 
THE WILES OF WALDO
Chapter 1

'The amazing thing,' Abel explained earnestly, 'is that contraplexionism transcends both reason and intuition and yet encompasses both.' He was sitting cross-legged on his sleeping-bag in the orange glare of the little tent.

Claire nodded fervently, astonished at his brilliance. At nineteen one is easily impressed and Claire Chubb had had a sheltered upbringing. There was a rough element at her comp but she'd steered well clear of them and stuck for the most part to her own well-brought-up middleclass crowd. She was still a virgin, even after last night, as Abel had been inhabiting what he called a 'Zone of Chastity'.

They were camped in a Wiltshire field (generously rubbled with chalk) along with two hundred others for a weekend of Harmonic Synthesis directed by one Waldo Lillicrap, a self-styled Shaman of the Soul. Journalists who branded his movement a cult had found it hard to make the charge stick as Waldo was such an unlikely guru. He was a short fat Welshman with a comical name and the quiet dress sense of Widow Twankey. If he had a fleet of gold Rollses stashed away somewhere, no-one had ever found it. He drove an old diesel Fiesta and liked his booze and fags. More, he was no fool and was a popular guest on chat-shows where he easily kept up the banter and cheerfully admitted that there was no reason why anyone else should believe in the new religion of Syntheism which he claimed to have computer-generated from all known faiths. He pooh-poohed claims that he was a miracle-worker but admitted that he could show others how to open themselves up to divinity, whatever that was. As for his alleged prophetic gift, he'd allowed that to be tested on TV. A slip of paper containing predictions for the coming week had been sealed into an envelope and placed in a safe in the presence of unimpeachable witnesses. When it was opened a week later it was found that Waldo had been spot-on: his horse had won; an unexpected hurricane had wreaked havoc; a senior politician had died. Waldo had promptly turned the tables by showing how it was done – the whole thing was a lesson in credulity – but the more he denied any 'at least conscious' miraculous powers, the more his followers believed in them. Worked for Jesus.

Among the credulous were a number of businessmen who surprisingly often combined financial hard-nosedness with febrile superstition and hung on the sage's every word. Then there were the medical miracles which had allegedly occurred at some of his

meetings. Waldo's comment was that prayers were always answered, but generally in the negative. The important thing was that even meaninglessness had a purpose. There were many doors to enlightenment. 'The trinity is a koan' was one of his favourite sayings.

Abel had it bad. He'd bought and studied all of Waldo's books, treatises and pamphlets and all the despairing and futile aspects of his life suddenly made sense. He was a sensitive boy in the last year of a degree in accountancy which had proved a huge disappointment to him. He'd been looking to the calm certainty of mathematics as a stay

against the raw pain of existence but had found instead the slithery complexities of financial law. Where did tax avoidance shade into evasion? How could directors bankrupt a firm and yet walk away with millions? How could murderous dictators safely stash their blood money in offshore accounts? He was, in short, an idealist.

Abel Caldecot was an only child whose defining trauma had been his mother's death from lung-cancer. He'd been fourteen at the time, bony wrists poking out of his sleeves and acne and bristles rupturing the porcelain of young skin.

Mum had taken a year to die – he could still see her frightened eyes, huge in her shrunken face. She'd been a plump, jolly woman who smoked socially and to keep her weight down. When she died she weighed less than five stone and her untameable chestnut curls had been replaced by strawy suede. She had taught music therapy to the deaf. The school band played a dirge at her funeral. It was an arrangement of the dead march from Saul and not only music-lovers felt the prick of tears. Abel found it unutterably moving. The Caldecots had been regular churchgoers at the Church of All Souls (I.e. Christmas and Easter) but there was a new vicar (known to coarser elements of the congregation as the Vicar of Arseholes). This man knew not Mrs. Caldecot. Abel and Dad had composed a few notes for his guidance, reducing a once-vibrant person to a clutch of cliches. They'd left out her love of dirty jokes and her slapdash approach to housework. Her work with the deaf had been both unsparing and inspiring. Beloved wife mother sister daughter cousin niece.

The vicar smarmed up to the pulpit and launched into stock eulogy number twenty- seven. He referred throughout to 'our sister in Christ, Marjorie' when everyone knew her as Daisy. As the sonorous platitudes were slapped down like cards Abel glanced up at his father and saw that his jaw muscles were clenched like cricket balls. There were two more funerals behind them so the vicar kept it mercifully short.

Oowaah... the taped music got up to speed and the coffin moved jerkily through the dangling plastic strips beyond the velvet curtains. Did they really burn the coffin as well? Abel toyed with the idea that Mum was happy up in heaven, but how could she be happy to look down and see her little family bereft? Desolation washed over him as it sank in that she was truly dead.

Not to be talked of was the shameful relief. He and Dad had quietly taken over the cooking and housework as Mum failed and they had managed OK. Warren Caldecot's stint in the Royal Navy had instilled an obsessive tidiness which kept chaos to a minimum and Abel got pretty good at trifle and bangers and mash. But there had been all the worry, the endless hospital visits, the flare-ups of hope, the ashes of despair. Abel had even prayed. He'd imagined laying hands on her and sucking the cancer up his arms and into his own body to be incinerated in the heat of his love. He would buy her cure with his pain.

No deal. She dwindled and died. The day after the cremation Warren was presented with a little urn of ashes. It went in the display cabinet with the cut-glass decanter and the tarnished silverware.

He and Dad had become closer after Mum's death but they were too different to keep it up. Compassion gave way to a wary concern for each other.

Dad was working late more often. He was the manager of a loss-making factory which

supplied seats to what was left of the British motor industry. The firm's future hung on its worth as a tax-break. A quarter percent change in interest rates could do for them. They were good seats – Warren had had three of them welded together to make a sofa with individually adjustable backrests. How Daisy had laughed. She'd given it a month so as not to hurt his feelings but then it had to go. Comfortable though, she'd conceded.

Abel threw himself into his mock GCSEs and got used to coming home to a cold empty house and assembling a meal from freezer, fridge and microwave. Time passed.

A year and a half after Mum's death Dad found another woman. Abel knew her – she was the secretary of the British Legion, a forty-year-old bottle blonde with that brisk vivacity which can be rather wearing. Still, it could have been worse. She had the two of them over for a delicious cream tea, with scones, fruitcake and brandy-snaps. She was kindly, if not too bright, a childless divorcee whose only entanglements were three yappy Yorkies.

'Well, what do you think, old chap?' Warren asked his son the next day. They had enjoyed a rare evening together watching James Bond on the box. Dinner had been a Domino pizza and a Waitrose tiramisu. 'I know no-one can replace Mum, but Becky's been a great comfort over this last rough spell and I was thinking of asking her to move in. But this is your home too and it must be a shared decision. I haven't said anything about it to Becky yet so if you really don't want her we'll carry on as we are. Of course she might not want to come herself, but I thought I'd consult you first.'

'Are you in love with her?' asked Abel bluntly thinking both of his crush on a girl in his class and of the fact that his father had probably been shagging this woman for months. Slimy pink rod sliding in and out of her hairy hole. Ugh.

'Well, we're neither of us teenagers anymore, but I am very fond of her, yes. I don't feel she's the only thing in my life and that I'll die if I don't get her but I think we could be happy together. You know Mum wanted me to find someone else after she'd gone and I think it's fair to say that this place could do with a woman's touch.'

So Becky came. She was a nice woman. 'Call me Becky, if you like,' she'd told Abel while Warren was in the next room making whisky sours, 'Whatever you feel comfortable with. I know no-one can replace your Mum but you're a smashing kid and I can see why your Dad's so proud of you. I'll help as much as I can. I knew Daisy. She was a lovely person, always so bright and cheerful.' Becky sighed and sadly shook her head. 'Still,' she rallied, 'you want anything at all you come straight to me, OK?' The look direct.

'Yeah. I will. Thanks, Becky. Fancy a cuppa and a poptart?' 'M. Yes please.' After a while Abel found her laugh less irritating and even Ee, Bah and Gum, (oh

dear) her three Yorkshire terriers proved quite entertaining on closer acquaintance. There was no more churchgoing. Neither Warren nor Abel wanted to see the vicar ever

again. Abel did well at school and moved on to the redbrick university of his choice to study

accountancy, become disillusioned and be saved by Waldo Lillicrap. Waldo's shtick was his embracing of science. Religious truths were no longer to be

taken literally but poetically – revealing the same divinity in their music as that in the

theory of evolution. 'Let's all huddle under one big duvet,' he said, 'to fend off the fearful cold of cosmic indifference.'

But Waldo's influence was yet to come.

Chapter 2

Back at school, Abel drifted. After Mum's death he'd felt an intense emptiness. He moved quickly through astrology, UFOs and the interpretation of dreams before dismissing them all. Instead he buried himself in maths and geography. He found a girlfriend in the folksong club at school. Rowena, with her long black hair and heavy eyebrows played flageolet to his concertina. A fair bit of hugging and soulful kissing ensued but Rowena's fervent Catholicism discouraged further exploration. She was also a vegan and believed in homeopathy. Slowly the fire went out and they parted amicably.

'Ow.' Claire's voice brought Abel back to the present. 'I'm all over bruises from these rocks. I think I'll brave the showers.' She wriggled out of the sleeping-bag still half- dressed (it had been cold) and struggled into her Levis. She had a moment of panic as she missed her mobile phone then remembered it was locked in the car. Waldo advocated a complete break with the virtual world from time to time. So no phones, ipods or laptops for Abel and Claire. It felt weird. Claire was a thin girl with small breasts but a reassuring heft of haunch. Her black hair was cut in a bob which framed candid brown eyes, a beaky nose and a small full-lipped mouth. She smiled shyly and Abel beamed in response then meditatively closed his eyes and tried to think chaste thoughts.

Claire unzipped the arched door panel and stepped into the daylight. Her orange- drenched vision took a moment to see the sky as blue again, the grass as green. It was a lovely day. People stood around patiently queuing or cooking or washing up. Everyone seemed friendly. Acolytes drifted about informing people of the day's events. She and Abel had booked for a storytelling workshop which sounded quite interesting.

Standing in the queue for the loos (big buckets which were too infrequently slurped out by tanker) she noticed quite a spread of fashions. There were the shorts, boots and muscular tanned legs of an elderly lady rambler, a middle-aged ethnic Pre-Raphaelite hippie and a student in expensively-ripped jeans.

'Beautiful day,' the rambling lady gruffly remarked, fixing Claire with farseeing eyes. 'First time here, eh?'

'Yes. I don't really know much about the religious side of it, I'm afraid. I came with my boyfriend. He's deeply into Mr.' (bravely) 'Lillicrap's teachings.'

The woman barked a brief laugh. 'We call him Waldo,' she told the neophyte. 'Or Sam the Sham. It's all first names here. I'm Julia, by the way.' A no-nonsense handclasp.

'Claire. Why,' she ventured timidly, 'do they call him Sam the Sham?'

'Short for shaman. It was Waldo's own idea. Syntheism isn't for everyone, you know. You need a sense of humour.' She smiled and the sun caught the down on her leathery cheek in a golden glow.

A cubicle door opened and a well-dressed middle-aged lady emerged with a dainty shudder and went off to compulsively wash her hands in the nearby laundry trough. A

brave soul in dungarees and a bobble hat took her place and the queue shuffled forward. A knot of people was moving their way, almost hiding the man at its centre but a flash of smile, bob of balding head and upflung chubby hand confirmed that Waldo himself was among them. Rhubarb, rhubarb. A hand waved from among the disciples and Claire saw the tall stooping figure and sweet, sad smile of the object of her affections. He signed twenty minutes and pointed to the kitchen. Claire nodded and rubbed her tummy. Abel turned his attention back to Waldo and Claire felt a surge of jealousy accompanied by a pang of guilt.

Her turn at last. She shuffled forward, thighs pressed together, into the cubicle. Hovering over the stinking bucket three quarters full of other women's shit and piss she let rip. Ah. Even her constipation of the day before had gone. How nice to feel the squirmy slither of snakes of shit. We draw a discreet veil over the rest of the proceedings.

Some twenty-five minutes later a freshly-showered Claire headed for the kitchen block where she found Abel frying soya sausages. He was talking to someone who looked like a typical Chassidic Jew except that he was clean-shaven and the ringlets dangling from his big black hat were dayglo pink.

'Claire, just in time.' Abel kissed her forehead and gave her a companionable squeeze round the shoulders. This is Danny. He has eggs.'

'Enchante, mademoiselle,' Danny kissed her hand, moist pink lips soft on her skin. 'Oy veh the toast. Excuse moi.' And he dived for the grill.

'Can I help?' asked Claire.

'Yes thanks, you can make tea,' said Abel. 'The kettle's just boiled. Tip it onto those teabags.'

'And then you could please butter these,' said Danny, sliding some slices of scraped toast onto a plastic plate. A tub of kosher margarine was to hand.

Three minutes later they sat down to a poor imitation of a full English breakfast.

Danny offered up a brief prayer: 'Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yay God!' and the trio fell to. At least the eggs were real.

'So Danny, I'm fascinated to know why you dyed your hair pink,' said Claire during a pause in the munching.

'Well, it was partly to dispel a stereotype.' Danny shrugged Jewily, rolled oy veh eyes and turned up vot-you-vant-mit-me hands. 'No, seriously, people see Chassidim walking round in these black coats and hats and think we're all narrow-minded bigots stuck in the eighteenth century. And, to be fair, lots of us are. But as Waldo says: "History's feathers steer the arrow straight.."'

'That's such a beautiful metaphor,' Abel shook his head in wonder. 'And so subtle. It says nothing about where you should aim. That's up to you. But you can use all the power of your past to help you hit the mark.'

'Exactelmont,' Danny confirmed. 'These payess,' (he fingered his corkscrew curls), 'show where I'm from and the fact that I've dyed them pink and lost the beard shows where I'm going. I'm saying, OK I'm a feygeleh,' (he flopped a wrist), 'but I'm also a true Chassid who considers the immanence of God to be far more important than getting hung up on fossilised ritual. Among us there are people called tzaddiqim or righteous people, sort of like saints, who are directly in touch with God. Waldo's one, although he

may not even know it himself. Lots of his jokes and ideas could have come straight out of Talmudic literature. The difference is that he's not trapped in a mental ghetto like so many of my own people.'

'How did your family relate to your coming out as gay?' Claire queried frankly.

'Not well, I'd have to say,' Danny smiled bitterly. 'I was told I was killing my mother and giving the chazzersheh anti-Semites another stick to beat us. On two separate occasions older men took me aside and urged me to marry a nice Jewish girl and keep my real life as a sideline. My father wanted me to see a psychiatrist. A friend of mine committed suicide and the rumour was that he'd done it because I threatened to out him. The joke is that I didn't even know he was gay.'

'Lies are the shadows cast by truth,' Abel sagely intoned with Danny chiming in on the response, 'beware of those who curse the light.'

Aptly pat. The two boys laughed. 'So, what happened?' asked Claire anxiously. 'I left my home in Temple Fortune and moved in with my lover in Barking. He's a

Bengali Hindu called Dipak. We run a little handmade jewellery business together. I wanted to call it Jew Jewels but we settled for Precious Little. Funny, I wanted nothing to do with the family diamond business, but I've ended up getting quite a lot of stones from a second cousin of mine. He and my youngest sister are the only family members I've seen in the past two years although I call my Mum most days. I was in a lot of pain until I discovered Syntheism and came to terms with my contradictions. But enough of me. Tell me about yourself, Claire. How did you come to meet my very good friend Abel?'

'Oh, that was at the folk club at uni. There was a concert by this fabulous Northumbrian piper and we met in the queue for CDs.' Claire smiled fondly at Abel, remembering seeing him for the first time. The drab, low-ceilinged foyer with harsh fluorescent lighting, Abel towering up next to her, close enough for a tingle of apprehension. Jeans and thick fisherman's jersey. They'd enthused about the concert and discovered a shared interest in bagpipes. It was the first time Claire had met anyone else who'd even heard of the bagpipes of the Chods of the Czech republic. And, by one of those coincidences which showed their love was written in the stars, their joint favourite turned out to be the knee-stopped Irish uilleann. They had met just over a month ago and Claire felt as if she had known him for ever, despite being continually surprised by him. Abel took her hand and she felt a surge of plausible love.

'We started chatting,' Abel took up. 'I play concertina a bit and it turned out that Claire's a demon on the spoons. Talented and beautiful. Who could ask for more?'

Claire blushed and fanned her face with a programme. 'Gosh, it's getting warm,' she decoyed, 'it's so lovely to feel the heat soaking into your bones and easing the bruises. I must say I've slept on more comfortable beds.'

'But chalk is such a soft stone,' Abel gently joshed. 'I must admit that I did wonder during the night whether levitation was possible.'

'I myself personally have got it an airbed.' Danny was smugness personified. 'I like my comforts. I've been to these things before. You're right, though. It is getting a little warm.' He doffed his black broadbrim and the pink payess came with it. Underneath, his shaven head gleamed like a mushroom in dark woods.

Claire laughed boisterously. 'You cheat. You had me properly taken in.'

'But why?' Danny widened innocent eyes. 'They really are my own payess. I cut them off and dyed them myself. I am and am not.'

'Contraplexionism in practice.' Abel showed off his prize specimen.

'Well it's either that or Kabbalahbabble.' Danny shrugged. 'By me, what is true is what works. Now who's for toast and marmalade? We've got twenty minutes before the first session.'

'Not for me, thanks.' Claire gave Abel the old comehither from cowy brown eyes under the clean edge of her black fringe. 'I fancy a little walk.'

'Me too.' Abel marshalled his long limbs. 'See you later, Danny.' 'Sure. I'll keep you seats.' The lovers went off to snog behind the field's one oak. A trickle of people was making

its way to the marquee which had its sides rolled up in honour of the weather. From the poles of the candy-striped roof gay pennants fluttered. It was early June and the hawthorn was in full bloom. The musky scent rolled over the happy couple along with the smell of skunk from four youths upwind of them. The kissing with tongues commenced and Claire sensed that Abel's time in the Zone of Chastity was over. Her hand brushed the long hard thing in his jeans and her tongue darted into his mouth. God, she was such a fraud.

Abel glanced at his watch, broke the clinch and waited for his erection to detumesce. He thought of a detested lecturer in contract law. Ah there it... no, damn, don't think of it. Lloyds names, Asil Nadir, Rachmanism, Thatcher. Phew. OK. He kissed Claire on top of the head and hand in hand they made for the tent.

Chapter 3

Danny had found them seats in the middle of the third row back and they excused themselves through. It was a friendly crowd and several little knots had formed. Women predominated, about three to one and as well as the hardy campers there was a posher element whose Mercs, Volvos and 4X4s had filled up the carpark since breakfast. Claire found herself next to a plump, motherly woman with too much makeup. Next to her was the sort of rabbit-faced man whose scrawny neck and big Adam's apple cried out for a dogcollar but had settled for a grey shirt and knitted tie under a diamond-patterned veeneck. Her eyes flickered over a fat black lady in pink, a ponytailed old hippie and an oriental woman with severe rectangular blackrimmed glasses. At the end of the row she spotted Julia with a shorted and booted twin, though male. Julia saw her too and waved cheerily.

The stagelights went up and the band strolled on. There was a drumkit and what looked like a cimbalom and the musicians were carrying sitar, saxophone and violin. This was Continental Drift, Waldo's house band. The audience clapped and whistled and the music started. Claire thought they were quite good in a world-musicy sort of way. The classical and folk music of a dozen lands wove through the slow shift of chords. The cimbalom kept up a shimmering veil of sound and the drummer's brushes whispered through dry leaves. Then the sax wailed a klezmery melody which was picked up by the

woozily-tuned sitar over the violin's triplestopped drone. A longheld chord resolved and the instruments squirreled off in apparent dispersion only to knit together again and turn into the sweet and stately Welsh hymn of Ar hyd y nos as Waldo walked up to the mike. He shared the loud applause with the band who modestly withdrew to the back of the stage to watch their master.

The tubby little man in his elastic-waisted cords and bright yellow shirt flung open his arms and cried: 'Welcome!' A billow of shirt escaped his waistband but the grinning sage paid it no mind. 'Welcome,' he repeated. 'It is good to see so many new faces among our old friends. For any first-timers I would like to start by saying what Syntheism is not: Syntheists are not dogmatic. After all, doesn't every sonofabitch have a dog-ma?'

There was a shocked pause then a cascade of laughter as people got it.

'I'm not talking about forms of religion, mind,' Waldo calmed them, 'whatever floats your boat, as our American cousins say.'

Claire heard 'flawts ewer bawt' and 'ciz-zens'

'I have a love of ritual, especially that which is ancient and beautiful,' Waldo continued. 'I have prayed in mosques and synagogues and Hindu temples as well as in Welsh Chapels. I have taken peyote with shamans in the mountains of South America and eaten Fly Agaric in Inner Mongolia. All can be pathways to God but they are all partial – none holds a monopoly on truth. That is why I hate dogma. The chapel I grew up in held that all but we Primitive Welsh Methodists were damned. Boo!' Waldo stamped a loafer- clad foot (Lidl's £6.99) and reared up like Michelangelo's vengeful Christ hurling sinners to into hell. He reminded Claire of a teddy bear but Abel was leaning eagerly forward in his seat to catch every crumb. Waldo subsided into his usual ovoid shape. 'Now,' he blew a dandelion seed from his upturned palm, 'I no longer believe in hell. I have a friend, though, an Anglican priest who is obliged by the thirty-nine articles of his church to do so. So he believes in hell. He just doesn't believe anyone's ever sent there. I love him like a brother – which is to say we squabble a lot and share infuriating in-jokes but I'd trust him to that nonexistent hell and back. The moral of this story is that a Syntheist can follow any religion or none. It is not a question of belief or disbelief but of an alignment with the forces of creation. These forces are at the root of all religion and I lump them all together under the portmanteau-word God. And I don't mean an old man sitting on a cloud. With six billion people on the planet I find it hard to believe that he watches over every one of us. I mean there's omniscience and omniscience. But infinity to the power of infinity is still just infinity. So they say. I can't believe in a God who takes little Johnny's whacking-off personally. Why should He give a toss?' (Some laughed and one woman jumped up and stalked ostentatiously out.) 'Even the churches,' Waldo went on, 'have been driven to the absurdity that God is nowadays "non-interventionist". Non- interventionist? Who wants a God who lies back in his deckchair on the beach and watches you drown? So to me, God's not a person in any recognisable sense, more a force of nature. But if you picture him or her differently, that's your privilege. The important thing is that you access the power.' Waldo paused to send his smile around the tent and Claire warmed to him.

'As for life after death; the consensus seems to be that one melts back into the great all as smells pervade the wind. Let your passing be as sweet as heather on a summer breeze,'

and Waldo sniffed the air like a Bisto kid, 'and not,' (cough cough), 'like burning tyres poisoning the lungs. I knows about stinks, mind. I've lived in Port Talbot.'

A ragged cheer from three lads in the far corner.

'Hiya boyos.' Waldo waved an acknowledgement. 'Up Aberavon.' (A few cheers) 'Not that I believe in miracles, mind.' (General laughter)

'It's true.' Waldo sobered up and at once there was an attentive hush. 'A miracle, my friends is supposed to transcend the laws of nature. I don't believe such things are possible but I do believe that there are laws of nature which we haven't yet begun to understand. People say that I have cured them of various ailments and call such things miracles, but I say that their own faith is what cured them. They say of drugs that are no more effective than placebos that they don't work but what I think is much more remarkable is how very often placebos do work. As they cheerfully ignore all known laws of physics they could genuinely be called miracle cures. You ask me what Syntheism is and I give you music. Please welcome back Continental Drift with "Proud to be a Placebo."'

A string of silvery notes from the sitar drew in the others and a slow, majestic march emerged, evoking, in Claire's mind, a procession of elephants. She imagined herself on silk cushions in a howdah as a beautiful Indian boy waved a peacock fan...'

'This is Syntheistic music,' Abel whispered reverently. 'There are up to six melodies on the go at once, drawn from many different sources from folk-song to classical and blended into something new. Listen – can you hear Scarborough Fair?'

'Oh, yes! And the Pink Panther.' Claire laughed delightedly. 'They're good, aren't they? That cimbalom player's a real virtuoso.'

A peremptory rimshot doubled the tempo. An Irish jig skittered through a slow Shaker hymn and resolved into stomping Country and Western.

'Yee har!' whooped the sax-player and launched into song:

'Ah shore am proud to be a placebo 'Ah ain't the dumbest hee-haw on the farm 'Don't cast no stones from yore ol' glass gazebo 'Ef'n I ain't good at least I do no harm.

Chungalungalung the sitar banjoed while the sax wailed and the violin moved into gypsy fiddler mode. It was catchy stuff and at the singalong bits the audience joined in with gusto.

Twenty minutes and three songs later they segued into Hail to the Chief in a minor key as Waldo strolled back onstage and snapped a salute reminiscent of Bilko's Doberman. ('Ah, Doberman,' the Sarge once said, 'the son I never wanted.').

'Continental Drift,' Waldo emceed, leading the applause. 'Weren't they great? I hope that clears up any questions about Syntheism. There'll be more from Continental Drift later. But for now I'd like to talk about certainty. Everyone craves certainty. There's never been a time when we've known more and at the same time seen how much more there is to know. I'm not talking about facts. Even if you discount most of what's out there on the

net as mistaken or lying, there's enough hard fact there for a million lifetimes. But most of life is not fact, it is fantasy. We swim in a sea of spin. Who can we trust? Religious leaders who have lost all credibility? Scientists in the pocket of big business? Politicians? Mathematics offers a circumscribed certainty within its own rules but no-one would say to a lover: "You're the only square root of minus one for me." I think that most people would like to help the human race but who do we follow? In the words of the great Dylan (Bob, that is, not the selfstyled Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive):

Well God said to Abraham, kill me a son. Abe said: man, you must be puttin' me on God say no, Abe say whut? God say you can do what you want Abe, but The next time you see me comin' you'd better run So Abe say: where d'you want this killin' done? God say out on highway fifty-one.

Waldo beamed appreciatively. 'Beautiful bit of writing that is. Don't worry, though. There's a happy ending for all people of the book, if not for the people of Iraq. But the idea of sacrifice is still as strong as ever. People want to devote their lives to the service of something higher, but how do you find it? Tony Blair, for instance, worships power in the form of George Bush.' He waited for the jeers and catcalls to die down. 'The Toady and Jaws Show a friend of mine calls it. And these men are both followers of the Prince of Peace. Allegedly.' Waldo snorted then waxed serious again. 'How many Afghani lives have been sacrificed for their squalid goals? My own experience of the reality of sacrifice came during the Miners' Strike of the eighties. It was a good cause – to save our livelihoods and our communities, but sacrifice is a sort of magic ritual – a bargain with fate. See how I hurt myself to save you the trouble? Now you owe me one. But this time the sacrifice didn't work. There was no ram in a thicket. The prayer had been misdirected to Margaret Thatcher. That was the last gasp of workingclass solidarity in this country. Oh well. Mining was a horrible life, mind. I had a brother die of what we called pancake chest and an uncle whose legs were crushed in a fall. The miners' libraries were a desperate attempt to educate ourselves out of the pit. I was lucky. I had a surface job in charge of the explosives store. Now I still deal in explosives, but the explosives of ideas. It's up to you to use them well. Which brings us back to the question of certainty. For me, this is tied up with perfection. Now, perfection is a tricky concept in these relativistic times. There is a presumption that things can be indefinitely improved, but that is not so. I'm not talking about squeezing more memory into a computer or an anti-wrinkle cream that actually works, but about those states where any change would be a desecration and where the ideas of perfection, certainty and beauty come together. I call such states congruence – the feeling of being at one with the cosmic flow, of the perfect fitting together of pieces to make a beautiful whole. Of course the sense of beauty is subjective but all tastes rely on proportion and fitness and there is far more common ground than is generally supposed. Everyone has had moments of wonder and fulfilment. Often the

stimulus is love or altered states of mind, or music. That is, sex and drugs and rock 'n roll. But, as I have said, these glimpses are fleeting. You require training and discipline to realise your full potential. I have devised various techniques and exercises which work for many people and may well work for you. The first thing is to embrace paradox. Paradox is part of life because our clumsy categories trip over themselves. It is simply true that you can be strong when weak, most yourself when least yourself, wise when foolish and serious when playful. As Sydney Smith once said of a pompous cousin who had been promoted ahead of him in the church: "He rose by his gravity while I sank by my levity."'

The shadows of three jet fighters flashed over the tent followed by their air-rending roar. Claire jumped and clutched Abel's arm. He smiled and patted her hand.

Waldo clowned fearful scrutiny and cupped a hand to his ear to be sure they'd gone. When peace had been restored he continued: 'Well, I was going to stir you to a frenzy like but those planes have put me right off my stroke. I feel shattered. I'm off for a cup of tea and a cream bun. We'll meet again later, but for now please welcome back Continental Drift with To See a World.'

Exit to cheers.

The band struck up with a sort of Latin sea-shanty and soon the tent shuddered with the bellowing of Blake's words:

Joy and Woe are woven fine A clothing for the Soul Divine Under every Grief and Pine Runs a Joy with silken twine...

Claire had always loved the power of a choir in full cry and, as soon as she'd picked up the tune, joined in a third above Abel.

Chapter 4

As they were walking out after the performance, Abel stopped a man who'd been sitting in the middle of the front row taking notes. Despite the warm day this worthy was wearing a zipped-up blue windbreak, grey flannels and heavy black shoes.

'Hi, I'm Abel,' the boy volunteered. 'Are you a journalist? I saw you taking notes.'

'Stan.' A grudging handshake. Dead grey eyes. Boozer's venous nose. Thin black hair, badly cut. 'No, I'm not a reporter. I was just jotting down a few things for my own use.'

'Well, if you get them typed up, I'd love a copy,' Abel gushed. 'I'd be more than happy to pay you for your trouble.'

