Chapter Four

 

Seeds of Anarchy

 

It was no coincidence, Jungian or otherwise, that at the very same moment that Adrian reached his conclusion, the Central Processes Unit computer (ninety-third generation) worked out the next bit of ripple. The letters HA followed by PRU popped onto the screen.

“Now that,” said Fuzru in relief, “I do understand. The second bit anyway.” He presumed that the first bit was an exclamation of triumph. With a self-congratulatory smirk, he reached for the red Thought Transfer Module and dialled 3.

“What?”

“Duflc? CPU here. You sound depressed.”

“Don’t ask,” groaned the Third Spiritual Secretary. “What have you got?”

“Ah, well, good news. I’ve got an answer on the latest program. See, I used a five-bit hexadecimal inverted Until loop with an atPercent assumption modem hooked into the -”

“Fuzru?”

“Yes?”

“Just get on with it, will you?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m sure. Just thought that being an SS3 you might like to know about the latest techniques, optimal resource tracking, that sort of -”

“What’s the flaming answer?”

“PRU. Has to be the Psychic Research Unit. There’s your hiccup.” “Right. I’ll send the SGB down there straight away.” In view of

their recent performance, it could be thought that this was SS3’s second big mistake in a row.

 

The purpose of the Psychic Research Units has never been rigorously defined. Officially they are maintained by the Elementary R & D committee, but being dotted about at all points of the compass in Limbo, the lowest astral level, any actual control over them is pretty tenuous. In any case, only the most eccentric would choose to work under such shadowy and ill-defined conditions and in a field looked down upon by proper science.

Arthur Stone, the director of PRU (North-East), was indeed eccentric and had been left very much to his own devices for some time now. With a skeleton staff, an untidy and cramped workshop, but at least with more electricity than anyone could possibly use, he whiled away eternity tinkering with etheric multi-stage switchgear, dreaming up ever more elaborate protocols for the ultimate experiment.77

He was relaxing in his tiny office overlooking the workshop, a small and exceedingly scruffy man, feet up on the desk and bottle at his elbow, reading the paper. Nations were at each other’s throats, social workers on strike, scandals in high places – so things must be even worse on Earth. Suddenly a small sound made him start but before he had even had a chance to hide the bottle Stachov and Hursky were at either side. They lifted him bodily from the chair and up against the wall, legs dangling.

“Vot in ze name of - ?” he began.

“We came in the back way,” said a grinning Stachov. “Hope you don’t mind,” grated Hurski.

“Mind? Mind? I didn’t efen know zer voz a back vay!”

“We always manage to find one,” said Stachov. “We, Professor – or should I call you Brother -” they chortled together, like marbles rattling in a can, “we are the SGB.”

“You zink I don’t know who you are? Ze SGB voz my idea!” “Yeah, well.” They dropped him. “Thought we’d pay a little visit, see. A social call. There’s been… disturbances. Oh, by the way -” Stachov opened his clenched fist to reveal a small silver module with two wires hanging from it. He closed his fist again and there was a crunch as the ultra-grade derivative circuits disintegrated. “– your alarm system doesn’t work. On your own today are you? Records say you have an assistant…”

“Ah, zat is Nigel. I sent him home early,” said Stone, still in a heap on the floor. “Voman trouble. You know how it is.” Stachov didn’t and was never likely to. Hesitantly, Arthur picked himself up as if not expecting to remain vertical for long. “Zo, vot sort off disturbance?”

“Just a ripple.” Hurski was wandering around the office, amusing himself by picking up bits and pieces and dropping them. This was the part of the job he was good at, straightforward bullying. “The odd buzz at the CPU. The computer’s pointing the finger at you. Thinks you know summat.” Nonchalantly, he slipped in the bait. “EG?” Stone didn’t bite.

“For example vot? Anyvay, vot do you expect from zat old machine? Now, I’ve been vorking on a new generation intramultiple thoughtbend hub vich -”

“Yeah, Professor, just what have you been working on, eh? See, we’re very interested in your work.” A subtle pause. “EG?”

“Vell, I voz just giving you an exa -”

“Never mind,” sighed Stachov, his head starting to spin. Things had been so much easier in the old days. You knew where you were with card files and steel toecaps. Your villains had respect, your grasses were reliable. “Show us your bloody machines, Arthur.”

“Ah, vunderful. Yes, I vill show you,” enthused Stone, glad to change the subject. He led the way down some steps to the workshop where banks of equipment gibbered away to each other on benches like green monkeys composing poetry. He pressed a button and the weather forecast for the Channel Islands appeared on five different screens.

