I scanned the scene, considering my options. I’d never been the type to wait in line. My style had been more about barging through to the front of the queue. Sure, I usually ended up being denied entry, but at least that way I didn’t have to stand around for hours before being disappointed.

This time, though, the stakes were so much higher. Being denied entry here meant more than just being left to hang around outside. There was another place they were going to send me. A place I didn’t want to consider. I might not have known much about this after-death caper, but I knew I wasn’t in any hurry to get to those Gates.

I looked at the queue again. In the short time since I had arrived, it didn’t seem to have moved. At this rate, it would probably take several days to reach the Gates. Maybe just enough time to figure out a way to bluff myself through.

I took a couple of steps towards the last member of the queue, a scruffily-dressed gentleman with ragged grey hair, a large moustache, and a hat that looked vaguely familiar. Before I could get there, a figure blocked my path.

It was a young male figure, with a pinched-up face like a rodent, but not the cute kind you find running inside wheels. He was wearing a bright red uniform with navy blue trimmings, and in one hand he carried a cap with the words St Peter written on it. The reason he held the cap in his hand, as well as the pained expression on his face and the bright red mark on his forehead, could probably all be explained by the object he held in his other hand—my trusty hip flask.

“This wouldn’t happen to be yours?” he asked. There was a distinct lack of heavenly peace and harmony in his tone.

“Let me have a look.” I took the flask and studied it carefully. Then I offered it back. “This couldn’t be mine. It’s empty.”

He took the flask without a smile. “Do you know who I am?”

“Judging by the uniform, I figure you must have been the bellhop at the hotel St Peter.”

It seemed that humour was in short supply outside the Gates of Heaven. He didn’t laugh at all. Instead, he grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Listen to me,” he hissed. “All I’m doing is trying to get my job done, when suddenly I’m struck on the head by this little drink bottle. Maybe you see something funny in this, because I don’t.” Up close, his green eyes flashed angrily, and his rancid breath nearly overwhelmed me. It seemed that mouthwash was also in short supply up here.

I pushed him off my shoulder and threw him to the ground.

“No, you listen to me,” I said. “All my life, I’ve had punks like you telling me what to do. Now that I’m dead, I’m damned if I’m going to put up with it any longer. So you decide. Are you going to leave me to my business, or are you going to let my fists have a bit of fun?” Having stated my terms, I took back the flask, returned it to my pocket, and placed myself at the end of the queue.

The young man didn’t take too long to consider the offer. “We’ll see what Peter has to say about this,” he muttered through tight lips. Then he stood up and began walking purposefully back towards the Gates.

“Go and tell your boss I don’t deal with flunkies,” I called after him. This was true. The people I dealt with were usually three levels below the flunkies—not that he needed to know that. I bowed in response to the bewildered looks from the other people in the queue, removed the hat from the head of the scruffily-dressed gentleman, and placed it on my own. By a remarkable coincidence, it was a perfect fit.

It took about an hour for the bellhop to return. He strode across the clouds, dragging behind him an old man wearing a long white cloak tied around the midriff by a black sash. This man was tall, with long, lanky legs that his cloak consistently failed to keep covered. He had a flowing white beard and a face that was distinguished in a well-lined kind of way, and his eyes had a thoughtful, slightly pained look that spoke of a devotion to duty that went way beyond the call.

The younger man pointed at me. It didn’t look as if his mood had improved.

“This is the one, Peter,” he said. “First he threw a metal flask at me as he came into the light. Then, when I tried to talk to him, he attacked me.”

Peter listened carefully to the bellhop’s version of events. Then he turned to me.

“Is this true?” he asked. His voice was gentle, but I detected a tougher edge lurking not far beneath.

“Listen, Peter,” I said. “This is really not what I expected. I’ve just died a fairly violent and unpleasant death, and I was hoping for a little compassion. Instead, what do I find? Some puffed up little jackass who thinks that because he’s got a pretty uniform he can harass anyone passing through. Well today he took on the wrong guy.”

The bellhop clenched his fists. “You really want to take me on?” he snarled, trying to force his way past Peter.

Peter brushed the bellhop aside as one might wave away an irritating fly.

“Please tell me your name,” he said, “and spare me the shenanigans. I’m a very busy man and I’ve got a massive number of people to process, so if you could just play straight with me for a couple of minutes, I’m sure it will help both of us.”

As I looked into Peter’s eyes, I felt chastened. Here was a pair of eyes that had seen it all. For generation after generation, those eyes had watched the multitudes trooping through the Gates, relieved at last of age and suffering. If any man ever deserved a straight response, this was the one.

“My name is Jimmy Clarenden,” I said. “I’m sorry I hit your man with my flask. I can assure you it wasn’t intentional.”

Peter’s eyebrows raised themselves. His eyes bulged.

“Jimmy Clarenden, the private investigator?” he gasped.

“So some people have been known to refer to me,” I said, feeling somewhat bemused. It seemed my complete lack of fame had preceded me.

“You must come with me immediately.” Peter grabbed my arm and set off towards the Gates. I almost clean lost my balance, so forcefully was he tugging me.

As we passed the bellhop, I gave him a little smile. “Thanks for delivering my message.”

The bellhop didn’t reply, but over my shoulder, I could feel his glowering scowl as I was towed away.

The further we got from the end of the queue, the more I felt my brief show of bravado fading. Those Gates were approaching far too quickly. For an old fellow, this Peter could really move.

“Can you slow down?” I croaked. “I’m not exactly in any condition for a hundred-metre dash, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Peter glanced across at me. “My goodness, what happened to you?”

“I’ve been shot, multiple times. Right now, I feel like a slice of Swiss cheese at a hole punch convention.”

Peter paused for a moment, unable to tear his gaze from my bloodstained wreck of a body. Then the urgency returned to his eyes and he started up again, though at a slightly more relaxed pace.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Priority instructions. You must be brought through the Gates as quickly as possible.”

The insistence in Peter’s voice worried me. “I don’t understand,” I said. “This doesn’t have anything to do with what I said to the bellhop? I was only having a lend of him.”

“All I know is the instructions came right from the top,” replied Peter. “As soon as Jimmy Clarenden arrives, he is to be brought through the Gates as quickly as possible. Nothing more than that. No explanation. I tried to pass it on to all my assistants, but apparently some of them prefer to do the job their own way. You know how hard it is to find good help these days.”

“Sure,” I lied. The idea of me being in a position to employ some help was pretty funny. If my sides weren’t already split, I might have even laughed.

We continued walking beside the seemingly endless queue. Many of the people in the line shot glances towards us as we hurried past, their eyes revealing surprise, curiosity, and, most often, unabashed jealousy. As for myself, I was definitely feeling this personalised escort was not such a wonderful thing. Someone inside those Gates really wanted to see me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why.