The noise hit hardest - the din of vehicles in high speed collision that saturates the senses and may only be known by those who have been first on the scene of such an accident. Then I was in continuing motion. A fleeting glimpse of hanging carcasses in a shadowed space; then brilliant sunlight again; passing over the roadside fence and progressing across a paddock until stillness came against the side of a fallen tree.

But I still felt great - which was bad! You do not go straight through a meat truck and then this distance into a paddock without doing something fairly fundamental to yourself. If I felt great, then I was in shock and the situation was going to become painful, shortly, and I was not going to enjoy it. At this point, a raucous voice intruded, making me aware that I was not alone.

“Groovy Man! I dig this scene to my soul. Like I mean you are right on time and really late. It’s cool, Man. Makes the job kind of bearable. You dig, Dad?”

I did not dig anything just at that time so I propped myself up on an elbow and looked at my new companion.

Lounging on the tree bole a few yards away was a total mess in once black, scuffed denim clothing which was copiously decorated with dangling shiny chains and badges of dubious authority. The top end consisted of a circa World War 2 German steel helmet bearing Iron Cross emblems. Below this, was a battered face mainly obscured by an unkempt and oily looking beard. The nose looked as though it had been thoroughly mashed - on several occasions. A sharpened motorcycle chain dangled from a once ornate belt and decrepit motorcycle boots completed the bottom end of the picture. The whole thing looked as though it should smell badly - but my nose must have been out of action.

“How can I be on time and really late?” I enquired to get the conversation going.

“You seen the barbecue behind you Dad?”

I looked around and took in the blazing wreckage of what had been my bike and the truck. The smell of cooking meat must be wafting our way. I did not need my five years in a tank regiment to know that nobody had come out of that alive. I looked back at him. “So I am that kind of late, eh! Meaning the late departed?”

“Right on, Man! Now we are really grooving,” he responded with enthusiasm.

You do not get killed every day, or so I thought at that time, and I was having trouble adjusting to the new circumstances which seemed very normal, but with an out-of-balance element. My composure was not being helped by the hairy idiot who was inflicting me with himself and an out of date jargon. After all, this was the answer to the BIG question but, on the other hand, was it? There may be angels and there may be hell - but a Hell’s Angel? “So who are you?” I asked bluntly.

“Like I’m a Fetch, man. I get to fetch you to where you gotta go”.

“You mean you are a civil servant and get to run the errands?” I responded.

He did not like that and brindled, rattling his chains. “That’s uncool, Dad!. They really lay the brain on this bit. Like you are a biker and I’m a biker so we can really groove and rap. Makes you feel good about the whole scene.”

Bloody wonderful, I thought. Whoever ‘they’ are did not have much grasp of either the changing language or of matching personalities. The unrequested relationship was irritating me and I became impatient for a conclusion.

“O.K.” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Cool, Man! Fork the bracket and we’ll burn some rubber.”

Colours swirled and spun; the scene of my demise faded quickly as a corridor formed around us, distance sped by and a destination abruptly appeared.

“It’s done, Dad! You may be a square, but tell them you have been around.” His laughter faded with him and then I faced the next phase

***

I stood before a great desk behind which two figures were seated. The one on my left was shining and gave off an aura of keen interest and kindness. But the one on my right had my full attention. It was not simply black, it was a total absence of all colour or even reflected light.

At the current time it was scratching itself behind the ear with the sharp barb of a long tail whilst twanging a fang with a talon-like fingernail and managing to smile at me at the same time - in a totally predatory way. I suddenly underwent an abrupt attack of religion - but it was too late for that.

On the desk between the two figures was an apparatus that had the potential to be a set of balance scales. Both figures busied themselves with this and, once satisfied, peered at the outcome. The scales teetered and settled at an even balance. The shining one became somewhat dimmer and the dark one lashed the floor furiously with its tail. They went through the procedure again, and then a third time. Same result.

Both entities appeared to be ticked-off with the whole exercise and I fancied that I was becoming a problem, which did not bode well for me. Then I was spoken to.

“You are what we term a ‘Balance’ Based on our data of your performance in your first life you can neither automatically go on, nor go back. This means you should stay here at this staging post and we will have to find a job for you. However, to keep the paperwork down in cases such as this we give individuals a choice, a kind of qualifying test, if you like. We are not unrealistic - we will first answer a limited, but unspecified, number of your questions. This may be two, or may be ten, so do not waste our time, or your own.

There were a lot of questions that I could think of - too many. I began pruning. “O.K. what happens if I go on?”

