Paradise: Chapter 10: 2 Samuel (12358) [DRAFT!!]

 

Chapter 10: 2 Samuel (12358)

Samuel was in his kitchen, looking through all his cupboards. He had laid in enough food to last him through until New Year, but Des had arrived the night before with all her worldly possessions packed into two suitcases.

‘I’ll go to the shop for you tomorrow, man,’ she said from her horizontal position on the sofa. She was flicking through the TV channels with the old patched up remote control. Edna was lying on her stomach.

‘Don’t do that,’ he warned from the kitchen. ‘You can’t be coming and going. Not with the muta right outside. If they catch you here, they’ll send you to Brick Town. And me too.’

Des kissed her teeth, but she knew he was right. She was running a risk every time she spent the night in the home of an unmarried man.

‘I can’t stand the hostel any longer,’ she griped. ‘They sent round a Purity Unit three times in the last week. They looking for Amalekites and the Dagon Worshipers. Any woman on her monthly liable to be taken up. Anyone with a fassy batty get taken up. They always poking at us, poking at our bits and our battys. You hear me? I can’t be having me bits poked at all the time!’

‘They not allowed to do that anymore,’ said Samuel as he came back through and sat down in his chair. ‘You should tell the church.’

‘I should tell the church? You tell the church!’ She snapped her fingers at him, then said, ‘you got enough food then? When you working next?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It all over the place. I don’t know when I’m working one day to the next.’

He came over and sat beside her on the sofa, shifting her legs up such that the cat was disturbed. Edna sauntered into the kitchen as if that had been her plan all along. Samuel made to take the remote control from Des, but she snatched it away from him.

‘How can you watch this rubbish?’ he asked, pointing at the TV.

‘What man? It’s just the news. You don’t want to know what’s going on?’

‘There is nothing true in any of it.’

‘They say they be angels flying over that bit of left over Egypt. Look, they have a picture of an angel!’

The newscaster was talking over a some still images of what an average viewer might consider to be an angel -a tall muscular man dressed in a long white robe, wielding a sword as he flew through the air on white wings.

‘I don’t think they look like that,’ he muttered.

‘I know that, it’s just a picture. You don’t think I read the bible? I know what they look like. You think you so clever?’

Samuel shut his eyes and leaned back his head. He didn’t want to get drawn into another long argument with Desdemona, his unwanted houseguest.

‘OK, anyway. We’ve enough food for now. I’ll go to the shops when we need to. You just need to stay here.’

Des kissed her teeth and changed the channel. ‘I stay here, yes sir! Yes, sir, I happy to do what the big man tell me,’ she muttered loudly enough for him to hear.

 

After a few of days, Samuel realised that the problems with having Desdemona in his flat were legion. She would cook for him, but she was, at best, an average chef. She was too out of sorts to do any cleaning, or even to clean up after herself and she could not be relied on to stay indoors when he was out at work. She was a liability and upset the equilibrium in the flat and in Samuel’s life. It was manageable when she came to stay one night, two at the most, but anything more than that and she became a bother. She did more talking than he was used to too. He preferred his slow-moving, soothing conversations with Edna, who never answered back or started arguments. Des was always asking for his opinions on things so she could find something to disagree on.

Sometimes she was funny though he had to admit, she had a sharp wit and an eye for the absurd.

‘I tell you, man!’ she had snuck back to the hostel to get some money she was owed, much to Samuel’s annoyance and had heard more gossip from the women that remained there. ‘They only there because they have nowhere else to go. Tabatha gone. Nicole, she was lifted. They say they looked at her batty and she had the haemorrhoids, and they took her away. How does this thing work Samuel?’

She waited for a response, but all he could do was shrug.

‘Nicole took the Arc of the Covenant to Dagon, did she? She cursed because of it? That right, ay? Don’t mess with de Ark or you get piles! That was never in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Way I remember that film it was all swirling ghosts and melting the faces off Nazis. No mention of bum-grapes!’

Samuel was covering his face with his hands. He had a feeling he was going to get the blame for all of this somehow. He usually did.

‘You know what book it from? Samuel? Samuel! You seen me?’ she demanded. ‘You should know. First Samuel, the men that died not were smitten with the emerods, and the cry of the city went up to heaven. You should know it, it’s your name!’

‘What do you want me to do about it?’

Des kissed her teeth and sighed, ‘it just as well I’m regular.’

Samuel sighed, picked up a newspaper and went to the bathroom. At least he could get a few minutes peace in there. The woman was like a cooped-up jaguar, frustration with claws.

 

With an extra mouth to feed in his flat, Samuel eventually had to go to the shops, a few days after Christmas. He had been given two days off work, and he had been tempted to lie to her and say that he had to go in anyway, just to get some peace from her barbed tongue. Instead, he decided on a smaller deception and take his own sweet time doing his grocery shopping. He’d make a day of it, going from shop to shop, even go down to the Delta and look around. It would be good to step outside of Prospect for a while, to hear what the gossip was and learn what new dangers were on the horizon.

He went in to a cheap warung on Stone Avenue and talked to some of his old friends from back in the day over a coffee and a cheese pie. When he stepped back out into the street, he saw that the town was even busier than usual, with people walking quickly, as if hurrying away from something.

‘Wa’appen?’ he asked a passing woman.

‘Heavy manners,’ she said without breaking step.

Samuel craned his neck to see what was going on down the street. In the old days heavy manners meant the army had been called out. After a few heartbeats he saw them, men dressed in jungle fatigues, moving up the road, pushing people forward with the threat of their rifles.

He found himself part of a crowd being herded down Sherrif Street into the overgrown Botanical Gardens. Here a wide area of trees had been cleared and made into an army camp. Throngs of people were being pushed into a packed dirt parade ground. Over the heads of those already here he could see a pavilion of some kind had been erected and he could hear a harsh bule voice speaking over a loudhailer.

There were a great many soldiers around, mainly black-skinned locals but with a fair proportion of clansmen. Young conscripts mostly, but a lot of them looked tough. Men and women turned into grim-faced killers by a year of war up north.

Samuel tried to hear what was being said through the loudhailer over the noise of the growing crowd.

‘…you see? Do you see now? What has been going on down here while the army was away? Looks like people have been getting soft! Well, the army is back now, and it better be respected. You want to end up like that?’

Samuel couldn’t see what that was. The speaker seemed to also realise that not many could see what he was referring to and called out, ‘push them forward, push them forward! Stop them nattering!’ and the soldiers started tightening up the crowd. After a few dozen shuffling steps, Samuel was close enough to see the raised pavilion clearly. He was only fifty feet away from the speaker now and could see everything about him from his livid red face down to his mud-crusted army boots. There were several other soldiers up there with him, but none of them spoke. Samuel noticed a crumpled heap on the planks beside the speaker and a pool of blood. His eyes widened as he followed the trail of blood with his gaze and saw two severed hands.

‘Bring up the next one!’ yelled the man and a young black man was dragged up onto the deck. ‘Another one. Another one caught stealing from the army! What’s your name, boy?’

The man was too terrified to speak, and only cried out, bubbles of spittle spilling from his mouth.

‘Well, my name is Fred Bacon!’ yelled the red-faced man. ‘And I’m in charge around here! And no one steals from the army!’

