Blind Faith (21 page)

'Well, it's an atmospherically controlled room full
of books.'

'Which I
think
constitutes a library. I can hardly believe
these people are so organized.'

'On a small scale they are. I don't think there are very
many of them.'

'You actually take classes in subversion?'

'Well, tutorials really. Discussions round a table. And
not in subversion, in reason.'

'Which is about as subversive as you can get in a country
where faith lies at the heart of the constitution.'

'In that case I do take classes in subversion, I suppose,'
Trafford admitted.

'I want to come,' Sandra Dee said decisively.

'You can. You will.'

'No, you don't understand. I want to come now.'

'It's not possible. There are rules. I'm not even supposed
to have told you that we exist. I'm supposed to keep
claiming I find these books in attics and cellars or whatever.
Introducing someone takes time. They have to make
checks, establish fail-safes. They need to know that a new
person can be trusted.'

'I can be trusted.'

'I know that. Of course I know that.'

'Then speak to them. Insist.'

'I already did that just to get you the books.'

'Well, do it again. I'm twenty-eight already and I've
never been to school. Not a school where they teach
anything worth learning. They
have
to let me in. I want to
sit around the table in that library. I want to choose a book
for myself.'

'You just have to wait a while, that's all.'

'I don't
want
to wait. I want to learn. I only have the rest
of my life left and I need to make a start.'

Still Trafford hesitated, avoiding her stare.

'Supposing I slept with you?' Sandra Dee asked.

It was everything that Trafford wanted and she knew it.

'No,' he replied, after a very long pause. 'I love you. I
couldn't blackmail you into trading sex for knowledge.'

'I'm glad you said that, Trafford, because I wouldn't have
done it anyway,' she replied. 'I've spent a lifetime avoiding
being pressurized into having sex and I certainly don't
intend to change my habits now. If you won't introduce
me to your friends I'll follow you till I find out where your
library is and barge straight in.'

'They'd kill you. They may be Humanists but they are
also a resistance movement.'

'I don't think I'd be very easy to kill, Trafford.'

He didn't doubt it. It was clear to Trafford that Sandra
Dee was a survivor, far tougher, he imagined, than he was.

'All right,' he said, 'I'll talk to them.'

'Today?'

'No. We can only ever meet at appointed times, they're
very strict about that. I can speak to them next week.'

'Good.'

Then Sandra Dee leaned back on the plastic cushions
once more and smiled. She was wearing the same cotton
dress that she had worn the first time they had sailed
together and, as then, the gentle breeze moulded the light
material to her body.

'Well,' she said, 'we've finished our books and now
we have the rest of the afternoon to kill. What shall
we do?'

Trafford said nothing but every nerve in his body
hoped and prayed that she meant what he thought she
might mean.

'You're a funny boy,' she said.

She had never called him a boy before and although he
was older than her he loved it.

'You're a beautiful girl,' he said, and his voice was unsteady.

Then, slowly, Sandra Dee began to unbutton her dress.

A week later Trafford did as he had promised.

He had attended the library in order to report on the
progress of his DegSep program. When he was finished he
asked if he could make a special plea that Sandra Dee be
allowed to join them.

'You know you can trust her,' he argued. 'She keeps more
secrets than any of us.'

'That may be so,' Cassius replied, 'but she worries me. I
think she's impulsive. She stands out.'

'Because she has integrity.'

'There have been scenes.'

'Yes, because she refuses to have breast implants and she
doesn't want to buy Princess Lovebud's doughnuts. Is that
something to penalize her for?'

'We are wary of people who stand out.'

'She doesn't stand out. Princess Lovebud picks on her,
that's all. If she hadn't singled her out you would never
even have noticed her.'

'But she
did
single her out.'

'Which is not her fault.'

'It's quite obvious that you're in love with this girl,
Trafford,' Cassius said.

'I . . . I don't see how that's relevant.'

'Of course it's relevant, you fool. If you love her then
you'd put her before the loyalty you owe to us.'

'Why would I need to? She feels as I do, she wants
nothing more than to join us.'

'Don't you think that love might have clouded your
judgement about her? Do you think it would be wise
of me to accept the recommendation on so serious a
matter of someone whose eyes may be blinded by
their emotions?'

'No, because what I love about her are the very qualities
that make her perfect to join us. Her strength, her passion,
her character, her . . . secrets.'

For a moment Cassius was lost in thought, then he
seemed to make up his mind.

