Larry raises, steadying himself for a quick trip to the bathroom. The television updates the same news. He is sick of hearing it, but he does not want to miss the Lotto draw. He used his SALotto card to register his entry this time. Never again a lost ticket.

With the discomfort of his swollen prostrate, he prefers to sit than stand. Why is he so restless? Is the negative news cycle or Dr Kearney’s concern over Larry’s cholesterols and blood pressure?

He experiences a sense of relief, both physically and mentally, as he settles down onto the cushioned seat. His fingers dwell on the three buttons in the unfastened cardigan’s pocket; the cardigan kitted by his mother long ago. Each button is associated with loss. He witnessed her grief on his brother’s tragic, fatal car accident. Stoic. Some thought her unfeeling, but he knew a part of his mother died that day, forcing her to move on, knitting needles in hand. Unable to match her stoic strength he emigrated to Australia, finding himself here in Adelaide.

His fingers trace the first button, bringing him back to Little Larry’s drowning. At Brenda’s sister’s home. A backyard barbecue, an informal wetting of a nephew’s head. Who should have kept an eye on the children by the pool? He knows he should know, but he doesn’t. Deep in his heart, he sensed a force of destiny at play. His son died. A dark corner knew a rightness he cannot explain. He recalled carrying Little Larry’s body in the ambulance; later to the mortuary, identifying his son after signing his heart away. It comes to him. Rose, mother of new baby, found Little Larry floating in their pool.

Fingering Brenda’s button; recalling his wife’s hysterical, overt soul crushing grief. He was his mother’s son and to him, impatient at his wife’s lack of constraint. He called their local doctor, Daniel Kearney, bringing his wife, Heather, for the calming of Brenda. The heavens rained down as Brenda sobbed, control lost. Brenda’s cries declared this night will see God the bed.

Larry jerks at a clap of thunder; torrential rain pounds the corrugated iron roof. Yes, that is why they all had come indoors. A sudden downpour.

Yes, she was furious that he signed the donation form, sending Little Larry’s heart into a stranger. How dare he? Without asking her first, without understanding she had then been beyond reason. And a child in desperate need evoked Larry’s response without hesitation. It seemed the right thing to do. So, he had argued, explained, pleaded for her compassion.

She changed her tune after an ultrasound. Choosing the morally upright path, Brenda declined to abort despite knowing this child has no brain. Somehow, in her head, this was God’s will. At Little Larry’s funeral service, she saw him, dressed in a grownup sky-blue suit with this baby cradled in his arms. She knows many thought Little Larry a bit of a brat, an unlikely angel, but this vision carried her through, resisting sensible advice. Her daughter’s heart destined for donation; until the deaths of both mother and child.

Larry’s mind lingers over the things known and the things unknown. If he had known about the road extension plan, he might not have mixed Little Larry’s ashes into the concrete wishing-well that Brenda wanted built of the backyard. His fingers clench the Brenda button. She will see him in hell first. He sighs. He has forgotten the particular argument. She screamed into the void. He understood her soul-destroying anger that washed, then drenched him when caught in the passing moment of her storm. The constant drizzle didn’t faze him, but her words sliced through him like claws. To stem the torrent of her vitriol, he raised the back of his hand and hit her. That one time. Damned by her forever.

He leans forward, elbows on his thighs. Too late, the thought of buying the padded seat for her; his bowels empty. He drifts into a lucid dream where Brenda’s arms are outstretched and waiting. A current of energy courses from the centre of his forehead as he falls forward. The ribbon of prayer rose, reaches the shoulder of the nearest earthbound angel.

Surrounded by bagged belongings, an old lady stirred, sleep broken by a dream. Sensing a sudden need to depart, sighed, what now? She staggers away. A passing security guard sent up a prayer of thanks, relieved he does not need to roust the old woman.

Larry’s guardian angel, Olivia, gathers the whispering shreds of his soul into closer care. She carries him to a place of safety to contemplate possibilities before the forty-first day. But she does not leave him to wake alone.

Waking, he feels a tug on his right sleeve. Looking down over his shoulder, he does not disbelieve the small, angelic form stood at his side. Sitting, he raises his knees, hugging them to his chest. No, his eyes do not deceive. Elfin or angel? Both forms are hitherto unknown. He cannot deny its being.

