I'm in Heaven Read online

  I took a moment to digest this and said: “Right. It’s Saturday. And I’m going to watch United play Liverpool.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Let’s just hope they win.”

  The Archangel Phil chuckled and shook his head again.

  I looked askance. “They will win?”

  “If you want them to.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I chewed on this and said. “Can they win five-nil?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “I hate Liverpool. I’d be in heaven if we beat them five-nil.”

  “You are in heaven.”

  “Right.”

  Something occurred to me. I dwelled on it.

  “Why the rueful smile?” said The Archangel Phil.

  I shrugged. “I think I might owe one or two people an apology.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses. The Reverend Ever. Especially the Reverend Ever. I just didn’t believe them. Well why would I?”

  “About there being a God and heaven you mean?”

  “Well it all sounds so far-fetched. I mean we come from apes, not Adam and Eve, everybody knows that, Charles Darwin proved that.”

  “True. But where in The Origin of Species did Darwin write that there wasn’t a heaven? As was proven to him when he arrived here, should he have had any doubts.”

  “Charles Darwin is here?”

  “Charles Darwin, Charles Dickens, Charles Bronson - killing people in the movies doesn’t count - and everyone else named Charles; Charles Laughton, Charlie Chaplin, Charlie Chase. In fact everyone who ever died is in heaven. Except for the ones who have gone to the other place.. And those who have gone back of course.”

  “Gone back?”

  “To earth. Reincarnated.”

  “So there’s reincarnation as well?” Another surprise. Broughie, a drinking acquaintance of mine at The Grim Jogger, had once claimed that the reason he was over-sexed was because he had been a bull in a previous existence; no more a believer in reincarnation than I was in God I’d told him I didn’t know about a bull but he could certainly talk bullshit. Was this Archangel Phil bloke talking bullshit too?

  Apparently not, as he now confirmed. “Oh yes, there’s reincarnation. I’ve been back three times. That’s the limit, three, then you’re found a permanent position in heaven. I was Richard the Third the second time.”

  I was impressed. “Go on?”

  The archangel glanced at his watch and looked apologetic. “Look you’re going to have to excuse me; I have someone else arriving in Albert Square in a few minutes. Traffic accident, took simply ages to die in the wreckage. They’re so grateful.”

  “I’ve been back, haven’t I,” I said suddenly. “I was reincarnated.”

  “Just the once, yes, according to my information.”

  “That tunnel thing I went through. I remember going through it before.”

  “The Passageway to Paradise.”

  “Who was I? When I was here before?”

  “A serf.”

  I pulled a face. The Archangel Phil spread his hands in a gesture of sympathy. “I’m afraid we can’t all have been Richard the Third.”

  “Richard Todd would have done. Or Richard Burton. I could have put up with the hangovers. What was my name? When I was a serf?”

  He checked on his clipboard. “Timothy. Timothy of Chapel-en-le Frith.” He read to himself for a moment, before going on. “Apparently you didn’t have too good a time of it. The Lord of the Manor had you beaten frequently and ducked in the village pond for being fat and lazy.”

  I might have guessed. I said, “Why am I not surprised.”

  The Archangel Phil raised an eyebrow. “Your last incarnation must have been an improvement on that, surely?”

  “Not that you’d notice.”

  He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Yes well now you're in heaven things will be simply brilliant for you, I’m quite sure of that. And now I really must go.”

  “Yes. Right.” I realised that I was still in my hospital gown and had nothing on my feet. “What about clothes? I can’t go to the match dressed like this.”

  “No. Sorry, I was forgetting. You’ll need to do a little shopping before you hit the Stretford End.” He pointed to a large corner building about fifty yards away. “There’s Primark over there, of course.”

  “Yes I know Primark.”

  “New arrivals sometimes go there to get kitted out. Masochists mostly. However most people get themselves down to King Street where the quality is far superior. Hugo Boss is very good.” He indicated his trousers. “I got these slacks there. The sweater is from House of Fraser on Deansgate. If this is the sort of thing you go for? ”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Like?”

