1. The Death of Dave

Dave died peacefully of a massive heart attack as he lay in his recliner chair, beer in his right hand, the remote control to his entertainment system in the other.

He was halfway through ‘Who Dares Wins’ when he died. None of that fake heroic shit for HIM.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad death, he’d spent the afternoon in the pub with the lads, regaling them with his stories and watching the awe in their eyes as they listened.

A short walk home, a kebab and then a film.

A good death.

Dave was surprised to find himself floating out of his body, hanging slightly above it and to see that he looked peaceful, although the piss-stain on the front of his trousers wasn’t quite flattering.

He watched a few more minutes of the film, Lewis Collins was getting the shit kicked out of him in a docklands flat but the shimmering on the wall behind the TV was off putting.

Shimmering?

The wall was gone, a foggy landscape showed almost nothing, maybe the outline of a few trees and something approaching.

A figure.

An armed and armoured figure.

It stood there at the threshold, extended a metallic hand and a deep voice boomed.

‘COME BROTHER, YOUR REST AWAITS’.

Dave moved nervously forward and the warrior made a ‘hurry up’ gesture.

Dave took the armoured hand.

And was gone.

2. The Mist

Dave found himself in a bizarre landscape, a Tiger Tank was ablaze next to a Vietnam War era APC, a pile of swords and edged weapons sat alongside Uzis and AR-15s.

Uniforms were piled haphazardly, Kevlar vests atop chain-mail and there was a song playing somewhere.

Or more accurately, a deep thrumming bassline.

BOOMBOOM. BOOMBOMBBBB.

Dave looked to the warrior, it made a vague gesture towards the weapons – ‘Take whatever you want. This is your arms cache. It’s all yours..’

It gestured again.

Dave grabbed a combat shotgun, an oversized Bowie knife, a Kimber .45 and a camouflage poncho with lots of pockets.

He frantically grabbed at ammunition as the figure walked away towards a horizon that seemed to be on fire.

Jets and helicopters screamed overhead, along with eerie Stuka dive-bombers that SCREAMED as they dove and rapidly climbed.

Horses moved somewhere in the woods and Dave could hear shouting and screaming in dozens of languages.

And the music, it was insane.

‘Ride of the Valkyries, overlaid with ‘Paint it Black’ with ‘Young Men Dead’ cutting through . Hundreds of separate soundtracks in dozens of languages.

Dave ran to keep up with the warrior, it seemed completely unbothered by the noise and the screaming, the blood and the explosions, the projectiles and the shrapnel.

The earth rose and fell with the impact of shattering explosions and a company of British cavalry to his right was entangled in a brutal fight with a French contingent who had allowed their square to break, swords crashed down on unprotected limbs and there was more screaming and howling.

Dave hurried on.

The mist hid some scenes completely, but opened up to show scenes of mind-boggling horror, bodies blown apart by automatic cannons, engulfed in stinking fire from flamethrowers and pinned down by the weight of arrows.

It was endless.

An armoured samurai was pinned to the ground by a group of peasants and stabbed with tiny knives, sticks and finally, his own sword, the peasants then gleefully running at the next armoured figure in the distance.

‘KEEP UP BROTHER, YOUR DESTINY AWAITS.”

The warrior beckoned Dave with one armoured hand, swatting away a lance pointed at his head with the other.

Dave scurried to keep up, the weight of his new weapons tugging at his shoulders, crying out as an RPG whizzed past his head.

‘What IS this placeWhere am I What the fuck is going ONNN?’

Dave cried out the last part as a mounted warrior angled a huge sword towards his head, missing by a breath.

‘THIS?’

THIS.’

‘THIS BROTHER IS THE GATEWAY TO A WARRIOR’S AFTERLIFE. ALL THAT YOU DESERVE AWAITS YOU, YOUR DEEDS WILL BE KNOWN THROUGHOUT ETERNITY.’

A huge red moon shone behind the warrior, gunships rained fire down on unseen ground troops and a zeppelin floated slowly across, harassed on all sides by biplanes.

Dave swelled with pride, recognition in the afterlife! What more could a brave man desire?

3. Heart of Darkness

He muttered his favourite prayer as he followed the warrior into a dark tunnel.

‘Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers.

Lo, there do I see the line of my people,

Back to the beginning Lo, they do call to me.

They bid me take my place among them, In the halls of Valhalla, Where the brave may live forever!’

Very fucking dark actually.

Very, very fucking dark.

He could no longer see the warrior, and could only follow the sound of his armour clanking as they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The silence was eerier than the screaming and noise had been. Every now and again,Dave could hear the chittering of legs and claws, things breathed near his ears and then vanished into the darkness.

Despite being very dead, he could feel his bladder getting ready to give up.

And then.

And then.

A sign.

A big red illuminated sign.

Was that?

No.

Couldn’t be.

IT WAS…

The bar front to end all bar fronts.

Armour clad, guns and edged weapons bristling from every window and door. A huge fire visible through the smoky windows and a huge throng of men within.

The sign was enormous.

Red neon letters, each fifty feet tall, so bright that it hurt to look at it.