The shining one positively beamed. “You immediately join the Army and become part of the glorious struggle of our kind in the attainment of peace, poetry and liberty.”

I thought of all those hymns extolling Gods’ Army and shuddered - they obviously meant it. “I have only just got out of the bloody Army - what else have you got?”

“Only the Army. Everyone who goes on joins the Army. You must appreciate that other entities desire our territory and the struggle is on-going.”

I did not appreciate it, and there had to be something better than joining the army again. I turned my attention to the Dark One, who had noted my lack of enthusiasm to ‘going on’ and was now in a frenzy of excitement with its tail caught around one horn and tangled up in its talons at the same time. The whole effect did not produce any confidence in the level of counselling that might be forthcoming. However, I asked the question. “What happens if I go back?”

“Ahhhh!” Said the Dark One. What an intelligent, penetrating and totally satisfying question. Basically you become a ‘re-tread'. There is achievement, sex, mild lying, a bit of extortion - all the good things in life which do not exist around here but which you, now with your prior experience, are so richly equipped to exploit and enjoy. Besides I am on a management-by-objectives programme and just have to keep up the breeding stock down there. The amount of wars being generated for recruitment up here is driving me bananas and every soul counts. Now, how about it?” I was treated to a smile composed mainly of fangs and slanted to a hard-sell, fast-close scenario.

“Supposing that I stay here?” This was obviously not what either wanted to hear and there were various dimmings of light, flailing of appendages and the rest of it to underline the point. I thought the answer they offered was a trifle spiteful.

“We noted the minor clash in temporal unity between yourself and your Fetch. We are a little short in the motorcycle area at the moment and have only just recently become aware of how productive it can be. We thought we would team you up and let you run the whole department by yourselves, as you obviously hit it off so well together.” Both smiles were now totally predatory.

I was using up questions. How many did I have left? I needed some time. “I request time to consider the information before making a decision.”

That did not go down well either. There were certain asides mentioned about time constraints and work piling up, but eventually they motioned for me to sit between two doors set into the wall behind them - one shining and one dark - and I now noted that individuals variously entered these at intervals from other similar desks to the one I faced.

I considered going back but that did not sit easily with me. I have always been one for carving my own future and it would only be futile now that I knew what would follow.

I thought about staying. The benefits were imponderable and would presumably last only until life downstairs wiped itself out and there was no more Fetching to be done. I still had some interest in this as I enjoy travel and meeting people, but this was totally overshadowed by the twittering fool I would be spending eternity with. I needed more information.

Perhaps the Army was not so bad after all, and I should go on. From the corner of my eye, I watched individuals galloping happily through the shining door. Perhaps I should just have a quick peek and gather some more data.

No sooner decided than done. I was up at the door, jamming my foot in it (I was pleased to see I still had a foot) as it steadily closed after the previous entrant. I waited a few seconds and quickly peered in. That was a mistake!

Somehow, I must have decided that this existence did not use machines. Unfortunately it did. I found I was looking into some form of launching bay which was currently being vacated by what I presume to be a troop carrier. Whatever propulsion system it used fried me on the spot and I was dead again.

***

No Fetch, no conversation, no corridors - just a jarring of what I thought may still be my heels as I arrived in front of a greater desk with a being behind it that I could not look at. A voice rang through me, vibrating bits that I had forgotten were part of the essential me.

“Tell me, little one, how can anyone be so incompetent as to not only be a Balance in Phase One, but also get themselves killed in Phase Two before they have any chance to become anything other than a Balance? You will appreciate that these circumstances make your presence here a total impossibility - a situation I am supposed to resolve?”

I did not have an in-depth answer to that so I remained silent. I began thinking that this was all becoming just a fraction unreal. Half an hour ago, I was riding home after leaving the army and looking forward to civilian life. Now, I was dead twice over and being presented with situations that I could not handle. Anger began to rise. I may be a problem, but I was still a person.

The message must have got through, for the being turned down the volume and became almost chatty.

“You are a problem, Little One. This situation has never arisen before but, perhaps, there is a place for you. The nature of our kind is that bureaucracy causes delays. Perhaps we can speed up some of the process by sending you back to Phase Two and putting you in command of all the Fetches. You will appreciate that our glorious Army on this third Phase of existence needs its own recruits, so anything we can do to enhance the recruitment to Phase Two naturally flows on to us. Another predatory smile was sensed if not actually seen.

Great! People talk about a fate worse than death. I had been through death twice and was now on my second job interview. What happened to the Elysium Fields, Valhalla and the rest of the general lazing about and boozing? All these guys seemed to have were on-going levels of death, each with its own Army and all infested with civil service problems.

