Disarmageddon - Emma Devlin: 20/8/09

Mrs E.B. Shakes was on her way to work one morning, as usual, when something unexpected happened to her. A car hit her, and she died. She was rather indignant about the whole thing, as a matter of fact, and Jolly Well Gave A Piece Of Her Mind. It was when she was offered something outside the persecutions of Hell, and the undoubted pressures of Heaven, that she gamely accepted her lot.

She thought it was a bit strange, really, having this sort of place available to the agents of the Afterlife and whatnot, but had always thought it necessary. Times were changing, she had been assured: the events of the next era would require the strictest balance, and although He was perfectly capable of managing it Himself, He frankly had more important things to deal with. Mrs Shakes remembered nodding her head sagely (another nouvelle experience, what with having no physical form).

So here she was, in a position she could only - though secretly quite fondly - describe as a Secretary. They all came here for their little routines - a possession here, divine inspiration there. They came to the office of Mrs Shakes (location: Purgatory), they got their application forms, they filled out their reports, and Mrs Shakes filed it all meticulously and occasionally gave a Customer Appreciation Day where everyone could get a free cup of tea and a biscuit if they wanted it (no-one did).

One day (or night, or perhaps both - who knew?) the inevitable happened.

“Yes?” Mrs Shakes said, looking over the rim of her glasses (she had insisted on keeping them: green frames, thick lenses).

“Er,” he said.

To Lispal, this place was the taint of the netherworld (nobody called it “the netherwore anymore – their loss, really, he thought). His particular line of business didn’t require his presence here that often, and when it did, he usually sent someone else. Was this it? He often wondered at this Arrangement the two sides had drawn up. It was so human. Perhaps they had thought it quite natural - so many of them now had spent one millennia or another on Earth and had become accustomed to the way things were done there. In fact, he recalled that there had been a sort of demand for this place, and that He had allowed it, thus relieving some of the more menial tasks which were inescapable when running the universe. Still, it just wasn’t right. What Lispal had come for was the one thing that simple common sense required of anything with a beginning. It must, and will, come to it’s conclusion. And this one had been written into the fabric of the cosmos.

The events would unfold as they would, but it had been the humans that had given them that initial lustre, that drama. In the old days, give a human the whiff of a supernatural portent and they were all over the place with their hysterics. These days there was a less excitable class of human running the show, and their cold, basic sneering procedure had taken over. And the worst part? Lispal’s peers had approved of it. So here he was, on the doorstep of ending everything in a place like this.

“Um,” he said lamely. What was it about these offices that always robbed you of your human - sorry, corporeal - right to speech? You never really knew how to set the ball rolling, as it were. “I’m here about,” he sighed heavily, “form J8B.”

“Name?

“Lispal.”

“Got a surname?”

“What? Oh. Well, some people know me as Mr Smith. You know…on duty.”

“Occupation?”

“Take a guess.”

Mrs Shakes shook her head, one of the difficult ones, she thought, “Occupation, Mr Smith?”

He sighed again, a habit picked up from so many years on Earth, watching, waiting, preparing, “Er, well…Herald, I suppose. Messenger. Uh, demon?”

“Okay.” she typed a little more. “Right, and I’ll need some I.D.”

“I’m sorry?” he said flatly. “Look, woman, I don’t think you realise--”

“It’s standard procedure, Mr Smith. This is a serious business, and He doesn’t want some Tom, Dick or Harry fooling around, especially not with form J8B. There’d be all sorts of outrage. I used to work in a claims department. Trust me, it’d be hell.”

Lispal muttered something imperceptible about showing her Hell, before producing a sort of passport that most of them carried now in order to avoid Mrs Shake’s uncanny ability to make things Difficult. Mrs Shakes took it and examined it closely. Lispal rolled his eyes. Eventually, apparently satisfied, she handed it back to him. “Thank you, Mr Smith. Now if I could just have that letter of authorisation from your employer we can get started.”

“A letter of--!”

“A letter. Of authorisation. From your employer. Mr Smith.” she repeated slowly, out of the goodness of her heart, demonstrating that Empathy that she’d heard so much about. It was these personal touches that did the trick.

An eruption went off in the dark matter behind the demon’s eyes which, if not addressed immediately, would probably spell trouble for some poor soul walking under a ladder. So he took a few minutes to try this deep breathing that was supposed to do wonders for the nerves. It didn’t. “I don’t have one,” he said through gritted teeth, “I don’t suppose a phone call would do?”

