Imagine There's No Heaven

The train was busy and bustling as businessmen hurried along to their nine-to-fives. Hearing them talk of numbers and figures as though maths were some critical issue repulsed Guy. He wondered if they’d ever faced a true problem in their lives, one that couldn’t be solved with a calculator. One of them looked him up and down scornfully as though he didn’t belong. Clearly they felt the same way about him as he did about them. Guy eyed the man threateningly; the man lowered his head timidly and returned to crunching whatever numbers he had been buried in. Guy laughed mockingly under his breath. He didn’t mind the man’s cowardice; what he minded was the gall of the man to judge him then back down so weakly.

  Not about to endure the burden of the chatter of phone calls and the disparaging grimaces he attracted all the way to the city, Guy chose a seat in the train’s quiet zone, next to an old man who was silently asleep, his jaw hanging open as though he’d been sedated. He was probably the smartest one aboard, Guy thought, to not be concerned with the superfluities of day to day life.

  He was glad he had chosen the quiet zone; the journey was a peaceful one. The only sounds were the whirring of the train itself and the constant tapping of fingers on keyboards. The only view for miles and miles was a singularly coloured green canvas of fields, broken up every few hundred metres by tall billboards advertising phone plans, movies, concerts and anything else that involved flashing lights or noise. It was a bizarre combination of empty land and ultra commercialism. Bored, Guy hummed a little tune to himself, scratched at a burn mark on his hand and reached for his copy of American Soldier. He sank into the book, wondering to what degree the truths it spoke had affected his own family.

  It seemed ridiculous that the words of a famous American, whom he had never even seen in person, could reveal to him truths of his own family, but that was the nature of things these days. Had it always been the nature of things? Guy wondered. Was there ever a time when the order of life wasn’t handled by the government? Was there ever a time without war? Had life always been about struggling to get by? His head grew heavy again as the thoughts came. He closed his eyes and faded into a doze, only aware of where he was by the tapping of keys, the slow and steady snores of the man next to him and a thought at the back of his mind that all was not quite as it should be. Wait, he thought. It wasn’t a feeling at the back of his mind. It was a voice, a woman’s voice. He recognised it. He had to listen very intently but he just managed to discern the words, ‘Get off the ship or...’

  The voice vanished as Guy felt a heavy finger tapping at his leg. The train had come to a stop.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but this is the last stop,’ said the train inspector.

  ‘What?’ Guy muttered beneath his breath in surprise. He opened his eyes to find himself in a hustling, bustling city centre. ‘Oh, sorry.’ He threw his rucksack over his shoulder and left.

  It was a quick walk to the meeting point, or rather it would have been were it not for the constant weaving in and out of people, the absurdly long wait at every set of traffic lights and a lady who had said she recognised Guy only to later proceed into a survey about life insurance. This shit is mad, Guy thought. The buildings and roads were finely organised into rows and columns yet the people were randomly bumping into one another, driving the wrong way down one-way streets or sitting in the middle of the pavement begging; there was no order, just architectural lines.

  Guy always found the city alien. The shoppers and businessmen were completely wrapped up in their own little bubbles, deluded into believing the whole world was in their phone or laptops. No one had time for one another, so it seemed. Were it not for his personal motive, he would very rarely bother to venture to the city centre at all, but whilst he might not have had much love for the people or the concrete and glass, he couldn’t deny that the city centre was the place to be for anyone wishing to spread a message¯ unless, that was, they could afford one of the billboards that decorated the train tracks. And boy did he yearn to spread a message. Unfortunately, getting people to listen was always an uphill battle and his army was pathetically few in number: just a few protesters scattered here and there, all too easily drowned out by the hustle and bustle of city life.

  Some of their faces were painted, some of them black, some of them white, some happy, sad, angry; some held signs, some held children, some were silent, some were singing, some were strangers, some were friends, but all were passionate. The energy of the protestors felt like a pulse racing through the body; it worked its way up Guy’s spine, igniting every muscle with life. Guy felt his muscles tightening the way they did when he was in a fight. He felt raw and masculine. To Guy, a protest was a moment of release when the pain, anger and anxiety came pouring out. He was looking for someone to share the feelings with when a most welcome voice called through the crowd.

