Afterworlds: The Book of Doom

“I heard that,” came a voice from the hallway. They listened to Angelo beatboxing happily all the way back upstairs.

“A friend, eh? That’s good. I always thought you should have more friends,” said Phillip. “Or, you know, one, at least.”

“Yeah, well. He’s more a colleague, actually,” Zac corrected. “But listen, Granddad, I need to talk to you.”

“You’re going away, aren’t you.”

“How did you...?” Zac began, then he nodded. “Just for a little while.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“What?” He forced a laugh. “No, why would it be—”

“Come on, Zacharias. I’m an old man, not an idiot. I know you didn’t pay for this house working in a hamburger shop. You think I don’t hear you sneak in and out every night? You think I don’t notice your cuts? Your bruises?”

Zac stayed silent. He was used to seeing a fog behind his grandfather’s eyes, but that fog had lifted now. He’d never noticed how blue the old man’s irises were before.

“I don’t know what you do out there, and I don’t ask. You’re young, but you’re a man now, Zac. You make your own decisions, and I don’t pry. I don’t pry, I let you make your own choices, don’t I?”

Zac nodded.

“So, I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to tell me the truth. Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing – is it dangerous?”

A pause... a brief one... then, “Yes.”

Phillip gave a single nod, like the answer had confirmed what he already knew. “And do you have to go?”

“Yes.”

The old man leaned back in his chair and looked towards the corner of the room, as if seeing some Autocue there telling him what to say next. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said at last. “But you know me, I’m a big believer in free will, and I won’t try to stop you if you think it’s something you have to do.”

“It is,” Zac said, realising that he hadn’t given his grandfather anything like the credit he’d deserved over the years. “But I’ll be back, I promise.”

Phillip tore his gaze from the corner and looked back at Zac. Tears swam in those piercing blue eyes. “I hope so.”

“Will you be OK?”

“I’ve lived a long time, Zac,” Phillip replied. He stood up and motioned for Zac to do the same. “I think I can cope on my own for a little while. When do you leave?”

“Um, well...”

“Now?”

“Pretty much.”

Phillip stepped forward and wrapped his arms round his grandson. Zac returned the hug and tried to control the shake he could feel taking hold of his limbs.

“Be careful,” Phillip said. “And if you ever need me, just shout.”

Zac smiled and hugged a little bit harder. “I will, Granddad. I will.”

“I think your grandfather might be a total nutjob,” said Angelo as Zac returned to the bedroom. “No offence.”

“Watch your mouth,” Zac snapped, shooting the boy a glare. “He isn’t a nutjob. He just... hears voices sometimes.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” said Angelo. “I read his aura and it was all jumbled up. All different colours, swirling together. I’ve never seen one like that.”

“I don’t believe in auras,” Zac said. He pulled open his wardrobe and began rummaging inside. “I don’t believe in tarot cards or healing crystals or the power of prayer, or any of that stuff. And my granddad is not a nutjob.”

“You don’t believe in crystals?” scoffed Angelo. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t believe in star signs.” He watched Zac’s face. “You don’t believe in star signs?” he gasped. “You’re so cynical. I bet you’re a Scorpio, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“Look, here.” Zac tossed a bundle of black fabric to Angelo, who fumbled clumsily, then dropped the pile on the floor.

“What’s this?” Angelo asked, bending to retrieve the garments.

“Clothes. Put them on.”

“But I’ve got clothes,” Angelo said. He pointed to his lifeguard T-shirt. “See? Exhibit A.”

“OK: one – you look ridiculous,” Zac told him. “And two – you’ve wet yourself. Either one of those would be reason enough to change. Pick your favourite.”

Zac turned his back as Angelo reluctantly changed into the black outfit.

“No looking.”

“Just hurry up,” Zac said. He listened to the sound of zips being undone and the clothes being pulled on. “So, you can just teleport us into Hell, right?”

There was a momentary pause. “Yeah. Course. No problemo. I’m ready now – you can turn around.”

“Right, so we should get going and—” began Zac as he turned back to Angelo. He stopped when he saw the clothes. “What... what have you done to them?”

“It’s not my fault,” Angelo said defensively. “I’m part angel. Angels can’t wear black.”

The clothes, which had been the very definition of black, were now a faint grey. As Zac watched, even the grey began to disappear. It sank in a swirling vortex pattern towards the bottom of the trousers, like murky water trickling down a drain.

Zac looked down and saw black dye dripping on to his bedroom carpet. When he looked up again, the clothes were a shade of white usually reserved for washing-powder adverts.

“I can do white or yellow,” explained Angelo sheepishly. “Light blue at a push.” He glanced at his feet. “Sorry about your carpet. If you get me a cloth, I’ll clean it up.”

“Forget it, it’s fine,” said Zac.

“Are you sure? Maybe I could just...” He rubbed the wet stain with a bare foot. “Oh no, that’s just made it worse if anything.”

“I said leave it, it’s fine. We’ve got more important things to worry about.”