It was a shipwreck. Dripping wet, festooned with strings of seaweed, covered with a bumpy skin of molluscs. From its rusting hulk came the briny smell of saltwater and decay.
Oh God.
Had death come for me at last? Had the wave finally realised it was missing a body from its terrible haul and sent this ship to hunt me down and drag me back?
I frowned at the sopping vessel as it came nearer.
Oh.
It wasn’t a ship.
It was a bus.
But it was definitely still a wreck. A double-decker bus wreck. The glass in all its windows had long gone and, despite its creaky yet undeniably forward propulsion, all four wheels were flat. It didn’t even look like there was anyone at the wheel.
And as it lurched its way towards me, like a tipsy grown-up at one of my parents’ parties, I heard, faintly but unmistakably, the sound of children crying and wailing coming from its belly.
Which was obviously, as you can imagine, a really lovely, reassuring sound.
ALL I COULD do was stand and stare as the bus creaked towards me. The moon picked out every unsavoury detail. Its wheels were flaps of shredded rubber that looked like they’d last been inflated sometime around doomsday. There was a row of crabs clinging to the top of the bus, clacking their claws threateningly like stern Spanish dancers. Most of its side panels were clinging on by a nail. All it would take to blow it apart would be one windy day.
And on each deck, like eggs in a box, was a clutch of faces, all turned in my direction.
The wind howled around us.
I gulped. Should I shout for help?
But who would hear me? No one’s left.
The sound of slow, determined footsteps rang out from inside the wreck. A few seconds later, the warped front door flew open with a squeak and a bang. And in the doorway, bathed in the ashen January moonlight, stood a middle-aged woman in a shapeless beige suit, carrying a clipboard. She wore the biggest pair of glasses I had ever seen.
She glanced at the clipboard in her hands and stared at me.
I straightened my shoulders and returned her gaze.
Somewhere, an owl hooted.
A polite cough. ‘Perished in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’ she enquired delicately.
‘Pardon?’
‘Perished in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’
‘Was that what it was?’ I said. ‘A tsunami?’
She sighed. ‘Did you, or did you not, die in the Cliffstones tsunami of January the third?’
A bat slipped out of the mangled roof and shot into the night.
‘I guess?’ I said.
This answer seemed to satisfy her and she put a tick on her clipboard. ‘Frances Frida Ripley?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘How’d you know that? Can you help me find my fam—’
‘You’re my last pick-up,’ she said. ‘Time to get on board.’
I stared at her. ‘What?’
Through her glasses two leached, drained eyes regarded me.
‘On board the bus, duckie. For the Afterlife Club,’ she said. Her voice was as flat as the tyres on the bus.
‘The Afterlife Club?’
‘Yes, dear.’ She pointed to the front of the bus. ‘Read.’
The faded destination sign said: The Afterlife Club, for ages twelve and under. Enjoy death with friends, games and endless days out!
I’ve always been suspicious of exclamation marks and that one was the most desperate I’d ever seen. I eyed it warily, then glanced at the woman. ‘I don’t … understand … What?’
‘According to our records, you drowned when you were eleven years old, so this is the bus for you.’
But I had questions, starting with the faces visible through the windows. ‘Who else is on that bus?’
‘Lots of other children like you, picked up over the years,’ the woman said. ‘We’re quite full now, on account of the tsunami. Had to go down to the seabed for an unscheduled detour. Picked up quite a few new passengers. Bit inconvenient you weren’t down there, as a matter of fact,’ she added, pursing her lips in a way that reminded me of most of my teachers.
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Sorry?’
‘Quite unusual, your corpse wandering away from the site of death. Doesn’t happen very often. Only with the most difficult children, I’ve noticed. Bit of a troublemaker, are you?’ She looked at me thoughtfully.
I was only half listening, too busy with my own thoughts. If she’d been down on the seabed, trawling for Cliffstones children under the age of twelve, then …
‘Is my sister on there?’ I yelled.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Birdie. Well, her name’s Bridget, but we call her Birdie, because she’s constantly whistling. Bridget Ripley?’
My mouth was dry as the woman checked her clipboard.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said finally. ‘No one of that name on the bus. She must have died properly. Younger, was she? Less … trouble?’
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said quite kindly.
I took a deep breath and waited for the pain to subside. My thoughts rattled like an out-of-control slot machine. If we were all dead, then …
‘Is this … heaven?’ I asked.
The woman turned and contemplated the barnacled wreck behind her.
From the top deck came the sound of shouting and arguing. Several snotty children in the lower deck had begun to whine.
‘Does it look like heaven?’ she said finally.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Not much.’
She sniffed. ‘You’ve got a funny idea of heaven, Frances, if you think it’s carting a disintegrating rust bucket around the world looking after a bunch of kids who never learnt any real manners while they were alive and apparently believe it’s too late to start now. Some death chaperones get to circumnavigate the globe with Patrick Swayze – now that would have been my idea of heaven – but oh no, old Jill from Canvey Island gets lumbered with the under-twelves, which most definitely is not a place of eternal peace, believe you me.’
‘But … why? If this isn’t … why am I still around? I can walk, talk, think …’
Blinking several times, she fixed me with those
