Jago

by Kim Newman

  ‘Don’t pay attention,’ the Sister told her. ‘Make yourself an empty vessel for Him.’

  Other people were talking. There were more cries, and some hefty thumps. Sister Cindy winced.

  ‘Tut,’ she said, ‘silly, silly…’

  * * *

  Gerald had Paul against the wall again, and was holding his throat. The big man didn’t have to hit again, the fight had already been knocked out of him. Anything the Brother did now was a free extra pain, for the pleasure of it. Paul’s tooth was a chip of agony.

  ‘Now,’ Mick said, ‘if you’d be so kind as to leave.’

  Gerald eased up. Paul sucked air over his tooth, biting down on the throb. He held his jaw. Spittle pooled in his hand. He looked at Susan, standing with the Sisters of the Agapemone. She didn’t have the body-snatcher smile of the others. He couldn’t understand the woman. What was she doing with this crowd? Behind Susan stood the veiled woman, in the shadows by the front door, the light through her from a freestanding lamp making her a sculpture spun of black silk cobweb. The pain in his tooth died slow. As the woman became more substantial, her veil lifted. Her face was in black and white. A creature of the past, she moved silently. Martians, zombies, cultists. Now, ghosts. What next?

  Gerald prodded him with hard fingers. The ghost didn’t see Paul, didn’t see anything. He shook the Brother off and tried to stand straight, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders and knees. He was sharply aware he looked ridiculous, the cuckolded husband in farce.

  * * *

  Susan kept quiet and did not interfere. She told herself that if Mick Barlowe tried seriously to hurt Paul she’d step in. But Paul had already been hurt. She was a snake as well as a spook. She had to keep her skin on, not give herself away. James would have done the same. Irena Dubrovna had shown up again. There were other shadows. Her head was still woozy from the pills and Jago’s jellyfish shock. Susan felt bombarded.

  The circle around Paul was swaying as the Brethren focused on the intruder. It was the beginning of a lynch mob, or a sacrifice. She couldn’t distinguish individual minds in the mass. In the rituals of the Agapemone, everyone blended into one entity, all subsumed to Jago. Her headache came back, jabbing her between the eyes like an icepick. Mick came out of the circle and stood in front of Paul.

  ‘Go,’ he said, pointing to the door.

  A break appeared in the circle, and the Brethren formed two lines, a gauntlet. Karen pulled Susan back and kept her in line. Paul walked slowly past. Susan felt his fury, his confusion.

  * * *

  From the chapel, Jenny watched Hazel’s boyfriend slope out. It was part of the ritual, the Brethren purging the postulant of her old ties. Gerald Taine and Marie-Laure opened the doors and held them. Outside on the lawn, there were lights and people. Music drifted in.

  Her side was touched, and Sister Cindy was there. And Hazel. Jenny hugged the postulant and kissed her cheek. Hazel hugged back, and saw Paul in the doorway. Jenny felt the postulant tense in her arms.

  * * *

  From the doors Paul saw Hazel, held back by two white-robed Sisters.

  ‘Haze,’ he said.

  Mick hissed at him, ‘So long.’

  A stab from his tooth made him wince. He couldn’t make out any expression on Hazel’s face. She was dressed like the Sisters. She looked younger, more fragile. He stepped forward, and Gerald’s arm was in his way.

  * * *

  The man on the doorstep was a stranger to her. But he reminded her of someone. Jenny and Cindy whispered in her ears, soothing, telling her not to be distracted. The Brethren turned, making her the centre of attention. She heard their massed inrush of breath.

  ‘Alleiluya,’ Brother Mick said.

  ‘They adore you,’ Jenny said.

  It was nice to be adored. It gave Hazel a warm, belonging feeling.

  * * *

  Susan was worried Paul would try to fight his way to Hazel. The Brethren could have torn him apart. But he just looked, disbelieving. The girl had changed. The Sisters of the Agapemone might be all sizes and shapes and colours and tempers, but they were the same. That was the scary thing about them. Cindy, Janet, Marie-Laure, Wendy, Karen, Jenny, Kate… All masks for a single face. Now Hazel.

  Paul stepped through the doors but stood on the step, looking back, appalled. Irena Dubrovna had combined with a curtain, and was a clinging shadow, ignored and irrelevant. Karen pinched Susan’s arm and pointed to the top of the stairs. He stood there. Beloved.