“Yes, the more I think about it the more I like it,” the Being continued. “We shall develop you into the Grim Reaper, and over a period of time you shall create a noble empire and tradition of Fetches.

I was not at all sure I wanted to become the old boy with the scythe, but I might not have any choice. I wondered about employment conditions. “How about time off and so on?”

“I envisage this position as a full time, ongoing challenge. Your reward will be mainly fulfilment and total enjoyment. You can run your own tax-free pension fund from fees you extract from those you are conveying. And, of course, there is plenty of travel and meeting people.” Another predatory smile. “Now, we will start you off as Charon.”

“Who is Charon?” I enquired.

“From this particular point he will be you. But, as history now comes to be written, he will be the Ferryman of Ancient Greece who took departed souls across the River Styx to the Underworld. Very much in keeping with what we are doing. What are you like on the oars?”

“What oars?”

“You know, boats and that stuff. Reach and dig in, pull and lift. That sort of thing.”

“No I don’t know that sort of thing,” I responded, becoming uneasy again.

“That’s all right, the job lasts for a couple of centuries, so you will get the swing of it. Then, when the Greeks have shot their bolt, you can move on up the ladder to a more executive position as the population expands. Meantime, think how fit you will become.”

My unease, or more accurately sense of unreality, was becoming dominant. I became aware that I was surprising myself. I was actually engaging in a serious conversation about all this. On the other hand, while I was not the definitive example of a keen Job Applicant, I did not care to sample any alternatives, so I pressed on with gaining information.

“How can I become an Ancient Greek Ferryman when I come from the 20th Century?”

“Little One, time as you understand it does not exist. Think of time as a long corridor with many doors leading off, each door being a different time zone - you only have to walk in. I will send you to the first door, which is the Classical Greek era. We had to draw the line there because Phase Two people got into terrible trouble trying to profile productive jobs for people who shambled around with their knuckles dragging on the ground. Besides, the population level hardly made the administrative structure worthwhile. Everyone, prior to the Greeks, is an automatic re-tread until they are eventually born into a time zone with education levels we can use.”

I had one last question. “What about the two guys with the weighing gadget - what are they going to think about this when I get back to Phase Two?”

“They are only front office staff. You already outrank them,” was the response.

I liked that.

“Now, remember,” said the Being in parting, “There is a lot of image in this job. We will have to do something about your appearance, but make sure that you are sufficiently awesome and terrifying. Advertising pays and you need your new Department to become known.”

***

So here I am on my first day on the job as the Senior Cheese in the Underworld Department. My first two customers are a couple of quaking heavies in battered brass armour, blood spattered and with their helmet plumes plucked. They do not seem to know what to do next in front of my apparently awesome and terrifying presence, but come to think of it I do not know what to do next either.

No matter, when in doubt extend the bony fingers and rub them together, looking for the fare of the ferryman. May as well get the pension fund going right away.

The incredible oafs can only scratch together a couple of bent copper coins between them and then have to laboriously chisel out an IOU. on a clay tablet while I stand around freezing. Many more of these transactions and I am going to need a bigger boat to carry the IOUs and a set of woolly long johns for under my shroud.

On top of all that, have you ever tried to appear intensely ominous for twenty minutes? I will have to exert some influence on mythology and get the customers used to paying a suitable amount up front - in gold! On the other hand, gold is heavy too so I really need to find a bank which we are all a bit short of at the moment.

Lord, this boat is heavy, and so are the oars! My two Greek heroes are sitting as far away from me as possible and that puts the whole contraption out of balance. They are beginning to look more frightened of falling in the river than of me, as I frantically struggle to learn how to row. At least they are not laughing - yet!

If you are harbouring any notions of the Styx being the average river you come across then let me give you the drum right now. It is about three bloody miles wide, black as ink, and so cold that floating ice is a hazard to navigation. When rowing, you are looking at what you are leaving, not where you are going, but that is not a major problem as you cannot see anything anyway for the bloody fog. As a result, I will probably do twice the distance on each crossing than I should have.

Furthermore, I cannot stop for a rest on the other side because of that damned dog they have with three heads and consequently six rows of teeth. While I was being shown around, it saw me, took one look at all the bones I now have on show and went for me. During the escape, I ripped my new cerements shinning up a pillar and spent nearly an hour sitting on top of the Gate while they got the creature under control and found a ladder to get me down. I am not risking that a second time!

Meantime - only a couple of centuries to go and I get a desk job. Great! But within my present misery I have to bend my back to the oars, knowing that, as always, life and a job are what you make it.

- Helix