Blind Faith

by Ben Elton

  'So,' Sandra Dee said finally, 'how did you discover my secret?'

  'By chance really,' Trafford replied. 'That day in the office when Princess Lovebud denounced you for not having breast implants – I Tubed you up that night and saw almost immediately that nothing you posted was real.'

  'Why did you Tube me?'

  'Because I found you compelling. And I felt . . . connected. I believed from just looking at you that you kept a part of yourself private in defiance of the Temple orthodoxy. It turned out I was right, although I had no idea of the lengths to which you went.'

  'Privacy is illegal.'

  'Of course.'

  'You discovered me committing a crime.'

  'Yes.'

  'And you kept on looking at my crime until your wife got angry and then she went to Confession and drew my blog to the attention of the entire community, any one of whom might have decided to check it out.'

  'I know. I put you in danger, I'm sorry.'

  From beneath a reel of rope Sandra Dee suddenly produced a boat knife. It was a vicious-looking tool, the blade well polished and flashing wickedly in the sunlight.

  'I could kill you now,' she said. 'Just thrust myself forward, plunge the knife into you and it would be done. No one would notice, no one would care. One more corpse floating on the lake and all my secrets would be safe.'

  'Your secrets are safe,' Trafford assured her with alarm. 'All I know is that you keep secrets. Everything else is a mystery.'

  'So what? The Inquisition doesn't care what your secrets are, it only cares that you keep them,' she said, still fingering her knife, testing its edge with her thumb. 'Keeping secrets is the crime. Privacy is the crime. I've been lucky, your stupid curiosity has done me no harm, but who knows? One day you might betray me.'

  'I won't.'

  'Why should I risk it?'

  'I would never ever betray you. I'm in love with you. I'm in love with your secrets. I would rather die than betray you for keeping them.'

  'Why are you in love with my secrets? What interest can they possibly have for you?'

  She still played with the knife but she smiled too and something in that smile emboldened Trafford. Something in the way she crossed and recrossed her legs as she looked at him, something, even, in the way she held the knife gave him the confidence to reveal his own secret, silent passion.

  'Because I've discovered through you that there is nothing more exciting than mystery. Nothing more erotic.

  Your body is a mystery to me. Your sexual soul is completely hidden and that's why I want it. I want nothing else. I'm breathless with desire for it.'

  For a moment she seemed less confident, less in control. She even reddened a little; he could see it even beneath the sun block. Then slowly a wry smile spread across her lips. She put down her knife and leaned back in the boat, stretching, seeming to enjoy the heat of the sun as it shone upon the bare skin of her arms and legs.

  'That's a very attractive observation, Trafford. "Hidden sexual soul"? "Breathless with desire"? A girl might get quite dizzy with it all.'

  Trafford said nothing, preferring instead to drink in the sight of her. Languid and easy, lovely and lazy as she reclined in the sun. Her legs stretched out, the breeze folding her dress around her body, revealing its slim, toned shape.

  'Do you want me now?' she asked, almost matter-of-factly. 'Do you want me to reveal my secrets?'

  Trafford could only gulp, his throat suddenly dry.

  'Would you like me to take off my dress, like a girl's supposed to do?' she continued, a bare foot creeping across the floor of the boat towards him. 'Do you want me to tell you how I like to "do it"? What turns me on, tunes my motor and melts my ice cream?'

  'More than anything I have ever wanted,' he answered, but then added, 'except no.'

  'No?'

  'No, I don't want you to.'

  'Why?'

  'Because if you did, the anticipation would be over, the secret would be out, the mystery revealed and I couldn't bear it. I've discovered, through you, the thrill of denial. Ours is such a dull world, with everything revealed, everything "shared" and "proudly" on display. I know now that nothing is more erotic than almost knowing. Nothing can equal the agonizing intensity of wanting to see you naked, the pain, the need . . . I have never felt more alive than I do now and I want this moment to last for ever.'

  'Are you imagining me naked now?'

  'Yes, of course, and I'm imagining being naked with you.'