With Angelf’s hand guiding him, he stands. A moment of wonder. Where, why, and how had he come here?

“Let’s take a walk.” Angelf tugs his hand. Now able to assess his whereabouts, Larry sees they stand on a platform only three centimetres thick, but considerably wide. While slowly walking away from the edge, Larry’s brain registers the shapes seen on blueprints from his past fitting and turning life. With Angelf now in the crook of his arm, he asks, “Are we on the outer edge of a hexagon?”

Angelf, grinning the while, jumps from Larry’s hold, landing on his right shoulder. “You’re lightning fast for someone ordinary.” Larry never considered himself otherwise, so takes no offence. He strokes Angelf’s feathered arm, “And you, what shall I call you? Are you ordinary? In this place? What is this place? Again, are we on a hexagonal platform?”

“So many questions. Yes, this place assesses. Three criteria already passed. You only need one more to be deemed worthy. Move.” Larry’s now alert he’s in the central hexagon, as formed by the surrounding six sides shimmering rainbow colours.

“Worthy? Am I being judged?”

“No, no, emphatically no. Judgement? No. No, no, emphatically no. Someone will assess you.”

“For what? By whom? Unsure if ever I did right. Obviously, I may have unknowingly caused harm.”

Angelf strokes Larry’s cheek. “Relax. As of now, you have shown me kindness, humility and, by so many quick questions, zeal.“

An incoming message interrupts Angelf, knocking him off Larry’s shoulder. By dying a day earlier than the telemetric designation, Larry will donate a vast sum to the charity of St. Vincent de Paul in Adelaide. Recent arrivals could bring news of Larry’s Lotto win. A reputation for generosity, however inadvertent, follows through the ages and aeons. Angelf is called to account for the difference a day has made in Larry’s lifespan.

Angelf lowers Larry to a cloud-like level where multitudes await admission beyond the golden curtains.

“Go ahead. Make yourself known. Talk to,” pointing to the ghost of a bag-lady, “she knows the ropes.”

Freed from Angelf’s presence on his shoulder, Larry wonders how slight a being weights as a conscience. Alerted to his gaze, the old lady takes Larry’s hand, leading him to the platform’s edge. “Sit ye down. Peek over the side.” Larry does as bid.

Larry is back in Adelaide, yet he is not. Below are streetlights outlining the familiar shape of five squares within the city mile. The days, nights, and seasons change with each blink of his believing eyes. Light shows never attended. Festival lights flash at regular intervals. John Martin’s Christmas parade every November. The memory of his son triggers his tears cradled in the fat man’s lap. His brief life heartbreakingly ended, forerunner to the grief that followed. With one arm around his shoulders, the old lady draws an old rag from her pocket, offering to wipe his tears. He takes the rag and stems the flow. Comfort and kindness, freely given, unexpected. Appreciated. He wipes the cloth on the trousers of his wedding suit. Paroxysm. Gut wrenching. The old lady hugs him close and he hears her heart. Life exists, even wherever “here” is.

Look, who do you see? She turns time, so he views yesterday from above.

Larry’s neighbour, Ross Higgins, senses that something is amiss when the third call rings out. Cleaning the debris from last night’s storm, the sound of Larry’s phone is clear in the still air. Usually, Larry responds before the second call. Certainly, earlier than eight-thirty. Now nine or thereabouts. Knowing where Larry stores the spare key, he lifts it from the wishing-well bucket. With the back door opened, he hears the TV sound and sees the living room light burning. Following his nose, he heads to the bathroom where he finds the lifeless Larry on the toilet. Needs flushing. Excrement flushed. He checks for a pulse, grabbing a blanket from the living room. He covers Larry’s body and sits down next to him.

The front doorbell sounds. The bell sounds again, bringing Ross to his feet, patting Larry’s knee as he rises.

Two police officers have arrived at the door in response to a Red Cross welfare check request. The house appears neat, but the broken branches of a nearby tree remain on the front footpath. Before leaving the station, a brief search uncovered a rich history of house calls. A woman beyond reason screaming at her husband. Despite once being clocked in the face, she chose not to press charges.

