Authors: Ben Elton
The great show trial was to be held a week later. It was to
take place at Wembley on the very night that had
originally been scheduled as the climax of the
Miracles Do
Happen
campaign.
Trafford was to get his moment in the spotlight after all.
In order that the trial might be seen to be legal and to
observe due process, the Temple allowed Trafford some
medical treatment in his cell and also assigned him a
lawyer. Her name was Parisian Poledance and she visited
him on the evening before the great day.
'I understand that, unlike your wife, you decline to
repent or even to take responsibility for Caitlin's death?'
Parisian Poledance stated in a clipped and officious tone.
She wore the silver wig, black bra and thick, substantial
knickers of her profession and seemed to Trafford to be
every bit as cold and efficient as her uniform suggested.
'Of course I don't take responsibility,' Trafford replied. 'She
died of cholera. I didn't make the water in our tenement.'
'No, obviously not. God did. The question the law
must ask is why did God make the infected water? Do
you accept that the Lord and the Love visited cholera
upon your tenement in retribution for your efforts to
circumnavigate his will?'
'No, I do not.'
'Trafford, if you take responsibility for your actions, we
may gain a lighter sentence.'
'I do take responsibility for my actions. That's the point.
It seems that I am the only person who does. Unlike the
law, I don't blame God and I don't credit God. I saved my
daughter from mumps and measles. Then she died of
cholera. I do not believe that I or God had anything to do
with it. It was the Temple who denied me access to a
cholera vaccine.'
Parisian Poledance tapped at her computer in an
impatient manner. Clearly she did not appreciate having
to waste her time with deluded people who refused to
accept basic legal principles such as that God had
everything to do with everything.
'Right then,' she said tartly, 'let us get down to first cases.
Do you admit that you had Caitlin vaccinated?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Is there anyone or anything on to which you can shift
some of the blame?'
'I don't understand.'
Parisian Poledance made no effort to disguise her
frustration at what she clearly thought was wilful
obstruction on Trafford's part.
'The law recognizes victim status as a plea in mitigation,'
she snapped. 'If you can establish grounds for claiming
that you yourself are a victim, the judges will be obliged to
take that into account in their summing up. For instance,
did your parents fail to big you up as a child, thus leaving
you with crippling esteem issues?'
'No.'
'Are you an addictive personality? Are you struggling with
inner demons or a reliance on prescription drugs? Have size
issues and negative self-image led to your failing to fulfil
your enormous potential as a proud, strong person?'
'No.'
'Have you been subjected to disrespect by those who
refuse to recognize your legitimate pride in who and what
you are?'
'No! None of those things. I'm not looking for a plea in
mitigation. I loved my daughter and I acted as I did in her
best interests, that's all.'
Parisian Poledance looked at her watch, clearly desperate
to be done with this pointless and unrewarding brief.
'Trafford, I have been appointed by the Temple as your
legal counsel. It is my duty to inform you that "acting
in your child's best interests" is not a defence for having
her vaccinated.'
'I don't need a lawyer to tell me the law is insane, Ms
Poledance. I was not offering it as a defence, merely as an
explanation.'
'So you have no defence?'
'I do have a defence.'
'I mean a legal one,' Parisian Poledance snapped, 'under
the law of the land and of the Temple. Not some time wasting
foolishness.'
'I have a defence.'
'You realize that you are to stand trial on two counts:
that you are a Vaccinator and an Evolutionist, neither of
which you deny?'
'Yes and my defence will be the same on both counts.'
Parisian Poledance gave him a weary look.
'Have you studied eight years at the bar, Trafford?'
'No. I haven't.'
'I have. And since then I have had another ten years'
experience in court. I confidently expect one day to be a
Temple counsellor.'
'Congratulations.'
'And yet while I can see no defence for a confessed
Vaccinator and Evolutionist under the law, you can?'
'Yes.'
'What is it?'
'My faith.'
'Your faith?'
'The law of the Temple states that a person's faith is
inalienable. To deny a person's faith is incitement to
religious hatred. Well, I believe in vaccination. I believe in
evolution! I believe in an understanding of the physical
universe based on empirical evidence and deduction, not
a supernatural controlling being. That is my faith! My God
is called Natural Selection. Natural Selection made me!
