The trees were, of course, a rare, outrageously expensive species, and after they had been planted in the atrium it turned out their acquisition and importation had contravened all sorts of laws and that agonizing fines and possibly jail was on the way (one of the drawbacks of oak trees is they are quite conspicuous).
The discomfiture over the oaks would have amused me, it would have amused me a lot, but for the fact they had died.
Fried. Fried, it was maintained, by our lights. When I had done the specs no one had mentioned the oaks, and when they had bought the oaks I doubt they had asked enough searching questions about how to care for them.
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It couldn’t be proved that the lights were the killer, but someone had to be blamed, and the fingers favoured me. I had considered raising the argument that the oaks must be contemptibly weak to be frazzled by a few lights, but decided that wouldn’t help matters.
I’d be positive and offer a discount on the bill (which, as they were a major financial institution, they hadn’t yet paid).
My contact at the bank greeted me with a powerful uppercut and a yelp of outrage.
There are only two responses. Nelson and my crew would say never go down. Never go down on the street, because if you do, you’re finished, they’ll come in with the boot next and your skull will never be the same. But there is the alternative: if you’re punched, lie down.
I did lie down, since, as I was thinking positively, I wasn’t expecting an uppercut. Secondly, having grown up in a big city, I recognized someone whom I was incapable of knocking down.
It would have been more embarrassing and awkward if there had been spectators, but it was just the two of us. Also getting up, even if only to get knocked down again, wouldn’t improve matters or jolly the paying of our invoice.
It was more satisfying for all concerned that I stayed on the floor, while my attacker screamed at me about the ruin of his career, and as I was on the premises of a major financial institution I was optimistic about not being kicked to death.
It’s disheartening to see how abruptly civilization goes. During prosperity, most of us are willing to give up a seat to a little old lady on a bus, but to avoid losing our job, the pension, the whole happiness pack, most of us would willingly do some murder.
Giving up a fight damages you, runs one argument, leaves you a little crippled. Did I stay down because of cowardice, common 167
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sense or laziness? Or a mix of all three? I haven’t figured it out and it’s unlikely I ever will.
G
I’ve been ill for two days now. I spent all day in bed yesterday, but despite the rest I’m worse. There’s nothing like illness for making you give up completely. All my plans for making my centrality more central are gone. I care about nothing. I could be boxed up and buried without protest.
I’m making a cup of tea, when Gulin returns. When I want to say hello, a prolonged racking cough comes out, so prolonged and racking that I see stars.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
As I attempt to say yes, another bout of rasping, cruel coughing is unleashed.
“Have you got medicine?”
I nod.
“What?”
“Well… I took some paracetamol.” Gulin regards me with dissatisfaction. I haven’t seen her for weeks. She must be back to check up on Orinoco.
Another distasteful bout of coughing shakes me. Gulin is passing judgement on me. Too stupid to look after himself. She may have a point.
“I’ll get you something.”
“No, I’m fine.”
But she’s already on her way out. I’m too ill to protest any more. I’m too ill to care that much, but I am ashamed about someone who’s been working a twelve-hour day for the last week driving out to get me some medicine.
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Half an hour later I’m handed a packet of throat lozenges.
Gulin refuses to reveal the price or to accept any payment. I know she won’t have gone to the nearest drugstore; she’ll have gone to the outlet in Miami where you can get this packet most cheaply.
The first lozenge I take effects a dramatic improvement.
It’s not just the kindness. Some individuals simply know how.
They know where to shop and how to buy and when to do it.
I don’t.
G
I study the collection basket closely.
With the small flock we have at the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ, you can guess which bit of money came from which hand. There are a lot of coins (the Church is a convenient dump for pennies) and only one bill of a significant denomination, from Gert. Gert is the only regular who might be described as successful since, he has a business making para-chutes for champagne corks, so that the corks float down to widespread delight after being popped. What I admire about Gert is that he doesn’t allow his affluence to pressure him into making a large donation. His donation is often the largest, but never large.
What should you ask of your followers? It’s a question of balance I suppose, like everything else. It wouldn’t be any good demanding that they should collect aircraft engines as a path to enlightenment; expensive, and where would you store them?
But you have to ask something, there has to be an admission fee, otherwise the customers can’t see they’re getting anything.
Would you tell everyone or indeed anyone if you had discovered something valuable or important? Why?
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I love those stories about Europeans reaching America long before Columbus, and keeping quiet. It makes perfect sense: if you had found a continent rich in timber, game and fish why tell anyone outside your family? Why tell your family? Even if you had discovered something as minor as a technique for cooking the perfect burger, would you want to share it? As long as you have the technique, you have an edge; the second you share it, you’re roadkill.
Dipping into some studies in the religion section at Books & Books in an attempt to steal some ideas, I read that the early religions were like that: velvet rope. Wanting to keep the riff-raff out, initiates only. Indeed in the famous Mysteries of Eleusis, you risked death if you revealed what was in the box (which leads me to surmise there was probably fuck-all).
