In a grand courthouse, in a deserted square, in the dead of night, a battle takes place for Lolita’s soul. Where will she spend eternity – upstairs, downstairs, or somewhere in between?
“Silence please, the Court of Lost Souls is now in session.”
The wood-panelled courtroom was forbidding at the best of times. But after midnight, it became positively chilling as the Court of Lost Souls convened. When people passed on, most souls clearly belonged upstairs or down. But a few hovered somewhere in-between. It was here, that the realm’s most skilled legal spectres argued over their final destination.
Tonight, ghosts packed the public benches. Those on the right wore pale colours – gossamer white, blossom pink, duckling yellow – and watched proceedings with wide-eyed reverence. Those on the left wore outfits of black or scarlet, their tan faces set in a sneer.
“Please be upstanding for Her Honour, Maisie Cotton,” the Court Clerk announced.
Pale ghosts rocketed to their feet. The darker ghouls stayed seated or put feet up on the benches in defiance.
Justice Cotton, an older woman, with petite features and pince-nez perched upon her nose, shook her head at the familiar scene. It was ever thus. Her courtly wig sat slightly askew as she took her place at the head of the court. “Be seated.”
Simon Abernathy, GC (God’s counsel), ruddy-cheeked and jowly, leapt up. “This hearing concerns Lolita Magdelene Freya Adamson-O’Brien. Charged with actions unbecoming an aspirant to the Higher realms.”
All eyes turned to the slender woman of barely 17 years sitting demurely in the dock. With golden hair like haystalks lit by the sun, she wore a pristine white dress and sniffled into a monogrammed handkerchief.
“We maintain, that though the defendant appears to be a candidate for ascension,” Abernathy began, “in fact, she belongs below. As Ms Adamson-O’Brien’s soul is as black as a piano’s half tones.”
A murmur of excitement ran through the packed courtroom. Lolita bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Abernathy boomed: “Call my first witness, Michael Rafferty.”
An elderly gent in a minister’s cassock entered the witness box.
“Mr Rafferty, do you swear to tell the truth, under pain of eviction from the heavenly realm and descent to an eternal dungeon full of torture and pain.”
Stick thin, with livid veins on his cheeks like a treasure map, Rafferty nodded gravely. “I do.”
“Be seated,” said the judge.
“You were a pastor and advisor at the Chastity Convent for Girls in the living world?” Prosecutor Abernathy began.
“Yes,” he said.
“Mr Rafferty, can you, first, describe for the court, the circumstances of your departure from the living realm?”
Rafferty licked his lips over and over like a neurotic lizard, before answering. “It was through an excess of over-ripe fruit.” His voice had an Irish lilt.
“And you were the choir master, at Chastity Convent, were you not?”
“For my sins.” The former pastor giggled, realising his words might be misconstrued here. “For twenty-three years.”
“You know the defendant?”
As Rafferty turned to observe Lolita, her blue eyes fluttered upwards, to meet his, beseechingly.
“Yes, I do.”
“She was the piano player for the Chastity Choir?” said the Prosecutor. “She any good?”
“Oh yes!” Rafferty agreed. “She was most excellent.”
His praise was rewarded by a beatific smile from the defendant, and a glare from Abernathy. “Did you notice anything unusual during her accompaniments?”
“When the defendant played the piano,” Rafferty said, “I couldn’t help noticing her foot tapped out a different rhythm entirely, as if listening to a silent score in her head. It was a beat that did not go with the pious music we played. Uneven and a-rhythmic. And on a few occasions, Lolita played B-flat, when C-major was required. Revealing the discord in her soul.”
With a smug smile, the prosecutor resumed his seat and gestured that it was defence counsel’s turn.
Across the aisle, Justine Maxwell, stood up. Pin-striped, with eyes that could impale a witness and rip their heart out with a glance, Maxwell cross-examined the pastor. “Sir, when you say you expired because of ripe fruit, don’t you mean you died in a gutter, after decades of excessive alcohol consumption? To wit, cheap red wine?”
“Well, I did take the occasional drink in Confession,” said Rafferty. “I remember falling into that gutter. I think it was a loose stone on the road made me lose my footing.”
“And you now run a bar in the higher realms, called… Rafferty’s.”
“The wine is all organic, you know. Come by sometime. I give free drinks to all my legal friends.”
“Are you attempting to bribe this court?” Maxwell boomed. The very air seemed to darken with her fury.
“Not at all,” the pastor said. Flustered, he fanned his face. “Gettin’ back to what I was sayin’ … that kind of discordant sound, with arrhythmic beats is characteristic of one style of music; a style quite popular with the lower orders…”
“Boo! Boo!” chanted spectators on the left.
“Order!” The judge banged her ghostly gavel.
