Mike Carey - Dead Men's s Boots

‘But then there’s three. Are you ready for three?’

Runcie had his head buried in his hands and he didn’t give any sign of hearing me, but I knew he was listening.

‘Three is this. You piss me off, and I play you a short, merry tune. And then it’s all over, Jack. Right here and right now. Because I’m the bingo caller from Hell and I’ve got your number. And some of my friends are dead because some of your friends liked to shoot first before anyone could ask them any questions, so I don’t owe you a single fucking favour in the whole wide world.’

I stood up. ‘Your choice. And because I’m in a bright, bubbly, expansive mood today, I’m going to give you until I reach the door.’

That counted as a happy ending, in my book. It was a case I was able to walk away from, which put me among the front runners if you look at the statistics. Rafi was safe from Jenna-Jane’s scientific curiosity, for the moment at least: he could relax and unpack in his padded cell made for two. And that in turn put me in good with Pen again, to the point where she could actually bear to talk to me for whole minutes at a time. I even had grounds for hope that she might break down and let me come and live in her attic again when Ropey Doyle came back from Ireland with a snow-white tan and a broader accent.

The righteous will get their reward in the Kingdom of Heaven. The rest of us poor sons of bitches have to content ourselves with what we can scrape together here on Earth.

I think back, in idle moments, to when I was a kid in Walton, Liverpool. Sometimes in summer, on really hot days, we’d go down to a place called the Sisters. It was a series of bomb craters, on a huge expanse of waste ground next to a closed-down railway track. The bigger craters had filled up with water over time and become ponds.

Even on the hottest day the water would be freezing cold. You’d stick your foot in, then swear a lot and back off, and get jeered at both by kids who’d already gone in and by kids who had no intention of trying. So you’d wade in a bit deeper, and a bit deeper – foot, to calf, to knee, to hip – and the cold would be biting into your legs and it would be agony. Then it was lapping at your stomach and it was worse. You kept hoping you’d acclimatise, but the more you drew it out the more it hurt. Until suddenly you were in over your shoulders and – just like that – it was absolutely fine. Cool, refreshing, the best thing ever. Best of all, you got to laugh at all the other poor bastards who were still at the toe-dipping stage.

And I always envied the few hardy souls who just took a running jump, hit the water all curled up into a ball and then opened up, laughing, already there: the whole incremental ordeal bypassed in a single moment of raw courage.

So what I’m getting at is this. Okay, maybe it’s cold in the grave. Maybe you come out of the light and you think, Fuck your mother, this is bad. This is worse than anything I would have guessed. But the trick is to clench your teeth, get a running start and dive.

When I hit that other country, from whose bourne no traveller back-pedals, I’m going to be moving fast. I’m gambling that the first ten seconds or so will be the worst.