Daniel was surprised to find he was dead. Not the fact of his death, because that was sure given the certainties of gravity, and the distance between the nineteenth floor of his apartment block and the concrete courtyard directly below his balcony.
No, his surprise was more like, “Wow! Continued existence”.
“Where in hell am I?” Daniel asked himself assuming he would not get to heaven.
He looked around. He was stood at a crossroads with a sign pointing to “The Village”.
Following the sign past fields of rotting fruit and unpicked cabbages as the lane wound down into a valley at the bottom of which stood a clump of buildings, he had no idea how long it took, his watch had stopped and the sun was unmoving. It was almost as if time was standing still.
The village was a vision of traditional England; ivy festooned cottages, a corner shop, a church and a country pub… except it was shabbier and grey. There was no apparent life, so Daniel decided to look around.
The shop’s interior was almost empty, as were its shelves, bereft of any goods except tins of Spam. The cottages appeared to be empty too and the church was locked.
“So, the pub it is,” he said.
When he opened the door he was greeted by a curious scene: grey-clad people sitting hunched over tables, silently clutching half-filled glasses. In the corner stood a jukebox playing fifties music and behind the bar was a stern-faced man, watching him with suspicious eyes.
“What’ll it be?” The barman growled.
“A pint of lager, please.” Daniel replied.
“We only serve ale,” he stated, “British ale.”
Daniel nodded and the barman placed a pint glass on the bar.
“Thanks,” Daniel handed the man a note, which he squirreled away into his pocket. No change was forthcoming.
The ale was tasteless, but Daniel was thirsty, so he downed it quickly and asked for another.
“Rationing,” said the barman. “Only one allowed.”
“I see,” said Daniel. “And does rationing include snacks?”
“Meat pies,” the barman replied, “or crisps. Not both.”
“I’ll have a pie.”
“Ten pounds,” came the reply. Daniel handed over a note and was rewarded with a lump of pastry, gravy bubbles dripping from its side. He bit into the pie and like the pint it was virtually tasteless, but his hunger, which had until now gone unnoticed, gnawed at him.
“Is there anywhere that rents rooms?” Daniel asked. “I’ve only just arrived and I’m a bit lost…”
“We are all lost,” said the barman.
“You’re ALL lost?” Daniel exclaimed. Unexpectedly, a chorus came from the previously silent figures hunched over the tables.
“We are all lost”, they said in unison.
“Yes, we are lost here,” said the barman.
“And where,” Daniel paused for emphasis, “exactly is ‘here’.”
“Here is where we are,” he said. “This is where we have arrived: Brexit Britain. The Island of the Damned.”
It was hell after all.
Daniel screamed.