A cold stare. 'No, I told you they're for my own use. Now excuse me, I got stuff to do.'

He turned his back on them and strode away. 'Well, I call that jolly rude.' Claire flushed with anger. 'What a horrible man. Even if

they were just personal notes there was no need to be so nasty about them.' Abel looked shaken. 'They weren't just notes.' He shook his head. 'I know shorthand

when I see it. He took down every word.' 'Nu, he's a spy of some sort. Or a policeman,' said Danny, who'd hovered on the

sidelines. 'Those shoes, my dear. Always a dead giveaway. Not to mention the chunky nine-carat gold chain round his wrist. I suppose it's flattering to see the powers-that-be taking such an interest in Waldo. After all, he does represent a danger to them, but not for the reasons they think. The trouble is that they have no sense of humour. They don't see that Waldo's at his most serious when flippant. He tells the story of an old Jew knocked down by a bus outside a church. A priest rushes out to deliver the last rites, bends over and asks: "Do you believe in God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost?" Abie looks up at him and says: "Here in the street I'm dying and he asks me riddles."'

Abel laughed loudly while Claire's brow cleared and she ventured a tentative titter.

'I liked "you're the only square root of minus one for me." Abel smiled in the face of his companions' incomprehension. 'It's a mathematicians joke,' he conceded. 'The square root of minus one is a theoretical impossibility and yet it's the basis of an incredibly useful branch of maths called imaginary numbers. Now to compare a woman to an imaginary number is not as insulting as it first appears. We are all each others' creations. As Waldo says: "Most of eye is me." That's e-y-e eye folks. In other words, we see mostly ourselves in other people. But don't worry, Pompom. I've seen enough to know that you're the only one for me.'

The hug affectionate. Claire's mucous plug melted.

'There's an hour till the storytelling workshop,' said Claire after a quick glance at her watch. 'Julia says that there's a lovely walk through the woods to the top of that hill. Apparently you can see right over to Warminster. I've got apples and chocolate and water for if we succumb to hunger.'

'Good idea. Let's go. Coming, Danny?'

'No thanks. I'll just sit here and meditate.' He sat on the grass, slipped easily into a lotus position, closed his eyes and turned his pale face to the sun.

'Oh, come on, Danny.' Claire disbelievingly heard her mother's brisk tones in her mouth. 'It's not as if we'll be alone. There's quite a crowd headed in that direction.'

'Yeh, come,' urged Abel. You know you want to. There are a couple of things I'd like to discuss.'

'Well, I don't want to be a gooseberry, but if you're sure I won't be in the way...' 'Don't be silly.' Claire, falsely bright. 'Okay, I'll come as far as the woods, but then I'll probably wander off by myself,

looking for inspirations for jewellery. I'm into fiddletop ferns at the moment. Something in silver and amethyst, perhaps. Und in mein pocket,' he Yiddled, 'I've got it a nize sqvare halvah. Lazgo.'

They went. In the green-stained air of a stand of beeches, bluebells made pools of twilight. Wafts of honeyed perfume came and went. Julia and 'Barry' strode by in single file with gruff but cheery greetings, making, with their hillwalking sticks, a giant spider.

'Gosh, I hope I'll be as spry at that age,' said Claire, widening her eyes. 'Look at them go!'

'I wouldn't mind being half as spry at my age,' joked Danny ruefully. 'How old would you say Julia was?'

'Early seventies?' Claire obligingly guessed low.

'Eighty-two. She's a couple of years older than Barry. What a woman. She was quite the socialist firebrand in her day. She knew Bernard Shaw and had a fling with H.G. Wells. And don't get her started on showbiz. She knew Ivor Novello and Dorothy Squires and Alastair Sim. She was an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist to the stars but she also ran an NHS clinic in Brixton. Then, five years ago she fell into such a deep depression that she tried to take her own life.'

'She would have succeeded too if Barry hadn't been bumped off a flight and come home unexpectedly,' was Abel's sober assessment. 'Being a doctor, she knew what she was doing so she'd swallowed enough barbiturates to kill a horse. Luckily, they got to her in time but it was touch and go.'

'But why did she want to kill herself?' Claire, young and falling in love, saw with fresh horror the shadow of the scythe.

'There were a number of factors,' Danny shrugged helplessly, 'but they boiled down to a loss of faith. She'd seen the betrayal of all her socialist dreams and now her beloved NHS was being privatised by New Labour. After they pumped her out she was sick for a long time. She used to slump in front of the box all day drinking Special Brew. Barry was at his wit's end.'

'That's awful.' Claire bit her lip. 'Didn't she have anyone else? No children or anything?'

'No, she thought it was unethical to have children in an overpopulated world. She wanted to adopt but was turned down by the agency because of her "unstable" lifestyle. Also, it's fair to say that she'd alienated all her friends. She had a brother in New Zealand but they hadn't spoken in years. What snapped her out of it was an interview with Waldo on Richard and Judy.'

'It was a silly little joke which got her,' Abel fondly chuckled. 'Richard was asking about faith healing and Waldo was, as usual, denying that he had any special powers. Then he said: "I'm getting better at the miracles, mind. I can already turn wine into water."' Abel waited for Claire's agreeably shocked giggle. 'Julia said she hadn't laughed like that in a long time. She couldn't wait to see what he'd say next. Well, obviously I've got the whole interview on DVD, but basically she was drawn into the philosophy underlying the corny jokes. When he said: "Suffering is optional" it was like a revelation to her. So simple, but it says everything worth saying.'

'So you reckon Syntheism cured her depression?' Claire wanted to believe. 'Well, Julia's in no doubt about it.' Abel's calm and kindly smile. 'At least she says it's either Syntheism or St. John's Wort or neither or both.' Danny

laid out a plate of chopped logic sprinkled with hardboiled eggs. 'The main thing is that she's happier now than she's ever been.'

The path forked and Danny halted. 'I think I'll leave you here,' he announced. He took a clingwrapped block of halva out of his pocket and broke it in three. They munched the sweet chokiness, glad of Claire's bottle of water. Danny turned aside and soon his black hat, coat and knee-britches were lost among the trees although there was still the odd

flash of pink from his dangling ringlets. The lovers coalesced and walked on to a glade where sunlight lit up the fine green

grass like neon fur. A hawthorn filled the air with musk. Young oak leaves went from red to yellow to green like vegetable traffic lights. Birds sang, spiders spun, bees buzzed.

Claire lay back on the dry leaf litter. God, it was peaceful. She closed her eyes and let contentment seep through her.

Abel glanced at the time then lay down beside her. They held hands while they basked. A group of Syntheists, including the fat black lady, came by and exchanged greetings. 'Do we have to go back?' Claire murmured sleepily. 'It's so nice here.' 'You make it hard for me...'

'...as the actress remarked to the bishop.' Claire deployed her pal Angela's pert retort. 'Ooh, you saucy baggage.' Abel had a weakness for Frankie Howerd. They grappled clumsily for a kiss and cuddle. Claire was alarmed and excited at how

huge his cock felt. Abel sighed deeply, had a last moist kiss and broke away. More passers by. Family with three kids. Yes, a beautiful morning. 'We'd better go,' Abel warned her. We don't want to be late for our storytelling

workshop. And I must have a word with Waldo about that Stan fellow. We'll come back later, I promise.'

They hurried down. Perhaps Abel's haste was a bit disturbing but his obvious need to follow his Moses to the promised land showed a loving nature so Claire let herself be hustled on.

The marquee had pupped while they were gone and was now flanked by two smaller tents in the family red and white. Through the rolled-up sides of the nearer tent she could see a tarpaulin scattered with bean-bags and a small stage. A banner across the entrance announced: Storytelling – Condestruction or Which Road Would Your Brother Have Said? Tickets were strictly limited but Abel had booked well in advance. He was an organised kind of guy. Claire had heard the storyteller's name on the folk circuit. She loved fairy stories and folktales and had long wanted to try her hand at something like that herself.

Abel went off to find Waldo so Claire queued to get in and baggsied them a couple of bean bags. Abel hove into view, with Waldo in tow.

'Waldo, I'd like you to meet Claire, the love of my life. Claire – Waldo, who made me capable of love.'

Handshake and polite acknowledgements. They settled on their beanbags with Abel on the right, Claire on the left and Waldo behind and between them. Waldo proffered toffees but they'd scarcely begun to suck and chew than a bigboned bloke who could have been a brickie's mate or a rugby player loped onto the stage. His blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. Black denims, tooled cowboy boots, blue shirt and embroidered waistcoat.

'Hi, people. I'm Mike Mutter,' he announced in pungent Brummie. 'This is the storytelling workshop – if anyone wants the Javanese shadow-puppets, they're in the tent next door.' He paused as if for a sudden exodus but everyone stayed put. 'OK then. Here's what we'll do. I'll tell a story then we can pick it to pieces and dance on its grave. And then bring it back to life. My story today is taken from an old Icelandic saga – I call it Snorrie's Raven.'

Mike started off abrasively and unashamedly gave it his all. Now he was a roaring Viking hero, now a spitting crone. As the tale unwound, a lyrical note crept in and by the time of its hushed end he had the audience literarily in the palm of his honestly dirty hand. The end. Claire blinked away tears and the audience, after a poignant moment, broke into more than polite applause.

'Thank you, thank you.' Hands up to stop the flagging clapping. 'Thank you. I'd like to crack on for the minute. I promise there'll be plenty of time for questions later. Now the first thing in storytelling,' Mike's voice sank to a whisper, 'is to grab,' (sudden bellow) 'the audience's attention. Shouting can work' (diminuendo) 'but we're not all Brian Blessed. I like to put the audience a bit on edge at first because many of them don't even realise that the storytelling tradition in this country still persists.' Yay. 'They see this guy with a thick Brummie accent and they don't know how they're supposed to react. What if he's toecurlingly awful? Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Hope he doesn't pick on me.' Mike smiled impishly. 'So you've got a little tingle of fear. Now you must establish trust...'

Mike had obviously done this sort of thing before and turned in a competent lecture. Several people took notes, including a suited and booted Indian businessman. Waldo himself scribbled something on the back of his cigarette pack. Abel liked the graphical representations of plotlines which Mike had nicked from Vonnegut. As for the title of the workshop, Mike understood condestruction to be opposed to deconstruction (Waldo nodded graciously) in that it took dead pieces and constructed a living entity from them rather than the other way round. The subtitle (Which Road Would Your Brother Have Said?) came from 'an old riddle that I first heard as a kid growing up in Rubery.' A lifted finger commanded attention. 'It goes like this. Two brothers lived at a fork in the road. One was an upright member of the community who always told the truth but his brother was a really bad lot who always lied. As is the way in these stories, the traveller is allowed only one question. One road leads to a den of murderers and thieves and the other to a beautiful palace on a hill. What one question can the traveller ask to be sure of finding his way? Will those among you who know the answer please keep it to yourselves?' Again the impish grin. A pause. A sigh of mock exasperation. 'The answer is: "which road would your brother have said?" All the traveller then needs to do is to take the other road. Figure it out yourselves. In fact, that's a good example of the principle of tension and release...' And Mike plunged into the thickets of theory. He ended with another story, this time from the Bushmen of the Kalahari and handed over to Waldo (if he would be so kind) to lead the discussion. Waldo stood, slung his beanbag over his shoulder and walked on to the stage where he plonked it down and sat.

'Damn braces, bless relaxes as Blake so wisely put it. I'd like to thank Mike Mutter for a most illuminating talk on the theory and practice of storytelling.' Waldo led a fresh spatter of applause. 'I picked up a good few tips myself. We can all learn from each other. Hitler had a favourite clown whose movies he studied for hours. All we see of Hitler is the ranting demagogue but that was the climax of a long act which had been staged as carefully as a Wagner opera. So much of what is said lies – as it were – in the way that it's said. But not all. Which road would your brother have said?shows how to extract truth from lies – for a good lie always contains the seeds of truth. Everything I say is

technically a lie given the fuzziness of words and the huge wastes of my ignorance, which sprawls in all directions. Telling stories is like whistling in the dark to keep up our courage, but it is also giving form and meaning to our lives. Now then, let's have some questions for my friend by yur.'

Abel had a highly technical question about how condestruction related to contraplexionism but Waldo somehow missed the respectfully-raised hand right under his nose and went for a middle-aged lady in pink dungarees.

'Yes, Shirley. What would you like to ask Mike?'

'Well, I'm a choreographer and I just love the way he uses his legs. So, Mike, just how important is body language to the art of storytelling?'

Mike bounced to his feet. 'That's a very good question, Shirley. Eric Morecambe always said that a comedian needed good legs.' Mike did Groucho's bent-kneed scuttle across the stage and back and picked up a few laughs. 'I always tell my students that storytelling is also a visual art,' he resumed. 'In this visually-overloaded age we need all the help we can get. We don't have sets, or costumes, so it's all got to be done with the voice and the face and the body. I watch myself in the mirror and of course I study the masters of movement, but I try and keep it spontaneous. It's not a language in the way that say ballet's a language but everyone knows the difference between a kiss and a kick in the pants. But I'm not proud, me. If Shirley has any suggestions as to how I can improve my legwork, I'd love to hear them. No? Perhaps later then.'

There were questions about storytelling as a career and about fairy tales and folksong. Then three aspiring young storytellers did their stuff which was patronisingly eviscerated by Mike who then handed over to Waldo for a few words.

'Cottage cheese.' Waldo paused for the punchline, 'it's just a curd to me,' (There were one or two groans at the pun) that stories give shape and meaning to life.' Waldo sat up as straight as his beanbag would allow. 'And often, the more they lie, the more they tell the truth. Blair's lies about Israel, for instance, tell us the truth about Blair. And talk about body language. When he says: "I believe passionately" he could sue his face for libel. So truth is multifaceted and contingent. Once you have eliminated the impossible, the merely improbable becomes a bit more likely. Trouble is, there's such a lot of improbability about. Life is improbable. How can we act when we can't trust the basis of our conclusions? Again, there are things that we know in our bones although we might struggle to put them into words. Again we fall back on metaphor. Some folk are like rocks in the river, resisting as the water swirls about them. And the stream would be dull indeed without them. I like to think of myself as more like a leaf,' Waldo fluttered a fat little hand, 'floating down the stream to the sea of divinity. Each person must find their own truth. All I can tell you is what's worked for me. To find yourself, you must first lose yourself. Listen for your own voice singing other people's songs. In this egotistical age, the most interesting things about us are not our differences but what we have in common with others. Conscience begins where reason ends and artlessness starts with art. Now go out there and tell your stories, spread those lovely lies.' Waldo winked broadly and smiled as he got to his feet and left the stage to mildly wild applause. He didn't come back. A knot formed around Mike Mutter. People streamed out of the tent.

Abel was still getting it all down with puzzlement and relief alternating on his face

when Claire tugged at his elbow. Waldo was furtively beckoning from the wings. Abel dashed over with Claire in his wake as Waldo edged back out of sight. They followed him to the tent within a tent which passed for a dressing-room. Waldo arranged his beanbag and sat while Claire and Abel subsided onto the groundsheet.

'Sorry about that cloak-and-dagger stuff,' Waldo apologised in a low voice, 'but I wanted a few minutes alone with just the two of you. Now then, Abel,' (hand on arm), 'it's accountancy you're doing, isn't it?'

Abel nodded apprehensively.

'And you're unhappy that much of your work is morally questionable – staying within the letter of the law even when the spirit is flouted?'

'Yes,' sighed Abel. 'That's it exactly.' At last, someone who understood. Was there anything Waldo didn't know?

'Well, would you be interested in helping me? There's no hurry, mind. Go on and get your degree. But I've set up a foundation and I'll need honest accountants. And Claire, you're reading English and Media Studies isn't it?'

'Yes, that's right.' Claire was touched that he'd remembered, despite suspecting some con. I'm hoping to get into journalism when I finish.'

'I could probably get you a vac job with my Press Office. She's called Val. A very capable woman. Used to work on The Independent. Unless you're fixed up already?' 'No. I mean, no I'm not fixed up. Gosh, yes, thank you. I'd love to work with her.

What would I have to do?' 'Oh, a bit of everything. Setting up interviews, press releases, answering letters,

dealing with the media and making tea. You don't have to be a Syntheist, by the way. There's always room for a sceptical view. The toast on which we spread the butter of rebuttal.' Bit-ter of rebit-tal. 'The main thing is to be honest and go with the flow.'

Gaw with the flaw.

'What a nice man,' Claire thought, cautiously shifting her bruised limbs into a new alignment. 'He's really just an old softy at heart. But he's got that old Welsh charm in spades.' She smiled sweetly.

As Claire visibly thawed towards Waldo, Abel's heart swelled with gladness, relieved that the two people most important to him in the world were hitting it off. 'Did you find out any more about that fellow, Stan?' Abel asked Waldo with real concern.

'No, but I wouldn't be surprised if the government's got its eye on me. Quite right too.' Waldo grinned like an evil cherub. 'Syntheism does represent a danger to them and their kind, if from an unexpected direction. Paradox is not the same as incompatibility. Some things are impossible to reconcile. You can't rape the earth with impunity, for instance. More wealth doesn't of itself mean more happiness. You can imagine how capitalists like that sort of attitude. And governments don't like it when you point out that foreign aid and debt relief are a mere trickle compared to the capital flooding out of the underdeveloped world. We connive at corruption and stack the deck. The difference between us and the Chinese is that they keep the exploited poor in their own country – whereas we've outsourced ours. The medical profession hates me because I say "heal yourself" and organised religion hates me because I cut the crap. But they can't scare me. Dying's no big deal. Imagine the bliss of dissipating into other forms of life. That stuff

about everlasting souls I call divinity fudge in that it tastes sweet but rots the teeth. The personal me will live on, if at all, in my works and in the distortions of my disciples, God bless 'em. But I thought you should know that I have powerful enemies before getting too involved.'

'I am already involved,' insisted Abel. 'Syntheism is the most important development in human history. It's going to change the world and I would like to be a part of it.'

'Me too.' Claire thought the idea of a personal threat ridiculous – this was England after all – but showing solidarity with Abel was what it was all about. She snuggled up against him. 'I can't wait to get started.'

'So young,' Waldo gently mocked, 'so foolish. Welcome aboard the Truth Express. It's a sort of combination of Pravda and Prada. And it focuses on money. If you want to understand life today, look at money. The business pages of the newspapers are where we look for the real news. The idea of my foundation is to track money flows around the world. I already have two good men trawling through the accounts of the war in Afghanistan and if you, Abel, would like a vac job, they would welcome some help. That said, it's tedious, grinding work. Every fact must be backed up and triple-checked and at the end of the day, information can be useful to both sides. The exposure of government corruption often merely advertises the fact that they are corruptible. And facts are not truth. Truth is an interpretation of many facts and we often get it wrong. But as Nietzsche pointed out, when philosophers talk of the fallibility of the senses, they forget to point out that mistakes of the senses are corrected only by further sensation. It is all too easy to fall into the elephant-pits of error. Always carry a rope and grapnel.' Waldo chuckled at the image of of himself as a podgy Welshman struggling up out of a hole. 'The main thing is to keep cheerful. We are nothing, specks of cosmic dust and yet the entire universe exists through us and we through it. Without consciousness we are dead and yet the powers that be are doing everything they can to hobble creativity while loudly proclaiming the opposite. That is why, as a spiritual leader, I have an obligation to meddle in politics. We can't even begin to debate the future of humanity until we cut through the lies that surround us and the best way for that is to follow the money. So, Abel, want to give it a go? Turn your dark arts to good?'

Waldo's bright blue eyes caught and held those of his acolyte. Abel was one big grin. 'Wow, sure Waldo. I'd be honoured.' 'And Claire, bach. Would you be willing to turn these revelations into comprehensible

prose without fear or favour?' 'I'll try my best. It's a fantastic opportunity. Thank you so much!' 'Well, let's not get too excited. Think about what I've said and discuss it among

yourselves. Trainees get twice the minimum wage. The hours won't encroach on your studies. It's all on the website. Just now I'm off for a cup of tea and a little lie-down before tonight's session. We'll talk again later.'

All three scrambled to their feet, shook hands and left. Waldo slipped out the back way but was even so quickly spotted and surrounded by a small crowd as he made his way to the little caravan in the corner of the field where he left them. The caravan was one of those hunchbacked sixties efforts and Waldo had got a couple of graffiti-spraying kids to paint its sides to resemble a snail. The flimsy door opened and clicked shut and he was

gone. The field next to the tent had filled up with stalls and the crowd was swelling by the

minute. There was food and drink as well as henna tattoos, ethnic clothing, magic crystals and the like. The bookshop had copies of Waldo's works amid the usual occult rubbish of astrology, tarot and the Book of Changes. The young lovers went off in search of food and what Claire called 'retail therapy'.

They found Danny eating a bacon bap and drinking a raspberry milkshake with elaborate unconcern. Claire opted for a veggie burger while Abel went for the brown-rice dolmadis. Both were disappointing but the Diet Cokes were up to scratch. They strolled down the little street of stalls and Danny insisted on buying Claire a dragonfly pin which had caught her eye.

Abel went off to see if the bookstall had any of Waldo's writings which he hadn't yet got. No such luck. He flicked through a book on numerology, amused at the contortions needed to make the numbered letters of Hitler add up to 666. And yet Waldo held that almost any system had a certain validity as a way of looking at the world. He'd invented a diet, for instance, which consisted of eating, in order of groups of three, all the foodstuffs starting with ch- in the 1972 Chambers Dictionary. Thus you started with cha, chad and Chambertin and finished with chufa, chump and chutney. Waldo had tried it himself for a month and had lost four pounds and gained a recipe for chips, chipmunk (well, squirrel) and chipolata. Contraplexionism explained how truth could reside in absurdity or, as Waldo put it: 'The eye of wisdom sees through fraud, if you'll pardon the pun'. Through and through. Abel was siezed with gratitude at his incredible luck at being alive and in the same country as the greatest man who'd ever lived.

This reverie was cut short by Claire, who arrived with a roll of bubblewrap which she'd bought from the pottery stall. She announced that she was going back to the tent for a lie-down. Was Abel coming?

Too bloody right.

Inside the tent it was stifling even with both vents open. They rolled out the bubblewrap and laid the sleeping-bags on top of it then stripped in the hot orange glare and stretched out beside each other. Claire was aware that only a couple of microns of fabric concealed her exciting shamelessness from the outside world. Around them the campsite drifted about its business. Snatches of conversation ebbed and flowed. Someone nearby was struggling with the chords to House of the Rising Sun.

Abel drank in the loveliness of Claire's body. The ineffable sweetness of the sole of her foot as she'd knelt to get her top off; the perky little tits with their stiff brown nipples; the bushy arrow pointing between her thighs; (If you wannit here it is, come an' geddit...); the darling dimples above her bum.

Claire had seen representations of the male nude ranging from high art to pornography and, as a sixteen-year-old, a flasher had flashed her in an underpass. But even Robert Mapplethorpe hadn't prepared her for Abel's purple-headed monster. The words pork and sword came nastily to mind. Where was she going to put it? She grasped Abel's pretty average manhood with both hands. A drop of clear fluid oozed at its tip and she smeared it over the glans, eliciting a deep groan of lust. They kissed with tongues. Abel's caresses moved slowly down Claire's body to her pudenda. He stroked the springy nap and let his

finger follow the warm moist cleft down to the clitoris and to the vagina beyond. 'Ooh yes!' whispered Claire hungrily. 'Rub there. That's nice.' She opened her legs a

little. Abel found the opening and pushed in an exploratory finger just as someone tripped

over one of their guy-ropes with a twang, making the tent shudder. Claire's cunt snapped shut, clamping down on the imprisoned digit like an infant's gummy mouth. She had read of vaginismus in women's magazines but that cut no ice

with her vaginal sphincter. It was bloody painful. Tears of humiliation flooded her eyes. They lay rigid as any attempt by Abel to remove his finger resulted in an increased

tightening. He found it hard to believe that this frail and gentle creature lying beside him could muster such strength. His finger had gone dead.

'I'm so sorry,' Claire whispered desolately. 'What a wimp. Ow!'

'It's OK my darling.' Abel stroked her hair with his free hand. 'It doesn't matter. We've got the rest of our lives to get it right. As Waldo says: "We must learn from musicians how to beat time."' He kissed away her tears and propped himself up on one elbow. A strip of bubble-wrap on a rock ruptured sequentially like a fart.

'Claire!' Abel hammed shock.

She laughed and the spasm loosened her. Abel retrieved his finger. They lay kissing and cuddling. Claire shyly offered Abel a handjob and tried her inexperienced best but after ten minutes of futile frottage Abel gently took over and with a few practiced strokes spurted spunk up over his stomach and onto the wall of the tent behind him. Claire wondered whether she was expected to lick it up like the spunk-hungry slut she wasn't, but Abel was already busy with the Kleenex.

She started to apologise and explain but Abel sealed her lips with a long soulful kiss and they snuggled stickily together for a nap. One hour. Two. The guitarist had long given up and the only sounds were of the funfair and the rumble of distant traffic.

Pom pom pom Pom perompom pompom... Match of the day? Abel opened an eye. No, bloody ringtone. Mobiles were supposedly banned.

'Hullo.' The voice sounded just outside the tent but was actually a few yards away. 'Yes, Stan here. No, tomorrow. There are a couple more sessions to cover. Once I get all this shit down I reckon we can make him an offer he can't refuse.'

Abel kneeled up to look through the fly-screen of the vent. Yes, it was Stan, that bastard who'd dissed him before. He was standing in a clearing between the tents and kept looking unobtrusively around him. Once he stared straight at the tent and Abel was sure he'd been seen but Stan gave no sign that this was so. Abel heard only a tinny squawk as Stan listened intently to his mobile then said: 'No, I'm not sure what he's up to but something's not kosher. He'd better be able to fucking do miracles. OK. I'll call in tomorrow for my cash. Bye, Pete.'

Abel sank slowly back on his heels wearing only a puzzled frown. His ruminations were disturbed by a playful tugging at his toes.

'Moses supposes his toeses are roses,' said Claire, childishly cocking her head and opening big innocent eyes, 'but Moses supposes erroneously. For nobody's toeses are made out of roses as Moses supposes his toeses to be.'

'This little piggy went to market,' Abel retaliated, wiggling the smallest of Claire's

toes, but she pulled back her foot with a gay shriek which required a plethora of soothing kisses. One thing led to another. A condom was produced and (eventually) fitted and this time penetration successfully took place. Even the stinging pain of her ruptured hymen didn't make Claire clench.

'You're right inside me,' she observed with astonishment. 'Ooh, aah, oh. That's nice.' 'I'm coming,' panted Abel. 'Yes, my darling, come! Don't worry about me.' Abel orgasmed and all his frets and pains were swallowed up in a vast warm

blackness. There was humility, gratitude, pride and a deep sense of caring for the little creature in his arms. She gently pushed away his obliging finger and snuggled into his side.

Abel closed his eyes and saw Stan. Typical of a cunt like that to sneer at Waldo, whose shoes he wasn't fit to lick. Waldo, he was sure, had him sussed – but could such a noble soul envisage treachery and spite?

The shadow of a hedge crept over the tent and within minutes the stifling air had chilled. Claire woke up.

Congruence was only a few short hours away. They began to get ready.

Chapter 5

Spruced up and fed, the lovers took a long walk in the woods. Violet twilight suffused the sky as they made their way back. There was Venus, moistly twinkling. Bats flitted about with gleeful screams or in uncanny silence depending on the age of the listeners' ears. Claire heard them, Abel didn't. Flickering candles marked out the path to the marquee which was lit by a soft yellow glow.

Claire felt cowily content. So sex was painful and uncomfortable and unsettlingly invasive but she'd done it at last. The sticky blood on her panty-liner proved that she was a virgin no longer. Now there was only this congruence thing to fear. She didn't know if she could yield to both Abel and Divine Power in one day.

As for Abel, life had never felt sweeter. The boy who'd been toying with thoughts of suicide or (same thing) joining the Royal Navy, had vanished. Syntheism had saved him and through Syntheism he'd found Claire. He'd been a more loving person since his conversion and hence more capable of being loved.

'What exactly is congruence?' Claire looked up at him with an earnest frown.

'Well, it's a bit like learning to tune a guitar. You know how you can put little paper riders on the strings. When they jump off if another string plays the same note it shows they're resonating together. Well, that's what congruence is like. Waldo says that God is like a deep bass note within everyone and everything. If the strings of your heart are tuned to its overtones its like having a full orchestra behind you. Not only that but you're suddenly in tune with the rest of the universe. It's an incredibly empowering feeling. So much of life is sour and flat simply because it's out of tune. You know that book of Waldo's called Hip-G-nosis? (Abel hard-sounded the G.) Well, that's a book of practical techniques to attain congruence. There are Chapters like Nirvana on a Sunday and Sartorial Sartori. Congruence is a coming together or at-one-ment. Like the Christian idea of atonement but without the self-vilification. It's more like simply getting beyond oneself and one's petty problems. Imagine a man hanging onto a cliff by his fingernails without realising that his feet are only inches off the ground. Let go, lose yourself. You'll be fine.'

'But I don't want to lose myself,' wailed Claire coquettishly. 'I've only just started to find out who I am. I'm afraid of losing my mind.'

'Oh, come on,' scoffed Abel patronisingly. 'You mustn't believe all that media rubbish about brainwashing and mass psychosis. Congruence isn't all or nothing. Like that golfer replied when someone said how lucky he'd been to get a hole in one: "The funny thing is – the more I practise the luckier I get." Losing yourself is like playing music. You play best when you forget yourself and let the music take over. I know for myself that the moment I start thinking I've rattled off a difficult bit rather well, I start making mistakes.'