“Very clever,” agreed Stachov, impressed.

“Zat’s not it. See, ve are vorking on a vay of manipulating the cloud systems with a controlled permonuclear infusion ray. It’s over Manchester at ze moment. Seemple! A few bad harvests and ze class system vill collapse!”

“Won’t people starve?” asked Hurski, frowning.

“So? Zat’s better zan being shot isn’t it? And it’s vorth it to create vorld piss. I can see zat ve got it wrong before, appealing to ze proletarian ideology off dialectical materialism. Ve should off just appealed to zer bellies. Ah, Heaffen is vunderful, ze mind is so clear.”

The thugs were getting anxious to move on. Coming down here was giving them the bends and this lunatic seemed harmless enough, as lunatics go.

“Nothing else, then?” asked Stachov. “Unauthorised contracts? Coded messages?” The memory of the cross-correspondence experiments still rankled with the SGB. You can’t have regulations broken willy-nilly. “Red lamps? Ectoplasm? Knockers?”

“Vot?”

“Table knocking. Seances, that sort of thing?” Arthur Stone visibly paled.

“Ve-e-ell…zer’s ze old dear in Edgware viz ze balls.” “You what?”

“Ze crystal balls. A medium. She popped up on ze screen ven -” “Show me.”

Arthur shrugged, pressed some buttons and turned some dials.

“It vill be no good. Zese people haf no idea vot’s going on. Keep sinking it’s Auntie Vera coming through and asking how ze cat is and is heaffen pink.” There was a crackle of static and a misty picture appeared on an ancient monitor in the corner to reveal what looked like a small community hall, shaded by heavy brocade curtains and with a few rows of plastic chairs set out. A few nondescript people were entering at the back and taking their seats, while on the stage at the other end sat the old dear. On a rickety card table in front of her was a crystal ball, which she pored over with intense concentration.

“Zer, like I told you. Zis is nothing. She’ll be off in a moment viz

‘You haff a vunderful Red Indian guide and a great spiritual mission’ and zen zey’ll all haff a cup off tea in ze back and gossip about zer neighbours.”

“Hmm, who’s the old bag in the mac?” asked Hurski out of idle curiosity. But he was feeling queasy and already turning for the door as Stone keyed in the identity sub-routine. After what seemed an age, two letters popped up in the bottom corner of the screen. EG.

“Bloody hell!” whispered Stone, who was not actually as dim as he seemed. Wiping a distinct bead of sweat from his brow, he turned nervously to the others. “Is zis vot you -” But they’d already gone.

 

“Surely,” Prudence mused, “brainy people like Freud who lived long ago must be higher up the heavenly spheres than people like us? Oh, sorry Colonel, no offence intended.”

“None taken, my dear. And it’s Harold, please.”

“Oh, right… Harold. And I’m Pru.” She lowered her eyes with a shy, almost girlish smile. Adrian was quick to spot the start of Something Meaningful, and quickly busied himself with a tea towel.

“For one thing,” he chipped in, “brains have nothing to do with anything. And for another, heavenly spheres are a load of old Balearics, pardon my Spanish.”

“So we can just go and find anyone we like, say, Caesar or Queen Victoria?” Having studied History, Prudence had always wanted to give a few characters a piece of her mind.

“As long as they don’t mind being found,” shrugged Adrian. “What’s the attraction? I mean, do you have anything in common with Queen Victoria?” Pru considered the matter and decided to keep quiet.

“See, you only meet up with people if you have some sort of attraction. My old Dad put it quite well. When he died, there we were having a stand-up ding-dong in the hospital, same as ever, and he says to me ‘Nancy,’ he says, that’s what he called me, ‘Nancy, let this be a lesson to you. Being dead means never having to say another word to someone if you don’t want to. I could be gone from here in a moment and you’ll never see me again,’ he said.”

“What then?” asked Alison.

“He was and I haven’t.” “Oh, that’s sad.” “Rough.”

“Not really, seeing as it was him who battered my Ronnie to death with a whisky bottle when he found out about him and me.”