  Sandra Dee smiled and for once her air of cool detachment seemed to desert her.

  'What's it like?' she asked.

  'It's perfect. Nothing could be more beautiful. Imagine that! Perfection. Beauty. When did you last experience either in this miserable world? And yet I can imagine them any time I like! It's incredible. To be transported by mere thought! By a fiction of the mind's eye! I never dreamed of such exhilaration.'

  'Come on, Trafford,' she replied and to his surprise he saw that she was blushing. 'I said what's it like?'

  'What's it like?'

  Her cheeks were definitely red now and for a moment she looked away, seemingly afraid to meet his eye.

  'I want to know what you're actually thinking,' she said quietly, almost in a whisper. 'I want you to tell me now.'

  'You're sitting up,' Trafford replied, and to his surprise the words came easily. 'I've already undone the top buttons of your dress, kissed it from your shoulders and now it's falling down past your breasts. You look at me and you smile, then your mouth drops open a little and I can see your white teeth.'

  'Really?' said Sandra Dee, her mouth dropping open just as Trafford had described. 'What happens next?'

  'Together we undo the rest of the buttons.'

  'Together?' she asked with a giggle. 'How do we manage that?'

  She was looking directly at him once more but there was a softness in her gaze that Trafford had never seen before.

  'You undo the first two or three,' he said, 'then you guide my hands into your lap and allow me to unbutton the rest.'

  'And then?'

  'Then I open your dress out completely and it slips from your arms and falls about you on the bench like the petals of a flower. You're sitting on it, your pale skin shining bright in the sun. Your underwear is quite plain – you chose it for your own comfort, not to fit some net-inspired pornographic template.'

  'I see, so I'm a sensible girl, am I? That's nice. I like that.'

  'You are your own woman. You dress to please yourself, not men.'

  'Flatterer,' she said. 'I bet you say that to all the girls. All right, so here I am, sitting on the bench in my plain and simple bra and knickers. What happens now?'

  'I put my hand on your belly, just above the waistband of your panties. Your navel is beneath the palm of my hand. I feel you breathe. You lean towards me and as you do so I can see the fall of your breasts inside your bra, I can see the separation between them, and you reach out and pull my shirt up over my head.'

  Sandra Dee shifted on her cushion and leaned forward a little, her hands between her legs.

  'How do you look?' she asked.

  'Well, how do you think I look?' Trafford replied.

  'You look . . . very nice,' said Sandra Dee. 'What now?'

  'I place my hands behind your back, I gently run my fingers up your spine to find your bra strap, effortlessly I unhook it and it falls away. Your breasts are revealed, firm and real, the nipples pale pink against the white skin, like half-ripened strawberries in cream. You lean back, your dress spread out around you, and you hook your thumbs into the top of your knickers. Your legs are very slightly apart. I can see a wisp of sandy hair protruding either side of the thin cotton gusset.'

  Sandra Dee reddened once more. She covered her embarrassment with a laugh.

  'An unkempt bikini line? That's not very proper, is it?'

  'Your legs come up and you glide the panties down over them. Another secret revealed! Your bush is full and natural, no stupid shaven
bristle or brutal reddened waxing, just the soft natural hair of a woman . . .'

  Sandra Dee's mouth opened to speak but Trafford stopped her.

  'Don't tell me if I'm right or wrong! I don't want to know. Besides which, I am right because the Sandra Dee I'm describing is mine, the creation of my imagination.'

  'I like her,' she said quietly.

  'I'm on my knees before you, kneeling between your legs, staring. Staring at every detail of you. I raise my head to look into your eyes and you stare back. You stare at me almost ferociously, hardly even blinking, and then you smile, a sweet, sweet smile. Once more you lean forward; I see your breasts swing out from your body, hanging, perfectly formed and separate. I see the tiny creases in your stomach as you lean towards me; your navel half disappears into one of them; you reach out and undo my shorts, I stand up as you pull them down, I step out of them, and now you take hold of me and—'

  'Stop!' she said and her voice was shaking.

  'Stop?'