  ‘Alleiluya,’ the Brethren of the Agapemone said, in unison.

  Jago smiled down on his flock.

  * * *

  Hazel’s heart nearly burst with Love. Beloved’s presence made everything else distant, unimportant.

  * * *

  Beloved’s blessing fell upon them. Warmth surged inside Jenny, spreading through her body. Hazel clung tight, trembling.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ she cooed. ‘It’s only Beloved.’

  Marie-Laure let the door go. It swung to, half cutting off Hazel’s boyfriend. She ran between the Brethren, towards the stairs, and threw herself face down, full length, on to the floor.

  ‘Alleiluya,’ Mick said, standing over her.

  Mick looked up at Beloved. Marie-Laure shook, and pushed herself against the floor. Two of the Brethren came forward and helped her up, pulling her back into the line. The Sister was still spasming in ecstatic vision. Jenny understood her, but knew she must be strong. She was charged with Beloved’s Sister-Love, and had to be in control of herself.

  ‘Beloved,’ Kate cried out, ‘bless me, Beloved, bless me…’

  ‘Beloved,’ another voice joined, ‘Beloved…’

  ‘We share Love,’ Kate breathed, arms stretching around Cindy and Jenny and Hazel. Jenny heard the beating heart of Kate’s child.

  ‘The Great Manifestation,’ Brother Mick announced, ‘is here.’

  * * *

  Paul, on the step, watched doors close on him, leaving him out in the cold. He lost sight of Susan, her sane face surrounded by adoring, beatific smiles. Everyone was looking towards the first-floor landing.

  ‘Beloved,’ they said.

  All he could see of Jago was a pair of black-trousered legs. He had shiny black shoes.

  ‘Alleiluya.’

  He looked again at Hazel, in a huddle with a pregnant woman, another Sister and the blonde girl from the chapel. He saw no recognition in her face. Doors slammed shut in front of his nose, and he stepped back, overbalancing on the steps. He wound up sprawled on the grass. Above, the Agapemone was as impregnable as a medieval castle.

  * * *

  Susan was caught inside. It would happen again. She’d have to watch. The Brethren swarmed to the chapel, sweeping her with them. As Beloved, came downstairs, her head exploded inwards, shards of pain spiralling into the mass of her brain, sparking a shock in the core of her skull. Turning her head, she saw Jago arrayed in light.

  * * *

  Sister Kate, Sister Cindy and Sister Jenny led her to the altar and left her there. Hazel stood as the Brethren found places in the pews. Love radiated. Beloved came into the chapel and walked towards her, hand out. Weak at the knees, she sank, feeling the thickness of the carpet. Beloved, smiling down, stood over her.

  ‘Alleiluya,’ the Brethren chorused.

  Hazel waited for Beloved’s touch.

  8

  The generator kicked over and the lights strung around Tent City finally came on to a huge and sincere cheer. The stars dimmed. Lytton checked his watch. It was well past ten. The generators should have been working hours ago, but the PA team had blown important fuses, giving an impromptu firework display. Lytton was worn ragged by the demands of the day, but couldn’t go to sleep. Something might happen, something like last night’s incident. The stream of people coming to him with problems had slowed but not stopped. He felt as if he’d been juggling live grenades.

  The cider marquee flaps were thrown back and, after hours of unloading barrels
and setting up trestles, Douggie Calver—whom Lytton saw lighting a foot-long cigar—was ready to make his customary fortune. Crowds flooded towards the tent.

  Lytton had picked up camp followers. Gary Chilcot was hanging around, running errands. And Pam, the trimly put-together redhead, also seemed to have attached herself, groupie-style, to him. Separated from her crowd, the girl was loitering like one of the crèche kids. She was not just hanging around to flirt. Worried about something, she thought of him as protection. Her banter was brittle, not a perfect cover for her nerves.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Gary asked.

  Lytton thanked him, but said no. His head was scrambled enough. Gary darted off to barge through the queues with his staff badge and screw a freebie out of the tap-girls.

