Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk

by James Lovegrove

  The episodes became fewer and further between. His world stabilised. But still Guy could not decide whether what he had seen on the beach during the thunderstorm had been genuine or just an acid-induced hallucination. He had heard those footfalls, smelled that sulphurous smell. The Devil had stood there, a solid living being, a thing of flesh and blood and bone, looking down at him through eyes Guy had seen many times, familiar eyes. Looking with a calm, acquisitive glint, a gloat of ownership.

  And yet the mind could play tricks, he knew. It could even break down completely, as he’d discovered only too well just a couple of years ago. The mind was not to be trusted. It was not you – it was something that pretended to be your friend, but might easily betray you. It was the Judas inside.

  WHEN HE NEXT bumped into Scranton at Mr Khun’s, he had two things to tell him. The first was that he was leaving for England.

  “Oh, hey, man, sorry to hear that. Gonna miss you. This little community of ours, all these heads and freaks and strays, we’re kind of a loose-knit family, right? Always a shame to see one of us go.”

  “Yes, well, it’s time.”

  “No, that’s cool. I understand.”

  “And listen,” Guy said. “I don’t know what your motives were, but when you gave me that acid, it helped. It really did.”

  “You’re welcome. I like to share.”

  “It’s clarified things.”

  “That’s what acid’s for. Scrubs clean the windows of the brain.”

  “When I get home, there’s stuff to do. Lots of stuff. But what I need to know is...” He dropped his voice. “When you met him in Vietnam, what did he want from you?” There were other people present so he didn’t say who “him” was. He didn’t need to.

  “My friend, I never asked,” said Scranton. “Because, you know what? I reckon I’d already been his servant, without realising it. Killing gooks by the dozen – if that isn’t his work, I don’t know what is. I’d damned myself plenty just by being in ’Nam and obeying orders. You think I’m here on Koh Maan hiding from the Military Police? I’m not. I’m hiding from him. He’ll come collect his due eventually, but maybe, just maybe, I can stay out of his sights a while longer yet.”

  “You said it’s lunacy trying to run away from him.”

  “What can I tell you? I’m a desperate man. Could be I’ve a few bugs in the brainpan as well. At any rate, I’m hoping that, since this is the obvious place to come looking, it’s the last place he’ll think of.”

  “The obvious place?”

  “Koh Maan, man,” said Scranton. “It’s in the name. Don’t you know any Thai-ish? Means Island of the Devil.”

  “Holy shit,” said Guy.

  “Yeah,” said Scranton with a raucous cackle. “Holy shit, exactly.”

  IN BANGKOK, VIA a long-distance payphone call, Guy told his mother he was returning. She was pleased and relieved.

  “I’ve some news for you,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  She tried to tell him, but the connection expired in a fizz of static and he had no money left to make a second call. Her last words were a faint “...it’ll have to wait... nice surprise for...”

  When he landed at Heathrow, she greeted him off the plane. Alastor Wylie was there in the arrivals lounge with her.

  “Look at you,” she trilled, clasping Guy’s cheeks in both hands. “So thin. But you’re brown again, just like when you were a child. Oh, it’s lovely to see you. It’s been so long.”

  “Welcome back, my boy,” said Wylie.

  “Er, yeah,” said Guy. “Thanks.”

  Wylie’s Bentley whisked them away from the airport.

  “So what’s this news of yours?” Guy asked his mother.

  By way of answer, she held out her left hand. A large diamond sparkled on her ring finger. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn’t the engagement ring her father had given her.

  “You’re –”

  “Getting married!”

  “To –”

  His mother took hold of Wylie’s hand. “Alastor went down on one knee. I said yes. We’ve been going out together nearly three years. It’s about time he made an honest woman of me.”

  “All this time I’ve thought of myself as a confirmed bachelor,” said Wylie. “Seems I was just waiting for the right girl to come along. Of course, we’d like your blessing, Guy,” he added, “if at all possible. I’d be pleased if you were happy about the arrangement. After all, I am going to be your stepfather.”

  “Uh, yeah. Fine. What do you think I think? It’s great. Super. Really.”

