Susan Birrer

Chapter One

Celeste

Bars. Steel bars. A little blurred, but – Celeste squinted – vertical.

Not good.

Her head pounded. Beyond the bars, she registered a pair of uniformed legs. As her gaze continued upwards, a policeman loomed into view, silhouetted against the glare of a strip light. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, but the wide stance and folded arms did not bode well. With an unwelcome jolt of clarity, she remembered cursing him at length, using words she didn’t know she knew – apart from “wife-beating” and “sadist”.

She tried to sit up, but couldn’t push on her hands. They were swathed in white bandages, and throbbed as though they’d been stung by a hive of bees. How had that happened?

Someone was hiccupping. It wasn’t the policeman, and she hoped it wasn’t her.

In fact, she was sure it wasn’t her. She screwed her eyes tight and prayed.

And her world returned. Her knees were hurting, not her hands, which were unharmed. She was kneeling in the chapel with the other nuns. Candles flickered, casting moving shadows on sandstone and stained glass. At the pulpit, Mother Superior was recounting Saul’s vision on the road to Damascus.

‘You okay?’ whispered Kate, handing Celeste her rosary. ‘You dropped it. Did you have one of your turns?’

Celeste nodded. She and Kate had been friends since their novitiate. ‘Must have. I’m fine again. Thanks.’ And she was.

But what had her wayward twin done this time?

Clutching the beads of her rosary, Celeste prayed for guidance. Should she try to find Evie? No. It was late, and even if she found her, pleading her sister’s upstanding character wouldn’t get her out on bail – Evie had an extensive police record.

Celeste would search for her in the morning. For now, she sent Evie reassuring thoughts and a subliminal nudge to be nicer to the policeman. She joined in singing psalms of praise, but couldn’t block the sensations bombarding her: the grey walls, the whiff of sewage doused in disinfectant, the throbbing in her – in Evie’s – hands.

Celeste sighed. It had started when they were toddlers. Whenever one was in danger, the other saw it, felt it, lived it as though it was happening to them. The local minister decreed their telepathy a miracle, Mum claimed it was a sign from God, and their psychologist father – before he disappeared for good – had worried his girls had an incipient psychosis.

Whatever it was, it was a decidedly mixed blessing.

Celeste added a prayer: that Evie would be released in the morning – if possible, Dear Lord, early enough for them to visit Mum at her new flat, as they’d arranged? Not for herself or Evie, You understand, but for Mum?

Late the next morning, Evie was waiting outside her Bristol bedsit, looking better than Celeste had expected. In the two months since she’d seen her, Evie had removed the rings from her upper lip and eyebrows, and let her hair return to its original blond – after dying it black ever since they were teenagers, so no-one mistook her for her identical twin. She had even swapped her standard shredded jeans for a cream linen dress. With her fluffy halo of hair and blameless blue eyes, Evie looked angelic.

They hugged. ‘Protesting?’ asked Celeste.

‘Yeah. You saw?’

‘Just the prison cell, after you swore at the policeman.’ Celeste’s fingers strayed to pat her veil – her protection from the world. ‘Were you arrested?’

‘Yeah. I . . . may have been a bit lippy.’

Celeste recalled the expletives she hadn’t recognised. ‘What happened?’

Evie winced at her bandaged hands. ‘There was a brawl, us against Neo-Nazi thugs, and it was all going to shit. But I wanted to do something, and the bloody bank was locked–’

‘—So you glued yourself to the entrance doors?’

‘Couldn’t reach them. I . . . superglued my hands to the wall above the ATM.’

‘The cash machine?’ Celeste squeaked. ‘Evie, you use ATMs. Everyone uses ATMs. Why?’

‘That bank finances coal mines! Its bosses pay themselves bonuses they’d need extra lifetimes to spend. They’re screwing the planet and everyone on—’

‘—Sure.’ Evie might be right, but at this rate they’d never get to Mum’s. ‘So the police applied a solvent to detach you?’