Along with the crowd, Samuel watched in horror as the thin young man was pinned to the ground by four stoney-faced soldiers. Bacon then took up a machete and brought it down hard on the man’s left wrist. There was a howl of pain and gasps from the crowd. People made to turn and leave but were held back by the armed men. Samuel was moved back and forth by the crush of the crowd as people pushed and shoved in all directions.

‘Settle down!’ yelled Bacon into the loudhailer. ‘What’s the matter with you, never seen blood before? How soft you have grown. There are lakes of blood up north. We left hundreds crucified up there. Rows of crosses for miles. So, believe me - to me - to us - to the army – this is just the beginning!’

Women were crying. There were children here too, he could hear them. Samuel felt he was in a world of madness. He clutched his shopping bag to his chest like a lifejacket, using his height to try and find a way out of the crowd. He wanted desperately to leave, and tried moving away from the pavilion, but he was stuck, no one could go anywhere. A woman to his left was in tears, and a short man to his right looked down, hiding his head behind the shoulders of the man in front.

A woman was brought out next. She screamed and struggled, and Samuel thought that this was the way Desdemona would be if they did this to her. She never had much dignity to begin with and would lose it in an instant when faced with a punishment as harsh as this. He shut his eyes as the machete fell. He tried to ignore her shrieks and howls, humming loudly to himself, then repeating ‘no, no, no,’ under his breath.

The next man brought out was so thin he was just skin and bone. It looked obvious he had been caught trying to steal food from the army’s supplies. He barely put up a struggle and only let out a single muted mewl when his hand was cut off. Like all those before him he was unceremoniously tossed off the side of the pavilion and out of sight.

 

When he finally got home Samuel bolted the door and shut the curtains. Whatever remonstrations Des had for him about his lateness died on her lips when she saw how anxious he was.

‘What happen?’ she asked.

‘Army be punishing thieves in the Delta. Chop of their hands wit’ a cutlass. They keep us all there to watch.’

‘Where?’

‘The Botanicals. The army camped there.’

Des went to the curtains and twitched them open. ‘Nothin happening here.’

Samuel checked over her shoulder. ‘Maybe it won’t come here. Maybe we safe in Prospect.’

He was wrong though. They were woken by loud noises down on St George Street in the last dark hour before dawn. With the lights off in the living room they watched as an armoured car pulled up at the muta checkpoint. A squad of soldier piled out of it and hosed down the watchtower with automatic rifle fire.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Des as she instinctively ducked under the windowsill.

The soldiers then kicked in the door at the bottom of the tower and then there were more gunshots, echoing out of the door and down the street. After a few minutes the black-clad bodies of half a dozen dead muta were dragged out and taken away in the armoured car. As the car left, two civilian cars pressed into army service screeched up to the barricade and more soldiers, with excited barking dogs got out and manned the roadblock.

‘We’s under new management now, brother,’ whispered Des.

 

Des spent the rest of the night in bed with Samuel and hid well away from the windows the whole of the next day. After a few more days though she was back to normal, when it appeared that having the army down on St George Street was actually a lot less bother than having the muta. They didn’t harass people for improper dress or bother couples for ID cards to prove they were related. As New Year approached Des was worse than ever before.

After hiding out at Samuel’s flat for six days she was bored out of her head and was determined that they should go out and have a good time for New Years.

‘Are you crazy?’ Samuel asked her for not the first time.

‘Come on Samuel,’ she wheedled. ‘They been no trouble in Prospect since the army came. You think all the clansmen here are not going to celebrate Hogmanay? I see them buy fireworks down on St George. We just going to sit here like two toothless old crones?’

‘You don’t know what’s happening,’ he told her. ‘I got out. I see what is to be seen. The army is more dangerous than the muta.’

‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ Des admitted. ‘But they won’t stop de party. Come on, let’s go into the Delta even. Go back to Tantey’s Tavern and see who’s still alive.’

‘Not a chance,’ he said and that was his final word on that.

 

Come the night of New Years though, he found that Des had taken matters into her own hands. There was a knock at the door and to his surprise Samuel opened it to two old friends, Renzo and Cindy.

‘Gonna let us in?’ growled Renzo in his deep gravelly voice as he barged his way in. ‘Me and Cindy is together now.’

Renzo was a big man, and well-muscled. Samuel had not seen him since the reditus, something that he had no regrets about at all. Renzo was sour-natured and never forgot a wrong done to him. Cindy on the other hand was even skinnier than the last time he had seen her and was, frankly, dressed like a slut.

Des was pleased to see them. ‘Did you get the bottle?’

Renzo smiled and took a bottle of clansmen whisky from inside his jacket.

‘You see,’ said Renzo as he put the bottle down on the table. ‘Din I tell you Cindy, old Samuel was set up in Prospect? Big man in the church now, eh, Sam?’

‘That’s about right,’ said Samuel eying the label on the bottle. ‘That’s for real?’

‘Dam right it is. Hey, Dessy, get us some glasses in here girl!’

When the whiskey was poured out, Samuel lifted his glass and sipped it. Then took a big gulp when he realised it was indeed the real thing and not some coloured moonshine. ‘What you bin doing then Renzo?’

‘Oh, you know, this and that. Pretty tough down on the Delta. I still on Rose Street. My father’s garage got burnt down so now I mainly run with the old Notch. Muta don’t bother us much in the Diamond.’

‘The Notch. As in Pappy Sack?’

‘Naw. His son. He take over now.’

Samuel nodded and said no more. He didn’t want to learn about whatever dastardly deeds Renzo was doing for Baby Sack, he was better off not knowing.

‘How you get this place then?’ asked Renzo before taking a big gulp of whiskey. ‘You a church man?’

‘I’m a driver. I got taken on by the Temple early on. I went over to Merrick College to take a look right at the start and they gave me a job.’

‘Lucky man,’ said Renzo lifting his glass in a salute.

Samuel was momentarily distracted as Des went from the bathroom into the bedroom. It looked like she was dolling herself up.

‘You and Des?’ asked Renzo.

‘No. Not at all,’ said Samuel quickly. ‘She just a house guest.’

Renzo laughed, his deep base laugh, and poured them both another shot. Samuel could feel it going to his head already. He felt anxious, like he was in danger. Des must have invited them over. He was ready to kill her, kick her out of the flat and bolt the doors for sure. What was she thinking?

Cindy went into the bedroom to help Des get ready. Renzo stood up and looked out the window.

‘You got any business going up at the Temple?’

‘No, I’m just a driver. You know I’m not like that.’

‘Do I?’ said Renzo turning to look at Samuel. ‘Do we know anyone anymore? You remember what Cindy was like? She always so high and mighty, never look at Renzo. Never look twice at Samuel Benjamin neither. Now look at her. Her parent’s dead, her brother missing. Where else did she have to turn? And her a good Catholic girl too.’ Here Renzo pointed a finger at Samuel with the hand that was holding his glass. ‘She know how to survive. She know what she has to do to survive. Everyone have to know how to survive. You come down to Diamond and I can put some business your way. A man with Temple connections is a man people want to know.’

‘Sure Renzo,’ said Samuel knowing that was the last thing he wanted to do.