  'Yes. Let's not do it today.' She looked at him intensely and briefly it seemed to Trafford as if there was sadness it her clear grey eyes. But then she laughed and added, 'After all, a girl doesn't want to imagine going all the way on her first date.'

  Trafford laughed too. It had been a funny thing to say.

  That phrase about going all the way on a first date hailed from a distant past. People only used it ironically these days. These days everybody went all the way on every date. Why not? If a thing was desirable surely it was desirable to have it as soon and as often as possible. Trafford loved the idea that once more they were defying convention. Even in this imagined consummation they would not follow the crowd. Besides, he thought hopefully, if she was speaking of 'first dates' then perhaps there was to be a second.

  'You mean . . .' he asked hesitatingly, 'that we can meet again?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'I'd like that, it's been fun and I don't often have fun. You were right. It is exciting to . . . imagine.'

  They sat together as the boat drifted. Sandra Dee had bought some beer from the marina shop and although it had long since lost its chill they drank it gratefully and listened to the water lapping against the boat and watched the sun setting behind the chimneys.

  'Won't that wife you're supposed to be divorcing be wondering where you are?' Sandra Dee enquired. 'Shouldn't you call her?'

  'I'm often out. She doesn't mind. She has plenty to fill her time these days, now that she's a queen bee in our tenement. Women come round just to hold our baby in the hope that the luck of the Love will rub off.'

  'That must be nice for her.'

  'She loves it. I think it's pathetic. They're such superstitious fools.'

  Sandra Dee looked about nervously; this was reckless talk, even between two people who had confessed to a mutual love of privacy.

  'Be careful, Trafford,' she said. 'You shouldn't talk like that.'

  'I don't care. I mean it. They're stupid, superstitious fools.'

  'You don't believe that your child was protected by divine intervention?'

  'There are millions and millions of babies on Earth. Abroad, in the Other World, more die even than in the countries of faith. How could any God consider the fate of single individuals? And why would he bother? Kill most but save that one, for a purpose? It defies logic.'

  'So how do you explain her surviving a measles plague?'

  Trafford thought about the question before answering.

  'I don't want to tell you,' he said finally.

  'Another secret?'

  'Yes.'

  'I see,' she said, then added without missing a beat, 'so you had her vaccinated.'

  Trafford was taken aback. Now it was his turn to look around nervously.

  'I . . . I don't want to incriminate you by discussing such things,' he said quickly.

  'Don't worry,' she said, 'your secret's safe with me.'

  Once more there was silence between them, but now it was the silence that exists between friends. Sharing such dangerous confidences had created a bond.

  'Tell me another,' Sandra Dee said finally.

  'Another secret?'

  'Yes, an exciting one.'

  Trafford realized that he would never get a better opportunity than this.

  'All right, I will.'

  'Is it a good one?'

  'It's a very good one.'

  Sandra Dee waited while Trafford considered how best to say what it was that he wanted to say, what he had been waiting to say ever since he had walked into the office to find her being bullied by Princess Lovebud.

  'I hold the key to a door,' he said slowly, 'a door to another world. Another universe. In fact to a thousand universes.'

  'Wow,' she said. 'Big secret.'

  'I can step through that door and leave this terrible, terrible town we live in any time I like. In a single moment I can make Princess Lovebud disappear; I can make my chat room moderator disappear; I can make all the crowds of sweating, eating, belching bullies disappear. I can block out the infotainment loops, I can tune out the bullshit celebrities and the reality cop shows and the naked bodies fucking on every screen on every wall. I can forget the bombs and the wars that keep the peace and the Temple and all its stupid, illogical Wembley Laws. I can escape from it all. That's my secret. That's what I can do, Sandra Dee. I can make them all disappear.'

  'Tell me how,' she replied eagerly. 'I want to know.'

  'Well,' said Trafford, 'you said a minute ago that it was exciting to imagine.'

  'Yes?'

  'That's the key. The key to escaping this man-made thing that we call "reality" is through the mind, through reason and imagination. I have discovered . . . books.'

