Blind Faith (22 page)

'Aren't you going to say goodbye to the miracle angel?'
he said with a sneer.

Chantorria turned and looked at him once more.
'Goodness, Trafford, I do believe you're jealous.' Then she
tottered over to Caitlin Happymeal's cot. 'Bye, angel. Don't
mind Daddy, he never wanted to give Mummy a seeing-to
anyway so I don't know what his problem is now.'

After that she went out, leaving Trafford very clear in his
mind what his problem was. He felt terrible. He was a
committed Humanist and yet it seemed that he had by his
own actions made a major contribution to the 'evidence'
of God's mysterious ways.

Having Caitlin Happymeal inoculated had of course
been the best thing he had ever done, but the unexpected
consequence of people loudly giving the Lord the credit
was deeply depressing. The fact that his own wife, who
actually
knew the truth
, believed it was doubly depressing.
And it was getting worse. Trafford had never dreamed they
would end up on the news and the fact that Confessor
Bailey was entering into spiritual communion with
Chantorria would make things worse again. Endorsement
from a Confessor of the Temple would further confirm
people's conviction that Chantorria was blessed and that
Caitlin had survived as a result of divine intervention.

Trafford cursed the horrible irony that his private subversion,
which had been motivated by pure reason, had been spun
so as to entrench religious superstition.
Trafford turned to his computer with a new sense of
urgency. His search program was almost completed.
Within a few days he would be in a position to instruct the
DegSep engine to create for him a virtual network of
potential revolutionaries. Trafford intended to begin
sending out messages to this anonymous community
immediately. Cassius had promised to furnish him with
the first, which, it had been agreed, would be a brief
illustrated article on the theory of evolution. The second
would be about the flood itself, explaining that the rise in
sea levels had in fact been the unfortunate and preventable
result of unrestricted burning of fossil fuels.

Trafford intended that the mail shots should be
self-generating, an automated message cycle, triggered by a
single code word which, once sent, would create an
unstoppable avalanche of seditious spam that would
continue even if the people who wrote it had been caught.
Each message would have a title that he hoped would
convince the recipient to read what had been sent.
Trafford had been working on these titles also, as had
Cassius and the others. Trafford's favourite had been
suggested by Connor Newbury.

If God is so clever why does he choose such arseholes to run
his Temple? Ever take a really critical look at your Confessor?
Trafford smiled. If he received an email with a title like
that he knew that he would open it.

You are not alone in wanting to be alone!
That had been
Cassius's suggestion, as had
Ever thought about thinking
for yourself?

So far, apart from
Can you keep a secret?
Trafford had
not come up with a title, but now he wrote down the
word
evolve
.

All the time he had been working on the program
Trafford had been wondering what should be done
with this virtual community, should he ever succeed in
establishing it. After all, it was one thing to encourage
people to think for themselves, but if all they did was
think and took no action then the Temple had nothing to
fear. For Trafford thinking wasn't enough; he despised the
way his fellow Humanists were content to protest simply
by their existence. Something physical had to be done.
Revolutions in the head could only be the beginning.

A sign was needed, a secret sign. A single word perhaps,
something by which each freethinker might recognize
another. A single word that said it all.

And Trafford knew that the word must be
evolve
.

Because 'evolve' was more than a word. It was a call to
arms. A simple instruction to rise out of the swamp, to
become a sophisticated organism, a creature capable of
independent thought.

But the word 'evolve' dripped with heretical connotations.
It could never be displayed openly, never be held up as
a sign.

Trafford typed it out backwards and with a sudden surge
of excitement noticed that it spelt
evlove
.

Ev Love.
He had heard that phrase before.

'Let me hear you say Love! . . . Let me hear you say
Everlasting Love! . . . Let me hear you say Ev Love!'

One of those shorthand phrases that the Temple had
coined to describe their God was the reverse of the word
which they feared most.

Ev Love. That would be his key. That would be the code
to trigger the program and the term he would include in
all communications. The term by which each recipient
might display their faith, for if challenged they could
claim it was simply a reduction of Everlasting Love.

Ev Love. It even sounded like Evolve.

He could not wait to tell Cassius.

Show the words Ev Love
, Trafford wrote.
By these words
shall you be known
.

At eight o'clock that evening Trafford, holding Caitlin
Happymeal in his arms, presented himself at Confessor
Bailey's house and was ushered by a servant into the same
luxuriously appointed room in which he and Chantorria
had sat discussing their now cancelled divorce. Chantorria
was already there of course, sitting on a stool at Bailey's
feet. She was reading from a book, a big, jewel-encrusted
leather-bound volume entitled
Bible Stories and Other
Inspirational Writings
.

Trafford thought that she looked rather flushed.

The Confessor raised a hand to indicate that Trafford
should wait in the doorway until the reading was
finished. Trafford was therefore forced to hover in
silence while his wife completed the lines of doggerel
with which she had been engaged and Confessor
Bailey sat with his eyes closed and a rapturous
expression on his face. He was stroking Chantorria's
hair.

