Aden North was trying hard not to freak out, and failing. One minute he’d been enjoying himself at a gig, the next he stood encased in dense, white mist. He couldn’t even see his feet. He wasn’t just mildly confused, he was alarmed. He listened, but there was no sound at all. It was as if he’d been transported into an alien environment. Apart from a quick pat of his body which told him he was clothed, zipper up, it seemed sensible not to move while he tried to figure out what was happening.

He hadn’t taken anything—he didn’t think. Unless it was a drug that made him forget he’d taken it. Or had some dickhead spiked his drink? Aden struggled to remember the evening after he’d arrived at the venue. He’d been able to hear the music, then suddenly, there was no music. Yet something about that felt incomplete. He’d definitely been at the concert, but what had he been doing before he’d found himself in this weird fog? Fucking someone? Nicking an iPhone? He patted his pockets, but couldn’t feel anything, not even his phone. Shit.

Whatever lay under his feet felt flat and solid, and he guessed he stood on a floor rather than outdoors. He was wearing his coat, but he was neither hot nor cold. The fog felt like the touch of feathers on his exposed skin. Except this wasn’t fog. More like a cloud. As a kid he’d imagined himself doing somersaults in the sky, diving into mounds of candyfloss. He risked opening his mouth to take a lungful of whatever this stuff was, and found himself disappointed to find it tasted of nothing. Maybe that was just as well since he’d been breathing it in anyway.

  Aden bit back his gasp when a disembodied hand loomed out of nowhere, the mist dispersing around it. The body attached to the hand turned out to belong a middle-aged guy who had unnaturally dark, swept-back hair, wore a white shirt and tight white trousers, and had the whitest teeth Aden had ever seen. The man seemed to have some inbuilt luminescence, an aura that brightened the fog around him.

“Welcome! I’m Tim, your guide.” The guy beamed at Aden, his voice bubbling with excitement.

When Aden reared back in alarm at the human lighthouse, Tim let his hand drop, but not the smile.

“I realize you must be confused and disorientated, but don’t worry. All will become clear. Come this way and we’ll join the line.”

Aden wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he’d not been drugged or whatever, he didn’t want to stand in some line. He never queued for anything. It was a point of principle. But an attempt to walk in the opposite direction failed. What the hell? After a brief struggle with his legs, he realized he couldn’t turn, step backwards or sideways, only—it appeared—move forward. Fucking crazy dream.

“You have to stand in line,” Tim said.

If I don’t talk to the guy will I wake up?

“Please.” There was a touch of desperation in Tim’s voice now. “You have to. There’s no choice.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Aden’s hands curled into fists. He’d had enough of being made to do stuff when he was younger. Telling him he had to do something usually caused him do the exact opposite, no matter how stupid that option appeared to be.

“What’s up with this fog? Where are we?”

“It’s not fog. It’s ethercal.”

“What the hell is that? There’s no such thing.” He didn’t think.

“It’s soothing.”

“Do I seem fucking soothed?” Aden snapped. “Why can I only move in one direction?”

The guy’s smile dimmed. For a second. “You have to wait your turn to be judged. Please moderate your language.”

Aden snorted. This was either a freaky hallucinogenic trip or he’d hit his head and currently lay in a coma. Maybe someone had caught him trying to lift their phone and clobbered him. Except he never got caught. So he erred on the side of thinking he’d been drugged by a doctored drink. He tried again to walk away and stumbled when his feet carried him forward.

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Tim’s upbeat enthusiasm grew increasingly irritating as did his glow.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Aden said. “You’re not my type.”

He raked Tim with his gaze and the guy blushed.

“I’m not… I mean. Oh. Ha ha.”

Tim finally caught on that Aden wasn’t serious. Though Aden didn’t have a type. He wasn’t picky when it came to getting a blow job. Being gay hadn’t even stopped him persuading a few blow jobs out of pretty and not so pretty women. A hot wet mouth was a hot wet mouth, after all.

Tim let out a strangled laugh. “But you must come with me. Everyone has to stand in line.”

Aden tried to sit down and couldn’t. Christ. Well, he wasn’t going to walk anywhere in thick fog while in a drug induced stupor. For all he knew he’d step off the roof of the concert hall—or the hospital—and fall to his death.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Tim said.

