My boss was waiting for me the next morning, sat behind my desk. He looked off colour; I guess he hadn't slept either.

     "Had a chance to think?"

     "I have," I said. "And from the look of you it kept you awake all night too."

     "Our choices are limited," he said. "Everything has been done before. Famine, war, flood, terrorism. There's nothing new. Just variations on the same theme, but this is new. We would be the first people to interview the dead and answer that question which we've all asked. What happens when we die? Just imagine what that would do for us."

     "I know the speech," I said. "You made it to Paul last time you tried. I was there."

     "And I know you," he said. "Your curiosity gets the better of you. You want to do this as much as I do."

     "So why me," I said. "Why not you?"

     He looked uncomfortable and stood from the chair.

     "You've got a better chance of coming back," he said. "For me it'll be one way."

     "How can you know that?" I said. "I'm just as much at risk as you are."

     "No, you're not," he said. "You're twenty years younger and your heart is in better shape."

     I let out a long slow breath, pursing my lips together.

     "Okay," I said, "I'll do it."

     He smiled and took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He passed it to me.

     "Tomorrow night," he said. "Come to this address. I'll be there."

     Just before he left the room he turned and looked at me.

     "This is the only way," he said. "Trust me; I've been looking for any other."

     My instinct told me not to trust him, not after what he did to Paul. But for reasons I couldn't share with him there was nothing in my life keeping me here. The afterlife may be my best chance at living again after all. I wasn't going to pass that up. No matter how risky it was. In many ways I was already dead.

     *

     "This one stops your heart," he said, holding a vial of white opaque liquid.

     "And the other?" I said.

     "Starts it beating again," he said.

     My boss stood next to the doctor. Was he even a doctor? I wondered to myself. It had been two days since I'd made my mind up to do this. What scared me is how easy the decision had been. Especially considering there was so much to risk. I'd never been surer in my life. Maybe I was suicidal. The thought had crossed my mind more than once.

     "Are you sure you're ready?"

     I nodded.

     "Let me talk you through it," the doctor said. "Lie down on the table."

     He gestured to a metal gurney. I did as he asked.

     "We can only do this for five minutes," he said. "I'll inject you with the white one first. You should lose consciousness within a minute. Five minutes later we will inject the other."

     "And the defib?" I said, looking at the yellow box on the table.

     "Just a precaution," he said. "We won't need it. But it's better to be safe."

     Safe, I thought. Nothing about this felt safe. Then why are you still here said the voice in my head. Why haven't you made them stop and run for the door?

     "Ready?"

     "Yes," I said.

     My boss leant over as the doctor prepared the syringe.

     "You know this may turn out to be nothing," he said. "There could be nothing at all."

     "I know," I said, "but Paul said there was an afterlife. He had nothing to gain by lying to us."

     "Okay," he said, "we'll be monitoring everything."

     I felt a small pinprick in the crook of my arm; I looked down and saw the doctor inject the white liquid. I took a deep breath.

     "Count to one hundred," the doctor said. "And remember; five minutes only."

     I didn't get to ten before everything went black and the sounds of their voices faded to nothing.

     *

     I woke with a start. There was movement, I felt like I was bouncing up and down. I felt sick and realised I was no longer on the gurney. I was sitting down and my head rested against what looked and felt like glass. Maybe a window, I thought. It took me a few moments to get my bearings and then I saw an older man. He sat opposite me, in what looked like a cheap funeral suit, except that it was bright red. He had a warm and comforting smile on his face.

     "Are you okay," he said gently. "It takes a while. Don't try and move too quickly."

     "Where am I?" I said. My head was thumping with pain.

     He chuckled. "Not where you expected to be, I bet."

     I looked around at the small room and realised it was a railway carriage, an old one from the fifties or sixties. A single light illuminated the carriage from above our heads and empty luggage nets fastened on the wall, under which were old art deco style railway posters advertising the English Riviera. The carriage rocked from side to side.

     "Are we on a train?"

     The old man nodded.

     "Where are we going?"

     "Take your time," the old man said. "Just try to sit still and get used to it. It's different for everyone."

     "Please tell me," I said. "What is this place? How did I get here?"

     "I'm sorry," he said. "But you know as much as me. I just got here too."

     I looked out of the window, but it was frosted. I could see shapes outside but they were too blurred. I couldn't make them out. They looked like people, but I couldn't be sure. I turned away from the window and looked towards the carriage door. I stood up and tried the handle, but the door didn't budge.

     "Are we being kept prisoner?" I said.

     The old man shook his head.

     "Nothing as coarse as that," he said. "We are just being taken."