‘Nail polish remover. But he didn’t have the right sort – or so he said. And he didn’t need to be so brutal. He wanted to teach me a lesson.’

Evie was working herself up to full-on livid, so Celeste postponed her “the police are there to protect us, not to carry the optimal brand of acetone” sermon, and gave her another hug.

Evie passed her the car keys. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My hands’d slip, and . . . I’ll be over the limit. I had a bit this morning, against the pain.’

‘This morning? How could you? Evie, you know I hate driving!’

But Celeste recognised defeat. Even without alcohol, Evie couldn’t drive with her hands strapped up. She climbed into Evie’s battered yellow Mini, belted up, and prayed.

Evie smiled encouragement from the passenger’s seat. ‘You have to believe in yourself, Silliest. God’ll help.’

‘Can we leave God out of this? It wasn’t Him picking fights yesterday.’

‘Okay, just saying.’

Celeste turned the keys, now annoyed with herself, Evie, and the car. Clutching the wheel like a life raft, she edged out into the traffic. As she grated up through the gears, she reminded herself she was an instrument of God. She should not harbour uncharitable thoughts. Mea culpa. Mea Culpa. Mea cul—

‘That traffic light has changed,’ said Evie.

‘Oh.’ Celeste stepped on the brakes, serenaded by honking horns. She raised her arm in apology, waited for the green, and set off again.

Shopfronts thinned. Boots and Waterstones ceded to the odd corner shop as Evie guided her on her phone. On reaching a country lane walled in by hedgerows, Celeste rammed the gear shift into fifth, and watched the pretty shades of green lurch past. She should get out into nature more often. Ancient oaks and yews were good for the soul.

‘Jesus! Look out!’

Celeste swerved to avoid an oncoming truck. The driver blared his horn until he was out of earshot. Gripping the wheel harder to disguise her shakes, she continued driving.

‘You okay?’

Celeste nodded. ‘We’re late. Mum’ll be disappointed.’

‘Arrgh. Not the Disappointed Routine.’ Evie raised her voice an octave. ‘How could you do this to me? After all I’ve been through, abandoned by your father, slaving to make ends meet, never complaining—’

‘—She did slave.’

‘And complain. How is she, by the way?’

‘Miserable.’ Celeste slowed down to enter the yellow-sandstone village of Bickering Wallop.

‘What’s new? She’s always miserable.’

‘Evie, be nice. It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes. Mum’s been sacked. The new minister claims it’s because of her age – the church can’t afford her anymore. She says it’s because he’s keen to,’ Celeste took a deep breath, ‘get into the knickers of her young replacement.’

‘Fuck! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I found out yesterday, and your swearing won’t help.’

‘It helps me,’ said Evie. ‘And this proves your God doesn’t exist. If He can’t manage His own sodding churches. If He exists, He’s not benevolent, He’s a right tosser.’

‘God loves us! We can’t always understand why He does things.’ Celeste glared at Evie, forgetting she was driving. ‘We have to accept that He knows best, and rise to the challenges He deliv—’

‘—Celly, STOP! Stop the car!’

The traffic light ahead was red, and the car in front had sneaked through on the last nano-wavelengths of yellow. Celeste froze like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Evie lunged for the wheel, but her bandaged hands slid over it.

As they spun past the lights, a bus skidded, hit the Mini, and rammed it into the English Heritage façade of The Parrot and The Priest pub.

Celeste was floating a few metres above Bickering Wallop’s sole intersection, feeling oddly calm. Evie’s car had been concertinaed between the bus and the pub. Smoke poured from the remains of the bonnet, and firefighters were slathering everything in white foam. Sirens wailed as people, including a bus driver in uniform, milled around in shock.

Emergency workers had cut out the passenger door and were transferring her limp body to a stretcher. No – Evie’s body, not hers. Evie was a mangled mess, her dress drenched in blood, but her face was unharmed. She could have been asleep.

With a slow flapping of dazzling wings, a being robed in white landed beside the stretcher. No-one else noticed him as he brushed black ringlets from his eyes and gathered Evie into his arms. As they flew upwards, clouds parted to reveal a bright ray of light.