“I’m not afraid.” Actually, he was, sort of.

“Then walk forward.”

“Where the hell am I? I can’t see what’s in front of me. If I’ve somehow wandered onto a roof, I might end up splattered on the pavement.”

Tim gasped. “I thought… That’s not going to happen. You can’t kill yourself.” He took a deep breath. “You’re already on the other side.”

Aden rolled his eyes. “Christ.” This guy was nuts.

Tim screwed up his face as he cringed in distress. “Please don’t use our Lord’s name in vain.”

“Oh fuck off,” Aden muttered.

“I can’t,” Tim barked before he blew out a long breath. “I’m so sorry.” Now his voice was full of patronizing concern which was as irritating as the friendliness. “No wonder you’re confused. Someone should have explained that part.”

“What part?”

Tim winced. “About not being alive anymore.”

Aden’s stomach cramped. “I’m not dead.” So why was there a niggle of doubt in his mind?

“Yes you are. You…crossed over and now you’re here waiting to be judged.”

Oh God. I’ve invented this moron? Usually Aden’s dreams were populated with guys he could think about while wanking. Where was a hot dude with answers when he needed one?

“Don’t you remember how it happened?” Tim asked. “Because that’s not information shared with me. My job is to accompany you in the line. Explain a few things. Reassure you.”

Aden gave him a tight smile.

Tim wrung his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. You weren’t supposed to move onto this stage until you’d come to terms with your…unfortunate demise. Someone’s made a mistake.”

Aden’s head ached. This idiot next to him couldn’t say the word dead. Why not?

Because I’m not dead.

He swallowed hard.

I’m not dead.

He repeated the words in his head but they kept sliding away. There was some hiccup in his memory, something had happened at the concert, something…

Tim put his hand on his shoulder and urged him forward in the mist.

The lump in Aden’s throat was painful. Why would anything hurt if he were dead? Why would his heart still beat? And it was still beating. Thumping fast. How could he even feel fucking annoyed? The clothes he wore were his. His expensive black pea coat—well, expensive if he’d bought it but he’d nicked it, black denim jeans riding low on his skinny hips, an old pale blue shirt—worn at the collar but a designer brand and also stolen, plus comfortable leather boots that had accidentally fallen out of the back of a van, not that he could see them through the mist that still covered his feet. He patted his pockets again. Shit. Definitely no phone, but also no wallet and no keys. Had he been drugged and robbed? Not dead, but trapped in a crazy mind fuck unlike any he’d ever experienced before.

But what if it’s not a dream?

What if I am dead?

They emerged from the mist as if they’d stepped through a wall and Aden found he was one of many standing in curving lines in an area the size of an aircraft hangar, the sides and ceiling made of mist, the floor some hard white substance. There was no sound at all and considering the number of people, that didn’t seem right. Everyone stood in pairs. Immediately in front of him an elderly woman was chattering to a big black guy in the same white gear as Tim, but Aden couldn’t hear what they were saying. The woman had a dog on a lead at her side. She looked excited. He glanced around. No one looked confused or unhappy. No one but him.

“That’s Raphael and Dantanian sitting at the table up ahead,” Tim said. “Their turn to decide whether you’re worthy of heaven or deserving of hell.”

Aden didn’t believe in an afterlife. He had zero interest in religion. Once your time on earth was up, that was it. Except… He stared at the snaking lines. Looked like he’d been wrong. Which was bad news because nothing good was going to happen to him. The two sitting in judgement wouldn’t have much judging to do. Aden could save them a lot of time and effort by admitting he already knew where he belonged and it wasn’t with the angels. But he kept his mouth closed, because if this was actually happening and not a figment of a drug-fuelled stupor, he nursed a vague hope that someone would make a mistake and mix him up with a guy destined for sainthood. That way he’d get a place on the up escalator and not the down.

“Any questions, that’s what I’m here for.” Tim’s smile was back in place.

Aden had plenty of questions, but he didn’t want them answered by a man who couldn’t even use the word dead.

“Most of those who’ve…shuffled off their mortal coil go on to heaven,” Tim said.

Aden wanted to laugh. How many ways were there to avoid saying you’re dead?

