World's end taom-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  After a while he dipped into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with mushrooms. "The sacrament," he said with a smile. "Care for some?"

  Laura pulled out a handful and examined them in the firelight. "Magic shrooms? Where'd you get these?"

  "I brought them with me. Since the change, they have become even more powerful, almost shamanistic in effect. Taken in quantity, I find my spirit-" A smile sprang to his lips as he caught himself. "I am talking too much again."

  "Before I hooked up with this weird crew I used to be blasted on Es and trips all the time in the clubs. Dust, even. God knows what I was doing to my body." There was a note in her voice that suggested her experiences hadn't all been pleasurable.

  "I have a feeling the lab drugs will lose their potency," he mused. "All part of the blight on our technological world. Natural things seem to be coming into their own."

  Laura peered into the bag. "Been a while since I've been on mushrooms," she said thoughtfully. She popped a few into her mouth. "How many do we take?"

  "Not many," he said. "This can be a ritual of awareness and bonding, not a trip."

  "Nothing's simple with you, is it?"

  "You can look at things in different ways without harming the experience. There are some who think drug-taking is inherently immoral without considering that psychedelics have been a part of some cultures' religious experience for centuries. Other people's wine and wafer, if you will, transubstantiating into the body and blood of nature."

  Laura snorted, but didn't comment further. She chewed the rubbery mushrooms, trying to ignore the metallic taste, then swallowed with a wince. Shavi followed suit and they lay next to the fire watching the flames, waiting for the drug to kick in.

  It didn't take Laura long to notice the familiar fuzziness on the edge of her vision. It was followed by the faint auditory hallucinations in the crisp crackle of the fire or the rustle of the breeze in the branches, and then the growing sense of well-being that made her laugh for no reason apart from the joy of being alive. They chatted amiably for a while as Laura felt the layers of her defences slowly being stripped away. Don't make a fool of yourself, she thought, but after so long honesty was pressing hard against her throat.

  "This may sound weird," she began, "but despite all the shit flying around I really feel like I've found some purpose in my life. I wouldn't tell them to their faces, and I wouldn't have believed it myself if someone had told me a few weeks ago, but I feel like I belong with Church and Ruth. For all their faults. And you. Like we're coming from the same place." She turned her head away, suddenly aware of her words.

  "You do not have to be embarrassed by your feelings," Shavi said gently.

  "Yeah, I do, because if I let my real feelings out I'll tear myself apart."

  "Is that what you believe?"

  "It's what I know. Blame my parents." Her voice trailed off morosely. She expected Shavi to question her further, but when he didn't she couldn't contain herself. "My loving mother and father have really screwed me up and I hate them for it."

  "Talk about it if you like."

  "I don't know if I can."

  "Then ignore it."

  "I can't." She lay on her back and watched Ruth's owl swoop and soar in the sable sky, feeling the currents beneath its wings as if she were flying alongside it. And then she closed her eyes and she was there, in the dark, nursing the welts, smelling the iron tang of blood, too sore even to move. "You know, religion is a dangerous thing. For strong people, it's just teaching, guidance, a few rules to keep them on the path for good. But weak people let it eat them up. There's so little inside them they can trust, they allow it to control them, like some devil on their backs, following what it whispers to them even when it's obviously wrong. Which is about as ironic as it gets. For them it's a class A drug and they should be treated like addicts, put on some religious methadone treat ment. Yeah, religion-lite. Wonder what that would be? The Church of the Soap Opera?" She laughed at the ridiculousness of the image. "Anyway, guess which category my darling folks fell into."

  "Some people draw strength from it-"

  "I have no problem with that," she snapped. She sighed and added, "Sorry. Raw nerves-a-go-go. My parents were Catholics gone mad. And like all fundamentalists, they believed absolute discipline was the only way. You know, you allow a little weakness in and suddenly the cracks are shooting up the wall. They were terrified of the chaos of life and they had to lock themselves away in their little religious fortress to stop them from going mad. But of course I was in that fortress with them. A sneaky little spy who couldn't be trusted not to let the enemy past the gates, so I had to be convinced to be a true patriot. The slightest misdemeanour and my mum would go crazy. It started off with just the back of the hand, but as I got older it developed to a rolled-up newspaper, belts, table tennis bats, just about anything she could pick up and thrash about with. And after she'd finished and got it all out of her system she used to lock me in the airing cupboard. Pitch black. So hot I was almost choking. I cried myself out pretty young."

  "Did you tell anyone?"

  "It was all I knew from when I was a tiny kid. I thought it was normal, for God's sake. Stupid bitch. Now I know my mum wasn't wired up right. Yeah, crazy as a loon."

  Shavi examined her face carefully; her words were glib, almost dismissive, but her experiences were etched harshly in her features. "Did your father-"

  "My dad never laid a finger on me. He just condoned it when she did. He'd crawl away like some weak little mouse and read the paper, and for that I almost hate him more." She closed her eyes and after a while Shavi thought she had fallen asleep, but then she said, "I killed her, you know."

  Shavi waited for her to continue.

  She laughed, her hand going to her mouth like a young girl. "Nothing fazes you, does it?"

  "Go on."