  “Like money.” I patted my sides, indicating the hospital gown’s lack of pockets, let alone any money in them. “What am I supposed to use for money?”

  “You won’t need any. Everything’s free.”

  “Free?”

  “This is heaven.”

  “Heaven.” As I repeated the word I nodded as if to convince myself. Instead I thought of another snag. “And where am I supposed to stay?” Before he could reply I provided the answer myself. “Our house I suppose.”

  “Well if that’s what floats your boat. But Harpurhey?” The Archangel Phil wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Might I suggest....”

  *

  Two minutes later the Archangel Phil trotted off, having arranged to meet me in three days time, when he would answer any questions I might have after my having spent a little time in heaven. Following that we would go house hunting, if that was all right with me. All right with me? Anything was all right with me with the prospect of watching Manchester United hammer Liverpool five-nil that afternoon.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tentatively, my heart in my mouth, I licked my lips, took a deep breath and pushed gently on the door of the Midland Hotel’s Room 242. It eased open a few inches. Through the gap I could see a thick, luxurious carpet and expensive-looking wallpaper. Against the wall a vase of red roses sat atop an antique casual table, walnut I thought, maybe rosewood, expensive anyway.

  I hardly dared step inside. Could this wonderful, wonderful day continue? Could it really end how I wanted it to end, how The Archangel Phil had assured me it would end if that is what I wanted? If only.

  But why wouldn’t it? Everything else had come true so far. Everything I had told The Archangel Phil I would like to do I had done; it had all gone like clockwork. However this final thing I wanted to do was the stuff dreams are made of. Manchester United beating Liverpool five-nil wasn’t. It was unlikely, after all Liverpool are a decent side, but by no means impossible.

  Like all true Manchester United supporters I hate Liverpool with an intensity bordering on the pathological; a hate returned in full measure by the Liverpool fans. It’s only in the last few years I’ve been able to bear watching United play them at all. Previously I’d never been able to put myself through the sheer torture of it; not so much because of the nail-biting gut-wrenching intensity of not knowing the outcome until the final whistle but in case Liverpool should for some unaccountable reason manage to fluke a win.

  Just seven short hours ago I’d been sat in the Old Trafford stadium waiting for the game to the start.

  *

  Red. Black. White. The colours of my favourite football team. The most eye-catching of colour combinations. Chosen for that very reason by the Nazi Party for their flag. I have never once been able to take my seat in the stands without being reminded of the incongruity of it; the Nazis a representation of evil, Manchester United a representation of good. Well good if, like me, you’re a United fan.

  The atmosphere in the Theatre of Dreams shortly before kick-off was electric, the chants eclectic. Insults in song were being swapped by the rival fans. ‘Sign on, sign on, ‘cos you’ll never
get a job’ to the tune of You’ll Never Walk Alone from the United supporters, countered by an equally insulting song from the Liverpool faithful about Ryan Giggs’s extra-marital activities.

  The preliminaries over, the match kicked off, the songs temporarily put on hold, replaced by roars and groans and impassioned pleas of ‘Foul’, ‘Penalty’ and ‘Offside” to the blind-as-a-bat match officials.

  After a fairly even opening ten minutes there followed a breathtaking display by the Red Devils, a truly vintage performance with five great goals, Rooney (2), Hernandez, Nani, Valencia. I watched the victory from an excellent seat in the north stand, just behind the directors’ box. Sir Bobby Charlton was in attendance, which added to my already immense pleasure as the United legend is my favourite Red of all time. At half time, in the executive suite, I had enjoyed a slice of an excellent game pie, a generous portion of apple tart & fresh cream and a glass of champagne, all free to me, although everyone else seemed to be paying. Add this to an emphatic victory against the hated enemy, what more could a United fan ask for?

