DROWNING SORROWS

DROWNING SORROWS

A SHORT STORY

By
Colin Williams.

Corby leaned over the rails of the cross channel ferry and stared at the disappearing Yorkshire coastline.

As the curtains of mist swallowed up the land and with his eyes
watering from the salt spray, Corby decided it was time to seek out thebar.

Never having been to sea before, Corby made his first nautical
discovery: Walking along a pitching, rolling deck is not the easiest of tasks. Like a drunken robot he ricocheted his way down the side of the ship searching for a doorway.

With a huge sigh of relief, Corby stepped through the door and made his second nautical discovery; the inside of a ship moves about just as much as the outside. Cursing under his breath, he made his way to the bar.

Four hours, seven double brandies, three whiskeys, four rum and vodkas, and several pints later, Corby wished everyone a very pleasant evening before he staggered back outside onto the deck.

With the exaggerated carefulness that comes natural to the inebriated, Corby climbed over the guardrail and without a sound stepped off into space.

"Argh!" spluttered Corby. "This water's freezing! I want to drown
meself not die of hypo... hypo... thingy!"

A bright light suddenly shone into Corby's eyes.

Assuming the light to be coming from the Ferry, Corby tried desperately to shoo it away, but the light persisted. As the ball of light grew brighter and bigger, Corby feared that the ship was about to run him down.

And then Corby knew.

As a feeling of great comfort swamped his drunken brain, he finally realized that it wasn't the light approaching him - he was flying towards it.

"At last!" whooped Corby. "I'm on my way."

For a few seconds, Corby was dazzled by the blinding light. And then... Total darkness. A blackness that was so dense and so silent that Corby knew that this was what existed before the universe itself was created.

"Er, hello?" said Corby timidly.

No answer.

"Anyone there?"

Still no reply.

"Hello?" cried Corby in a louder voice.

"Hello?" yelled Corby.

"Will you wait your turn!" boomed a voice that shook the entire
universe.

Although it was difficult to tell in all the blackness, Corby,
nonetheless, felt sure that the powerful voice had sent him spinning backwards.

Patiently, Corby waited. And waited. And waited.

"Now then," boomed the voice. "Who are you?"

"At last!" cried Corby. "I've been waiting here for ages!"

"Ages?" queried the voice. "It has only been three thousand years since I ordered you to wait your turn!"

"Three... Three ... thousand?" spluttered Corby.

"Stop whining," boomed the disembodied voice. I'm very busy so state your business."

"Well I... I... I've apparently died and here I am."

"Name?"

"Corby. Corby Steele."

"Isn't that a..." began the voice.

"Yes," sighed Corby. "It is a town in North Hants, and no I wasn't
named after it. I was... Hang on! Why am I telling you this, if you are who I think you are?"

"Never mind all of that," replied the voice. "I'm afraid, Corby Steele, that it is not your time yet. You must go back."

"Back?" gasped Corby. "You don't mean...?"

"'I'm afraid so. Bye for now. I will see you sometime in the
future."

Before Corby had chance to complain, he found himself back in the North sea resuming his drowning. The light returned and once more he flew towards it.

"Hello?" yelled Corby. "And don't you dare make me wait a few thousand years again!"

"Oh, no! Not you again!" sighed a familiar booming voice. "I thought I told you that you had to go back?"

"I did!" whined Corby. "Back to drowning. So here I am once
more."

"Mmm. There's something amiss here," said the voice.

Suddenly, the absolute darkness was replaced by a bright, dazzlingly bright light. Corby screwed his eyes up. "Blimey!" he cried. "Where am I? Inside a tin of brilliant white, gloss paint?"

"Sorry about the colour scheme," answered an invisible voice, "but it's the only colour available up here."

"Where are you?" asked Corby. "I can't see anything other than this whiteness."

"I'm sitting right in front of you," replied the voice. "Give it a few
minutes and your eyesight will adjust."

A few moments later, Corby gasped. Whatever it was that he had expected to see, it certainly wasn't a dwarf dressed in a white suit sitting behind a white desk on a white chair.

"You're surprised, aren't you?" said the dwarf. "And by the way, my name is Alfred."

Corby stared. "But... You're not.... Not... Him."

"I thought I just told you that," frowned Alfred.

Corby frowned with puzzlement. "But I thought that booming voice
and..."

"Ah!" cried Alfred. "The booming voice - that's one of my little
inventions. See that white box there on the table?"

Corby screwed up his eyes and stared. "No."

"Well anyway, it amplifies my voice and makes me sound all grandified and what have you. Hey! Did you also get a feeling that the universe shook when I shouted? That's courtesy of another of my little gadgets."

