She says in her heart: Am I ready?
The voice says: You were made for this, child. Preach it.
Allie unfolds her arms and holds her palms up to face the audience. In the centre of each one is tattooed an eye, with the tendrils extending out.
The crowd explodes in screams and cheers and stamping of feet. The men and women in the audience surge forward and Allie feels grateful for the crash-barriers and the ambulance people standing in the aisles. They’re climbing over seats to get closer to her, they’re panting and sobbing, they’re breathing in her breath, they want to eat her alive.
Mother Eve speaks calmly over the din. She says, ‘All gods are one God. Your Goddess is another way that the One has expressed Herself in the world. She came to you as She came to me, preaching compassion and hope, teaching vengeance against those who have wronged us and love for those who are close to us. Your Goddess is Our Lady. They are one.’
Behind her, the rippling silk curtain that has stood as a backdrop to the event all evening falls gently to the ground. It reveals a painting, twenty feet high, of a proud, buxom woman in blue, her eyes kind, the skein prominent across her collarbone, an all-seeing eye in the palm of each hand.
Several people faint at that moment, and some begin speaking in tongues.
Good work, says the voice.
I like this country, says Allie in her heart.
On her way out of the building towards the armoured car, Allie checks her messages from Sister Maria Ignacia, her trusted and loyal friend at home. They’ve been following the chatter online about ‘Alison Montgomery-Taylor’, and although Allie’s never acknowledged why she wants the files on that case to disappear, she asked Sister Maria Ignacia if she could somehow make it happen. It will just get harder as the months and years go on, there’s always going to be someone wanting to make money or influence out of this story, and although Allie thinks any reasonable court would acquit her, there’s just no need to go through it. It’s late at night in Bessapara, but it’s only 4 p.m. on the East Coast and – thankfully – there’s a message. Some loyal members of the New Church back in Jacksonville have sent one saying that, with the help of an influential sister-in-God, all the documentation and electronic files relating to this ‘Alison Montgomery-Taylor’ will be dealt with.
The email says, ‘Everything will disappear.’
It seems like a prophecy, or a warning.
The email doesn’t name the influential sister-in-God, but there’s only one woman Allie can think of who could make police files disappear just like that, just by making a phone call maybe, just by making one call to someone she knows. It must be Roxy. ‘You look after us, and we’ll look after you,’ she’d said. Well, good. Everything will disappear.
Later, Allie and Tatiana Moskalev eat a late supper. Even with the war, even with fighting on the northern front with the Moldovan troops and the stand-off in the East with Russia herself, even still the food is pretty good. President Moskalev of Bessapara lays on roast pheasant and Hasselback potatoes with sweet cabbage for Mother Eve of the New Church, and they toast each other in good red wine.
‘We need a fast victory,’ says Tatiana.
Allie chews slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Can you have a fast victory three years into a war?’
Tatiana laughs. ‘The real war hasn’t even begun yet. They’re still fighting with conventional weapons up there in the hills. They try to invade, we push them back. They throw grenades, we shoot.’
‘Electrical power’s no use against missiles and bombs.’
Tatiana sits back, crosses one leg over the other. Looks at her. ‘Do you think so?’ She frowns, amused. ‘For one: wars aren’t won by bombs, they’re won on the ground. And for two: have you seen what a full dose of that drug can do?’
Allie has seen it. Roxy showed her. It’s hard to control – Allie wouldn’t want to take it; control has always been her speciality – but a full dose of the Glitter, and three or four women could take down the electricity of the island of Manhattan.
‘You still have to be near enough to touch them. Make a connection.’
‘There are ways to arrange that. We’ve seen photographs of them working on it themselves.’
Ah, says the voice, she’s talking about that exiled King of Saudi Arabia.
‘Awadi-Atif,’ says Allie.
‘He’s just using our country as a trial, you know.’ Tatiana swallows down another gulp of wine. ‘They’re sending in some of their men in rubber suits with their stupid battery packs on their backs. He wants to show that the change means nothing. He still holds to his old religion and he thinks he’s getting his country back.’
