Blind Faith

by Ben Elton

  'Oh my God,' Chantorria burst out, 'a Faith Concert! Us! Oh – my – God.'

  Confessor Bailey turned sternly towards her because it was not her place to volunteer comment, but Solomon Kentucky gave her an indulgent smile.

  'Yes, my child. Yes. You and your family are to be the centrepiece of the massive service of celebration that the Temple is planning, to mark the passing of the two great plagues. We intend to pack Wembley with grieving parents: one hundred and twenty-five thousand recently bereaved couples will be ticketed by lottery and then invited to a party to give thanks, not only for their own children's ascension to Heaven but also for the Love's mercy in delivering Caitlin Happymeal that she might be a child to all of them. All around the country via webcast and live video link-up the population will rejoice in the miracle of Caitlin's survival, which will lend hope and succour to everyone. You three will stand together alongside all the elders of the Temple plus every major celebrity in the land and give thanks for Caitlin and the clear, living, breathing evidence that Miracles Do Happen.'

  Chantorria was weeping openly with happiness. Confessor Bailey put his arm around her for comfort. Both of them ignored Trafford.

  'Your child,' said Solomon Kentucky, taking up his mitre once more, 'will be a beacon! A messiah of faith! A light in the darkness of loss. Caitlin Happymeal will give hope back to the people!'

  'Oh thank you, Bishop Confessor,' Chantorria stuttered through her tears. 'Thank you. Thank you.'

  Trafford said nothing. He was thinking.

  33

  The campaign that Solomon Kentucky had described began almost immediately. The Temple understood its congregation and knew that it needed to act urgently to channel the devastated population into the correct emotional reactions. The nightmare that the nation had gone through with two virulent plagues following one after the other in quick succession had left people genuinely traumatized. People were used to the pain of bereavement, but each natural holocaust seemed to grow in scale and the dull horror that had settled on the nation had been in danger of turning to sullen anger. There was no question of people openly doubting their faith; the grip of the Temple and the fear of its Inquisition were too strong for that. Nonetheless, as each child died the blind acceptance of the spiritual status quo had received a tiny dent, and it was these dents that the Temple intended to hammer out with its message that Miracles Do Happen.

  There were songs, concerts, fêtes, fun runs and endless services, all aimed at remembering and celebrating the lost children while looking with hope to the future, a future which was of course personified in the smiling, laughing, innocently uplifting image of Caitlin Happymeal. The Temple knew its business and somehow this focusing of the community's sight on God's love for this one child diverted attention from the unspoken question of his purpose in killing so many others. No doubt there were many parents who secretly asked the Love why their child could not have been chosen to be saved, but if they thought it they did not say it, for Caitlin's face had instantly become the symbol of future redemption and nobody wanted to risk the wrath of the Temple or of the Love himself by questioning it.

  The equation was simple. The Lord sent the plagues because he was terrible and wrathful but the Lord saved Caitlin Happymeal because he was gentle and loving. 'What,' as Confessor Bailey thundered from his pulpit, 'was not to understand?'

  As her fame increased, Chantorria became a woman possessed. She began playing the part of the mother of a miracle to the hilt, because she had convinced herself that it was true. There were no more parties at her and Trafford's apartment. As the madonna who gave birth to an angel baby, Chantorria felt her spiritual obligations keenly and began to spend more and more time either praying at the local Temple or at the house of Confessor Bailey. She took to wearing only white and carried a cross inscribed with a Gaia symbol. She bought an expensive pendant that featured all the signs of the zodiac and a rhinestone halo which was supported on a wire headpiece. She also dyed her hair golden.

  Emboldened by the favour of the Confessor, she began to treat Tinkerbell and her other new best mates more as handmaidens than friends. She sent them on errands and gracefully 'allowed' them to wax her and apply her makeup. They scurried about to do her bidding but Trafford could see that they were resentful of her arrogance and her sudden piety. After all, most of them had lost children and it seemed hard that Chantorria, who had been alone in the tenement in not losing her baby, should then also become so exalted a figure.