'Very well then,' he said, 'since you have already told her
so much. And since, as you say, she has threatened to
follow you and discover us anyway. You may bring your
friend to the library.'

'May she come today?'

'Today?'

'She's waiting for me to call her,' Trafford said,
producing his communitainer. 'She really can't wait. It's
almost as if she's desperate. I think she's been very alone
all her life and very frustrated too. She talks about joining
us as if it were the beginning of life, which in many
ways it is.'

Cassius smiled. 'Well, I suppose there's no time like the
present,' he said. 'You may call her.'

Trafford dialled the number and began to tell Sandra
Dee that she had been given permission to visit the
library. He was about to offer her directions when he
was cut off.

'Damn, lost her,' he said, beginning to dial again but
as he did so the man with the thick glasses whom he
thought of as the Owl came into the room. He looked
extremely angry.

'There's a young woman in the shop who says she's a
friend of Trafford,' he said. 'She claims she's expected.'

'She is,' Cassius replied. 'Please let her in.'

The Owl gave Cassius a look of withering disapproval
but did as he was told.

A few moments later Sandra Dee was standing in
the library.

'I followed you anyway,' she said. 'May I choose a book?'

When Trafford arrived home he found his apartment
crowded, as usual, with Chantorria's new friends.

'Here he is at last!' said Barbieheart from her place on
the wall. 'Inspiration Towers' very own superstar.'

'What the Hell are you talking about, Barbieheart?'
Trafford enquired. One of the advantages of his new
position as father of an angel was that he no longer
had to pretend to be nice to Barbieheart. It was she who
had to make an effort to be nice to him.

'It's wicked. Amazing, so fierce,' Barbieheart replied,
ignoring his aggressive tone and speaking as if all was
sweetness between them, as if they were best mates, soulmates,
co-members of a magic crew. 'Tell him, Chantorria.'

Chantorria, holding Caitlin Happymeal in one hand
and a large glass of wine in the other, could scarcely
contain her excitement.

'We're only on the news, lover! Can you believe it? Us!
We are on the news!'

'Isn't it so cool?' Tinkerbell exclaimed. 'We're all going
to be stars . . . Well, you and Chantorria are, but people
are bound to start hitting up your webstream now and
then whenever we come round people will see us too!'

Tinkerbell turned to the webcam and began waving and
shrieking excitedly. Soon all the girls were waving
alongside her.

'Of course people will see you, Tinks, and you're so
telegenic I bet you end up with your own perfume,'
Chantorria gushed. 'And I hope you come round and visit
me all the time, babes.'

'Course I will, babes,' Tinkerbell replied. 'We are sisters.'

'Why have they put us on the news?' Trafford
demanded angrily.

'Why do you think?' Chantorria replied.

'They heard about Caitlin Happymeal,' said Tinkerbell,
pouring wine, 'and they liked the story. And they liked
Chantorria, of course. She looks hot!'

'Oh stop it!' Chantorria protested.

'Girl, you know it's true. That shot of you lingeing
Trafford up is
hot
!'

'They've used stuff from our stream?' Trafford asked.
'They've put Chantorria lingeing me
on the news
?'

'Of course they have! They trawled your history. What
else do you think they're going to use? Wish they'd put
some of
my
stream on the news!'

All the girls agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly.

'It's incredible, Trafford,' Tinkerbell continued. 'Don't
you understand, you're on the news, everybody is looking
at you!'

'But . . .'

Trafford stopped himself. He had been about to say that
he did not want to be on the news, that he did not want
people looking at him. But he could not say that, that
would be weird. Who would not want to be looked at?
What was not to want? Trafford knew that he must grin
and bear it. His social position was stronger than it had
once been but not strong enough to protect him if he
revealed himself as preferring privacy over self-exposure.
Nothing was more insulting to the creed of the Temple.

'But what?' Chantorria demanded angrily, clearly not
prepared to allow her husband's perversity to spoil her day.

'But . . . it's a bit of a shock, that's all. A wonderful
shock, of course,' Trafford replied, forcing a smile.

'Check it out, babes,' said Tinkerbell. 'It's on the news
infotainment loop.'

She touched a button and an image of Inspiration
Towers appeared on the wallscreen accompanied by a
syrupy voiceover.

'Every now and then,' the voice said, 'something
wonderful happens to remind us all why we believe, why
we have faith . . .'