     "What are you talking about?"

     The smile dropped. He leant in close and his voice dropped to a whisper.

     "You do know what's happened, don't you?"

     "I can't remember," I said. "I was on a bed, maybe a hospital bed. I heard someone asking me to count to ten. At least I think it was ten. There were two men there. Then I woke up here."

     A shrill whistle cut through the air and the movement in the carriage changed. The train was slowing down.

     "We're almost there," he said, his voice excited. "Look. I'm not the best person to talk to about this. I was expecting it. I guess you weren't. But there are people who can help you, see?"

     He gestured to the window. The glass was clear now and outside I could see a platform. It was a hive of activity. There were dozens of people standing beside a train on the other side of the platform. It reminded me of those scenes of children being evacuated to the countryside during the war. Some people were holding onto clipboards and shouting into the crowd, trying to organise the huddles. The train came to an abrupt halt and I fell back into my seat. The man stood and buttoned his jacket.

     "I hope everything works out for you," he said. "They can help. Make it easier on you."

     "Wait," I said, but it was too late. The man had already gone; the door the carriage now wide open.

     I stepped out onto the platform. The air was bitterly cold and there was a freezing wind that tore through the station. The platform had quickly emptied and there were now only a few people standing and they all had red clipboards. One of them, a small young man with a pale face, approached me.

     "Name?"

     I gave him my name but felt compelled to explain.

     "I'm not sure I'm in the right place. You see, I'm only here to try and..."

     "It takes a while to get used to," the man said, not looking up from his clipboard. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red parcel tag. "But it happens to all of us eventually. Some sooner than others," he added, a slight bitterness to his tone.

     "But I don't really belong here," I said. "I was only here to interview..."

     "You'll need this," he said, handing me the tag. "It's got your name and your orientation details on."

     "What's orientation?"

     "It's where everyone needs to go first," he said. "It'll explain everything to you. It's over there."

     He pointed to the end of the platform, near where the train had pulled in. In the distance was a roundel, very similar to the ones on the London underground but with the word ORIENTATION spelt out in the middle.

     "How long does orientation take?"

     I looked at where the young man had stood but he had gone. I was alone on the platform.

     *

     "Welcome to orientation!"

     The escalator from the platform had led to a series of double doors. Through them was a large room, not unlike a hotel lobby. There was an unattended desk, pot plants and several rectangular tables with white cloths draped over them. I had approached the nearest table, where a large older woman sat. Her face was round with small violet eyes and her skin had a greenish tinge.

     "This is your induction pack," the woman said, handing me a clear plastic folder. "Inside it you'll find the agenda for today, timings and lunch requests."

     "I'm really sorry," I said. "But I don't think I need all this. I'm only here briefly."

     The woman looked at me.

     "What do you mean?" she said. "Your name is on my list."

     "I know that," I said. "But it's just because I gave it to the man on the platform. I'm not meant to be here."

     "Let me just get your nametag," the woman said. "Then we can see what's going on, can't we?"

     She leant down and produced a small plastic box. Inside were lanyards and nametags. She removed one and took a sheet of small coloured circle stickers. She carefully peeled off a red sticker and stuck it on my nametag before handing it over to me.

     "This is you," she said. "How curious. Red."

     "My nametag on the platform was red as well," I said. "Why red? What does it mean?"

     "There is a speech in the main hall in ten minutes," the woman said. "After that you'll break up into smaller groups. Each one has a colour, nothing more to it than that."

     She was lying. There was significance to the colour. She just didn't want to tell me.

     "Tea and coffee is to the side," the woman said. "Next please."

     I took a seat in the main hall. It was a large theatre with rows and rows of dark red chairs all facing a stage. A single podium was on the stage, on which stood a microphone and a small glass of water. The atmosphere in the room was hushed, the mood sombre. No one was talking. All eyes were on the stage. I looked at the man sat next to me. He had tears in his eyes. A mauve sticker on his nametag.

     "Excuse me," I said. "Who are we waiting for?"

     The man didn't speak, or even turn his head to acknowledge me. He just kept staring at the stage. I looked around. All of the others were looking at the stage as well.

     "Are you okay?" I said. "You seem upset."

     Without turning his head he raised a single finger to his closed lips and closed his eyes. The lights then dimmed and a man stepped out onto the stage. There was no applause. I looked at the man on the stage closely. He was middle-aged, tall and was wearing a maroon suit. He had short blond hair and like so many others was pale, his skin a deathly white.

