Blind Faith

by Ben Elton

  'I finished these two days ago,' she complained, handing back Jane Eyre and Sons and Lovers, 'and I've had nothing to read since. Why do I always have to meet you to get my stories?'

  'Don't you like meeting me?'

  'Of course I do, you know that,' she said, adding with a laugh, 'I don't imagine sex with every lad I meet, you know.'

  Sandra Dee had indeed seemed happy for them to continue to explore their fantasy world together and they talked about sex as much as they discussed the books they had read. She always appeared to enjoy Trafford's erotic flights of the imagination and even occasionally contributed something of her own. Nonetheless, Trafford sensed that his was the greater commitment and suspected her of humouring him.

  Inevitably the excitement of mystery, about which Trafford had at first waxed so lyrical, had begun to wear thin for him. Despite everything he had said, he was tiring of sexual fantasy and more and more craved the reality of Sandra Dee's body. Unfortunately for him, though, whenever he hinted that perhaps they should move their sexual relationship beyond the realm of the imagination, Sandra Dee declined.

  'Don't spoil it,' she said. 'It was such a lovely idea. No man ever asked me to imagine sex with him before.'

  'Couldn't we imagine it sometimes and actualize it other times?'

  ' "Actualize" doesn't sound half as nice a word as "imagine",' she replied. 'Besides, I'm expanding my mind. I don't need physical complications.'

  'So I'm just a source of books to you then?' he said, sulkily.

  'Of course not. You know very well how much I like you and how much I love our talks. Things are good between us the way they are, and things change between people once they start having sex.'

  'They wouldn't with us.'

  'Trafford,' she said, wagging a finger, 'things always change. Amazing, all that reading and it seems you don't know anything about people at all.'

  'I know enough to worry that if I tell you where I get the books from you won't want to see me any more.'

  'That's a risk you'll have to take because I want to know and I insist that you tell me.'

  Trafford knew that he would have to give in. Fuck Cassius. And fuck his precious friends. They didn't own the books; knowledge was universal. He was in love with Sandra Dee and he wasn't going to lie to her any longer.

  'It began when I had Caitlin Happymeal vaccinated,' he said, and then he told her how he had become a Humanist.

  'My God,' Sandra Dee exclaimed, 'they have an actual library!'

  'Well, it's an atmospherically controlled room full of books.'

  'Which I think constitutes a library. I can hardly believe these people are so organized.'

  'On a small scale they are. I don't think there are very many of them.'

  'You actually take classes in subversion?'

  'Well, tutorials really. Discussions round a table. And not in subversion, in reason.'

  'Which is about as subversive as you can get in a country where faith lies at the heart of the constitution.'

  'In that case I do take classes in subversion, I suppose,' Trafford admitted.

  'I want to come,' Sandra Dee said decisively.

  'You can. You will.'

  'No, you don't understand. I want to come now.'

  'It's not possible. There are rules. I'm not even supposed to have told you that we exist. I'm supposed to keep claiming I find these books in attics and cellars or whatever. Introducing someone takes time. They have to make checks, establish fail-safes. They need to know that a new person can be trusted.'

  'I can be trusted.'

  'I know that. Of course I know that.'

  'Then speak to them. Insist.'

  'I already did that just to get you the books.'

  'Well, do it again. I'm twenty-eight already and I've never been to school. Not a school where they teach anything worth learning. They have to let me in. I want to sit around the table in that library. I want to choose a book for myself.'

  'You just have to wait a while, that's all.'

  'I don't want to wait. I want to learn. I only have the rest of my life left and I need to make a start.'

  Still Trafford hesitated, avoiding her stare.

  'Supposing I slept with you?' Sandra Dee asked.

  It was everything that Trafford wanted and she knew it.

  'No,' he replied, after a very long pause. 'I love you. I couldn't blackmail you into trading sex for knowledge.'

  'I'm glad you said that, Trafford, because I wouldn't have done it anyway,' she replied. 'I've spent a lifetime avoiding being pressurized into having sex and I certainly don't intend to change my habits now. If you won't introduce me to your friends I'll follow you till I find out where your library is and barge straight in.'