Celeste cried out. Evie was dead! And it was her fault. But an angel – an angel! – was flying her to heaven. It must be a miracle. Praise be to God in the Highest!

Celeste’s attention was dragged back to the scene below. Her own body was being extracted from the car. Blood and sump oil had splattered everywhere, and her veil had vanished. Her face was splotched in black, and a trickle of fresh blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. She looked like a vampire from one of Evie’s beloved horror movies.

‘Not a pretty sight, eh?’ said a funereal voice as Celeste was drawn back into her body. She braced herself for the pain of horrific injuries, but there was nothing . . . until she noticed the hooded skull clacking its teeth at her.

Celeste screamed. She clutched her inch-long hair. She howled.

‘That’s it. Have a good howl.’ Death leaned jauntily on his scythe. ‘Best get it over with before we go.’ His voice echoed around her: over, go, oh . . .

‘Go? Where?’

‘Down, dearie. It might get a little warm. Or cold. It depends on which circle – and which pocket – you get.’

‘But I’m a nun!’

Death arched a bony ridge where an eyebrow would have been, had he had any muscles, skin, and hair. ‘So?’

‘This is a mistake! I’ve tried so hard to be good.’ Celeste’s voice sounded pathetic even to her own ears, which, like her voice, were somehow still working.

‘Sorry, love, that’s what they all say, especially the politicians.’

‘This must be a mix-up. An angel’s flying my sister to heaven, but she’s the one who belongs . . . who doesn’t believe—’

‘—Aaah. She’s the one who should be going to hell?’

‘No! That’s not what I meant . . .’

Death waggled his skull. ‘Don’t often come across sisters so fond of one another.’

‘We are fond of one another, but I’m a nun! What will I do in hell?’

‘Oh, there’ll be other nuns for company. And whole pocketfuls of priests. Come along now. The Abyss awaits.’

With a creeping, sickening horror, Celeste felt her broken body rise and follow him down a blackened slope that smelt of doused fires. She cried out, but no-one heard.

One by one, other pale figures joined them, each accompanied by their own Deaths and participating in their own macabre funeral march. Like zombies.

Had she turned into a zombie? The thought grabbed Celeste by the throat. She stumbled, but felt no pain. ‘How can I walk on shattered legs?’

Death offered her the bones of his forearm to lean on. ‘It’s as if you’ve been drugged. You won’t feel pain until you’re resurrected. Saves on transportation costs, and it’s more ecological. Can you imagine our CO2 footprint if we drove you all the way?’

Celeste goggled. This could not be happening. It was a nightmare, and she would soon wake up. But if it was real . . . then God was cruel.

Surrounding her, leached of their living colours, the dead dragged themselves forwards, despite injuries, illness, or age. Some lamented and cursed, others were dumb with terror. Wondering why no one peeled off and ran, she glanced behind her.

‘Where would you go to, dearie?’

Death had a point. The village of Bickering Wallop had disappeared. The burnt desolation was post-apocalyptic, and identical in every direction.

After what felt like hours, they approached a hill hollowed out by a cave. At its entrance, a cloaked man leaned on a boat gaff. In a voice like wind whistling through a graveyard, he introduced himself as Charon, Boatman of the Underworld.

Celeste groaned. So far, the afterlife was living up to the literature.

The dead followed Charon downwards. As obedient as tourists on a caving expedition, they clung to slimy walls, stooped under overhangs, and skirted potholes. Nobody had a torch, yet they could see.

At the bank of an underground river, three figures in tattered robes stood next to mud-caked, elongated dinghies. With eyes embedded in wrinkles, and scrawny arms propped on ancient paddles, they were clones of the first Charon.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ said her Death cheerfully. ‘I don’t cross the Styx. Not my beat, and we mustn’t upset the Charons. It was nice knowing you.’

What? He sounded as though he meant it. With mounting despair, Celeste watched him depart, his black cloak billowing around his skeleton until he disappeared.

