many people fail to meet heaven’s exacting standards these days that they’re becoming short of new blood, as it were.

‘So, what am I supposed to do, when I become Ray then?’

‘Lead a decent and fulfilling life of course,’ said James. ‘Give it a try, Martin, you never know, you may actually enjoy being liked for once.’

Martin frowned. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never done nice before, what happens if I can’t cut it?’

‘Oh, that’s simple, you’ll be recalled back here, early, and issued with a number four boiler shovel.’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Martin, wishing more than ever that he could wake up and get on with his life.

3

Martin awoke feeling less than comfortable. It only took him a few moments to realise that he was in bed, in a hospital. He had tubes in his nose, some form of drip attached to his left arm and leads stuck to his chest; he also had another lead clipped to his left thumb. He could also hear a gentle murmuring as people chatted on the ward and from the direction of the wall behind him, he could also hear a gong-like, rhythmical noise, that he correctly presumed to be his own heartbeat.

‘Ah, back with us are you?’ said a female voice to his right. ‘I’ll get the nurse.’ He turned to see a young woman, wearing very pale scrubs, head-off at speed and seconds later he was surrounded by excited and very chatty medical staff, all telling him how pleased they were he had come out of his coma. However, after the ordeal of the seemingly almost endless nightmare he had endured, he was feeling desperately tired and after giving a particularly attractive nurse a half-hearted smile, immediately went back to sleep again.

‘Mr Dixon? Mr Dixon?’ Martin awoke to find himself looking at a middle-aged woman clothed in green scrubs and wearing a stethoscope around her neck, she was smiling at him, anxiously. ‘I’m Doctor Bennett, how do you feel?’ she asked, before smiling at him, reassuringly.

Still half asleep he thought about the question for a few moments before answering. ‘Apart from a bit of a headache not too bad,’ he replied, ‘but my name’s Martin Cranshaw,