The law guarantees me my right to faith.'
For a moment Parisian Poledance was silent. Briefly, she
seemed lost for words.
'On what basis do you call your belief in the delusions
of the monkey men a faith?' she asked finally.
'Because I believe in them absolutely with all my heart.'
'Believing in something does not make it a faith,'
Poledance answered pompously. 'I believe in sweet wine
and ginger biscuits. I believe in rats and cockroaches, but
none of those things are my faith.'
'Biscuits are physical objects. Rats are natural creatures
like ourselves. Evolution is a mental concept, something
we understand in our minds, just like God.'
Parisian Poledance thought for a moment. It seemed to
Trafford that she was actually taking an interest in his
argument.
'You say that evolutionary theory is a faith because you
believe it.' She wore a sly expression. 'Why do you believe it?'
'Because it's beautiful, it's logical and it can be proved. It
is the only, and I mean the
only
, satisfactory explanation
for the emergence of complex life on Earth! Every shred of
evidence thus far discovered on Earth fits it, while not one
shred of evidence has been found to show that the
universe was made in a week and man in a day. Man did
not emerge in a day! Whatever it was that brought him
about, be it God or some cosmic coincidence that can be
called God, it did
not
happen in a day! It happened over
millions and millions of years.'
'So you say that the ideas of the monkey men can be
proved?' the lawyer asked.
'Yes, if not absolutely then certainly beyond reasonable
doubt.'
'Ah ha!' Poledance cried triumphantly. 'Then it cannot
be a faith!'
'What?'
'A faith is something in which a man must
believe
.
Something in which he must put his trust, his
faith
. If it
can be proved then it's fact and a fact requires no
faith
to believe in it. Thus your ideas have no protection under
the law.'
'Because they're true?'
'Because you claim that they can be proved by evidence.
No faith can be proved by evidence, that's what makes it a
faith. Either your monkey men ideas have no basis in
science, in which case you can call them a faith, or else
they are based on scientific proof, in which case they are
not a faith and the law offers them no protection. Which
is it to be? Can vaccination be
proved
to work or do you
merely have
faith
in it? Is your evolution based on solid
evidence or do you follow it through pious conviction?'
'Vaccination can be proved and evolution is based on
solid evidence.'
'Then these things have nothing to do with faith and
you will be convicted of heresy.'
Trafford actually found himself gently smiling.
'Well,' he conceded, 'I did not really expect to
convince you.'
Parisian Poledance looked relieved. She turned to the
webcam on her computer. 'Let the record show that the
defendant did not wish to offer up a defence or a plea in
mitigation.'
She rose to leave. She had done her duty and clearly had
no desire to linger any longer. At the door she turned once
more to face Trafford.
'You do realize that they will almost certainly burn you,
don't you?'
'My daughter is dead,' Trafford replied.
'Oh, get over yourself,' said Parisian Poledance.
The cell door clanged behind her as she left.
When Trafford met Chantorria backstage at Wembley
Stadium, it was the first time that he had seen her since
she had lain bleeding on the cell floor in front of him.
Since then they had cleaned her up considerably and
applied body make-up to her cuts and bruises. She looked
much better, although her near-shaven head gave her a
somewhat wild appearance, particularly coupled with the
strange, faraway look in her eye.
'Hello,' said Trafford.
'We are sinners. We deserve this,' was her only reply.
They had been brought up the equipment ramp and
were standing with their guards behind a massive bank of
speakers. Out on the stage a song was just finishing. It was
followed by a deafening roar and then the muffled voice of
the singer could be heard addressing the crowd. Due to the
directional nature of the sound system, Trafford could not
make out what he was saying but it was no doubt an
injunction to dream the dream and be whatever they
wanted to be.
Trafford looked at Chantorria. He wondered if she was
recalling the last time they had been at the stadium, when
they had been a part of the cheering multitude and not, as
now, terrifyingly, an event on the bill. It was so little time
ago and yet they had come such a long way since then.
That had been the night when for the second time he had
raised the idea of vaccinating Caitlin. It was fitting, he
thought, that their journey should end here.
