by Tom Holt
It never occurred to him to ask, why me? Instead, he got calmly to his feet and went to look for whoever was in charge.
“You?” The organiser was scowling at him. “What can you do?”
“Well.” Kevin opened his flight bag. “I’ve got some food.”
“Have you really.”
“Yes.” He investigated. “I’ve got two bread rolls and a tin of anchovies.”
The organiser drew in a deep breath with a view to telling him what he could do with two bread rolls, a tin of anchovies and the flight bag, if there was room left for it, but he didn’t get the chance. “I’ll need a table,” he said, “and lots and lots and lots of paper plates. If that’s all right.”
They stared at him for five seconds, which in context was long enough to grow champion stalagmites. Then the chief steward ran across to a nearby tent and came back with a folding trestle and a plastic outer of paper plates. “Will these do?”
“I expect so,” Kevin said, and got to work.
There were complaints, needless to say. Most of them were along the lines of, a dollar twenty-five for a fish sandwich? You must be kidding. Also, haven’t you got anything except bread and goddamn fish? To which the catering manager replied that fish sandwiches were a local speciality. People came from miles around to experience Mongolian panini di peschi, Gobi style, and it was that or nothing, unless they’d care to try the bread without the fish or the fish without the bread, which would be a dollar extra. A surprising number of people went for that one, which all helped butter up the takings, and best of all nobody got eaten. And on the seventh day Kevin laid down his breadknife and spatula, sat down on the flattened grass and listened for the little voice in his head, which said, Told you.
Is that it? he asked.
What did you expect, praise?
He didn’t answer that. Instead, he went to say goodbye to the organiser, who acted unhappy and nervous until Kevin made it clear he didn’t want paying, after which the organiser was very nice and promised to send him a ticket for next year’s festival. It’s the least I can do, the organiser said, and Kevin thought, well, yes, it is, absolutely the very least. Thank you, he said, and did his best to make it sound like he meant it.
From Ulan Bator he flew to Sydney (six people on the flight who’d been suffering from tiresome colds got off the plane completely catarrh-free), where the voice in his head prompted him to gatecrash a wedding where the beer had run out, thereby avoiding a bloodbath and landing the hotel management with a colossal bill for tap water. He left the wedding and found a cafe, where he ordered a coffee and a slice of walnut cake. The waiter who brought his order put them down, glared at him and said, “What do you think you’re playing at?”
Kevin stared at him, then he said, “Hi, Uncle Raffa.”
“Answer the question, young Kevin. What’s got into you?”
Kevin shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think it might be the Holy Spirit. Is that possible? Only, I keep hearing this little voice in my head.”
A woman at the next table stared at him, then quickly looked away. “It can’t be,” Raffa said. “Your dad handed it over to the Venturis, along with the rest of the plant and equipment.”
“Oh.” Kevin frowned. “So what could it be?”
“Hypothesis one—” Raffa turned back into himself and sat down in the seat opposite “—you’ve gone off your rocker.”
“Can I do that?”
“You’re human, aren’t you? Which means you’re running software that the hardware was never built to handle. Wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you’ve burned out a valve or two.”
The woman at the next table got up and walked quickly away. “Maybe,” Kevin said. “What’s hypothesis two?”
Raffa suddenly looked very old and tired. “That yes, you’ve got a snootful of Holy Spirit, but not from us.”
“Ah.”
“Quite. Because if it’s not something left over from your old man’s time, it means it’s come from someone else. And I’m prepared to bet my pension it’s not the Venturis.”
Kevin could see his point. “Maybe it’s from inside me. You know, runs in the family and all that.”
Raffa looked at him. “No offence, Kevin, and you’re a good kid, I’ve always said so, don’t care who hears it. I used to say to your dad, boss, basically he’s a good kid, you gotta make allowances. But the real hot stuff? I don’t think so.”
“Oh.”