Tatiana makes a long arc between her left palm and her right, spools it out idly, winds it back and breaks it with a snap. ‘The hairdresser,’ she says with a smile, ‘didn’t know what she was starting.’ She looks directly at Allie, a sudden, intense stare. ‘Awadi-Atif thinks he’s been sent on a holy war. And I think he’s right. I was chosen by God for this.’
She wants you to tell her she was, says the voice. Tell her.
‘You were,’ says Allie, ‘God has a special mission for you.’
‘I have always believed there was something greater than me, something better. And when I saw you. The force in the way you speak to the people. I see that you are Her messenger, and you and I have met at this time for this reason. To bring this message to the world.’
The voice says: Didn’t I tell you I had some things in store for you?
Allie says, ‘So when you say you want a fast victory … you mean that when Awadi-Atif sends down his electric troops, you want to destroy them utterly.’
Tatiana waves a hand. ‘I have chemical weapons. Left over from Cold War. If I wanted to “destroy them utterly” I could do it. No’ – she leans forward – ‘I want to humiliate them. Show that this … mechanical power cannot compare with what we have in our bodies.’
The voice says: Do you see it?
And Allie does see it suddenly and all at once. Awadi-Atif of Saudi Arabia has armed the troops in North Moldova. They plan to retake Bessapara, the republic of the women; for them, this would show that this change is merely a minor deviation from the norm, that the right way will reassert itself. And if they lose, and lose utterly …
Allie begins to smile. ‘The Holy Mother’s way will spread across the world, from person to person, from country to country. The thing will be over before it’s begun.’
Tatiana raises her glass for a toast. ‘I knew you would see it. When we invited you here … I hoped you would understand what I mean. The world is watching this war.’
She wants you to bless her war, says the voice. Tricky.
Tricky if she loses, says Allie in her heart.
I thought you wanted to be safe, says the voice.
You told me I couldn’t be safe unless I owned the place, says Allie in her heart.
And I told you that you couldn’t get there from here, says the voice.
Whose side are you on, anyway? says Allie.
Mother Eve speaks slowly and carefully. Mother Eve measures her words. Nothing that Mother Eve says is without consequence. She looks directly into the camera and waits for the red light to flash on.
‘We don’t have to ask ourselves what the Saudi Royal Family will do if they win this war,’ she says. ‘We’ve already seen it. We know what happened in Saudi Arabia for decades, and we know that God turned Her face from it in horror and disgust. We don’t have to ask ourselves who is on the side of justice when we meet the brave fighters of Bessapara – many of whom were trafficked women, shackled women, women who would have died alone in the dark if God had not sent Her light to guide them.
‘This country,’ she says, ‘is God’s country, and this war is God’s war. With Her help, we shall have a mighty victory. With Her help, everything will be overturned.’
The red light blinks off. The message goes out across the world. Mother Eve and her millions of loyal followers o
n YouTube and Instagram, on Facebook and Twitter, her donors and her friends, are with Bessapara and the republic of the women. They’ve made their choice.
Margot
‘I’m not saying you have to break up with him.’
‘Mom, that is what you’re saying.’
‘I’m just saying read the reports, see for yourself.’
‘If you’re giving them to me, I already know what’s in them.’
‘Just read them.’
Margot gestures to the pile of papers on the coffee table. Bobby did not want to have this conversation. Maddy’s out at tae kwon do practice. So it’s up to her, of course. Bobby’s exact words had been, ‘It’s your political career you’re worried about. So you handle it.’
‘Whatever those papers say, Mom, Ryan’s a good person. He’s a kind person. He’s good to me.’
‘He’s been on extremist sites, Jos. He posts under a false name on sites that talk about organizing terror attacks. That have links with some of those groups.’
Jocelyn is crying now. Frustrated, angry tears. ‘He’d never do that. He probably just wanted to see what they were saying. Mom, we met online, we both go to some crazy sites.’