‘Here now!’ exclaimed Renzo and Des and Candy came out of the bedroom. Samuel almost laughed. Des was wearing in a church dress, evidently the only thing she had that wasn’t ragged, complete with black stockings and flat shoes. She stood in stark contrast to Candy who wore a crop top and cut-off jeans with half of her rear hanging out the back of them. The amount of paint on both their faces made them look like little girls who had been playing with their mother’s make-up box.

 

There was a taxi outside, sat on the curb with its windows open. It was a yellow Toyota, done up with chequers along the side.

‘Where you get this?’ asked Samuel as he got in the passenger seat.

‘Borrowed it,’ replied Renzo curtly, turning to watch the women get in the back.

‘We going to Tantey’s?’ asked Desdemona as she put on her seat belt.

‘Hell no, why I want to go to a place like that on New Years?’ Renzo started the engine and set his course for leaving Prospect. ‘Let’s hit up the bars on along Church Street.’

Samuel nearly choked. ‘That’s right close to where the army is camped.’

‘So what? I afraid of a few raggedy-ass soldiers? Shut yuh battie, Samuel. We go down to the gully for the fireworks. Then I show you a place where they aint no church, they aint no muta and they aint no mutha scunt army.’

Renzo was crouched over the wheel. He looked like he was just pretending to be angry, but with him you never could tell.

‘This is a bad idea,’ said Samuel, shaking his head.

‘Of course it a bad idea!’ laughed Renzo. ‘Since when have you had any good ideas? Cindy get the case of Banks out the back. Man got a thirst.’

***

Nathan Jack was on guard duty with Joseph Bunn. It was that quiet time of year between Christmas and New Year. The year before last Nathan had spent this time with his family. Dad had been there and as had been usual in their family for years, he and Nathan’s mum had spent most of it watching Netflix’s series and overeating while the boys had played console and computer games. Close family from their father’s side would come for a drink or a meal, or just to give and receive presents. All their aunts and uncles, along with their cousins had been lost in the reditus. Their family was smaller now, and like most families adjusting to their new reality, their customs and traditions were adjusting too. Nathan was happy that at least this year Christmas had been a bit more normal. Or nearer to normal anyway. Last year there had been a clamp down, mainly enforced by the muta, but despite the continuing fear, and the continuing doubt over what was permitted and what was not, people still celebrated Christmas. Nathan was not a deep thinker, but he saw that his mother had wanted as close to normal a Christmas as it was possible to have, and he imagined that was what most households in Evermarch had been like too. The desire for something from the old world and the old ways, something that could not be taken away, no matter what else happened, was too strong to be quashed by the most zealous of black clad muta killjoys, no matter how many leaflets they delivered or people in Santa hats they beat up.

Last Christmas, the bad one, that had been before he and Randy had become Temple Guards and before they had both got married. Back when they had still been boys.

He rubbed his hands together and stuck them in front of the brazier that he and Bunn were using to warm themselves with. Bunn had supplemented his guard uniform with an extra scarf and coat. He had a balaclava on underneath his conical helmet. The cold had made his already large red nose even larger and even redder. Fierce vermillion rosacea streaked his cheeks and chin, his thin red lips an angry line across ragged teeth. His face was so red he looked like an angry racist tomato.

Together they kept an eye on the traffic at the gate, occasionally walking around and stamping their feet to keep warm. The people of Evermarch that had been through the Temple gates so far today had been sullen, keeping their heads down mainly, here to pay fines or do penances. To get whatever business they had to do done as quickly as possible and get home again as quickly as possible. After the relative peace of the summer, there were armed men in the streets again.

‘Not much banter today,’ complained Bunn. ‘You’d think people would be happier after being allowed to have a proper Christmas.’

‘It’s the army being back,’ commented Jack. ‘Have you seen any of their tanks yet? I heard they have some down on the Delta. I saw two armoured cars the other day. They looked American. Probably Strykers.’

Bunn gave Jack a funny look. ‘Well, no, but I aint been down that way in a while. I thought all this nonsense was over. Now the bloody army is back, and it looks like it’s all going to start up again. I don’t think people will stand for it.’

‘What will start again?’

Bunn sighed. ‘Not the sharpest are ye lad? The killing. The executions. I can’t go through all that again. I’ve enough blood on my hands. People are tougher now. They have gotten used to the way things are. They won’t stand for it.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Nathan, who had not given it any thought. ‘The army will be ok though.’

‘Get real. When they see how lax things have got around here, there’s going to be trouble. The police turn a blind eye to everything. The muta are a law unto themselves. Mark my words, there will be some kind of military coup, then curfews, and then the public executions. The Full Monty.’

‘Nah,’ said Nathan softly, but he was starting to think about some of the things Randy had told him, about the mullahs and that man he’d mentioned. He’d forgotten the name, it was something pork related.

Bunn abandoned the topic of the army and asked, ‘do much for Christmas then?’

‘I’m Muslim, bruh.’

‘Not anymore, you’re not, you useless twat,’ observed Bunn. He had teased the lad about this many times before. ‘None of that hubbly-bubbly nonsense any more for you or the muta’ll get ye.’

Nathan wasn’t in a hurry to talk about this year’s Christmas as it had made their mum so sad. She had cooked a turkey and done all the other bule dishes that went with it and even got some halal pigs-in-blankets from the butcher. Seeing it all laid out on the kitchen table had reminded her of her missing husband, the boys missing father, and she had cried and only eaten a few mouthfuls. ‘He always loved the Christmas dinner. Oh, where is he?’ she had sobbed. ‘It’s the not knowing that is the worst.’

Randy slept in her bed that night.

A short, bandy-legged man approached the gate. He was dressed in an orange raincoat and was carrying a wire cage used for housing rodent-type pets. There was sawdust and a little wheel, suggesting it had been borrowed from a child.

‘What have you got there?’ asked Bunn.

‘Five mice,’ said the man.

‘It’s for the piles,’ said Jack, covering his mouth with the back of his hand in the style of a stage whisper as he addressed Bunn.

‘Oh right,’ said Bunn tilting his head back. ‘Philistines, is it? Off you go mate.’

‘You know how hard it is to get hold of gold mice?’ asked the man, who seemed to want to stop and talk. ‘Not real gold anyway, just yellowish ones, that’ll do eh? Horrible little bastards. Still, could be worse.’

‘Yeah?’ grunted Bunn, not in the slightest bit interested.

‘What’s it got to do with me?’ went on the man. ‘I ask you? I wasn’t part of any bunch of people that stole the Arc or something like that. Wasn’t all that meant to be sorted? It was on the news.’

‘It was. You must be getting punished for something else. Now run along.’

‘I havnae heard anything, I was…’

‘Look!’ growled Bunn having lost his patience. ‘Put some ointment on it and fuck off!’

The man shrugged and scuttled into the Temple, hoping up the steps on his bent legs.

‘Why do they come here?’ mused Bunn. ‘You seen any rescripts? The church hasn’t said anything has it? Probably just the muta deciding to have another go at people with sore arses.’