WALHALA

The warrior opened the door for Dave and he walked in.

4. YOUR DEEDS WILL BE KNOWN THROUGHOUT ETERNITY.

The warrior did a perfect about turn, saluted Dave with a small bow and walked out through the door, which then disappeared behind him, leaving a blank wall.

Dave turned again and saw a throng of tables stretching as far as the eye could see, each table was occupied by men of all nations, they all seemed to be talking at the same time.

They all looked animated and wild eyed, and yet bored at the same time.

Dave was confused.

Wherever he looked, it was the same.

There was also a bar.

A very strange bar.

It was enormous, it stretched for miles and had bottles and kegs, hand-pumps and gleaming neon taps, bottles of tequila and sake blended with vodka and murky bottles that had no label. Stone cups and cut crystal seemed to occupy the same space.

Flags of all nations were overlaid with the hides of animals and the bar was lit by naked flames, dim bulbs and Neon all at the same time.

Dave squinted, blinked his eyes and slapped his head.

Then he just closed his eyes and listed to the dull roar of all the talking.

‘Hello Dave, the usual?’

Dave opened his eyes to see that he was now standing at the bar – or at least a bit of it, a familar looking barman was holding a pint glass under a Heineken pump.

‘Er, yes please, er… Steve?’

‘That’s it Dave’

‘Er, where exactly am I? I expected a bit more after coming through all that stuff outside.’

‘This is your afterlife Dave, this is your reward, would you like to meet some of the regulars?’

Dave just nodded dumbly, taking his pint from the bar.

‘Excellent, over here lads…’

The barman waved vaguely and Dave found himself in a throng of men, they were all talking at the same time.

‘Ohfuckyeah, I grabbed that skid and let myself be lifted, Saigon looked like Hell below me…As soon as I hit the balcony, I was ready to slot the first terrorist.. I ran at the Argie trenches beside H and saw him fall, I got a few of those fuckers with my bayonet…Johnny Frog was afraid of our English steel and I broke their square..Those redcoat bastards ran as soon as they saw my axe…I pulled the pilot from the gunship wreckage and just started shooting..Those Spanish bastards shat themselves when I dived overboard at swam at their galleon…..’

Dave put his fingers in his ears and turned back to the barman.

‘WHAT SORT OF FUCKING AFTERLIFE IS THIS? WHERE’S THE FIGHTING? WHERE’S THE FEASTING? WHERES’S THE GIRLS AND THE FUCKING FUCKING? HOW THE FUCK CAN THIS BE VALHALLA?’

The barman smiled.

Don’t worry Dave, you’ll be OK in a minute, you just need to adjust. And i need to fix that fucking sign. This isn’t Valhalla.

This Is WaltHalla, where boring old cunts who stole other men’s valour tell each other the same fucking stories for eternity.

Anyway – Valhalla is next door, you’ll hear their parties sometimes, but it won’t bother you after a while, another beer?’

Tears ran down Dave’s face and he nodded.

And found himself saying.

‘Did I tell you about Goose Green? God my feet were bleeding and I only had one magazine left……’

Now.

The bodyguard pats me down, he’s looking for a gun, they always look for guns.

He makes me lift my arms and spread my legs, he takes his time running his hand up my thighs, looking up at me as he does it.

I wink at him.

He flushes and backs away.

“He’s clean’ he barks to his boss deepening his voice to cover his embarrassment.

He’s wrong, but he won’t have to worry about that for long.

I smile at his boss, he’s older now, he’s put on weight, but the cold blue stare is still there, his hair is still thick, although he’s obviously dyeing it and his thick accent is still there.

‘OK, you’ve got 5 minutes of my time, you said that you have information that I want, who the fuck are you and what is it?’

I can see him eyeing my suit, it’s expensive and hand made, so are the shoes.

I’m well dressed, well spoken and am not from his world at all.

But I was.

20 years ago.

I’m flat on the floor, the punches and kicks that I took have left me incapable of moving, all I can do is look as the enforcer kicks my dad in the face again and again.

He’s enjoying himself, he’s looking at me and talking while he delivers yet another kick that snaps bone and spays blood.

‘Brave little cunt aren’t you. Trying to protect THIS.’

Another kick.

‘He’s a degenerate gambler son, he’s the reason that you’ve got no furniture, why you’re hungry three days a week.’

A stamp to the ribs, more cracking sounds.

I try to crawl over but he pulls out a gun, it’s a big gun and he puts it to my dad’s head.

I can hear myself begging, incoherent sounds that come from somewhere outside me, while another part of me just watches.

As the enforcer looks to somebody deep in shadow.

The shadow nods and there’s a flash and a deafening crack as blood sprays the wall behind my dad’s head.

His body twitches and slumps as the enforcer turns the gun on me, his gloved hand tightening on the trigger.

A mumbled command from the shadows and the enforcer lowers the gun. He opens the cylinder and takes the unused shells.

He throws the gun at me and starts to walk out.

“The boss says to let you live, I wouldn’t have done, don’t ever let us see you again’

And they’re gone.

The police arrived a while later.

They found me draped across my dad, covered in his blood, four of my ribs are broken and my face is swollen to twice normal size.