He turned towards Harry, expecting some sarcastic jibe, but the colonel had lapsed into a moody silence again. Not long ago he’d had a determined vision of achieving things in this new life, but it hadn’t taken long to realise that Heaven is not a place for visions. Everything was so, well, slack. Take those apocalyptic ghouls who called themselves Witnesses. Fair enough, it can’t be much fun spending one’s eternal reward banging on like school teachers trying to get through to so many mindless souls who couldn’t give a damn. But one still expected some spark of professional idealism.88

Frustration was welling up again in Harry’s mind like porridge in a rubber balloon. Something would have to give soon, and it probably wouldn’t be the porridge. Why was it always so that Those Who Know What To Do are always so far removed from What Needs To Be Done? Though with his experience of the Army, he shouldn’t have been surprised by this.

He felt an odd sensation now. A soft tingle was spreading up his arm and something was mellowing deep within, as if a far distant memory was yawning and wiggling its toes. He came to from his reverie to find Prudence patting his hand and looking at him with genuine concern.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” The porridge exploded. He sat back and sighed, surveying the others with an unmistakable dampness in his eye. “I’m sorry,” he said at length. “Look, you’re all decent chaps -” this was quite a concession to Adrian, “– but what have we got in common? If Adrian’s right, then what’s the attraction? I mean, I’m a soldier and you’re…” Adrian helped him out.

“Two women, a dog and a corkscrew?”

“Well, you’re not a soldier now, are you, any more than I’m a civil servant or Adrian’s a -”

“I’m still dog, though,” muttered Bonzai, with obvious disappointment.

“I know what it is,” said Alison quietly. They all turned to her. “I know what we’ve got in common. Nobody cares about us.”

But she wasn’t right. A strange figure was dancing in the doorway. “Yo, dudes! Found yo! I is your main man, innit!”

 

Evie crept as unobtrusively as she could along the back row of chairs in the dimly lit community hall. There were only a few minutes to go yet the place held just a smattering of people mostly, she noticed with relief, middle-aged women like herself or rather older, wrapped in coats and headscarves and undemanding smiles. A brace of elderly and slightly smelly men dozed in front of her. A solitary, earnest looking student with notebook at the ready sat at the front. She had never in her life been to a Spiritualist service so had few expectations; all the same, the atmosphere was not impressive. It did not seem to be the sort of place where one might anticipate divine revelations.

The events of the last few weeks had shaken Mrs Gardner to the foundations of her mind, although admittedly that wasn’t very deep. After a quiet suburban life of ordinary and decent self-seeking, the vision of death had begun to pursue her relentlessly, along with a nagging intuition that more was to come. Somehow, it all had something to do with her. Nor was there any respite from the vision in her sleep. One night she would be wandering through the tangled overgrowth of a dark graveyard, picking her way between purple sheep, when the ground would open and a jet of pure white water would lift her twenty feet in the air like a plastic ball balanced on a sealion’s nose. The next night would find her naked and being chased along a motorway by a huge rabbit wearing a white shroud. Gladys had taken her to the doctor’s but it hadn’t done any good. The little yellow pills put her to sleep, which was the last thing she wanted, while the blue ones stirred up very odd sensations in her lower abdomen which seemed to intensify whenever she saw a poster advertising a Mel Gibson film.

Evie began to feel a bit lonely as well as out of place. This wasn’t even a proper church. No reassuring stone pillars, no solemn altar and no stained glass, unless you counted the old, chipped vase on the front table with a few droopy daffodils in it. The old dear, Chairperson Mrs P, still hovered over her crystal ball. Evie was just rising to her feet to leave when a resounding crash of B flat minor from the portable organ to one side froze her in mid-hover. The rest of the sparse congregation stood obediently for the entrance of the evening’s Speaker, which never came because he’d been sitting completely unnoticed to one side of the stage for a good half an hour already. He didn’t move. There was a little confused shuffling and irritated mumbling as everyone sat down again.

Judas Skim continued to smile serenely, vacantly and utterly immobile in his chair, his shock of red hair the focus of every eye in the place.

“Shall I wake `im, Mrs P?” hissed the organist, her fingers poised over a chord unknown in any classical repertoire. The Chairperson shook her head impatiently.

“`Course not. He’s meditating. In deep trance,” she hissed back. “Surely you can see his Master’s hovershadowing him?” The organist craned her neck for a better view of the celestial mantle about Skim’s aura, but conceded that she probably wasn’t evolved enough yet. In fact, he looked much like her Jack did after Sunday dinner at the pub, and the only thing overshadowing him was dyspepsia. Silence reigned.