“On account of you were never in the family business. And even if you were, since when did you start doing miracles all over the place? It’s not something that suddenly comes on, like acne or wisdom teeth. If you could do that kind of stuff, you’d have done it before. Trust me, it’s not that.”
“All right,” Kevin said, slightly nettled. “So if it’s not in the blood, where’s it coming from?”
Raffa looked thoughtful. “I’m still going with hypothesis one.”
“Fine. But for the sake of argument, if I’m not crazy and it is the Holy Spirit, where am I getting it from?”
“Beats me. Still, it could be worse.”
“It could?”
“Sure. You could be diving in and out of phone boxes and wearing your shorts outside your trousers. Awkward these days, with everybody having mobile phones. There aren’t the boxes about like there used to be.”
Uncle Raffa and his pop culture references. He tried so hard. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Kevin said gently, “but I think you’re wrong. I think this is what I’ve been waiting for all my life. I think this is Dad’s will, sending me down here—”
“He didn’t exactly send you. You slipped out the back way, leaving a note.”
“Sending me down here obliquely,” Kevin said, “so I could be his witness and lead his people away from the Venturi and back to the True Path. Free will, right?”
“Kevin—”
“The way I see it,” Kevin went on, “there never used to be a genuine choice. There was Dad or nothing at all, just bleak nihilism and Richard Dawkins. No real options, you see. But now there is. You can believe in the Venturis and what they stand for, or you can believe in Dad and his way—right and wrong, compassion, forgiveness, being nice to each other, all that. It’s a whole different ball game now, you see. There used to be this great big problem about existing, but everyone knows the Venturis exist, and if I go around doing miracles and it gets on social media, they’ll know I exist too. Then it’ll be a straight choice: them or me? Who’s nicer? A straight choice between value systems. The marketplace or higher ethics. Screw your neighbour or love him. That’s why I’m here, Uncle Raffa. I can feel it in my bones.”
Uncle Raffa shook his head. “No, that’s just wind. Comes from eating human food. Face it, son. You’ve done a couple of miracles, big deal. The fact is, you’re allowed to stay here on sufferance. If you annoy the Venturis, sooner or later they’ll have had enough, and then—”
“Like Jay annoyed the Romans, you mean.”
“Kevin, this is serious. Forget about Jay. He had the ultimate safety net. He knew all along it was only temporary: they couldn’t actually do anything to him, on the third day it’d all be fine, reset button, no harm done. But it’s not like that now. If the Venturis kill you, you die.”
Kevin gazed at him for a moment. “I can do that?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh.”
“Really die. As in not be here this time next week. Not be here at all.”
“To die would be an awfully big adventure.”
“It’d be dumb. Die, for this lot?” Raffa swept his arm in a semicircle. “Humans? Don’t make me laugh. Son, they just ain’t worth it. Bunch of uppity primates. What could they possibly ever do or say that’d be worth your life?”
“Uncle Raffa, I think you’re kind of missing the point.”
“And anyhow,” Raffa went on, not even trying to keep his voice down, “they won’t kill you; they’ll stick you in that Marshalsea
place of theirs. Trust me, that’d be a whole lot worse. That’d be—”
“Hell?”
“Hell is fucking Disneyland compared with the Marshalsea. You think Jay would’ve risked winding up in there? Get real. He’d have run a mile.”
“That’s my brother you’re talking about,” Kevin said quietly.
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid. Which you’d have to be, to take that sort of a risk.” Uncle Raffa gave him a long, exasperated look. “I don’t think you get the whole Jay thing,” he said. “I don’t think you understand what that was all about. Jay coming down to Earth …” He closed his eyes, trying to find the right analogy. “Jay coming down was Bob Hope singing to the troops. He drives to the front line in a Jeep. He does his bit. Twenty-four hours later he’s safe in a plush hotel somewhere. Bob Hope never grabbed a rifle and cowered in a foxhole with the shells going over his head.”
“Jay died.”