'Yes, yes. That's it exactly.' Had there ever, Claire wondered, been such a miraculous rapport between two people? She yielded. Let Abel lead and she would faithfully follow, trampling her feminist ideas as she went. God, she was cheap. She watched her beloved's lips, wondering that she'd never before realised just how attractive that chiselled groove under a nose could be. She remembered an old Glums LP of Dad's which included Eth enumerating Ron's good qualities: 'Well, he's quiet and he's patient and....he's got well- shaped ears.' She giggled and Abel smiled his sad, compassionate smile. A kiss, a hug and they rejoined the people streaming into the tent. It was a warm summer evening and the sweet smell of newmown hay was in the air. Danny had kept them seats and was busy performing with a handkerchief. 'Hayfever,' he explained, sneezing five or six times in demonstration. 'I'm hoping Waldo will cure me although I've fressed a handful of antihistamines just in case. Should kick in soon. Haachoo! Proot!'

Other members of the audience were also coughing or sneezing. They were an unhealthy-looking bunch. There was a drawn-faced child slumped in a wheelchair, arms and legs like a pile of kindling. A bald woman with bruise-blue bags under her eyes was gnawing prayerlocked knuckles. A dwarf. A hunchback. The flickering candlelight did strange things to people's faces. The audience was mostly middleclass with a sprinkling of 'ethnics' and workers and to Claire it seemed that there was a brittleness to the laughter and chatter and a look of desperate hunger on more than one face. She felt pity and disgust. She'd never been good with the sick. The annual school concert at the old- age home had been torture to her. The smell of human leakage and cheap pine disinfectant was still in her nostrils. Of course, if Abel were to fall ill... She let her heart dwell on tender pictures of nurturing; the wiping of the brow, the bringing of beef tea (whatever that was). The object of her imagination passed over a packet of sweets courtesy of Danny.

'Ooh! Dolly mixture! My favourite. Thanks, Danny.' She took a small handful and started nibbling one at a time.

'See our friend Stan there, front right?' Abel pointed with his head.

She saw. He had a briefcase resting on his lap on which were a pad and biro. His eyes slid over her face with no sign of recognition.

Danny's sneeze ricocheted about the tent and Claire felt a chill. Abel was brighteyed

with excitement. He patted her hand and she smiled bravely up at him. Continental Drift strolled on-stage. No-one clapped. It seemed the mood was too

sacred for that, but there were murmurs of appreciation. 'One, two, free, fawer' counted the sitarist in a South London accent and the band

came in. The tune had the touching simplicity of a Shaker hymn. The fiddle soared and

swooped against a spare cimbalom accompaniment. Claire saw mercury beads on black velvet and the knot in her guts began to ease. The coughing and sneezing had stopped and even Danny had put away his handkerchief. There was only the odd grunt or rustle as people settled.

The sax came in, it's cheery razz transformed into Hodgesesque honey.

Claire closed her eyes. It had been a busy day after a sleepless night. She'd lost her virginity, consolidated her love, made some new friends, been offered an amazing job and taken a couple of brisk walks in the fresh air. She let the music carry her away.

Gawts. What on earth were gawts? Stiff neck. She realised she'd fallen asleep leaning on Abel's shoulder. Ugh. There was a trail of drool down his sleeve. Abel absentmindedly gave her a little hug without taking his eyes off the stage on which Waldo was now in full flight. He didn't even glance round when she dabbed him with a tissue. Gawts again.

'...sheep from the gawts,' Waldo was saying. Ah, goats! He continued, more intelligibly to Claire's retuned ears: 'Now I know goats and I'd be a pretty poor Welshman if I knew nothing about sheep, although neither in the biblical sense of "know". Goats are characters. They are indeed the lusty, crafty, stinking beasts of folklore. The devil wasn't given goat's feet for nothing. You can see where Matthew got his ideas about Judgement Day.'

Waldo went on to talk about sin – could one even use the word with a straight face these days? Might not the word error be more apt? Imagine, he said, a room full of compasses, each influenced by those around it and pointing every which way. Congruence was like the application of a strong magnetic field which aligned them all in the same direction.

The band, which had been noodling around a single chord for some time, began the gentle rise and fall of warm waves lapping a pink coral beach. Waldo's rhythm became incantatory, almost hypnotic. The back wall of the tent had been rolled up and behind Waldo the rim of a full moon began to rise above the hills.

'We hide behind masks, behind walls of convention, behind hatred and fear.' Waldo saw all, comprehended all. 'We see ourselves in the funfair mirrors of the media flattering us one minute and scaring our socks off the next. Because you are worth it, the adverts say, as long as you've money to spend. But there is another way. The joke is that although we are nothing in cosmic terms, we can yet be a part of everything. Let us sing "Openings".'

With the first notes the moon broke clear of the hill and began its slow climb. Waldo seemed to cradle it in his outstretched arms like a latterday Atlas. As a coup de theatre it took some beating. Moonlight filled the tent, cool where the candles were warm. There was a collective sigh of wonder and of blissful release. Claire found herself breathing in time to the music. The little voice that insisted the whole thing was hokum felt ashamed

of its cynicism and retired muttering under its breath. The chorus swelled:

'Open us up to the power of divinity Open our eyes to the sight of infinity Open our ears To the song of the spheres

Open our hearts To felicity's arts Women open up your legs Activate your fertile eggs.'

There was not a single snigger at the last couplet. Hushed wonder was the order of the day. The music began a long diminuendo.

'As rivers flow to confluence Let souls combine in congruence Sweet healing powers of congruence Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.'

Calando down to a slow seesaw on bowed bass. The calling third.

'Feel the power,' urged Waldo softly. 'Let down your guard and let the life-force in. Gentle rain is falling on parched earth; feel the seeds moisten and swell. In the torn and trampled fields of Flanders poppies blaze among the corn.'

As Waldo's voice murmured soothingly on, Claire stopped hearing the words and let herself be lulled by his musical cadences. The sax player picked up a bass clarinet and wove Sarastro's invocation from the Magic Flute into the mix.

Abel's eyes were closed and he shook his head with bliss. It was not unlike the moment when his blindly butting cock, that questing beast, had first slipped its tip into Claire's vagina. The resistance, then the sudden yielding as his most vulnerable part was accepted, cocooned, caressed. He sneaked a look at Claire to see how she was getting on.

In the moonlight Claire's face was white and her eyes were black under her black fringe. The soft corner where her mouth melted childishly into her cheek was simply adorable. He closed his eyes again and willed the vast wave of congruence to crest. Yes. Yes! No, not quite yet.

Waldo's verbal foreplay continued: 'Perfection is an alien concept these days. "No- one's perfect" is the perfect excuse for anything from theft to adultery. It's true that we're all ignorant and that we are blown about like weathercocks by the winds of fear and vanity but we can become perfect. Not alone, mind, but in that harmony with others which allows the fullest possible use of our unique gifts.' He oozed sincerity. 'Let us open our hearts to the sweet healing joy of the Divine Purpose. Join me in singing Bread on the Water.'

The band obliged with a swoony intro and they were in:

'Lose yourself to find yourself Put yourself behind yourself Seek the light and bye-and-bye The smallest puddle cups the sky...'

The tune had a tango tang but Claire's choir-trained ear noted a sprinkling of professional-sounding voices in the harmony. Had Waldo brought in bumpers or did Syntheism just attract musicians? She put the question on hold as she joined in the repeats and felt the roar of the congregation reverberate in her own chest and throat.

'Feel the power, feel the power,' Waldo coaxed. 'Love the divinity in mankind.'

The tent seemed to breathe as one and moans and sighs of sweet submission were heard on all sides. There was a thud as Stan's briefcase fell off his lap and he buried his face in his hands. Danny drew great draughts of air through his big Jewish nose and smiled ineffably.

The moon, the warm air scented with hay and musky mayflower and the noble rapture on Abel's face did their work and Claire let herself be led. The dirty crust of cynicism which had rendered her ugly and disagreeable dissolved and was gone, revealing the trustfulness beneath, as rich and trembly as egg custard.

The music took up a riff and a chant began: 'Man makes God makes man makes God makes man...'

It died down as if marching into the distance.

'Realise the gift of celestial wisdom,' wheedled Waldo. 'It's there within you – I can teach you nothing you don't already know. Who teaches a baby to suck? Dip your bucket in the well of light and laughter. Suffering is unnecessary.' Waldo began to sway from side to side as the hwyl seized him. 'The power is here in this tent tonight. It is everywhere and nowhere. Without us it doesn't exist and yet nothing exists without it. Do you feel the surge of Divine Love?'

'We do.' A wholehearted response. 'Let go. Ebb and flow. Let the integration grow.' It was the world's slowest rap. Calm, loving, secure and yet with an inner excitement.

The music kept up as Waldo slowly increased both tempo and volume. The call and response got wilder with yips and ululations. Conga lines spontaneously formed, picking up dancers as they snaked by until most of the 'congruegation' was on its feet. Abel pulled Claire up and she found herself between Abel and a woman who looked like a Scandinavian dairymaid.

'Congru-ence, congru-ence,' the crowd chanted as the band whipped them to a frenzy. Claire surfed a wave of love. Suddenly everything seemed right. What was was and it was good. The wave finally beached with a crash on sizzle cymbal and the dance ended.

A misguided clap or two were swallowed up in the reverent silence. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Then Waldo said: 'In the words of the great Bobby McFerrin, "Don't worry, be happy." We'll meet again soon.' And Waldo strolled offstage before his surprised followers could mob him. The audience resolved into little knots of people and a gentle murmuring was heard. Claire was reminded of being in a caravan once next to a field of cows with their newborn calves. Instead of their usual coarse bellowing, the cows were crooning a sort of bovine lullaby. Nice. She looked up at Abel and he clasped her to his chest, too moved for words. Claire freed herself and rose up on tippy-toes to plant a proprietory kiss on his cheek.

Moonlight receded from the tent and helpers were snuffing the candles. Fluorescent tubes flickered up. The audience took the hint and began to leave.

Danny approached, beaming. 'Nu, was that good or what? What did you think, Clairekeleh? Did you congrue?'

'Well, something happened, but I'm not sure what. I feel sort of emptied out now but calm and happy.'

'Wow, a level three. Not bad for a beginner.'

'But surely, according to Waldo...' began Abel hotly, before realising he was being wound up.

'Gotcha!' said Danny gleefully. 'No, don't worry, Claire. A true Syntheist would never try to number infinity. But seriously, that sounds like a good beginning. For myself, that was the most overwhelming feeling of being at one with others and at one with God that I've ever experienced. I also feel empty, now that you mention it. I could murder a curry.'

The three friends took the path to the funfair.

'Abel.' A touch on the sleeve. It was a chastened-looking Stan. 'Listen, I just wanted to apologise to you. I was well out of order this morning but things are totally different now. I need to talk to you. Alone, if you don't mind.'

Did not Waldo say that the best way to know people was to let them take advantage of you? Didn't Jesus say resist not evil? Abel gently unlinked Claire from the crook of his arm. 'It's OK,' he told her worried eyes. 'You go with Danny. Here.' He pulled a fiver from his slender wallet. 'Get us something nice to eat. Catch you in a minute.'

'Come on,' said Danny. 'We'll get something to nosh and then we'll look at shoes. I see you in red patent leather with a rhinestone buckle. Retro chic. See you later, Abel. Stan.'

Stan took Abel over to the deserted laundry block where they sat on a concrete bench.

'I've come to you because you can get me to Mr. Lillicrap,' Stan blurted. 'I saw you and the young lady slipping into the back of the tent with him this afternoon. I got as close up as I could but I couldn't hear much.'

'What are you?' Abel let his disgust show. 'Some sort of a spy?'

'Private investigator. I've been hired to dig up dirt on Mr. Lillicrap but I can't carry on. Something happened to me there in that tent tonight and I'm telling you now in case I wake up tomorrow and find it was just a dream.'

Abel eyed Stan sceptically for a moment. The moon and various electric lights cast multiple shadows on the wretch's face, but he looked genuinely haggard. Abel gave him what Joyce memorably called 'the bumfit of the doped' and rejoiced at the prospect of

another 'reawakening.' 'But why me?' The voice of reason reasserted itself. 'Why not go directly to Waldo?' 'I can't. We had words earlier. He said he knew what I was up to and that he couldn't

stop me but he wasn't gonna help me. I denied it all, of course, but he just laughed and said that he had nothing more to say to me. He was quite right.' Stan's shoulders sagged, then squared with fresh determination. 'But that's all changed. I've got some important shit to tell him. A word from you would help a lot. Honestly, he's in real danger.'

'Who from?'

'My clients. They're like this big water company who're interested in the African market. Mr. Lillicrap is becoming a darling of the anti-globalisation brigade and my clients don't like that. They're out to destroy him. They've got hold of some seventeen- year-old girl, a junkie, who's prepared to accuse him of abusing her from the age of eight. Seems they were next-door neighbours. The Lillicraps often babysat. Of course it's all bollocks but they sent this girl to one of these recovered-memory shrinks and now she believes it herself. The point is, true or not, mud sticks. His life would be ruined.'

Abel was shocked and outraged but there was also a fierce exultation at the chance to serve. 'It's not going to happen,' he said grimly. 'Let's go and find Waldo right now. They can't be allowed to get away with this.'

Waldo and Dotty (his wife) were watching some cop show on the telly which Waldo zapped at their knock. He opened up and invited them in. 'Sit down, sit down,' Waldo pressed, resuming his own seat next to Dotty. The scene was pure Wallace and Gromit. Patterned cardies, slippers, mugs of tea. Waldo looked tired but his welcome seemed genuine. Stan hung back in the doorway looking scared.

'Hi Waldo, Dotty.' Abel squeezed onto a bench and coaxed Stan over. 'I'm sorry to disturb you but Stan here has something important to tell you. He's been spying on you for some big multinational but says he's had a change of heart.'

'It's true.' Stan perched meekly on the foam rubber. 'What you said about not hiding in your shell but opening out and that – it really got me.' If Stan was acting, he was bloody good. He spoke in a small, humble voice then lifted his eyes and met Waldo's compassionate gaze. 'Thank you. You showed me what I'd turned into but I don't want to be that person any more. I need a new direction. Please, Mr. Lillicrap, show me the way.'

'Call me Waldo. I'd like to help you, Stan, but that's not quite how it works.' The Buddha smile. 'You must find your own way. All I can do is point out a few landmarks.' He patted the bed at his side. 'Come sit by yur and let's have a little talk.'

There was some shuffling as Dotty got up to make another pot of tea and toast some teacakes. The odd bump and nudge of her well-upholstered body reminded Abel of his neglected love. But Claire would understand. His first duty was to hear Stan out.

'Well, then.' Waldo got the ball rolling, 'first off, what's the name of your employer?'

Stan took a deep breath. 'You understand I got to be careful. If any of this gets back I'm a dead man.'

'I get quite a lot of confidential information one way and another,' Waldo's sincerity was patent, 'and I've never yet betrayed a source. I'm sure my young friend Abel here realises the importance of discretion. As for Dotty, I tell her everything anyway and I would trust her with my life. What you say will go no further than this room.'

'Thanks. OK then. Have you heard of Trench and Gorton?'

'Indeed I have. You've read our website I take it. Weren't they involved with Enron in some big scandal in East Africa?'

'Nothing was ever proved.' Abel smiled cynically. 'We studied the case in Commercial Law. They were fined for "accidentally" destroying vital documents and that was that.'

'Yes, it looks bad if your big political donors wind up in jail,' said Waldo mildly. 'People might even think the system itself was corrupt and that would never do. So, Stanley, my friend. What exactly is it you want to tell me?'

'Who's for a nice cup of tea and a teacake?' Dotty squeezed through to the tiny table and blithely dispensed sustenance. Tea, milk, sugar. Teacakes or chocolate digestives? In two minutes everyone had been served.

Stan took a slurp of milky sugary tea. The cup rattled as he put it back in his saucer and he stilled it with his other hand. Waldo nodded encouragingly while Dotty took out some knitting and seemed to slip into her own world.

'Trench and Gorton are out to get you.' Stan bit his lip. 'I've been digging into your past for a couple of months now and I've found nothing except that some of the things you said could maybe be twisted to show support for terrorism. By the way, you should invest in a better shredder and don't stick post-it notes of passwords on your PC.'

'Tell them about that girl,' prompted Abel.

'I'm just getting to that. Tell me, Waldo,' (Stan handled the name like a sacred object) 'do you know a girl called Rebecca Engelbrecht?'

'Becky,' Dotty chipped in. 'What's she done now, poor dab?'

'It's not what she's done,' said Stan ominously. 'It's what she's gonna do. They're setting her up to accuse your husband of child abuse.'

'Abewse is it?' Dotty shrieked, instantly furious. 'That little madam. When I think of the times I made her favourite cherry jelly. It's all lies. Waldo didn't even like her, did you bach?'

'Well, she radiated dullness. She was a bit twp but sly with it,' the sage philosophised. 'She was quite pretty but her skin put me off. It had a sort of dead, matt look to it. I suppose the question of whether or not I actually committed this abuse is beside the point.'

'Got it in one.' Stan sighed, disgusted at human depravity. 'I don't think they've got her lined up yet. They're waiting to see what I say.'

Waldo shrugged. 'I've been threatened with blackmail before. I suppose there's a quid pro quo somewhere. Let's talk terms. Abel, my boy, perhaps you'd better leave us. Don't worry, Dotty here has a black belt in karate. Look at her – ready to rend mine enemies limb from limb. I trust there'll be no need of her services. You go off and find Claire and remember, not a word about Trench and Gorton to her or anyone else. It'll be fine. We'll talk after.'

A moment later Abel was outside the snail and the door had clicked shut behind him. The TV was on again, loud. The moon was by now high in the sky. It looked smaller, like a tarnished ten pee piece. He walked on sick at heart that people should want to smear his hero with shit. Waldo had seemed his usual blithe self and it went without saying that he was innocent. If Stan really had joined them it would help to have a spy in the enemy's

camp, but the whole thing could be some sort of scam. Abel found himself drawn on by the glare and noise of the Olde Tyme Steam Funfair. He caught sight of Claire and Danny on the bobbing wooden horses of the carousel. They were eating pink candyfloss and Claire was laughing gaily at one of Danny's furtive jokes. She saw Abel and waved as they were carried out of sight to the strains of Roll Out the Barrel. Five more revolutions, five increasingly ironic little waves and at last the thing stopped. The tune on the calliope changed to Pop Goes the Weasel. Claire twirled, giggling, into Abel's arms. A long and gluey kiss.

'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,' Abel remembered from GCSE English, ''Tis woman's whole existence.' The quotation had been written up on the board during break but the class clown had got in and rubbed out the 'w' in 'whole.' There had been a huge fuss culminating in a mock trial which ended in the perpetrator having to apologise to the entire school. He looked into Claire's trusting brown eyes and his heart melted. Woman's hole indeed!

'Ughrm.' Danny was waiting.

'Oh yes.' Abel surfaced. 'It seems friend Stan has seen the light and changed sides. He's some sort of private detective who's been hired by a big firm to do the dirt on Waldo. Of course, as he admits, he's found nothing. I promised I wouldn't tell anyone the name of the company but apparently they've dug up some seventeen-year-old junkie to accuse him of child abuse. Better not mention it to anyone else for the time being.'

'But that's horrible!' Claire was honestly shocked. 'Why should anyone want to hurt Waldo?'

'Moneh.' Abel twirled air moustachios.

'Sure,' Danny confirmed. 'Who ever let guilt stand in the way of gelt? So tell us more already.'

'It's something to do with water projects in Africa,' Abel amplified. 'These people seem to think that Waldo's influence on the anti-globalisation movement is bad for their business. They could just kill him, I suppose, but that might make him a martyr. Far better to smear him as a paedophile, the bogeyman of our times.'

'If this is true, people need to know.' Claire Chubb, Investigative Reporter. 'Do you think Waldo would let me write it up as a press release? Of course we'd have to back it up somehow – we couldn't just rely on Stan's sayso.'

'Waldo's written a book on the media, as it happens.' Abel smiled fondly at Claire. She looked so cute when determined, as serious as a child. 'It's called Froth and Tact or Tooth and Fract. There's a chapter on scare stories in which he says that the hysteria over paedophilia ends up traumatising the victims all over again.'

'He's got a point,' said Danny soberly. 'Gay men are automatically assumed to be paedophiles by a large part of the public. I love children but that doesn't mean I want to sleep with them. I like the feel of young flesh just like a granny pinching a rosy cheek but in the present climate the most innocent hug or kiss is dangerous. In the slums of Casablanca, though, child sex is just another way of making money. My favourite waiter in a Moroccan restaurant was a child prostitute. One of his British customers taught him English and helped him through school. They still exchange cards at Christmas. He's now a reasonably happy married man with three kids.'

'The trouble is that we're not in Casablanca now,' Claire pointed out with that sweet reasonableness which curdles milk. 'An accusation like that could finish Waldo.'

'Well, I'd be happy to stand up in court and swear that I'd heard Stan say there was a plot.' Abel implacably crossed his arms. 'The trouble is that this girl's been to one of these recovered-memory quacks and she's apparently convinced herself that Waldo actually did it. The only bright spot is that Stan says she's a junkie so she's not the most reliable of witnesses. I suppose she blames Waldo for that too.'

'Such bitterness in one so young,' Danny gently mocked. 'But you're right to be worried. Business is a dirty game – the only thing that counts is the bottom line. If they could get away with destroying Waldo they'd do it like a shot. Look at Shell in Nigeria. Not to mention all those wars started to keep the arms merchants happy.'

'Arthur Andersen signing off Enron's books,' Abel took up the dismal litany of corruption, 'Union Carbide in Bhopal. These guys have got billions behind them. What have we got?'

'The power of Syntheism.' Danny's faith held a hint of reproach. 'And the worldwide Syntheist Congruence. Waldo will know what to do. I can't see him backing down over his investigations into corporate swindles. Remember his script for that puppet theatre? The hero was a clown called Mollo the Funny.'

'With his sidekick Eva Taxion.' Abel chuckled richly. 'And the Reverend Shoving Leopard.'

'I wonder who paid for this girl's so-called therapy,' mused Claire. 'I bet it wasn't done on the NHS.'

'We know who but not how. That's the sort of thing Stan could find out,' said Abel, gnawing his lip. 'But it won't be easy to prove. There are too many ways to cover your traces. Mind you, it's amazing how stupid people can be. Soldiers videoing themselves massacring people comes to mind.'

'Not people,' Danny objected. 'The enemy. But enough already. Let's see what Waldo wants before we get too excited. Besides, the smell of caramelised nuts is driving me mad. Let's eat.'

And Danny slipped through the thlipsis with the lovers in his wake. The crowd had been swelled by local yobboes out for a good time and already there were a few broken bottles and patches of puke. All tastes were catered for. 'Skunk truffles. Skunk truffles.' cried a woman in a pixie hat with a basket on her arm and there were the usual stalls with crystals and henna tattoos and fairtrade coffee. A party of Syntheists was gathered by the veggie-burger stall and the friends hied them thither.

Claire found herself thinking that these were really nice people. Toby and Amelia were at uni studying dentistry and sociology respectively. A human-rights lawyer had brought along his retarded sister and a black face here and estuary accent there showed that all were welcome. Claire was soon chatting away happily to a mumsy-looking woman who did voluntary work for Amnesty International and an ornithologist and concertina buff from the Shetland islands. Much of the conversation circled around how wonderful Waldo was and Claire couldn't help wondering, a trifle maliciously, how these fans would have reacted to news that he was a child-molester? Nevertheless an hour passed pleasantly and soon it was time for the first of the evening's concerts. The music, like the

food, was an eclectic mix. Soul Survivors kicked off followed by Continental Drift (with 'special guests') in the main tent until eleven when deejay tributes The Agrochemical Brothers got going. There was a folk tent too and one for easy listening sponsored by Capital Gold.

Danny had made some new friends and went off with them. Stereotypical gay squeals faded into the distance. Claire took Abel's hand and memories of pliant flesh awoke in his body. The evening began.

Chapter 6

Back in the caravan Stan had talked himself out and he finally stood up to go, chastened but clean. Waldo rose too and clapped him on the shoulder. 'Fair dos, the boy done well,' he said kindly. 'Thanks for telling me all this, Stan. I think for now you'd best carry on as normal. Bug me. Write down everything I say. But I'd prefer no videos of Dotty and me in bed.'

'No, of course not.' Stan was torn between affront and sorrow

'You'd bloody better not, boyo,' Dotty twinkled, 'or I'll have your guts for garters.' A smile of many teeth.

'No, honestly,' Stan met her eyes, 'none of that sort of thing. Believe me, we looked for sex scandals involving either one of you but there was not a whisper. That's pretty rare, I can tell you.'

Waldo shrugged. 'It could have been different. I can't say I was never tempted, but something in me said no. Fear, perhaps. Also, I love Dotty and wouldn't want to hurt her. But I don't judge people on their sex-lives. We all have the capacity for good.'

'Yes, I see that now. Thank you Waldo. You've given me my life back. I'll go now. I got a lot to think about.'

'Don't do anything rash,' Waldo counselled. 'Rules fuss in where angels fear to tread. You're not alone. See you at Noon Congruence tomorrow.'

'I'll be there. Thanks again. And thanks for the tea and that, Dotty. Nice to meet you. Bye for now.' Stan zipped up the windbreak over his thin bile-green veeneck and meekly left. He found his way back to the car park and to the mattress in the back of his Transit van where he mechanically undressed. Sit. Off with the heavy black shoes and sweaty brown socks. Stand. Trousers. Jersey. Blue white-collared shirt. British legion tie. Retrieve Iron Maiden teeshirt from box in corner and put it on. Leave on boxers. Last piss in the pickle bottle. And so to bed. God, he was shattered. What a day. He lay down on the thin foam mattress. The realisation of his unworthiness hit him again. Stan felt that he was the lowest of the low as all the filth and cowardly compromise of his life was flung in his face. He let go and cried. Deep wrenching sobs scraped open old wounds and let the bad blood flow. And yet, Waldo had said, the most insignificant worm could share in divinity. He'd been redeemed. Stan cried again, this time tears of gratitude. Then he slept.

Chapter 7

Back in the caravan Dotty washed and Waldo dried and in ten minutes everything was shipshape. Waldo sank back in his corner and turned the TV on loud. Dotty cwtched up against him and inclined her ear.

'It's not that I don't trust friend Stan,' Waldo told her in a low voice, 'but we have to assume we're being bugged. Have you done the books?'

'I have.' Dotty produced a little notebook from inside her skirt and glanced at a page. 'We're six hundred odd down at the moment, but we'll easily make it up tomorrow. Don't forget to push the direct debits.'

'Fear not, my little chickadee. A thousand needles will tap a thousand veins at a couple of quid a month.'

'Keep the upper limit at ten?'

'I think so. I don't want it to look as if I can be bought. And in fact I can't. I like my independence too much. But Trench and Gorton could be big trouble if the whole story isn't just an attempt to put the frighteners on us. How much of what he told us is true?'

'Most of it, I reckon.' Dotty pursed judicious lips. 'He looked pretty shaken. Good. I must say the thought of him poking around in our house makes me feel dirty all over. He's a poor excuse for a man.'

'Sh.' Waldo hushed her rising stridency. 'He is that. All religions attract the weak and feebleminded and desperate. Often the very people the financial vultures have their hooks into. For two pounds a month I can give them something much better than conspicuous consumption, if I say so myself.'

'Fat chance. But what if that Becky's really getting ready to charge you? Uh. That revolting child. After all we did for her. I could cheerfully strangle her.'

'Well, Stan's promised to get us the name of her shrink. I'll get in touch with Mervyn and see what his standing is among his fellow psychiatrists. I daresay we'd win if it ever came to trial, but it would ruin us. No. The only way would be to prove that Trench and Gorton were behind the whole thing. As for Becky, I'm sure she wants her pound of flesh. How'd you like to get close to her, Sweetness? Pretend we've fallen out. Say you've found some of my old diaries with full and detailed accounts of my depravities and now you hate me and want revenge. You could be the Linda Tripp to her Monica. Did you know by the way that Linda means "serpent" and Tripp means "seller of tripe"? Congruence or what? Then when the diaries are found to be blatant forgeries we can blame it on Trench and Gorton.'

'So I've got to pretend to hate you, have I? That shouldn't be too difficult. Why not go the whole hog and have a fake separation like that politician and her crooked husband? No thanks. Maybe you could find some junkies among your flock who'd stand a better chance. It's heroin she's on is it?'

'Better find out for sure. Druggies sometimes form their own little cliques. Coke- snorters are sniffy about heroin, say. Smackheads get up on their high horse over drunks. Downer-downers diss dopers.' Waldo chuckled at his own wit. 'Needs polishing. To get back to the matter in hand. Maybe Trench and Gorton would back off if we left them alone. They wouldn't be exactly heartbroken if we ruined some of their competitors

instead. Trouble is we can't uninvolve them even if we want to. Some of the whistleblowers on our website have already implicated them through their connections, if a bit distantly. Chinese whispers through Chinese walls or like a programme about the making of a documentary about the making of a movie.' Waldo paused to glare at the TV which was showing a string of allegedly hilarious outtakes from the soaps. Stars swore, forgot their lines, fell over. He cardboard cone of the speaker warped their shouted inanities. Waldo zapped the box. 'Ah, more relief than Eno's,' he said blowing out his cheeks as he exhaled. 'Let's leave it there for now.' He patted Dotty's hand reassuringly. 'If you think of anything, jot it down on a piece of paper. Then you'd better eat it to be on the safe side.'

'I'll make another pot of tea then is it?' sighed Dotty drily,'to wash down all that paper.'

'And bring some biscuits,' suggested her spouse. 'The tea's too wet without them. Or say one of those toffee waffles you hid behind the sardines.'

'You're getting too fat,' observed Dotty frankly.

Waldo whined like a pleading puppy and the stern lines around Dotty's mouth softened.