  'They'd kill you. They may be Humanists but they are also a resistance movement.'

  'I don't think I'd be very easy to kill, Trafford.'

  He didn't doubt it. It was clear to Trafford that Sandra Dee was a survivor, far tougher, he imagined, than he was.

  'All right,' he said, 'I'll talk to them.'

  'Today?'

  'No. We can only ever meet at appointed times, they're very strict about that. I can speak to them next week.'

  'Good.'

  Then Sandra Dee leaned back on the plastic cushions once more and smiled. She was wearing the same cotton dress that she had worn the first time they had sailed together and, as then, the gentle breeze moulded the light material to her body.

  'Well,' she said, 'we've finished our books and now we have the rest of the afternoon to kill. What shall we do?'

  Trafford said nothing but every nerve in his body hoped and prayed that she meant what he thought she might mean.

  'You're a funny boy,' she said.

  She had never called him a boy before and although he was older than her he loved it.

  'You're a beautiful girl,' he said, and his voice was unsteady.

  Then, slowly, Sandra Dee began to unbutton her dress.

  30

  A week later Trafford did as he had promised.

  He had attended the library in order to report on the progress of his DegSep program. When he was finished he asked if he could make a special plea that Sandra Dee be allowed to join them.

  'You know you can trust her,' he argued. 'She keeps more secrets than any of us.'

  'That may be so,' Cassius replied, 'but she worries me. I think she's impulsive. She stands out.'

  'Because she has integrity.'

  'There have been scenes.'

  'Yes, because she refuses to have breast implants and she doesn't want to buy Princess Lovebud's doughnuts. Is that something to penalize her for?'

  'We are wary of people who stand out.'

  'She doesn't stand out. Princess Lovebud picks on her, that's all. If she hadn't singled her out you would never even have noticed her.'

  'But she did single her out.'

  'Which is not her fault.'

  'It's quite obvious that you're in love with this girl, Trafford,' Cassius said.

  'I . . . I don't see how that's relevant.'

  'Of course it's relevant, you fool. If you love her then you'd put her before the loyalty you owe to us.'

  'Why would I need to? She feels as I do, she wants nothing more than to join us.'

  'Don't you think that love might have clouded your judgement about her? Do you think it would be wise of me to accept the recommendation on so serious a matter of someone whose eyes may be blinded by their emotions?'

  'No, because what I love about her are the very qualities that make her perfect to join us. Her strength, her passion, her character, her . . . secrets.'

  For a moment Cassius was lost in thought, then he seemed to make up his mind.

  'Very well then,' he said, 'since you have already told her so much. And since, as you say, she has threatened to follow you and discover us anyway. You may bring your friend to the library.'

  'May she come today?'

  'Today?'

 
'She's waiting for me to call her,' Trafford said, producing his communitainer. 'She really can't wait. It's almost as if she's desperate. I think she's been very alone all her life and very frustrated too. She talks about joining us as if it were the beginning of life, which in many ways it is.'

  Cassius smiled. 'Well, I suppose there's no time like the present,' he said. 'You may call her.'

  Trafford dialled the number and began to tell Sandra Dee that she had been given permission to visit the library. He was about to offer her directions when he was cut off.

  'Damn, lost her,' he said, beginning to dial again but as he did so the man with the thick glasses whom he thought of as the Owl came into the room. He looked extremely angry.

  'There's a young woman in the shop who says she's a friend of Trafford,' he said. 'She claims she's expected.'

  'She is,' Cassius replied. 'Please let her in.'

  The Owl gave Cassius a look of withering disapproval but did as he was told.

  A few moments later Sandra Dee was standing in the library.

  'I followed you anyway,' she said. 'May I choose a book?'

  31

  When Trafford arrived home he found his apartment crowded, as usual, with Chantorria's new friends.

  'Here he is at last!' said Barbieheart from her place on the wall. 'Inspiration Towers' very own superstar.'

  'What the Hell are you talking about, Barbieheart?' Trafford enquired. One of the advantages of his new position as father of an angel was that he no longer had to pretend to be nice to Barbieheart. It was she who had to make an effort to be nice to him.