Trafford was surprised to notice within himself a strange
sense of calm. He supposed that when you knew that you
were shortly to be burned at the stake, preparing to speak
heresy to a crowd of a quarter of a million people held
no fears.
Up until this point the Faith Festival had been progressing
along the usual lines. The regular announcement had been
made that this was the biggest festival ever, easily
surpassing in scale and significance the previous week's
record-breaking gathering. The interchangeable sequence
of stars had informed the crowd that all the problems of
the world would disappear if only they wanted them to,
that poverty, disease and injustice would very soon be a
thing of the past if only they would all put their hands in
the air and sing. Girls had been hoisted briefly on to
sagging shoulders and banners had been waved. Hundreds
of thousands of burgers and doughnuts had been
consumed and now the evening was moving towards its
usual climax, which would be a mass grieving for the
dead kiddies.
This climax, however, was going to be different. Tonight
there was to be a grand trial for heresy and Trafford and
Chantorria were the co-defendants. They stood, naked and
in chains, in the wings of the great concert platform as the
last band of the evening bade their farewells to the crowd
and left the stage with their dancers, roadies, hangers-on
and the popular comedian who had introduced them.
Then Bishop Confessor Solomon Kentucky strode past
them without a glance, and was guided around the great
speaker stacks by his security staff and out on to the stage
in order to explain the significance of what was about
to happen.
'People of faith!' Trafford heard him shout. Such was the
quality of Kentucky's diction that Trafford could make out
his words despite the backstage distortion. 'Tonight, as
always, we assemble to worship the Love and give thanks
for the deliverance of our tiny innocents into Heaven. Let
me hear you say Amen!'
'Amen,' came the thunderous response.
'Amen,' Trafford heard Chantorria whisper under
her breath.
'Now, on the subject of tiny innocents,' Solomon
Kentucky continued, 'I have words to say to you. Tonight
we expose a grievous crime against faith! A crime
perpetrated by two wicked sinners. A crime so corrupt and
duplicitous that it deceived even the all-seeing eye of the
Temple. Let me hear you say Love!'
'Love!' the crowd roared.
'I said let me hear you say Love!' Solomon Kentucky
shouted.
'LOVE!' came the even louder response.
'Ev Love,' Trafford whispered under his breath as a
sound technician bustled up to him.
'All right if I mike you up now?' the technician asked
and without waiting for a reply proceeded to hang a radio
pack over Trafford and Chantorria's shoulders.
'All right if I tape it to the chains?' he asked, carrying on
with his job, gaffer-taping little microphones to the chains
that hung around their necks.
A second technician bustled up to join the first.
'When they come off,' he said, 'we need those mikes for
the finale.'
'I
know
,' the first technician replied irritably, 'I have read
the running order.'
On stage the Bishop Confessor continued his
introduction.
'You recall this child!' he said. And on the vast screens
all round the stadium could be seen the picture of Caitlin
Happymeal that had been central to the
Miracles Do
Happen
campaign. Trafford and Chantorria saw it too on
the backstage monitors and separately they wept.
'You recall that this child survived
measles
,' Solomon
Kentucky went on. 'This child survived
mumps
. This child
survived the most virulent plagues that have so far been sent
by the Love to blight our fair city on a lake. People, I say to
you that it was a miracle! Let me hear you say Oh yeah!'
'Oh yeah!' they shouted.
'The Temple loved this child! We saw in this miracle
baby a symbol of hope! A symbol of the Lord and the
Love's faith in the future of all mankind! We celebrated her
survival at our places of worship and on the net. We raised
up the child's mother as a paragon of virtue before the eyes
of all women! Let me hear you say Yes we did!'
'Yes we did!' they shouted.
'Let me hear you say YES WE DID!' Kentucky repeated.
'YES WE DID,' the crowd echoed dutifully.
'But then, people! . . . Then, O my people!'
And now Kentucky's voice shook with passion and
sorrow. Trafford watched him on the backstage monitors
as he began to twitch and to fidget, like a man possessed.
'Then, people, the miracle child died! She died, people!
Ah, let me hear you say Woe is me!'
'Woe is me,' the crowd shouted.