Nobody was ever charged and the gun was never recovered.

It was classed as a gangland execution, a shit-on-shit crime and got exactly two days in the press before it disappeared.

I was 16 at the time, old enough to get a job and keep the flat, there was a bit of insurance that helped with most of the money issues.

And I vanished into the system.

Now

I smile at the old thug as he tries his best to stare me down.

He’s trying for full intimidation, his hands are behind his back and he’s puffing his chest out as he speaks, all of his weight is on his right leg, he’s trying to look as if he’s barely restrained and ready for action.

I speak, slowly and precisely, my acquired accent is completely different.

‘ I know where a gun that you used for a murder 20 years ago is and I know who has it. They say that they can tie you to the murder even though you wore gloves. Your fingerprint and DNA is on the shell that you left in it.’

I watch his eyes widen as he takes it in.

It’s the truth, I don’t even have to say my dad’s name.

He knows that he’s fucked up.

3 months ago

I’m a regular in the forge now, I make knives for a number of people, including chefs, divers and some special forces types.

It’s only a hobby, funded by the income from the properties that I’ve built up over the past 18 years, I’ve not had to actually work for a couple of years now.

I started early, a couple of hours before anybody else arrived and have got two pieces of steel in.

One piece is VG10 Carbon Steel

The other is a darker piece that is too soft to hold an edge, but it’ll make a great top layer for a knife, with the VG10 as the core.

I pull them from the forge and shape the darker piece into a longer shape that I then cut into two equal pieces and put one on either side of the VG10.

Then it’s back into the forge, I watch as the metal heats up until it glows yellow.

Now

The old thug breaks the silence first.

‘What the fuck? This is bullshit, I don’t know what you’re on about.’

Playing the role in case I’m wired, it’s just occurred to him that the bodyguard wasn’t checking for that.

‘DAVE’. He bellows, distracting the bodyguard as I..

Launch a heel-strike to the bridge of his nose, driving it into his brain as I simultaneously crush his larynx.

He starts to drop as I send a steel toe capped kick to the outside of the old thug’s knee, shattering it and dropping him to the floor, his hands are still behind him and his nose breaks as he falls onto his face.

Give him his due, he’s tough and he tries to get up instantly.

I break his left elbow.

3 months ago

I’ve hammered and shaped, forged and reforged the knife until I’m happy with the shape. I’ve quenched the blade to give it a final hardness and ground it to hold a razor sharp double edge.

It’s thin, flexible and deadly.

Now.

I turn the old thug onto his back, he’s cradling his shattered arm but he’s not giving me anything except hate.

I smile at him and retrieve his mobile phone from the desk behind him. I’ve made a little bet with myself, but first…

“I wasn’t lying, I know where the gun is, you really did leave your print on the shell and I had to work fast to hide it before the police came.’

His eyes widen.

My smile broadens.

‘Yes, you were right, your boss was wrong. I’ve been watching your career for a long time, but your boss is cleverer and nobody will ever speak his name. ‘

He grimaces.

‘Nor will I, you cunt, you’ll have to kill me.’

I take his phone and hold it to his face.

It opens up and shows me all his apps and his phonebook.

I’ve won my bet with myself.

And I reach behind me.

I take the blade and show him the dark beauty that I’ve created from his gun and some carbon steel.

‘Here’s your gun, isn’t it beautiful now? Say hi to my dad when you see him.’

I speed-dial ONE from his address book and as it answers.

I whisper.

‘See you soon’

And push the blade into the space between the old thug’s third and fourth ribs.

My dad died on the 18th of May, it was relatively sudden, although he was 85 and had been ill on and off for years.

I drove 180 miles to try to see him but he was gone before I got there.

I organised the funeral, wrote and delivered the eulogy, sorted the photos for the order of service and co-wrote the celebrant’s speech.

I had a small cry during the eulogy, but still managed to finish it.

I organised and paid for the food and drinks after the funeral and managed to catch up with a few people that I’d lost touch with and I then went to visit a terminally ill friend.

I sat on his bed and had a chat for an hour or so and drank some of his bourbon for him.

And that was that.

I had a short, pre-planned holiday, then I went back to work and threw myself into corporate politics and a restructure of global teams with a ruthlessness and coldness that would have made me a multimillionaire if I’d begun my career with that mindset.

And that’s it.

I’m not sad when I think of my dad (or mum) there’s just a gap, a void where there was a purpose. I can’t call him and listen to him complain for the few minutes that he actually talked, I can’t tell him of any interesting or dull events – there’s just a void in the space where we talked.

I know there’s one within me too, I don’t do emotional up and downs very much, but I’m flat even by my standards. I try to cover it over, but it’s still there and I think that it will be for a while.

I’ve had one ‘good’ day since June, I still walk the doglets and laugh at their silliness and it’s probably them that stops me obsessing over lost love and people that are effectively gone for ever.

I need to snap out of it, but even writing about it is just an intellectual exercise.

I had a short story come to me in my sleep last night, it’s nasty and violent, but I’ll write it to see if it makes me feel any different.

We’ll see