“Mr Street?”

“No. Higgins, Ross Higgins. Next door. Come in.” He points the way to the bathroom, explaining the missed phone calls were a worry. He held out, and the sergeant took, the house key.

“I found him here. Checked no pulse. Didn’t seem right to leave him uncovered. ”

“Do you have any idea who his doctor is?”

“Oh, yes. A husband and wife team.” Ross takes a card from the wallet in his pocket, handing it to the constable to phone the doctor.

“Thank you, Mr Higgins. We’ll take it from here.”

“One thing. He gave me the keys to his car for my use. Every week or more, I would take him shopping. Is it alright if I keep them for now? It is my only transport.”

“It is best to leave that to the lawyers or whoever takes care of his affairs. But thank you. I will make a note should there be any question about the car.”

Malevolence, fuelled by Brenda’s promise of revenge, finds its home within the house. Not only do the walls hold a miserable history, they also emit an odour. Both officers know this scent of despair. Often cast as stale, overcooked cabbage. This is not a crime scene.

As Ross leaves, he pockets the Lotto ticket from the arm of the recliner.

Dr Kearney arrives, pronounces death at approximating the eight-thirty evening news. He has seen Larry several times recently. A chat is just as important as prescription updates, if not more. The doctor and his wife harbour much sympathy for this family.

Unknown back then, their son’s heart had a defect which contributed to his drowning, rendering it unsuitable for transplantation. This genetic defect, lurking, undetonated, carried and contributed by Brenda to both children, delivered death to mother and daughter in childbirth.

As the police are about to call an on-call undertaker, Kearney remembers the firm Larry used on both distressing occasions. He offers to make the call as he knows both family and undertaker. He has Parlsow’s number as contact on his phone and calls him.

Eddie Parslow arrives to collect Larry’s now stiff and cold body. He recalls the preference for cremation. While investigating Larry’s wardrobe, he finds a suit to replace the old tracksuit and well-worn, murky green cardigan. Eddie lowers his body to inspect a box with a label that says “Documents.” Nothing to inform close friends or family. A lawyer’s business card.

He contacts the lawyer, who asks he brings the box to his chambers. Later, Eddie complies with the request, also passing on the house key given to him by the police before they left. The lawyer confirmed that Larry’s estate will cover the costs. Death resolves Larry’s housing dilemma.

Eddie has a thought. He knows the medical school is low on cadavers, and a new semester is about to start. He asks if a full-body donation to the medical school will be congruent with what the lawyer knows of Larry. Eddie explains the family had a history of willingness to donate organs. The lawyer requires the necessary paperwork from Eddie which Eddie supplies.

Now he has the box, key, and fresh paperwork, the lawyer reviews the files about Larry’s house. He plans to visit the property to confirm clearing content before demolition. St Vinnies will gather and sort contents as Larry’s estate’s contribution to that charity.

He will visit the property next week. He will find the letterbox locked, overflowing, important correspondence shoved under the front door, and a request to contact Lotto, offering financial advice regarding his win ten days earlier. The lawyer pockets Laurence Street’s SALottol membership card. Could be interesting?

Although dealing with death is a family business, Eddie does not confine his entrepreneurial skills. He has scope for a book. Perhaps a television series. Or as an adviser if a secret project comes sees the light of day. Light of day? He chuckles. He checks himself. In the mortuary, Eddie hears whispers while preparing the body for embalming. The whispers. Again, he hears the whispers. He blames superstition for believing he hears those voices. This is shared only with his grandmother. He knew she knew what he was talking about. Her finger to her lip, the way her thumb reached up and twisted both lips, and her steady stare put Eddie into permanent silence about the sound. Superstition. He knows this is an irrational belief. He is also aware of a sense of something above and beyond the things that most people accept to be true. But is acceptance necessary or sufficient for truth? Too late in the day for philosophising.

In more ways than one, Larry’s number came up that night.

“Do you want to go back there? She nodded toward the scene below.

“Never. Memories. Too painful.”

“Come along.” She lifts him upright, tucking one hand within her elbow, walking them towards entering an enormous dome. Larry looks about, concluding the place not unlike the airport. Are they on a journey? Overhead a sign:

Arrivals