'All right then. Just the one. I suppose you want it warmed up too.' 'If it's not too much trouble my precious.' 'I live to serve, O Master.' And Dotty good-naturedly got up. 'And you'd better do a

bit of head-scratching while I potch about.' 'I will. Where are my yarrow stalks? Where there's I Ching there's scratching. Hey!

That would make a smashing title for my chapter on names.' Waldo scribbled something on the weather map in the Western Mail, tore it out and put it in his pocket. He closed his eyes. Was the only way to fight filth with filth? The difference was that his filth was true. Hypocrisy and crime were by no means the sole preserve of big business. To oppose capitalism was like being a banana in the path of a steamroller. And what was the alternative? His heart sank at the prospect of the stifling greyness, mediocrity and terror which were communism's gift to the world. The worst thing about backing off was that it would give the impression that he could be scared or bought off, neither an impossible scenario. So far he'd been able to disarm his enemies with jokes but the downside was that he was then tolerated as a sort of licenced jester. That had been fine while Syntheism was an insignificant movement, but membership had been growing steadily, doubling in under five years. It had attracted its share of showbiz personalities, many of them the intellectual equals of Tom Cruise or Madonna, as well as one or two people of real influence. There was the potential of huge revenues although Waldo preferred to run things on a shoestring. Your average British Syntheist had a degree, one child and quite a bit of disposable income. Most probably female, often from the teaching and caring professions. Lots of 'alternative' loonies. The men included scientists and engineers and, for some (or possibly no) reason, a plethora of oboists. There were some disenchanted Muslims and ecumenical Jews. Gays were over-represented. The racial aspect was predominantly white with a sprinkling of Asians and Africans although the Worldwide Congruence encouraged mingling through its website (Againstemforum) and numerous chatrooms. It was a shame, thought Waldo, that he didn't believe in his own creation. It

would have given him strength. He had believed in community, brought up in the poverty and danger of the valleys, but that life had gone for ever. There was also the sentimental education of Hollywood and the gung-ho squeaky-cleanness of the fifties. We were the good guys, the Rock Hudsons and Doris Days. Doctors smoked Camels. Men wore Stetsons and fedoras and Homburgs. All those adverts with suited and hatted pipe- smokers standing by enormous cars outside suburban houses with their adoring wives and children. Uncle Clem in Pittsburgh sometimes sent a bundle of old magazines over to brother Paul (Waldo's Dad) back in Wales. Readers' Digest, the Saturday Evening Post, Mechanix Illustrated as well as comics for the kids. Superman, Little Lotta, Casper the friendly ghost. Paul read the Mirror when he was in work and whatever the public library offered when out. Boys at school traded Battler Britton comics (in which clean-cut young Brits duffed up swinish Nazis in an endless replay of our finest hour) as well as the Beano and Dandy. As a boy Waldo's patrons had been Saints Trinian and Custard...

'So.' Dotty was back. 'Have you come up with anything?'

'Maybe I have. The question is: why now? Perhaps the reason Trench and Gorton have decided to come after me is that we're getting close to something really big. Our only chance is to find out what it is ASAP. Environmentalism is flavour of the month but we've been mainly looking at financial swindles – tranfer pricing, bribes, possible money-laundering. All potentially embarrassing but not much more. Have we got their latest prospectus?'

'Could be.' Dotty reached up to the overhead locker which held Waldo's current research and rummaged among the shoeboxes. After a couple of minutes she gave a satisfied grunt: 'Trench and Gorton. Ah, here we are.' She handed it down. The cover showed shiny black children playing on an emerald lawn in the rainbowed spray of a garden sprinkler. Behind them stretched hills of orange groves, the golden fruits glowing in the sunshine. A tasteful black box in the middle of the sky announced: Trench and Gorton – Watering the World. Prospectus and Annual Report 2003-2004.

Waldo flipped through the tables and graphs showing Trent and Gorton's unimpressive growth and profits and read some of their persuasive excuses. Year of one-off expenditures: New London headquarters; unfortunate redundancies; much-needed new plant. They mentioned neither their record fine for dumping raw sewage into the Nile nor their directors' record bonuses. As regards future prospects: '2004/5 promises to be an exceptional year with major ongoing projects in both African and Asian markets.' A steamy photo of a black cutie with loofah in a steamy shower illustrated a pipelaying project in Nigeria while green sugarcane with runnels of water sparkling at its roots symbolised the new South Africa. Irrigation. Something stirred in Waldo's mind. A programme on Channel 4 was it? An earlier Trench and Gorton fiasco. They'd built a dam in India and irrigated the steep hillsides on its flank. Within five years the water had washed the topsoil from the hills, pickled the remaining land in salt and clogged the dam with silt. No-one had been held responsible. In fact Trench and Gorton had successfully sued the Indian government for their increased costs due to new environmental legislation. Now they were repeating the trick in East Africa. There had been the predictable Green outcry, predictably ignored. Besides, the brutal and corrupt government of Banania (names have been changed to protect the guilty) had already offshored their

slice of the development cash so there was no going back now. And the country needed cash crops to pay for the privatised services foisted on them by the IMF which promised to make everyone but the people richer still. The dispossessed locals would mostly wind up in the slums of the capital Colonia and help to depress labour costs.

Of course the prospectus painted a pretty picture with equal emphasis on financial gain and environmental blah. One could seemingly get rich and do good at the same time. Why, planting trees was both profitable and 'carbon-offsetting' although Waldo had seen figures which estimated that the embodied energy in the dam would take two thousand years to be reabsorbed by the forest. But Waldo could see no egregious threat posed by his modest investigations. He sighed and put down the brochure.

Dotty looked up from scribbling in her diary and eyed him with concern. 'Well, any luck, bach?' 'No. I must have stepped on somebody's corns but I don't know whose. What is it

you're writing?' 'Just keeping the old diary up to date.' Dotty had kept a diary since the age of fifteen,

filling it in every night without fail going on for forty years. True, some entries were rather perfunctory ('Flu. Sick as a dog. Want to die.') but anyone who's ever tried it knows what a feat this was. Dotty didn't mind others reading her diary as anyone willing to trudge through the numbing details of her everyday life deserved the odd pungent judgement. There was a simple code. People were referred to not by their own initials but by the next letter along. Thus Waldo appeared as X. The entry for her wedding day, for instance, read: 'Button popped off X's trousers in church. Greedy pig. Everybody laughed. Cake g. but a bit dry. Off to Amsterdam for a week.' And what had Dotty seen fit to record about that wicked city of art and dope and brothels and beer? 'Girl polishing doorknob w. tomato sauce. Good idea. X fell in canal. Have I married Jerry Lewis? Munchies. Too much chocolate.'

'Can I have a look?' Waldo jumped the thirty-seven years since he'd last asked her. 'Certainly. But there's nothing about our present problem.' 'You never know. It's always useful to get another slant on things.' Waldo went back a

few pages to take a run at it. Shower curtains, he read, had been sprayed with bleach with so-so results; the marquee firm had been troublesome right up to the last; cooking, shopping and housework had been intimately detailed. 'Sex OK.' That was two nights ago and was, Waldo conceded, a fair assessment. 'Cracking' was the top accolade. Hopefully next time would be better. He thought again of Becky with her dead skin, sharp face and sad eyes. Perhaps she really had been abused by someone – her father or an uncle or cousin. They were a seedy lot, the Engelbrechts. The old man was a drunk and both sons had been in jail. The mother was also a nasty piece of work, smarmy and spiteful by turns. Poor old Becky had never had an earthly. The happiest times of her life had possibly been sitting on Auntie Dotty's knee eating jelly and pestering her for stories of life on the farm. Now even those memories had been poisoned for her and if her vindictiveness drove her to sue, it was a dismal prospect for him too.

Waldo pictured the misty grey swamps of the law where so many lives had been lost and reputations squandered. Dead trees, stagnant water, the cry of the whippoorwill. The flickering marshlight of lies and special interests. The alligators of allegation. Perhaps

there was no huge scandal to be uncovered. Trench and Gorton were just swatting a fly. It was probably worse to be sacrificed pour encourager les autres than as a real menace. He'd just have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, there was tomorrow's discourse to knock into shape. Were computers cop muters in some sense. Cum poters? No, better keep oral sex out of it. Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear as that sign on a wild west saloon had it. (Waldo was an inveterate stealer of jokes.) He got up and slipped out of the caravan for a fag as Dotty wouldn't allow him to smoke indoors. As the world spun on its wobbly axis in an eccentric orbit around the sun and as six billion other people did six billion other things, Waldo wondered whether the moon's drag on the earth would have stopped its rotation before the moon itself left us forever. Perhaps the slowing down could be counteracted by allowing people to drive only east to west, travel in all other directions being on foot. Indian tuk-tuks would wind up in LA while Mongolian yak-herders had the loan of Humvees or fire-engines or sno-cats. Stopping the sun going supernova might be a bit more difficult. Waldo lit up and drew in a soothing lungful of carcinogens. The moon sailed serenely on, oblivious of the strobe lights and thumping bass of the house music which had started up in the tent. Good old moon. She'd see him out at any rate. Time for sleep.

Chapter 8

Sunday was fine. Despite the glaring dawn it was nine before Claire awoke. She and Abel had been trapped by a boring raver who'd swallowed a couple of Es and proceeded to engage them in a caring, loving and interminable conversation. Every second word seemed to be 'Claire'. She was reminded of the office groper in a Nationwide where she'd once worked. He was forever putting an arm around her shoulders or brushing up against her in the lift. The other girls called him MTF for Must Touch Flesh, but as he was the boss's nephew no-one dared complain. Their new best friend Tim left her feeling equally soiled. It was an hour before they could extricate themselves and two in the morning before they finally got to bed. Claire was too sore for more than a cuddle; exhaustion and bubble-wrap meant that she slept like a log.

Abel was too tortured to sleep. The idea that his guru – the greatest man who'd ever lived – could be crushed like a cockroach under the heel of corporate greed was too much for him. What was it Waldo had said? 'Justice is not a noun: it is a verb.' Teasing out the ramifications of that took some time and it was only the fact that Waldo was lying naked on a big silver salver and smilingly carving succulent slices of his own thigh to toss to the howling mob around him which jolted him awake and made him realise he'd been dreaming. His bladder was bursting. Three pints of real ale had been a mistake. He managed to get out of the tent without visibly waking Claire and found a shadow in the hedge. No-one else was about although the lightshow and thumping bass from across the field showed that the rave was still going strong. He pulled out his cock and kept the stream moving around lest the trickling noise of a puddle betray his shameful secret. He felt bad about not using the urinals and envisioned his yellow stream pouring into a

nearby ditch and poisoning a glimmering shoal of elvers. Oh, well. The moon was setting as he crept back to his bed with fresh resolve. He would find out Trench and Gorton's dirty secrets and publish them under his own name without telling Waldo. Act as a lightning conductor. But what about Claire? She was his weak spot – they could get at him through her. They would have to split up. Waldo's safety and the future of all mankind came first. But could he rip her from his heart? Her little snore was so delightfully vulnerable. What trust it showed to sleep in the presence of a virtual stranger. No, he could never hurt her. He drifted into new nightmares and awoke, sweaty and with a dull headache to find Claire kneeling beside him with an enamel mug of tea.

A smile, a kiss, a glance at his watch over Claire's shoulder. Good. Plenty of time before the Noon Congruence. He took a sip to clean out the parrot cage of his mouth. Ah. Real milk and two sugars. Just how he liked it. He unstuck his lips from his teeth, pumped tea from cheek to cheek and swallowed.

'Here.' Claire offered him a blueberry muffin, Abel's absolute favourite. 'My angel. Do you want half?' 'No thanks. I shared a pain au chocolat with Danny. He's been a naughty boy. Now

he's eaten up with remorse because he betrayed Dipak with, and I quote, "an airheaded airline steward called Cyprian." Nevertheless he insisted that we were to join him for breakfast.

'OK. Fine.' Abel discreetly wrestled his morning glory back through the hole in his underpants and let the elastic hold it up against his belly. Claire looked fresh and wholesome and unfuckable. Abel dwelt briefly on the mechanics of gay sex wondering who had fucked whose puckered arsehole. (In fact Danny, who always buggered Dipak, had let himself be penetrated by Cyprian). Abel's erection wilted and Claire ducked outside to give him room to dress.

It was a lovely day although the blue sky seemed threatened by clouds on the horizon. The campsite had a grubby look. Litter was blowing around and the grass looked scuffed and dusty. Pang. A distant church bell struck the quarter. Claire thought back to her confirmation and of how nice the old bishop had been. He'd given her a sip of sweet wine from his own silver goblet and she'd spilt a drop on her white dress which they'd never got out. St. Olaf's had been very high church – all smells and bells as the more dashing members of the congregation put it. Claire liked the theatricality and the OTT excesses of Victorian Gothic architecture. She had helped decorate the church at Easter when each arch and cornice had been picked out in flowers. There had been the unfortunate incident one year when poor Mrs. Smollet, whose sense of smell had vanished after she'd been knocked over by a bus, had come in early and smothered the pulpit with the starry white flowers of wild garlic or Jack-by-the-hedge. There had been no time to replace them before the service so the congregation did what nice middleclass people do when faced with an unpleasant fact and ignored it – although the priest was rather free with the incense. Mrs. Smollet smiled complacently as the vicar, with a commendably straight face, praised all the hard work of the ladies of the floral decoration committee. Claire had got the giggles and had to bite her tongue quite hard to keep from laughing. Afterwards, the congregation tumbled out into the fresh air reeking of garlic and incense. Miss Staple, who ran the Sunday School, took Mrs. Smollet to one side and

kindly explained that ramsons were wild flowers, dear, and that it was against the law to pick them, not that a townie like Mrs. Smollet could be expected to know that, and so, to avoid compromising the vicar the flowers round the pulpit had to go.

'Ramsons!' said Mrs. Smollet, thunderstruck. 'Ugh. With that awful smell? I thought they were anemones.' She was left weepy and mortified as her beautiful arrangements were torn down, stuffed into binbags and bustled away.

The sound of a zip opening brought Claire back to the present as Abel left the tent and stood. She looked up at him. Did love mean a permanent crick in the neck? He bent and kissed her and her spirits lifted.

They found Danny frying some stuff he called 'macon' (a sort of kosher bacon made of lamb). He seemed in fine fettle.

'I spoke to Dipak,' he told his friends, 'and confessed all. I cried, he cried and we made up. I expect Cyprian's on his way to Copenhagen by now. A pretty boy if you like the Nordic god type but solid teak between the ears, my dear. And in other places too it must be said.' Danny was ruefully aware of his sore anus. Christ it stung! Felt like the skin had split. Good. He deserved to be punished. 'I still feel bad about it, though. Still, as Waldo says, what's done is dung. Whether you use it to manure your crops or just let it stink up your life is your decision. I'm tempted to blame it on the mixture of antihistamines and scrumpy but I know it was all my fault. Oh well, no pain no gain as that fine old platitude has it. Nu, is vantink scrembled eggs who already?'

'Me, please.' Abel jumped up. 'There goes the kettle. Tea all round?'

Tea all round. Fried stuff was distributed and enthusiastically eaten. The day was already warm but there was a touch of mackerel sky in the west. A wind soughed through the campsite, ruffling the detritus of last night's revels. Was anything sadder, Claire wondered soulfully, than a piece of crumpled wrapping-paper tumbling and skittering down the street? The distant church bell stolidly tolled ten. Was she betraying her tepid Christianity for this unwholesome cult? She glanced at Abel for reassurance, but he seemed distracted by his own inner woe. At last he turned anguished eyes on her.

'There's only one thing to be done,' he told her, clasping her hands between his own, 'and that is to find out what Tren... what these people are up to and publish it myself without involving Waldo in any way.'

'Oy veh, another suicide bomber already.' Danny rolled up his eyes. 'Listen, boychick, they'd probably assume Waldo had put you up to it and destroy you both. No, seriously, the best thing is just to do exactly what Waldo tells you. As he says: the godhead is always right even when it's wrong.'

'Well, I think Abel's got a point.' Claire stood by her man. 'At least if it's like brought out into the open it would show why they'd want to silence Waldo.'

'Unless, of course, everything Stan said was a lie.' Abel disconsonately gnawed a nail. 'But I must say he seemed to be telling the truth. Has anyone seen him about?'

No.

'Well I hope he's at the noon meeting. A person's second congruence can be vitally important.'

'The importance of being earnest,' thought Claire impishly looking at Abel's zealous expression. There was a flash of jealousy as she wondered why a lowlife like Stan should

be approaching his second congruence when she wasn't even sure she'd had her first. At least, though, she'd got over the hurdle of her virginity although she had no immediate desire for more sex. She remembered her schoolgirl shock on overhearing a fervent Catholic friend of her mother's confide that the trouble with the rhythm method was that you couldn't make love at the very time you most wanted to. The idea of Verity Drinkwater in a frenzy of lust was unthinkable. Perhaps Claire's lack of lust was down to her hormones. She was only a couple of days away from her period. She took a sip of tea. The amber jelly of marmalade glowed in the sunshine. She spread a glob on her toast and took a healthy bite. Yes. That was better.

The campsite was coming to life as stallholders started setting up for the day. Syntheists strolled about socialising and Claire waved to her fellow Northumbrian pipe fan of the night before. She relished the feeling of sun on her arms but had scarcely begun to relax when she abruptly remembered that her essay on brand recognition was due in tomorrow and she'd hardly glanced at it. Apparently the trick was to download it off the net and then put it through a couple of automatic translation programs (say English to German to French and back to English). This supposedly rendered it untraceable but often incomprehensible as well. On the other hand Abel disapproved of cheating and so, consequently, did she. Not to mention the embarrassing prospect of being caught. Oh well, she'd just have to skim through Chandler on trademarks and cobble something together.

'Earth calling Claire,' Abel gently joshed. 'Come in, Claire.'

'Oh, sorry. I just remembered that I have to hand in an essay at eleven tomorrow and I've hardly started it. We won't be back too late tonight will we?'

'We can leave straight after the Noon Congruence unless Waldo wants me for something,' offered her lover.

'No need for anything so drastic. It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful day. I was thinking of a walk by the river and maybe a cream tea afterwards. If we can leave by six that'll be fine.'

'No problemo. As long as Griselda behaves herself.' Griselda was the name of Abel's old Daihatsu Charade, which was pretending to be a car. 'Hey! There's Stan now.' The corporate spy was indeed approaching from the shower-block. Wet-haired,

cleanshaven, limp towel round neck, flipflops afoot. He saw Abel and strolled over, a man at peace with himself.

'Mornin' one and all. Beautiful day innit?' And Stan actually smiled.

'It is indeed, Stan.' Abel nodded eagerly. 'Are you looking forward to the Noon Congruence?'

'Wouldn't miss it for the world. I can't tell you how my life's changed.' Stan sat and accepted a cup of tea with two sugars. Claire noticed that his sideburns were different lengths and that he'd missed shaving a bit under his jaw. Stan lowered his voice and turned shyly confessional. 'It's a shitty job spying on people (pardon my French). Does yer 'ead in, like. It gets so's you see nothing but filth and corruption everywhere. I been in this game fourteen years now and not a word of a lie, Waldo's the first one I've ever investigated who's had nothing to hide. And I mean nothing. Generally the higher you go the worse it is. I've got stuff on a high-court judge you wouldn't believe. But what

Waldo's given me is that I can believe in goodness again.' 'Good is God,' murmured Danny. 'But Evil's the Devil,' Abel chimed in with one of Waldo's more famous sayings. Where such sophistry would once have aroused in Stan nothing but contempt, he now

smiled in amiable bafflement and humbly hungered to learn. Made Claire sick. But perhaps it wasn't all an act. Abel seemed to believe him. Patiently, kindly, he and Danny unravelled the sacred text showing that beneath the glitter of paradox was the gold of wisdom. Stan nodded along showing gratifying wonder at the acuity of Waldo's insights. It was only when Abel noticed Claire's rather glazed expression that he stopped.

'Of course, Waldo explains it much better than we ever could.' Abel. Mr. Modest. 'I'd be happy to lend you my copy of Outtakes and Inversions.'

'Thanks Abel, I'd like that. Anyway, I got a few things to do now. See you later.' And Stan sprang purposefully up, a man on a mission.

'Bye, Stan. And welcome to the Syntheist Congruence. Keep sane.' 'Sholem. Peace be with you.' Danny. 'Goodbye, Stan.' Cool Claire. Stan held up a valedictory palm and walked briskly away.

Claire gathered up the breakfast things. 'We'll wash up,' she forestalled an uneager Danny as she collared Abel and marched him to the sinks. Danny went off to see about some pixie boots for Dipak.

The young lovers washed up amid tender glances, the thrill of physical intimacy and the feeling that they worked together in almost miraculous harmony. Abel had no sooner dried and stacked one plate than Claire had another to hand. Afterwards they kissed and Claire hooked her pinkie through Abel's buttonhole.

'So, what do you make of friend Stan?' she asked a little too lightly.

'I don't know,' confessed Abel. 'He's obviously been deeply affected but he may be what we call a bouncer, that is, someone who thinks that Sytheism will solve all their problems instantly when it won't. Certainly not instantly. So they get bitter and disillusioned. As you know, there's no worse enemy than a friend who feels betrayed. Still, as Waldo says, if you can't be a good friend you should at least be a good enemy.'

'I don't know about that. All I know is that pretending to be converted could be an obvious ploy just to gain your confidence. I think you're too trusting.' She looked up at him with her head cocked like a listening bird and smiled sweetly. She disentangled herself from his shirt and intertwined fingers instead.

'Could be. The joke is that Waldo's told him to carry on just as usual so none of us, not even Stan himself, knows what he's up to. Let's hope the Noon Congruence brings him firmly into our camp. But I certainly wouldn't tell him anything sensitive at this stage. What can we do with these crusts? Let's go feed the ducks.'

So they did.

Chapter 9

Although the sides of the tent were rolled up, it was stuffy inside. Continental Drift were living up to their name with a slow, noodling tilready. Like minimalist composers they changed their chords less often than their underpants. Soothing, though. Almost hypnotic.

Abel and Claire had found a secluded copse and enjoyed full penetration. Claire had almost come and Abel still had the proof of his virility in a knotted condom in his pocket. Stan was once more in the front row but was now dressed in an orange shirt, chinos

and trainers. Ping pong pang pung rang the distant church-bells. Pung pong ping pang. Then twelve

deliberate dongs. At the last stroke Waldo took the stage. He held up a courteous hand and the band stopped dead on a discord. 'That will bring us back to doh,' sang Waldo in resolution, raising a laugh. 'My friends,' he continued, 'today's discourse is controversial. It's called Reasons to be Cheerful. And that's a hard sell because there seem to be so many reasons to despair. As we speak children are dying of hunger and preventible disease, being poisoned by depleted uranium and having their limbs blown off by landmines and cluster bombs. The so-called war on terror breeds terrorists just as surely as the war on drugs breeds addicts. We are led by cold-eyed megalomaniacs who rape, loot and murder in the name of profit despite the fact that they too must live in the police states which they create. No-one completely escapes the grime, crime and slime of everyday life. We live in a world of plausible strangers trying to sell us stuff we didn't know we wanted and which we subsequently find we can't live without. But, fair dos, there's another side to all this. Science has brought us many marvellous things. We can fly around the world in a day, live long and live well and can tap into the wisdom of the ages at the click of a mouse. We can lead rich, fulfilled virtual lives. Actually, most of life has always been virtual. We all live virtual lives based on our own ignorance, prejudice and the imagined lives of others. The world runs on a mixture of delusion and bitter experience, that is to say: thoughts on the wing and warts on the "thing".' Waldo let this shaft sink in. 'Unfortunately, delusion is on the up. We are plagued by obesity and anorexia, greed and guilt, overwork and unemployment, easy credit and crippling debt. And all as a result of a mistaken world-view. A friend of mine says he's getting on OK. "Waldo, boyo," he says to me, "we're bobbing along nicely, keeping our heads just below water."' Waldo held a flat hand on the top of his head, goldfished his lips and rolled up his eyes. There was a burst of scandalised laughter. 'But don't worry about Abdul,' the standup sage continued. 'He's onto a cushy number. As a Welsh-speaking Muslim he's in huge demand from all sorts of committees to top up their ethnic quotas. He's on two quangos and three boards of governors. Hardly leaves him time to work from seven to eleven down the Spar. The thing that's impressed him most about all this high-level activity is the level of corruption and incompetence he's found – and he's from Pakistan, mind. He's building up a dossier which he plans to publish if he ever gets the time. As it is, he scarcely has time to sleep. Sleep deprivation's a terrible thing, mind, as the torturers at Guantanamo Bay know full well. I couldn't even handle shift work at the pit.

'There are those who say that a spiritual guide has no business meddling in politics or economics, but my view is that the way the world is run is inseperable from its spiritual health. We live in a world every bit as irrational as voodoo, a world where what can be measured is held up as all that is worth knowing – as if a country's GDP, say, in any way

reflects its culture. The big ideas of the day are democracy, free speech and the free market, all of which are in practice subverted by the powers that be. Community is destroyed and xenophobia put in its place. We, the people are seen as producers and consumers powerless in everything but our own narrow area of expertise. And because no one can understand another's specialisation there is always that fear of being conned which leads us to fear and despise each other. And all in the name of profit. But there can be much more to life than the bottom line. We can change the world. There is a power greater than the biggest corporation which we are too blinkered to see although it sustains us at every instant. To call it God or the Life Force or love are all true and all fall short. There is a truth in words which is yet beyond words just as the power of music transcends the notes which make it up. We can be happy. We need suffer no more. There is more to life than squeezing the last penny of profit from depreciating plant.' Waldo wrung out an imaginary dishcloth. 'Please welcome back Continental Drift.'

Waldo, leading the applause, walked backwards into the wings.

The band hit and held the discord on which they'd last ended before launching into a chromatic rollercoaster which led to a heartbreakingly sweet conclusion nicked from Bach. The fiddler held up his bow for a silent pause as four women (black, white, yellow and brown) moved to centre stage. The bow dropped and the band moved into another of Waldo's well-known songs. It was called Plagues and was an updated version of the plagues of Egypt in a gospel-style setting, call and response:

Call: Rivers of blood keep us out of the red Response: Let my people go Call: Frogs are crawling into my bed Response: Let my people go...

The quartet blended in perfect close harmony against a boiling Mingusy accompaniment from the band. Stan joined in with out-of-tune fervour on the chorus. The song wound on with its catalogue of horror through the modern equivalents of

lice, flies, murrains, boils, hail and lightning, locusts, darkness at noon and the deaths of children, to end with a last chorus of:

Let my people go,go,go,go Let my people – go. The quartet finished on the yearning ninth which Billie Holiday had made her own. Claire had barely registered the mixture of anger, disgust and delight which the song

had churned up in her than Waldo was back in the spotlight. 'My fellow slaves,' he began, 'we live in troubled times. Technology has made us rich

beyond our wildest dreams but at the expense of cutting us off from the natural world. Globalisation has flooded the world with cheap goods while simultaneously driving down the wages to pay for them. The young are yoked into the system, shackled at the neck by debt. And so on. The question is: what to do? I remember at one of these Save the world bashes that some pop star started a slow clap.' Clap. Two, three, four. Clap. Two, three, four. 'He said: "Every time I clap my hands a child dies in Africa." Dead silence, then someone shouted from the audience: "Well, stop doing it then, you effing moron."'

Laughter. 'I only wish it were that easy.' Waldo shrugged and smiled ruefully. 'The truth is that

we're afraid. Peoples, societies, cultures are all crumbling and we feel more and more alone in an indifferent world where worth is measured in cash and celebrity. We are so desperate for an identity that we cling to any name that comes along. I'm convinced that many addicts stay addicted to their drugs because it gives them a role, something to be. Religious fundamentalists bury their heads in the sand because their religion is not strong enough to bear a hint of doubt. And what social cohesion there is is often the result of fear. Take Israel. What but fear of the Arab world could make Russian and Ethiopian Jews bedfellows?'

'Syntheism!' yelled an enthusiast.

'Bloody 'ell man,' smiled Waldo. 'You've shot my fox. I do indeed think the Syntheist Congruence of Jews and Palestinians is one of the brightest hopes for the Middle East.'

Danny nodded fervently, pink payess jouncing.

'But,' Waldo got back on track, 'governments all over the world use fear to control their populations. Every day we are assailed by threats of terrorism, immigration, disease, global warming, ice ages or asteroid strikes. Not to mention unemployment or a rise in interest rates. We are fed a diet of lies and half-truths but the really important questions are never even asked. And as globalisation makes us more similar so differences in nation, colour and creed are emphasised, promoting hatred and bigotry. At the same time we're supposed to be getting less racist, sexist and ageist and more tolerant of one another's beliefs. It's all somewhat confusing. In Wales we don't trust the people from the next valley, let alone the next country but we still like to think of ourselves as peaceable folk. What is truly frightening is how quickly neighbours can be turned against each other. We are all much more alike than different but one minute Serbs and Croats can be living in harmony and the next they are merrily slaughtering each other. Not to mention Catholics and Protestants, Greeks and Turks, Hindus and Muslims, anyone and Jews. That keeps the military-industrial complex very happy. Reason has next to nothing to do with it. People can be killed for supporting the wrong football team. We are social animals, just as capable of murder as of loyalty or love. But there is a world of difference between a mother protecting her child from a savage dog and the mercenary soldier sent to kill innocent people to boost oil company profits. We need enemies, but they must be the right enemies. Who we are is defined as much by what we're against as by what we're for. Syntheism's for the maximum fulfilment of every individual through participation in the divine spirit – so we are against anything that that tries to thwart or corrupt such fulfilment. What the Mock Turtle in Alice called "the different branches of Arithmetic – Ambition, Distraction, Uglification and Derision." As you know, Syntheism's banned in quite a few countries but it's like trying to cap a spring – block it in one place and it busts out somewhere else. Our worldwide membership, as of this morning, stood at two hundred and forty-three thousand, five hundred and twenty-seven.'

