OnRockInSpace

ALT Perhaps it’s time for humanity to have a say in the afterlife, including whether they actually want one. Not today, though. Today, we have nowhere to be but here in the cottage — the first home that has been just ours. I bought the shop on Whickber Street to indulge my love of books, and it became a refuge. A place for us to avoid the scrutiny of Heaven and Hell. To hide from the consequences of who we are. It will remain a place of safety for those who seek it and under Muriel’s direction it will probably sell far too many books, but I find myself unconcerned. The important ones are here, while the books that other people value will continue to sustain that little corner of Soho. If Muriel needs us, there’s an innocuous ornament on the mantel that will take us there in an instant, meaning that Crowley can save his speed-demon instincts for recreational purposes. The cottage doesn’t have to masquerade as anything. Not a cover for a diligent operative, or a hiding place.

ALT Just a home for the two of us, rather more complicated on the inside than it appears from the garden. There are rooms inside that look out onto places very far from these green, rolling downs. There are doors that remain locked to guests, because the human brain struggles with such incongruities as a prosaic wooden portal that leads into empty space. Crowley’s studio is far enough from Earth that the light of his new nebulae won’t reach here for another thousand years. He takes great delight in explaining each new blueprint to me, and my own pleasure is a mirror, anticipating once again folding his hand in mine so that our miracles are perfectly entwined. I can see him through the window. He’s tending a rose, vivid sunset orange, which clashes joyfully with his hair. Every so often, he glances my way to see if he can get away with a whispered threat or two, and I pretend not to notice, engrossed as I am in my diary.

ALT I’ll keep his secrets safe, just as I’ll keep these records of our history safe. They may be full of inconsequential things, but they’re a testament to the choices that have led us here, to an end that’s also a beginning. They start with an angel and a soon-to-be-demon who didn’t change the world so much as witness it and realise we could change ourselves. I once said that nothing lasts forever, but perhaps I was wrong. If we’re lucky, love can endure all things. Crowley has waved at me. An invitation that I am loth to turn down after so many years of saying ‘no’. I close with this: If you want to imagine the future, imagine a bird, flying across the vast and unmapped universe towards a mountain. Imagine a journey that could be depicted by an unwavering line through emptiness, but instead takes the scenic route, which visits sights beautiful beyond description. Imagine occasional peril but more frequent hope, and lazy pauses to enjoy the sheer wonder of existing at all.

ALT Better still, imagine two birds. Taking turns to shelter the other with their wings, making their way unhurriedly towards the end of the universe to see what all the fuss is about. Together. Forever.