"Very impressive," said Corby with little enthusiasm. "I have to
confess that I'm a trifle confused. I thought that..."

"First things first," said Alfred butting in. "Now, take a seat and we
can begin.

Corby glanced around. "A seat? Where?"

"Just there to your left," said Alfred. "The white leather armchair?"

"Blowed if I can see it," mumbled Corby taking a few steps to his
left.

Alfred chuckled when Corby crashed into the chair. "A wonderful
invention the shin, don't you think? God originally devised those for finding objects in the dark. Of course, they work equally well in
camouflaged conditions - as you just so admirably demonstrated."

With a glower, Corby carefully lowered himself into the armchair.

"Now then, "said Alfred in an officious tone. "Let me take some
details. If I can find my white fountain pen somewhere on this... Ah, found it. Now then, name?"

"My name? Corby. Corby Steele."

"Isn't that a town in...."

"Yes!" snapped Corby. "Just get on with it."

"Hang on a mo!" cried Alfred. "You are not supposed to be here, are you? I remember now. You're that fellow that disembarked in the middle of the North Sea, came here, went back, and now you are here again."

"You can't send me back!" cried Corby. "I want to be with my Brenda. That's why I went through all this trouble of killing myself - to be with her once again. It's no fun killing yourself you know. This was my seventh attempt, I never seem to get it right somehow. Now that I'm here, can't I stay? Please?"

Alfred sucked air in over his teeth. "Sorry, Corby but you must return. We can't have the grand design all mucked up, now can we?"

"Can't we?" replied Corby

"No. We certainly cannot. Don't you realize the work that's involved in organising the Earth's day to day running?"

Corby shook his head. "I don't understand what you mean."

"If you stayed here now," replied Alfred, "it would take ages to sort out the mess. I can see that you are puzzled so let me give you an example. Several years ago, old Jake, who's in charge of birds and insect planning, got distracted when a passing angel paused to readjust her halo. Of course, the error Jake made didn't show up straight away, but when it did - sheesh!"

"Why?" said Corby. "What happened?"

"On the morning of the eleventh of August a little sparrow woke up and immediately felt the urge to peck at a flea on its left leg. Now if Jake hadn't been distracted, that sparrow would have attended to the flea on its other leg first!"

Corby laughed. "What the hell has..."

Alfred leaped to his feet. "Don't!" he yelled. "Don't!"

Corby frowned. "Don't what?"

"Use that word! Never, ever, say that word up here."

Corby frowned as he tried to remember what he'd said. "What word? I can't recall saying anything untoward."

Alfred stabbed a finger at the ground. "You mentioned the 'H'
word."

"Did I? I said that? Oh, hell!"

The room suddenly trembled in an alarming manner.

"Shhh!" urged Alfred. "Do you want us both polishing haloes for the rest of eternity?"

Corby pulled a face. "Sorry. Anyway, what has some sparrow pecking at a flea on the wrong leg got to do with anything?"

"Because," continued Alfred, "that poor little sparrow tipped over and fell out of its nest. He was destined to trip over anyway, but if he'd got the right flea he would have fallen the other way and remained in its nest. The sparrow, who hadn't quite learned how to fly properly, plummeted to its death. Shortly after, a rat consumed most of that poor little bird. Two days later, that very same rat, while scavenging in someone's larder, came over all ill and vomited on a lemon curd tart. A short time later and little Tommy Watkins consumed that tart. After three days of absolute agony that little boy was sitting in that very same chair that you are sitting in."

Corby squirmed around in the chair. "Well that's a very sad story but what has that got to do with the price of fish?"

Alfred rolled his eyes and sighed. "That little lad was destined to
become the Prime Minister of your country. All that planning - gone to waste. Can you imagine the upset that caused?"

"Well I...."

"And that's why you have to go back. You lot just can't pop up here willy nilly and expect everything back down there to run like the well oiled clockwork that it normally does."

"Hang on a mo!" cried Corby. "Are you saying that everything is
pre-planned? Our whole lives are run to some secret schedule that we are not aware of?"

"Of course it's all planned. Can you imagine the chaos if it
wasn't?"

Corby sighed deeply. "All I want is to stay up here and be re-united with my fiancee Brenda. It was all my fault you see. I was supposed to be meeting her outside the cinema at eight o'clock. I called in my local for a swift half with a few of my mates. When I told them I had to go, they started winding me up about how Brenda already had me well trained, so, like an idiot I ordered a new round and well ... you know how it is. I was on my fourth pint when it happened."

Corby fell silent.

"What?" urged Alfred.

"The screech of brakes. The sickening thud. The... Oh, God! If I hadn't been such a fool. If I had just left after that one drink Brenda wouldn't have come looking for me and she wouldn't have walked out in front of that truck."