  Guy didn’t know what else to say. He could hardly tell them that he had met the Devil on a beach in Thailand, and the Devil was a dead ringer for Alastor Wylie.

  1976

  THE JOB AT Shamballa (...And Other Dreams) did not pay well, but it had two main benefits. One was that it kept Guy’s mother off his back. She had been nagging him repeatedly to get off his behind and find work. Now he had a little money coming in, and although manning the till at a cult bookshop wasn’t her idea of a career with prospects, or indeed anyone’s, at least he was no longer moping around all day doing nothing and going nowhere. He had a reason to get up in the mornings and a level of professional responsibility, however meagre.

  The other benefit was that he could read. Shamballa (...And Other Dreams) was seldom busy, except on Saturdays. For most of the week, only a handful of customers came through its doors, among them regulars like Hattie Jake the enormous transvestite, Angelcat the kaftan-swathed astrologer, and nervous little Mervyn Tingley with his mackintosh and myopic squint who always looked as though he had wandered in expecting to find a sex shop but made purchases nonetheless. The proprietor, Mr Ingram, was often absent for long stretches or else asleep in an armchair in the basement stockroom. This left Guy plenty of time to leaf through whatever from the shelves took his fancy. He could sit at the counter, wombed in the sweet smell of decaying wood pulp, and peruse at leisure, largely undisturbed.

  He enjoyed the scary-movie magazines Mr Ingram imported from the States – especially Famous Monsters Of Filmland – and the horror-comic anthologies such as Creepy, Eerie, Vampire Tales and the like. He polished off countless trashy sci-fi paperbacks and the whole of Colin Wilson’s Outsider cycle.

  Mostly, however, he concentrated on the shop’s extensive occult section, in particular books pertaining to Satanism and demonology.

  Know your enemy.

  It was from one of these books that he learned that the name Alastor belonged to a malevolent demon, but also could be used simply to denote an evil spirit. From another, he learned that the Devil would walk the earth only if the End Times prophesied in the Book of Revelation were nigh. St John the Divine dubbed Satan ‘the deceiver’ and ‘the dragon’ and foresaw him precipitating a war that would bring about the destruction of the world.

  The deeper he investigated the subject, the more Guy was persuaded that his experience on the beach had been a genuine manifestation, not a hallucination. Alastor Wylie had been there, a palpable presence. Why would he have imagined seeing him, of all people, if it wasn’t of some significance? And then there was that look in the apparition’s eyes, that expression that stated quite explicitly “You’re mine.” Evidently Wylie had been sending him a message on the psychic plane. He wanted Guy to know that there was nowhere he could run to, no way he could break free. By marrying Guy’s mother, Wylie had insinuated himself inextricably into his life, and there was nothing Guy could do about it.

  That, however, would not stop Guy from trying.

  ONE EVENING IN autumn, Guy finally plucked up the nerve to take action. What he wanted above all else was confirmation that Wylie was what he suspected him to be: literally the Devil incarnate. Once he had proved this to his own satisfaction, then he could plan his next move – assuming he could think of a next move that wouldn’t imperil his own safety or his mother’s.

  He closed up the shop early. Mr Ingram had already go
ne home, complaining of a migraine. Guy’s boss lived in a more or less constant state of depression, which was ironic, given the number of self-help titles available in his own inventory. Thomas Anthony Harris’s I’m OK, You’re OK might have done him some good, or Paul A. Hauck’s How To Be Your Own Best Friend, or even Jonathan Livingston Seagull, which was the closest thing Shamballa (...And Other Dreams) had to a guaranteed seller, its banal platitudes popular with stoners and earth mothers and troubled teens and just about everyone.

  Locking the door, Guy headed along the side-alley where the bookshop stood, out into the bustle of Charing Cross Road. It had rained earlier and the glowering charcoal skies suggested another downpour was due soon. Given the long, parched summer that had just passed, however, no one minded. For many, the unpleasant memory of drawing their daily water from standpipes in the street was fresh and acute.

  He took the Piccadilly Line from Leicester Square to Gloucester Road. There had been rumblings about a Tube drivers’ strike. All the other trade unions seemed to be taking industrial action, why not them too? But so far, the underground trains were still running, if a little more recalcitrantly and less reliably than usual.