'Love is love and the Lord whom we call the Love is love,'
Chantorria read in tones of deepest sincerity. 'Without the
Lord who is the Love we have no love and since we have
love, we have the Lord who is the Love, for the two are one,
immortal and indivisible. It is so now, was so in the
beginning and shall be so evermore. The Lord and the
Love is kind and he is merciful and whosoever doubteth
that shall be wiped from the face of the Earth and suffer
hellish torment for all eternity. Such are the ways of
the Love.'

'Thank you, child,' the Confessor said as Chantorria
closed the book. 'That was beautiful. It eases my troubled
and weary soul to hear the sweet voice of a righteous
woman speak the Lord's truth.'

'I'm honoured to be your comfort, Holy Confessor,'
Chantorria replied.

Only now did Confessor Bailey look at Trafford.

'Take a seat beside your wife,' he ordered. 'The Bishop
Confessor is a busy man. I don't imagine that he will
be long.'

Indeed Trafford had scarcely had a moment to sit down
and acknowledge Chantorria's nervous smile when the
loud banging of a staff on the front door announced the
arrival of the great man. This knocking was followed by
the frantic scuttling of servants in the hallway and
suddenly Solomon Kentucky himself strode into the
room, accompanied by four large security guards.

'I have come!' he said, almost as if he was the Lord
himself paying a visit instead of merely one of his senior
representatives on Earth.

Confessor Bailey, Trafford and Chantorria dropped
immediately to their knees.

'My house is not worthy, Bishop Confessor, and nor am
I,' Confessor Bailey replied.

'Damn right about that, Bailey,' the Bishop Confessor
replied, laughing hugely. 'But then none of us is worthy in
the eyes of the Lord, yet we all hope one day to stand
naked before him. If I visited only with those who were
worthy I'd have a damn small social circle! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Am I right? Of course I'm right. Kiss my rings.'

He offered his huge, soft, podgy right hand for
Confessor Bailey to approach. Upon each finger and the
thumb were great sparkling rings. Confessor Bailey
shuffled forward on his knees and kissed each one. Then
the great man transferred the flashing neon mitre that he
was holding in his other hand, and presented a second set
of jewel-encrusted fingers to be worshipped and adored.
Trafford and Chantorria of course said nothing in the
presence of such eminence.

'So this is the family!' Solomon Kentucky thundered. 'I
would know them were I to have met them among a
thousand families! The blessing of the Love is upon them.
I feel the Love.'

'Hallelujah!' shouted Confessor Bailey.

'Hallelujah!' echoed Chantorria.

'Stand, child,' Solomon Kentucky said to her. 'Gather
up your angel baby and stand. Do not be afraid.'

Chantorria took Caitlin Happymeal from Trafford's
arms and stood before the Bishop Confessor. Trafford
was disgusted to note that there was already a look of
transported rapture on her face, and he wondered if she
was about to begin speaking in tongues.

'You, child, are blessed in the favour of the Lord and the
Love,' Solomon Kentucky intoned, 'and in his wisdom he
has designed for you a purpose. There is work for you and
your family to do!! Let me hear you say Yeah!'

'Yeah!' said Chantorria.

Trafford did not know whether the Bishop Confessor
had meant him also. He decided it was safer to say
nothing, not wishing to draw attention to himself.
Solomon Kentucky didn't seem to notice either way. He
was only interested in the mother and child. Handing his
mitre to one of his guards, he laid a hand on each of
their brows.

'I feel it!' he shouted. 'I feel it! I feel the blessing of the
Love! This child is truly holy. Her mother is blessed. Let
me hear you say All Right!'

'All right!' Chantorria shouted.

'All right!' Trafford echoed meekly, having been kicked
by Confessor Bailey.

'This kiddie will inspire the faithful!' Solomon Kentucky
went on. 'There has been great suffering of late. Many
righteous people have lost a kiddie, two kiddies or more!
The faithful need a sign. The people need a symbol! The
honest, Love-fearing men and women of this great country
of faith need hope! Let me hear you say A'come on!'

'A'come on!' Chantorria and Trafford shouted.

'A'come on, a'come on, a'come on –
on
!' Kentucky
shouted.

'A'come on, a'come on, a'come on –
on
!' Chantorria and
Trafford echoed.

'This kiddie, little Caitlin Happymeal, will be that sign.
That symbol. That hope! In the name of the Lord and the
Love. The Creator of all things and many things more. In
the name of his holy mother Mary and his saintly
daughter Diana. In the name of Jesus, Abraham, Elvis and
Moses. In the name of the twenty-eight Apostles of the
Gospel and the Fifteen Pillars of the Faith. In the name of
the stars that guide us and the numbers that foretell that
which only he can know and which for us is mystery.
In the name of all the prophets and elders of the Temple.
In the name of this tiny kiddie Caitlin Happymeal. I say
Let his will be done. Amen!'