Alfred suddenly leapt to his feet. With one finger pressed tightly tohis ear he started nodding and 'yes sirring' whilst staring at
Corby.

"What?" cried Corby. "What is it?"

"Shhh!" ordered Alfred. "Yes, Sir. Certainly, Sir. Will do, Sir." said
Alfred.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Corby.

Alfred sat back down. "That was ... Him."

"Him?" echoed Corby.

"Yes. Obviously He sees and hears everything. Apparently He was quite impressed by the waves of remorse you emanated just now when you were explaining Brenda's death. He has given me permission to allow you to stay here after all."

Corby sprang out of his chair. "I can? Really?"

Alfred nodded. "Really."

"Hooray!" whooped Corby. "At last!"

"So," said Alfred, "If you'll just bear with me while we fill in the
relevant paperwork, we'll soon have you on your way."

"Right then," said Alfred standing up. "That's that out of the way. So now I'll take you up to the Pearly Gates and sign you in. Now where's the door? I can never find the stupid door! All this whiteness can be a pain at times. At the last general meeting I suggested an off-white - purely for the doors, but would they buy it? Nope! Help me find the door Corby, it's around here somewhere."

The door was eventually found, and to the sound of heavenly choirs and the swooping and soaring of multitudes of angels, Corby was allowed into the Kingdom of Heaven.

For a while Corby walked around in a daze as he stared in wonderment at the beauty surrounding him.

"Excuse me?" said Corby to an ancient looking man. "Can you tell me how I can locate somebody?"

"Go to the Hall of Records," replied the old man. "It's over that way," he added with a flick of a finger.

"Thank you," smiled Corby.

It was several days later before Corby discovered that the Hall was in the opposite direction to that indicated by the old man, but it didn't matter - he had all the time in the world - eternity in fact.

The Hall of Records was very impressive. For a start it wasn't white, everything was a shiny gold.

Spotting a huge book bound in gold, standing on a golden pedestal, Corby approached it and lifted the cover. He stared in puzzlement. Either the gold pages were blank or some idiot had used gold ink.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Startled, Corby leaped away from the book.

"Sorry," apologised the voice. "I didn't mean to make you jump."

"Where are you?" asked Corby. "I can't see you.

"I know," sighed the voice. "I'm here but I too am gold. I never used to be, but after working here since the beginning of time I've sort of absorbed gold into me."

"Since the beginning of time?" gasped Corby. "That's awful!"

"Oh, it's not so bad," replied the voice. "I'm due a break in about ...let me see now .... eight thousand years."

"That's terrible!" cried Corby. "You should complain."

"Oh, no. I'm just happy to have a job. There isn't an awful lot of work to go around you know. No, I'm not complaining. Anyway, how can I help?"

"Er, I'm looking for my fiancee Brenda."

Corby's jaw fell open when the pages of the book appeared to turn over by themselves.

"There are over seven million Brendas in here. What's her
surname?"

"But those pages are blank!" cried Corby.

"To those not permitted to read this, yes," said the voice.
"Surname?"

"Er, Wilkinson. Brenda Anne Wilkinson."

"That narrows it down to twelve thousand," said the voice.
"Address?"

"Here in heaven," replied Corby.

A disembodied sigh. "Address in the before life?"

"Before?"

"This is the after-life you know."

"Oh, yeah. Um... Forty-three Sycamore Drive. Chelmsford."

"Post code?"

"Dunno."

"Never mind. I've found her."

"You have?" cried Corby excitedly. "Where is she? Where can I find her? Can you send her a message? Can you..."

"Hush! You'd give an aspirin a headache you would!"

"Sorry. I just can't wait to find her!" said Corby.

"I'm afraid you aren't going to like this," said the voice.

Corby frowned. "Why? What is it?"

"Brenda Anne Wilkinson was returned to earth just yesterday. It seems that it wasn't her time."

Corby felt his heart fluttering wildly. "What d'ya mean - not her time?
She's been dead and buried for months!"

"Hang on, let me read this footnote. Ah!"

"Ah?" echoed Corby. "What do you mean? What's going on?"

"It seems that there was a right ... muddle. According to this, a
sparrow woke up one morning and instead of pecking at a flea on
its..."

"I know all of that!" cried Corby impatiently, "but what has that got to do with my Brenda?"

"Well... It's a bit complicated. The driver of the lorry that killed
your Brenda was Tommy Watkins's father and from what I understand - if little Tommy had still been alive his father would not have driven the lorry that day because it was his son's birthday and he had planned to take him on a trip. So Brenda's death was caused by our .... incompetence. And that is why Brenda was sent back. "

"What?" screamed Corby. "She's down there I'm up here? I want to go back! Let me out!"

THE END