     "Welcome to you all," he said. "I will be taking you through your induction today. For some this is expected. For others not so. And this is a difficult time. We are here to make your journey more bearable, more understandable. And to answer any questions you may have."

     He took a sip of water.

     "I'll only be here for a few minutes," he said. "And then you'll break off into your groups. There is a list of rooms just outside the main doors. If you're not sure, please ask me or any of the orientation staff."

     I looked around the room. He held their attention; no one even seemed to be breathing it was that quiet.

     "I died some years ago," he said. "I had prepared for it in that I knew I was ill, but my actual death did catch me by surprise. Then I found myself on the platform, registering and sitting where you are now. It's not easy. It takes adjustment. We have to say goodbye to the life we knew, and start a new one."

     A hand rose in the audience.

     "What do you mean, a new one?" the audience member asked.

     "It is called the afterlife for a reason," the man on the stage said, "This is an opportunity for many of you to start again. But of course it all depends upon what you believe. Some of you don't believe in an afterlife. Some of you believe in reincarnation. What we do here is tailored to each of your beliefs."

     A chilling thought crossed my mind. Raised as a Christian, but I lived in sin. Was there hell waiting for me? Maybe that's what red meant. The damned. I looked around and saw many hands in the audience had risen. Clearly I wasn't alone in having these panicked thoughts.

     "The questions you have now," the man said, "please keep these for the group leaders. They will be able to offer more answers for your specific situation."

     The mood in the audience had changed. There was a rising sense of panic.

     "Please be calm," the man said, able to sense the mood quickly, "I know this is unsettling. And I know you have dozens of questions. Go to your group sessions and a lot more will become clear."

     Most of the audience stood quickly, heading for the exits to the group rooms. I waited till they had gone and caught a glimpse of the stage. The man stood there, watching me. I was about to ask a question when he shook his head and gestured me towards the doors.

     "The answer you want isn't here," he said. "You need to think about what you have to do next. As you only had five minutes."

     I didn't understand what he meant but then I glanced down at my watch and felt my stomach drop. I'd been here for over an hour.

     *

     "This is a difficult time for all of you," she said, "but we are here to help you with the transition as best we can."

     I sat in the breakout room, with twelve others. We were all in a circle facing each other; it was like an alcoholic's support meeting.

     "We all have had different experiences," our group leader continued, "but we have one thing in common. We've learnt that some people want to share what happened to them and others simply don't remember. Does anyone want to go first?"

     No one in the room offered to speak.

     "Okay," she said, "I'll go. If you have any questions after, or even during, just interrupt me."

     The room was quiet; people seemed lost in their thoughts. I glanced down at my watch. One hour and ten minutes. Maybe time was slower here, I thought.

     "I was killed," she said, "by someone I didn't know. I was walking home from work and I was attacked. A friend had offered to drive me home and I said no. In hindsight, it wasn't my best decision. I made a mistake, but not one that I thought would end my life. Not exactly fair."

     I stopped listening at the word fair. Life wasn't fair, and it seemed the afterlife was no different. One hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I woke on the train and I was no closer to understanding any of this, nor why I hadn't woken up. Maybe something had gone wrong.

     "I'm really sorry," I said, cutting in, "but I'm not really meant to be here."

     The group leader looked at me, almost with pity.

     "This is not easy," she said. "Red groups never are."

     "Why red?" I said. "The woman in the lobby said it didn't matter what the colour was."

     The group leader stared at me for a moment and then the words came out. Words I'll never forget.

     "Red is for people who have been murdered."

     My blood froze.

     "Why are you afraid" she said, "of really knowing what happened to you? Speak to me."

     A man whispered in the group, "Don't tell her!"

     I looked over at him. I didn't recognise him.

     "Why do you not believe what you know to have happened," she said to me. "What did that man do to you?"

     I explained all of it as briefly as I could. My boss, the article, the money and the doctor.

     "An injection," she said, glancing at her notepad. "Is that how he killed you?"

     "What? He hasn't killed me!"

     "If you're not dead, why are you with us in the afterlife?"

     "I'm not dead!" I said. "I'm not meant to be here."

     All of the people in the group were now looking at me, a strange expression on their faces. They looked as though they were waxworks in a museum. All had a fixed smile and wide open eyes.

     "You are dead," the leader said. "That man, the one who claimed he was a doctor. He killed you."

     "No," I said, tears in my eyes. "None of this is right. I was only here to see what it was like."

     "They never intended to bring you back," she said. "You were in their way and you'll be with us now. You'll have a long time to think about what you did. Just like me, you've made a single mistake and it has cost you your life."

     The woman's voice filled the room.