  A ten-minute walk south from the Tube station brought him to the mews house, which he now had all to himself. His mother had moved into Wylie’s Belgravia residence, and who could blame her? It was a palatial five-storey townhouse backing onto the exclusive green oasis of Cadogan Gardens, a short stroll from Knightsbridge. “Harrods is my corner shop!” she was fond of boasting.

  Guy would be heading over to Belgravia himself in a couple of hours’ time, for dinner chez the Wylies. His mother had been pestering him for months to come by for a meal. He had eventually given in, but only because it suited his own agenda.

  Before then, he had some preparations to make.

  Holy water, as in water consecrated by an ordained priest, was hard to come by. They didn’t just hand it out free at church to whoever asked. But he had found out how to make his own. To begin with you blessed some salt, using a benediction from the Renaissance grimoire The Key Of Solomon The King: “The Blessing of the Father Almighty be upon this Creature of Salt, and let all malignity and hindrance be cast forth hence from, and let all good enter here in...” Then you sprinkled the salt into some distilled water, uttering an incantation beginning, “I exorcise thee, O Creature of Water, by Him Who hath created thee and gathered thee together in one place so that the dry land appeared...” Hey presto: sanctified water. Effective against all manifestations of evil, apparently. Anathema to hellspawn.

  He decanted the holy water into a strawberry Cresta bottle which he had rinsed out thoroughly beforehand. With the stubby little screwtop bottle in his jacket pocket and a marbled kipper tie knotted around his neck, he made his way across town to beard the Devil in his lair.

  THE FORMER BEATRICE Lucas, now Wylie, was resplendent in a bead-embroidered peach chiffon evening gown with big floaty ruffled sleeves. “It’s Hardy Amies,” she told Guy, doing a little twirl for him like Anthea Redfern in The Generation Game. “Do you like it? I daren’t tell Alastor how much it cost. He’d pitch a fit!”

  The fact that she was dolled up to the nines was a strong hint that this was not going to be some small intimate get-together, and sure enough, as Guy entered the drawing room, he found a dozen guests already present. He recognised a couple of famous faces – a Cabinet minister and a prominent member of Her Majesty’s Opposition – and the rest all had the sleek, creamy air of the rich and powerful. Wylie introduced him to them as “my somewhat errant stepson,” which made Guy’s skin crawl, but he smiled bravely and behaved impeccably, the dutiful young man paying court to his elders and betters.

  “I do hope you don’t mind, darling,” Guy’s mother whispered in his ear as everyone filed through to the dining room to eat. “I know we’ve rather sprung this on you, but actually it was Alastor’s idea. He’s mad keen for you to meet some of his chums. I think he wants to show you off. You’re the closest thing he has to an heir, and he still sees potential in you, even if,” she added with some asperity, “you insist on frittering it away in that useless bookshop. This could be a huge opportunity, Guy. A chance to show some very important people what you’re made of. Try not to waste it, eh?”

  To Guy’s way of thinking, it was a huge opportunity. At first he had been taken aback, but he realised that having this assemblage of high-and-mighty guests in attendance was a good thing after all. They could be witnesses.

  They were going to see not what Guy Lucas was made of, but what Alastor Wylie was made of.

  DURING THE STARTER and main course, the meal proceeded much as Guy had anticipated. The conversation was stultifyingly boring, focusing mainly on money, the things money could buy, and the exploits of colleagues and mutual acquaintances, none of whom he had heard of. He had been placed next to the wife of one of the politicians, a garishly over-made-up creature with terrible halitosis who gripped his forearm almost every time she spoke to him, as though forbidding him to turn away, restraining him so that he had no choice but to endure the full force of her breath. To get through the ordeal and keep his nerves steeled, he drank perhaps more wine than was wise. It was, at least, damn good wine.