“It’s called ja-” Rafferty said
“Thank you, Mr Rafferty,” the defence lawyer cut him off.
#
“Call Prunella Seymour,” said the Prosecutor.
A woman of bountiful proportions, with grey eyes, like fish scales, took the stand.
“Miss Seymour,” Prosecutor Abernathy clutched the front of his robes, pompously, “were you the landlady at the Chastity convent school?”
“Yes. Though I prefer the title Moral Guidance Advisor.” The lady’s voice was breathy, her smile – bestowed frequently upon the judge – syrupy.
“Where you became acquainted with the defendant, Ms Adamson-O’Brien?”
“Yes. Generally, a delightful girl.”
The Prosecutor’s right eyebrow pinged up. “Generally? But did you have some specific reservations about her?”
“Yes,” Seymour addressed the judge. “For one, she was always tired at breakfast, yawning, rubbing her eyes. I thought nothing of it, at first, but when it continued, I decided to investigate. I waited outside the girl’s room. And just after midnight, her window opened and she climbed out. I took photos.”
The Prosecutor’s assistant passed copies of the images to the defence team and the judge.
“As you see,” Seymour said, “her actions were furtive, sneaking about in the shadows. Convent rules forbade leaving the rooms at night. In the third photo -”
“Exhibit C,” the Prosecutor clarified.
“…you can see she met someone. A man. Twice her age. I followed them around the school grounds, where they entered the music room. I placed my ear to the door,” she turned to the Judge, “only hoping to serve my school. I heard music. Unholy music. And the man said: ‘You’re very good. A natural. You must let me show you off to my friends one night.'”
A gasp from the angels greeted her words. Grumbly chuckles emanated from the left side of the room.
“Later, I searched her bunk and found a note, written in a man’s hand,” said the landlady said. “It said: ‘See you soon. B.L.Z'”
The prosecutor smiled as he sat down.
“Before your Chastity job,” Maxwell said, rising, “you had another landlady role?”
Ms Seymour pressed her lips together. “At a private women’s institution.”
“That was Raquel’s House of Pleasure, wasn’t it?” Maxwell said. “I won’t ask what moral advice you gave those girls.”
Lewd laughter broke out, left side. Judge Cotton rolled her eyes.
“You left the convent suddenly, after fourteen months,” Maxwell said. “Under what circumstances?”
Now, Ms Seymour’s breathy voice turned gravelly. “I like photography.”
“Yes. And?”
“I was photographing nature, up a tree, and accidentally snapped Mother Superior with Father Lonergan. In their natural state.”
Gasps and laughter filled the public gallery.
“You offered to sell those pictures to the individuals involved, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But clearly, they weren’t art lovers. And they weren’t no oil painting neither.”
She exited with a raised middle finger, to cheers from half of the court.
“The Prosecution rests,” Abernathy mumbled.
#
“Call Lolita Adamson-O’Brien,” said Maxwell.
Silence reigned as Lolita entered the witness box. Those close enough saw her hand tremble as she took the oath.
Justine Maxwell’s smile was as warm as her scowl was frightening. “Now, Lolita, can you tell her Honour, what you were doing with the man, known as BLZ, late at night, in the school music room?”
“Learning some new music, a style called-”
Maxwell gestured for her to stop. “Please just answer the questions.” She gave her a reassuring smile. “How did you meet this BLZ to arrange these lessons?”
“It was at a Convent Music concert. He seemed on good terms with the teachers there. I thought they wouldn’t mind.”
The Prosecutor whispered loudly to his junior, his brow trenched with displeasure.
“So, why all the sneaking around?” the defence asked. “Why not just tell your teachers what you were doing?”
“I wanted to surprise them at the Christmas concert. Mother Superior and Father Lonergan were so encouraging about my music, I thought they would enjoy it.”
“They enjoyed It all right,” a spectator called. The Court Clerk grabbed the culprit, and his pitchfork, and prodded him with it all the way out.
The Prosecutor stood up. “I ask that the witness’s last comment be stricken from the record.
“Denied,” the judge ordered.
“Then let the record show the tone of disingenuousness in which it was uttered.” Abernathy scowled at the girl, who looked back, hurt, the picture of innocence.
“Now, to the circumstances of your death?” Maxwell said. “A road accident. We have visual evidence to produce.”
A court assistant wheeled in a screen. Images appeared of Lolita riding a bike along a city road, with mid-level traffic, before entering a tunnel.
“Pause there,” Maxwell instructed, turning to Lolita: “You never emerged from that tunnel, did you? What happened?”
“I’m not sure.” Lolita chewed her bottom lip. “I remember a dark vehicle beside me .. swerving to my lane and…” With shaky hands, Lolita took a sip of water. “…I woke up in the Lost Souls recovery room.”