  If Chantorria sensed their resentment it only made her throw her weight about all the more. Perhaps it was the years of being downtrodden but she made no secret now of the fact that she considered herself a substantial cut above the rest. After all, had she not been chosen?

  Trafford of course knew very well that she had not been chosen and he grew more and more furious. It was clear to him that she had been flattered into believing that she was a chosen one and he found his wife's naivety almost unbearably depressing and ridiculous. In fact he found the whole situation unbearably depressing and ridiculous; here was a child who owed her survival entirely to a science which the Temple despised, and she was being used to further the cause of blind superstition. Every time Trafford saw his daughter's face smiling out at him from a video hoarding he felt more angry.

  Slowly, relentlessly, an idea was growing in his mind which could certainly in the short term prove an even more effective tool of revolution than his planned Ev Love campaign. It was to Sandra Dee that he first told his idea. Trafford was later to reflect that it was her romantic rejection of him which made him speak so recklessly, which made him suddenly anxious to act so recklessly.

  They were together on her little boat. It was the first time she had agreed to their meeting alone since he had introduced her to the Humanists and Trafford had immediately taken the opportunity to tell her once again that he loved her.

  'Don't love me, Trafford,' was her reply. 'I don't want you to love me.'

  'Love isn't something you choose,' he said. 'I would have thought you'd read enough stories by now to understand that.'

  'This isn't a story, Trafford. It's real life,' she said, 'crappy, shitty real life and I don't want you to love me.'

  'I can't help it.'

  'Well, I don't love you,' she said, adopting her most matter-of-fact voice. 'Really, Trafford, I don't love you at all. I like you. I like you a lot . . .'

  'Well then . . .'

  'And if I'm honest I'll admit that perhaps I could love you. But I don't and that's the end of it.'

  'How can you say that!' Trafford protested. 'How can you be sure?'

  'Because I've decided not to.'

  'Decided! You can't just decide about—'

  'Yes, you can, Trafford,' Sandra Dee interrupted. 'That's the whole point. You can decide. You have to decide. In this world you have to decide about everything, if you want to stay safe. If you want to stay sane, you have to decide. Love is a risk. Sharing is a risk. Two people are exactly twice as likely to give themselves away as one and to me those are unacceptable odds, which is why I made my decision a long, long time ago that I would never fall in love with anyone and that includes you.'

  'Why did you make love to me then that one time,' he protested, 'if you knew you felt this way?'

  'Would you rather I hadn't?'

  Trafford avoided the question.

  'But why did you?' he asked again.

  'I felt like it. All that imaginary sex. It was hot. A girl can get excited without being in love, can't she?'

  'So you were disappointed, is that it?' Trafford said angrily. 'You liked the fantasy stuff but I didn't live up to my descriptive powers, right?'

  'Oh please, Trafford,' she snapped, 'don't bring male ego into it. We had sex, it's done. I never intended for a moment that it would lead to anything further. You know I'm a single girl. I've worked very hard to be one.'

  'And you knew what I felt for you. How could you let me make love to you knowing that I was in love with y
ou and that you didn't care at all?'

  'Like I said before, Trafford, would you have preferred that I didn't?'

  Once more Trafford did not answer. Sandra Dee pressed her point.

  'Come on, tell me the truth. If I had said to you, "Trafford, I don't love you and I don't want any kind of serious affair with you, but I will have sex with you this once," would you have refused? Would you have said, "Oh no, I can't do that, not if you don't love me. It would be just too painful afterwards"? No. Of course not. You would have fucked me just the same. Admit it.'

  The answer was obvious but Trafford would not admit it. Instead he did what many unrequited lovers have done and announced instead a grand gesture of self-sacrifice. Perhaps she would be sorry when he was gone.

  'Well,' he said, 'it doesn't matter anyway because I don't think I shall be around much longer.'

  'Oh? Are you planning to go away?'

  'No. I'm planning to start a revolution.'