Margot picks up one of the pages at random, reads out the highlighted section. ‘“Buckyou – nice name he’s picked there – says, “Things have gotten out of hand. Those NorthStar camps for one thing – if people knew what they were learning there, we’d put a bullet in every girl in the place.”’ She pauses, looks at Jocelyn.
Jos says, ‘How do they even know that’s him?’
Margot waves at the thick file of documents. ‘Oh, I don’t know. They have their ways.’ This is the tricky part. Margot holds her breath. Will Jos buy it?
Jos looks at her, lets out one quick sob. ‘The Department of Defence is vetting you, isn’t it? Because you’re going to be a senator, and they want you on the Defence Committee, like you told me.’
Hook, line and sinker.
‘Yes, Jocelyn. That is why the FBI found this stuff. Because I have an important job, and I’m not going to apologize for that.’ She pauses. ‘I thought we were in this together, honey. And you need to know that this Ryan’s not what you think.’
‘He was just trying something out, probably. Those things are from three years ago! We all say stupid stuff online, OK? Just to get a reaction.’
Margot sighs. ‘I don’t know if we can be sure of that, honey.’
‘I’ll talk to him. He’s …’ Jos starts crying again, loud, long, deep sobs.
Margot scoots towards her on the couch. Puts a tentative arm around Jos’s shoulders.
Jos sinks into her, burying her face in Margot’s chest and crying and crying just like she did when she was a child.
‘There’ll be other boys, honey. There’ll be other, better boys.’
Jos lifts her face. ‘I thought we were supposed to be together.’
‘I know, sweetheart, because of your …’ Margot hesitates over the word: ‘because of your problem, you wanted someone who’d understand.’
She wishes they’d been able to find help for Jos. They’re still looking, but the older she gets, the more intractable the problem seems to be. Sometimes she has all the power she wants, and sometimes nothing.
Jos’s sobs slow to a trickle. Margot brings her a cup of tea, and they sit in silence for a while on the couch, Margot’s arm around Jos.
After a long while, Margot says, ‘I still think we can find some help for you. If we could find someone to help you … well, you’d just be able to like normal boys.’
Jos puts her cup down on the table slowly. She says, ‘Do you really think so?’
And Margot says, ‘I know it, honey. I know it. You can be just like all the other girls. I know we can fix it for you.’
This is what it means to be a good mother. Sometimes you can see what your kids need better than they can.
Roxy
‘Come home,’ says the message. ‘Ricky’s been hurt.’
She’s supposed to be going to Moldova, supposed to be training women in how to use the Glitter to fight. But she can’t, not with a message like that on her phone.
She’s stayed out of Ricky’s way mostly, since she got back from America. She’s got her own thing with the Glitter, and it’s making them good money. Roxy used to long to be invited into that house. Bernie’s given her a key now, she’s got a guest bedroom for when she’s not out at the Black Sea, but it’s not what she thought it’d be. Barbara, the mother of the three boys, hasn’t been right since Terry died. There’s a big photo of Terry on the mantelpiece with fresh flowers in front of it, changed every three days. Darrell’s still living there. He’s taking on the betting, because he’s got the brain for it. Ricky’s got his own place up in Canary Wharf.
Roxy thinks, when she reads that text, of the different firms that could have it in for them, and what ‘hurt’ means. If it’s war, they need her home for sure.
But it’s Barbara who’s waiting for her in the front garden when she gets there, smoking non-stop, lighting the next one from the embers of the last. Bernie’s not even home. So it’s not war, it’s something else.
Barbara says, ‘Ricky’s been hurt.’
Roxy says, knowing the answer, ‘Was it one of the other firms? That Romanian lot?’
Barbara shakes her head. She says, ‘They fucked him up for fun.’
Roxy says, ‘Dad knows people. You didn’t need to call me.’
Barbara’s hands are shaking. ‘No, it’s not for them. It’s a family thing.’
