Waiting.
Sitting, waiting.
Ten of us, spread out in a large, high-ceilinged room.
Two pairs, six alone.
Leather sofas.
I sit on a hard chair—it seems appropriate.
It's the waiting room at the entrance to Heaven or Hell.
“Mr Jones, please.”
A pair leave.
Is she just accompanying him to the door?
Will she have to return to the living place when the decision has been made, when either the door to Heaven or Hell is opened and he is pushed through?
Hell for Mr Jones, I think.
A few seconds.
“See you soon, Mrs Jones.”
It's very relaxed—we all know the decisions are already made.
But still, I'm resigned in a sort of way; I wonder which door it will be for me?
Have I been good or bad?
Have I been good enough, or have I been just too bad?
Am I a marginal case that just has to go one way or another?
I know, or at least I think I know, that sometimes, when I've been good I've also been bad—that hidden motive or secret.
Oh, yes.
But will they know that, the ones that have decided my fate?
Will that factor already have been added into the equation?
Sincere good, less insincere good, plus intended good, less known bad…it could go on forever.
"Mrs Smith, please."
She's alone. She'll have to face the music with no support.
She looks like a candidate for heaven.
But who can tell?
She brushes past me and smiles.
She wants to say 'sorry', but I'm not sure what for.
I do it for her.
"Sorry."
She smiles again then passes on through the door.
Only seven of us left now.
I wonder if we're called in order of arrival?
I imagine what an eternity might be—caught in time endlessly?
Then I imagine Hell—continual punishment and suffering of every sort.
Was I really that bad?
Surely I can't warrant an eternity of misery?
My brief spell alive, and I can be punished forever, without end?
Surely no one could invent a system that unfair?
Surely that's worse than any of us waiting here could ever deserve?
Another one goes.
Six.
Then a pair.
Four.
The man of the pair comes out and leaves.
Another is called.
Three.
There's hardly time to think now.
Another goes; a man.
Two now—a woman and me.
She looks across to me nervously.
I catch her eye for a moment, but she looks down quickly.
I get up and sit beside her.
Still she looks down.
I take her hand and squeeze it.
She squeezes back.
She looks up.
We stare at each other, then at the same time as each other we look at the door—the door we came in by.
We get up, neither one leading the other, and hand in hand and broadly smiling, we run through the door just as our names are being called.