'That's
right
, people, woe is you! Because get ready for
this, my children! I said get ready for this. I say
go figure
!
Because it turned out this miracle child wasn't a miracle
child at all. Right after she survived the mumps, just as we
were saluting an angel among us, a common cholera came
and gathered this sorry child up. It took her straight to
Heaven and, let me tell you, there's nothing miraculous
about that. It happens every day. And let me tell you
something else, people! When I heard that news my heart
was heavy. My heart was confused.
Why
had the Lord and
the Love saved this child only then to take her? Why had
he taunted us so? Let me hear you say Why!'
'Why!' the crowd roared.
'Why!' Solomon Kentucky roared back.
'Why!' was once more the thunderous response.
'Why?' Chantorria whispered as she stood backstage in
chains.
'I'll tell you why!' the Bishop Confessor shouted.
'Punishment! That's why! Punishment for sin! Bring forth
the sinners!'
Music played and Trafford and Chantorria were pushed
out into the dazzling glare of the spotlights, whipped from
behind as they tripped and stumbled, dragging their
chains over the coils of cables, guitar stands and leads,
drum kits and endless plastic bottles that littered the stage.
As they approached the Bishop Confessor, the music grew
in huge crashing chords, a choir sang doom-laden
snatches of opera and blood-red fireworks lit up the sky.
'Behold the sinners, the parents of the child!' Solomon
Kentucky shouted. 'Bring forward the woman!'
Chantorria was then thrust centre stage, where she
collapsed at Solomon Kentucky's feet.
'Chantorria!' he cried. 'Tell the people why the Love
took your baby from you!'
'Because we defied God's will,' Chantorria wept. 'My
husband had our child vaccinated and I stood by.'
There was a moment's hush from the crowd. This was a
serious crime indeed.
'What did you say?' the Bishop Confessor roared.
'I said my husband had our child vaccinated.'
'Beat her!' Solomon Kentucky instructed and guards
stepped forward with whips to lash Chantorria as she
grovelled on her knees.
The crowd, thus treated to the thrilling punishment of a
chained and naked woman, screamed their hatred and
called for heavier blows until finally the Bishop Confessor
raised his hand for silence.
'Chantorria,' he said solemnly, 'did your husband allow
witches to push poisoned needles into your child in an
effort to cheat the Lord? Did your husband say unto
himself, other children may be gathered unto Heaven
but not mine, for I will pervert the Love's purpose
with witchcraft?'
'Yes, yes, he did!' shrieked Chantorria, bleeding terribly
from the blows she had sustained.
'And were you punished for it!'
'Yes! The Lord took my baby!'
'Beat her!' Kentucky instructed once more and again the
crowd screamed for blood as this time Chantorria was
beaten into unconsciousness.
'Bring forward the man witch!' the Bishop Confessor
shouted and now it was Trafford's turn to be thrust to the
centre of the stage.
'Your baby died,' cried Solomon Kentucky.
Trafford struggled to focus. He knew he would have only
one chance to make his point. There could be no room
now to cajole the crowd with subtlety as once he had
planned: brevity and clarity were all that mattered.
'Yes, Bishop Confessor! She died. But not of measles or
mumps, which she had been vaccinated against. The
vaccines worked! She died of cholera. There is a vaccine for
cholera also, but unfortunately I could not get it for my
daughter.'
'Silence!' shouted Solomon Kentucky.
'The vaccines worked! They gave my daughter a resistance
to the diseases for which they were designed. Listen to
me, people!'
'Beat him!' cried Kentucky and the blows began.
'Demand vaccinations for your children!' Trafford
shouted as he tried to shield himself from the blows.
'People here today, demand vaccines for your children!'
'The Lord and the Love will not be denied!' cried Kentucky.
'Any God who kills a child to punish its parents is not
worth worshipping!'
At that point, through the crunching of blows Trafford
realized that the tone of his voice had changed and he
knew that his microphone had been turned off. He heard
the Bishop Confessor screaming 'Witch and heretic!' at
him and demanding that he be beaten harder. But for a
moment, before he lost consciousness, he thought he felt
a silence from the crowd – as if some of them might even
have understood what he had to say.