‘Nothing. It’s just a lot of fuss about fucking nothing is what it is. Every boil, every wart, it’s got to be a punishment for something. The muta always going into people’s houses looking for nasty secrets. Maybe if the army sort that out, they’ll be good for something. Round up all the wrong’uns and have done with it once and for all.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nathan as he blew warm air into his cupped hands.

‘What I mean is, if there is going to be another purge, then let the army do it. Me and you will be all right, but if they go through the city again it will be like a dose of salts.’

‘You were just saying the people won’t stand for it. You were just saying you didn’t want any blood on your hands.’

‘Aye, aye,’ said Bunn, not conceding his change of stance in the argument of what should become of Evermarch. ‘They won’t, which means more blood, don’t it? Too many idiots with guns around.’ He patted his submachine gun as he said this, then went on. ‘I’ll put a bullet in a muta zealot any time you like, but I’ve had my fill of torturing and killing Evermarch heretics and those bloody Delta sambos.’

‘Will it come to that?’ asked Nathan who had never tortured or killed anyone, a fact that he generally kept to himself around the other guards.

Bunn sniffed then spat on the ground at his feet. ‘Don’t look at me like that lad. I’m just saying it as I see it. You think things will ever go back to normal? It’s going to get worse, I’m sure of it. Then we all go to heaven in a little rowing boat.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ sighed Nathan.

‘What does your brother say? He’s our inside man. You should ask him, see what he can tell us.’

Nathan could see Bunn was thinking now, nervous of his predictions for the future and wanting to find a way out of it. ‘He’s a good lad, eh? He’d remember the boys back at the Temple, eh?’

‘I can ask him, but… he doesn’t want to talk about the army most of the time. He just wants to play computer games like we did when we were kids. I think he’s got PTSD.’

‘What? We’ve all got fucking PTSD, lad. My wife pisses the bed three times a week. Just see what he says. What’s the army doing here? When does it all start?’

Bunn had taken hold of Nathan’s arm now. Nathan looked down at Bunn’s gloved hand and said, ‘I’ll ask him. I’ll see what he says.’

Bunn released Nathan’s arm and stepped back. He took a deep breath. ‘Phoar, I worked myself up into a bit of state there. Jesus. We’ve got to keep it cool as cucumbers, lad. Cool as fucking cucumbers. Eye’s pealed for trouble. We’ve got each other’s backs, eh? Jesus, I can’t go through it all again.’

Nathan was surprised to see the usually well buttoned-up Bunn be so open with his feelings and to display signs of distress. He didn’t know what to say that would offer any help, or if he even cared enough about the mental anguish of someone as unpleasant as Bunn to do so.

‘Neither can I,’ Nathan said eventually, then stepped aside to let more Evermarch citizens into the Temple.

Bunn pulled himself together with a loud shiver. ‘Brr! Enough of that.’

Bunn, like most of the guards at the Temple had accepted that it was their job to sometimes do distasteful and unpleasant things. Some of them took to it, never seeming to lose any sleep worrying about their actions, while some of them, like Bunn evidently, would occasionally let slip hints of their inner guilt.

Both Nathan and Randy (back when he had been a Temple Guard) had discovered that you didn’t have to be a bastard if you didn’t want to be. In fact, you could do a lot to help people, and since no one really checked up on the guard (they were the guys with the guns after all) it was left up to the individual how they chose to enforce the laws and rescripts of the New Reformation. Very little of what their duties were was written down and the Guards had no set chain of command like the army. You gained seniority purely by the respect you were held in by the Priests, the Acolytes and the other Guards. Nathan and Randy, who had both been doing karate twice a week since the age of four were held in very high regard due to their ability to absolutely knock shite out of anybody.

 

In the evening, as usual after eating the dinner their mother had made for them, Nathan and Randy played old games on their PS4. Tuti was in the kitchen doing the dishes, Mary was in her bedroom on her phone and Evaline was up on the roof smoking cigarettes.

‘Have you been back to your barracks lately?’ asked Nathan.

Randy was engrossed in the game, but managed to say, ‘my old man says we report to Evermarch Headquarters tomorrow. Regimental review.’

‘What’s that about?’

Randy shrugged. ‘Dunno. Bacon has been busy in the Delta I’ve heard. The mullahs want to talk to Bishop Thomas. Bring him down to HQ.’

Nathan wasn’t sure why, but he found this news alarming.

‘Take him to the Delta?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

The game continued, explosions and gunshots as they cleared the level of monsters.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’ asked Nathan. ‘The lads at the Temple are pooping themselves.’

‘Not really. But well…’

‘What?’

‘I shouldn’t really tell you, but since you’re my bruh, bruh. It’s not exactly a secret but we’ve not been telling anyone. We’re not back in Evermarch because we won the war up north. We’re back because we lost it.’

Nathan dropped the controller. Randy paused the game, then looked over at his brother.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I mean,’ said Nathan, leaning in and speaking softly. ‘That’s news. That’s important.’

‘Yeah!’ said Randy with a laugh. ‘I know! It’s pretty freaky. I’m just glad to be home for a while. I’m trying not to think about it.’

‘But what’s going to happen?’

‘Well, I hope the mullahs, Fred Bacon and Bishop Thomas can figure something out, because what’s coming down from the north you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Bloody hell, Randy.’

Nathan picked up his controller again and the game resumed.

Nathan had a thought. ‘When the Bishop goes to meet Bacon, do you think you could arrange to be there?’

‘Oh, I’ll be there for sure. I’m Operational Intelligence.’

‘I wonder if he’ll want to bring a squad of guards with him. When do you think this is going to happen? What’s Bacon planning?’

‘I don’t know,’ sighed Randy. ‘And I don’t care either. Just play the game, Nate. I don’t want to talk about work.’

 

***

Johnny Frost had a pretty good Christmas and New Year all things considered. That night he had arrived at his mum and dad’s farm, back in early December, he had rolled into the yard in his big yellow car and pulled up behind the house. Despite Beryl being hard to miss, no one had noticed his arrival.

He walked along the dirt track behind the outbuildings towards the front of the house, but stopped when he heard voices coming from the barn. He stood at the corner to listen in on the conversation. He could make out his father’s voice, but not what he was saying and the voice of another man that sounded familiar. He listened for a few moments, but could not make out any of the words, just that his father’s tone was that of annoyance and the other man sounded like a policeman. Ah yes, remembered Johnny. It was the local copper, PC Knifer.

Curious, he decided to make himself known and walked around the side of the barn and in through the open door. ‘Hi dad,’ he said.

‘Eh?’ said his father in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just came up in the car tonight… oh,’ Johnny stopped when he saw that besides his father and Knifer there were quite a few other people in the barn too. His eyes travelled over them, and he saw that they were a collection of women, children and old men. They looked ragged and dejected, with wild, almost animalistic eyes. He felt suddenly tense as they eyed him, as if they were wondering what he might taste like. ‘What’s going on dad?’

‘The army just dumped them here this morning,’ said his dad. ‘Twenty slaves captured up north. I don’t know what they think we are going to do with them.’

‘It’s just temporary,’ said Knifer. ‘Don’t worry Gareth. It’s just temporary.’

‘It’s a bag of shite, that’s what it is,’ grumbled Gareth Frost.