Backstage, however, it was quite a different story. The Witness In

Charge for this evening’s proceedings was Jaimie, a craggy and good- natured Presbyterian, but struggling to control the jostling, arguing melee of friends and relations anxious to get through to the congregation. These were in turn outnumbered by a crowd of sheer hangers-on. It was always the same when Skim made an appearance, much as a knot of spectators always gathers at the scene of an accident. Skim was a good turn, guaranteed to outrage someone with his ill-chosen philosophical asides, and totally immoral side bets were being made in every corner as to who today’s victim would be.

“Come on, now,” pleaded Jaimie above the hubbub, “let the relatives through, please. They’ve had a long journey.” His job was to select the messages and then pass them on using the special code of esoteric symbols and extrasensory impressions to the medium’s guide. Tonight this was Laughing Meerkat, a Sioux whose parents had wanted a girl. His was a pretty thankless mission too, since Judas Skim rarely took a blind bit of notice of him and made it all up as he went along.

Today was worse than usual, since in all this confusion there seemed practically no chance of any sensible messages being either transmitted or received. Jaimie and Laughing Meerkat might just as well give up and disappear to the RC canteen down the road. From a certain point of view this wouldn’t matter at all, since nothing very sensible ever does get transmitted. That’s the nature of things, and the reason for the brisk trade at the RC. But you have to go through the motions.

 

Back in PRU(NE), Arthur Stone’s assistant Nigel wrestled with reverse octal linkages and racked his brains for a way of hacking into Edgware. Stone himself had been a nervous wreck since the SGB’s visit, which of course had been its purpose. But more than that, it was the ID readout that really worried him. What was so special about an old bag in a mac? It might be against regulations, not to mention the conditions of his grant, but Arthur Stone was now tracking Evie for all he was worth. Sooner or later the two thugs would be back, and if this woman was their ripple then he wanted to know why before they did. Call it an instinct for pure scientific research. Or self-preservation.

“It’s no good, Art,” whined Nigel. “There’s too much interference, quite apart from the security lock on Camden and the Met Police shield. Funny sort of code, too. I’ve only seen one like it before – that chap in the Middle East, remember? Long hair. Spent a lot of time knee-deep in rivers.”

“Hmm,” Arthur stroked his beard. “I haf read about zat case. Had a strange PIN, as I recall.” They thumbed through back numbers of the PRU’s official journal, The Psycho, and scratched some calculations on the backs of envelopes, pausing only to interrupt the gibber of green monkeys from time to time with a new piece of routine. Finally, with a flash and a beep, they were in.

“Vell, shoot me,” breathed Arthur, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. “Somezing is going on!”

 

John Clarke had wandered off again to who-knows-where and the fugitives made a collective decision to get away from Gandalf’s and lose themselves before the police came back. But when Adrian suggested that they all went up the ARCE he got a mixed reception.

“Steady on, fellah,” snorted Harry, throwing a protective arm around Pru’s shoulder. “I mean, ladies present. Any more of your -”

“No,” Adrian winced, covered in embarrassment, “I mean the

Arts, Recreation and Cultural Exchange. Everyone goes there, they’ll never find us in that crowd. Look, I’ll close up the café and we can slip out through the back pass…I mean, the rear door. And to avoid any further misunderstandings, you’d better have this.” He reached behind the counter and handed out a piece of paper which spontaneously duplicated itself as required. It was a Rough Guide to Heaven. “I knocked it up a while ago. It’s probably not complete, of course, I just pieced it together from what people have said in the café.”

He led them on a circuitous route through Parson’s Green, travelling on foot to be sure of staying together. Bonzai was banished to the rear of the column to sniff out any unwelcome followers, while the colonel marched briskly at the front. A rejuvenated Alison skipped happily beside the over-excited Ranjit, repeatedly begging him for more information about Benedict while barely understanding a word he said, while Prudence had been appointed honorary Corporal and permitted to walk alongside their commander and engage in tactical discussion (much as discussion at a dinner party is tactical, self-interested and biochemical). She could not help admiring the man. He was in trim and apparently had a working heart. Yes, he was also a pompous twit with a world outlook as rigid as a ten-year old cement mixer, but any woman knows that such minor flaws can be re-educated. He was even beginning to look and feel strangely younger too, as his sense of purpose began to renew itself. There was strength in his limbs, hair on his head and he could see his feet without having to hold his belly in. He mused that Prudence, too, seemed to be shedding several years and her loss was certainly her gain; her figure was mature but slim, her eyes bright, her hips swaying ever so slightly and stirring something a bit confusing in Harry’s consciousness.99

Military self-discipline stepped in and he began to study Adrian’s map with a professional eye.