  "I realised my mum was going nuts when I was in my teens. I could see it in her eyes. Whenever she looked at me, they went all starey, like she hated me. I could see the whites all around them." Her voice had grown more serious. "And the more funny she went in the head, the worse she got with me. Somewhere down the line it went beyond punishment. I used to get burnt, cut. Once I spent a whole weekend in the airing cupboard listening to her say her Hail Marys outside the door. What do you expect? — I rebelled. I was drinking like some rum-sodden old sailor before I was sixteen, hoovering up any drugs that came near me. I wasn't exactly an angel when it came to boys. And the worse I got, the worse my mum got. Luckily I'd an aptitude for technology. Somehow I winged it through my exams and got a place at university. She didn't want me to go, the witch, but I was old enough to do what I wanted then so I just legged it. Of course, by that time they'd decided I was the Devil himself. I was no longer part of the family, as simple as that. Which, by me, was great. It was like getting let out of jail. Just call me Papillon."

  Shavi reached over and rested his hand on the back of hers. She didn't flinch.

  "A couple of years ago I must have had a brainstorm or something," she continued. "I had a dream about her and thought maybe it was time I made my peace with her. Yeah, right. Like some stupid, gullible idiot I turned up at the old homestead. My dad was out. She answered the door and I knew straight away she'd fallen out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. I was surprised she was still walking around. But she just smiled and invited me in like it was only yesterday she'd seen me. I had a cup of tea, tried to make small talk, but then she started spouting all that Bible crap, saying she'd been praying for my salvation. I thought, Here we go again. I got up to go and as I was walking through the kitchen she came up behind me and hit me with a fucking iron. Clunk. Big comedy moment, no laughs unfortunately. And when I woke up she'd done this."

  She rolled on to her side so her back was towards him and pulled her T-shirt up to her neck. In red scar tissue across her pale skin were the words Jesus loves you.

  Shavi was overcome with such a deep pity for her he couldn't find a
ny words to say. He reached out to trace the scars gently with his fingertips and this time she did flinch. But then she reached out behind her, caught his hand and held it against her side.

  The psychedelics were swirling through her system now, releasing terrible memories, freeing the awful thoughts she had attempted to contain for so long. Under usual circumstances she would have expected the experience to induce levels of paranoia and terror that would have left her crumpled in a ball on the ground, but in that strange, charged environment all she felt was an immense sadness which she knew she had to expunge from her system.

  "There's a place where you go when life's threatening to destroy you," she continued in a small voice, without turning over to face him. "Some kind of sanctuary in your head, and thank God it's there because right then I don't think I'd have carried on without it. She'd used one of my dad's razors. My back was in agony and I was covered in blood, vomiting from the shock. And she was still spouting Bible stuff and waving the razor around in this kind of dance. A stupid, childish dance. And at that moment I knew what a complete moron I was. I hated her and wanted her dead for everything she'd done to me in my life, but I loved her as well and I just kept asking her to hug me and make it all right. But she wouldn't listen." A shiver ran through her, and Shavi squeezed her side supportively. "A stupid fucking moron. Sometimes I hate myself."

  "You were just being human."

  "And then she came at me again. I tried to get out of the way, but she was crazy, thrashing around with the razor. I've got a great scar on my scalp under this perfectly styled hair. I was flailing around and somehow I grabbed this big wooden crucifix they'd always had hanging on the wall next to the fridge. I lashed out with it and it caught her on the temple. She must have hit me with something at the same time, or maybe it was just the shock of what I'd done, but I blacked out too. And when I woke up she was dead. I don't know if it was from me hitting her or where she'd gone down hard against the edge of the cooker, but whichever way you slice it, I killed her. There was blood everywhere-" The words choked in her throat.

  Shavi moved in close to her, sliding his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. She went rigid at first, resisting the human contact, but then she relaxed against him, crossing her arms over his in a desperate yearning for comfort.

  "My dad came back soon after and found me still sitting there. All I wanted was for him to hold me, but it was like I wasn't there. He started mumbling, 'We must call the police,' detached, emotionless things like that, and I was screaming, 'Dad, Mum's dead' over and over. I just wanted some reaction from him. Then he turned to me and said really coldly, 'If the police find you here they'll arrest you for what you've done. Get out.' It was like a slap in the face. I got up, washed the blood off and walked out. Later I found out he'd told the police he'd done it. Can you believe that?"

  "He was trying to save you," Shavi suggested.

  Laura laughed hollowly. "You'd think, wouldn't you? But it wasn't about me, it was about the sacrifice. By giving himself up instead of me, he felt he'd done the right thing, the Godly thing. It was his big chance. In his eyes it made him a better person: God would smile on him and throw wide the gates of heaven. Hallelujah! There wasn't a single thought for me and I have never heard him from him since. I don't even know what happened to him-he could be rotting inside the squirrel house, or still living in the house basking in his own glory for all I know. For all I care. Whenever I go back to Salisbury to see my mates I never go anywhere near the place, and I make sure they don't tell me anything about him."

  "You could be wrong about him."