Johnny looked back and forth at the two middle-aged men as they talked. His father was bald, big nosed and as the farm work had been slowing down again his body had started to run to fat. Knifer on the other hand was tall and thin, a lanky, pleasant-natured man with a shock of ginger hair kept under control by a woolly hat. He was not in uniform and neither of them wore beards or tassels on their jackets, which would have got them arrested by the muta back in Evermarch.  From what he gathered from their talk these were not the only slaves that had been dumped on the farmers in the Ken valley.

Finally, they came to a conclusion and Knifer said, ‘well, I’ll be off.’

As the two men walked towards the front gate he went on. ‘But I’d advise you to keep them in the barn. Don’t let them run around. Definitely don’t let them in the house and lock all your windows and doors. From what I’ve heard some of them are pretty wild. Were probably pretty wild even before all this. Turkmens, Russians, Uzbeks, that’s what they are saying. All muddled in together. We’ve heard reports of them getting up to all sorts of mischief.’

‘The ones in there are just women and children,’ pointed out Gareth Frost.

‘Even so, don’t worry, some fencibles will be around tomorrow. There are camps being set up for them.’

‘Camps?’ scoffed Gareth. ‘As in concentration camps?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ reassured Knifer as he stood at the gate. ‘Just to keep them safe, that’s all. If they run off into the hills, we’ll not see them defrosted until Spring.’

With that, Knifer gave one last wave to Johnny who had been standing in the gloom beside the gate listening in and made his way back into the village.

 

That night, they had done as Knifer had told them and kept all the doors and windows locked. Maude Frost, Johnny’s mum, had already supplied the slaves with as many blankets as she could find.

‘I’ll need to go to the shops tomorrow,’ said Johnny’s mother as she stood nervously at the living room window with the lights off, watching the barn. ‘They’ve eaten everything they came with and everything in the house. Skinny as rakes they are.’

‘Remember to get reimbursed at the Town Hall,’ muttered Gareth. ‘We’re not made of money.’

Johnny had a hard time sleeping, waking at every noise. He was snug in his own bed, with two collie dogs curled up beside him, providing extra warmth, which felt a tad unfair. His half waking dreams wandered between feeling sorry of the slaves and hoping they were warm enough, and wondering if they were cannibals.

The next day Johnny took the dogs a walk around the farm. He loved the land around here, the fields, the forest at the top of the hill and the marshland that his father was always trying to tame at the bottom. He took them their favourite trail through the woods, exiting at a gate at the bottom of the hill where he saw his father standing in one of the frost-covered fields, seemingly doing nothing but thinking his own thoughts.

‘Hi dad,’ said Johnny as the dogs surrounded his father, clambering for attention.

‘Hi,’ said Gareth in return. ‘Look at all this, I ask you.’ He pointed at a nearby portacabin, then a patch of concreted ground barely visible in the hard frost that had turned everything white. ‘This was where it was meant to be. The reception, the ticket office. This is where all the visitors would line up to enter the park, their pockets bulging with money that they couldn’t wait to press into my clammy hands. We’d already broken the ground and had started laying the foundation. It was in the paper and everything. I was building my dreams. All for naught.’

‘I know dad.’ Johnny looked around, his warm breath a cloud of vapour around his head.

His dad pulled his cap further down over his ears. ‘What a fucking disaster! I was all set. I hate farming, I’m sure you are well aware of that. Can’t be bothered with all this planting crops malarky. It’s fun in Farmville on the computer, not so fun in real life. And bloody shite everywhere. Well, I don’t mind the shite I suppose, but I just don’t like being cruel to animals.’

Johnny laughed politely. He had heard this particular comedy routine from his father before. It was classic dad banter, most of it tongue-in-cheek.

‘And you have to be cruel to be a farmer around here. Leaving the beasts out in all weather, taking them to slaughter. I’m too soft hearted for all that… So… This is where my dream died Johnny. People were turning their farms into activity centres all over Scotland, so why not me? We were going to have clay pigeon shooting, archery, carting, the works. A coffee shop for your mum to run. Well that all went out the fucking window, didn’t it? Now I’m back to farming and all that money gone. Fucking reditus. Fucking Splintering. Fucking God! God can fuck right off.’

‘Bit harsh dad!’ warned Johnny who had learned to guard his words while living in Evermarch.

‘Ach,’ grunted Gareth. ‘Come on, let’s go round the pond on the way back. And I bloody hate farming. I wanted to be a painter like you. Still could be I suppose. How is university going anyway?’

‘Oh, you know, as well as I could expect I guess,’ replied Johnny. ‘I’m hanging on in there.’

‘How’s the big city?’

‘It’s a lot better now. It’s settled down, but you know. I had a spot of bother with the muta. Thought I’d come up here to lie low for a bit.’

‘Very wise. Well, you sisters will be glad to see you. You can help me with the winter jobs while you’re here. I’ll find some really shite ones for you!’

 

Over the next few days, in twos three and fours, the slaves were taken away by the fencibles. The fencibles were a militia of local farmers armed with shotguns and hunting rifles who had pretty much taken it upon themselves to guard and patrol the bits of Galloway that had been left after the Splintering. Gareth talked to some of the younger ones that he knew from school, digging for information.

As each parcel of slaves was dispatched, Maude made sure they each had a bundle of food and warm clothes with them, gifts that the slaves had been pathetically grateful for.

‘It’s fucking awful,’ said Gareth Frost when the last of them had gone. ‘We defy the muta up here, but people have a different feeling towards the army. Bunch of cowards. So, they are keeping the slaves in a camp up near Mossdale just in case the army come back for them. Can you believe it? At least people can get in to feed them. There must be three or four hundred at least. And that’s just here. Down at Drumrash I heard there are hundreds more, and the same again at Lauriston. The army just dumped a bunch at every village they stopped at. Apparently, some of them escaped and are hiding out at Clatteringshaws.’

‘In winter?’ asked Johnny. ‘They’ll freeze to death.’

‘I bet they are at the old visitor’s centre,’ postulated Maude. ‘It’s been closed since the reditus.’

Whatever was going on further down the valley there was much gossip but little in the way of facts and after a while Johnny lost interest and would only half-listen to the updates he got from his parents. He was more interested in keeping in touch with Stiffy and every day he tried to call her and sometimes he even got through.

Christmas day brought memories of Christmases past. Up here in the hills, with his mother and father, his two older sisters and their little children coming to visit, it was easy to forget what had happened to the outside world. The little ones opened their presents by the fire while Christmas music played on an old CD player. His mother cooked a turkey, the whole thing. It was nothing like last year when he had been stuck in his miserable flat eating beans and toast with his junkie friends.

He had always loved this time of year, and within the loving embrace of his family he began to wonder what on Earth he was thinking of trying to stick it out in Evermarch? Would anyone care if he dropped out of art school? Would he? He resolved to give it some thought after the New Year.

 

On New Year’s Day he managed to get through to Stiffy. She sounded upset about something but was being pretty cagey about what was going on.

‘Things are not so good for me here,’ was all she would admit. ‘Can I come up for a bit? Can you come and get me?’

That was it then, he thought. I’m going back to Evermarch.

‘If the girl’s in bother and you can get her past the checkpoints then of course she’s welcome here,’ said his dad. His parents had met Stiffy a couple of times before the reditus and liked her well enough.

