Attack of the Cupids Read Online Free PDF Page A

like when you’re trying to get into a school that’s over-subscribed. Heaven takes its appeals veryseriously. It spends a lot of time on each one. Time is something Heaven has lots of.
    This means that if you do go to Appeal, you’d better be prepared for a wait. There are folks in the queue ahead of you who’ve been waiting for . . .
    â€˜Three
thousand
years?’ cried Mishamh.
    â€˜There’s a bit of a backlog,’ admitted Doomsday. ‘One rather difficult case has been holding things up. When they’ve sorted it out everything should move more quickly.’
    â€˜
One
case that’s been going on for three
thousand
years?’
    They flew together through the great Gallery of Penitence. The dark angel was like a thundercloud and his assistant like a white dove caught in a sunbeam beside him. The floor of the Gallery was thronged with souls: standing, sitting, patiently shifting from foot to foot, squatting in tents or playing endless games of cards or dice (which are generally frowned on in Heaven but are allowed in the Appeals Queue as a way of saying ‘Sorry about the Delay’). The Gallery of Penitence ended in the Stair of Sincerity, which has ten thousand steps, each the size of a football pitch. The crowd filled every inch of them. It carpeted thefloor of the Hall of Lamentation, which is the length of a comet’s tail, and it zigzagged around the vast, eight-sided Lobby of the Law until it ended finally at the great dark door over which was written in letters the colour of sunset:

    The doors were of black pearl and the handles were carved from the sound of a great brass gong. Hung upon one of the handles was another sign.

    The souls nearest the door looked up as Doomsday approached. They looked a bit tired and worn, as well they might after having to wait in silence for three thousand years. They bowed respectfully to Doomsday and he bowed back. He had passed them many times before. Ignoring the door handles (which would letoff gong-noises if anyone touched them, of course) he placed his palm on the door of black pearl and pushed. It swung silently inwards, revealing a short passage that opened at the far end into a huge space. On one side of the passage was a small opening. Doomsday ducked through it and led Mishamh up a long flight of narrow stairs, to emerge at last on a high gallery that swept all the way around a huge room like the upper circle in an opera house that had been built for giants.
    Directly opposite Mishamh, against the far wall, were three mountain-high statues that rose from floor to ceiling. One was of white marble, one was of red sandstone, one was of grey granite. Their faces were huge and passionless, like the Sphinx of Egypt. Their carved wings were folded around their shoulders and down their sides. Their chests were muscular and bare. And on their foreheads were carved the words M ERCY , J USTICE and (more worryingly) V ENGEANCE .
    At their waists the carvings ended. They became smooth blocks like pillars that fell all the way to the floor. It was as if the heavenly sculptors had got that far and then given up in exhaustion, thinking, That’s enough. Anyone who sees them will get the idea. Anyway – why would they want legs?
These
guys aren’t going anywhere.
    They were not. They never had been. They wouldcarry on standing there until the end (whenever that might be). They were in no hurry. They looked down on the soul before them with the same appraising, unchanging stare. They had not blinked once in three thousand years.
    The soul was a woman. She stood alone in the centre of that vast chamber. She was tall, handsome and dressed in a plain white robe of the sort worn by a civilization that had collapsed thousands of years ago. Her hair was dark and done in ringlets. Her skin was lightly tanned. She wore no jewellery, because no one does in Heaven.
    Before her, on a table made of pure, polished rose-petal, lay a