“So there are other planets, then?” he asked.

“Eh? Oh, you mean Orgonia,” said Adrian. “No, that’s Earth too. It’s a parallel time continuum, some old experiment that didn’t work very well. Apparently it’s practically identical except there’s no tax and Kidderminster is in the Premier League. I’ve never met anyone from there. Mind you,” he conceded, “I’ve never met anyone from Rochdale either but people say it’s there.”

 

“Still, it seems well organised, really,” Harry called back, striding ahead. It was in his nature to lead even if he hadn’t the faintest idea where they were going. “Decent command structure. Plenty of technology.”

“Well, that’s the DoSS for you. They run the show. It might look good, but that doesn’t mean that anything ever actually gets done.”

“All the same,” Harry halted peremptorily with a hand raised and they all tumbled into him like dominoes, “I think we can work with it. I must make a few notes.” With a flourish, he thought up the pocket book in his other hand and studied its headings of Communication, Discipline (underlined) and Planning, adding a few remarks here and there before disappearing the book with surprisingly little effort. Prudence was again impressed by the trick. Not to be outdone, and getting to grips with the nature of things remarkably quickly, Ranjit capped it by producing a copy of the Kama Sutra, which would have been all the more impressive had page eighty-seven not been missing.

“You see,” Harry went on, “a decent command structure is all very well but it’s no good if it doesn’t get through to the front line, the ordinary soul-in-the-street. This one obviously isn’t working. For example, these Witness chappies are feeble – sorry, RJ, present company excepted -”

“That’s cool, main man.”

“– no drive, no determination, no…”

“Fibre?” suggested Prudence. Harry beamed with admiration. “Exactly, my dear. Fibre. What a remarkable woman you are.”

“Oh yeah,” muttered Adrian, feeling somewhat sidelined, “you have to have fibre. You get the runs if you -”

“Adrian! I’ve warned you about smut.”

They trudged on in silence for a while, passing through several junctions where all the lights seemed to be stuck on green and seeing hardly another soul on the way except for a ghostly number 31 bus heading towards Earls Court apparently without a driver. As they approached the enormous and imposing ARCE building in Knightsbridge, Adrian assumed tour guide mode.

“See, one thing there’s no shortage of here is teachers. You can learn anything you want. There’s free evening classes that go on practically all day. You can do psychometry, astronomy, binomial probability distribution – I’m doing genealogy, there’s got to be a future in that. I know, RJ, why don’t you learn the sitar?”

“Nah, bruv, yo’ need sixteen fingers for dat, innit.”

“All right, then, what about panpipes? Very popular nowadays. And there’s sport -”

“Shooting?” Harry was suddenly interested.

“Yes, but you can’t hit anything.” “Fishing?” he tried again.

“Can’t catch anything.” “Hunting?”

“Won’t find anything.”

“What `bout motorcycles, Ade?” chipped in RJ. “I allus wanted to be a mechnick man.”

“Yeah, but it’s only for Buddhists. Plenty of good music though – Led Zeppelin, Santana, Mahler…”

“Cliff Richard?” asked Prudence.

“`Fraid not. No jazz either of course. Mind, I’m only talking about our Level. There’s probably other things higher up.”1010

When at last they reached the imposing solid oak doors of the building, they found them securely locked. An untidy, hand-written sign tied to the door handle announced that the Exchange was closed until further notice due to an Unforeseen Ripple. Adrian was definitely worried, and even Bonzai’s hackles were up, her tail quivering between her legs.

“I don’t like this at all,” Adrian confided. “This has never happened before. There’s something very odd going on. Have you noticed, we’re practically in the city centre and there’s nobody else around? You lot are definitely mixed up in something… and what’s this Unforeseen Ripple? I bet it’s something to do with that John Clarke.”

“Hmm,” agreed Harry. “He did seem like an odd cove.” Another of those Great Understatements. Barely in human history can there have been a cove as odd as Clarke. It’s certainly not every day that one baffles the NRC and the SGB while precipitating a celestial riot. The police were by now convinced that he had links with some antievangelical hit squad, and more patrols had been despatched to pull him in. But since the mind creates its own surroundings, where do you start looking for a vacuous one? They’d already gone back to Gandalf’s but of course found it empty; however, the rottweiler had picked up a scent…

“Hey, bruv,” said Ranjit, without thinking it through, “why do’ we go find the dude? See what’s what? He am de key, innit?”

“Rather!” Harry enthused. This was right up his street, the old recce and pincer movement.