  Lytton was oversensitive to trouble, but it was in the air. There’d been a mini-scrap earlier, a couple of crusties trying to push in the toilet queue tussling with a well-dressed muscleman. Battle lines were drawn, allegiances formed, strategies laid. As if there wasn’t enough to worry about, a conventional riot could be thrown in his direction. Travellers, dispossessed even of their position on the festival circuit, were spoiling for a major fight, and any number of factions and individuals—from bikers to local yeomen—were willing to take up the challenge. The other stuff, the scary stuff, was always simmering under the surface. Lytton saw things out of the corner of his eye. Things that, when he looked closely, weren’t there. In the crowds, almost anything could hide.

  For most of the day, Mick Barlowe had been whizzing about the site, making arrangements, delegating touchy jobs. But he’d disappeared about an hour ago. Lytton thought that quietly creepy by itself. On one level, he could understand Brother Mick; the man’s power trip was so transparent. He angled for position within the Agapemone, raking in a few benefits—like Marie-Laure Quilter—from his status on the next cloud down from Jago. But, underneath that everyday grasping egoism and self-centred bastardy, Mick was still a True Believer in Beloved’s Gospel, and that gave him a crazy, calm centre of unpredictability and irrationality.

  He looked up the hill, and saw light in the Agapemone. From the stained-glass colours, he could tell the chapel was in use. Pam said something, trying to make conversation. Lytton didn’t catch it. The girl sulked. As he found himself doing increasingly often, Lytton looked around the field, listing who was in sight, checking what they were doing. Beth Yatman, cackling like a witch in a crowd of admirers, had come down with sunstroke, neat vodka or pep pills. Sharon Coram was snogging a well-dressed Chinese boy, egged on by a claque. Jack and Ursula Cardigan, the ‘we’re not yuppies’ couple who’d renovated the old Graham house, were strolling around, eating health-food mix out of lukewarm pitta bread.

  There was no sign of Allison, so her gang must be off making mischief where he could not see them. He was worried about howling Terry and dead-faced Ben. It was after dark, and that was their time to play up. It would be useful to have Susan around, to see if she could divine anything.

  Gary came back with a paper pint, already half empty. ‘A very good year,’ he burped.

  Pam smoothed her skirt and tugged up her halter. In the stretch of unmarked skin between the two garments, she appeared to have no navel.

  Lytton looked at the Agapemone again. Susan must be inside, with Mick and the others. He’d seen Derek wandering back towards the house half an hour ago. Marie-Laure and Karen, who’d been around and active well into the evening, had gone in too.

  He checked the field again. Sharon and the Cardigans had disappeared. Beth Yatman had quieted down, getting ready to be sick. Pam’s friends were in the cider queue, which was degenerating into a free-form standing-around experience.

  A duffel-coated troubadour entertained the troops, singing along with his guitar, a song he had announced, sharply, as ‘The Ballad of Anthony William Jago’. He must have a grudge, an indoctrinated girlfriend or an emptied bank account. In the early days of the Agapemone, there had been falls from grace, apostates leaving the community. Since then, Jago had tightened up. Almost no one walked away any more.

  ‘No more sin, no more crime,’ the singer sang.

  ‘Folks can have a real good time,

  Hell for most, Heaven for some,

  At the Dawn of the New Millennium…’

  The kid, who had big boots and unfashionable glasses, was better than most, but seemed to be scraping nerves.

  ‘I’m gonna live for ever and ever,

  Look at me, folks, ain’t I clever?

  I’m gonna reign for millions of years,

  So hip-hip-hooray, and three big cheers…’

  The doubt that had been pestering Lytton came into focus. ‘They’re not here,’ he said, suddenly.

  ‘Eh?’ said Pam.

  Lytton shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  Everyone had Susan’s handbills so the job was done, but the Brethren who’d been distributing them were gone. Wendy and Derek should be here. And Mick. And the others. But the Brethren had filtered out of the crowds and gone home. That gave Lytton a chill. The community’s evening meal should have been done with hours ago, and he would have expected the Brethren to emerge and mingle, soliciting donations, spreading propaganda, smiling emptily. It was time he went to the Agapemone, to check in with Susan. He did not want to miss anything.

  ‘Tell you the truth, folks,’ the singer continued,

  ‘Ain’t no lie,

  When it comes down to it,

  I… ain’t… never… gonna… die.’

  The new-strung lights hissed and a bulb popped, dumping a whole area into dark.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lytton said to Pam and Gary. ‘I’ll have to leave you two young people to it for a moment.’