  'It's wicked. Amazing, so fierce,' Barbieheart replied, ignoring his aggressive tone and speaking as if all was sweetness between them, as if they were best mates, soulmates, co-members of a magic crew. 'Tell him, Chantorria.'

  Chantorria, holding Caitlin Happymeal in one hand and a large glass of wine in the other, could scarcely contain her excitement.

  'We're only on the news, lover! Can you believe it? Us! We are on the news!'

  'Isn't it so cool?' Tinkerbell exclaimed. 'We're all going to be stars . . . Well, you and Chantorria are, but people are bound to start hitting up your webstream now and then whenever we come round people will see us too!'

  Tinkerbell turned to the webcam and began waving and shrieking excitedly. Soon all the girls were waving alongside her.

  'Of course people will see you, Tinks, and you're so telegenic I bet you end up with your own perfume,' Chantorria gushed. 'And I hope you come round and visit me all the time, babes.'

  'Course I will, babes,' Tinkerbell replied. 'We are sisters.'

  'Why have they put us on the news?' Trafford demanded angrily.

  'Why do you think?' Chantorria replied.

  'They heard about Caitlin Happymeal,' said Tinkerbell, pouring wine, 'and they liked the story. And they liked Chantorria, of course. She looks hot!'

  'Oh stop it!' Chantorria protested.

  'Girl, you know it's true. That shot of you lingeing Trafford up is hot!'

  'They've used stuff from our stream?' Trafford asked. 'They've put Chantorria lingeing me on the news?'

  'Of course they have! They trawled your history. What else do you think they're going to use? Wish they'd put some of my stream on the news!'

  All the girls agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly.

  'It's incredible, Trafford,' Tinkerbell continued. 'Don't you understand, you're on the news, everybody is looking at you!'

  'But . . .'

  Trafford stopped himself. He had been about to say that he did not want to be on the news, that he did not want people looking at him. But he could not say that, that would be weird. Who would not want to be looked at? What was not to want? Trafford knew that he must grin and bear it. His social position was stronger than it had once been but not strong enough to protect him if he revealed himself as preferring privacy over self-exposure. Nothing was more insulting to the creed of the Temple.

  'But what?' Chantorria demanded angrily, clearly not prepared to allow her husband's perversity to spoil her day.

  'But . . . it's a bit of a shock, that's all. A wonderful shock, of course,' Trafford replied, forcing a smile.

  'Check it out, babes,' said Tinkerbell. 'It's on the news infotainment loop.'

  She touched a button and an image of Inspiration Towers appeared on the wallscreen accompanied by a syrupy voiceover.

  'Every now and then,' the voice said, 'something wonderful happens to remind us all why we believe, why we have faith . . .'

  There followed a three-minute 'human interest' item about the miracle baby of Inspiration Towers who had survived both a measles-plus and a mumps-plus epidemic to become the only child under two still alive on the estate. The story was illustrated with numerous shots taken from Trafford and Chantorria's webcast, including a clip of Chantorria in her chocolate G-string and cupless bra bought from Dirty Sexy Filthy Bitch. This of course was greeted by whoops and cheers from the girls in the room.

  'You see, Trafford,' Chantorria said drily, 'some people think it looks sexy.'

  Trafford laughed woodenly, as if she was joking.

  'Little Caitlin Happymeal,' the voiceover continued, 'has become a mascot for the whole local community. In her is manifest the love of the Love for all his lost children.'

  Just as the loop finished and the girls were insisting that they must all watch it once again, the face of Confessor Bailey appeared on the screen.

  Chantorria immediately jumped up to turn off the news and mute the other streams on the wall. When a spiritual guide dropped in for a web chat he must of course be given immediate attention.

  'Chantorria,' Confessor Bailey said, and notwithstanding his usual pompous superiority he looked pleased, excited almost, 'and you, Trafford, I suppose,' he said as a rather sour afterthought, 'I should appreciate it very much if you would come pay me a visit this evening at the Spirit House.'