  'Books?' Sandra Dee could not conceal her disappointment. 'Books are shit.'

  'Wrong books,' Trafford replied.

  Then he reached into a plastic bag and brought out what appeared to be a copy of Feng Foodie, a popular pamphlet which claimed that inner health and spirituality could be achieved by the proper alignment of one's food prior to eating it. Be it in the carton or on the plate, the way your fries interacted spatially with your burger could help or hinder your spiritual growth.

  'You are joking, I presume,' Sandra Dee said, looking at the book with contempt.

  Then Trafford removed the book's cover and inside was a battered paperback copy of Wuthering Heights.

  'This,' he said, 'is a wonderful story written many years ago. I chose it for you, to read if you want. While you are reading it, the world we live in will go away. Instead you'll find yourself in the one described in the book: a world of genuine passion, eternal love, complex emotions and space, so much space. You will walk on windswept moors, the cold rain driving in your face. A soul adrift. A soul alone. Lost on the moorlands of secret, doomed love.'

  Sandra Dee took the book from Trafford.

  'If I was caught with this, the least I could hope for would be to be put in the stocks. They'd beat my feet.'

  'It's worth the risk, believe me.'

  'Where did you get it?'

  'I . . . found it. I can find more if you like it. Would you like to borrow it?'

  'Yes, I'd love to.'

  The sun had nearly gone and with it the breeze. Sandra Dee took down the sail and between them they rowed back to her mooring.

  'I've had a wonderful time, Trafford,' she said as they took their leave of each other. 'I can't remember when I last spoke with someone the way we spoke today.'

  'No, nor me,' said Trafford.

  'And of course,' Sandra Dee added, giving him a kiss on the cheek, 'the sex was great.'

  28

  Trafford and Cassius walked up Hampstead Hill towards Jack Straw's Castle. Trafford had never visited this particular island of the London archipelago before; it was a place where rich men lived, Temple elders, civil administrators and prominent businessmen, a gated sanctuary protected by armed guards.

  'We're visiting the house of Connor Newbury,' Cassius informed Trafford as they turned into a
street of semi-detached houses each with its own private garden, which indicated occupants of enormous wealth. Trafford knew all about Connor Newbury: a popular TV and web chat-show host with a slightly foppish air, he was known for being boldly irreverent towards Temple elders, although in truth this never amounted to anything more than teasing them over their choice of jewellery and the breadth of their stomachs.

  'He's one of us, you know,' Cassius explained as they approached the house.

  Once inside, they were shown into a large sitting room. The room was unique in Trafford's experience in that, instead of being hung with plasma screens, it had static pictures on the walls which appeared to have been executed with nothing more than paint. The carpet was thick and luxurious and the furniture looked very old: deep leather armchairs, a huge, cushion-covered couch and elegant little coffee tables. Two of the armchairs were occupied. Connor Newbury himself was instantly recognizable in a characteristically flamboyant crimson man bra and silver hot pants. He was cooling his backside before a cheerfully roaring air conditioner and smoking an enormous cigar.

  'Aha,' the famous personality boomed. 'Hail, Cassius, and hail, our new computer whiz. I'm Newbury but you know that of course, don't you, Trafford! These two are Professor Blossom Taylor' – a pleasant-looking elderly woman in a voluminous kaftan nodded absent-mindedly towards Trafford, 'and Billy Macallan.'

  'All right, geezer,' said Macallan, a big shaven-headed man with hairy tattooed arms who looked more like an all-in wrestler than a literary type.

  'We four make up the Humanist Senate,' Newbury continued, 'and I'm Chair because I've got the nicest house to meet in!'

  Trafford shook hands with Taylor and Macallan. He didn't approach Newbury, who merely gave him a patronizing wave.

  'Right,' Newbury continued, 'let us proceed to kick some intellectual butt! Cassius here tells us you don't think we humble revolutionaries are thinking big enough.'

  Trafford was then given a drink and invited to explain once more the idea on which he had been working since he had first revealed it in embryonic form to Cassius.