Cheers and applause.

'Of course, it's not much in terms of a world of six billion people but it's about the size of the population of Athens at the height of its glory and I think it's true to say that we have an influence way beyond our numbers. The unstoppable tide of history is propelling the boulder of critical mass onto the seesaw of the tipping point as they say in management gobbledygook.' Waldo raised a postmodern ironic eyebrow. 'Or maybe not.

What is certainly true is that many of the powers that be hate us. Business hates us because we teach that a moderate poverty can be both easier and more enjoyable than a life devoted to conspicuous consumption. Politicians hate us because we teach truth and organic growth rather than lies and laws. Established religion hates us because we are flexible where they are rigid and prefer honest doubt to blind belief. New questions demand not only new answers but nuances.'

A ripple of laughter from the more verbally alert. Abel shook his head in wonder at this fresh manifestation of genius.

'Syntheism offers sympathy and subtlety. It is a chance to drink of the crystal spring of being before it is polluted by the stupidity and unnecessary suffering of the present day. A mother cradling her child as it dies of malaria for lack of a mosquito net is a simple example of the unnecessary as is spending vastly more on armaments than on feeding and clothing the poor and hungry majority of people on this earth. Of course, into each life a little pain must fall. Being rich can't mend a broken heart and the pain of a social climber at being shat on by the monkey on the branch above is no less real for its absurdity. Syntheism doesn't promise instant cures but it can help people to heal themselves, to redeem their suffering through the love of congruence and to try again. But let's go back to preventible suffering. Here I believe we can do something. Let's take Africa, for instance, and look not at good intentions but at outcomes. And what is coming out of Africa is capital and at a phenomenal rate. The trickle of aid going in is puny in comparison. Some of the outflow is due to African corruption, but much more is perfectly legal as a result of breaking down currency restrictions in the name of free trade. Many people sincerely believe that the free market will solve the world's problems and the freer the better. The trouble is that this idea depends on fantasies of perfect competition which bear no relation to reality. Then there is corruption on our side. If we can't change the system, we can at least ensure that the free-market fundamentalists live up to their much- trumpeted probity. We are not political inasmuch as we will expose corruption wherever we find it but many of our targets will inevitably be the big political and economic players. That is why I have set up our accountancy division – to nail corruption. That requires money, as do all our other works, so if you would like to contribute, I will be available after congruence. The easiest way to donate is by means of standing orders from one pound up to ten pounds per month. Ten pounds is the maximum, as I don't want to be in the pocket of big business. I've had offers, you know, don't think I haven't. Who has heard of Trench and Gorton?'

About half the audience raised their hands. Claire met Abel's eye and noted his sudden woodenness of expression. Stan looked up sharply from his stenography.

'Big civil engineering group, they are,' Waldo reminded his listeners, 'narrowly missed going down the pan with Enron. They offered me a quarter of a million quid in "sponsorship" if I would stop looking into their finances. This I was unable to do because they are a small but vital part of a much larger investigation. Touch any part of the web and a spider comes running. To expose the kleptocracy would do more to help Africa than a thousand Live Aid concerts. But thieves, be they companies or governments, do not take kindly to exposure. They would kill me without a qualm if they could get away with it. That they do not is due to the power of my friends in the Syntheist movement and

beyond. Death might make me a martyr – the Steve Biko of the Rhondda. Your support is often the only thing that gives me the courage to go on. Your love is for me one of my main reasons to be cheerful. In the face of a flood of suffering from around the world, I want to talk about pity. The immediate sympathy which leads to action can be good, but too often it results in selfindulgent handwringing. And think of the victims. People would much rather be hated and feared than pitied. Far better to unleash your own Tigers of Wrath on the causes of suffering than to play at Lady Bountiful.' Waldo smiled a wise, compassionate smile. 'What we want is beauty. When Keats said: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" he was saying something at once deeply profound and profoundly silly. The mathematician Paul Dirac thought that mathematical solutions should be beautiful. Beautiful. It's not a word heard much in contemporary art circles, but the need for it has never been greater. Perhaps a sense of beauty is a lie, to make sense of the incomprehensible, but we can't do without it. We need form, direction, harmony. People will happily embrace suffering if they feel that it is a part of a greater whole unlike the ugly world-view which sees existence as cruel and futile. But here is a reason to be cheerful – Syntheism is another word for the power to alter the human outlook and realign it with the idea of divine beauty. Adam and Eve were not, contrary to the story, driven out of Eden. It was worse than that. Eden was driven out of them. Their sense of beauty was destroyed and everything became ugly to them. Ugliness is chaos, ugliness is unfitness for purpose and yet it sets off beauty and can even be incorporated in it. We live in ugly times which yet contain in them the seeds of beauty. There is much to celebrate. The internet has opened a million possibilities. We still have considerable freedom of speech. Enthusiasts of all descriptions can find fellows all over the world. A grandmother in Wyrepiddle, say, can share her Tom Jones obsession with a transvestite in Hiroshima and it may even be that online congruence will one day be possible. But for myself the immediacy of being part of a congruent crowd is the difference between live music and plugging your ears with recordings which let you retreat into your own little world. In our busy world we are so bombarded with much ado about nothing that it is sometimes hard to hear the little voice of kindness and trust deep within us all. Let us now have four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence. Let the mud stirred up by the storms of life settle so that the waters are clear again. Breathe deep and slow, deep and slow.' He held up a stopwatch. 'Close your eyes. Silence starts...now.'

Four and a half minutes is a long time. Claire became aware that everybody around her was breathing at the same rate and that she herself had fallen in step. She imagined the rhythm spreading like ripples on a pool from this tent in Wiltshire until the whole world pulsed as one – a living entity like Lovelock's Gaia. Perhaps mankind's suffering was in some way as necessary to the wellbeing of the great Earth Mother as the incessant warfare in her own body which kept her free of disease. She longed to be subsumed into something majestic which would yet warm and nourish her. To let go and slide into the comforting nothingness of sleep. No. The heavy fabric of the tent was flapping. Wind sang in the steel hawsers and boomed in the hollow aluminium poles. Time ticked on. In. Out. In. Out. She sneaked a look at Abel who still had his eyes devoutly closed. His facial muscles were relaxed, giving him, she thought, a look of noble compassion. Her own smile faded and she willed away the stiffness in her cheeks. A quick glance about

snagged on Waldo's eye. He smiled and gave her a big wink just as he held up the watch and snapped down the stopper. The drummer struck a big gong. The sound, less bong than whoosh, rich in overtones, surged through the tent.

The spot came slowly up on Waldo. 'That was, as some of you will have realised, a performance of Silence, a work by the American composer John Cage.'

Laughter.

'It is a much misunderstood work,' Waldo continued seriously. 'Its purpose was neither to present us with a piece of music, nor yet with the silence implied but it was instead to open us up to the music all around us which we never normally hear. Congruence, for me, is that state of mind which has been called many things; sartori, enlightenment, grace, in which life becomes music and in which sorrow, fear and hatred become no more than piquant dissonances to courage, joy and love. It is a chance to touch the still centre at the heart of things where all the ephemeral rubbish of our daily lives is lost in a truth beyond words.'

The band struck up a sort of plainchant as Waldo moved into his invocation:

'Oh heavenly earthly father mother sister brother daughter son, above you shine, below you lift, beside you walk. Without you I am nothing; with you I dance among the stars.'

Waldo carried on chanting, his voice gradually fading with the dimming of the spotlight until it was just a soothing murmur in the gloom.

And then the back wall of the tent rolled smoothly up (Dotty had been practising all morning) to reveal a huge stained-glass panel blazing in the sun. An abstract pattern in deep blue, wine red and daffodil yellow drenched the delighted crowd with colour. It was flawlessly done. The panel fitted exactly into its aperture with not a single chink and the foil-backed plasterboard behind was at just the right angle to mirror the sun's rays into the tent.

The band ended on an exultant chord and led attaca into the next singalong.

Claire let herself be swept up in the fervour and suddenly the wall which had kept her apart from all mankind for so long melted silently away and she was engulfed by universal love. She loved Abel and Danny and even Stan (who had an expression of naked bliss on his face). The trite Christmas message of peace on earth and goodwill to all mankind seemed for the first time to be more than wishful thinking. Everything would be alright once people understood. She squeezed Abel's hand and smiled up at his shining eyes.

Waldo and the band were silhouetted against the rich colours and his soft voice and the elegiac music were so beautiful they made you want to cry.

This time there was no dancing and the congruence ended with another of Waldo's songs to the tune of The Volga Boatmen:

Goodbye sadness Welcome gladness Let the nourishing gift flourish and grow...

The lights came up again and Claire, full of a deep, sweet peace was yet aware of the professionalism of the whole performance. There had been no glitches of lighting- or sound-systems and even the weather had behaved. The 'stained glass' was actually cellophane sandwiched between perspex sheets but the illusion had been perfect and Waldo and the band had meshed seamlessly.

Abel was too moved to speak but he hugged Claire passionately.

Danny had an arm around Stan's shoulders and they seemed engrossed in a heart-to- heart talk.

Dotty was at a table by the exit where a patient queue of subscribers had formed and Waldo was putting himself about pressing the flesh, beaming and chatting.

There were several more events scheduled for the afternoon but Claire agreed with Abel that after the congruence anything else would be an anticlimax. They headed for the crowd around Waldo to do some gushing and to see if the master had further need of them.

'Well, Portia, my advice would be to cut up your credit cards, work out a budget and draw it in cash at the beginning of each week,' he was telling a well-dressed middle-aged woman with dark rings under her eyes. 'That's how Dotty got us through the miners' strike. Remember, you can always email me and there are links on our website to some honest financial advisers. Despite what the adverts tell you, there is actually more to life than shopping. Cheer up.' Waldo burst into song:

I want to be happy But I can't be happy Till I make you happy too.

Waldo smiled. 'Keep in touch.'

'Yes, yes I will.' Portia made with the spaniel eyes. 'Thank you, Waldo. I feel ever so much better.'

Waldo bent his ear to another questioner and Abel felt something deftly slipped into his hand. He drew away from the crowd and surreptitiously unfolded the little square of paper. The message, in Waldo's own flamboyant writing read: Abel, I would appreciate it if you and Claire could meet me in the caravan at the Chinese dentist (Tooth Hurtee). Thanks, Waldo.

Claire had come up, full of a sudden foreboding, but Abel merely smiled and passed her the note before smiling at Waldo and holding up a circle of finger and thumb. A-OK. Message received and understood. Roger, over and out.

Two thirty was a good hour away so they gathered up Danny and Stan and went off in search of food.

Over takeaways Stan rhapsodised about his new life. His second congruence had been even better than the first. But he had some disquieting news too.

'Bumped into one of me owl muckers from the force din' I?' he asked rhetorically. (Feel free to stud Stan's speech with nasal vowels, glottal stops and dropped aitches. I can't be arsed). 'With Special Branch now he is. Terrorists and that. That means MI5 and

the Home Office are nosing around Waldo. Told him I'd pretended to be like converted so's to get on the inside track and we agreed to pool any info we came up with. Course I dont trust him no more than he trusts me but at least I can tell which way the wind's blowing. Anyway I got to go now and write up my report. I said I'd show it to Waldo before I sent it.' Stan opened his attache case and pulled out a poly-pocket. 'Here y'are, Abel,' he said gruffly, 'this is a printout of yesterday's talk. When I've typed up today's I'll run you off a copy. You can pick it up before you go. I'm the blue Transit van in the far corner.'

'Wow, thanks Stan. That'd be great.' Abel took the polypocket, shook out a few sheets of A4 and greedily plunged into the immortal words. Remembering his manners after a minute he raised shining eyes to Stan's hesitant smile. Stan stood, brushed off further expressions of gratitude with: 'No probs. Glad you're happy. Cheers guys – see you later.' He went.

'Hm. So he told his mate he was just pretending to be converted.' Claire pursed her lips. 'Who's he lying to – "'is owl mucker" or us?'

'The thing is that Waldo's told him to carry on as usual so there's no basis in his actions for telling what he thinks.' Danny relished the sweet sourness of the paradox. 'Does it even matter what he thinks? It's a nice point.' He turned to Abel who was once more buried in text. 'Nu, boychick. Is it all there?'

'Um, yes. Seems to be. I'll send you a copy if you like.'

'Thanks. Waldo usually puts an edited version on the net but the actual talks are more like an improvisation. He speaks as the spirit moves him. What's incredible is how well they stand up in the cold light of day. On the other hand, perhaps it's like the sin against the Holy Ghost to try and fix something fleeting.' Danny gave a Satanic smile. 'Maybe the value of the experience vanishes when you write it down.'

'That had occurred to me,' said Abel glumly. 'I know Waldo says the best present is the present but I can't bear the thought of missing a single word.'

'He's not a god, you know,' Danny indulgently cautioned. 'Remember "Heroes need zeros and idols need dolts."'

'Not to mention "Paddle Your Own Canyou?" from Outtakes and Inversions. Deeply silly.' Abel smiled. 'Anyway, I suppose we'd better get going. Waldo wants to see us later and I promised Claire a stroll by the river before we head back to uni. Might even pop by to see if Stan's written up today's discourse.'

'Well duh.' Danny's joshing embraced his friend's frailty. 'If you'd like to fax me the transcripts I'd be very glad to have them. The number's on my card. I've got to go too. I promised a friend I'd help her buy a fridge-freezer online and that'll probably take most of the evening. Not to mention I'll need a couple of hours with Dipak to soothe his wounded feelings. So au revoir. Claire, it's been a pleasure to meet you. Look after my old friend Abel – he's rather headstrong and cocksure – or is it the other way

round?' (Claire tittered.) 'Anyway, see you in the chatroom and next time you're in London you must come for dinner. I make a lokshen pudding that's to die for.' He kissed his fingertips then, with the usual bearhugs and kissed cheeks, he was gone.

The young lovers went back to their tent and started packing up. Claire missed her mobile. Who knew what vital texts were backed up in cyberspace? She remembered how

she'd eventually teased her mother out of reading the obituaries in the local paper only for her to miss the death notice of an old friend the very next day.

It had been nearly forty-eight hours. She didn't know what was worse – the thought that some disaster had happened (Daddy killed in a freak lawnmower accident) or that no-one had noticed she was gone. She could nip back to the car and have a look. No! She would be strong. Abel maintained that in order to extract the full value from Harmonic Synthesis (whatever that was) it was necessary to cut oneself off from everyday life. Waldo advised no phones, ipods, newspapers, TV or internet. Claire, a social girl, felt like a heavy smoker who'd just quit. What to do with one's hands? She sighed and concentrated on the stern task of rolling her sleepingbag up tight enough to squash into its tiny bag. Pulling up the tent-pegs was fun. The same soft aluminium spikes which had been so reluctant to penetrate the rocky ground now proved equally reluctant to relinquish their hold. Claire was bent over, heaving away when Abel clutched her round the waist and pulled. Surprised, Claire let go and fell backwards onto Abel, winding him severely. When the whooping stopped the laughing and kissing better began.

At last the packing was done. Griselda was stuffed to the gunwales. A visit to Stan found him hard at work on his report. 'It makes me sick to see the stuff I used to write. The difference now is that at least Waldo gets to see it so he knows what these bastards are trying to do.' Stan reckoned that if Abel popped by about five his stuff would be ready.

They found Waldo in ebullient mood. One hundred and eighty-three Syntheists had pledged an average of four pounds twentynine pee per month, bringing in an extra ten thousand quid a year. Sales of books, CDs and DVDs had also been brisk. Dotty was pleased. She was busy at a cast-iron bakestone on the little gas hob when they arrived and they were quickly supplied with tea and Welshcakes which were not too doughy and not too floury but warm and fruity and light.

'Abel, boyo, I have some work here for you.' He laid a box file (puckishly labelled Fox Bile) on the table. 'This is all the gen we've gathered so far on T&G. Their contract details, subsidiaries, annual reports and so on. If you have the time I'd like you to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. I don't know what you're looking for. It may be a smoking gun but it's more likely a recurring pattern. There's no rush. It's more important to be sure than to jump to conclusions. If you need help, you've got Harvey's number. Remember, be discreet. Use internet cafes for searches rather than your own computer, that sort of thing. People may already have their eye on you. Do you want to do it?'

'Of course. By the way,' Abel blurted, 'the noon congruence was amazing. Thank you.'

Claire nodded vigorously.

'Don't thank me, thank yourselves. It's all there. You just have to reach out and take it.' Waldo considered a moment then turned to Claire. 'Claire, bach. How'd you like to write up the weekend for our magazine? But I want honesty, mind. Not lying platitudes. If you think I'm just a fat charlatan with the gift of the gab you must say so. I've heard worse. Do you think you could knock out a thousand words by Friday? The mag goes to bed on Tuesday. Get hold of Val. She'll see you right.'

'Gosh thanks yes. I'd love to do it, Waldo. But I was wondering...'

'Yes, bach?'

'What about that girl Stan was talking about? Should I say anything about that? I could say I'd heard gossip that some big company was out to get you. It's true. I did.'

'Well, you can if you want to but I'd be inclined to hold back until we have more evidence. The trouble is that if it's too vague it means nothing at all and if it's too specific Stan might be fingered. And I'd hate to give Trench and Gorton the opportunity to invoke our quaint laws of libel. Do some discreet digging by all means, but I'd like to give Stan a chance to come up with something. Let's give him say forty days and forty nights. That has a nice biblical ring to it. Then we'll see.'

'Remind me again,' Dotty played the chopsy straight man, 'which is it you are this week, Moses or Jesus.'

'Well sure and begorrah it's just because we're surely in the midst of one of the plagues of eejits,' Waldo Irished. 'Moses. Jesus. Like Aaron I have a rod dat can turn from staff to snake and back again – or is dat St. Patrick?'

The corners of Dotty's downturned mouth twitched and Claire shot tea through her nose. Abel, groping for the wisdom behind the smut, smiled absently.

Waldo resumed his usual persona.

'I said forty days because that's about how long we'll be out of circulation. A cousin of mine has a cottage out in the Brecon Beacons. No phone, no TV, no internet. I think that this is one of those times when it's actually best to do nothing. Let them make the first move. The organisation can run itself. Mind, talking of Moses remember how he went up the mountain for the ten commandments and came back to find the Children of Israel worshipping the golden calf? He wasn't half cross. So, children. What happened next?'

'Didn't he smash the tablets?' Claire ventured.

'Indeed. And then the bit they tend to skip in Sunday school. He got together the loyal sons of Levi and went through the camp slaughtering brothers, companions and neighbours as an example. I trust I won't have to do likewise.' And Waldo stretched his face into Harpo's grin of feral merriment.

'Six weeks!' Abel was dismayed. 'But what if there's a real emergency?'

'Use your intelligence guided by experience as Nero Wolfe would say. Just remember that very few things are worth dying for. Use my absence to think for yourselves. Tune into Divine Harmony and you can't go wrong. Sheep make baa-ad Syntheists. The stiffnecked can be a right pain in the arse. If there is a genuine emergency Harvey knows where we are but he'll have to drive two hundred miles and walk up a steep and muddy track to find us which is a sufficient disincentive to frivolous vexation.'

'It sounds lovely,' Claire lied. 'Would it just be for a holiday?'

'Huh.' Dotty snorted. 'Holiday. Chance'd be a fine thing. It's a fulltime job just staying alive. You've got a hand-cranked washing machine with a mangle and a range to keep in all night and a freezer that has to be filled with paraffin and tilley lamps. It's alright for him, the lazy bugger. He potches about looking at flowers and thinking (so he says) and writing down his warped thoughts.'

'That's not entirely true,' Waldo protested hotly. 'I tries to 'elp but you won't let me bloody near. Mangle the washing for you and what thanks do I get?'

'You broke every button on my favourite blouse,' hissed Dotty, 'and most of the others

on everything else. I had to cadge a ride into Merthyr on Dick Price's tractor or our clothes would have fallen off us. You haven't lived,' she turned confidentially to Claire, 'until you've walked down Merthyr high street with your dress pinned together with thorns.' She gazed at Waldo and shook her head. 'Then he wanted to help me sew on the new buttons and he ended up sewing his shirt to the knee of his trousers. I only hope he dies first – he wouldn't last a week without me.'

'True.' Waldo gave his stiff spouse an affectionate hug. 'Solitude would be unbearable without her but mit her I'm a hermit.'

'Six weeks cut off from the world,' cried Claire. 'I've only turned off my mobile for two days and I'm already getting panicky.'

'You'd be surprised how soon it passes. Zinoviev, author of The Yawning Heights, recommends giving up the paper for a month. On going back to it, he says, you'll be amazed that you could ever have read such rubbish. As true here and now as back then and there in the Soviet Union. Of course you youngsters nowadays don't read papers anyway. Not even aspiring journalists, eh Claire?' Twinkle.

'I read the Metro freesheet sometimes,' said Claire colouring up, 'and my folks get the FT and Sunday Times, but I must admit I don't ever buy one of my own. Partly cost of course. But I do follow the news on TV and radio. There's the Guardian online and quite a few blogs,' said Claire defensively. 'Not to mention the fact that my coursework depends on keeping up. But it's true. People our age don't generally take newspapers.'

'Nevertheless Waldo's right about cutting yourself off from time to time,' Abel was fervent. 'The most I've been able to manage has been a week so far but I can really recommend it. You realise just what an incessant deluge of propaganda we live under. The most striking thing I noticed on going back to the news was the questions they didn't ask. The John Humphries technique is to hammer a politician on some trivial point while ignoring the really important questions.'

'You'll have your work cut out to stay honest in the media, mind,' warned Dotty tartly. 'She should speak to Jack Hughes, eh Waldo?'

'Jack, yes. He's a journalist of the old school,' Waldo smiled. 'Jack Hughes: They used to call him Zola. Jack Hughes J'accuse. Get it? He knew everyone worth knowing from James Cameron and Martha Gellhorn to Nye Bevan and Evelyn Waugh. He's pretty bitter about the state of modern journalism. Says ninety percent of it's recycled gossip and that journalists are so obsessed with the gutter that they never look up to see where it is the street's going. No-one's interested in the sort of investigative journalism that takes time and contacts and money, it's all the bottom line.'

'And talking of the bottom line have some more of these Welshcakes. Save Waldo from himself.' She eyed the young lovers critically. 'You could both stand to put on a few pounds.' Dotty wasn't known for her tact but her good heart shone through.

Claire accepted a Welshcake with pleasure and the attacks on her chosen profession with equanimity. Politics, journalism and the law were all commonly assumed to be hopelessly corrupt. But Claire, at nineteen, knew better. She was spunky, I'll give her that. She knew that the still small voice of truth could never be suppressed and if her image of a reporter was still a mixture of Lois Lane and Mata Hari insouciantly tipping the ash off her cigarette in its long ivory holder into an elephant's foot ashtray, well,

we've all been there. Her report of the weekend would be as honest as she could make it. 'I know things are pretty bad but I think there's still a place for good journalism,' she

averred. 'In fact we need it more than ever.' 'Amen to that,' said Waldo emphatically. 'You give it to us with both barrels. Val will

sub your piece, but you have the right of refusal. You'll find her kind to be cruel.' 'Waldo, don't tease the child,' said Dotty tersely. 'Don't worry cariad, Val's a

sweetie.' 'Oh, Claire can stand up for herself,' said Abel smugly. 'I've found that out. But if you

don't mind, Waldo, there's something I've been meaning to ask you,' and Abel, with earnestly furrowed brow, plunged into the recondite thickets of Syntheism. Dotty rolled up her eyes as Waldo, who prided himself on the logical consistency of his fake religion, plunged into the fray.

Dotty broke away to do the washing-up, briskly brushing off Claire's offer of help.

'I'm not sure how the concept of cathexis fits in with harmonic dualism,' Abel was saying as Claire's attention wandered to Dotty's diary, open on the seat next to her. She took a surreptitious glance: Mon. 6:00 a.m. Up. Dark wash. Bacon & eggs. X off to Cardiff. Cat litter bagged & put out with bins. Sorted out council-tax. Hung out washing. Tea. Coffee and walnut cake. Rain. Washing soaked. Hung over rads. & chairs just as sun came out. Lunch. Pork pie and cole-slaw.

God! Poor Dotty! Claire looked appalled on a vista of endless drudgery although the object of her pity seemed quite contented and was obviously no downtrodden serf.

Waldo glanced at his watch and reluctantly gave up his exploration of the phrase 'humruiny of the spears.'

'I'm expecting Stan soon,' he told his young friends, 'and I think I'd better see him alone.' He dipped a hand into the soft leather pouch hanging from the window-catch and pulled out a slip of paper. 'Here you go, Abel. A bone to chew on for next time.' He glanced at the slip and said: 'How's your French?'

Abel rocked his outspread hand. 'Comme ci, comme ça.'

'Well, "Le silence eternel de ces espaces infini m'effrai" shouldn't be too taxing.' Waldo's accent was quite good and he gargled his ars with relish.

'M'effrai?' Abel puzzled.

'Terrifies,' Waldo supplied. I make it: the eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me. Pascal. See what a Syntheistic analysis of that might yield.'

'Will do.' Bucked up, the lovers left. Lo and behold and who should be heading their way only Stan. 'Someone should really tell him orange is not his colour,' Claire sidemouthed cattily

as he approached. And the tequila sunrise T-shirt did indeed point up Stan's sallow complexion and boozer's nose.

'Hi, Abel. Hullo Claire. I kinda hoped I'd bump into you. The transcript went quicker than I thought. Everything suddenly seems to sort of come easier to me.' Stan opened his ring-binder and unclipped a poly-pocket which he handed to Abel. 'There you go, squire. And listen, my card's in there in case you ever wanna get in touch.' Needy eyes.

'Of course,' Abel assured him. 'I'm often in againstemforum – which is a Syntheist

chatroom. You should try it sometime.' 'I will.' Stan nodded eagerly. 'It's just that so much new stuff has come into my life

that it's gonna take a while to like get my head around it. I dunno what I'm gonna be doing from now on but for the first time in ages I feel a sense of hope. I promised Waldo a copy of my report and I tried to make it as normal as possible but it made me realise just what a sick, twisted bastard I used to be.' Headshake of sad disbelief. 'Waldo said quarter past and it's fourteen past now. What happens next depends on him. And on me. I'm pleased I met you – you're both good people.'

'Thanks. You too,' Abel muttered a bit reluctantly. 'I'm sure we'll meet up again soon. Stay sane.'

Claire nodded and smiled a noncommittal smile. 'You too. Bye, Claire.' 'Bye Stan.' The PI's trainers raised puffs of dust from the drubbed, abraded grass as he strode over

to Waldo's caravan, knocked and was admitted. 'Poor Stan,' Abel fretted. 'I wonder how he'll react to the news that Waldo's cutting

himself off for six weeks. Maybe he's working on a book or just wants time for what he calls Teddy mating: or the forced copulation of stuffed toys.' Abel snickered then grew up. 'We'd better keep an eye on friend Stan.'

'Yes we can't allow backsliding. Or should that be slackbiding.' Claire, entering into the bad taste of the thing, surveyed her coinage with delight. 'Look, it sort of makes sense. Slack biding. Where you hang around for no very good reason. Talking of which, what happened to our walk by the river?'

'Good idea. That'd be cool.'

Away from the festival the river gurgled placidly over its shallow chalky bottom. A trout flashed by and was lost in the trouty ripples. The lovers explored their senses with plenty of kissing and hugging but no actual 'lovemaking' as Claire referred to fucking. Her last wee behind a bush had stung like hell, raising the dread spectre of cystitis. Round the bend a track crossed a ford in the river. There was a clearing among the hawthorns where sheep gathered. The hot, still air focused the sheepy reek. There were hanks of wool on thorn and bramble and the few sheep in one corner with blue Es daubed on their flanks looked dirty and mangy and overdue a shear. Back. To the West the sky was slate- blue against the fresh green of young leaves and its beauty stirred troubled yearnings in Claire. She'd never been happier, but there was the tension of waiting for the storm to break. The sun went in. A few fat raindrops fell.

Griselda was waiting patiently as the lovers ran up, soaked to the skin. Claire had insisted on stopping for a litre of water and a carton of cranberry juice. Even now she was knocking back slugs of juice with water chasers. Still, at least they'd get back early. Gallons of coffee while she dashed off her essay would keep her flushed out.

Abel was also both happy and troubled. How could Waldo leave them in the lurch just when they needed his guidance the most? Perhaps it was a test of some kind.

Even with the seat as far back as it would go, Abel looked like a praying mantis crouched over his steering wheel. He twisted the key. The starter motor gave a wheezy crank or two and the engine took. Phew. Griselda was no lover of the damp so it had not

yet penetrated to her bones. The old trick of reverse-shunting the battery had given it a reprieve but it seemed that the end was near. Dad would know the best place to find one cheap. Most of Abel's conversations with his father centred around the safe topics of technology and sport. The car-seat factory had been taken over by a private-equity group which had immediately closed off the pension scheme to new employees and fired a quarter of the work-force. Morale was at rock-bottom and Warren just hoped he could hang on for long enough to put in for early retirement. Then he and Becky planned to move to what was called little England beyond Wales in Pembrokeshire and open a B&B. The inevitable loss of the family home loomed heavy in Abel's heart, along with his doubts. Did he really love Claire? Could he stand another year of accountancy? Was Waldo in danger? He glanced at Claire and met a timid smile that melted his heart. On.

Three minutes later they were on a feeder road to the M4 with the Charade's three pistons chuntering merrily away and the warmth from the heater drying out their clothes. As the wet began to come up through the floorboards, the car turned into a sauna. Sucked onto the M4, they joined the heavy London traffic. Grey sky. Bleary lights. The noise of engine, wipers, swishing tyres, wind. A bunch of wires vomited out of the hole where a radio had been. Oh no! Roadworks. And average-speed cameras. Abel was stuck in the slow lane between two trucks. Well, at least they were moving from time to time.