'Amen!' Confessor Bailey shouted.

'Amen!' said Chantorria and Trafford. Chantorria by this
time was shaking and twitching, her lip quivering with
ecstasy. Solomon Kentucky, on the other hand, suddenly
dispensed with his evangelical posturing altogether and
called for a chair that he might get down to business.

'As you know,' he said, accepting a large glass of sweet
sherry and a chocolate eclair from a servant, 'these
recent epidemics have been particularly severe and the
suffering has been truly terrible. Yours is not the only
community that has been devastated, although certainly
the plagues that visited themselves upon this particular
district were mighty indeed. Now little Caitlin
Happymeal is, as we can see, highly telegenic and it has
not gone unnoticed in the councils of the Temple that
her Heaven-sent good fortune has struck a particular
chord among the faithful of this parish and indeed,
since she featured on the infotainment news earlier
today, increasingly in the wider community. People are
thirsting for good news and right now Caitlin
Happymeal is it. She's a lively, pretty little thing and of
course Chantorria here is more than easy on the eye
and there is nothing like a hot momma with big healthy
naturals and a cutesome kiddie to put a sunnier spin on
things. Our PR people had in fact been looking for just
such a combination to head up a post-plague feel-good
campaign and, having checked out a considerable
sample of surviving kiddies, we've fixed on Caitlin
Happymeal to be our Face of Hope. We have decided to
make this little child a poster girl for the Lord's divine
mercy.' Kentucky helped himself to another cake before
adding grandly, 'Your heavenly poppet is going to be a
big, big star.'

Then the Bishop Confessor snapped his fingers and one
of his grim, silent security guards inserted a memory stick
in Confessor Bailey's computer. Immediately there
appeared on the screen a series of adverts featuring
Caitlin's face.

'This is just rough work,' Solomon Kentucky said, 'but
you'll get the idea and I think you're going to love it.'

There was Caitlin Happymeal, smiling and gurgling
and cooing in a video poster format, beneath the banner
headline
Miracles Do Happen
.

'That's the shout line we're running with,' Solomon
Kentucky explained. '
Miracles Do Happen
. Pretty good,
huh? Short, clear, to the point. We want to say to people,
"Don't despair. If the Love can save this child, he can save
them all. In fact he
has
saved them all for he has gathered
them to him." '

'Isn't that rather a mixed message?' Trafford said before
he could stop himself. Confessor Bailey turned on him
in fury.

'The Bishop Confessor is
speaking
,' Bailey snapped.

'No, no,' Solomon Kentucky insisted, 'this is the father.
Let's hear him out. Mixed message, you suggest, young
man? How so?'

'Well,' Trafford began nervously, 'is it our daughter who's
been saved by
not
dying or all the dead children who've
been saved
by
dying and then going to Heaven?'

Solomon Kentucky thought for a moment.

'Both,' he said finally. 'And in the beautiful eyes of
Caitlin Happymeal all the parents whose kiddies are in
Heaven will see the eyes of their own children and they
will know that the Lord loves them.'

'Oh . . .' Trafford said. 'I see.'

'This little baby,' the Bishop Confessor continued, 'is to
be the central image in a huge post-plague media
campaign. She will carry the
Miracles Do Happen
message
into every dwelling and workplace in the country. There
will be video posters, commercials, a number-one hit song
and above all your family will be the key figures of
testification at a Wembley Faith Concert.'

'Oh my God,' Chantorria burst out, 'a Faith Concert! Us!
Oh – my – God.'

Confessor Bailey turned sternly towards her because it
was not her place to volunteer comment, but Solomon
Kentucky gave her an indulgent smile.

'Yes, my child. Yes. You and your family are to be the
centrepiece of the massive service of celebration that
the Temple is planning, to mark the passing of the two
great plagues. We intend to pack Wembley with grieving
parents: one hundred and twenty-five thousand recently
bereaved couples will be ticketed by lottery and then
invited to a party to give thanks, not only for their own
children's ascension to Heaven but also for the Love's
mercy in delivering Caitlin Happymeal that she might
be a child to all of them. All around the country via
webcast and live video link-up the population will
rejoice in the miracle of Caitlin's survival, which will
lend hope and succour to everyone. You three will stand
together alongside all the elders of the Temple plus
every major celebrity in the land and give thanks for
Caitlin and the clear, living, breathing evidence that
Miracles Do Happen
.'

Chantorria was weeping openly with happiness.
Confessor Bailey put his arm around her for comfort. Both
of them ignored Trafford.

'Your child,' said Solomon Kentucky, taking up his mitre
once more, 'will be a beacon! A messiah of faith! A light
in the darkness of loss. Caitlin Happymeal will give hope
back to the people!'

'Oh thank you, Bishop Confessor,' Chantorria stuttered
through her tears. 'Thank you. Thank you.'

Trafford said nothing. He was thinking.