  As Wylie’s servants cleared away the main course dishes and laid out the cheese and biscuits that preceded dessert, someone raised the subject of the strikes. This prompted Wylie to launch into a long speech denouncing the Callaghan government. The Cabinet minister bore the tirade with good grace, since it was couched in such a genial, ironic tone that only the thinnest-skinned could have taken offence. Besides, Guy could see that both politicians were somewhat in awe of their host, even intimidated by him. Guy knew how Wylie funded his lavish lifestyle. His mother had mentioned overseas investments and a vast inherited wealth. What he was still unclear on was what the man actually did in the civil service, what his job title was. On present evidence, Wylie appeared to outrank almost everyone in the House of Commons and, from the dismissive way he was talking about Callaghan, possibly even the incumbent of Number 10 as well.

  “What this country needs,” Wylie said, “is a strong leader. Someone with guts, balls and vision. James Callaghan is not that man, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have the mandate to achieve anything. A prime minister with a minority government, who only has power because he’s done deals with the Liberals, the Ulster Unionists, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, is hamstrung when it comes to policy making. Callaghan can scarcely break wind without clearing it by committee first. Britain is facing immense difficulties. The unions are crippling us with their wage demands and work-to-rules. Unemployment’s on the rise. Inflation is through the roof. It’s one of our darkest hours, and Sunny Jim, despite his nickname, is never going to be able to bring any light.”

  Guy spied his chance. He leapt in with, “You mean we need a light-bringer, Alastor? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He could have hugged himself with glee at his own cleverness. In Vulgate Latin, the word Lucifer translated as ‘light-bringer.’

  “Metaphorically speaking, yes,” said Wylie, with a tiny quizzical twitch of his eyebrows. “Someone to lead us out of the chaos and impose some order again. A Churchill for our times.”

  “And who would that be?” Guy asked. “Anyone in mind?”

  “I’ve my eye on a couple of likely candidates. I wouldn’t underestimate the leader of the Opposition, for one.”

  “Oh, Margaret has no ambitions to be PM,” said the Conservative MP, a prim and pompous man with extraordinary bouffant hair. “She herself is on record as saying there’ll never be a female prime minister in her lifetime.”

  “If you think she means it, my dear fellow, then you are well and truly blind to that woman’s personal drive,” said Wylie. “What did that Soviet rag dub her earlier this year? ‘The Iron Lady.’ And they’re not wrong.”

  “You don’t see yourself taking that role, then?” Guy said. “I can picture you ensconced in Downing Street, holdi
ng the national reins.”

  Wylie was not unflattered. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. You’d make a devil of a good job of it, too.” Again, Guy’s boldness and wit were breathtaking. He took a fresh swig of wine.

  “Guy, why would I stoop so low as to become prime minister?” Wylie said, and the others chortled knowingly. “I can achieve so much more as an eminence grise. The power behind the throne fares better and lasts longer than whoever’s actually on it. And I couldn’t face all those endless meetings with foreign dignitaries, the gladhanding and backslapping, the cosying up to oil sheikhs and tinpot dictators and all the other loathsome Third World types with damp palms and poor personal hygiene. I’m very happy where I am, thank you. The smoky back rooms. The Pall Mall club lounges. The places where the real business of ruling gets done.”

  A murmur of approval went round the table. Even the democratically elected politicians seemed to agree that what Wylie had just said was sagacious and true.

  Guy tried another tack. “Alastor – it’s an unusual name, isn’t it? What is it, a variant spelling of Alistair? Like with Aleister Crowley?”

  “The notorious Great Beast?” he said. “The so-called ‘wickedest man in the world’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you insinuating that he and I have anything in common?”

  “Do you?”

  Wylie gave one of his too-broad, too-frequent smiles. “Not as far as I’m aware. If you must know, Alastor means ‘avenger.’ It’s one of the epithets of Zeus. My mother was an amateur Greek scholar and a lover of the ancient myths. Alastor is also the name of a son of Neleus, king of Pylos, who in turn was a son of Poseidon. He was killed by Heracles, along with Neleus’s other sons, over some personal slight or other. Yet another Alastor was killed by Odysseus during the Trojan War. There’s an early poem by Shelley called ‘Alastor,’ where the name is given to a spirit of artistic inspiration. I could go on. Does that answer your question?”