That’s why they were wiped out by the do-it-yourself religions.
Inevitably, the priests and salesmen have hung on, but the genius of Christianity is that it basically involves a statement of faith:
“I believe”. It’s a free gift. But the con of paying a lot of money to find out what’s in the box will always be with us.
My guess would be that the best advice is never written down or shared. Those who knew how to get things done probably kept their mouths shut and pocketed the goodies.
“A cold shower is the first step towards paradise,” I announce.
Cold showers are about right. I’m not asking too much or too little here. Sooner or later, we all have to wash. It’s not as if you have to make a pilgrimage to find a shower head. Having a cold shower is quite an effort for me, so much so that I’ve only had one in my life, and that was because the boiler had gone, I had an urgent appointment and I was filthy. I couldn’t believe how hard it was.
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“Taking a cold shower is an act of faith,” I continue. It is an act that sets you apart from those who don’t follow the doctrines of the Church of the Heavily Armed Christ. It will make you feel you are part of the elect. And it’s pocket-friendly.
Over the long term, your cold showers can save you money.
And it does, and this is important, contain an agreeable vagueness. There is a huge difference between having a cold shower in the open, in a Swedish winter, and in a balmy condo in Miami, where the cold water would be called hot in many other parts of the world.
This admonition has an agreeable vagueness for the preacher too. If the preac
hed whine about not getting the paradisiacal benefits promised, you can always insist that there aren’t enough cold showers being taken or that the cold showers aren’t cold enough. Moveable goalposts are a great invention.
Worshippers coming in late or leaving early are a nuisance you have to get used to.
It’s irritating, but you can never expect to have everyone’s full attention; you have to play the percentages. I’m elated that a group of three has entered the church, a little annoyed that they’re doing so at the end of the service, after the collection basket has done its round.
I have just enough time to be perplexed about why two of them are carrying placards, when a booming voice bombasts:
“I am Dr Liberius Iyambo. I have come here on missionary work. You are vassals of the Devil.”
The speaker is a plump African. Late thirties. Bright purple ecclesiastical garb. It’s a church-jacking.
Dr Iyambo’s two-person mob now elevate their placards and wave them up and down to make them more potent. One reads:
“No Surrender, No Surrender, No Surrender to Satan.” Poor 171
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preplanning in the painting means the repetition squashes the word “Satan” into much smaller letters and is almost impossible to read. The other: “You Are the Cloved Hoof of Evil”.
Iyambo’s mob is one grey-haired woman, a veteran of psychiatric institutions, and a bullet-headed Latino. They barely count as backup. They’re going to stick with Iyambo, but they’re merely stage dressing, froth. Iyambo, though, is a hard case who means business. That’s the drawback to growing up in relative affluence, you can’t compete with people who grew up without shoes and only ate every other day. Iyambo is fightsome in a way no amount of training or self-denial will make me.
“You are not doing the Lord’s work,” he shrieks, pointing his finger at me in an extremely pointing way, and then at the congregation. “This is not the Lord’s work. This is an abomination. This is the work of the Devil.”
It’s flattering that he’s attempting to take over my church.
Suddenly, despite the pitiful flock and the light collection basket, it’s desirable. I wait for my congregation to gasp in indignation, or to jeer Iyambo. A few frowns as a minimum? No, they actually look as if they’re enjoying the floor show.
“I, Dr Liberius Iyambo, have come to show you the error of your ways. I have come to show you the true path and to save you from the pit.”
It’s more likely that my arse has a doctorate than Liberius. To be honest, I thought about titling up, but when you’re going for the top you can’t be bothered with worldly honorifics. Doctor this. Professor that. Field Marshal so-and-so.
“This man is a pawn of evil,” he elaborates, megapointing me again. The congregation isn’t buying into Iyambo yet, but they’re listening. You really are on your own.
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One thing I learnt from Bamford, though, was how to wrong-foot people. Smile. Say what the hearer wants to hear.
“I had no idea I was working for the wrong side,” I say. “But thank you, thank you so much for coming here to help me. That’s very noble of you. Why don’t we discuss this over a drink?”
“Can’t you smell the sulphuric emanations here?” Liberius can’t just stop, of course. He has the gab and harangues the congregation some more, he has a victory crow, but they, disappointed there has been no liturgical punch-up, disperse.
Leaving his disciples outside, I usher Liberius into the Hierophant’s office in a way he deems sufficiently submissive.
The Hierophant keeps a couple of bottles of Israeli wine. I offer Liberius a slug of this and, rather like the Hierophant, he is tickled by the notion of holy wine “as drunk by our Lord”. The wine is mouthwash in my opinion, which is rather useful.
“God does not love you,” he smiles. “God does not like you one little bit.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because there is something of Sodom about you. God will punish you soon. Very soon.” One doesn’t expect extravagant thanks for a glass of bad wine, but ready abuse is a bit much.
