The Eye of the Needle

“Name please?”

Simon looked up at the bloke in front of him; he didn’t look anything like he had imagined. No robes, no big book. No pearly gates for that matter – obviously a myth spread by Sunday school teachers. Just an ordinary guy in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a slogan scrawled across it ‘Eye of a Needle’. He hadn’t heard of them, must be a foreign band.

“Erm, Simon, Simon Cavanagh.”

“And have you completed your questionnaire?”

“Questionnaire? I’m not sure what you mean.” Simon shrugged.  

A deep sigh. Simon was sure that the guy rolled his eyes as he turned away to flick through a surprisingly small book on a plain wooden table. He didn’t look in any hurry, that was for sure.

“Who are you anyway? You don’t look like St. Peter, and I can’t see any pearly gates either. Am I where I think I am, or am I in a coma or something? This doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh yes, Simon, you are exactly where you should be. At the gates of justice, it just looks a little different than the people of Earth imagine it. I’m afraid you lot have built it up to be a bit more ‘bling’ than it really is – as you can see.”

Simon looked around. The man was now standing in front of him again, holding the book. Behind him was the aforementioned wooden table, on which a set of weighing scales sat, and to his left were two doors, identical. Nothing else. No clouds, just a kind of indistinguishable fuzzy grey background everywhere he looked, even beneath his feet which made his stomach do a small flip every time he looked down, which he was desperately trying not to do.

“Right,” said St. Peter, “here we are, Simon Cavanagh. We weren’t really expecting you. An unpredicted ascension. That’s why you haven’t had the form. Doesn’t matter, we can do it now. No problem.”

“Ooh-kay.” Replied Simon uncertainly, trying to keep up. “Let’s crack on then.”

This was so weird, certainly not what he had been led to believe by Sister Mary all those years ago.

The next half an hour was spent in what could only be described as an interview. Simon was asked questions about several events in his life, whilst St. Peter hummed and aahed before making copious notes in the book and then asking another, and another, until Simon really couldn’t imagine that there was anything else to know.

At last, St. Peter stood up, turned, and walked to the table, ceremoniously lowering the book until it straddled both pans of the scales. Simon held his breath as he watched the pans swing from side to side before settling exactly level.

“What does that mean?” he asked, his voice unnaturally shrill.

“That,” said St Peter, “means that we have one more situation to discuss.”

Simon gulped.

“OK, go on then. I’ve got nothing to hide you know, I’m a good bloke, salt of the earth, everyone says so.”

“Righto.” St. Peter sighed and folded his arms. “Tell me about John and Mavis.”

“Who? I have no idea who they are.”

“Well, you had better cast your mind back,” replied St. Peter, “Your death depends on it.”

***

Simon had been on his feet all day and he was absolutely shattered. The internet was playing up, the chef had called in sick and one of the housekeeping girls had twisted her ankle and had to go home. He had hoovered the stairs, peeled a mountain of potatoes and made up the last three rooms by himself and he couldn’t even drown his sorrows, because, to top a very bad day, his ‘Vino’ delivery hadn’t arrived and he had drunk his last bottle of red last night. This is not how he had imagined his days when he and Kath had taken the job of operations managers at what they had thought was quite a posh hotel – at least a step up from The Swan. How wrong can you be?

Simon walked through the empty dining room, and was just about to go upstairs when the night receptionist came rushing through the door.

“Thank goodness I haven’t missed you,” she blustered, “I’ve got a situation.”

“Can’t you just deal with it?” groaned Simon, “I should have finished an hour ago. There’s a ready meal with my name on it upstairs, I’m starving.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr and Mrs Clark have just arrived.” Moira said.

“Who? We have received all the guests we were expecting today,” stated Simon. “They’ll just have to go somewhere else.”

He turned towards the staff door but Moira continued in an annoyingly whiny voice.

“That’s just it, they have got a reservation but it’s for tomorrow. They must have made a mistake.”

“Well, that makes it even simpler,” shrugged Simon, “It’s their mistake. We can’t be held responsible for idiots who can’t keep abreast of their own diaries, can we. Show them the door.” He turned away again, punching the code into the keypad with way more force than was necessary.

“Oh, Simon,” Moira pleaded with him. “They look like a lovely couple and we do have a couple of empty rooms. What harm can it do? And if they are here tonight, they won’t be here tomorrow; it’s still a reservation fulfilled – no harm done.”