“Hang on,” protested Adrian, “don’t you think that might be a bit dangerous?”

“What are they going to do?” laughed Harry, bold as brass. “Shoot us?”

“All the same, I don’t think Prudence and Alison -” “Quite right. Good thinking, that man… er, Adrian. Dog, take charge here and get the lady chaps back to base.” They exchanged salutes, and Prudence barely had time to think up a white hankie to wave before they were gone.

 

Tfozb put down her knitting and glared at the 3rd Spiritual Secretary.

“I told you so,” s/he said. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. But oh no, it was all ‘Leave it to the computers’ and ‘Information technology is tomorrow’s world’. And where’s it got you now? There’s a chip stuck in your ROM and the whole Age of Aquarius is up the spout.” They were in SS3’s executive space a little while after the debacle of the Planning Committee. Duflc shifted uneasily in his mock leather chair and studied the graffiti etched on the desk by its previous incumbents. They were in trouble, and some instinct – not to mention the weighty enquiries from above like a rain of elephants – told him that he’d better take Tfozb seriously.

“Come on, now,” he wheedled, “it can’t be that bad. Just some little hiccup somewhere. The CPU will soon sort it out.”

“And that’s another thing,” s/he countered. “What use is all this technology when the computer only prints out a few letters at a time? This EG could be anything.” He shrugged.

“That’s how it is in a bureaucracy. Have you any idea how many forms the DoSS get through in an era? Anyway, the PRU printout was clear enough. Something will turn up.”

“What sort of way is that to run a business? Honestly, when I was called I thought at least there’d be some efficiency and harmony among the Elementals.” S/he took up her needles and attacked the next row fiercely. SS3 drew himself up and assumed his spiritual posture.

“You expect too much, Tfozb. Remember the teachings: “Thou shall expect nothing -”

“And nothing’s what you’ll get,” s/he interrupted. “Knock and the world knocks with you. Platitudes, SS3. What are you going to do about The Plan? We can’t back down now – they’ll all blow themselves to pieces down there soon and then where shall we be? The NRCs can barely cope as it is. The RCs will be swamped, and half of the FEW will be redundant.” “There’s always retraining. And we can put in a few more JOB centres to keep people occupied. Anyway, I agree, The Plan has to go ahead. It’s been promised and the BoSS always keeps its word.” This was what is known as an Executive Decision, the sort made in a flash without troubling more than a dozen grey cells upon realising that the light at the end of the tunnel is the approaching 7.43 from Glasgow. Tfozb dropped two more stitches in exasperation.

“So why didn’t you support me in Committee, then?”

“You’re tough. You can deal with them. Anyway, that’s not how things are done.”

He rose from his chair with a condescending smile and only the faintest twinge of conscience. Assuming a ministerial pose, hands clasped behind his back, he stared at the Thought Transfer Module and willed the Anal. boys to give him a break. There was a long silence broken only by the clicking of needles, and SS3 began to realise what it must have felt like during the French Revolution if you were on the wrong side.

“You know what your trouble is,” Tfozb said at last. “You’ve got a mole.” Duflc sat down again hurriedly and shuffled in his seat.

“I… er, well… how did you… look, some things are private, you know.” S/he looked at him pityingly. He probably couldn’t help being stupid.

“I mean, someone is trying to sabotage The Plan.” As the unspeakable enormity of the statement sank in, SS3 let out an involuntary shriek and leapt up. By one of those odd coincidences, he banged his mole on the edge of the desk. The knitting flew out of Tfozb’s hands and landed on the blotter. It was an odd shape for a scarf, with three legs and several large holes. “I suppose,” s/he mused, “I could use it as a hanging plant-pot holder and say it’s macramé.”

SS3 slumped back behind his desk, having lost some of his authoritative presence.

“But who… and why… if not wherefore… with what possible…?” Tfozb sat upright with crossed arms as certain kinds of women do, and drew in a couple of chins.

“Well, clearly someone at the highest level,” s/he said, as if the culprit’s identity must be perfectly obvious to any passing caterpillar.

“Surely you mean the lowest level?” SS3 frowned.

“Not at all. Just ask yourself. They wouldn’t have the means, or access to the technology, would they? Well?”

“I’m asking myself.” “And?”

“I haven’t answered yet.”

“Well, get on with it. And as for why…,” s/he began, but hesitated, reason not being an Elemental’s strongest attribute. After all, the Second Coming had always been taken for granted, an article of faith, a historical fact. Somebody had to sort Earth out. “Well,” she went on, “answer yourself that one and then you’ll know who.”