“Heaven is lovely.” Tim gave a happy sigh. “It’s everything you want, everything you hope for. You can meet up with friends and family who’ve crossed over. Each person’s heaven is—”

“Shut up,” Aden snarled.

The last people he wanted to see were members of his family. His father would most definitely be in hell, probably running the place, Aden’s mother by his side. The thought of facing his mother made him feel physically sick. Good enough reasons to want to stay the fuck out of there. Except there was a big problem.

Aden was bad. Not just bad. Very bad. Bad to the bone, as his father had said on more than one occasion, and he’d know, the fucking bastard. Aden had been the kind of child mothers warned their kids about. The boy who constantly looked as if he needed a bath, a haircut, clean clothes. The boy who always had a sly smile on his face, the sort of smile you didn’t trust.

Consequently, no one ever came to play at his house, though he’d been sort of glad about that because he didn’t have a room of his own. All three bedrooms in their semi-detached house were crammed with plants growing under heat lamps. His parents used a pull-out couch in the lounge to sleep on and Aden bedded down behind it.

There was nothing at his house to play with apart from crappy games and pathetic toys he’d made himself out of cardboard and stolen bits and pieces. He was never invited anywhere, yet he was one of the most popular boys in school, though not with the teachers or parents. He wasn’t scared of getting into trouble, was never a tattle-tale, never turned down a dare and didn’t care whether he learned anything. Though he had the advantage of picking up on stuff quickly, so he mostly understood and remembered what he was taught even when he appeared not to. He never put up his hand to answer questions. He had no one to care whether he was doing well at school, so why bother to make an effort?

The library was his refuge, books and an overactive imagination his escape. He’d even slept in the library sometimes, hidden in the storeroom, until he’d been discovered one morning and his dad had gone ballistic for getting social services on his case. Though the idiots believed his father’s lie that Aden had been accidentally locked inside and since his son had told him he was staying with a friend, he and his wife hadn’t worried. Aden doubted either of his parents had noticed their eight year old son was missing.

Adults could see what kids couldn’t, that Aden was quicksand, poison, highly radioactive and it was only a matter of time before he dragged down anyone in his vicinity. Everything he touched turned to shit. Including his family. Their dysfunctional state hadn’t been his fault yet they made him think it was. We should never have had a kid. We don’t want you. Get out of our sight. His heart still twisted when he remembered. After his parents were dead and he was alone, his life was still shit, so that had to be his fault.

He’d managed to avoid being detained in either a young offenders’ institute or one of her Majesty’s prisons, but only, he suspected, because as well as being bad, he was mostly lucky when it mattered. He’d stolen from individuals, houses, shops and businesses and never been caught. He’d lied and conned people and never been caught at that either because he never hung around long enough to get found out. Aden stopped himself going any further down that path. There was stuff he didn’t want to remember. But maybe all that luck had a price and this was it.

Tim opened his mouth, Aden glared and Tim shut it again. Good. Aden liked to think he didn’t care much about anything, including whether he lived or died, but one thing standing in this fast-moving line had done was show him that wasn’t true. He didn’t want to be dead. He didn’t want to go to hell. His imagination flashed into overdrive at the thought of it. Eternal torment. Endless pain. His worst fears becoming real. Everlasting life with his vindictive, vicious, vainglorious father. The vitriolic hatred of his mother. An existence like that didn’t sound bearable and Aden suspected he wasn’t up to comprehending how bad hell could really be.

Maybe I’ll soon find out.

No maybe about it. Twenty-seven years old and he was heading for the shit hole in the basement, not the executive penthouse suite.

He kept moving forward at Tim’s urging because there was no choice. This dream or whatever the fuck it was had a tight hold on his body. The only thing he could control was the ability to think, and thinking grew increasingly uncomfortable.

Maybe he was supposed to be using this time to evaluate his life, feel sorry for the wrongs he’d done, regret paths not taken, apologise to those he’d hurt. There were plenty of all of those. But if everyone was sorry after they died and were forgiven their sins, what was the point in leading a righteous life? You might as well have fun while you could. Though that didn’t explain the two guys sitting in judgement ahead of him. Seemed there were some sins that couldn’t be forgiven, and deep down Aden knew, even if his regrets were genuine, there’d be no place in heaven for him.