“No harm done!" Simon was losing it now. "I’m sick of being given the run-around by people who are bloody incompetent. I’m pretty sure the chef could have worked today, and now you can’t even deal with a simple issue at front desk. Just go home – and don’t bother coming back!”

Moira stared at him aghast, before grabbing her coat and making for the door furiously.

 “You will get what you deserve, eventually,” she spat at him furiously, “you are becoming a horrible, horrible man; you never used to be like this before...”

He didn’t hear the end of her sentence, but he could guess, ‘…before Kath left’. She was right, he wasn’t angry then, or impatient; he wasn’t supposed to be sailing this ship alone either, that hadn’t been the plan, but life has a way of kicking you when you’re down and here he was, seriously lacking in motivation and patience – oh, and money. How do single people live on one salary.

Realising that he had just sacked the only other person who could have dealt with the ‘situation’, Simon ran his hands through his rapidly thinning hair in frustration and headed towards the reception desk, ready to give this disorganised couple a piece of his mind.

            “I’m the manager and I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake with your booking. Your reservation is for tomorrow, not tonight. There’s a Travel Lodge round the corner, shut the door on your way out.”

All in one breath, impressive, he thought. He looked up as he finished speaking to see an elderly couple staring at him, mouths wide open. The woman spoke first.

“I know. It’s my fault, not John’s, I’ve got the dates muddled. I’m so sorry, is there no way you can jiggle things around and fit us in? We’re not fussy, we only need a small room.”

“It’s our wedding anniversary, you see, forty years!” The man put his arm around his wife’s waist fondly before continuing. “It was supposed to be a surprise, see. Mavis isn’t really good with technology but she booked it on the internet – just a silly mistake really. I’d have noticed if she had asked me to check it but… well, it was supposed to be a surprise, like I said.”

            “Well, as you’ve said, it’s your mistake.” replied Simon coldly. “The travel lodge isn’t bad.”

The woman burst into tears and started muttering apologetically to her husband, who drew her into a hug, trying to reassure her whilst simultaneously glaring at Simon, who irritatingly, felt himself start to soften – the woman reminded him a bit of Kath, if a bit older. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, holding up his hands.

 “OK, OK, there’s no need for tears. Let me look at the bookings.”

As Simon fiddled about pretending to examine the guest list (he knew perfectly well that there were two empty rooms), Mavis dried her eyes and sniffed unhappily whilst John rubbed her back.

            “I can change your booking from tomorrow night, to tonight,” Simon stated at last, “but it is a more expensive room so you will have to pay the difference – in cash.”

John rummaged around in his pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet.

“Thank you so much,” he effused, “we are so grateful. How much do we owe you?”

        “£20.” Replied Simon, shiftily, taking the money and sliding it under the till.

Twenty minutes later, Mavis and John safely deposited in his cheapest room, Simon walked out of the off licence with a cheap bottle of red wine, and continued on to the takeaway to pick up a pizza before making his way back home.

***

After a moment, realisation dawned in Simon’s eyes.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding! They got their room and I kept my sanity – for that night, at least. I even called Moira and apologised.”

St. Peter’s eyebrows remained raised,

“And the twenty quid?”

       “Yeah, that was wrong.” Simon’s shoulders sagged. “But I didn’t spend it – couldn’t have lived with myself if I had.  I gave it to the busker on the corner of Main Street. He might have spent it in the off licence, but I didn’t. I was never gonna die rich – too soft!”

The account recorded; St. Peter went back to the scales to measure Simon’s character one last time. As the scales dipped to the left, St. Peter turned to look Simon in the eye and stated, “Well, as recorded by Matthew, “…it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.””

         “Who’s Matthew?” asked Simon cautiously. “Are they song lyrics?”

Realising that Simon was referring to the slogan on his t-shirt, St. Peter guffawed loudly.

“Your mates were right, Simon, you’re not a bad bloke.” And pointing to his left said, “Have a good death; you won’t be seeing me again.”

Panicking slightly, Simon made his way to the door on the left. As he approached, it opened and he was filed with an overwhelming sense of love, wonder and gratitude, as Kath walked towards him with two large glasses of red wine.

            “Hiya love, you kept me waiting. Welcome to Paradise. May we have a long and happy death together.”