The loss of Bobby the criminal proved to be the beginning of a slow decline in the standard of living of the inhabitants of Limbo56. Contacts with what was left of the Birmingham gangs after Bobby had decimated them slowed to a trickle. Good whisky and real food became difficult to get, and the prices of ‘real stuff’ started to climb. Arthur attempted to open up the tunnel to otherworld trade, but this resulted only in a few sheep and a glut of mutton pies in the pubs. The gaol was rapidly emptying of ex-Governors, and soon, Max and the Accountant would be snatched away. Recruitment and productivity dipped, and Arthur was run ragged attempting to keep up quotas.

World War Two brought a temporary respite. Many of the newly dead were heroes, who went straight to Heaven, and many were evildoers, who went to Hell, but enough half-sinners died in the ruins of the factories and foundries, and enough soldiers, sailors and airmen died on the battlefields and in the makeshift hospitals thinking of the sooty towns where Arthur grew up. They turned up, wandering bewilderedly down half familiar streets and Arthur put them to work. For a few years he had no reason to leave his domain. A few WAAFS and WAACS arrived, and Arthur put the stronger ones to work in the foundry, where they soon became indistinguishable, under a coat of sweat and soot, from the men.

Image by National Library of Scotland via Flickr

The Politician made contact with an armaments maker, and Arthur pushed his workforce to turn out weapons and war material for real goods. The armaments maker proved much greedier than the old gangs of criminals did, but a small steady supply of food and furniture, whisky, clothes and real beer continued to flow into Limbo56. It was impossible to get petrol, so the cars of the rich languished and rusted as the war continued on its murderous course. The arms dealers got fat and the war moved towards its inevitable untidy conclusion. Arthur was drinking a glass of real beer when he heard the news of victory in Europe from a draft-dodger who had the misfortune to be run over by a bus on the day it was declared. He was happy for the living.