There followed a three-minute 'human interest' item
about the miracle baby of Inspiration Towers who had
survived both a measles-plus and a mumps-plus epidemic
to become the only child under two still alive on the
estate. The story was illustrated with numerous shots taken
from Trafford and Chantorria's webcast, including a clip of
Chantorria in her chocolate G-string and cupless bra
bought from Dirty Sexy Filthy Bitch. This of course was
greeted by whoops and cheers from the girls in the room.

'You see, Trafford,' Chantorria said drily, '
some
people
think it looks sexy.'

Trafford laughed woodenly, as if she was joking.

'Little Caitlin Happymeal,' the voiceover continued, 'has
become a mascot for the whole local community. In her is
manifest the love of the Love for all his lost children.'

Just as the loop finished and the girls were insisting that
they must all watch it once again, the face of Confessor
Bailey appeared on the screen.

Chantorria immediately jumped up to turn off the news
and mute the other streams on the wall. When a spiritual
guide dropped in for a web chat he must of course be
given immediate attention.

'Chantorria,' Confessor Bailey said, and notwithstanding
his usual pompous superiority he looked
pleased, excited almost, 'and you, Trafford, I suppose,' he
said as a rather sour afterthought, 'I should appreciate it
very much if you would come pay me a visit this evening
at the Spirit House.'

The room had fallen silent, as was appropriate in the
cyber presence of a Confessor, but this caused murmurs
and intakes of breath among the girls. A private invitation
to a spiritual guide's personal residence was quite
an honour.

'But of course, Confessor Bailey,' Trafford stammered.
'What time would you like us?'

'You are summoned for eight, Trafford, and will present
yourself at that time,' Confessor Bailey snapped before
turning to stare from the screen directly at Chantorria.
'You, Chantorria, might perhaps like to come a little
earlier. I find your presence . . . soothing. We can read the
words of the prophets together, speak of faith and consider
the divine mysteries of the Love.'

The murmuring ceased. Trafford stared at the screen
while Chantorria reddened and looked away. Tinkerbell
and one or two of the other girls looked away also, as if
fearful that their faces might reveal what they were
thinking. It would not do to disrespect a Confessor.

'Shall we say six, Chantorria?' Confessor Bailey said with
an oily smile.

'Yes, of course, Confessor. Whenever you wish,'
Chantorria replied.

'And eight for you, Trafford. I'd advise you not to be late
because . . .' Confessor Bailey paused for dramatic effect
before delivering his coup de grâce, 'I am entertaining
Solomon Kentucky, High Prophet of the Love and Bishop
Confessor of the Lake London Diocese.'

Having made this truly dramatic statement, Confessor
Bailey ended his web chat and disappeared from the screen.

After a moment's pause the screaming began.

Barbieheart screamed. Tinkerbell and the girls screamed.

Chantorria screamed, which of course caused Caitlin
Happymeal to scream. They had been preparing to scream
anyway, for the fact that their Confessor was now quite
openly requesting spiritual comfort from Chantorria was
reason enough. For a woman to be privileged to bring
succour and calm to her spiritual leader was exciting but
that a High Prophet of the Love, a
Bishop Confessor
, was to
visit their parish, to sit in the house of their Confessor, and
that Chantorria and Trafford were to meet him was simply
astounding. No Temple elder of that rank had ever come
to their community before.

After a while, when the jumping and the screaming and
the hugging had died down a little, Tinkerbell issued her
orders. There was no time to lose. If Chantorria was to read
the holy words with her Confessor and discuss the nature
of faith with him prior to sharing an audience with a High
Prophet of the Love, then she must have an immaculate
pedicure and a perfect bikini wax.

'You come with me right now, young lady,' Tinkerbell
commanded sternly. 'This is the first time ever that a
girl from our tenement has been invited to spiritual
communion with our Confessor and we are not having
your shaggy follicles letting down the whole building.'
Tinkerbell was well known locally for her skills as a
beautician. A few months previously she would not have
dreamed of wasting her talents on so insignificant a
figure as Chantorria. All that had changed now, of
course, and so all the girls ran, still screaming, from the
apartment and reconvened at Tinkerbell's, where they
continued their party while Tinkerbell worked on
Chantorria's groin.

Suddenly Trafford found himself alone apart from
Caitlin Happymeal and, of course, Barbieheart.

'Well, Trafford,' said the moderator, 'it seems you're left
holding the baby.'

'Yes, that's right,' said Trafford, inspecting Caitlin
Happymeal's nappy.

'You won't mind if I join the girls, will you?' Barbieheart
added, opening a tangerine-flavoured alcopop.

