Blind Faith
Page 1
Table of Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Ben Elton: Dead Famous
Past Mortem
The First Casualty
Ben Elton is one of Britain's most provocative and entertaining writers. From celebrity to climate change, from the First World War to the end of the world, his books give his unique perspective on some of the most controversial topics of our time.
He has written twelve major bestsellers, including Stark, Popcorn (winner of the Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger Award), Inconceivable (filmed as Maybe Baby, which he also directed), Dead Famous, High Society (winner of the WHSmith People's Choice Award) and The First Casualty.
He has also written some of television's most popular and incisive comedy, including The Young Ones, Blackadder and The Man from Auntie. His stage work includes three West End plays and the hit musicals The Beautiful Game and We Will Rock You.
He is married with three children.
www.rbooks.co.uk
Critical acclaim for Ben Elton:
Chart Throb
'A brilliantly savage, laugh-out-loud page turner' OK! Magazine
The First Casualty
'Riveting action scenes bristle with a queasy
energy . . . unputdownable' Sunday Telegraph
'A work of formidable imaginative scope . . . the writing is so
good, the language so surprisingly subtle and the characters so
beautifully delineated' Daily Telegraph
Past Mortem
'Engaging and smartly plotted' Observer
'Past Mortem confirms Elton as craftsmanlike,
thoughtful and readable' Daily Mail
'He has not lost his canny eye for the preoccupations of his
peers . . . its warm-hearted characterisation and deft pacing
should make the paperback popular on next summer's
beaches' Sunday Times
High Society
'As I raced to the end, I found myself applauding Elton. This is
a tough subject tackled with courage and commitment'
Will Hutton, The Observer Review
'A fix of high comedy from a writer who provokes almost as
much as he entertains' Daily Mail
'Tremendous narrative momentum . . . genuinely
moving' The Times
'A return to Elton's top fiery form' Glamour magazine
'Very racy, a compulsive read' Mirror
Dead Famous
'One of Ben Elton's many triumphs with Dead Famous is
that he is superbly persuasive about the stage of the story:
the characterisation is a joy, the jokes are great, the
structuring is very clever and the thriller parts are ingenious
and full of suspense. And not only that – the satire (of
Big Brother, of the television industry, of the arrogant
ignorance and rabid inarticulacy of yoof culture) is
scathing, intelligent and cherishable.
As House Arrest's twerpy contestants would put it,
wicked. Double wicked. Big up to Ben Elton and respect,
big time. Top, top book' Mail on Sunday
'Brilliant . . . Ben has captured the verbal paucity of this world
perfectly . . . devastatingly accurate in its portrayal . . . read
Elton's book' Janet Street-Porter, Independent on Sunday
'Elton has produced a book with pace and wit, real tension,
a dark background theme, and a big on-screen climax'
Independent
'One of the best whodunnits I have ever read . . . This is a
cracking read – a funny, gripping, hugely entertaining thriller, but
also a persuasive, dyspeptic account of the way we live now,
with our insane, inane cult of the celebrity' Sunday Telegraph
Inconceivable
'Extremely funny, clever, well-written, sharp and
unexpectedly moving . . . This brilliant, chaotic satire merits
rereading several times' Mail on Sunday
'Extremely funny without ever being tasteless or cruel . . . this
is Elton at his best – mature, humane, and still a laugh a
minute. At least' Daily Telegraph
'A very funny book about a sensitive subject. The
characters are well-developed, the action is page-turning and
it's beginning to seem as if Ben Elton the writer might be even
funnier than Ben Elton the comic' Daily Mail
'This is Elton doing what he does best, taking comedy
to a place most people wouldn't dream of visiting and asking
some serious questions while he's about it. It's a brave
and personal novel' Mirror
'A tender, beautifully balanced romantic comedy' Spectator
'Moving and thoroughly entertaining' Daily Express
'Anyone who has had trouble starting a family will
recognize the fertility roller-coaster Elton perceptively
and wittily describes' The Age, Melbourne
Blast from the Past
'The action is tight and well-plotted, the dialogue is punchy
and the whole thing runs along so nicely that you never have
to feel you're reading a book at all' Guardian
'A strong beginning, and the reminder that it is fear itself that makes you jump wouldn't be out of place in a psychological thriller. Blast from the Past is a comedy, but an edgy comedy . . . a slick moral satire that works as a hairy cliff-hanger' Sunday Times
'Blast from the Past is a wicked, rip-roaring ride which charts the fine lines separating hilarity from horror; the oily gut of fear from the delicious shiver of anticipation' West Australian
'Only Ben Elton could combine uncomfortable questions about gender politics with a gripping, page-turning narrative and jokes that make you laugh out loud' Tony Parsons
Also by Ben Elton
STARK
GRIDLOCK
THIS OTHER EDEN
POPCORN
BLAST FROM THE PAST
INCONCEIVABLE
DEAD FAMOUS
HIGH SOCIETY
PAST MORTEM
THE FIRST CASUALTY
CHART THROB
and published by Black Swan
BLIND FAITH
Ben Elton
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publish
ers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407033839
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
161–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk
BLIND FAITH
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9780552773904
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers
Black Swan edition published 2008
Copyright © Ben Elton 2007
Ben Elton has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
ISBN: 9781407033839
Version 1.0
Typeset in 11/16pt Giovanni Book by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.
Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
For my wife and children
1
Trafford said goodbye to his wife, kissed their tiny baby on the forehead and began to unlock the various bolts and deadlocks that secured their front door.
'And a very good morning to you too, Trafford,' said the voice of Barbieheart.
'Yes, of course, good morning, Barbieheart,' Trafford replied nervously. 'Good morning indeed, I mean goodbye . . . I mean . . . well, I mean I don't want to be late, you see.'
'I'm not holding you up, Trafford.'
'No. Absolutely.'
'Well now, you take care to have a great day.'
'Thank you. Thank you very much. I will.'
Trafford's wife looked at him angrily. He knew that Chantorria suspected him of deliberately not greeting Barbieheart, as some kind of protest, some bizarre bid for independence. She was right, of course.
'Sometimes he doesn't even say good morning to me,' Chantorria volunteered apologetically, waving at Barbieheart's face on the wallscreen.
She was only trying to suck up; Trafford knew Chantorria hated Barbieheart as much as he did. But trying to keep her sweet was the right thing to do, the safe thing to do. At least one member of the family had a sense of what was proper.
Barbieheart extracted her hand from the huge sack of cheesy snacks on which she was breakfasting and waved back. She was moderator of the tenement chat room and, having grown too large to leave her apartment, she was scarcely ever absent from her post. A constant presence in every household, Barbieheart was an extra member of the family and one whom Trafford deeply resented.
'Go, go! Run, Trafford!' Barbieheart said with exaggerated cheeriness. 'It's a brand new day, praise the Love.'
Trafford left his apartment and began to descend the many litter-strewn, rat-infested staircases to the street below. The lift worked but Trafford never used it. He claimed he liked to walk down for the exercise but really it was so that he could enjoy a few brief moments away from communitainment screens. He could never admit that, of course: it would look dangerously weird. After all, what was not to like about a news and entertainment video on the wall of a boring lift?
Out on the pavement Trafford headed for the tube station, picking his way carefully through the cellophane, the filthy pink ribbons, the rotting blooms, the little photographs, the scribbled-on scraps of paper and the gilt-edged cards:
Gathered unto the Lord.
One more star in the zodiac.
A new heartbeat in Heaven.
He knew better than to tread on a single kiss-laden message or wilted flower; he had seen men beaten senseless for less. They missed nothing, those keening women who gathered on the pavements in the heat of the morning to mourn their dead and broadcast to the street the age-old songs of grief.
I will always love you.
The heart must go on.
One foot wrong, one petal defiled, and that weeping, hugging huddle would without doubt consider themselves to have been shown disrespect. And disrespect was something for which, even in their grief, these women were constantly vigilant. Even a suspicion of disrespect would turn public sorrow instantly to public rage. The fuse was short, the tinder dry; it took almost nothing to summon forth the mob from the surrounding apartment buildings and spark an orgy of People's Justice which the police would regret but not condemn. Many who fell victim to the righteous fury of the mob never understood what offence it was that they had unwittingly given, just as many who rushed to join the frenzied mêlée could only guess at what outrage the object of their fury had committed. Something to do with children, no doubt, because nobody dissed the people's kiddies. Least of all the dead ones.