“Your Honour,” Maxwell said, “we have been able to get some CCTV from inside the tunnel, which may shed further light.”
The screen now showed scenes from inside the tunnel. Lolita entered in the cycling lane. A black van kept pace alongside her until it swerved across her path, blocking the camera’s vision of her. The footage went black.
“I’m afraid that’s all there was,” said Maxwell.
“And you cannot enlighten us further, young lady?” the Judge.
“It’s a blank.”
“Yes, it’s a mystery,” said defence counsel. “But with the court’s indulgence, we may find out a little more.”
“Objection! Relevance!” said the Prosecutor. “Though it is a tragedy that a young life was cut short, learning how she passed will not resolve the issue before the court – which pertains to the state of the girl’s soul.”
“If I could have some leeway,” Maxwell said, “I think, your Honour, will find it extremely relevant.”
The spectators tilted forward on the bench, more enthralled by the case than by anything on Angelflix or Devil’s TV.
“Very well,” said the judge
Maxwell nodded and the assistant started the film again. “Before the image turns to black, there was a moment…”
Again, along came Lolita and the black van cutting her off and… “By slowing the frames down, we glimpse the name on the van. B.L.Zebob Transport.”
A hum of excitement ran through the assembled souls.
“Is this a coincidence?” Maxwell addressed the courtroom, in a style usually reserved for television lawyers. “I think not, fellow spirits, good and wicked. And now, your honour, we have the final piece of the puzzle. Thank Heavens – and I don’t say that lightly – some new film was captured via a drone sent by You-Know-Who, who’s always watching!”
This time, the angle was from the rear of the tunnel. Lolita came into view, the van pulled out in front of her, and stopped … just short of hitting the bike. The girl was hustled into the back of the van.
“So … I didn’t die? I’m not dead?” Lolita asked.
“No, you are, dear. Someone saw to that. Someone inside the van.”
Maxwell nodded to her Junior, who exited the court.
“I call the driver, B. L. Zebob to the stand,” Maxwell boomed.
“Objection!” Abernathy jumped up. “I had no notice of this witness.”
“The evidence has only just come to light,” said the defence lawyer.
The junior reappeared, flushed and giggly, followed by a cool dude in black leather, who strutted up to the witness box, smiling and winking at the public as he took his vows. Even the right side of the court was in thrall.
“Mr Zebob,” Maxwell asked. “Are you the owner of B.L. Zebob transport?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And were you in the van last week when you took a girl who wasn’t yet dead, into your care.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you give her a drink to calm her, which ended her earthly life and began her afterlife? To wit, you murdered her.”
“Guilty again.”
“And do you make a habit of such things?”
“No. This was an emergency.”
He explained that a new exchange programme had begun between those Upstairs and Down to improve inter-realm relations. “Paul the pianist of the Chilli-Pepper Jazz Band went up to learn the harp. We were short a pianist for our Hot Friday jams. And Lolita is one of the best.”
“Her? A great jazz player?” Ms Maxwell exclaimed. “That’s hard to believe. We’ll need proof!”
“I second that!” The Prosecutor called out.
Now the assistant wheeled in an electronic piano from YamaHell, and invited Lolita to play.
“Burn those keys, babe,” said BLZ.
As she played, a choir of angels provided jazz harmonies, devils bumped and limbo-ed under BLZ’s pitchfork. Judge Cotton’s wig slipped off as she bopped. And the Prosecutor and Defence lawyers did a swing-dance together that belonged strictly downstairs.
“Your Honour, at this point, I’d like to call for Lolita’s release,” said Maxwell, breathless.
“I concur,” said Abernathy.
The Judge peered at the defendant through pince-nez. “Lolita. You were taken too soon. For selfish reasons,” the judge glowered at B.L. Zebob, who had the grace to look ashamed. “The prosecution has failed to make its case against you, so this Court sees no reason why you should not spend eternity in the Higher Realm. ” The judge raised her gavel.
“Wait!” Lolita cried. “Is there no jazz band upstairs?”
“Strictly string instruments and choirs above,” BLZ replied.
“Then, is it okay if I…go downstairs?” Lolita asked. “I love Jazz. I don’t think I can live – or not live – without it.”
“This is highly unusual.” The judge frowned. “Mr Prosecutor, Ms Maxwell, approach the bench.”
After a whispered consultation, they found a compromise.
“You can live upstairs most of the week,” said Judge Cotton, “but on Fridays, you will go down below for jazz night. And, further, a suggestion. You could enquire at Rafferty’s about the possibility of music with his organic wines? Why should BLZ and his friends be the only one to benefit from your considerable gifts?”
Lolita sighed with relief, and dabbed her face, with her monogrammed handkerchief. LMFAO.