  *

  Well for one thing this United fan could ask for his day to end in the manner in which he’d told The Archangel Phil he wanted it to end. It would be the perfect end to a perfect day. If it happened, that is - as a man who has learned from experience not to expect too much of life I was still far from convinced. All right, I’d entertained similar doubts when earlier in the day I’d walked into the King Street branch of Hugo Boss without so much as a penny to my name, and that had turned out all right, but this was something else.

  It had mattered not one iota to the people at Hugo Boss that I was dressed in a hospital shroud and had nothing on my feet. The assistant hadn’t batted an eyelid, hadn’t seemed to even notice. He couldn’t have been nicer or more attentive if I’d been royalty, exhibiting just the right degree of obsequiousness to make me feel important without being at all fawned on. Would sir like a coffee before he made his selection? Please, if it wasn’t too much trouble. No trouble at all, sir. Would sir like a biscuit with it? Sir would. Sir had a biscuit. It was very nice, the coffee likewise, just as I preferred it. He then invited me to browse through the racks of sweaters, shirts, trousers, etcetera at my leisure, and had remained at a discreet distance whilst I was doing so, ready to offer assistance and advice only if required.

  I had purchased, if that’s the expression for a transaction where no money changed hands, a nice cashmere cardigan that took my eye - the quality of which I could only have dreamt of buying when I’d still been alive - a casual suede jacket and gabardine trousers of the same eminence, a silk shirt, socks and underwear. A nice pair of brown brogues, which I judged would have cost at least a hundred pounds had there been a price tag on them, had been obtained from Jones Bootmakers, nearby. Although I had always liked nice clothes, without ever longing for them - I’ve never been the sort of person who longs for things, save for English Roses and Manchester United victories - I was more than chuffed with my new wardrobe and planned to call in at both shops for more purchases the following day when I’d have a little more time at my disposal. For the time being though, I made my way to the Midland Hotel and booked a room for the night.

  When I’d brought up the subject of where I would live The Archangel Phil told me I could live anywhere I wanted. It was entirely up to me. Why didn’t I have a good look round before deciding? There was no hurry. I had an eternity. Literally. If I intended to stay in the Manchester area he could recommend the Cheshire villages of Alderley Edge and Prestwich, which weren’t too far away; or perhaps nearby Wilmslow if I wanted to live in a more populated area and that much nearer to Manchester. In the meantime why didn’t I stay the night at a top hotel, or two or three nights, a week or more, forever if it suited?

  I had once visited Alderley Edge, on a trip out one Sunday afternoon with my mother, both to see the picturesque village and to visit the famous Edge itself. The millionaires’ retreat being way beyond my means, I had never contemplated living in Alderley Edge, but that afternoon had briefly considered pushing my mother over Alderley Edge. But now? Well now I would have to give the proposition a serious coat of looking at.

  When The Archangel Phil mentioned it I told him that thanks all the same but it wasn’t likely I’d be living there, it was quite a way from town and I didn’t have a car. A minute later I was visualising myself behind the wheel of a top of the range Mercedes or BMW, having been informed by my mentor that all I had to do in order to make the vision come true was to get myself down to the nearest Merc or Beamer dealership and pick one out. Or a Jag perhaps, if I was a patriotic gentleman? I planned to make it my first job tomorrow morning and as I am possibly the most unpatriotic person who ever lived it would be a Mercedes.

  For the time being though there were other delights awaiting me, inside the Midland’s Room 242, delights even more seductive than a shiny new top-of-the-range German motor car. I hoped.

  With bated breath I pushed the door fully open.

  When I had first put on my new clothes, which fitted me perfectly despite being off the peg - it’s all in the cut, sir - I noticed how much more confident they seemed to make me feel, how much they made me feel better about myself, how there was now a spring in my step that hadn’t been there before. I can’t say I was surprised - I had often heard that good clothes can have this effect on how a man saw himself, felt about himself - I’d just never had the opportunity to prove it. But whatever self-belief my new outfit had given me drained away the moment I stepped inside the hotel room, bags of confidence being replaced by the bag of nerves state brought on by the enormity of what might be about to happen. The nerves now proceeded to turn my stomach over. The result was a loud tummy rumble, followed by an even louder belch. I put a hand to my mouth to arrest any more belches that might be on their way out and cursed under my breath. But it was only to be expected I suppose. I should never have eaten as much as I had at Michael Caines Abode.