 

“Zis is a big vun,” Arthur confirmed to Nigel as they huddled, mesmerised in front of the small screen. “Viz Judas Skim in zis mood, anyzing can happen.” He shook his head knowingly and they switched channels again, tracking Skim across north London. He’d led a comatose Evie Gardner out of the back door of the community hall to his old green Mini Traveller, and they were on their way to a secret address in NW3.

The service had, as expected, not been short of drama. Skim had sat frozen into his aura for a good fifteen minutes after Mrs P had announced him, moving not a muscle except for the infinitesimally slow sweep of his eyes across the congregation. His lips were fixed in the puerile, contented smile of The Saved, his fingers in the approved yoga loop, his white crease-proof Italian suit and ruddy complexion topped by that hair giving him the appearance of an advertisement for raspberry cornet ice cream. His spiritual tranquillity had, however, failed to communicate itself to a good proportion of his audience. They’d given up an hour’s drinking time to get some holy wisdom and find out if Gran’s arthritis had cleared up and whether Heaven was pink. There had been some complaints and the telekinesis of hymnbooks towards the stage. A small child had even crept up to deliver a sharp kick to Skim’s shin, but with absolutely no effect. At this point several people reasoned that the medium was in fact dead and had left.

It was all to the huge delight of the throng backstage who were enjoying the proceedings immensely. When you’re dead, there aren’t too many opportunities for a really good laugh at someone else’s expense and the undeserved butt of their humour was of course Jaimie. His was an unrewarding job at the best of times, though most weeks were routine enough. The odd warbled hymn, the mindless recital of a few prayers, five minutes of homespun nonsensical morality from Mrs P and then down to the serious business of Messages From Beyond. He had worked out a good system and was on friendly terms with most of the visiting Guides. Yes, they all knew that their evidence was as watertight as a toilet roll on the Titanic, but human nature is what it is. It was enough that an occasional seed of awareness was planted in a dull mind; whatever extraordinary and inedible fruit it might turn into was not his concern.

But today had not been routine. Psychic celebrities were always a pain and this particular one was as excruciating as they come. He had tried to warn Mrs P off but she was having none of it, stardust in her eyes and visions of a double-page spread in Readers’ Digest, so now he was carrying the can of worms. He’d never hear the last of it. Still, in the event it was just as well that he and Laughing Meerkat had stuck it out.

The focus of the betting had switched to who would last out the longest between Skim and the dwindling congregation. The former had appeared to have it sewn up when an unexpected event backstage turned the tables and caused a minor economic collapse.

The figure that appeared at the back was at first felt rather than seen, and gradually a hush had descended as waves of onlookers parted like the Red Sea to let him through. Momentarily transfixed, Laughing Meerkat had then suddenly let out a whoop that would have chilled any remaining traces of bone marrow in the room to absolute zero, before tipping over prostrate onto his face like a felled tree. His single white feather had quivered slightly, as Jaimie looked in bewilderment from the collapsed brave to the new arrival, an Apache, his deep mahogany face etched with untold experience and shrouded by a flowing, brilliant yellow headdress. The eyes were cavernous. Arms folded within a white robe, he glided past Jaimie with a nod of acknowledgement, stepped over Skim’s guide, and took up a position behind the medium’s left shoulder.

Taking matters into her own hands, the organist had crashed her full weight down onto her special chord. But the fuse must have blown and the keys merely plinked emptily, the vibration shuddering back along her arms. Nonetheless, Judas Skim stood up. His address, if not entirely straightforward, was at least one of the briefest in Spiritualist history.

“Flowing to the ajna from the point of light upon the fifth harmonic of the seventh descending ray within the etheric Gobi plane, the eternal hierarchy of ascended masters commands me to vouchsafe this prophecy here tonight. The Messiah shall return to Earth within a year, within this city, and within the body of one here present.”

He had sat down again. Unable to contain the energy, the stained glass vase cracked right down one side and emptied itself over his trousers. The audience realised there’d be no proper messages tonight and shuffled out complaining, the only satisfied one being the mother of a pregnant schoolgirl who reasoned it was safe to buy the blue wool now. Mrs P had hopped up and down like a demented gerbil in front of Skim, who had merely reverted to autopilot.

“Do something, Mr Skim, do something. We haven’t had a hoffering yet.”

The Apache had returned the way he had come, stepping over the still prone Laughing Meerkat, and gesturing over his shoulder as he whispered to Jaimie out of the corner of his mouth.