  Sandra Dee was so surprised she laughed.

  'What are you talking about?' she asked. 'What revolution?'

  'The Temple wants my daughter to be a beacon. Well, all right, let her be a beacon. I will make her a beacon but not a beacon of blind faith. A beacon of reason.'

  Sandra Dee had stopped laughing.

  'How do you intend to do that?' she asked.

  'The emotional climax to the Miracles Do Happen campaign is to be a big Faith Festival at Wembley Stadium.'

  'That doesn't surprise me. The Temple would have a Wembley Festival to give thanks for a new line at Burger King.'

  'Yes but this is to be truly colossal, the centrepiece of a nationwide celebration for the passing of the measles and mumps plagues.'

  'So?'

  'My family is to be at the heart of it. Chantorria and I are to present Caitlin Happymeal to the nation, live. They're actually planning to rechristen her Angel, dedicating her life to God. Think of it: they want to turn her into a baby nun. They want Chantorria and me to hand our baby over to God.'

  'And what is it you plan to do?' Sandra Dee asked and the worried look on her face suggested that she had guessed where Trafford's thoughts were leading.

  'At that moment when I'm called upon to testify to Caitlin's deliverance, and before anyone can stop me, I'm going to tell the entire nation that Caitlin is alive because I had her vaccinated.'

  Sandra Dee looked stunned. After all, what Trafford was suggesting might very well be suicide.

  'They will kill you on the spot,' she said.

  'Well, revolutions are risky business,' Trafford replied. Despite the seriousness of what he was planning, he was also enjoying the drama of the moment and the effect his words were having on Sandra Dee.

  'What if they kill Caitlin?' she asked.

  'Why would they? It wasn't her sin, she's an innocent and I don't think even a Wembley crowd would stomach Confessors killing little babies. I imagine she'll be quietly fostered.'

  'And Chantorria?'

  'I'll tell them that she knew nothing about it.'

  'What if they don't believe you?'

  'She'll have to take her chances. Sandra Dee, don't you see what this could mean? It's a unique opportunity to do something truly extraordinary. To sow the seeds of doubt in the minds of millions of people. The Temple itself has made Caitlin famous with their ridiculous Miracles message. I can turn that message on its head! An opportunity like this won't come again.'

  'An opportunity to make yourself a martyr! Trafford, you're asking to get killed! Why?'

  'Why did anyone ever sacrifice themselves for a cause they believed in? I think it's my duty.'

  'You're doing your duty just by being a Humanist. You're a living archive, an enlightened person who seeks to enlighten others. That's your calling. That's your duty.'

  'I have the opportunity to enlighten millions!'

  'They won't listen anyway.'

  'They will. I'll make them listen. I'll make them wonder if their children couldn't have been saved too. I reckon if I'm careful with the way I approach it on stage and don't show my hand too early I'll get a good few minutes to speak. I'll lure them in by talking about how wonderful it is that Caitlin's alive. I'll even thank the Love and then, before they twig what I'm on about, I'll tell them about the vaccination. I might even credit God for that as well; that'll confuse them. Think about it, Sandra Dee! What Humanist has ever had such an opportunity to expose the madness of the Temple?'

  'And what Humanists will be left after you've done it?' Sandra Dee asked angrily. 'They won't just kill you, they'll torture everything out of you first. What about the library? What about the others?'

  'They'll never hear about the library because they'll be looking for a Vaccinator, not a Humanist. I'll tell them everything about the vaccination immediately. I'll hide nothing. I'll give them every detail. I'll give it proudly, as if to prove my point. Why would they look further?'

  'You'll give them Cassius?'

  'Well, I'll warn him first, obviously. He'll have to disappear. If he's careful he'll survive, he's a resourceful guy. Anyway I'm sure he'll agree that this will be worth the risk. This is a chance in a lifetime to turn the Temple's spin machine on itself.'

  'What about me? We've been alone together. What if they find that out?'

  'Why would they? How could they?'