“Yeah, but he got better real soon. Of course he didn’t die. He’s still alive, ain’t he? And I’ve always reckoned not being alive is what death is all about. As you’ll find out,” he added viciously, “if you insist on pissing off the Venturis.”
“You said they’d put me in the Marshalsea.”
“Kevin.” Uncle Raffa looked him in the eye. “Grow up. Just take it from me, the Chosen One you ain’t. Don’t even think about it. I’m real fond of you, you know that. If you try and do this, you’ll only get it wrong. You’re just not cut out for the family business. I’d hate for you to be remembered as the boy who put the mess in Messiah.”
Kevin had known Uncle Raffa all his life—a bit of a paradox, since Uncle had been created, and therefore wasn’t around at the Beginning, but let that pass. He’d always respected him, been a tiny bit afraid of him; he’d always seemed so wise, so sensible, so very much everything that Kevin wasn’t. Was it possible—in a broad, bigger-rock-than-he-can-lift sense—that Uncle Raffa could be wrong? Surely not, because Raffa and Gabe and Mike, and even Uncle Nick, were really just externalised manifestations of the will of Dad. And Dad couldn’t be wrong, in the same way that water finds it hard to be dry. Except …
“Sorry,” Kevin said. “Really I am. But this is something I’ve got to do. And if it means the Marshalsea …” He shrugged. “The humans have a saying: no great loss. It’s not like anybody needs me for anything. Anything else,” he amended. “No, listen,” he added as Raffa started making angry gestures. “Think about it, will you? If not this, what am I for? Jay was for the redemption of Mankind—”
“A stunt,” Raffa grunted. “A gesture. A public relations exercise.”
“Maybe, but a very important one. And that’s why Dad had a son, for the gesture. But he had two sons, and all my life I’ve wondered, why? And now I think I know. And that’s a good feeling, Uncle Raffa, you’ve got no idea how good it is. Please don’t spoil it for me, because I’m going to do this. Really.”
Raffa was gazing at him with a strange expression, a blend of despair and admiration. “Kevin,” he said, “you’re an idiot.”
“Yes, Uncle Raffa.”
“No good will come of it.”
“No, Uncle Raffa.”
“You’ll be sorry. There’ll be tears before bedtime.”
“Anything you say, Uncle Raffa.”
“You’ll be on your own. Gabe and me, we won’t be helping you no more.”
“Fair enough.”
“Ah well. In that case …” The old angel stood up, stretched out his arms and patted Kevin’s cheeks. “Go for it, kid. Give it your best shot. We’ll be rooting for you, Gabe and me.”
“Thanks, Uncle.”
“You know what? You remind me of your old man when he was your age.”
“Gee, Uncle.”
“Only you’re stupid and he was smart. Apart from that, though, there’s a definite resemblance. Take care, kid.” Suddenly he grinned. “I was about to say, God be with you, but he’s on Sinteraan, so you can forget that. You’re on your own now.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Be seeing ya.” There was the tiniest ever flash of lightning, little more than a twinkle, and he was gone. Kevin stared blankly at the space where he’d been, then finished his coffee, got up and looked around for someone to pay. On my own, he thought. No Dad, no Jay, no blessed choir of uncles, alone in a world ruled by the Venturi brothers, whose regime he was about to challenge and maybe even overthrow. Oh boy.
“Dad,” he said aloud, “if you’re listening, take this bitter cup from me.”
No reply. Instead, the waiter handed him the bill. The waiter had bunions. Kevin cured them, picked up his flight bag and headed back to the airport. He’d gone about twenty yards when a window opened in thin air and a fresh-faced young man in a baseball cap stepped out of it.
“Did you just cure that man’s feet?”
Kevin nodded. “What about it?”
“Are you medically qualified?”
“No.”
The young man nodded. “Practising medicine without a licence, one million U.S. dollars. Cash, cheque, or—Thank you, that’ll do nicely.” He stuck Kevin’s card in his reader and handed him the number pad. “Have a really great day.”