His feet carried him forward as another soul was judged and led to the right. He couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but so far everyone had gone in that direction, meekly stepping into the unknown with their escort and disappearing from view. Maybe he’d be the first to go left. What was beyond the mist that side? A blazing inferno? A pool of hungry white sharks? A pit of seething vipers? Fucking hell, stop it.

This is a dream. I’m not bloody dead.

Except…Aden had a horrible suspicion he was.

Jesus Christ. Who’d have thought heaven and hell actually existed? He hadn’t believed in some omnipotent benevolent being since he was a little kid. The vision of a kind man with a long white beard sitting up in the sky hadn’t lasted long. Aden had given up praying because things he wanted never happened, never changed. Given up thinking that this year a different guy with a long white beard would fill his stocking—the biggest sock of his dad’s he could sneak out of the drawer. Santa always missed his house—and not because there was no fucking chimney, Dad—so why should he bother being good? It got him nothing.

But being bad had him heading for hell. He gulped.

Aden had been a thief for as long as he could remember. He was quick, cunning and never stole anything he couldn’t consume, hide or eventually return. When he was young, he mostly took food and books from the library. His dad had found him one Christmas morning, hiding under his tatty blanket at the back of the couch, stuffing his face with chocolate, a new toy car clutched in his fist, a pile of library books at his side and Aden had borne the scars from his father’s belt for months. It hadn’t stopped him stealing, just made him more careful.

But Aden was not going to blame his crappy childhood for the way he behaved as an adult. He knew the difference between being bad and being good, he just happened to like being bad better. Still, there was some good in him, wasn’t there? He didn’t…kick puppies or stamp on spiders.

He thought about it. Fuck, was that the sum of his good side? Puppies and spiders had nothing to fear? He was rarely a decent friend or a considerate lover. He was too selfish. He could be generous if he had the money, but he never let anyone see beneath the surface of Aden North, was never generous with his feelings. He didn’t trust and he didn’t expect to be trusted. He didn’t help anyone because it might come back to bite him. That attitude kept him safe.

Though not exactly happy. Aden existed. He didn’t live. Now, he did neither.

Hard not to wonder if he really had been born bad. If genes made a difference. Had he ever stood a chance of a different life? How much was engineered by fate, determined by circumstance, governed by choice? Did he like the guy he was? That he couldn’t unequivocally say yes, was disappointing.

Another step, then another until Aden stood in front of two dark-haired guys who sat on high backed, wooden chairs, a big wooden desk in front of them. The men looked like twins, though they weren’t identical. Maybe in their late thirties and both of them hot. Aden expected his cock to perk up at the idea of fucking around with twins, but it didn’t. That was worrying. No sex after you were dead? The one on the left lounged with his legs up on the desk, crossed at the ankle, a bored expression on his handsome face. The other sat up straight and stared right at Aden.

“I present to you—Aden North,” Tim said.

A thick file materialized in front of the lounging guy. Shit. That had come out of thin air. The man let his legs drop to the floor, grinned at Aden and slid his tongue over his lips. “You can call me Dante.”

A thin file appeared in front of the other guy who Aden assumed to be Raphael.

“This one’s mine.” Dante began flipping through the file. “Selfish, conceited, conniving, a liar, a fraud, a thief. Drinks too much, takes drugs, fucks anything with a pulse. Hmm…” He winked at Aden. “Soon anything without a pulse.”

What?

“Not one of the seven deadlies left untouched.” Dante chuckled. “Well done.”

Aden suspected it wasn’t well done at all.

“You’ll fit right in.” Dante gestured left. “Off you go.”

“Not so fast.” Raphael tapped his fingers on the desk.

Dante glared. “You’ve got to be fucking joking, Raph. There’s no charity in him, no patience, kindness or humility. He cares for no one. Not even himself. He has no compassion. Has he ever given to charity? Helped without expectation of reward? Been kind because that was what someone needed? Well have you?” He stared at Aden.

“No.” Aden was almost surprised the word came out of his mouth.

Dante’s eyes darkened. “He doesn’t know the meaning of temperance. Why settle for moderation when excess is more pleasurable? He has a filthy mouth and he’s full out, full on for the bad side. Diligent in that at least.”