  'There are CCTV cameras at the marina. There are CCTV cameras everywhere.'

  'Why would they pick up on that? We always arrive in crowds. Nobody notices us down here. Besides, they won't be looking, I tell you. They don't know about the Humanists, they don't know about us. They'll be looking for a Vaccinator and I will hand them a Vaccinator. I'll guide them through my meetings with Cassius right up until the trip to Heathrow when he did it. All that will be on CCTV too. They'll be looking for Cassius all right.'

  'And you will probably be burned.'

  'Yes. I imagine I will be.'

  Sandra Dee did not speak again for a long time. They sat together, lost in their own thoughts, as the boat rocked on its anchor.

  'You really do intend to go through with this?' Sandra Dee asked at last.

  'Yes. Absolutely. I believe I have no other course in life.'

  'If I'd loved you, would you still be doing this?'

  'I . . . don't know. Yes. In the long run, yes, I think I would. I have been ordered to stand on that stage at Wembley and credit divine intervention with Caitlin's survival. To give thanks to a stupid, vicious, capricious, illogical, immoral, maniacal deity who clearly exists only in the imaginations of idiots and bullies. I truly believe it would be better to die than do that.'

  'In that case,' Sandra Dee replied, 'perhaps we should make love.'

  'A farewell gift?'

  'If you like.'

  'Well, yes then. I do like.'

  34

  Once more Trafford and Cassius made the journey to Hampstead and found themselves in Connor Newbury's splendid reception room, where again Trafford addressed the Humanist Senate. He explained to them his idea of using Ev Love as the unifying symbol and reported that the first mail shot had been prepared and the trigger mechanism put in place.

  'The DegSep search engine has identified our target audience,' he told them, 'and we are ready to reach out and make contact.'

  'How many of them are there?' Billy Macallan enquired.

  'Twelve million,' Trafford replied.

  The big man nearly dropped the teacup he was holding.

  'Twelve million?' he spluttered. 'Strewth, that's half the population!'

  'I know,' Trafford agreed. 'I tried running a number of different searches and the results were even more staggering. For instance, when I asked the computer to find those who had been blogged as sometimes avoiding Gr'ugs the figures went up to fourteen million. My belief, based on this evidence, is that the majority of people in this country are privately discontented and harbouring a secret self who is frustrated, unfulfilled and unhappy.'

  'Well then,' Cassius observed, 'if our searc
h profile is right then the Temple's house is indeed built upon shifting sand.'

  'Absolutely,' Trafford said eagerly. 'If we can tempt people into displaying the Ev Love symbol then they will find their courage in numbers! My idea is that once we have begun the mail shots the next thing we do is start giving out times and locations and see if people turn up. If we've got our psychology right, pretty soon we'll be able to gather enough people to issue a Wembley Law!'

  The idea was huge, so big that the room fell quiet for a moment.

  'Well,' Professor Taylor observed, 'it's possible, I suppose. Most revolutions appear hopeless until they begin. A year before the Russian Revolution Lenin was a fringe exile with only a handful of followers. Christianity itself went from underground cult to official religion of the Roman Empire in scarcely a generation.'

  'Exactly!' said Trafford eagerly. 'And I believe we have the perfect trigger with which to start our revolution. We should send our emails on the eve of the next Faith Festival, the one at which the Temple plans to display my daughter as evidence of the mercy of the Love.'

  Trafford then told the Senate the plan which he had already outlined to Sandra Dee. 'I intend to confess to having had Caitlin Happymeal vaccinated but before that I shall lead the crowd in the Ev Love chant. I shall be wearing a shirt with the words "Ev Love" printed on it. Every one of the millions who have received our email will recognize that sign! By then some of them will have read our digest of the theory of evolution, and then they will see a person wearing the evolution slogan and explaining how science, not faith, can save children and that the Temple is preventing it from doing so. We will never get such a great chance to make so persuasive a beginning.'

  They were understandably nervous. Trafford could see that their little movement had been static for so long that so radical an idea was hard for them to absorb.