“Bless you, my child.”
The young man peered at him. “You’re weird,” he said and vanished.
37
They’re not allowed to talk about it to outsiders, on pain of penalties that would make the most hardened Freemason blanch with fear, but all members of the International Brotherhood of Postmen share a deadly secret. It happens like this. You apply for the job, you get it, they issue you with your uniform, give you a rudimentary form of training, warn you about the dogs, all that stuff. Then, when you’re feeling pretty relaxed and happy with your choice of career, they spring it on you. There’s this room, they tell you, in the sorting office, into which you must not go. If you do, they tell you, it won’t just mean a disciplinary tribunal or even the sack. What do you mean? you ask. Then they look at you and say, What’s the worst thing you could possibly imagine happening to you? And before you can answer, they say, This would be worse.
So you assume it’s a wind-up, industrial humour, like the legendary left-handed screwdriver, and put it out of your mind. From time to time you pass the locked door that was pointed out to you, and you idly wonder what really goes on in there. Maybe you ask a few of the old-timers, but they look away and change the subject, and all that means is that they’re in on the leg-pull, big deal. Probably it’s just a broom cupboard or where the supervisor puts his bike.
And then, assuming you stick it out that long, November slides into December and the first letters to Santa start to turn up in the daily collections. And you ask, What do we do with these? And they tell you, Just put them in this sack here or that pigeonhole there, don’t worry about it. And you don’t, until one day you happen to see someone, probably the supervisor or some grandee of equivalent rank, unlocking the forbidden door and sidling through it clutching a big fistful of envelopes. By this stage you’re pretty sick of the joke because you’re not a newbie any more. You were rather hoping you’d become One of Us, so you don’t give them the satisfaction of asking again, you just pretend you haven’t seen anything. But now the supervisor’s going in and out of the secret room four or five times every shift, always hugging a fat wad of envelopes, and gradually it dawns on you that what he’s putting in there is the Dear Santa letters, and when he comes out again he carefully locks the door after him, using four enormous keys. Also, the door is solid steel and easily an inch thick, and there comes a time, probably early morning, when you walk past the door and you’re not sure, but you think you can hear this strange scrabbling noise on the other side, not quite chalk-on-blackboard but equally disturbing, as though something with claws was trying to get through.
Sooner or later someone will tell you about it, even though they’re not supposed to on pain
of death, disembowelment and loss of seniority. What it’s all about, they hoarsely whisper, is this. We don’t deliver Santa’s mail. The elves come and collect it.
You smile. Sure, you say, and I suppose they come down the chimney. Yes, as a matter of fact they do. I bet, you say, and they park the sleigh on the roof too, don’t they? And then they look at you with an expression in their eyes that you’ve got to be a postman to understand, and suddenly the joke isn’t quite so funny any more. And either you believe or you don’t, but either way wild horses wouldn’t drag you into the forbidden room with the steel door and the four thirty-six-lever mortice locks. And sometimes, in your dreams, when you’ve eaten hot, spicy food just before going to bed, you find yourself standing in front of that door, and it slowly swings open, and you look past it, just a little peek, and your screaming wakes you up, and the rest of the household as well …
Which is just a roundabout way of saying that all those letters to Santa do get delivered, and one of them was noticed by a keen-eyed elf in Sorting and passed through expedited channels, and the Red Lord picked it up, frowned at it and sent for his house guest.
“Letter for you,” he said.
Jersey’s eyes weren’t accustomed to the light any more, so it took him some time to read what was written on the envelope. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Just a wild shot in the dark,” the Red Lord said, “and shoot me down in flames if you think I’m being silly, but how would it be if you opened it? And then we’d know.”
After he’d read it, Jersey handed it over. “Who’s this Bernie?” the Red Lord asked.
“I met him in Hell,” Jersey said. “He works there. Actually, I think he more or less runs the place, like a sort of infernal Radar O’Reilly. He got me the job there.”