'No, no. Of course not. You have fun.'

Barbieheart's voice went silent and Trafford could see
her turning to refocus on a different screen, clearly joining
the party at Tinkerbell's. He finished changing his
daughter and poured himself a large glass of passion-fruit
alcopop. So much was happening so quickly.

He had been
on the news
.

What would Cassius, with his well-known aversion to
people who made themselves conspicuous, make of that?
Fortunately Trafford had not featured prominently in the
piece, which had been very much a mother-and-daughter
affair. Nonetheless the item had contained one most
unwelcome shot, an image of him reading, the voiceover
noting with approval that Trafford was clearly a responsible
family man, who was always absorbed in some
self-improvement manual or other. Trafford had watched
this image in a state of shock because while it may have
appeared that he was reading
Health and Wealth: How to
Look Great and Get Rich
, he had in fact been reading
The
Outsider
by Albert Camus. It was a terrifying thought: he
had been seen,
on the news
, reading an existentialist novel.
If people were ever to discover the truth, the consequences
would be too awful to imagine.

Trafford knew exactly what Cassius would say. The first
rule of the Humanist movement was never to draw
attention to oneself. On the other hand, Trafford reflected,
Cassius had always insisted that the best form of deception
was a bold front and you could not get much bolder than
being the unwitting star of an infotainment loop. Besides
which, being in the favour of the Temple could hardly be
a bad thing. He had been able to use his new status to
defend Sandra Dee at work and so bring her into the
movement, and who knew what other opportunities
might arise for him to put his spiritually elevated position
to good use?

This thought (and another alcopop) brought Trafford's
mind uncomfortably round to Confessor Bailey and his
obvious interest in Chantorria. Suddenly he was angry;
furious even. Not jealous, or at least he didn't think it
was jealousy. After all, he was in love with Sandra Dee,
and under normal circumstances nothing would have
been more convenient than for Chantorria to develop an
attraction elsewhere. Trafford was angry with Bailey's
sudden interest because it was so stupid. Clearly Bailey
wanted Chantorria because he had convinced himself
that she was holy, a spiritually blessed woman, favoured
by God, the mother of a miracle angel. Elders of the
Temple always reserved the best of everything for
themselves and that usually included the pick of the local
women (for those who were not confirmed bachelors).
Bailey was pursuing Chantorria because she was his due.

Just then Chantorria returned from Tinkerbell's flat.
Trafford was by then halfway through his third drink but
the alcohol was not helping to lighten his mood.
Chantorria was wearing a matching bra and thong in
virginal white which, she explained, the girls had given her
as a present to celebrate being on the news.

'Sweet, isn't it?' Chantorria said, taking up her clutch
bag. 'Really, really tasteful. I think it hits the right note for
a private audience with my Confessor.'

'Chantorria,' Trafford replied angrily, 'he's only interested
in you because of Caitlin. You know that, don't you?'

'Well, what's wrong with that?' Chantorria snapped
back. 'I'm the mother of a miracle angel; of course my
Confessor's interested in me.'

Trafford moved discreetly to mute their webcast.

'Caitlin Happymeal is
not
a miracle angel,' he hissed.

'She is! She's alive, isn't she? Isn't that a miracle? Don't
you think it's a miracle that our baby is the only survivor
of the plagues?'

'Epidemics.'

'
Plagues
. Our baby is alive. That's all we know and it's a
miracle whichever way you look at it.'

'Chantorria, you know very well that—'

'I know that God moves in mysterious ways, Trafford,'
Chantorria said. 'Who made that . . . that
thing
you say
you gave to her? God did.'

'Men did, Chantorria. Men using their intellect who—'

'And who made the men? Who made their intellect?'

'Well, who made this precious God of yours then?
Another God, a bigger one? And who made him?'

'I am not discussing this any more, Trafford,' said
Chantorria, turning up the sound again. 'All I know is that
we have been blessed. We are the luckiest family in
London. You think the blessing came one way, I think it
came another, but either way it's a blessing and blessings
come from God. Can't you understand that? What's not to
understand? I'll see you at the Spirit House. Don't you dare
be late.'

Chantorria, carrying her little bag, tottered towards the
door. She was wearing a pair of stiletto heels that she also
seemed recently to have acquired. No doubt another gift
from Tinkerbell. Trafford watched her as she went. From
the back she was almost totally naked. The only clothing
that could be seen was her thin bra strap and the tiny piece
of lace that emerged from between her buttocks.