And there were so many dead ones.
Death was everywhere. In the buzz of insects' wings, in the splashing of the dirty water and borne on the whisper of the wind. It stalked everybody, old and young alike, but it was the young who were the most vulnerable and they suffered most.
Libra Divine: Heaven has a brand new superstar.
Tyson Armani: Simply the best.
Malibu: A candle in the wind.
So many dead children. Millions and millions of them. No stretch of pavement without its shrine. No personal web page without its catalogue of tiny faces that had looked upon the world for such a short time but lived on now only in Heaven and in cyberspace.
My little sister.
My tiny cousin.
My boy. My girl.
All safe now in the arms of Jesus. And Diana. The Love Spirit and the Lord. Dead but safe. Safe, thank God, from paedophiles.
Sagiquarius: Pure for ever. Defiled, never.
Child mortality was the burning cross that branded the souls of the nation, the pain that the people must bear in repentance for the sins of their faithless forefathers. No child was safe: the plagues which swept through the community affected rich and poor alike. God's great plan was no respecter of wealth or rank, although without doubt the more crowded the district, the more severe were the epidemics that afflicted it. Bumps and sores, boils and pustules, aching bones, running eyes and infected chests, these were the dangers that an infant must negotiate before it had even learned to walk. The mother who brought six babies into the world could only hope to take three of them to McDonald's to celebrate their fifth birthdays. For half of them at least, the party sacks would never be filled.
Chantorria had recently given birth to their first child, a time of joy but also a time of grim trepidation. Like all new parents, she and Trafford had spent the weeks since their daughter's arrival listening out for telltale coughs, watching for rashes and testing constantly for sensitivity to sound and light.
Now, however, it was time for Trafford to return to work and this particular day was a Fizzy Coff. Fizzy Coff was short for 'physical office' and meant that it was a day when Trafford's personally adapted work structure required him to attend his actual workplace, as opposed to the virtual version which existed online and which he could get to without leaving his bed.
Fizzy Coffs were a statutory requirement; the law e
xpected each person to spend at least 25 per cent of their working hours in the company of real, physical colleagues in a real physical space. It was intended at some point to increase this proportion to 50 per cent and the transport system was supposedly being updated to cope with the extra travel hours, but Trafford doubted that it would ever happen. All future planning for the transport system seemed to him to focus on the modest ambition of preventing it from grinding to a complete halt.
Fizzy Coffs were a relatively recent development. Twenty solstices previously, when Trafford had first entered employment, he had not been required to go out to a physical workplace at all. Few people did, except those whose job was serving food and drink or lapdancing. That had been in a time when the virtues of the virtual had gone unchallenged. The public health advantages of keeping people apart had been obvious and it was generally assumed that at some point all work would be done at home. But the growing trend towards social dysfunction had alerted both the Temple and the government to the human need for Face Time. Care workers and spiritual counsellors had concluded that people who dealt exclusively with virtual individuals tended to be at an emotional disadvantage when confronted with the real thing. Unable to relate to fellow members of the community, they were awkward, tongue-tied, and would occasionally shoot at random as many people as they could before turning their guns on themselves.
It had also become clear that it was impossible to meet a series of sexual partners while sitting alone in a tiny flat in front of a computer screen surrounded by pizza boxes. This had of course brought the Temple into the debate. With one in two children dying in infancy, the first and foremost spiritual duty of the people was to produce more children and you cannot produce children without sexual partners. The High Council of the Temple had therefore let it be known that the government must enable the people to interact more regularly, and so Fizzy Coffs became mandatory.
It was therefore principally in order to produce children and to prevent them from developing into deranged killers that Trafford found himself picking his way through the emotionally charged litter of a permanently traumatized society in the burning heat of a stinking Sagittarian morning.
2
Trafford was a civil servant of sorts. Most people who were not in catering and hospitality were civil servants, the government being by far the largest employer in the country. In fact, since almost everything that people consumed or used came from somewhere else, the principal activity of the government was finding people something to do.