  ‘Hey, Guy.’ It was a deep, booming voice that Guy had grown most fond of over his years. He turned to find one of the dearest men in the world to him; middle-aged now, with a thick, bushy white beard. He was standing beside an old, clapped-out van. The poor vehicle looked like it might collapse at any moment. The man opened his arms lovingly and his huge mouth rose into a broad grin.

  ‘You got room for one more?’ said Guy, peering into Roy’s big brown eyes. Roy held his hand out. Guy shook it with much pride and vigour.

  ‘Strong as ever, I see,’ said Roy.

  ‘Pah,’ Guy spat, ‘aint nothing yet.’

  Roy eyed the dog tags around Guy’s neck; his eyes flicked with sadness momentarily. There were stories in those big pearly eyes that Guy would love to hear; stories of his family; stories of protests; stories of Roy himself, who had become a surrogate uncle to Guy. If only he could sit for hours and listen to Roy just chatting away, perhaps then he’d have answers, but this day was not about Guy and his family. Sooner or later, his day would come, he believed, but not yet: he had his duty to perform.

  Roy clapped two giant palms together and laughed with joy. ‘Come, give me your pack.’ Guy handed him the rucksack. ‘There’s water and snacks in the van if you want anything.’ Guy shook his head.

  Looking about the city centre, Guy couldn’t help but feel disappointed. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Well, you might well ask,’ said Roy, leaning out of the van with a couple of cookies in hand. He offered one to Guy. Guy shook his head. Roy smiled, ‘More for me.’ He bit indulgently into his cookie as though it were the most exquisite treat. ‘Anyway,’ Roy continued through a mouth full of food, ‘I guess now that the initial hype about this war has died down people are getting on with their lives.’ He coughed into his hand¯ he’d had a bad cough for as long as Guy could remember. ‘Who can blame them, ay?’

  Guy grunted beneath his breath and took a look around. It was amazing to him how contrasting the faces of the protesters were to everyone else. The protesters stood erect, looking lively with a spark in their eyes that he guessed was the result of truly believing they could change things. Everyone else looked consumed, defeated, as though they believed they could change nothing but their own thoughts, which he guessed was why they were all so self obsessed.

  ‘Hello there,’ called the southern accent of a middle aged woman who had walked over and was now leaning against the van, causing it to tilt to one side. She was a rather large woman, wearing a floral dress that Guy found to be particularly unsuitable for the occasion. Still, she certainly had the spark of life in her eyes.

  ‘Ah, Guy, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen Julia,’ said Roy.

  Julia gave a little bow, which Guy returned. She was a very sweet looking lady. She had her blond hair in a beehive, held in place with a very humble white hair band. Two long silver earrings dangled down past two very plump cheeks to lips heavily coated in a rose lipstick. She was certainly not a typical protester. She reminded Guy of one of his old school teachers; the kind and caring type whom he couldn’t anger even if he tried, which he often had.

  ‘Julia hasn’t been able to make the last few protests,’ Roy
continued. ‘She’s recently recovered from a broken leg.’ Roy shook his head mockingly at his wife. ‘Well, if you will go mountaineering, I don’t know.’

  ‘Mountaineering,’ Julia repeated, laughing hysterically. Guy chuckled politely. He always hoped that he came across well to Roy’s wife, if only as a matter of respect for Roy himself. ‘I guess I must be making mountains out of molehills then.’ She poked Guy playfully in the side with her elbow. Guy didn’t know what he ought to say and so just smiled.

  ‘Right; are we all set?’ Roy asked, checking the scene. He ducked his head into the van and came out holding a tray of coke cans. ‘Anyone?’

  Julia and Guy shook their heads.

  A metallic drumbeat sounded up ahead as one of the protest organisers smashed two trashcan lids together.