Johnny was glad of that, but he realised that once he was in Evermarch he would want to stay. Despite the danger, or sometimes maybe even because of it, he liked his life there. If Stiffy really wanted to go hide in the hills then that was fine by him, but if it was just Prospect she wanted to get away from he would try and persuade her to come and stay with him in Evermarch.

With a supply of food, clean clothes, blankets and firewood loaded up in the back of Beryl he set off south. ‘Take care,’ said his folks. ‘Use the back roads, there are less roadblocks on them.’

Johnny nodded and waving farewell, turning the car to take the smaller road down the valley on the New Galloway side of the loch. Five minutes into his journey it began to snow.

Thomas Thorman was in his office. Supposedly he was there to go over the blueprints and plans for the new Temple buildings but in reality, he was twisting and chewing on his sleeve as he worried about everything other than bricks and mortar. Besides, it was farcical. There were only three functional building firms left in Evermarch, and between the three of them they could just about put a conservatory on a moderately-sized house. The plans for it had been drawn up at Sinclair’s command and were based on those used to create the Temple at Strake. Sinclair had had the army to help build that though and it had been after God had been consulted and had basically said to put a stop to all the fighting and just bloody well get on with it. So, one of the first acts of the new Deus Adest Reformation was to build the Strake Temple. The fever of absolute belief in the divine had been in the people then, and they took to the task with almost insane vigour. There was no shortage of volunteers, no matter how unskilled back then and the Temple had been completed in under a year. More were built, more were planned to be built, but people’s interest in Temples had faded. Unbelievable as it seemed to Thorman, people had just got used to the world being all muddled-up and God being about the place a bit more than usual. Even right now, Thorman reflected, at this time in the day a good proportion of Evermarch would be at home sleeping off hangovers from the Hogmanay celebrations or frying up their breakfasts in front of the TV, most likely watching illegal Netflix series or old VHS tapes if they were being a bit more cautious. Not many of the laity cared about the Temples anymore, and they dealt with God the same way as they dealt with taxes or a trip to the dentist. It was just another chore to be carried out. If your car wouldn’t start, then you took it to the garage, got it fixed and paid the mechanic. If you had committed a sin, then you took it to the church, made a sacrifice and some empty promises to the priest. Everyone wanted to forget the dark days of just after the reditus. The desire of everyone to just get things back to normal was something that the church couldn’t fight. It was a summation of small actions carried out by individuals that added up to a tidal wave of disinterest. Every time someone did a sneaky bit of work on a Sunday, every time they forgot to wear tassels on their coat, every time an unmarried couple decided to risk going outside together, they added to it. Thorman had no interest in stopping it, and the Committee couldn’t, that was for sure. He sometimes wondered if even God Himself could stop it. The attitude was generally “God is here? Great. Can he fix my washing machine? No? Then what use is this news to me?” Half the world would slide into hell for the sake of a black pudding supper.

Thorman spat out his sleeve long enough to heave a deep sigh. There was another thing nagging at his mind. It had been over a week since Samuel had come to him with news about Father Nimite. Somewhere on his desk there was a map, something he himself had made from chopped up printouts and fragments of paper maps, a rough representation of what Nimite had headed into. The Heart of Darkness was how Thorman thought of it. Nothing had been heard of Nimite since that transmission that Samuel had received and Thorman was worried for someone he considered to be a friend. And then there was that ludicrous story about the Committee people down there bearing the mark of the beast. Was it so ludicrous though, considering what had been going on for the last year and a half? There were giants to the north, and angels to the south, or so they said. He had seen neither, but why not demons in the jungle? And then consider the source though, a hidden message in a secret communication between two Red Cross workers. That Samuel’s girlfriend had decoded by all accounts. Even if he believed this whole preposterous change of conjecture, what could he even do about it?

On top of everything else, every day there were new problems created by the arrival of the army. Thankfully they were mainly down on the Delta. It was a guess, but he thought it was simply because it was because the soldiers didn’t like the snow and icy rain of Evermarch and preferred the warmth. The Committee had a new zeal about them too, as if they had something to prove to the religious officers of the army, the ones that everyone called the mullahs. This meant the cells below the Temple were filling up again with people to be punished as prescribed by the Bible and the rescript amendments.

Thorman had a book that recorded all the rescripts since the Deus Adest Reformation in the draw of his desk. It was well-thumbed and it contained all the church rulings in the last year in the half to try and come to terms with the return of God, the reditus, the Splintering and the effects it had had on humanity. Some bishops used the rescripts as a weapon, while others used it as a shield. Thorman preferred the later, but most of it was not open to interpretation. These days God did not lack for clarity.

Unlike his vessel on Earth, poor Bishop Thomas, he thought to himself. Try to focus, what was to be done about Father Nimite? Send some Temple guards to go fetch him? Or send them to help Nimite do whatever it was he was doing? Talk to the army maybe? Frankly he didn’t trust the army. From what he had seen of it so far, the men that had left full of the joy of God’s command, had returned sullen, angry and dangerous. Besides they had been down that way already and already made his life harder by bring up all the slaves from Goldengreens.

The truth was, he admitted to himself, he didn’t know what to do about any of it. He was simply just sitting in his office one day to the next and reacting to events as they happened. It was a new year now, there had been muted Hogmanay celebrations on the bitterly cold streets last night. Despite everything, the Committee, the army, and the curfew, there were still men and women brave enough, and thirsty enough, to go to the pubs on St John’s Street and get drunk seeing in the New Year. Thorman admired them for it, their determine bloody-minded Scottishness and wished them well. The police had ignored them, but the cells under the Temple had a good few of them there now, drunkards and fornicators, swept up into vans by the sour-faced party-poopers of the Committee and handed over to the church.

And so, Bishop Thomas sat for hours, in a tormented state of indecision, incapable of finding a route out of any of his problems and chewing his sleeve into a sodden clump. It was almost a relief when an acolyte knocked on the door and entered.

‘There are army soldiers at the gates, Your Grace,’ said the acolyte breathlessly.

The elderly man had come in so quickly that Thorman’s heart had leapt a little, thinking it was Shadwell coming in for one of his heretical chats. He had to remind himself that the Welshman was still down in the cells awaiting judgement.

‘What do they want?’ asked Thorman.

‘I think they want you to go with them,’ answered the acolyte apologetically.

‘They transgress beyond measure, they really do,’ sighed Thorman. ‘Summoned into their presence like a penitent sinner. I’m not some plumber that you just call up when you need a drain unblocked.’

He was muttering but was already putting his shoes on.

‘Thanks, Limond,’ he said looking up at the old acolyte. ‘Get my dressing room staff roused up, will you? We’ll give the army the full cope and mitre. And a security detail. Some of the tougher looking ones.’

The acolyte bowed and scampered off. Thorman went to get changed.

 

It was not that much later when Thorman found himself sat in the backseat of a cool limousine, drawing up close to the entrance to the Botanical Gardens.

‘Park here, Your Grace?’ asked Samuel.