'Shall I text travel info?' asked Claire diffidently. 'Good idea.' Claire clicked and thumbed but found nothing too horrendous. She phoned home. 'Hi, Mummy, it's me... No, nothing's wrong, I'm fine... Yes, we're on our way back

now... Oh, fantastic... yes... very interesting... No, Abel's driving... Yes, the same one... Accountancy, I told you. That should make you happy... OK OK... Yes, yes I will... Love to Daddy... Bye.'

'Everything OK back home?' Abel, going through a coned-off dogleg, kept his eyes on the road.'

'Oh, the same as usual. Of course they suspect anyone who has designs on their daughter's virtue but they try hard not to show it. Don't worry,' hand on arm, 'they'll love you once they get to know you.'

'After they get over their shock at discovering I'm not actually the middle-aged bespectacled bookkeeper in a beige cardigan you seem to have told them about.'

'I did not!' Claire protested, blushing. 'I just brought out your, like, steadier qualities. The Syntheism might take a bit of explaining – although Daddy thought you were a Satanist at first so he was actually quite relieved.'

'Well, next to you, it's the single most important thing in my life, but as you saw, there's nothing to be afraid of.'

'Not from the religious point of view, no. But if Waldo's really taking on big business there could be trouble ahead.'

'Well, if you seriously want to change consciousness, you have to change lifestyle. You can't balance saving the planet with ever-increasing consumption. "Less is mortal" as Waldo says of capitalism.'

'I don't suppose he's had anything to say about brand recognition has he?' Claire returned to the quotidian.

'Not directly perhaps.' Abel glanced in the mirror. That Argos truck was breathing down his neck and he was too close to the low-loader with an army tank on it in front. All it needed was for someone up ahead to slam on their brakes and they'd be crushed like a Malteser. He came back to Claire. 'Of course he's become something of a brand himself. That's good insofar as it gives him a platform but bad if you become a victim of your media caricature. Then you can be typecast forever. So far Waldo's kept ahead of the game. He's so versatile that he's difficult to pigeonhole. This six-week retreat is typical only in that it's the last thing you'd expect. Anyone else would follow up a smash hit with a blitz of publicity but Waldo doesn't want sheep. He gives us time to digest and even question his teachings. He wants followers who think for themselves. That's another thing the powers that be have against him.'

'What are his politics?' Claire puzzled. 'I mean I know he's like antiwar and anti- globalisation and all that, but what's he for?'

'Well, there again he's hard to pin down. As a miner he'd always voted Labour but when he saw how they abandoned the strikers in eightyfour he felt betrayed. The TUC also apparently sat on their hands. Now he says he votes for people, not parties. He's voted for independents, Greens and even Lib Dems but not yet for a Tory or a Welsh Nationalist.' Abel chuckled. 'He says the Lib Dems need to put clear yellow water between themselves and the Tories. So that makes him sort of leftish, but it's hard to pin him down. He likes to quote Walt Whitman: "Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)." He thinks the state should run things like the railways and the NHS and that the current belief of all parties in deregulation and the free market is primitive superstition. He called the last election a choice between Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.'

'Do you think there's an accident up ahead?' Claire asked anxiously, texting the while.

'Not necessarily. The front of the queue could be moving while we're still stuck here. Traffic-flow problems are quite intertesting in a dull sort of way.'

'Go on, then, tell me. No, there's no new congestion.'

'Well, say someone way up ahead brakes for something. By the time the bloke behind him reacts, he's a lot closer so he has to slow down faster and the one behind him even more so. You get a wave travelling backwards slower and slower until it actually stops and the back of the queue is stalled while the original cause of the trouble sails merrily on.'

'So if the cars were all linked together somehow you wouldn't get this stop-start stuff? That's a good idea.'

'What they call a train, you mean?' Abel raised an eyebrow.

'Well, duh!' and Claire stuck out her tongue, encrimsoned, she suddenly remembered, with cranberry juice. She slicked it in and smiled instead.

'But you're on the right track, as it were. A friend of mine's working on a virtual train in which every car's controlled from a central computer which works out its ideal speed and so on. You'd enter your destination like a satnav and the car would pretty well drive itself there. Sort of technological congruence.'

'Ugh. It sounds horrible. I'd be terrified to be driven by a robot controlled by

computer. If it crashed, you'd crash.' 'But you trust the autopilot on planes, which is the same thing. There might be the odd

disaster, but three thousand plus people are killed on our roads every year and I'd say we could cut that by ninety percent. Obviously we drivers aren't about to give up our favourite toys. But it'll come. Waldo's chief objection is that this would be yet another way of infantilising people and crushing self-reliance. Everything has become more complicated; people are helpless outside their own tiny area of expertise. You have to rely on alleged experts in everything from finance to washing machines. You should hear my Dad on the subject. He goes spare when he sees those labels saying Contains No User- serviceable Parts. The chuckaway society. No-one grows or hunts their own food, we're dependent on the power company for electricity and there's an ever-increasing amount of paperwork.'

'Marxist alienation of labour,' Claire sighed a weltschmertzy sigh. 'Look at this traffic. Remind me again: just what were Waldo's reasons to be cheerful? It seemed so clear at the time but now that we're crawling along in a tailback in the pouring rain I can't remember a word.'

'Give us a wipe here,' Abel interrupted. 'We're fogging up. I'll have to open my window a bit – the demister doesn't work. Oh, no. It's coming right on to me. Would you mind opening your side, Piglet?'

(They were still trying out pet names on each other.)

'Sure. Nope, that seems alright.' Claire wound the window half down and looked out just as a lorry surged by on the wrong side and soused her in dirty spray.

'Oh, no!' Claire wailed, her initial burst of fury crumpling at once to self-pity. She burst into tears, frantically cranking up the window between sobs.

Abel's startled snort of laughter was quickly quashed. 'Claire, darling, don't cry.' He kissed the top of her wet and gritty head. 'We'll stop at the next services. I hate people who overtake on the left. I suppose you could call them undertakers but it might lead to confusion,' he mused.

Why, Claire wondered, angry again, did men always fly off from the personal to the universal?

'Look,' she sniffled, wiping the tears from her cheeks, 'this is absolutely fascinating, but the point is that I'm soaked through. Again. Have you got anything to dry me off?

'Of course. Sorry Poggsie. There should be some bogroll in the cubbyhole. There was. Claire blew her nose and dabbed at her hair and clothes. Abel watched her out of the corner of his eye. Even in a fury she was so neat and

dainty. He struggled not to smile. Their first tiff. Claire carried on staring stonily ahead to show that she was not to be

trifled with although she'd already secretly relented. Abel's attention had transferred itself to the temperature gauge which was moving resolutely upwards. He switched back to the frigid block of meat by his side.

'Claire, darling. Don't be cross. It was all my fault. I need you to do some more wiping. We're fogging up again.'

'No, I'm the one being silly.' Claire mollified him. 'It wasn't really your fault. I suppose I'll see the funny side later, if I ever get warm and dry again.' She reached over

to clear Abel's side and he clutched her to him. Bill bill. Coo coo. Griselda's temperature climbed into the red. Abel kept a light foot on the throttle and had just decided to pull over onto the hard

shoulder when the exit for the services arrived. He felt worry gnawing his vitals. Hopefully it was just a minor leak but the symptoms were too close to a blown head- gasket for comfort.

'Is the car alright?' asked Claire anxiously as they limped into the carpark.

'Running a bit hot.' Masculine sangfroid. 'She can cool down while we have a coffee and dry off. We shouldn't really leave all this stuff in the car but luckily it's too steamed up to see in.'

'I'll take my rucksack, for a change of clothes.' Perhaps the car would break down and she'd have the perfect excuse for missing her essay deadline. They might have to stay overnight at the lodge. Daddy had given her a credit card to be used in emergencies and the thought of hot showers and smooth, clean beds was suddenly very appealing. Oh, well.

They got out.

'Bad girl, Griselda.' Abel wagged a long finger. 'You behave or it's off to the scrapyard with you.'

'Oh, don't say that.' Claire took the poor creature's side. 'I'm superstitious about those things. Nice car. You'll get us back safe, won't you?'

The rain, which had paused for breath, came on again and they ran for it.

Chapter 10

Waldo and Dotty were doing some low-speed running of their own. A fellow Syntheist had insisted on towing the caravan back to their neat little terraced house. They hitched it up and Waldo had to laugh at the contrast between his little hunchbacked trailer with its jokey paintjob and Chris's massive black 4X4 bulging with steroidal muscles and chromium bling. It usually towed a horsebox. Chris was a solicitor who lived in Stroud but they were just now off to their holiday cottage in Porthcawl. He'd met Waldo a couple of years ago and they'd since become good friends. Chris was a weedy little fellow with a bad complexion who wore his professional pomposity lightly. His wife Josephine was a smart county type whose bustling efficiency had concealed a secret sorrow. Despite her own successful legal career and the money she'd brought to the marriage they hadn't been able to have children. The biblical word 'barren' was a stone in her heart. Furthermore, by the time they'd exhausted all the conventional and 'alternative' aids to fertility they were considered too old to adopt. There had been a Syntheist meeting in the village hall and one of Josephine's mother's friends swore blind that Waldo had cured her rheumatism. Jo googled Lillicrap and was intrigued. It seemed worth a try. She emailed Waldo and to her surprise he suggested meeting in a pub when he was next in the area. Over beer and pub grub he told her that he could guarantee nothing on the fertility front but that joining the family of the Syntheist congruence might allay her pain. She

went off to the loo and Chris, who'd only come along to humour her, was left with Waldo. The man may have been a charlatan, thought Chris, but he was, unlike the padre at their local church, no fool.

'If you really want children,' Waldo suggested, 'You might want to consider easing up on the old Colombian marching powder.'

'What? How did you know?' Chris was staggered. He hadn't even told his doctor.

Waldo smiled. 'One nostril bigger than the other. The sniffles. And a certain spring in your step when you came back from the gents. I've worked in rehab down in Brighton. You get to recognise the signs.' Waldo shrugged. 'I make no moral judgements, mind. I'm a nicotine addict myself and I like the odd pint. And even the even pint. But if you wind yourself up too tight something eventually snaps.'

'Yes. You're right. I have been caning it a bit lately. One of our partners died last year. Heart attack. We found him in the loo with a rolled-up twenty up his nose. He was younger than me. And Jo's been hitting the sherry since the last implant failed. We've tried everything from Aromatherapy to Zift. Twenty grand down the pan. And about the same up my nose. I spend half my time rescheduling my debts and meanwhile my accountant keeps on at me to spend more on office equipment to qualify for tax deductions. By the way,' Chris lowered his voice, seeing his wife approaching, 'thanks for not giving Jo unrealistic expectations. We've had enough false dawns for a while.'

'No problem. Dotty and I are also childless. It's been nice meeting you.' Waldo got up. 'I have to go now. Our next congruence is in Slough in a fortnight's time. Come along. You'll be very welcome.' Firm handshake for Chris, a kiss on the cheek for Jo and he was gone.

Intrigued, the pair had gone along to the congruence. Waldo's Dutch Uncling and a prolonged nasal haemorrhage had finally got Chris off the coke. Six weeks later Jo had conceived and was now in her second trimester. She was convinced that Syntheism had been responsible and as Waldo had politely refused to take more than ten quid a month from her she'd volunteered her legal services for free. Waldo took occasional advantage from time to time but as often as not his questions related to ethics and principle as to legal niceties. Part of his genius was to make each of his suppliants feel special in the few minutes that press of time allowed. Genuine interest allowed him to remember names of spouses and children, occupations and interests. He was generally upbeat and cheerful. He personally answered five emails a day, chosen at random by sliding a piece of card with a slot in it over the computer screen. The other couple of dozen got an automated letter of regret including the joke of the day and a religious or philosophical conundrum to chew on.

Syntheists who logged onto the website were told that as of sunset on the Sunday after congruence Waldo was taking off forty days and forty nights to commune with G-d (as the Jews coyly called him) and would be unavailable for any queries or business whatever. Crises should be dealt with by fellow Syntheists. There was no need to build arks or worship golden calves unless the urge proved irresistible. Why forty? Well, Waldo explained, life begins at forty (after forty winks). The eightfold path of Buddhism multiplied by the five daily prayers of the Muslims gave forty as did the ten commandments multiplied by the four elements of the ancient Greeks. Forty in Roman

numerals was XL which was also the waist-size of Waldo's tracksuit. This was without involving Jesus, Noah, Moses and Muhammed. The real reason was that Dotty's cousin wanted his cottage back after that time.

Chris and Jo gave the Lillicraps a half-hour start so that they would arrive at their destination together. It would have driven Chris mad to putter along behind Waldo at sixty miles an hour. Even towing a caravan it would be hard to hold the mighty Mitsubishi down to eighty.

Waldo set off at five into the freshening rain of a squally souwester. Traffic was heavy around Bristol but they were soon on the new Severn bridge whose stiff struts and sickly green barriers which blocked the view were in unhappy contrast to the graceful catenaries of the old bridge. Not to mention the steeply-escalating toll charges for Welshmen to enter Wales.

'Sorry to interrupt your grumpy ranting,' Dotty broke in, 'but can you think of anything else we've got to take up to Brynhyfryd?'

Brynhyfryd (Mount Pleasant) was the name of the cottage. As there is no shortage of pleasant hills in Wales, the name is widespread.

Waldo thought. Pen and paper. Ink. Bogroll. Tinned salmon. Condensed milk. KY jelly. Beer. Dotty had packed all that and more. There was enough food for a six-month siege and anyway she'd be going into Merthyr once a week for a bit of shopping. This entailed a three-mile walk to the bus stop. Waldo would walk down after and help her lug stuff back.

'Can't think of anything else we'd need,' he mused. 'Jesus wept! Look at that rain.' Waldo pulled over onto the hard shoulder as it was raining too hard to see. Three lanes of traffic surged blindly by. After a while the rain eased and they rejoined the throng, reaching home without further incident. Ten minutes later Chris and Jo arrived. Chris expertly backed the caravan round a corner and into the little yard where it lived. The men unhitched the ball joint and cranked down the corner jacks while the women made tea. Chris looked at the jokey little caravan parked on its chequer-board of pink and green concrete slabs, screened from the road by a hedge of alternating green and gold Leylandii. It was the apotheosis of kitsch. Chris wondered why his usual sneering condescension was replaced by an amused tolerance.

Inside was even worse – but as well as the cheap and garish furniture there were a couple of big bookcases stuffed with a gallimaufry of Waldo's enthusiasms. The shelf of poetry showed a quirky but discerning taste: more Auden than Eliot, more Emily Dickenson than Wordsworth. There were also various scriptures and books on religion as well as a sprinkling of philosophers of a mainly sceptical bent. Most of the precepts of Syntheism had, however, come from a series of children's books on the great religions of the world. The computer-generated bit was a joke. Waldo had got an IT-wizard pal of his to translate the major religious tenets into symbolic logic and run them through a set of increasingly ludicrous computations. It turned out that God, say, equalled nothingness while sin divided by virtue equalled infinity. More seriously, for even the main religions, every agreement brought with it a dozen contradictions. This called for some nifty mental footwork involving paradox, metaphor and lots of yin and yang but Waldo eventually hammered out a doctrine of sorts. Any irreconcilable precepts could be confidently

dismissed as human error. Indeed, given the paucity of language and the depths of human ignorance, he wrote, it was more than possible that the divine will had been universally misinterpreted. And yet he'd found believers.

There had been a spell of religiosity in Waldo's own life: so he understood. Dragged to chapel week after week by Mam he'd enjoyed the singing but had sat numb-bummed and bored through the rest. His awakening came with the visit of the great American preacher Howell Howells who briefly enthused the chapelgoers of Pwlldwfn with his revivalist skills. He preached the joy and fulfilment of serving Christ. This was such a contrast to the dour, forbidding Christianity to which Waldo was inured that he allowed the sweet delusion of hope into his heart. It didn't hurt at all that the old ham had a beautiful daughter about Waldo's age. Emmeline's job was to gaze up adoringly at her father as he preached and to smile and bat her eyelashes while taking up the collection. According to Howell Howells virtue was so sweet that the swinish attractions of liquor and lust simply shrivelled up and died of shame. And life was made doubly sweet by the thought of all the treasures one was storing up in heaven for the life to come. Christ had come to absolve us from sin – we must wipe the slate clean and start again. With love and hope we could build a heaven on earth.

'Don't you-all listen to the lies of the Godless communists, nosireebob, nor to the morally bankrupt ravings of beatniks and hippies.' Howell Howells sweated with sincerity. 'The true road, the only road to salvation lies in the loving service of Jesus. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!' etc.

Going out afterwards Waldo overheard a couple of deacons condescendingly eviscerating the preacher's performance in Welsh while smiling and waving across the room at him when they caught his eye. Waldo's fury at their ruining the magic for him was tempered by the grudging recognition that they may have had a point. His fervour abated somewhat.

Behind the chapel, among the yews and tombstones, Waldo was having a quiet fag when an angel in a skyblue dress appeared beside him.

'Kin Ah hev one a them?' Emmeline asked, pulling Waldo behind a tree as she spoke.

Waldo produced his last Woodbine and lit it with his World War Two lighter – a benzene-soaked metal match which was run along a striker-plate to light. Emmeline drew hard, producing a good inch of ash as she sucked down the smoke then coolly exhaled a streamer which melted into the dark green needles.

'Jeez.' She eyed the little cylinder between her fingers with condescension. 'This sure is one small cigarette.' She giggled.

'It's the normal size,' said Waldo a little stiffly.

'Not where Ah come from. Heck, a Lucky'd make two of them li'l fellers. 'Hey,' she shrugged, 'I guess this is kind of itty-bitty country anyhow. Itty-bitty houses with itty- bitty people living in 'em.' Emmeline spoke offhand, blithely oblivious of any offence her words might cause.

Waldo understood that there was no malice intended, it was simply a matter of fact. He and his country were merely quaint anachronisms compared to the glories of the USA. He felt suddenly small and sly and dirty, his blood full of the cobwebs and dark corners of thousands of years of history. Emmeline was two full inches taller than him and had

betrayed no sign that she saw him as anything other than a convenient provider of nicotine. She inhaled again, keeping an eye out for intruders. This time she blew smoke out of her nostrils.

'Say, what's your name, anyway?' 'Waldo. It means power, like.' 'Ah'm Emmeline but they call me Melly.' 'Pleased to meet you.' A formal handclasp. Waldo chickened out of stroking the palm

of her hand with his finger, allegedly a surefire way of asking a girl if she wanted to fuck. 'Fancy a walk up the mountain after?' he asked lightly, indicating uphill with a jerk of his head.

'Ya sure talk funny,' said Melly frankly. 'Moun-tayn. Hey, Ah'd love to come but Ah just cain't. Paw'll be lookin' for me.'

'I really liked his sermon,' Waldo gushed. 'Very inspiring man, your father.'

Melly rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. 'Ya wouldn't think so if it was you hadda get him undressed and inta bed when he's too hog-whimperin' drunk to stand. Not to mention never havin' no money an' livin' out of a suitcase in flophouses an' Christian boardin' houses. 'Tain't no kinda life at all. Fist chance Ah get Ah'm outta there. Ya won'see me fer dust.'

'Emmeline! Where are ya, sweetheart?' Howell Howell's voice, rich as molasses, sounded from the corner of the graveyard.

Emmeline took a packet of Sen-Sen from her pocket and tapped some into her mouth, chewed, blew into her hand and sniffed. A hunted look came into her eyes.

'Listen,' she told the crestfallen Waldo, 'after Sunday lunch the ol' fart usually goes inta his room with a bottle o' Jack Daniels. Soon's Ah hear him snorin' Ah kin mebbe sneak out fer a coupla hours.'

'Emmeline!' And Howell Howells appeared round the corner.

'Heah Ah ayam Paw,' Melly gaily cried. 'Waldo heah was just showin' me some real interestin' tombstones.' She slipped her co-conspirator a wink and whispered: 'See ya here 'bout three.' She walked off, the picture of maidenly modesty, leaving Waldo in a welter of emotion. She liked him. Would she go all the way? He had a condom which he'd stolen from the back of his father's sock drawer some time ago. He hoped the rubber wasn't perished. Was his cock big enough to hold it on? She was taller than him. Was his torso long enough to kiss her and fuck at the same time? Oh well, he could always suck her tits instead. His brief flirtation with the satisfactions of the celibate life had faded and yet there was still a lingering yearning for spirituality. That Howell Howells was a drunk and a hypocrite did not necessarily mean that his message was false. And Melly may have agreed to a walk simply as an escape from a dreary afternoon of being petted and simpered over by what Robert Burns called 'the unco' guid'. Oh well. Where to get more fags? Perhaps he could nick a bottle of Brains from the sideboard.

Back home, Mam, a connoisseur of sermons, dismissed the Reverend Howells's sweaty efforts as: 'A tidy bit of rabble-rousing.'

'Well, I thought he was pretty good,' he teenagely argued. 'It was nice to hear something hopeful and life-affirming for a change instead of feeling you're standing in a grey drizzle of disapproval the whole time.'

'Oh, my poor child, how you've suffered,' Mam mocked, sweeping him up in a hug which he struggled to resist. 'How can I ever forgive myself for all these years of neglect? We were so busy keeping you warm and fed and educated that we forgot to tell you that life is just a bowl of cherries. You wait, bach. You youngsters don't know you're born yet. I suppose you won't be wanting dinner is it?'

Dinner was stuffed breast of lamb with potatoes and parsnips and cabbage followed by jam roly-poly with custard for afters. This took the edge off Waldo's disaffection.

At three, Waldo was waiting in the churchyard with the holy trinity of fags, condom and beer. Emmeline arrived thirty-seven minutes later dressed in a white sweater with a big red A on it, a box-pleated shocking-pink skirt, bobby sox and red keds. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was wearing rhinestone-studded sunglasses with swept-up white frames which gave her a foxy look. Sunglasses in Wales. True, they were presently enjoying a sunny interval on a warm day in late March but the French Riviera it wasn't. She stood out among the dark trees and leprous tombstones of Pwlldwfn churchyard like an arc-welder down the pit.

'Hi,' she acknowledged Waldo. 'Sorry Ah'm late but the old devil wouldn't settle. So where's this "moun-tayn" y'all mentioned?' She seemed gaily conspiratorial as if sharing a prank with a child.

Waldo led her up a quiet path through the spruce plantation which came out near the top of a bald hill. He had no intention of sharing Emmeline with his friends. They rounded a corner and climbed over a stile into a field of sheep and young lambs. Dazzling white lambs played follow-my-leader or pogoed into the air with sheer joie de vivre. The ewes, with their dirty, matted wool were plugged stolidly into the sod displaying longsuffering tolerance even when their udders were jackhammered by their hungry offspring. Melly (as Waldo was now calling her) was entranced. With some difficulty he tore her away and on up. The path got steeper. Between pants Melly withdrew the 'itty- bitty' from at least the hills of Wales.

'Naw,' Waldo reassured her. 'You were right the first time. The houses are as small as the mine-owners could make them and the people are stunted from poor food but we're a comical lot. There was this Texan rancher over here shooting off his mouth about how everything was bigger and better back in the States. One old farmer was showing him his fifteen acres of hillside and the Texan said: 'Heck, if I get in my car it takes me four days just to drive around my ranch.' 'Yes,' says the old farmer, 'I used to have a car like that too.'

It took Melly a moment then she gave a yell of laughter and looked at Waldo with renewed interest. She took a drag on her Woodbine and wreathed them both in smoke.

'Say, you're a smart little runt, ain't ya?' She grinned. 'Whadda ya wanna be when ya grow up?'

'Well, ideally a philosopher king but I'll probably end up down the pit like the rest of the boyos. And you?'

'The old man wants me to stick with him. He's got a radio show in Philly but Ah'm sick of showbiz. Ah wanna go to college and get to be a personal secktary to a millionaire – J. Paul Getty or some such.'

Still they climbed but at last they were out on the moor. The grass was dead and

matted, a washed-out khaki after the rigours of winter but thin blades of green were beginning to poke through. Larks mounted, singing as if their little hearts would burst (by no means an impossibility given the physical effort involved.) A buzzard was being buzzed by a pair of crows whose harsh calls (graark graark) similarly elbowed the buzzard's plaintive mew as he canted into the wind and skimmed away. The crows let him go.

Waldo knocked the top off the bottle of Brains Best Bitter and offered Melly a swig. She upended the bottle, swallowed, made a face and took another gulp. Waldo took a small sip and handed the bottle back.

'Ugh,' said Melly after a fresh sluicing, 'ya need to keep drinkin' it jest to get rid of the taste.'

'Finish it off,' said Waldo generously, hoping she'd get drunk enough to fuck.

They walked on. Northwards the land billowed away to the Beacons while behind them the little houses strung out along the steep sides of the valley looked almost picturesque. Stone, slate, tarmac and grey smoke hanging in the air. St. David's Day had come and gone but only now was there a sputtering of daffodils in gardens and under the bare trees in the park. There was the Bridgend bus and a couple of cars but the general air was of somnolence. The mountain, bar a few sheep and cows, was deserted. Melly drained the rest of the beer and threw the bottle into a patch of winter-splintered bracken. Talk drifted onto pop music and here Waldo struck gold. Melly was besotted with the Beatles and Waldo had actually once heard them live in a school hall in Mold, admittedly before they'd become famous. Once it had been established that Mold was a place rather than a fungal infestation, Melly was all ears. Waldo embellished the experience (which hadn't seemed all that wonderful at the time) and didn't hesitate to attribute the moptops' four-part harmonies to the choral traditions of the large numbers of Welshmen in Liverpool. Yeah, he also loved their latest.

'I wanna hawld ewer ha-a-a-and' bawled Waldo, daringly suiting the action to the words. To his surprise, Melly squeezed back with needy fervour. Thank heavens he was overdue for a haircut although British kids generally went for a shaggier look than the all- American crewcut. They walked on, hand in hand and segued into 'A Hard Day's Night'.

'Paw won't even let me have their records in the house,' said Melly bitterly. 'Smashed 'em all to pieces with a hammer. Claims Rock'n'Roll's the Devil's music. God, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I hadda sneak outa the house to catch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan an' when the ol' fool found out he whupped me.' She snorted scornfully. 'Then he prayed over me. I preferred the whuppin'.'

The cool drag on her cigarette – the contemptuous exhalation.

Over the top of the bald hill a line of filled in little tunnels showed where farmers had once nibbled their way into the mountain for coal. The youngsters found somewhere to sit and went in for some kissing and mutual masturbation until Melly glanced at her watch, swore and said she had to get back.

En route she was distracted and Waldo had the obscure sense of having been used. 'When can I see you again?' he asked as they entered the graveyard. 'Best fergit all about me,' said the tragic heroine. 'You're cute, Waldo but this is

goodbye.' She planted a juicy kiss on his lips and walked demurely off into the Welsh

afternoon. But for the smell on his fingers and the cold slime on his stomach, Waldo might have

imagined the whole thing. So Howell Howells was a hypocritical child-beating boozer and yet he'd made Waldo

feel that a time of peace and love and plenty was not only possible but imminent. Of course he'd had the weight of American glamour behind him, a compound of the Golden West of the movies (conjured up by Hungarian Jews) of Rock'n'Roll and technical and military supremacy and democracy and skyscrapers and soda fountains and neon and chrome all spewing out of a cornucopia of superabundance. True, Yanks were loud and brash and it was possible to despise their cars which cornered like pregnant hippos and were incapable of stopping even once from top speed without frying their puny drum brakes. Waldo had read Unsafe at any Speed and the Autocar could be relied on to snipe at such of the gas-guzzling behemoths as made it across the pond. Not to mention McCarthyism and race riots and the assassination of JFK the previous November. Waldo knew where he'd been at the time – at a rehearsal of a school performance of West Side Story.

I want to be in America OK by me in America Everything free in America For a small fee in Americaaa...

Wales suddenly felt mean and dirty and parochial again.

Waldo toyed with the idea of using Uncle Clem to get over to the States to be with Melly, but he knew Mam would kill him if he didn't get his O levels. He freed his foreskin, painfully spunk-pasted to his underpants and set off home.

Chapter 11

The feelings aroused by Howell Howell's sermon didn't disappear entirely but were commingled with the memory of Melly's efficient pumping of his cock. (She'd practised on the family dog who would lie on his back with a foolish grin on his face while Melly slid the furry sheath up and down over the pointed pink lipstick of his prick until he let go a gush of greeny jism). Give a dog a bone... Waldo thought of following the Howells' bandwagon to Bangor and Wrexham but buying that last pack of Woodbines had left him totally skint and he preferred to hang onto his illusions rather than risk rejection. News filtered back along the chapel grapevine of poor audiences and an eventual return to the States subsidised by the disappointed millionaire who'd hoped for a revival. Utopia kept its distance as life in the shadow of the Bomb went on. But there was a new sense of hope in the air. Dylan, the Beatles, Little Richard. There were marches against racism in the

States and back home Harold Wilson had been elected. Many in Wales thought that Socialism's day had come at last. Ah well.