With no other options available, she sat on a bench in a boat. Its Charon poled them out onto the Styx, expertly avoiding stalagmites, stalactites, and the half-sunken wrecks of former ferryboats. As they crossed the river, its foul waters warmed into a cauldron of boiling mud that stank of rotten eggs.

The stench took her back to Rotorua in New Zealand, to the fateful family holiday when the twins realised their telepathy wasn’t normal. While they were admiring geysers, Evie had run off, but Celeste knew where to find her, and Dad had grabbed Evie before she plunged her hand into the water to see if she could swirl the bubbling pink into the steaming yellow. Evie was saved, but their parents’ relationship wasn’t. The girls couldn’t sleep at night for the hissed arguments. A few months later, not long after their fifth birthday, Dad vanished.

Celeste blamed herself – she shouldn’t have told him about the telepathy. Evie believed it was Mum who drove him away, not his girls. It became one of countless topics she and Evie couldn’t agree on.

Her tears welled. The nunnery had given her comfort, a sense of purpose in God’s care. And now she had ruined everything – crashed Evie’s car because she was cross and distracted.

No-one talked. There was just the dipping of Charon’s oar, and the plopping of mud. Celeste chanted. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace . . .’ Her fluid-filled lungs gurgled as far as ‘Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death—’

‘—That’s nice, that,’ wheezed Charon, ‘but I don’t reckon the right sort are going to hear it. Never seen the Mother of God down here.’

Celeste gave up. As her Charon thrust his paddle through the simmering muck, she cast her mind back. They had studied Dante at school. What was Inferno’s layout? If she had been mistaken for Evie, which circle would she be sent to? Which sins had Evie committed?

It was not an encouraging line of reflection. Evie swore, drank, had a foul temper, and changed her boyfriends like her socks. She never did as she was told, and she was an outspoken atheist. A wave of nausea surged up Celeste’s throat, but she pulled what remained of herself together. Evie did not lie or cheat. Nor was she a usurer – she never had money long enough to lend it. She wasn’t a miser for the same reason. Nor was she a glutton, unless they’d introduced a pocket for budding alcoholics. And Evie wasn’t a traitor, tyrant, or serial murderer, so Celeste should be safe from the lowest circles.

Another thought struck her like a blow to her fractured ribs. What if she was there as herself, for her wrathfulness? Would they rip off her habit and fling her into The Pit with debauched men?

Charon’s voice interrupted the hellish spiral of her thoughts. ‘End Station. All passengers to disembark. One at a time, please.’

Celeste wondered if he’d worked for British Rail back in the day.

Once the Charons had re-launched their ferries onto the Styx, the dead hauled themselves up a scree slope towards a derelict battlement. They were on their own now, so why were they trudging to their doom like battle-worn soldiers? Celeste regarded the grim landscape around her. Her Death had been right. There was nowhere else to go.

The forlorn souls trooped under a creaking portcullis, and descended slippery stone stairs into a cavernous lobby. Its rusting metal floor had buckled and tilted to the left, but in the middle of it, a crumbling triumphal arch beckoned. Celeste’s eyes were drawn to the Italian inscription, which morphed into English as she read.

SURRENDER EVERY HOPE ALL WHO ENTER HERE.

So who had plagiarised Dante – God or Satan?

Appalled at her sudden scepticism, she dropped to her broken knees. ‘Hail Mary . . .’

At floor level, through the legs of the recently deceased, she spotted The Dog. No, Beast.

It was the size of a bear. With its shaggy grey fur, it could have been an Irish wolfhound on steroids. Except that the wolfhounds she’d met didn’t have three heads.

Celeste’s ravaged stomach sank to the sloping floor.

The dog raised its tail to let sinners through the arch, its slavering left-hand jaws snapping at stragglers. It was a monster from the worst of nightmares.

And yet . . . it also looked old and tired and fed up.

Celeste loved dogs, even grumpy old dogs. And it was not its own fault it had too many heads.

She found herself reaching out to it.