“Him cracked, that one.”

A most unseemly fracas had broken out when he disappeared, as bets were cancelled and furious relatives demanded travel expenses and first go in next week’s ballot. And as any sane and spiritually evolved souls would, the two guides had run for it.

Judas Skim had risen and, as dignified as one can be with wet trousers, walked to the back of the almost deserted hall to where Evie sat frozen in her chair. She knew. She had felt it. For heaven’s sake, she had even seen the yellow feathers.

“You probably need a drink,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you my place. Then we can discuss your training.” Evie had allowed herself to be led away without protest, indeed still barely able to breathe. By the time they reached Skim’s house, her head was spinning from the combined effect of naked psychic power and the botanically very interesting fungus that had eaten away half the Mini Traveller’s wooden frame. She was at his mercy.

As the front door closed behind the pair, the picture on Arthur

Stone’s monitor crackled, heaved and finally broke up.

“Damn it,” snorted Nigel, wrestling with his knobs. “Another security code!”

“Try Channel Fourteen,” snapped an equally furious Stone. But it was Australian Rules football.

 

George, Mrs P’s long-suffering husband, bakery assistant and part- time Orange Hill Road Community Hall caretaker, flicked off all the lights except for the front porch and jangled his keys searching for the last one. He sighed. It had apparently not been a successful evening. She’d come home in a foul mood muttering ‘Judas!’ over and over and had forgotten to get their usual cod and chips. Such was the spiritual life.

He was just about to close the door on it all, when he noticed the slightest of movements inside. A solitary figure still sat hunched up there to one side of the room, completely silent and oblivious to everything.

Benedict had come tonight, with the desperation of the grieving, wishing with all his heart to hear something from Alison. He didn’t know why. He had never even thought about an afterlife. But he was doing and thinking about a lot of things these days that had meant nothing to him a short while ago. Someone in a pub had told him about someone’s sister who knew someone whose mother went to the church and so here he was, feeling utterly stupid for having believed in this total shambles. He had sat quietly and unobserved, his mind focused on just one thing, on just one person, as chaos had reigned all around. And now he was alone again.

“Come on, mate,” George said kindly. “Time to go `ome.”

Benedict looked up at him uncomprehendingly, as if trying to make out the words of a foreign language. “Yeah, I know, mate. Shit, ennit?”

They shuffled out into the car park and George locked up. Benedict dried his eyes and took a couple of long, deep breaths of suburban air before he had to turn for the gate and the short walk back to his bedsit.

“Thanks, goodnight,” he said to the other man, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

“`S all right, mate,” said George. “Look, hope you don’t mind… but jus’ between us I gets messages too sometimes. Jus’ a voice in my `ed somehow. The missus won’t `ave it, of course, says I ent been trained. Well…Dunno what it means, but Arjee says Ali’s ok. Ok?

 

7 For the record, it should be explained that Arthur Stone was not his real name. It had been changed by Destiny Control on the grounds that knowledge of his previous identity as a Very Important Leader might seriously destabilise about a sixth of the Earth’s surface. This also accounts for the fact that he’d been stuck near the back of beyond in PRU(NE).

8 Incidentally, while on the subject, there is a widely-held belief that spirit guides cannot exist because sooner or later a few of their considerable number would surely have irrefutably got through to someone. But this is self-evidently false, akin to arguing that because Adrian only had one GCSE at grade D to his name he couldn’t possibly have spent eleven years at school

9 Heaven has this effect on most people. You know the one about the chap who goes to the dentist for some false teeth and asks if he’ll be able to swim in them and the dentist says ‘Yes’ and the man says ‘Good, because I couldn’t swim at all before’? Death is a bit like going to the dentist. Well, that may not be the best analogy. The point is that you soon get a new set of everything as well as teeth. Not that you can use everything, of course.

10 Naturally, Heaven isn’t entirely full of good folk bent upon improving themselves – that would be unbearable – but there is a lot of education going on. On the one hand the point is to develop the mind, and on the other to broaden one’s perception. And on the third hand, the point is to learn that there really isn’t any point to any of it. Adrian had discovered this when he enrolled on a basket- weaving course. He was well into the fifth lesson when he realised that not only, strictly speaking, was there nothing real and tangible to put in a basket, but also that there was no real and tangible basket either. Thereupon the basket had disappeared and he failed the course. But simultaneously he passed with Excellence a course in Metaphysics that he didn’t even know he was taking.