Paul, Waldo's father, slipped on an icy pavement and cracked his spine, paralysing him in one leg. He never worked again. Mam sued the council and eventually got a small payment out of them to augment Paul's disability allowance and the small pension from the mine. It was not enough. She got a part-time job at the Co-Op and Paul's friends in the Union managed to wangle Waldo a job in the mine office as Mam wouldn't countenance his going down the pit. Waldo's plans of A levels and university were abandoned and he helped keep the family afloat. The job was badly paid but he found that he could get his day's work done in a couple of hours, leaving plenty of time for reading. This caused some resentment among his co-workers as it made them look idle and inefficient but the boss was himself a disappointed scholar who'd won a scholarship to Eton which he hadn't been able to take up as his parents couldn't afford the uniform. He told Waldo to carry on unless visitors called, in which case he had to put away his books and look busy. Waldo also took whatever courses were available, from first aid to the handling of explosives and after a couple of years he had risen to Assistant Storekeeper. By the age of twenty-five he was Head of Stores and had been married to Dotty for three years and there he stuck. Years passed. By the time of the Miners' Strike in 1984 the pit in Pwlldwfn was almost exhausted with miners having to go further and further into the mountain following ever-thinner seams of coal. Pwlldwfn was third on the list of mines slated for closure which the Coal Board lyingly denied having drawn up. Sadly, some of Scargill's other information proved less reliable. The huge stockpiles of coal in the power-stations were not in fact hollow. When, after a year on strike, the miners went back with 'their heads held high' it was without a single concession. Within two months Pwlldwfn colliery was closed and three thousand people from mining and ancillary industries were on the dole. Many never worked again. Waldo took his redundancy money and ran. In their mid-thirties he and Dotty set off for a gap year. The strike had split Pwlldwfn with the few scabs and their families ostracised. Drugs and petty crime took over as chapels and workingmen's clubs and institutes were boarded up. The community wasn't quite dead – Waldo remembered one of Dotty's friends crying because her husband wanted to move to the next valley and she knew no-one there – but it was aging and increasingly hopeless. Millions were out of work all over the UK and Waldo's special skills were useless. Dotty was a qualified bookkeeper and thus more employable but this was the chance of a lifetime. Waldo bought a left-hand-drive Dormobile on a Citroen chassis and they set off on a Grand Tour. The plan was to start in the north and head south ahead of the winter. They made a little money along the way by (for instance) selling a couple of dozen pairs of jeans which they'd smuggled into Poland in a laundry- bag. A couple of Dotty's bloodstained knickers on the top had been found to deter all but the least fastidious of searchers. They also picked fruit, taught English and did a bit of removals work. A pleasant surprise was that the monthly letter which Waldo had agreed to send back to the Pwlldwfn parish magazine had proved very popular. He made friends easily and he turned out to have a sharp eye for the comical and picturesque. He was interested in everything from language to cathedrals; all sorts of music; and drinking and football and jokes.

Dotty joined in with gusto but kept a firm grip on the purse-strings. She was always a hit at singalongs with her fearless chapel-trained soprano and whenever they stopped for a few weeks she managed to find a choir to sing in.

After Waldo's second piece appeared he was delighted by a letter from the South Wales Echo asking for reprint rights and first refusal on any subsequent pieces. It turned out that one of the local councillors had shown the magazine to his brother who was a sub on the paper. Dotty (in her new role as Waldo's agent) wrote back expressing interest but deriding the modest emolument offered. She eventually managed to squeeze a few more quid out of the editor and Waldo's writing career began.

He wrote about the abundance of whores and classical musicians in Prague and about the grisly Czech chapel artistically encrusted with the bones of dead monks. He talked with dissidents and informers and secret policemen and he and Dotty were the only outsiders at a Gypsy wedding to which they'd been invited after hiding a man who was being chased by three disgruntled heavies. It turned out that he was a thief who claimed that racism left him no alternative but he proved an entertaining and generous host. His seventeen-year-old bride was a lovely girl and the various customs and music of the wedding were very interesting. Coming the other way, news from the valleys was grim. Mining was dead and heavy industry was tottering. Apparently manufacturing was passé – the City and service sector were the new financial saviours. All must now bow down and worship free trade and privatisation. From their travels in Hungary, Poland and Czechoslovakia it was obvious that communism had failed to provide the sort of consumer paradise that we in the west enjoyed, although the Soviet Union seemed to be slightly less moribund under its newish youngish leader. As for such things as the absence of Soviet unemployment, a bitter joke went: 'They pretend to pay us and we pretend to work.'

In France the Lillicraps visited Lourdes where Dotty put aside her natural atheism and her cultural distrust of Catholics and prayed for a baby. The possibility of a miracle gave sex a new dimension. She almost persuaded herself that she could feel the happy conjunction of egg and sperm. Lourdes was big business. The prestressed concrete underground church could hold twenty thousand worshippers and the surrounding souvenir shops were crammed with technicolor tat too garish for even Waldo's tolerant taste. There were votive candles, both the ordinary type and the much more expensive variety personally blessed (he was assured in twenty-three languages) by 'His Holiness the Pope'. Waldo might have been more impressed had he not seen a priest furtively unpacking fresh supplies of both candles from the same box.

He was glad to get away, up into the Pyrenees, where Dotty's dreams ended once again in a flow of menstrual blood. Waldo felt her pain but was angry that she'd allowed herself to be duped by superstition. Worse still was that he'd entertained an irrational hope himself. Walking a mountain path by a ruined farmhouse he couldn't get Cream's cover of an old music-hall song out of his head:

Ow yer biby 'as gorn dahn the plug'ole Yer biby 'as gorn dahn the plug

The pore li'ul fing was so skinny an' fin I' should 'ave been worshed in a jug In a jug (falsetto a la Temperance Seven)...

Dotty's diary entry was more phlegmatic: 'The curse. So much for that cow the Virgin Mary. Met some Bretons at the campsite and managed to communicate in Welsh. Xmas just over a month away. First ever outside of Wales. Quite a relief in a way although I does feels a bit homesick like. X says we need a religion that it's possible to believe in without shame. Something about Nietcher [sic] and it being actually indecent to believe. Must think about getting some money soon. Those pieces in the Echo were a godsend but things sound bad back home. French women don't shave their armpits. X won't let me shave mine neither. Says he likes the smell.'

Waldo was also worried about funds. It was all very well to blow his redundancy money on a grand tour but he was no spoilt son of a rich, indulgent father who owned half of Somerset. It was dispiriting to watch their funds shrink like a scrotum in cold water. And although he'd grown up in a tight-knit mining community, Waldo didn't want to go back. The mines had closed, for one thing. Nor had he ever really been one of the boys. Those with surface jobs had never quite shared the cameraderie of men working underground where ever-present danger bred mutual reliance. Furthermore he was a great reader and scorned tabloids like the Sun and Mirror. He was far from standoffish, followed the rugby and was always happy to stand his round down the boozer but there was a reserve that few penetrated. No-one had ever seen him totally ratarsed and his happily-married status removed him from the fuck-ruck (although his advice in dealing with the female sex was valued.)

The eighties were a vulgar decade as City wide boys flaunted their grotesque wealth in the face of the unemployed. Flower power, peace and love were as dead as vaudeville. The Beatles' Revolver had yielded to the Sex Pistols followed by a general loss of focus in which no one style or group predominated. Change and decay in all around Waldo saw. The only thing one could allegedly rely on was the speed of light in vacuo which was oddly uncomforting. Anthropologists kept turning up newly-discovered tribes with bizarre customs and beliefs. Were there in fact universal human attributes to be discovered in the farrago of divine instructions for the good life? More importantly, could he somehow make money out of it?

Snow came to the mountains and they hurried south.

Theodicy. That was the tricky one. To justify the ways of God to man was not easy when on all sides the wicked blatantly flourished while the good were screwed. Eventual rewards in a hypothetical heaven didn't really appeal in an age of instant gratification. Besides, all religions had been sullied by quacks and conmen. The religions Waldo knew about all had their hierarchies but there was generally a sprinkling of heretics who believed in a direct line to their gods which could be accessed by anyone. There were rituals and taboos and sacred drugs. Had Christianity, for instance, been a mushroom cult? Back in the seventies Waldo had tried the little psilocybin mushrooms that grew on the hills above Pwlldwfn and knew that feeling of seeing the world for the first time as it

truly was. One time they'd gone up the waterfalls at Glynneath and Waldo still remembered the feeling of becoming one with plunging water as it coiled and swerved, dashed on the rocks and coalesced. Everything was and it was good. The spindly birches with their mustard-yellow autumnal leaves, the sun-illumined moss and the odd sheep were at once enigmatic and obvious and brimming with good cheer, part of a grand cosmic joke. His friends were more problematic. Dotty had turned into an old hag as her few insignificant sags and wrinkles took over her whole face, chilling him at time's corruption. His mate Rob (who made a scanty living carving rugby players and dragons out of anthracite for Welsh gift shops) opened a tin of sardines but no-one could face the pathetic sight of those headless little corpses so Rob's 'woman' Maya gave them to Frodo the dog who, being less in tune with their exquisite sensitivity, snaffled the lot in an instant. Rob also looked weird – his grin looked painted on and Maya's unshaven legs sent out distinctly ambiguous sexual signals. Then Rob struck up with Cwm Rhondda and they all fell into harmony. It was as if the whole world was singing. Waldo felt a volcanic swell of love. It was the happiest he'd ever been in his life and, it turned out, as happy as he ever would be. Dotty hugged him and she turned from hideous crone to furry little animal, infinitely cherishable. His mouth tasted of tin. The song ended and a little group of English tourists who had stopped to listen clapped selfconsciously.

The quartet smiled and bowed ironically. Pleasantries were exchanged. Waldo watched his straight self with amusement as the ramblers set off for the next waterfall heedless of the infinite universe swirling around them.

A few minutes later Waldo 'came down' with a click. Rob's dirty fingers were busy with the makings of a joint and the girls were exclaiming about a fairytale red and white toadstool under the birches.

Dotty's diary entry read: 'Trip up waterfalls w. X, S and N. Ate 18 magic mushrooms. Voices in the water freaked me out but moss on trees v. beautiful. N a typical hippie chick but sweet with it. X looked a bit shaken but came round after. S OK if a bit feckless. Belly pork and apple pie. And so to bed.'

For Waldo the abiding memory was of the feeling of oneness as the old Welsh harmonies drew him into what seemed the crucible of life – a loving acceptance allied to total indifference to his own suffering. He began to see the possibilities of a synthetic religion.

A decade later, unemployed and running low on cash, Waldo received a letter from the editor of what he described as a 'happening' new infomag called Scene, a Time Out for Cardiff. They were thinking of running a spoof astrology column and a pal on The Echo had given him Waldo's name. Would he like to see if he could hack it?

Waldo had luckily enjoyed a brief flirtation with astrology in his youth and he quickly mugged up on the jargon of hylegs and genethliacs, syzygies and retrograde motion, humours and cusps. The pal on The Echo had been at school with Waldo and had said he could bullshit for Wales. Waldo sent off a trial effort under the rubric of Seersucker and it was accepted. Within a week he had his first small cheque.

His first column carried an introduction which ran: 'Can the movements of the stars and planets affect our lives? Of course not. Don't be silly. Nonetheless, astrology is a language within which things may be said. "She's not your typical Virgo" is as valid a

description as endomorphic or dolichocephalic. Even mistakes and stereotypes can provide frames of reference. Is what I say tongue in cheek or cheek in tongue?'

The horoscopes followed. Taurus was told: 'Don't repaint that cupboard. It'll only make everything else in the house look crap.' Gemini was advised: 'Four o'clock on Tuesday morning is the time to declare your love for the twins.' Cancer: 'Take up smoking' and so on.

Response was at first muted. Many of Scene's few readers were themselves highly susceptible to hokum. The mag carried ads for all sorts of alternative healers as well as lists of vegetarian restaurants and whole-food suppliers. There was a letter from a pompous professional astrologer which included the phrases 'juvenile innuendo' and 'neither clever nor funny' but he didn't withdraw his ad for 'genuine astrological consultations.'

After a few weeks Waldo was surprised to find a bundle of twenty-seven letters waiting for him at the campsite office. To his amazement a few of these were seriously asking his advice. One horoscope ('You will tread in dogshit and track it all over your new turquoise and orange carpet.') had led a reader to give up his extramarital affair with a policewoman while others spoke of the confirmation of his predictions for love and work. What struck Waldo was that the urge to believe was so strong that people would swallow rat poison if told that the warning on the label was just a government plot to stop us getting at the delicious contents.

He replied to all his letters, reiterating that astrology was harmless nonsense but offering some practical and sympathetic advice among the jokes. Dotty was shit-hot on matters financial and Waldo enjoyed showing off his autodidacticism and his love of pun and paradox.

It was getting on for a year since the Lillicraps had left Wales and they were wondering what to do next when Waldo wrote a horoscope for Libra which included the phrase: 'Clouds from the East will bring fiery rain.' A couple of days later the nuclear power-station at Chernobyl exploded following a rather ill-advised experiment by bored staff. Clouds from the East did indeed bring fiery rain. Twenty years on farmers in North Wales were still dumping milk as too radioactive to drink. Waldo's response was the Cretan paradox: 'The statement "I am lying"', he wrote, 'is false only if true and true only if false and you catch more tries with freakle than minibar. Be that as it may, today sees the start of a new feature called Challenge Seersucker. I will cast a horoscope for the week ahead which we will compare with other leading astrologers and pundits and we'll see who gets it more right more often.

'My forecast for the forthcoming week is: Red sky at morning, red faces at night. The lion will lie down with the porcupine and regret it. The Acting President will embrace the bear. Mercury rising means that the week will be warm. Watch the hyleg of the dogstar lest it piss on your fence.'

The decision about their next move was taken out of the Lillicraps' hands as Dotty's widowed mother fell into a diabetic coma. Waldo penned a valedictory piece about the white villages of Spain for The Echo and the travellers headed for home.

Back in the valleys times were hard. Mam died without regaining consciousness and Dotty was devastated. The three-million-plus unemployed were disproportionately drawn

from heavy industry. Without the collieries Pwlldwfn was pointless. Vandalism and car- theft were on the rise as were the consumption of drink and drugs. Chapelgoing was in steep decline, being confined to a handful of overdressed ladies, fat feet stuffed into too- small shoes and such of the broken-spirited men and children as they'd managed to drag along with them.

Welsh nationalism had never been strong in Pwlldwfn, which was still a staunchly Labour area despite the party's kick in the teeth over the coal strike. Waldo had picked up Welsh from the women's clec and had overheard too many conversations among 'Welshies' to be able to ignore their strong streak of bigotry. It sometimes seemed a toss- up who they hated more – the English or the English-speaking Welsh. Not to mention that the North Welsh saw themselves as guardians of the pure tongue and deplored the lax Southerners' accent and corruptions. All that guff about a people without a language being a people without a soul made Waldo sick. Not to mention that it was usually trotted out by those who wouldn't know a soul if they tripped over it. For all R.S. Thomas's illtempered Jeremiads over the decline of the language, he wrote his poems in English. Of course Welsh had many beauties and a rich literature and Waldo loved the visceral thrill of a male-voice choir in full cry, but the idea that non-Welsh speakers were not true Welshmen stuck in his craw. If the Welsh language was uniquely beautiful, expressive and so on where were the world-class Welsh poets, writers and cinematographers? There had been an upsurge in middleclass people putting their children into Welsh-medium schools but this was as much about supposedly higher standards of education as of a sentimental hankering for an imaginary heritage. Who really wanted to go back to hunger and ignorance and the sour taste of perpetual sin? That said, there was indeed something like a national character. People were friendly and cheerful and eloquent, unlike the tight- arsed English. There was much less emphasis on class and there were extensive extended families as well as an obsession with rugby and a supposed love of music although both brass bands and male-voice choirs were in decline. Speaking Welsh didn't come into it.

Waldo's European tour had filled his head with vivid images like flash photos in the dark. Scraps of half a dozen languages thronged his mind and his sleep was troubled by strange dreams. Stereotypes had been smashed and more nuanced generalisations had begun their slow formation. Then Scene folded and Waldo was out of a job. Dotty had found office work with the council but Waldo was still unemployed. There was talk among the ex-miners of a blacklist. They were being turned down for the few jobs available because of their unionised past. No-one wanted communist agitators on their staff. Thatcher was giving the unions a good kicking and not a day went by without some new government initiative, tooth-grinding in its gloating illiberalism. Pinochet was 'one of us' but Mandela was a terrorist. There was no such thing as society. Not to mention the boy Mark, apple of his mother's eye and a sleazeball of the first water.

Waldo channeled his bitterness into punstruck jokes in the little notebook he'd taken to carrying.

'When the leader of the opposition stands up to Thuggy Masher,' he wrote, 'you c-can hear his k-nees Kinnocking.' And 'That dispiriting time in the widdle of the meek.'

In Wales Kinnock was still a local boy made good. It was true that this redheaded onetime firebrand did seem to be sucking up to the gods of commerce and he had to show

that he wasn't in the pocket of the unions but just get him elected and you'd see! It had taken another ten years and Tony Blair's landslide victory (on a minority of the vote) to taste Labour's utter capitulation.

Back in 1986 Waldo was worried. He'd joined the NUJ on the strength of his articles for the Echo but he was no journalist. Still, he wrote. And rewrote. He tidied up his travel pieces and wrote a linking narrative making a small volume which he cast upon the waters and waited many days.

Dotty spent her time hacking through thickets of that red tape which Thatcher had pledged to abolish and which was consequently proliferating as never before. The inefficiency was frustrating, rendering her work both boring and exhausting. Not to mention the poor pay and being stuck in a low-ceilinged windowless office with buzzing and flickering fluorescents and a plethora of machines from photocopiers to faxes, half of them at any one time on the blink. Dai Edwards, the union rep and an old-style Labour supporter, made no bones about his priorities. He was against anything that might cost jobs, be it greater efficiency or higher pay. He had come up through the Depression when any job was better than nothing at all and with the rising tide of unemployment he had a point.

A pal put in a word for Waldo with the Parks Department where a job leaning on a shovel was due to come up soon when here came a publisher's letter. They'd liked his book but weren't sanguine about the commercial possibilities. Nevertheless, they'd like to hear what he had in the pipeline. How about lunch?

So, over a couple of bottles of retsina in the little Greek Taverna round the corner from the publisher's office Waldo wangled a deal. The Echo, having its local coverage pretty much sewed up, had hinted that further travel writings might find them not uninterested and a couple of months back in Thatcher's Britain had left him feeling stifled.

'Don't get me wrong,' Jocelyn Mercer schmoozed, 'I loved your book. It made me laugh out loud a couple of times, which, for a raddled old whore like me takes some doing.' A flash of amusement from world-weary eyes. Jocelyn was the kind of young man for whom the word louche had been invented. 'The thing is,' he continued, 'that selling books is like selling anything else – you need a USP, a gimmick, a hook. People like a quest – some bugger who wants to go round the world on a pogo stick, say, or find an Aboriginal cure for AIDS.'

Waldo laughed. He liked Jocelyn, who wore his title of Commissioning Editor lightly. Pennyfeather Press wasn't known for the generosity of its advances but Jocelyn thought Waldo might be worth a punt. He had a personality that could be exploited.

Waldo had done his homework. Pennyfeather had just been swallowed up by an American conglomerate whose list covered everything: true crime, sanitised Bible stories, sporting heroes, British Monarchy, with ghost stories and other occult rubbish in between.

'I've been doing a lot of research into cults lately,' Waldo lied. 'How about a book on the world's weirdest religions? That would be travel writing with a difference. We could put in some shit about crowd psychology for a bit of intellectual gravitas. Course I'd need a modest advance to keep body and soul together while I write it like. My financial adviser's prepared an estimate.' He proffered a small sheaf of closely-printed papers.

Dotty had itemised flights, hotels and living expenses for a six-month world tour taking in Haiti, Texas, India, South Africa and Japan.

Jocelyn glanced at the last page with its grand total of £47,293 and gave a dry chuckle. 'Y'awl got the nerve of a onelegged man at an asskickin' contest, boy,' he said with a midwest drawl. 'No, seriously,' (reverting seriously), 'that would be out of the question. They've blown most of this year's budget on celebrity memoirs.' Jocelyn drummed his fingers, eyed the ceiling and sucked at his teeth to indicate thought. 'I might be able to squeeze something out of them. Look, send me a synopsis of your book and I'll see what I can do.'

And so it came to pass. Waldo plunged into libraries and charity bookshops and soon had as odd, sad and nauseating a collection of crackpots and their deluded followers as the most dedicated follower of freakshows could demand. There was Nongqawuse the nineteenth century Xhosa prophetess who persuaded her people to kill all their cattle and destroy all their crops as a surefire way of driving their white oppressors into the sea; there was Jim Jones and the mass suicide at Jonestown in Guyana; there was an endless stream of millennists getting the end of the world wrong time and again. Not to mention Voodoo or Satanism or Thuggee. Or flagellants. Or Yogis (according to Ripley) who stared into the sun until they went blind or held up a hand for years until it ossified and a bird built its nest in the upturned palm. Simon Stylites and what Waldo called his 'illk.' What was it, Waldo wondered, that all religions had in common? Well, they were all wrong, for a start, if each wrong in its own way. What else? All required belief and sacrifice but promised rich rewards. All were exclusive. All had moralities, absurdities, cruelty, hierarchy and ritual. Such rebels as popped up from time to time were either suppressed or subsumed into the body of orthodoxy. Waldo worked all this into a synopsis and sent it off. He had almost forgotten about it when Jocelyn rang to say that it had got the go-ahead and that £17,483 was winging its way westward even as he spoke.

A fortnight later the Lillicraps were in Haiti. Life in the world's poorest country was an eye-opener. After one night in the decaying grandeur of Le Coq d'Or hotel where they were trapped by a party of the mulatto elite who treated them to French Champagne and a long whinge about the lazy, ungrateful and treacherous blacks. Back in their room they had a word with the (very black) chambermaid and discovered that she had an aunt, a dental nurse, who would be happy to rent them a spare room in her clean but modest house.

Baby Doc had gone at last and there seemed an air of cautious optimism.

Evangeline's house was on the edge of a slum near the centre of Port au Prince, up on a hill overlooking the beautiful bay. Yes, of course she knew about Voodoo. There was a houngan living across the road.

Claude was small, old, bald, black, with a scatter of rust-red teeth but he had an air which commanded respect. They communicated in a mixture of Creole and Waldo's schoolboy French with Evangeline and Dotty keeping up an English counterpoint. Waldo was charmed with the way the Haitians pwonounced their 'r's (twés bon) and quickly picked up a few Creole phrases to Claude's delight. The décor in Claude's house was a mixture of colourful local murals of animals and garish pictures of Mary, Jesus and many saints framed in shiny metal cut from Coke cans. There were photos of local people, a

Baron Samedi costume and various fetishistic objects made of wood, leather and feathers. Waldo and Dotty were very welcome to come to a service. Now, how about some more rum and Coke?

The ritual that evening included feasting, singing and dancing (Waldo had provided a couple of chickens) to the rhythm of drums. One of Claude's acolytes was possessed by a loa and fell to the floor, stiff as a board. Claude touched a burning cigarette to his arm and elicited not the slightest twitch. The young man was propped up against the wall and worshippers crowded round him with questions which he answered in a hoarse bellow. Waldo asked if his book on religion would be a success and was told, sufficiently gnomically, that after many years of suffering he would find he'd actually been happy all along.

It was a pity that the ceremony seemed rather tame. True, a live chicken's neck had been cut and its blood sprinkled about the place but Claude's dignity and sincerity seemed to affect even the unfortunate fowl and kept the tender westerners' squeamishness leashed.

Dotty's diary recorded: 'Voodoo a bit of a washout as evil cult. V. respectable. No sticking pins in dolls or that sort of caper. Liked clecking w. women after. Drumming good. X'll have to spice it up a bit.'

On. To India and Delhi belly and a sort of saint in the slums of Bombay, then Finland and Mexico and Zambia.

Like many an author before him Waldo found that the book he'd set out to write had turned into something else entirely. He'd come looking for freaks and monsters and had found people. Sometimes flawed, ignorant, superstitious but on the whole not unlikeable. Pretty much like his friends and neighbours back home. A year of travel and superficial research had left his head spinning and revealed some of the vast wastelands of his ignorance. Still, a few generalisations had started to gel.

Jocelyn had ripped the first few chapters to shreds but persisted in believing Waldo was onto something. A year and seven rewrites later The New Numinousness was launched on a supremely indifferent world. Even so, Waldo managed to step on a few clerical toes. Organised religions were dismissed as bureaucratic prisons for the soul – a cheap mummery in which no-one of any sense could believe. He made much of the irrationality of belief. Jim Jones had been an admitted atheist and yet he'd gulled his multiracial flock into following him into mass suicide. L. Ron Hubbard was a sci-fi writer whose cynically invented religion was followed by millions. The inventor of Mormonism had got the idea from a novel and so on. The first attack came from the Israel lobby. Waldo had quoted a Jewish friend who'd said: 'Israel has done to the Jews what Hitler never could – made them stupid.' An article in the Jewish Chronicle openly accused Waldo of antisemitism and a follower of Ayatollah Khomeini (not to be left out) demanded a fatwa against him for repeating the libel that Mohammed had taught a dove to take grain from his ear so that when the bird lit on his shoulder and stuck its bill into his meatus the mugs would think it was the spirit of the lord talking to him. The Chapter of calumnies uttered by religions against each other was one of the most entertaining in the book.

Mary Whitehouse threatened to sue him for blasphemy which bumped up sales nicely.

Waldo was interviewed by Brian Redhead on the radio:

B.R: Mr. Lillicrap, you've been accused of perpetuating insulting stereotypes in your book Newly Numinous. How do you respond?

W: Cut the Lillicrap, Brian. Call me Waldo. I presume you're referring to my reporting of religious invective. I don't claim that the opinions expressed are mine or even justified – what is undeniable is that people have said them.

B.R: But don't you think that simply repeating slanders in these volatile times may exacerbate extremism and intolerance.

W: Not at all. My hope was that people would see that prejudice exists on all sides and is equally ludicrous. We all need prejudices – it's the only way to cope in a complicated world but when they're too far adrift of reality I say let them go and replace them with something a bit more comprehensive. If there's one thing that my lightning survey of religions has taught me it's that as well as absurdities all religions have things to say about philosophy and community and spirituality that we ignore at our peril. As for that nonsense about me being antisemitic, I would like to quote those lovely lines of Blake if I may?

The only man that e'er I knew Who did not make me almost spew Was Fuseli: he was both Turk and Jew And so, dear Christian friends, how do you do?

B.R: (Suppressing a shocked chuckle) Oh dear. I can see the letters already. I'm sure that was not Blake's settled view.

W: No, quite right Brian. He slags off Fuseli as well after. And yet he was all for peace and love and heaven on earth. He also believed all religions were one which is almost tenable but I would say that anyone nowadays who believes in a personal saviour needs their red head, er, I mean head read.

B.R: Get your head read, Redhead. It has been suggested. Anyway, I'm afraid we're out of time. Thank you, Waldo Lillicrap.

W: A pleasure, Brian Redhead. New Numinousness by Waldo Lillicrap. In all slightly dodgy bookshops now.

The burner roared. Hot air filled the envelope. Ropes creaked and Waldo's balloon wobbled up into the blue empyrean.

Chapter 12

Waldo's travels had taught him something else. Despite a widespread adulation of the Western way of life he'd heard too many firsthand accounts of privation and suffering to believe that the Americans in particular were the good guys and that Korea and Vietnam had been isolated misjudgements. Of course he knew that the Yanks supported some vile dictators and tried to undermine those governments which disagreed with them but the

real consequences of their actions were largely hidden or misrepresented. Back in the 80s things had been a bit less blatant. The Soviets were still perceived as a real threat so there was more dependence on proxies, bribes and threats than on naked aggression, but the results were no less devastating. He'd met Haitians who'd been tortured by Baby Doc's thugs, a woman whose husband had been paralysed by a sharpened bicycle spoke thrust into his spine in a crowded Soweto train, a Saudi surgeon whose hands had been amputated on the basis of a trumped-up charge of theft when his real crime had been criticism of the regime. Not to mention the more prevalent but less colourful oppressions of poverty and dispossession. The communists were no better. Dotty had befriended a Chinese girl in Cardiff who told her of her father, a village schoolmaster who'd been caught up in Mao's cultural revolution. He'd been forced to wear a board detailing his 'crimes' around his neck and had been pelted with rubbish. He'd died, she said, of shame.

Coming from a mining community, Waldo had heard many a socialist rant about the hypocrisy and brutality of the capitalist means of production but he'd never before felt so like a flea on the back of a ravening wolf. The US record in the Middle East, Asia and Latin America was as bloodstained as any in history and all the talk of democracy and freedom was a mask for exploitation. The truth was that people preferred not to see. Those nice Radio 4 listeners and Guardian readers allowed themselves the odd twinge of guilt as expiation for the grinding brutality of life elsewhere which kept them rich. The West lived on the proceeds of theft, extortion and murder and showed no signs of stopping. Waldo felt that it was intolerable to live in a world founded on greed and corruption. Margaret Thatcher's favourite song was said to be 'How Much is that Doggy in the Window?' The funny thing was that the worse things got, the more religion flourished (except, oddly, in the USA, which seemed to combine affluence with belief).

Waldo sympathised with the longing for money – he knew the awful feeling of impotence which destitution brings – but what he really wanted was the power to change things. It was obvious that those who had nothing in this world should be attracted to the life hereafter, but the crushing of logic involved was too much for him to swallow. He toyed with the idea of a religion for thinking people. Pluses for religion were the feeling of community and meaningfulness but the same could be said of sports and the arts. Religion in Europe had withered not only because it was absurd, but also because it was no more fun. It was obvious that another element to be incorporated was science. Whenever religion had come into conflict with science it had had its arse kicked. A possible rapprochement lay in Waldo's layman's knowledge of quantum mechanics with its rich vein of paradox and absurdity before which normal logic quailed. How could paired particles at opposite ends of the universe, for instance, interact instantaneously despite the speed of light supposedly being the one absolute left? How could Schrodinger's cat be both dead and alive? How could an electron jump from one energy level to another while being theoretically unable to exist in the space between? How could a mathematics founded in the visible world be extrapolated to the subatomic sphere where so many of its axioms were disregarded? Perhaps the spiritual world could be rationally explained on the same basis. 'Was God perhaps both dead and alive?' Waldo asked his readers. 'Well,' he answered himself, 'I've lived in Pwlldwfn.'

