The Atua Man: A Novel

Old Brompton Road in South West London was a parking lot. Theodore Spencer drove his Vauxhall onto the pavement and stopped in front of the Drayton Arms Pub and Theater. Samuel Butler, Spencer’s cameraman-slash-producer, thumbed through a street guide of London, flipping a couple of pages back and forth.

“I told you we should have used Cromwell,” Butler said, referring to the major road that cut through Kensington.

“That would have been worse,” Spencer answered. “We’ll leave the car here and walk. It’s only a few blocks.” Butler got out of the car, slapped a press sticker in the window, and ran into the pub. He handed the barmaid his card. “Call me if the police come nosing around. We won’t be very long.”

“You’re blocking the foot traffic,” the girl said, looking at the Vauxhall sitting outside her front door.

Butler slapped a twenty-pound note on the bar as he rushed out. “Thanks.” Grabbing his camera from the car, he trailed after Spencer.

“Don’t worry, we’re on a roll. Might even get a shot of the man himself coming out to bless the crowds,” Spencer said.

Butler, sloppy, and bigger than Spencer, pushed the way through the crowd shouting “Press! Coming through!” When they reached Bolton Gardens, the street was packed. As they got closer to Stanford House the people chanted “Antichrist!” The two reached the barricades at the corner of Wetherby Gardens. The crowd surrounding Stanford House was even denser. The police had cleared the sidewalks surrounding the ministry buildings and tried to keep the streets on either side of Collingham Gardens clear for cars. They had little success.

Butler and Spencer squeezed through the Wetherby street barriers and crossed over to Collingham where a policeman stopped them when they got close to Stanford House.

“Has the messiah come out yet?” Spencer showed the cop his press credentials.

“I wish he’d bless them and send them all home,” the cop said letting them in.

Butler hoisted his camera to his shoulder and pulled a focus on Spencer, who said a few “checks” into the microphone. Spencer then turned to an attractive woman in her mid-thirties and asked, “Are you expecting to see Jason St. John?”

“Yes. Oh, he’ll come out. He always does.”

“Are you here to be healed?”

“I’ve already been healed,” the woman said. “But when he comes out you’ll feel it. There’s an energy he has that fills you with joy. That’s why I’m here.”

A loud male voice yelled from somewhere behind Spencer, “He’s the Prince of Darkness!” Spencer headed toward a middle-aged, working class guy holding a sign proclaiming Jason St. John the antichrist. Butler followed with his camera.

“Theodore Spencer, Independent TV.” Spencer got the man’s attention. “Why do you think Jason St. John is the Prince of Darkness?”

“He thinks he’s God.”

“Has he said that he’s God?” Spencer asked.

“Read his book. All he talks about is I this and I that. You too can heal. Get in touch with your inner God, or some such bull. These people all need to wake up.”

Some of the antichrist crowd came in closer.

The man gestured to those around him. “Jesus is the only Son of God. Only Jesus can heal. That man is the beast, Satan here on Earth disguised as God, and he’s deceiving the people. It’s all in the Bible. He has the melodious voice. He has the friendly, loving eyes. He’s gentle and kind. He’s handsome and he charms people. With all of his money he’s extremely powerful. I can’t believe everybody doesn’t see this.”