“I disagree.” Raphael passed his file to Dante.

Dante opened it, read whatever was inside and scowled. “That first act was not charity. This latest, an unconscious deed. It does not make up for what went before.”

“The first act was not his fault. The ensuing damage was immense. Too much for an unloved child to bear. The second act was deliberate, selfless, and it does make a difference.”

What were they talking about? If the first act was what he thought it was, then it was his fault. But what else had he done? Aden listened as they continued to bicker. Although he understood Raphael was fighting for him, it was Dante who held his attention, Dante who tempted, Dante with that insouciant shrug that didn’t fool Aden. This guy oozed trouble, yet Aden still wanted to fuck him, maybe be fucked by him.

“I’m bad,” Aden snapped. “I admit it. Okay? For Christ’s sake just get on with whatever it is you have to do. You’re giving me a headache.” If he could lie down and go to sleep maybe he’d wake in a sane world.

“See?” Dante laughed. “You heard him.”

“No.” Raphael pinned Aden with his gaze. “This is not his decision. Nor ours yet. We wait.”

“And when his black wings come out, you’ll see I was right,” Dante said.

Fucking wings?

 

 

Brody stared at the computer screen and briefly closed his eyes. Days like this, he wished he wasn’t a vet, or at least wished he believed in an afterlife. If he were sure dogs went to some better place after they were put down, where they had all they wanted to eat and could run free, it would make this part of his job more bearable.

His day had started off badly. He’d operated on a dog who’d been crushed under the wheel of a tractor and just as he thought everything would be okay, the dog had a heart attack. Brody hadn’t been able to save him. He’d even tried open heart massage. The farmer hadn’t left the practice. He’d paced outside, waiting to hear, and had cried when Brody told him.

Brody reread his notes on his current patient, Sam, the spaniel whose x-ray he was looking at. There had been no miracle. Now he had to give bad news to the elderly couple waiting for him in the consulting room. He sighed and picked up the file.

The Wilsons were stroking their six year old spaniel when Brody walked in. He saw the hope on their faces, hope he was about to dash and steeled his features.

He sat beside his desk and put down the file. “I’m sorry. It’s not good news.”

Neil Wilson seemed to deflate, his wrinkled face sagging like an old balloon. “The cancer’s back?”

Brody nodded. “There’s no treatment that will save him.”

“We can get the money for more chemotherapy,” Anne Wilson blurted.

“It would be very distressing for him and likely not extend his life.” The spaniel wagged his tail, one weak gesture, and Brody crouched down to tickle his stomach. “I’m sorry, Sam. You’re a good boy. You don’t deserve this.”

The dog looked him straight in the eyes and Brody sensed Sam understood his time was up. Anne Wilson was crying, her gulping sobs filling the room as tears rolled down her cheeks. As Brody stood, she dropped down and hugged the dog to her.

“He’s suffering,” her husband said.

“Dogs are stoic. They tend not to show how much pain they’re in. But he is suffering and it will get worse.”

“What shall we do?” she asked. “What would you do if it was your dog?”

A question Brody was asked on a daily basis. “I can’t tell you what to do, but if he was my dog, I’d do what was best for him. If I couldn’t make an animal better, eliminate all pain, I’d feel it was morally wrong to allow him to continue to suffer.”

Neil Wilson took his wife’s hand. “We don’t want him to be hurting.”

“How long does he have?” she whispered.

Brody hesitated. “Not long. I think if you take him home, by the end of the week he’ll probably not be able to walk.”

“Then we…let him go now, not drag him home and then back.” She wiped her eyes. “But we want to be with him when you… He’s a good boy. The best.”

Brody watched them make a fuss of the spaniel. He wouldn’t hurry anyone saying goodbye to their pet.

Finally, Neil Wilson nodded. “Okay.”

“Let me take him into the back and put in an IV, then I’ll bring him in here to give him the medication. You can be with him and stay with him as long as you like.”

Brody picked up the dog and carried him out. He worked as quickly as he could in the prep room. He could have euthanized Sam without an IV, but he preferred to sedate before injecting the pentobarbital. It went a long way to eliminating reactions to the fatal dose that might distress the owners.