  I had chosen the film star’s restaurant for my post-match meal. I have always had expensive culinary tastes without ever having the wherewithal to satisfy them - a saffron and truffle man consigned to a world of turmeric and button mushrooms - and now, at last in a position to satisfy them, I had no intention of holding them in check for a moment longer.

  I’d always had an itch to dine at Abode ever since I’d read a sparkling review in the Manchester Evening News. The restaurant had opened a few years ago with the usual blaze of publicity and had since become a top choice of diners for miles around. While it may be true that nine out of ten newly opened restaurants are destined for failure this was never going to be the case with an establishment to which the name of Michael Caine was attached. I suspect that his name alone brought in as many diners hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous film star as it did people who came just to dine, people being obsessed with celebrity the way they are nowadays.

  I imagined that getting a table without making a booking would be well nigh impossible and had been pleasantly surprised when I’d just pitched up and the maitre d’, no less pleasant and attentive than the assistant at Hugo Boss, had without the slightest qualm immediately found me a nice table.

  The experience of dining at Abode was even more satisfying than I’d imagined. The food was exceptional, fully living up to the restaurant’s Michelin star.

  I started with Pan fried scallops, tomato, aubergine and tapenade vinaigrette, and followed this with Cumbrian sirloin of beef potato galette, parsley purée, smoked marrowbone croquette and sauce bordelaise. For dessert I went for the Hot chocolate fondant, white chocolate mousse with cherry and kirsch ice cream. All washed down with a bottle of 1982 Chateau Beycheville, St Julien. It was probably the combination of all four items, plus the game pie and apple tart & fresh cream I’d had earlier at the football match, that caused my stomach to start playing up, but I blamed it on the dessert, of which he I’d had two portions, being a martyr to cream (I’ve my Auntie Betty to blame for that). But this was a spe
cial day.

  *

  And it was about to get even more special. With any luck.

  I waited for my stomach to settle and, hardly daring to breathe, I stepped inside. I looked around. The room was empty. My world collapsed. At a stroke eager anticipation was replaced with abject misery. I gave the deepest of sighs. I might have known it was all too good to be true; this is Norman Smith here.

  I tried to console myself. It wasn’t the end of the world. The football had been great, the meal had been superb, I’d got some nice new clothes, you couldn’t win them all.

  You could win them all. As I now found out. And the final win was the best win of them all. For now the bathroom door opened and an English Rose glided out. She was dressed in a long pearl-coloured satin negligee that clung lovingly to her curves. And she was truly beautiful, much, much more beautiful in the flesh than her photographs or image on the silver screen, more beautiful than I had thought possible.

  When The Archangel Phil had asked me how I wanted to round off my evening I’d had no doubts at all. A no brainer as they say. It was to spend the night with the epitome of English Roses. And now here she was, standing in front of me, close enough for me to touch, smiling at me demurely.

  “Hello, Norman,” she said in that velvet growl she uses when at her most seductive.

  She made her way over to the four-poster bed, sat down on the edge of the silk eiderdown, patted a place next to her inviting me to join her.

  Kristin Scott Thomas.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My first day in heaven had been so wonderful that despite The Archangel Phil’s warning of the danger of becoming bored with it all I spent the second day having another Saturday and doing exactly the same as I had on my first day. Manchester United thrashed Liverpool five-nil again (Hernandez, Rooney, Valencia (2), Vidic), I dined royally at Michael Caines Abode again, and I spent the night with Kristin Scott Thomas again. All three experiences were brilliant, especially the last.