Something rotten

I must have looked confused because she repeated it and then gave me directions: along the concourse, past the Coriolanus Will-Speak machine, up the stairs and across the pedestrian walkway.

I thanked her and got up. I was still dressed in my croquet gear

but without mallet or helmet, and I touched my head gently where I could feel a small hole. I stopped for a moment and looked around. I had been here before, and recently. I was in a motorway services. The same one that I had visited with Spike. But where was Spike? And why couldn't I remember how I got here?

'Well, looky what we have here!' came a voice from behind me. It was Chesney, this time wearing some sort of neck brace but with a bruise on the side of his head where I had kicked him. Next to him was one of his henchmen, who was minus an arm.

'Chesney,' I muttered, looking around for a weapon, 'still in the soul reclamation business?'

'And how!'

'Touch me and I'll knock your block off

'Ooooh!' said Chesney. 'Don't flatter yourself, girlie — you've just been called to go northside, haven't you?'

'So?'

'Well, there's only one reason you go over there,' replied Chesney's sidekick with an unkindly laugh.

'You mean—?'

'Right,' said Chesney with a grin, 'you're dead.'

'Dead?'

'Dead. Join the club, sweetheart.'

'How can I be dead?'

'Remember the assassin at the Superhoop?'

I touched the hole in my head again.

'I was shot.'

'In the head. Get out of that one, Miss Next!'

'Landen must be devastated,' I murmured, 'and I have to take Friday for a health check-up on Tuesday.'

'Ain't none of your concern no longer!' sneered Chesney's sidekick, and they walked off, laughing loudly.

I turned to the steps of the pedestrian footbridge that led towards the northside and looked around. Oddly, I didn't feel any great fear about being dead — I just wished I'd had the chance to say goodbye to the boys. I took the first step on the staircase when I heard a screeching of tyres and a loud crash. A car had just pulled up outside the services, jumped the kerb and collided with a rubbish bin. A large man had leaped out and was running through the doors, looking up and down in desperation until he saw me. It was Spike.

'Thursday—!' he gasped. 'Thank heavens I got to you before you went across!'

'You're alive?'

'Of course. It took me two days driving up and down the M4 to get here. Looks like I was just in time.'

'In time? In time for what?'

'I'm taking you home.'

He gave me his car keys.

'That's the ignition but the engine starter is a push button in the middle of the dash.'

'Middle of the dash, okay. What about you?'

'I've got some unfinished business with Chesney so I'll see you on the other side.'

He gave me a hug, and trotted off towards the newsagent's.

I walked outside and got into Spike's car, grateful that I had a friend like him who knew how to deal with things like this. I'd be seeing Friday and Landen again, and everything would be just hunky-dory. I pressed the starter, reversed off the rubbish bin and drove towards the exit. I wondered whether we'd won the Superhoop. I should have asked Spike. SPIKE!!!

I stamped on the brakes and reversed rapidly back to the services, jumped out of the car and ran across the footbridge leading to the northside.

Only it wasn't the northside, of course. It was a large cavern of incalculable age lit by dozens of burning torches. The stalactites and stalagmites had joined, giving the impression of organic Doric columns supporting the high roof, and snaking among the columns and the boulder-strewn floor was an orderly queue of departed souls who had lined up ready to cross the river that guarded the entrance to the underworld. The lone ferryman was doing a brisk trade; for an extra shilling you could be taken on a guided tour on the way. Another entrepreneur was selling guides to the underworld, how best to ensure the departed soul went to a land of milk of honey, and for the more dubious characters a few helpful hints on how to square yourself with the Big Guy on Judgment Day.

I ran up the queue and found Spike ten souls from the front.

'Absolutely no way, Spike!'

'Ssh!' said someone ahead of us.

'Nuts to you, Thursday. Just look after Betty, would you?'

'You are NOT taking my place, Spike.'

'Let me do this, Thursday. You deserve a long life. You have many wonderful things in front of you.'

'So do you.'

'It's debatable. Battling the undead was never a bowl of cherries. And without Cindy?'

'She's not dead, Spike.'

'If she pulls through they'll never let her out of jail. She was the Windowmaker. No, after the shit I've been through, this actually seems like a good option. I'm staying.'

'You are not.'

'Try and stop me.'

'Sssh!' said the man in front again.

'I won't let you do it, Spike. Think of Betty. Besides, I'm the one that's dead, not you. SECURITY!'

A mouldy skeleton holding a lance and dressed in rusty armour clanked up.

'What's going on here?'

I stabbed a finger at Spike.

'This man's not dead.'

'Not dead?' replied the guard in a shocked tone. The queue of people all turned round to stare as the guard drew a rusty sword and pointed it at Spike, who reluctantly raised his hands and, shaking his head sadly, walked back towards the footbridge.

'Tell Landen and Friday I love them!' I yelled at his departing form, suddenly realising that I should have asked him who'd won the Superhoop. I turned to the queue behind me, which snaked around the boulder-strewn cavern, and said:

'Does anyone know the results of Superhoop '88?'

'Shhh!' said the man in front again.

'Why don't you poke your 'shhhh' up your. . . Oh. Hello, Mr President.'

As soon as he recognised me he gave me a broad toothy grin.

'Eeee, Miss Next! Is this that theme park again?'

'Sort of'

I was glad that the trip across the river led up as well as down. One thing was for sure: unless there had been some sort of dreadful administrative mix-up, Formby was certainly not for eternal torment within the all-consuming flames of hell.

'So — how are you?' I asked, momentarily lost for words when confronted with the biggest — and last — celebrity I would be likely to meet.

'Pretty good, lass. One moment I was giving a concert, next thing I was in the cafeteria ordering pie and chips for one.'

Spike had said he had driven for two days to get to me, so it must be the 24th — and, as Dad had predicted, Formby had died as he had meant to, performing for the Lancaster Regiment Veterans. My heart fell as I