Mrs Shakes hesitated. This was a new one. On the one hand, there was no reason why she shouldn‘t take a phone call, and it meant that the whole matter would be cleared up in minutes. On the other hand, it simply wasn’t done. “Wait here,” she said. She scuffled into the room behind her booth. Twenty minutes went by. Lispal made himself a hat from one of the leaflets advertising Helpful Advice on the table. Finally, Mrs Shakes re-emerged and sat down. If asked, she was consulting a colleague, when in truth she’d had a bit of a lie down after puzzling over this conundrum for about thirty seconds.

“Well?” prompted Lispal.

“Er, well,” it was time, Mrs Shakes decided suddenly, to Take The Initiative. It had been a long time coming in the story of Mrs E. B. Shakes, and she saw no reason why it shouldn’t be now, dead or not. “Given the, um, circumstances, a phone call should do for now,” she said, “But I’ll need to speak to him.” she added quickly, passing him her phone. “All calls recorded.”

“Very good,” he muttered. He dialled the number and waited. And waited. Finally, “Yes it’s Lispal. That’s right. Yes. I need to talk to him.” he glanced at Mrs Shakes, “The employer, yes.” He sighed, “Yes I’ll hold.” Ten minutes went by. Mrs Shakes went off to make herself a cup of tea, while Lispal idly read the poster advertising Guidelines When Stuck In An Elevator. Then, “Yes, sir. It’s Mrs Shakes sir. No. No, I’m Lispal. Mrs Shakes wants to talk to you.”

Mrs Shakes took the phone, her fingers trembling. Funny how the body could die but the soul still remembered how to quake with fear. “You don’t have your identification number do you, sir?” she said. Even Lispal heard the roar, the sound that something very angry makes when it only has a mouth for appearance’s sake. “ Er, I’m sure we’ll manage anyway,” Mrs Shakes said, her voice rattling. “It’s about that letter of authorisation that you need for form J8B that Mr Smith is trying to…Mr, Er, Lispal Smith…Now look I don’t care for that tone. Hmm. Hmm. I never had this bother from the other lot. They had all this sorted out a month ago. Still waiting for you, I imagine. You should take a leaf out of their book, you know.” Lispal gaped. Was that…was Mrs Shakes chastising the devil? Good Lord. Or whatever.

There was that eruption feeling in the pits of his brain again, only this time it would probably wipe out a small country. A leaf out of their book? Nobody was going to be taking anyone else’s leaves. Oh honestly, that was the bloody point.

“So,” the woman sniffed, “I take it that it is authorised? Yes. Very good.” she passed the phone to Lispal. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Count your blessings it’s not a call centre.” the Voice said, “Get on with it…Mr Smith.” The phone went dead. Lispal felt a portion of his brain crack. What was it all for? Forms and phone calls and passports and posters. Why? They were all going mad, the lot of them, and he was in serious danger of joining them.

“Well, now we can press on with the form.” Mrs Shakes said.

Relived, Lispal took the form and sat down at one of the chairs. His pen didn’t work. He got a new one. He hesitated. He went back to the booth.

“Er,” he said.

“Yes?”

“This is form J8A,” he said. He waited for her to respond to this vital piece of information in a suitable fashion. She merely blinked. He went for total clarification, “and not, in fact, B…”

“Provisional.” she said.

“Sorry?”

“You need to fill in that form to register, and we send out J8B a week later (allow fourteen days for delivery).” When provoked, Mrs Shakes could make the necessary provisions to make a thing difficult. The Procedures were out of her hands, of course, but there were little…accidents…that could happen in an office. A delay, for example. An unaccountably busy day that meant things were…forgotten. At least for long enough to teach somebody, somewhere, a lesson.

Lispal took form J8A and went home for a lie down. When he had recovered sufficiently he filled it out and sent it away with one of his fellows, who assures him that it was delivered. He has yet to hear back from Mrs Shakes, though he is assured that the issue is being resolved, apologies for the temporary fault. The Apocalypse, it seems, lies in the hands of Mrs Shakes, when she chooses to forgive Hell for the frankly rude characters it seems to have all over the place. She was, and ever will be, a Secretary in the deep folds of her soul - clinically bureaucratic, for which there is no cure.