  He nodded towards the house, and began walking. Gary looked more enthusiastic left with Pam than she did being with him.

  ‘James,’ Kevin Conway shouted.

  Lytton turned. Kev was waving to him, calling him over.

  ‘What now?’

  There was no queue by the gate, just kids milling around. Beth was on her feet again, propped up against a hedge. Kevin was waving frantically. On the other side of the gate, Lytton saw the bland blond face of Constable Erskine, helmet off, Nazi-like and impassive.

  ‘James,’ Kev said, ‘we’ve got a problem…’

  9

  Paul heard the doors being locked from the inside. Whatever was going on inside, he was shut out. He held Hazel’s face in his mind, seeing her not recognize him, calmly standing among the Sisters of the Agapemone. He admitted it. He’d lost her. The realization was as sharp as his jabbing tooth. He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  The Agapemone was closed to him, its thick walls holding in the secrets of Jago’s Brethren. Holding in Hazel. Sister Hazel. Paul wondered how he was going to explain this development—and the explanation would be demanded from him—to Hazel’s family. Her father would automatically blame Paul, and probably take out a contract on him. Patch, he wasn’t so sure of. She understood her sister better than anyone. She might even not be surprised. He would tell Patch, then let her break it to her father. That was as good a cowardly way as any to get out of it. Maybe he should call Patch now.

  Someone had set up an amplifier and was playing gospel music very loud, shaking a tambourine along with the tapes. People were dancing, throwing themselves in the air like voodoo-worshippers.

  How was he going to put it to Patch? Hazel has found God. Hazel has found religion. Not found, caught, the way you catch herpes. Hazel has caught religion. Not one of your High Street religions either, C of E or the Roman Candles. Not even the Hare Krishnas or the Unitarians, the Church of the Latter-Day Saints or the Church of Jesus Christ—Scientist. No, Hazel had strolled past the franchise churches and even wandered beyond the usual cults, the Unification Church, the Scientologists, the Jesus freaks, the Church of Satan, the Church of Elvis…

  The Agapemone. The Abode of Love. He made fists, and resisted an impulse to hammer on the doors.
‘Hello, Love,’ he would have shouted. ‘Are you at home, Love? Answering the doorbell, Love? Registered letter for Love Divine. Step outside, Love.’

  ‘Lord god,’ he said, emptied of feeling, emptied of anger.

  He couldn’t stand here all night. Paul walked off, elbowing through crowds. Away from the Manor House, he was surrounded by cacophony. There was music in the air, jarring and ill-proportioned. And a hundred clashing voices. And bodies in motion. Someone with a boom-box was playing Loud Shit, loud and shitty. He even recognized the track, ‘Heavier’n Osmium, Hotter’n Hell’. People were either fighting around the sound or slam-dancing. Someone collided with him, sorried, and backed off.

  He walked into the village. The cider tent was doing bank-holiday business. Walking through the crowds, Paul felt like the Invisible Man. Annoyed with himself, he realized he was crying. He kept to the road, but the festival had overspilled its site and was leaking into the village. There were people all around, dancing, yelling, singing, wrestling.

  Someone else rammed into him. ‘Watch out, fuckface,’ a young voice snarled. A paper carton crushed on the asphalt of the road, yellow-green cider spraying. Paul spread his hands in a shrug and said sorry.

  ‘So you should be,’ the young man said.

  Looking up, Paul saw the face of the youth he had bumped. His red mohican stood up like the spinal crest of a prehistoric monster. Recognition came like a spark.

  * * *

  The Iron Insect’s disciple grabbed, getting a strong grip on his shoulder. Ferg counter-grabbed, catching the man’s wrist, trying to push him away.

  ‘Ferg,’ said Jessica, ‘what’s wrong?’

  As if she didn’t know.

  She was putting on an act for his benefit, pretending not to know the disciple. Salim stood quietly by, ready to slip a blade into Ferg’s back. Dolar and Syreeta goggled, overdoing innocent bewilderment.

  ‘Last night,’ the disciple said, ‘the war machine, you saw it? The Martian war machine?’

  Ferg trembled and jerked his head forwards. He’d have nutted the disciple, but the man would have steel in his skull. That would be a good way to catch Ferg, to get him to smash his head open.