This is the thing about shouting and bullying: they work. They may require more effort, in terms of volume and front, than just saying hello, how are you – but they work. You have to find people who will respond to bullying and shouting, but whatever you’re selling, you have to find those who will buy. Not everyone wants coke, a Porsche or bullying.
Liberius shows me a photo of a gormless twink as I refill his glass. “You see this. This is Robert Caradec. One thousand and three hundred and twenty-six days in hell. This disgusting abominator has been in hell one thousand three hundred and 173
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twenty-six days. In hell, burning every hour. Do you know what eternity is, with one thousand three hundred and twenty-six days deducted?”
“No.”
“Eternity. God does not love everyone. He loves punishment.”
I have to say I’m impressed that even with an audience of one Liberius is giving it all he’s got. Hardcore.
“Among the many great things I have achieved, and the many great things I have achieved are many and great, so many that even I cannot remember them all, perhaps the greatest of all will be bringing true religion to this city,” Liberius says, high on his I, occasionally pausing to condemn me as a “reptile” or a “worthless reptile” or a “thrice worthless reptile”, undeserving of redemption.
He swigs the wine with the ease of a seasoned drinker and scoffs a packet of peanuts I had been saving for later.
“It’s my pleasure to meet the shredder called Queen Mary,” he mumbles only a few minutes later, slumping to his side. Liberius may well be able to hold his drink, but he certainly can’t handle the drug I’ve slipped into the wine. It’s a dangerous thing to do, but he’s a robust figure, and frankly I don’t give a toss. Living the law-abiding, non-drugging way has got me nowhere.
“Time consumers… are not all equal,” continues Liberius face down on the floor, as I strip and handcuff him.
Providence had provided me with a wide selection of date-rape drugs and some magazines of astonishing sickness. Gert had come in the day before, bleating, “I’m horrified by what I’m becoming.” Being horrified by what you’re becoming is one of the most common human experiences. He had come to ditch his rufies and stash of filth in a bid for salvation. I gave him all the unction I could, but there’s a problem with ditching your rufies and porn: you can always go out and buy some more tomorrow.
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I’m worried about Gert, although he insists he hasn’t done anything wrong. He just thinks about it all the time. I thought I’d seen it all, but even I was shocked by his stash. Some things are just plain bad for you. Cocaine. Absinthe. Images of torture.
Decency.
I go through Liberius’s pockets. He has a tragically small amount of money. There’s a notebook with handwritten prayers composed by Liberius: “Prayer for someone disappointed by public transport”. “Prayer when encountering difficulties with a can-opener”. “Prayer on finding it harder to climb a glacier than you thought it would be”. “Prayer for a poorly receiving television set”. “Prayer on being provoked by your lawn-mower”. “Prayer for when your pastor has been framed by his many enemies on completely spurious corruption charges”.
I may crash here, but I won’t go out a cipher ciphering, standing at the back quietly, hoping something will turn up. I phone Gamay.
“I’ve got a job.”
“It’s great to hear from you, Tyndale, it really is, but could we do this later? Someone must have spiked my drink last night because I’m really not up to speed—”
“Right now, and get Muscat.”
“We don’t need him. I can handle it. Imperative.”
“Okay. And bring some female underwear.”
Gamay will regret Muscat’s absence when he finds out what the job is.
>
I assess Liberius as an evangelist who won’t give up after one drugging and robbery. I don’t want to be one of two dogs fighting over an almost shiny bone. Even if he achieved nothing else, Liberius could be very noisy and unpleasant.
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Liberius’s disciples are waiting for him outside. They’re doormat folk, and would wait the whole day for Liberius. Poor-quality disciples, but disciples nevertheless. I’m envious.
“Liberius’s making a call. He asked me to tell you that you can go.”
The woman is perplexed. “But what about tomorrow?”
“He said to meet him at two.”
“Where?”
“The usual place.” They walk off reluctantly, constantly casting back glances in the hope that Liberius will appear and resummon them to his side. The rich get richer, the unhappy get unhappier.
As I predicted, when Gamay turns up, he’s shy about taking his clothes off, although I don’t know why since, whatever his spiritual and mental shortcomings, he’s in good shape physically.
“No way,” protests Gamay. “Imperative. This isn’t right.”
In order to remove Liberius from contention, I’m gambling on the one sin that is hard to dislodge from your halo. Whatever smorgasbord of evangelism Liberius is touting, buttock villainy is certainly out. Religions, while often being sniffy on the subject of ooohhh, are especially unforgiving on sodomy. You can stray in all sorts of ways and your flock will forgive you.
Spend the money earmarked for the needy on a sharp suit and you only have to look hangdog for a few weeks.
Verily, it could be argued that the traditional coke-n’-hookers fiasco that befalls nearly every preacher strengthens your position – having pulled yourself out of the mire of sin and fallibility, you can orate on it with more zest. You could rob an orphanage, shoot up a town, torch some churches, and even all that, after strenuous breast-beating, wouldn’t necessarily bar 176
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