     "If you're dead," she said, her voice angry, "why do you keep on resisting us?"

     The others in the room still had the same fixed smile on their faces but their skin was now charred and blackened and dark crimson blood seeped from open wounds.

     "Get away," I screamed at them. "Leave me alone."

     "You belong with us," the woman said. "There is no other way. There is no way back for you."

     "Please," I said. "Don't do this."

     "You have one hour," the woman said, "before we come for you."

     I stood up and ran towards the door. If I can get back to the station, I thought, I can get back. Then none of this would have really happened. I turned and looked back in horror at the group as a fire erupted through the floor, scarlet flames that leapt up and swallowed the others. Each one screamed and writhed as they were consumed by the fire.

     *

     I woke with a start thinking it had been nothing but a dream. But there was one problem with this comforting notion and that was Paul. He looked over me, genuinely worried.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "Did I dream it?"

     Paul shook his head. His face was paler than I remembered. My heart sank.

     "I'm sorry," he said. "You should not have come here."

     "I know," I said, "but I felt I had to."

     "You fell into the same trap I did," Paul said, "but you had a choice. I didn't."

     "Of course you had a choice," I said angrily, "as did I."

     Paul leant in close, his voice quiet.

     "All of those voices in your head," he said. "Those moments of doubt. That was me."

     "I don't understand."

     "I tried to warn you," he said. "Every time you thought this was a bad idea, it was me putting that thought into your head."

     "That was you?"

     "I tried to send a message," he said, "something that would make you think twice about coming here. I mean why did you? You saw for yourself what happened to me."

     "I don't know why I did it," I said, telling the truth. "I felt I had no choice. He sold it to me."

     Paul's face darkened; a flash of anger on his soft features.

     "Him," he said. "He killed both of us. And he'll do it again."

     "Paul," I said. "What did she mean?"

     "Who?"

     "The woman in the group said I had an hour before they came for me. Who are they?"

     "She has given you a chance," Paul said. "To do what I wasn't able to. If you succeed you'll be free."

     "You mean I can leave?"

     "In a manner of speaking," Paul said, "but you won't live again, so you need to make peace with that. You'll remain dead, but it could be worse."

     "Stop talking in riddles," I said, "I don't have the time. She said I had an hour. Tell me what I need to know."

     "This is your second chance," Paul said. "Red isn't for people who have been murdered. It's for those who have been damned. But look closer and you'll see a clue."

     I felt a wave of nausea pass over me.

     "Damned? Why?"

     "You've led an uninteresting, disillusioned and often cruel life," Paul said, without hesitation, "You've exploited others to get what you needed. The ironic thing is that he did the same to you."

     "And that's enough to condemn me?"

     "What did you expect?" he said. "You've been condemned just like I have been. And where I've failed, you need to succeed."

     "How do I do that?"

     "My salvation was to stop it happening to someone else," Paul said, "but I failed. You're here."

     "And how do I know what my salvation will be?"

     "You already do," Paul said, "It's the same as mine. You've got to succeed where I failed. You need to stop him from killing again."

     *

     I now had only thirty minutes left to save myself from damnation. To somehow get a message to the other world, my old world. I didn't know where to start. How do you send a message when you're dead?

     "There are ways," Paul had said, "When someone dies they often think of their loved ones. People they have left behind."

     "If it is that simple," I said, "why doesn't it happen all the time?"

     "But it does," Paul said. "The message just gets scrambled. We have no clear way of talking to the living, so we get lost in translation a bit."

     "I don't get it."

     "Have you ever seen something in a mirror," Paul said, "and then turned round to see that there was nothing there? A feeling that you're not alone in a house, when you know that there is no one with you."

     I nodded.

     "It's one of us," Paul said, "trying to talk to people we left behind. We don't always get it right; sometimes our messages don't go the right places. Animals tend to see us, even if people don't. Ever see a cat just staring at a wall? You may not see us, but they do."

     "How do I save myself then?" I said. "How can I send a message that gets to the right person and stops him?"

     Paul looked at me and then I realised.

     "You're saying it might not be possible."

     "Yes," he said. "After all, look what happened. I tried to save you. Visualise it. Know what you want to say and it will happen."

     I closed my eyes. I could see my boss.

     "What do you see?"

     "I see my boss," I said. "And I can tell he would try it again."

     "Good," Paul said. "What else can you see?"

     "Just him," I said. "I can see him talking to me, telling me to meet him."

     "Look for clues," Paul said. "What else is there?"

     "Everything looks different," I said. "It looks like my office but small things have changed."

     "What things?"