The armoured cars of the Temple Guard were drawing up on Lama Avenue. Samuel parked between two of them and unlocked the doors. As Thorman stepped out of the car, the heat of the Delta hit him, almost overwhelming after the cool air of the limousine’s air conditioning. As the acolytes fussed over his vestments, he began to regret wearing the full regalia in such an oppressive heat.

Too late now though. Flanked by an armed squad of Temple Guards he headed towards the gates.

A sergeant, armed only with a pistol in a holster on his belt jogged up the street to meet them. When he took off his aviator sunglasses Thorman recognised him as Randolph Jack.

‘This way, Your Grace!’ the young man said with a smile. ‘We had a bit of bother with the locals this morning, but it’s all fine now.’

Four army privates joined Jack, both young Guyanese men, their smiles bright white against their black skin. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ continued Jack. ‘I’ll make sure you get through the gates ok. Our HQ is beside The Place of the Seven Ponds.’ Jack eyed up Thorman’s robes. ‘Might be a bit of a trek, but it’ll be impossible to get your cars through.’

The gates were mobbed. A squad of guards were holding off a crowd of hundreds of people. Dust was being kicked up from the dirt packed street as the crowd milled about. There was a loud murmur of raised voices and the threat of violence in the air.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Jack. ‘What a mess.’

‘What now sergeant?’ asked Thorman. The last thing he wanted to do was press through a crowd of angry locals in a narrow street.

‘Not to worry, your Grace,’ smiled Jack. ‘It’s no bother.’

Jack drew his pistol and jogged ahead, signalling his men to follow.

‘Clear the street!’ he shouted. ‘Make way for the Bishop of Evermarch! Clear the street!’

Thorman was surprised, almost in awe of, how efficiently Sergeant Jack and his men cleared the people out of the way. Like the parting of the Red Sea, a path was cleared between him and the gates.

Sergeant Jack waved the bishop and his entourage forward. It was about a hundred paces to the gate. The ground was red dust packed earth, firm to walk on, but he still had to resist the urge to pick up his robes thinking it would look undignified. He made do with adjusting his cope to the correct position as an acolyte held out his crozier. Thorman thanked the acolyte and took the staff then with a nod to everyone else he stepped forward.

The crowd watched, some sullen, some rapturous, some indifferent. The black faces of the people of the Delta. Most wore shorts and t-shirts, with sandals on their feet, while some were better dressed and others were arraigned in little more than rags.

As he passed, some bowed their heads, others prayed, but most did nothing. Give it another year, he reflected, and they’ll be throwing rotten tomatoes. He could see some angry faces. People who had lost loved ones to the church, through executions or enslavement. Or people who had been punished in some way, either financially or physically. He saw the occasional missing eye, or the stump of a missing hand, clutched to the breast protectively. Some of those people looked on with open hostility. It wasn’t my fault, he wanted to tell them. I did my best to hold it back, to stop it. I was as horrified by the events of last year as anyone.

They had cleared about half the distance when a man rushed at their party, a cutlass held high above his head. He began to scream and made directly for the bishop as fast as he could run. Without hesitation, Randy drew his pistol and shot the man in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground in a tumble that threw one of his sandals flying high in the air. Randy walked over to the body and put two more bullets into the man’s back, then scanned the crowd for more attackers as he calmly put his gun back in its holster. The other soldiers moved the crowd further back and Randy came back over to the bishop.

 ‘Nae danger, Your Grace,’ he said with a smile. ‘Please proceed.’

The crowds drew in again as they went through the gate, getting so close that more soldiers were called to push them back. The six Temple Guards kept their sub-machine guns raised.  It became much noisier now, as the people began to shout at the army and the soldiers shouted back. They waved their weapons around, but no shots were fired.

It was much quieter inside the Botanicals. There were only soldiers here, either relaxing in their camp or going about their business.

‘You didn’t have to kill that fellow,’ said Bishop Thorman to Randy as they walked together.

‘Sorry, Your Grace,’ replied Randy. ‘I just reacted. There’s too much at stake for some fud with a grudge to spoil it all.’

‘Well, yes…’ As Sergeant Jack escorted him into the camp Thorman thought more on what he had just seen. Randy had fired no warning shot, or even taken the time to consider the taking of a life, however brief that moment might have been. Even his own Guards, who were no strangers to violence, had hesitated. Randy had reacted like a man swatting at a fly, or a man cutting down a weed in his garden. It spoke of someone who had killed so many times before that it no longer registered on their conscious. He realised how useful someone like that could be and wondered how many more young men like Randolph Jack were in the army. He remembered him a little from when he had been a Temple Guard, the younger brother of Nathan Jack. A really lovely boy, incredibly clever and finding it difficult to deal with the new world. Both were still teenagers as far as he knew, he had a vague idea that Nathan was nineteen which would make Randy no more than eighteen years old. Look at him, he thought, look at what this world has made out of this child. And yet, Thorman reflected as he did just that and cast his eyes over the young man, in this moment Randy looked happy. He is young, tall, tanned and well-muscled. He must be turning heads dressed as he was in smart army fatigues, a red beret, and mirrored sunglasses. A man with power that knew how to use it. Thorman looked down at his own attire then felt the weight of the staff in his right hand. He could learn something from Randy. Instead of hiding away at Merrick, or tending to the lost and hungry at Angster, there was nothing to stop him from wielding the power that he had at his command. Sinclair maybe, would not like the look of a suddenly more active bishop in Evermarch, but what would that matter? Half the bishops he knew across the whole of the Divided Kingdom were as crazy as badgers and it didn’t stop them. These were not feeling Thomas was used to, perhaps it was the mothball smell of the cope going to his head.

The procession made its way deeper into the Botanical Gardens. With mild dismay he saw that quite a few of the large tropical hardwoods had been chopped down since the last time he had been here. Most of it was being used for cooking fires. What a waste.

Randy guessed what Thorman was thinking, or had prepared an explanation already. ‘I think somebody had the bright idea of making barracks out of the wood, but in the end it was just easier to billet the men in the surrounding houses and apartments.’

‘I see,’ said Thorman with a slight nod. He dared not move his head too quickly in case the mitre fell off.

‘I’ve to introduce you to Major Harper, Your Grace. He’s a mullah, but one of the less mental ones.’

‘So what is a mullah exactly?’

‘It’s just a nickname. That’s what they started calling the Army Chaplains once they started getting a bit more bitey.’

Randy led them to a network of large army tents, then to one of the Botanical gift shops that had being used by the army as an office. Major Harper greeted them at the door and ushered the bishop inside. Harper nodded at Randy who positioned his men outside. Thorman waved away his guards and acolytes and went in alone.

Harper poured some sweet iced tea from a glass jug and offered it to Thorman who took it gratefully. ‘When the army set off,’ remarked the bishop, ‘reports were meant to be sent back. Neither Evermarch or Strake or anywhere else to my knowledge ever got any.’

Major Harper was a handsome young man. Thorman gauged him to be regular army, probably came straight from officer training and had been in the army long before the reditus. He had a well-spoken English accent. ‘Yes well, it was all rather chaotic when we set off. Everyone all full of religious zeal and what have you, and I’m afraid it didn’t get any less chaotic. Lots of enthusiasm from the volunteers. Not so much in the way of professionalism. The radios didn’t work and I think some messengers were sent back once we’d realised that, but none of them ever got through.’

