Heaven Is Not Like Carnoustie
by Max Robberts
Plot Summary:
Heaven Is Not Like Carnoustie is a comedy about the end of the world.
Colin Kelly is seeing things, mainly angels. Most troubling is the Archangel Gabriel who visits Colin's quiet suburban garden to tell him that he is now the prophet for the third millennium; and to steal cookies. The Four Horsemen are approaching, will mankind listen to the Word of Colin before it's all too late?
God - now The Certain Eternal One (CEO) due to recent modernisations – hopes that mankind will heed his final warning.
Meanwhile, Bruce Taylor and medium Justin Troy are hired by His Honour Judge John Lott to investigate the disappearance of his wife, just where all the salt came from and why a council worker called Stan should take it all away.
Colin’s wife, Sheila, convinces him to seek professional help when he reveals his new mission to her; she is less than enamoured by his new found notoriety, even if the sex is great.
The Devil stalks the earth, assured of victory now that all of mankind knows the mobile telephone number of the beast.
Colin’s Guardian Angel, Clarence, is left with the job of guiding him and helping him in the final battle for his sanity and mankind.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are approaching and they are quite damp, noticeably peckish, a little bit late and extremely pissed off.
Colin’s initial reluctance to fight the Four Horsemen and forethought at having brought tea and Hob-Nobs for everyone results in their lives returning almost to normal and Bruce’s bill never being paid.
Colin Kelly is our only hope. Can he save the planet? Are estate agents evil incarnate? Does the duck-billed platypus have a sense of humour?
And do we have enough Hob-Nobs?
There really is only one place to find out.
Book Excerpt:
The following excerpt is from the lead up to the battle for mankind’s existence which takes place just outside Stowmarket, off the B1115:
Then it began, like a hole bursting through the dam of quiet reserve, people running for the shop, grabbing chocolate covered flapjacks and Steradent tablets as though their very lives depended on it. Others left carrying Ginsters All Day Breakfast Buffet Bars and copies of Heat magazine that they hadn’t paid for, clutched to their chests. Engines started, nozzles were abandoned on the ground, there were crunches of plastic bumper on plastic bumper as people tried to be first out of the petrol station; running with looted supplies, from what and to where they didn’t quite know.
‘What in heaven’s name?’ Harry asked Josh.
‘God alone knows, come on, let’s get away from here.’ Josh jumped in the car and started the engine. He soon joined a queue of slightly dented vehicles hooting their way onto the A14, people cutting in and bumping each other out of the way. A motorcyclist roaring, revving and braking his way through the disordered jam; he hadn’t heard the news that had led to people fleeing the garage forecourt, he was just being a motorcyclist, behaving as he always did.
The slip road that had once seen the passage of Roman legions now witnessed hoards of people, some trying to join the A14, others trying to leave it and nobody quite knowing why. Every rule had been instantly discarded, cars pushed and bumped other cars out of their way and others tried to make headway in the wrong direction, against the flow of joining traffic.
The main road was little better, the traffic was moving fast enough but it was like rush hour in Rome, there was a traffic jam but it was moving at fifty miles an hour, cars bumper to bumper in both lanes and in both directions. The abandoned wrecks of cars that had misjudged the terrifying stream of traffic lay on the grass verge, most of them the right way up, but not all. There were the sounds of distant sirens and the clattering-whop of the police helicopter overhead reporting on the madness that lay in every direction.
‘I’m going to find out what’s going on.’ Josh reached for the radio and was jolted from behind, it was only the fact that he hit the car in front at just the right angle that kept him on the road. They then started to learn of the panic that had started earlier that morning high above the Skagerrak, the narrow stretch of water that separated Norway and Denmark.
Flight number DY1303 from Stansted to Oslo was exactly half way between Kristiansand and Thisted when the radio blared into life. Captain Fritjof Hjelmaen had only recently changed frequency as they crossed the border from Danish airspace to Norwegian.
‘Nor Shuttle 187 I have traffic in your left, eleven o’clock, six miles, no height, primary contact only.’
‘Nor Shuttle 187 looking.’ Fritjof said into the radio before turning to his twelve year old First Officer, Otto Otterstad. ‘What the hell could that be?’
‘Not a clue, can’t see anything yet.’ Otto, who wasn’t really twelve, he just looked it, especially to Fritjof, started scanning the blue.
‘Nor Shuttle 187 traffic now eleven o’ clock, seven miles, if not sighted turn right onto zero six zero.’
‘Looking, Nor Shuttle 187.’
Except for the radio the flight deck was in silence as both men strained their eyes for any signs of the approaching aircraft. Leaning those two inches forwards to get them closer to whatever it was. The cool air of the cockpit started to noticeably thicken.
‘Nor Shuttle 187 avoiding action, immediate right turn onto zero nine zero.’
‘Right zero nine zero, Nor Shuttle 187.’ Fritjof answered and began the turn, still scanning the sky to his left for the traffic.
‘Still can’t see anything.’ Otto told him.
‘No, me neither shit, fuck, what the fuck, bollocks.’ Fritjof almost stood the fifty tonnes of Boeing 737 on its right wingtip and struggled and pulled, all the time waiting for a sound. ‘Did you fucking see that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Get on the PA.’
‘And say what?’
‘Anything.’ Fritjof levelled the aircraft and called on the radio. ‘Nor Shuttle 187, now heading 150 after avoiding action.’
‘What do I tell the passengers?’ Otto asked.
‘Anything, anything at all.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Otto started, unsure of where he was going with this, ‘we apologise for the slight disturbance but it was necessary in order to avoid four hooded men on horseback.’
Death led his pale horse downwards, into the clouds, followed by the white, red and black of his companions, the hooves of their horses galloped earthwards, stirring up the tops of the clouds which swirled around them as they dived. For millennia Death had planned this, his greatest day, and now he was going to be late for the end of time.
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