So Roxy knows exactly what kind of thing has happened to Ricky.
Ricky’s got the TV on, but the sound’s off. There’s a blanket over his knees and bandages under that; doctor’s been and gone, so there’s nothing to see, anyway.
Roxy’s got girls working for her who were held by blokes in Moldova. She saw what one of them had done to the three men who’d taken turns with her. Down there it was just burned flesh, fern patterns on the thighs, pink and brown and raw red and black. Like a Sunday roast. Ricky doesn’t seem that bad. He’ll probably be fine. This kind of thing heals. She’s heard that things can be difficult afterwards, though. It can be hard to get over.
She says, ‘Just tell me what happened.’
Ricky looks at her, and he’s grateful, and his gratitude is terrible. She wants to hug him, but she knows that’d just make it worse for him somehow. You can’t be the one that hurts and the one that comforts. She can’t give Ricky anything but justice.
He tells her what happened.
He was pissed, obviously. Out with some mates, dancing. He’s got a couple of girlfriends, Ricky, but he never minds finding someone new for the night, and the girls know not to bother him about it, that’s just how he is. Roxy’s the same these days; sometimes there’s a bloke and sometimes there isn’t, and it doesn’t matter much to her either way.
This time, Ricky got three girls, said they were sisters – but they didn’t look like sisters; he thinks it was a joke. One of them sucked him off by the kitchen bins outside the club; whatever she did, it made his head spin. He looks ashamed when he says it, like he thinks he should have done something different. When she was finished, the others were waiting. And he went, ‘Give me a minute, girls. Can’t do you all at once.’ And they were on him.
There’s a thing you can do to a bloke. Roxy’s done it herself. A little bit of a spark in the back passage and up he comes, neat as anything. It’s fun, if you want it. Hurts a bit, but fun. Hurts a lot if you don’t want it. Ricky kept on saying he didn’t want it.
They took their turns on him. They were just trying to hurt him, he says, and he was saying, did they want money, what did they want, but one of them got him in the throat and he couldn’t make another sound until they were finished.
The whole thing took half an hour. Ricky thought he might die there. In between the black bags and the thick grease coating the paving stones. He could see them finding his body, white legs
marked with red scars. He could see a copper turning out his pockets and saying, ‘You’ll never guess who this is, only Ricky Monke.’ And his face fish-white and his lips blue. Ricky kept very still until it was over, and didn’t say nothing and didn’t do nothing. Just waited for it to be done.
Roxy knows why they haven’t called Bernie home. He’d hate Ricky for this, even if he tried not to. This is not what happens to a man. Except now it is.
The stupid thing is that he does know them. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure. He’s seen them around; he doesn’t think they know who he is – you’d think they’d’ve been scared otherwise, to do what they did – but he knows people he’s seen them with. One of them’s called Manda, he’s pretty sure, one of them’s Sam. Roxy gets an idea, looks at a couple of people on Facebook. Shows him some photos, until he starts to shake.
It’s not hard to find them. It doesn’t take Roxy more than five phone calls to someone who knows someone who knows someone. She doesn’t say why she’s asking, but she doesn’t need to; she’s Roxy Monke and people want to help her. They’re drinking in a pub in Vauxhall, they’re tanked up, they’re laughing, they’ll be here till closing.
Roxy’s got some good girls here in London now. Girls who run the business for her, and collect the profits, and knock the heads together that need knocking. It’s not that a bloke couldn’t do the job – some of them’d do it handy – but it’s better if they don’t need a gun. They’re noisy, draw attention, they’re messy; quick barney ends up with a double murder and thirty years in prison. For a job like this, you take girls. Except when she gets dressed and comes downstairs, there’s Darrell waiting by the front door. He’s got a sawn-off on his arm.
‘What?’ says Roxy.
‘I’m coming,’ says Darrell.
She thinks, for a moment, of saying, ‘Sure,’ and knocking him cold when he turns away. But, after what’s happened to Ricky, it wouldn’t be right.
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