Back in the consulting room, the Wilsons were in each other’s arms. Brody put the dog on the table. They leaned over and stroked their pet, whispering endearments, telling him they loved him, that he was the best little dog in the world, and the usual boulder lodged in Brody’s throat. He couldn’t do this job if he fell in love with every animal he treated, but it still hurt because he understood how much people’s pets meant to them.

When the Wilsons were ready, he administered the drug. The dog’s heart and brain would shut down within a couple of minutes. He stood back as the couple poured their love into their dying pet, filling his last moments with kind words and gentle caresses. The dog stared up at them and Brody thought if animals could speak, Sam was saying goodbye and thanking them for loving him just as his owners were thanking him for being in their lives. Humans could learn a lot from pets: compassion, understanding, patience, love without boundaries and conditions.

The spaniel’s eyes closed and after the Wilsons moved back, Brody stepped forward and checked for a heartbeat. “He’s gone.”

“Oh Sam,” gasped Anne Wilson.

“We’ll take him home,” her husband said. “Bury him under his favourite tree.”

“With his toys.” His wife wiped her eyes. “You think dogs go to heaven?”

“If there is any justice in this world.” Brody didn’t hesitate with that answer. How could he say any different?

“Thank you,” she said and hugged Brody.

Oh God. Thanking him for killing their dog. And on the way out, they’d stop at the desk and pay for having it done. They had no kids. This dog meant the world to them.

His next patient was a hedgehog with a broken leg brought in by an eleven year old and his parents. Their dog had dragged it from under the shed where it had been hibernating. After he’d splinted the leg, and explained the care the hedgehog would need, he’d seen the appalled expression on the mother’s face and said he’d ask a shelter to take it. He checked out three cats and two more dogs and a goldfish before he managed to take a break and grab a mug of coffee.

There was a hip replacement scheduled shortly for a Welsh collie and Brody was to assist Henrik Christiansen, the practice owner. Brody had struggled not to show his desperation when he’d come here for an interview, but he had to leave Leeds. He was doing fine at the Moortown practice, and they hadn’t wanted to lose him, but his personal life was a disaster.

His last encounter with Matt had frightened Brody. In a way, it had done Brody a favour because this time, he was determined to never take up with Matt again. The morning after, Brody searched online for another job and when he’d seen there was a vacancy at a practice in the county where he was born and brought up, close to where his brother ran the family business, he’d decided it was time to come home. The one place Matt wouldn’t expect him to go. Just in case, he made it clear to his former colleagues that no one should reveal where he was moving to.

But much as this job move had been about running away, Brody had landed on his feet. He loved the practice, got on well with the staff, the nurses and other vets, and he thought Henrik was a genius. Brody saw a future in advanced veterinary medicine opening up ahead of him and felt excited for the first time in a long while. Henrik was a brilliant teacher and Brody knew he was lucky to be working for him. All he needed to do now was banish Matt from his head, get his personal life in gear and he’d be happy. It was an elusive concept.   

Rita, one of the nurses, helped Henrik into his scrubs as Brody began to wash his hands and forearms.

“Good day?” Henrik asked.

“No. After I lost the Border collie hit by the tractor, I had to put down the Wilsons’ dog.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“At least you didn’t have crying kids. I had to euthanize a hamster. I had three little girls look at me as if I was the worst person in the world because I wasn’t crying too. And the damn thing bit me. Next one that comes in for any reason whatsoever, you’re doing it. Did you hear that, Rita? Give it to Brody.”

“They know better than to bite him,” the nurse said.

Henrik laughed and Brody swallowed in discomfort. Cindy, another nurse, helped Brody into his operating gear. He hoped no one had noticed his reaction to Rita’s comment. He felt as if the bite mark on his chest was visible.

“Right. Off we go,” Henrik said and Brody followed him into the next room. “By the way, the TV crew are coming in again to film series two.”

Brody groaned. “They haven’t even seen figures for series one.” The first episode was due to be shown in a couple of days. “Too late to apply for leave?”

Henrik chuckled, but Brody was serious. Had he known the practice was going to be part of a TV show, he wouldn’t have joined. It was too dangerous. His face on the TV? How could Matt not see him, not find him? Brody wasn’t that lucky.