  The room had fallen silent, as was appropriate in the cyber presence of a Confessor, but this caused murmurs and intakes of breath among the girls. A private invitation to a spiritual guide's personal residence was quite an honour.

  'But of course, Confessor Bailey,' Trafford stammered. 'What time would you like us?'

  'You are summoned for eight, Trafford, and will present yourself at that time,' Confessor Bailey snapped before turning to stare from the screen directly at Chantorria. 'You, Chantorria, might perhaps like to come a little earlier. I find your presence . . . soothing. We can read the words of the prophets together, speak of faith and consider the divine mysteries of the Love.'

  The murmuring ceased. Trafford stared at the screen while Chantorria reddened and looked away. Tinkerbell and one or two of the other girls looked away also, as if fearful that their faces might reveal what they were thinking. It would not do to disrespect a Confessor.

  'Shall we say six, Chantorria?' Confessor Bailey said with an oily smile.

  'Yes, of course, Confessor. Whenever you wish,' Chantorria replied.

  'And eight for you, Trafford. I'd advise you not to be late because . . .' Confessor Bailey paused for dramatic effect before delivering his coup de grâce, 'I am entertaining Solomon Kentucky, High Prophet of the Love and Bishop Confessor of the Lake London Diocese.'

  Having made this truly dramatic statement, Confessor Bailey ended his web chat and disappeared from the screen.

  After a moment's pause the screaming began.

  Barbieheart screamed. Tinkerbell and the girls screamed.

  Chantorria screamed, which of course caused Caitlin Happymeal to scream. They had been preparing to scream anyway, for the fact that their Confessor was now quite openly requesting spiritual comfort from Chantorria was reason enough. For a woman to be privileged to bring succour and calm to her spiritual leader was exciting but that a High Prophet of the Love, a Bishop Confessor, was to visit their parish, to sit in the house of their Confessor, and that Chantorria and Trafford were to meet him was simply astounding. No Templ
e elder of that rank had ever come to their community before.

  After a while, when the jumping and the screaming and the hugging had died down a little, Tinkerbell issued her orders. There was no time to lose. If Chantorria was to read the holy words with her Confessor and discuss the nature of faith with him prior to sharing an audience with a High Prophet of the Love, then she must have an immaculate pedicure and a perfect bikini wax.

  'You come with me right now, young lady,' Tinkerbell commanded sternly. 'This is the first time ever that a girl from our tenement has been invited to spiritual communion with our Confessor and we are not having your shaggy follicles letting down the whole building.' Tinkerbell was well known locally for her skills as a beautician. A few months previously she would not have dreamed of wasting her talents on so insignificant a figure as Chantorria. All that had changed now, of course, and so all the girls ran, still screaming, from the apartment and reconvened at Tinkerbell's, where they continued their party while Tinkerbell worked on Chantorria's groin.

  Suddenly Trafford found himself alone apart from Caitlin Happymeal and, of course, Barbieheart.

  'Well, Trafford,' said the moderator, 'it seems you're left holding the baby.'

  'Yes, that's right,' said Trafford, inspecting Caitlin Happymeal's nappy.

  'You won't mind if I join the girls, will you?' Barbieheart added, opening a tangerine-flavoured alcopop.

  'No, no. Of course not. You have fun.'

  Barbieheart's voice went silent and Trafford could see her turning to refocus on a different screen, clearly joining the party at Tinkerbell's. He finished changing his daughter and poured himself a large glass of passion-fruit alcopop. So much was happening so quickly.

  He had been on the news.

  What would Cassius, with his well-known aversion to people who made themselves conspicuous, make of that? Fortunately Trafford had not featured prominently in the piece, which had been very much a mother-and-daughter affair. Nonetheless the item had contained one most unwelcome shot, an image of him reading, the voiceover noting with approval that Trafford was clearly a responsible family man, who was always absorbed in some self-improvement manual or other. Trafford had watched this image in a state of shock because while it may have appeared that he was reading Health and Wealth: How to Look Great and Get Rich, he had in fact been reading The Outsider by Albert Camus. It was a terrifying thought: he had been seen, on the news, reading an existentialist novel. If people were ever to discover the truth, the consequences would be too awful to imagine.