  ‘No more war,’ a woman screeched.

  ‘Ah, here we are then,’ said Julia as the procession began to march.

  ‘Hey, Roy,’ Guy called over the noise. ‘I’m going to go up ahead for a while.’

  Guy pushed his way to the centre of the protest, where he could feel the energy most. His view was all of feet marching and signs bouncing up and down, and his ears were filled with voices chanting, ‘Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.’ They were too quiet though, he could sense that. They needed more: more volume, more energy and more passion. They had to fight, Guy thought; fight their way through the bullshit of everyday life that civilians were caught up in until the energy of their message ignited the core of the passersby. It was like fighting a guy in the ring. You wear him down. Jab, jab, dodge and weave, let them come to you. Jab, jab. Wear him down. And eventually he starts to rock. Finally he loses control and then BANG! You deliver the blow, the blow that ends the fight and changes the course of history. Right now, the protest was just a big softy. The people on the street just kept walking right on by, blissfully unaware. Guy clenched his fist in anger. ‘They’re not even paying attention for God’s sake, look at them.’

  A young woman stood next to Guy turned and gave him a knowing smile. ‘The sign of a good protest,’ she chimed in.

  Guy looked at her questioningly. She didn’t get it. Guy could tell she’d never been touched by war herself, unlike him. War hadn’t torn her life apart and robbed her of a home. She didn’t even look emotional. He’d show her. ‘Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home,’ Guy yelled at the top of his lungs. The girl covered her ears. ‘Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.’ He hurled his voice into the air with all his might, yearning with every fibre of his being to get some recognition, some sign that the people realised the importance of the message. Every moment that passed without a reaction made his blood boil more. He felt the tension in his eyes that came when he lost control of his emotions; it was the same possession that came over him when he found himself in the clutches of the boxing ring, the haven where he unleashed all the pain he had been keeping pent up inside. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help it. It was raw, uncontrollable aggression. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the signs above him out of its owner’s hands and started thrusting it in the air. ‘Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.’

  Guy stopped in his tracks when he felt a small object hit him on the side of the head. He felt in his hair. There was nothing there. Again something hit him. He turned.

  Two drunkards were standing outside a bar at the side of the street, taunting the protesters.

  ‘Go home,’ they jeered.

  One of the men picked some peanuts out of a bag and hurled them at Guy. ‘Na-wan gives a shit ‘bout yer damn war. Fuck off!’ he laughed. He picked up a bowl to throw.

  Guy jumped out of the crowd, nearly decapitating many of his fellow protesters with the sign in his hand. The men at the bar continued to taunt. The taller of the two men, who also happened to be very muscular—not that that concerned Guy—stepped forward and thrust his chest out, preparing for a fight. Guy held the sign he was carrying against the side of the road. His foot slammed down on it, holding it in place as he tore the placard off, leaving the wooden stake exposed. He held it like a club above his head, ready to strike.

  ‘Come on, you drunken twat. Come on! I’ll take you and that fat shit heap of a mate of yours. Come on!’

  ‘Guy, get back here,’ Guy heard Roy calling from a distance. Guy ignored him and continued to advance on the drunkard. He pulled his fist back, ready to attack when Roy yelled at him in desperation.

  ‘What would your mother think?’

  Guy instantly stopped in his tracks as though transfixed. Roy ran up and grasped the sign out of his hands. He held it with the stake lowered safely toward the ground. He placed a hand around Guy’s shoulder and pulled him away from the drunkards, who spat a slur of insults and laughed mockingly at them.

  ‘Just ignore them,’ Roy ordered, pulling Guy away, but even Roy froze momentarily when the two drunkards threw an empty glass bowl at them. It just missed, smashing on the ground, shattering into a million shards that tinkled as they settled on the road. Roy took a deep breath and fought the urge to turn around and face his assailants. ‘Come on,’ he insisted, forcing his own fighting instinct out of his system. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ He held his hand wrapped tightly around Guy— lest his young friend do something he might regret—and led him away from the bar.