  "No, I could see it in his eyes when he walked into the kitchen and took in the situation. He was already thinking about it then." She let out a deep breath of air that seemed to drain her. "What a crazy life, eh? And now the world's ending. That big old Catholic God must really be despairing of everything that's been done in his name."

  Shavi hugged her tightly, nuzzling his face into her neck so he could speak softly into her ear. "You have suffered terribly-"

  "I don't want pity! That's not why-"

  "And I am not giving you any. I want to show you respect for the success you have made of your life-"

  "Success! I feel like a loser! Fucked in the head, washed up in drugs, lonely, bitter … Funny choice of words you have there, pal."

  "But you have overcome such a terrible experience. You are carrying on, and that is all we can really hope for. In the end, we have to make our own way, without our parents, without our loved ones, using our own strength. And what you are doing now shows your worth."

  "Well, that's one way of looking at it. If you're a nut." She laughed lightly; oddly, she felt better than she had done in years. "You're a strange dude, Shavi. I don't know why the hell I'm talking to you."

  "We are all strangers, but we have connections that go much deeper than conscious thought."

  "You could be right. Everything is insane enough now for that to be true." She paused, suddenly aware of his hands on her skin. At the thought, a tingle ran through her groin, heightened by the drugs. "You can't beat talking about misery for making you feel sexy," she said.

  He was silent for a long minute, as if shocked by her comment, but then he said calmly, "Do you want to make love?"

  "Sure, why not? There's nothing like gratuitous, no-strings-attached sex with a stranger to make a girl feel good. But you better have some protection, big boy."

  She could sense his smile behind her. "I always come prepared," he said.

  Whether it was the magical atmosphere or the drugs, her nerves seemed charged. When he ran his fingertips up from her belly to the soft curve of her breast, it felt like a web of electricity crackled across her body, and when he lightly touched the end of her hard nipple she jolted with a spasm of delight. She turned her head so he could reach her mouth. The kiss was moist and supple and filled with passion. The excitement of the moment took control of her mind, and she gave herself up to it hungrily. Snaking her hand behind her, she slid it over his clothes until she felt the hard, hot mound in his trousers, which she kneaded gently. Then he was undoing her jeans, slipping his hand over her belly and under her knickers to her pubic hair and beyond, where he began to stimulate her with soft, subtle movements of his fingertips. There was something so expert in his action she had to fight to prevent herself coming in an instant. And then they were both overwhelmed, rolling over, kissing each other hard, pulling their clothes off hastily. In the heightened atmosphere, Laura could barely believe how every sensation was so charged; she felt permanently on the point of orgasm. When he flicked a tongue over her nipple, she had to clench to control herself. And when she slid her naked body up and down his before taking his erection and lowering herself on to it, she thought her senses were going to crash through the overload of excitement. She moved on top of him for a while, before they rolled over, slick with sweat, and he started to thrust into her. His body was hard muscle under her hands, his face darkly handsome in the firelight, and all she could think was he was the best lover in the world.

  For a while she gave herself up to the waves of sensation, losing all sense of time, but later she did remember one moment, when she looked past him, up into the sky, and saw what seemed to be scores of golden lights swirling around in the currents from the fire. They were bigger than sparks, almost the size of fireflies, and for the briefest instant she had the oddest feeling that they were tiny, beautiful people with shimmering skin, dipping and diving around them on gossamer wings. It was a moment of pure, undefinable wonder, but later, when they rolled off each other sweat-streaked and exhausted, the night air was clear and she couldn't bring herself to mention it. The image stayed in her heart, though, adding to the feeling of transcendental joy that infused her.

  The power was off and the darkness that filled the farmhouse seemed almost to have substance, refusing to retreat in the flickering light of the candles Marsh had hastily placed around the room. But the roaring fire provided some strong
er illumination and warmth, although it still didn't seem to penetrate beyond their tight circle of chairs pulled close to it.

  Their conversation had all but dried up long ago. Despite cooking them a fine meal which went some way to make up for the privations they had experienced underground, Marsh had been reticent for most of the evening. Church didn't get the impression he had anything to hide; more that his lonely existence had made him taciturn, and that his fear had added to his normal withdrawn state.

  The grandmother clock had chimed midnight half an hour earlier, but no one seemed to want to retire; its tick was low and sonorous, like an insistent warning. Marsh had his loaded shotgun across his lap, which made Church feel nervous, but Veitch also kept reaching to the bulge of the gun in his jacket for comfort. Just as Church wondered how much longer they should sit up, the room was suddenly pervaded by a foul smell, a mix of sulphur and human excrement. When it reached Marsh's nostrils, a faint tremor ran across his face and he made an odd mewling sound in the depths of his throat.

  "Is this the start of it?" Tom asked.

  Marsh's terrified expression had already given away the answer. The whole room held its breath as they cast glances to the darkened corners. It began like the distant rustling of dry paper, eventually becoming something like the sound of rats' claws on wood, but it felt as if it were inside their heads. Marsh raised the shotgun and began to aim it around the room. Veitch was on tenterhooks, his eyes darting while his hand stayed firmly inside his jacket. He'd had the gun out once already, but Church had complained that he felt like he was sitting in some Wild West Saloon. "What's coming?" he whispered redundantly. Church watched them both warily. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.