     "The telephone doesn't look right," I said. "It's the wrong colour. And my chair has changed too. Everything in the office is the wrong colour."

     "Open your eyes."

     I opened my eyes and looked at Paul.

     "What does that mean?" I said. "Why am I remembering differently?"

     "You've sent your message," he said. "You may not realise it, but you've done all you can to save her."

     "How?" I said. "I didn't do anything."

     "What did you notice about your office?"

     "Everything was coloured differently," I said. "My chair, the telephone, my notepad."

     "And did you notice what colour it had changed to?"

     "Yes," I said. "It was all red."

     "I told you to look closer," Paul said. "Everything you've seen here. What colour has it been?"

     I thought back to the train journey, my nametag, everything. Red.

     "It's all been red."

     Paul smiled.

     "That's right," he said. "When I closed my eyes and sent my message I made a mistake. I visualised you and tried to get into your thoughts. When you had moments of self doubt you dismissed this as paranoia. That was my mistake."

     "And how is me sending a message about red going to help someone?"

     "It'll manifest itself in a way that makes it seem like a sign, not just a moment of self doubt. If it works, she'll make the right decision."

     Before I could say anything the colour in Paul's face changed. His grey pale skin turned black, and started to glow like the embers of a fire. His eyes turned red and smoke poured from his ears. He opened his mouth to scream, as though a terrible pain was eating him from the inside. Cracks appeared in the floor around him and white hot flames covered his body. He tried to reach out to me but his blackened charred hands cracked and crumbled and before I could shout his name he was gone.

     *

     "You want me to come to your house for a drink?"

     My boss sat on the edge of the table, an excitement in his eyes.

     "Why not?"

     "One good reason," I said. "I can think of the obvious one. You have a wife."

     "Minor detail," he said dismissively. "Don't worry about that."

     We'd been here before, but he seemed more intent this time.

     "She's your wife!" I said. "It's not right."

     "She won't find out," he said. "let me worry about her."

     I wasn't sure this was the right thing to do. I could see my mother's disapproving face.

     "You don't believe me?" he said, seemingly able to read my mind. "I always take out new employees for drinks."

     "Even temps on their first week? Even when I said no yesterday."

     He stepped off the desk and walked towards the door.

     "My place. Tomorrow night at seven."

     I didn't sleep that night. So many questions kept me wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Was it worth it? Sure he was good looking, and very charming. But what if his wife found out? And it would be me that suffered this time, not him. He would just move on. Find someone else. So then why do it

     My boss was waiting for me the next morning, sat behind my desk. He looked off colour; I guess he hadn't slept either. Guilty conscience.

     "Had a chance to think?"

     "I have," I said. "And from the look of you it kept you awake all night too."

     "So," he said, "don't keep me in suspense."

     "Ask me again."

     "Will you come to mine for drinks tonight?"

     I nodded. He smiled.

     "I'll see you at seven. This is my address. I'll be there."

     Just before he left the room he turned and looked at me.

     "I can't wait."

     My instinct told me not to trust him and that this would all end in disaster. I half expected that I'd arrive and his wife would confront me. Accuse me of being a home wrecker, a whore, a tart. All of these questions went through my mind as I got into my car and started the engine. Why was I doing this? I didn't even know the man. Yes he was good looking, but to ask a temp to his house for drinks? That wasn't normal surely? And he was so open about his wife. I must be mad.

     The roads were empty. I hadn't seen a car for miles. I looked down at the little clock set into the dashboard. Ten to seven. My stomach dropped. I suddenly felt very nervous.

     Just go for a drink and be polite, I said to myself, don't even think about him having a wife. It's his problem, not yours. But surely a drink would only be the start. One thing would lead to another. What was I doing?

     I came up to a junction and slowed the car to a stop. A solitary traffic light glared at me from the other side of the road. It looked angry at me, the red light filling the car. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the red glow reflecting off my face.

     You foolish girl! What on earth were you thinking? You don't even know the man. I saw my mother's face again. We had always been close and she had tried to protect me so many times, mostly from myself.

     Even though no cars came, the light remained red. I stared at it. I could almost hear it, like it was telling me this wasn't a good idea. Without thinking again, I put the car into reverse gear and turned around. As I drove back home, I looked back towards the traffic light. It remained red until it was out of sight. And that's when I saw it in the rear view mirror. A shooting star. I smiled as I thought what my mother had once said to me when I was a young girl.

     "If you ever see a shooting star, just think of it as a soul going to heaven."

     I smiled all the way home, thinking of my mother and knowing that somewhere not only did I have a guardian angel but that they had helped me make the right decision.