‘So, what are you able to tell me now? How did it all go?’

Harper sighed. ‘I have to watch what I say around here, but it is hardly a secret that the whole “bring God to the north” thing was a complete and utter cluster... ah you get the idea. There were a lot of very angry people up north and none of them were pleased to see us. There were quite a few biblicals, meaning serpents and giants and those sorts of fellows. What with all that the army was close to disintegrating, and every last one of us would have died you can be sure of that, so they looked to us Chaplains for guidance and we did what had to be done.’

‘What was that?’ asked Thorman.

‘The will of God.’

‘You know how that sounds? It sounds like justification.’

‘Maybe, but there were people from all over the world. The ones we ran into the most were Russians, they were by far the most aggressive. Scattered all over broken lands, forests, tundra, desert, jungle, everything and everybody all jumbled up.’

‘Just like here then.’

‘Much worse. Complete anarchy. Warlords, armed gangs, no form of government. Nothing you could call a government anyway, unless you count the most savage of feudalism.’

Thorman paused to consider what he was being told, then finally said, ‘well, you are back now. All of you, and a great many slaves I understand.’

Hunter put his glass of tea down and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘We’re back. But not because we had finished what we had gone to do, but because we were defeated. Listen, I wanted to talk to you before Bacon started filling your ears with lies. The army are making plans to move on to Strake and abandon Evermarch to the enemy. A lot of the lads are from Evermarch though and won’t want to go...’

‘What are you talking about?’ interrupted Thorman. ‘What enemy? What have you done?’

‘You’ll get it all from Bacon, but I wanted to make sure you heard the truth first. Randy is a good lad, he’ll take you to our glorious leader now.’

 

Somewhat dazed and overheated in his vestments, Thorman was ushered out, then out of the tent village and towards one of the National Gallery building on the west side of the Gardens – Castellani House. He wanted to talk to Randy about what had just happened, but the young man was keeping his distance.

Just inside the Gallery entrance was a large wooden sculpture of an eagle grasping a snake. Underneath that was a sweaty looking man in army fatigues eating corned beef from a tin with a bent spoon. The man stood up and dropped the tin, then licked the spoon clean and put it in his pocket. He wiped his hands on his legs as he approached the bishop.

‘Am I supposed to bow or kiss your ring or something?’ he asked Thorman.

‘No, but you should address me as Your Grace.’

‘Heh, right ok, well I’m Fred Bacon. Field Marshall Fred Bacon.’

Thorman heard one of his acolytes behind him hiss in anger at Bacon forgetting to add “Your Grace” at the end of his sentence, but Thorman ignored it. He looked over this man, he certainly wasn’t dressed like a Field Marshall. He was in regular army fatigues, with a wide overheated blotchy face and not much in the way of hair on his head. He looked more like an apoplectic sergeant major than the armies highest ranking soldier.

‘What happened to General Macmillan? And Bishop Eric?’

‘All dead. And a great many besides. All the church men got killed off right at the start when we were betrayed by a bunch of Russian cunts...’ Bacon stopped talking abruptly and looked at the acolyte that had just hissed again and shouted, ‘stop making that fucking noise or it’ll be the last noise you’ll fucking make!’

Thorman was alarmed at this sudden outburst. The Temple Guards had raised their guns, but with sweat trickling down his back the bishop waved his free hand to lower them. He turned back to Bacon. ‘You are the one that wanted to see me. So what is it you want to say?’

Bacon was suddenly all sweetness and light. ‘Of course, Your Grace. Come and take a look at some of these carvings. Not at all bad work for sambos.’ He then turned on his heal and moved further into the gallery.

‘I wanted you to see the army, Your Grace,’ wheedled the supposed Field Marshall. ‘See us for what we really are now. And well, I’ve never been a man to mince my words, but to let you know that you don’t have to worry about us. You don’t have to worry about anything going on in the Delta.’

Bishop Thomas was getting tired of his visit to this army and the riddles that its officers spoke. He felt like he was being boiled alive in his vestments and regalia and wanted nothing more than to be back in his air conditioned car while it headed back home. ‘Get to the point.’

Bacon who had been admiring a painting, turned to look Thorman in the eye. ‘The point being, Your Grace, you worry about the city, and I’ll worry about the Delta. I’ve got some business to attend to and then I’ll be on my way. I don’t want the church, the muta or anyone getting in my way.’

Thorman was not one to lose his temper, but this dreadful gammon-faced man really was pressing all his buttons. ‘The Delta is part of my diocese, I can’t just let you come in here like some kind of Spaghetti Warlord.’

Bacon snorted with laughter then gestured at the paintings they were looking at. ‘These are great and all, but I’ve set up a little exhibition of my own.’

He then led the bishop through to another gallery. At first Thorman thought a bunch of coconuts had all been arranged on spikes along the walls of the room but then he realised they were human heads. ‘Don’t be shy,’ laughed Bacon mirthlessly. ‘I’m proud of my collection.’

Thorman put his sleeve to his nose and mouth to try and block the smell of rotting flesh. He edged forward, his entourage close behind him. Again his Guards were raising their guns. Thorman waved them back and dropping his hand took several bold steps inside the gallery. Dam this horrible man, he thought, does he think I’ve not seen my share of corpses over the last year and a half?

 ‘You like them, Your Grace?’ said Bacon. ‘Some souvenirs from the sieges of Samara and Tashkentavoi. Sometimes you must treat them like the people of Abel treated Sheba.’

‘This is barbaric!’

‘Oh come now. We did our best, Your Grace. We beheaded them, we hung them, we crucified them. All in God’s name. We slew the Philistines where we found them. We slew the giants. Thousands of our best men died, trying to stop what is coming.’

‘But you didn’t and now it is here.’

Bacon put a finger to his lips. ‘And what little bird told you that I wonder? I suppose there a lot of lose tongues in the army. We couldn’t stop them going to see their families, but now that they have I intend to keep them all here in camp.’

‘And then you are leaving? Leaving us defenceless?’

The field marshal raised his hands up to show they were empty. ‘You misunderstand me, Your Grace. God has spoken to me and it is clear what I must do. No, the army will stay here, but I will go to Strake. I will go to Strake to find thirty-seven mighty warriors. The Gibborim.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘You know nothing, Your Grace,’ snarled Bacon, his mood suddenly changing. ‘You bishops down here in the Divided Kingdom. You know nothing about what’s happening in the rest of the world. Don’t believe what you see in the news here. Believe in me.’ Here Bacon thrust a finger angrily into his chest. ‘Believe in me! This is the only place left in a sea of insanity. The rest of the world is in flames, or drenched in blood. This is the only bit left that isn’t in ruins.’

Thomas knew that wasn’t true. The Divided Kingdom had made contact with many other remnants of European nations. There were parts of Canada and Australia that had been shifted but hardly touched at all. As Major Hunter had warned him, Fred Bacon was a liar.

‘Believe me, Your Grace. Believe in me! I’ve seen the dragon. I’ve seen the antichrist. I’ve seen the beast. I’m the only thing standing between that and all that we have left.’

He gestured at the lines of severed heads. ‘You call this insanity? This is all God’s will!’