Sales of Newly Numinous held up and Waldo managed to squeeze another advance

out of Pennyfeather. His next book harked back to the nineteenth century for its metaphor. Ether – a Diviner Air equated consciousness with a medium through which waves could move. How was it, Waldo mused, that a termite mound could function on such a sophisticated plane when the individual termites were so stupid? It was the opposite of a committee whose IQ was jocularly held to be that of its thickest member divided by the number of its constituents. Was it possible to be inspired by a great idea without realising it? He proposed a new religion which would include a number of consciousness-changing techniques which would put people in touch with their true potential. Why believe him? Waldo said that as he had no no idea where his books came from they may well have been divinely inspired. If people could believe Joe Smith who'd taken the idea of Mormonism from a novel, or L. Ron Hubbard's alien-infested Scientology, then why not Lillicrap's Syntheism? 'Life imitates Art,' Oscar Wilde had said, 'far more than Art imitates Life.'

Waldo's USP was his sense of humour. Syntheism was so ludicrous it made you laugh. Life could be fun with the right outlook. Sin, according to Waldo, was ugliness. As the grey diesel film which dirties cities could be vanquished by Fairy Liquid, so could ugliness be vanquished by beauty. This coming from a man who was interviewed by Welsh telly in his own front room whose décor included a wall covered in gold-effect mirror tiles, Tretchikov's green lady hung above a fake-log gas fire and a three-piece suite covered in purple plush.

'I thought I had no taste,' Waldo cheerfully confessed, 'but it turns out I was a pioneer of postmodern irony.' He went on to talk of Derrida and of Syntheism's notion of congruence as being like the shifting meanings of words defined by other words whose own meanings were contingent but which nevertheless cohered into a whole. The interviewer quickly shifted the conversation to rugby.

But what, I hear you cry, of Dotty? Or, indeed, leaping forward twenty-odd years, to Abel and Claire and the rest of the gang? Well, I'll tell you.

Dotty had been a small and dumpy tower of strength to Waldo. She had received with equanimity the idea that he was to become a fraudulent religious leader, different from the rest only in that he cheerfully acknowledged his fraud. She'd looked at the millions raked in by televangelists like the Bakkers and Jimmy Swaggart (who after calling Jim Bakker as a 'cancer on the body of Christ' was forced to resign his own ministry after being discovered with a prostitute who'd unimprovably described him as 'cheap and quick.'). Dotty saw no reason why Waldo shouldn't get a modest slice of the pie. At worst, he'd probably shift a few more books. She did feel a little qualm at the thought of exploiting the vulnerable as the relevant diary entry explains:

'Could lives be ruined?' she wrote. 'Battening onto the feebleminded. That televangelist who used to park a mental defective in the front row as a prop to be hugged. Ugh. At least X shows no sign of megalomania yet. Knows I'd soon nip that sort of caper in the bud. Religion that thinking people needn't be ashamed to believe in he calls it. After last night's sex said I was his perfect woman – I had my head screwed on and my arse screwed off. Comical if nothing else.'

Believe Me, Waldo's third book, opened with forty reasons not to believe him and moved on to his doubts about Syntheism. Margaret Thatcher had trumpeted that there

was no such thing as society and Waldo had conceded that she had a point as communities were atomised and interchangeable individuals were increasingly alone. Was getting and spending really an adequate substitute for a shared culture? Dancing by numbers could never approach the spontaneous precision of movement almost bred in the bone. Waldo's style was a mixture of pompous pontification undercut by paradox and a fondness for excruciating puns. Syntheism had, he claimed, moved from Good and Bad to Booed and Gad and so on.

Syntheism was above all pragmatic. If the goal was to feel at one with fellow Syntheists then any technique which worked was in. Hypnosis, chanting, music, meditation, dance were all admissable and while Waldo didn't officially endorse drugs he had to admit that they'd been used since time immemorial and didn't look like they'd be vanishing any time soon. Hi-tech toys also had their uses and the Lillicraps soon became quite proficient in the use of recordings and light-shows to enhance the ambience of the dreary halls in which the first few Syntheists met.

To preclude the ossification of ritual an element of playful chance was encouraged so that no two congruences were alike. Waldo stole the more picturesque elements of many religions: he'd officiated dressed as a Rabbi, as the Pope and as a witch-doctor. He passed around helium balloons for his followers to breathe and the resulting falsettos were his nod to the Pentecostals' speaking in tongues.

'Ritual,' he wrote, 'is like the script of the play. A story only works if you take it seriously, but when it comes to killing people, remember that there are many stories to choose from. All scriptures are infinitely malleable but homosexuals, for instance, shouldn't have to repress their proclivities. If you believe in fairies then flap your hands.'

The eighties lurched on. Apartheid was still being brutally enforced in South Africa but there was an ominous creaking in the ice. The stock market rose to record heights then fell off a cliff as computers, programmed to sell on falling prices, drove economies down in a vicious spiral.

Reagan sold arms to the enemy in Iran and used the proceeds to illegally fund the Contras in Nicaragua. The business ethos ramped and roared.

Back in South Africa a municipal civil engineer called Koos Koster was introduced to an English businessman called Edward Trench. Koos was an Afrikaner who'd been educated at an expensive English-medium boarding school and the equally Anglophone University of the Witwatersrand. The family, seeing which way the wind was blowing, spoke mainly English at home, slipping into Afrikaans only when mixing with die volk. Trench was in South Africa for a little light sanctions-busting.

'What are you going to do when the balloon goes up?' he asked Koos. 'I predict a black government within five years.'

'You reckon?' Koos was noncommital. You never knew who might be listening in.

'I do. Apart from failing to contain the unrest, the economy's going down the tubes. I have friends in the business community who've told the government that the game's up. Let's just hope it doesn't end in a bloodbath.'

'Ja-nee things have got to change,' said Koos cautiously. He liked to think of himself as liberal and progressive. He'd actually been out to an Indian colleague's home near Ventersdorp on a couple of occasions and he genuinely liked and respected the few

educated blacks he knew rather more than many of his white countrymen. As a boy on his uncle's farm he'd played with the 'piccanins' and one of his earliest memories was of sucking milk from a 'girl's' black breast. 'Still,' he continued, 'they're gonna need engineers and technicians come what may.'

'That's very true, Koos. But I understand you work for the municipality. You must know you're on a sinking ship there. Privatisation's the way forward. Faced with a huge unemployment problem it's only natural for governments to stuff departments with their own supporters which means that costs go up and efficiency goes down.'

'What, like job reservation for whites? I mean like after the war the Nats shoved millions of poor whites (mainly Afrikaners) into the police and the post office and railways and mines, but those days are long gone.'

'Well, we'll see. To be perfectly honest, our company's done rather well out of failed states. Africa's still rich, you know. Come and work for us. A man with your qualifications could be making a fortune. You'd be working with a top-notch team, using only the finest materials and equipment. Think about it.'

Koos thought. He had nineteen years to go till his pension and the South Africa he knew might not last another nineteen minutes. If and when majority rule came it was by no means impossible that the new black leadership would kick him out on his gat and install their own cronies.

'So what sort of money are we looking at?' 'Oh, about fifty K to start with, but the sky's the limit.' 'What, rands?' 'No, dollars. A lot of our work is channeled through the IMF so it simplifies the

bookkeeping.' Koos took a bite of boerewors and eyed the Englishman with a mixture of envy and

contempt. There was something so effortlessly superior about these Brits with their soft hands and pallid faces. Something about Edward made Koos feel a bit sick but he was also a representative of the race which had produced his beloved P.G. Wodehouse, Ian Fleming and Evelyn Waugh. And D.H.Lawrence, Aldous Huxley and SirArthur Conan Doyle.

Perhaps, Koos thought, he was due for a change. There was the miserable little house in Fordsburg which was all he'd been able to afford after his divorce. The backyard, walled in with 2.4 metre high concrete panels was covered in khakibos, an odorous weed whose seeds (blackjacks) clung to clothing like a fur of coarse bristles. He took in the opulence of his present surroundings, the braai by the pool, the rockery, the woodland glade, the waterfall. The garden was crammed with plants from all over the world. It belonged to the director of one of the larger civil engineering companies.

'So?' Koos nodded and the die was cast. The rewards exceeded his wildest dreams. Koos left the drawing-board and moved

into the shadow-world of financial projections. His job was to talk clients into the purchase of ludicrously-overpriced systems based on a, let us say, generous appraisal of future savings and profits. The money was often borrowed from the World Bank who connived in the scam. There was often no realistic prospect of repayment – it was simply

a modern form of enslavement. Local politicians and businessmen rushed to get their snouts in the trough. If naked bribery seemed inadvisable, there were many concealed incentives from 'partnerships' to 'consultancies'. Once projects had gone too far to scrap the costs suddenly doubled or tripled and the equipment used proved prone to breakdown, prompting further lucrative interventions. Trench and Gorton had left a trail of expensive disasters behind them and yet enjoyed a high reputation. Go figure. At first Koos had felt a fraud walking into plush boardrooms in his English suit and Italian shoes to present his carefully-miscosted schemes, but white South Africans were used to being spoiled and he soon adapted. Life often seemed an endless round of cocktail parties. He might be in Kampala or Lusaka or Lagos but he kept bumping into the same men he'd met in London or Pittsburg or Rome. There were businessmen and diplomats and scientists as well as political exiles of all descriptions. On one of his increasingly-rare visits to Joburg, a certain Colonel Cilliers from BOSS (the Bureau Of State Security as the secret police were then called) had cornered into him in the hotel sauna and pumped him about his ANC acquaintances. Koos had thought it wise to cooperate and was able to reassure the Colonel that in his opinion the Marxist rhetoric spouted by some of the 'comrades' would be swiftly jettisoned if they ever got into power. Furthermore, they recognised that a violent revolution would be in no-one's interest. They knew that they needed white capital and expertise and weren't about to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.

Colonel Cilliers listened intently to what Koos had to say and uttered a satisfied grunt as if this jibed with information received. Despite the facade of being a loyal tool of the increasingly-hysterical Apartheid regime, Koos had the impression that Cilliers was one of those intelligent Afrikaners who could see the writing on the wall.

A fortnight later he bumped into Jonas Mabuza in the lobby of London's Dorchester Hotel and he lost no time in telling this close associate of Thabo Mbeki that BOSS had asked him to keep an eye on the ANC. Because of sanctions on South Africa, Trench and Gorton's operations there were conducted through shells and intermediaries but Koos let Jonas know that the company was keen to build the new South Africa in partnership with the forthcoming majority government.

Jonas hinted to Koos that while lip-service would have to be paid to the idols of social justice and nationalisation there would be no rocking of their creditors' boat. South Africa was keen to join in the bonanza of globalisation. Roger. Over and out. The ripples widened.

Koos passed this information on to one of the World Bank's creatures whose heartfelt evocations of the Washington Consesus, including the benefits of privatisation and free capital flows were music to Koos's ears.

Twenty years passed. Koos had grown portly and jowly and his closecropped hair had gone grey. He was now Head of Economic Projections at Trench and Gorton (SA) although most of the work was done by his team of mainly Indian accountants. On this particular day he was staring glumly at the Syntheist website on his computer screen. A picture of his old friend Jonas Mabuza smiled out at him. Jonas had also got fat. His big smile showed three gold teeth and his wrist sported five thousand dollars worth of watch. Below the picture was a list of all the old freedom fighter's sources of income. Despite a list of twenty-seven directorships and consultancies (one for each year Mandela had spent

in prison) he had still manged to spend five months of the last year on holiday. Three of his directorships were with subsidiaries of Trench and Gorton and it was pointed out that the only Directorial meetings he'd ever attended were those dealing with the emoluments of senior staff. It was true that Jonas wasn't one for the day-to-day minutiae of business but he was by no means, as the website implied, merely a corrupt figurehead. Jonas more than earned his keep. A single discreet phonecall to one of his friends in government could often swing a big contract their way and a knowledge of competing bids was immensely helpful in preparing their own. Now South Africa's Weekly Mail had picked up on the story which was likely to mean some extremely unpleasant scrutiny. It was even possible that the ANC might throw Jonas to the wolves. There was also the upcoming court case following a scandal in which a pipe had burst in one of their water- treatment works, poisoning a forty-kilometre stretch of the Vaal river. Koos had covered his back by warning the company of inferior materials and slipshod maintenance at the plant but had been overruled by the bean counters. Never mind, if push came to shove he had an excellent pension plan and would probably be paid a hefty bonus to keep shtum. Thank God Waldo's investigators hadn't penetrated T&G's 'heart of darkness.' Koos had read his Conrad. Word was that Waldo would be shut up but his bosses were sure as fuck taking their sweet time about it.

Chapter 13

Waldo's long break had done him good. Claire had written a florid and agonised-over account of her first congruence which Val had quickly and coolly filleted. Claire mourned the bonfire of her adjectives but had to admire Val's skill. She had fought for some of her pet phrases (which Val amusedly let her keep) but when the piece finally appeared in the magazine she had to admit to herself that they jarred. On the whole, though, it was quite good and had generated a gratifying wash of emails.

Abel and Danny had put a lot of work into keeping Stan on board and it had paid off. It was funny to see how he'd taken to Danny and Dipak given his unreconstructed views on Jews, Pakis and 'poofs'. Stan had chucked in his old job and was training to be an ambulance driver and assistant paramedic. His final report to Trench and Gorton gave his opinion that it would be difficult to make charges of incitement to terrorism against Mr. Lillicrap stick and that he'd been able to find nothing suspect in his private life.

From canteen gossip he learned that Becky Engelbrecht was kicking over the traces. She'd walked out of rehab and her boyfriend had been done for receiving stolen goods. It seemed unlikely that Trench and Gorton would be able to use her after all.

Stan 'accidently' bumped into his old mucker from MI5 (after trying fifteen pubs) and learned that Waldo was suspected of links to Hamas after he'd written to the 'terrorist' organisation proposing an extensive DNA trial to investigate genetic links between Arabs and Jews in the faint hope that killing and persecuting relatives might give both sides pause. He'd had no reply. Some years back he'd submitted lookalike photos of Yasir Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin to Private Eye with a note: 'These men are obviously twins tragically separated at birth. Ena Meena.' Bastards hadn't run it.

If one aspect of Waldo's retreat had been to force Trench and Gorton to show their hand then it hadn't worked. The Syntheist website continued to pillory their corporate wrongdoing including their latest attempt to infiltrate Greenpeace. Stan kept in with his former contacts who naturally assumed the ambulance-driving was just a cover for some further skulduggery and continued to treat him with the goodnatured contempt in which he was generally held. He had to literally bite his tongue sometimes when the subject of Syntheism came up. Later, in the mirror, he discreetly viewed the stigmata of lumps and grooves in that pink organ with pride. It hurt him to see his old friends still stuck in the shit of of cynicism and corruption and despite himself even the thickest-skinned of them eventually picked up on the new priggishness which he exuded. He'd cut back on the booze and no-one had seen him shitfaced in ages. He was less fun nowadays and he'd never exactly lit up the room anyway. Slowly he saw less and less of his old friends and more of his new. There was even a 'lady' he'd met in a Syntheist chatroom. Unfortunately she lived in Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire and had no plans to relocate to London. They'd met up twice and the second time wound up in bed. Tracy was a blunt Yorkshire lass a few years older than Stan. She had three kids. Her husband had left her for a seventeen-year-old shelf-stacker whose ambition was to become a reality TV star. Syntheism had, par for the course, saved her life. She now ran a moderately successful tea-room and had almost paid off the loan which one of Waldo's financial advisers had arranged for her.

Ambulance work was stressful but Stan's time at the police driving school had been one of the high points in his unspectacular career and the cameraderie among his colleagues made up for the hoax calls and occasional abuse and even assaults by drunken yobs. He'd been spat on and had stones and bottles thrown at him but the feeling of helping to save lives more than compensated. The police force had also been a close-knit society but at least the Ambulance service wasn't quite so choked with racist, homophobic thugs. Stan often thought back to his solitary life as a PI in which long stretches of boredom were leavened with disgust and fear. He remembered picking through bins for incriminating evidence – betting slips or spunk-stained knickers fished out of a mulch of dog-ends and rotting food. He made no secret of his Syntheism among his workmates and had even (once) persuaded a couple of the girls to come to a congruence. He wasn't worried that it hadn't taken. They'd be back once Aromatherapy had lost its charm. Didn't Waldo say: 'We're all Syntheists but it just takes some of us a long time to realise it.'

Abel, for his part, had gone back to 1992 and was trawling through a wad of photocopied invoices from Trench and Gorton and their affiliates. There were receipts for hydraulic equipment and generators and barrels of chlorine and shuttering ply which had been sold to a Syrian company which turned out after a lot of digging in scattered holdings to belong to Trench and Gorton themselves. Even odder, the Gold Star Value Export Company had nothing to do with civil engineering being registered as traders in dried fruit. Abel smelt possible tax evasion and transfer pricing, but nothing out of the ordinary.

At this time Syria, having joined the allies in kicking Saddam out of Kuwait, was in temporary favour. It strenuously denied breaking Iraqi sanctions but the border was

notoriously porous. T&G's hydraulic equipment had been sold on at an enormous profit to a Jordanian firm called Turbexx, yet another T&G-owned subsidiary. Its supposed use for a municipal water supply was difficult to verify as no such scheme seemed to have been built. The money had come from a bank in the Cayman islands. A copy of the relevant bank statements showed that it had been taken out of one account although another showed a sudden influx of the same amount. Something fishy there perhaps.

Iraq was in the grip of postwar sanctions. Not only were armaments banned but so was anything which could conceivably be used to make weapons, including water-sterilising chemicals and many essential medical supplies. Infant mortality soared. George Bush the First had held back from overrunning Iraq and deposing Saddam feeling presciently that this would lead to a long and costly entanglement. US government policy seemed to be to drive the desperate people to revolt in the hope that a more amenable dictator might arise.

Now Saddam had many enemies. Immediately after his defeat in the Gulf War there were uprisings among the Shia of the south and the Kurds of the north. Imagining that Bush's urgings of revolt constituted support, the rebels were surprised that the allies stood by while Saddam was allowed to use ground forces and helicopters to crush them. When the Shiites sought refuge in the marshes, that fertile area between the Tigris and Euphrates which was the supposed site of the Garden of Eden and the cradle of civilization, Saddam drained them. Referring to the Marsh Arabs as 'monkeys' he set about slaughter and expulsion along with laying of mines and (some said) even poisoning of the shrunken waterways. It was a human tragedy and ecological catastrophe that outraged Claire. Vast areas of soil were left cracked and salty and would possibly never recover. On the other hand this problem was not confined to Iraq. Water abstraction was increasing worldwide. The Nile had been dammed; the Dead and Aral Seas were shrinking rapidly and there was talk of draining the Okavango Swamps. Only connect. Flimsy backdrops judder into place. Murphy is not a puppet.

Abel ploughed through the invoices for a third time. There had been no note with the wad of papers, no intimation of what to look for. Perhaps the whole thing was a red herring designed to squander the Syntheists' slender resources. No. There was quite enough low-grade dirt there which Trench and Gorton would certainly prefer to suppress, but no smoking gun. Abel drummed his fingers on a sheaf of Gold Star invoices for the month running up to the Jordanian ring-a-rosy. There had apparently been several very large purchases of dried figs. What had the Syrian lira been worth in 1992? Abel did some Googling and found that the amount almost exactly matched what Turbexx had 'paid' for all that hydraulic equipment as well as what had turned up in their second account mere days later. The figs (with the World Bank's blessing) had been shipped to Iraq.

He looked out of his window onto a tiny backyard choked with weeds as well as three bikes, a rusting barbecue and the remains of a deckchair. He and Claire had moved into this house at the end of term, which they shared with five other students. The size of the rooms meant that they had one each and what they earned from the Syntheists was enough to keep them in moderate comfort. Abel went up to London once a week but he and Claire worked mainly from home. The two other accountants comprising Waldo's Theseus Foundation were a dark, sardonic Welshman called Harvey and Davy, a pale, fat,

ginger Jew. Harvey had worked in the fraudbusting department of the Financial Services Authority until New Labour had downsized it – preferring light touch regulation to catching crooks. Davy had been thrown to the wolves by Arthur Andersen over the Enron unpleasantness. Between them they'd opened Abel's eyes to the plethora of scams and loopholes and to the shadowy world of realpolitik. He'd been duly appalled but it had strengthened his determination to nail the bastards.

'Let's get this straight.' Claire sat crosslegged on Abel's bed, prompting thoughts of softly gaping labia which he put aside for later. 'First,' she counted on one slim finger, 'T and G ship a whole lot of hydraulic equipment to a dried-fruit company which they turn out out to own. Second, this company sells the stuff to some Jordanian outfit which claims to want it for a municipal water-works, for a ginormous profit. Then what?'

'It vanishes. At any rate I haven't been able to find any trace of it. There don't seem to have been any big projects at all in the area concerned. Of course it could still be sitting in a warehouse somewhere ten years on but I doubt it. Not only that, but a couple of days later a large sum, equivalent to what Turbexx paid for the plant plus five per cent winds up in another bank account which turns out to belong to themselves. Not only that but if you add together three exceptionally large orders for dried fruit from Iraq in the month leading up to the deal, it comes to exactly three point eight million dollars, the very sum Turbexx claims to have paid for hydraulic machinery. And nearly four million dollars is a lot of fucking figs.'

'So you reckon this stuff wound up in Iraq? That would mean T&G were sanctions- busting, aiding and abetting what George Bush calls the axis of evil?'

'It's certainly possible,' Abel conceded mock-academically. 'As Thoreau says: "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." The point is, if Saddam used said equipment to drain the marshes in order to massacre his enemies, does that make T and G guilty of war crimes? It would be hard to make it stick. It's like giving Israel howitzers purely for self-defence or, as Waldo puts it: "They sell you a cotton bud exactly the right size and shape to poke in your ear then warn you on no account ever to do so." Some of the stuff could probably be considered dual-purpose, I suppose. The trouble is that when we're being dragged into war with Iraq at any moment, who cares about ten-year-old crimes? Unless, say, some of the chlorine T&G smuggled in was actually used to make these WMDs the inspectors keep failing to find. Now that would be embarrassing.'

'Or, going back to the dams again, maybe it's something else. Val says that in journalism there are certain key words that punch above their weight. One is "genocide". Apparently random slaughter's OK but if there's a suspicion of genocide the UN is forced to intervene. Whether driving out and killing the Marsh Arabs counts is a moot point. Moot. Mooot. Funny word.' And Claire wrinkled her brow in mock puzzlement prompting Abel to kiss it better. Full coitus might have ensued but Claire pled her period. Full stop. Besides, she had to present a paper on Tristram Shandy tomorrow and as she hadn't got around to reading the book she'd have to at least skim through some of it and do some serious scouring of the internet. Abel glumly supposed that he too had work to do and after some more kissing and cuddling (Claire's mouth, Abel noted, had some of the rancid tang of her spent blood) they went their separate ways.

Chapter 14

A few days later found Waldo in Brighton to inaugurate the opening of a new Syntheist Resource centre. It was in a street whose modest shopfronts concealed a surprising space lengthening behind them – like sausages laid side by side. The centre combined a little library and coffeehouse with a hall at the back for meetings and movies and concerts. It was a space for people to meet and discuss things and eat the best cakes in town. All tastes were catered for from wholemeal vegan apple slices to Sachertorte and the lightest of profiteroles. Prices were reasonable and the portions ample rather than gargantuan. Half-price coupons in the local paper had brought in quite a few non- Syntheists and business was brisk. There was no muzak but a CD of natural noises (whispering trees, twittering birds, running water, whalesong and so on) played just at the edge of audibility. Waldo signed books for an hour or so then put himself about a bit.

As usual, most of the work was done by postmenstrual volunteers, but the clientele seemed to be drawn from a wider range than just the wellmeaning middle classes. Abel and Claire had come down by train for the opening but it was five in the evening before they got Waldo to themselves. The three of them had taken a short walk to the beach and stood watching the sea. It was a blustery September day with a sky the occluded grey of knapped flint. The sea hissed as its corrosive brine scoured the cobbles.

'So, Abel my boy, you think you may be onto something, is it?' Waldo smiled kindly but he looked tired.

'I think it's possible that T&G were involved in sanctions-busting in Iraq in 1992,' Abel plunged. 'Mostly hydraulic equipment but also 70,000 gallons of chlorine which could have been used to make chemical weapons.'

'And the pumps and things may have been used to help drain the marshes to get at his enemies who were hiding out there,' Claire urged excitedly. 'If he killed thousands of Marsh Arabs couldn't that be classed as genocide?'

Waldo smiled tolerantly. 'You've been talking to Val, I see. She wants to prove that the sanctions regime itself was a form of genocide in that the destruction of safe water supplies and the denial of medical equipment led directly to the deaths of hundreds of thousands if not millions of Iraqis, a price which Madeleine Albright, bless her pretty little face (as Gore Vidal bitchily put it) thought well worth paying. There is talk that she actually gave Saddam the nod on invading Kuwait in the first place in which case he fell into a US trap. But back to Saddam's alleged genocide. It's a big word, but its definition is hedged about with loopholes which owe as much to politics as to jurisprudence. Proving genocide is like pinning a label on fog. It's worth trying but it shouldn't be our only weapon. The trouble is, at this stage, that making Saddam look even worse than we thought plays straight into Dubya's hands. Still, we can but try.'

Waldo spread his arms wide and burst into song: 'Climb every mountain,' he falsettoed, 'Ford every stream / Follow every rainbow / Till you find your dream...'

Brighton, in the person of a couple of dog-walkers and loiterers, was used to exuberance and smiled a thin communal smile.

Claire laughed. 'All roads lead to roam,' Abel amplified. 'That's r-o-a-m folks.' 'Hm. Not one of my best,' said Waldo objectively. 'At least I don't need to worry

about losing my memory while you're around, bach. No, I don't mean to be nasty like. I'm very well pleased with the both of you. As you may have surmised, that bundle of papers didn't actually come out of the blue. I did know what the sender's agenda was but I kept shtum because I didn't want you following someone else's signposts. I'm pleased to say you seemed to have hit on the nub of it by yourselves. There was indeed some sophisticated sanctions-busting going on. But there's more. A little bird tells me that not only did Trench and Gorton sell this prohibited stuff to Iraq but they were intimately involved in the design and construction of the dams and canals which Saddam built to drain the marshes. I don't suppose ideology played any part in this. To business all that matters is the bottom line. That's why being exposed as environmental criminals might hurt them more than involvement in mass murder. People can be more affected by the deaths of birds and buffaloes than by the deaths of any number of rebels and innocent marsh Arabs. Trench and Gorton have been accused of sanctions-busting before – they're alleged to have aided both Rhodesia under UDI and Zimbabwe later, although nothing was ever proved, and they got a derisory fine for some murky dealings in Libya. Of course a generous donation to the Tory government of the day may have had some slight bearing on that. They pretended to withdraw from South Africa at the height of the anti- apartheid protests but in fact they sank their money into a local company which operated as a front and which jumped in the minute the ANC started selling off the state sector. All

of these things are common business practice, the so-called 11th commandment: Thou shalt not be Found Out, but there's a chance we can nail them this time. Trench & Gorton's Director of Project Management is a South African civil engineer called Jakobus (or Koos – 'Cooze', as Waldo mispronounced it) Koster. I wonder where he was when all these figs were being moved about?'

'I'll google him,' Claire offered eagerly. 'How do you spell it?'

Waldo told her. He also gave Abel another wad of invoices and went off to prepare for the inaugural congruence.

The clonking of beach-cobbles reminded Claire of the sound of woods knocking on the bowling green behind her home. How was it possible that these civilized men and women in their white clothes and hats and flatsoled shoes could support a system which was deliberately killing and starving children? 'Life,' Waldo had written, 'is like sausage. People prefer to enjoy it without knowing what went into it. Just remember that Walls have ears – and tails and snouts. Walls have balls.'

Claire and Abel, being young, were hopelessly naïve. The exposure of the half-truths and downright lies which they'd been fed all their lives outraged and desolated them. And now, in 2002 in what looked like the prelude to an inevitable attack on Iraq, the politicians were at it again. Tony Blair had changed from confidently asserting that thanks to US and British fly-over zones and UN inspections Saddam's fangs had been drawn, to new assertions that suddenly he was the devil incarnate, an imminent threat to world peace, armed to the teeth with Weapons of Mass Destruction and sponsoring terror

throughout the world. 'Bliar' teeshirts had started to appear and Dubya's manglings of English and logic kept many a standup in food.

Waldo's contribution to the debate had been typically quirky. He'd hired a small room off a pub in Elephant and Castle. Above the door he'd stuck a sign saying: War in Iraq. Those who paid their pound to get in found that the room was almost completely filled with a stuffed cow elephant with SH! Stencilled in whitewash on its sides. If the concept was pretty corny, the reality was quite unsettling. No more than ten people at a time could get in. You had to squeeze past the elephant's arse or duck under its belly to see the other side. Claire had come out with whitewash all over her black silk blouse. She had found it desperately sad but Abel was buzzing at the myriad meanings implied in the installation. Elephant skin, close-up, was lined and porous with giant black hairs here and there. The toenails were chipped and dirty. The ears were ragged. It looked just like the motheaten specimen from a provincial museum that it in fact was. They'd had to knock out a wall to get the beast in and had rebuilt it, matching the old red flock wallpaper and smoke- stained wainscoting. Val got one of her friends from the Independent to review the piece in a gossip column. A bottle of balsamic vinegar was offered for the best suggestion as to what the elephant in the room might be. Suggestions trickled in. The elephant in the room was oil or the doctrine of preemptive war or the religious right mounting an insane crusade to convert the heathen or the symbol of US republicanism and so on. Waldo's art- work developed a little cult following. The London Review of Books ran a turgid piece clotted with words like 'heuristic' and 'synecdoche' and even an 'anacoluthon'. Bit spoilt by muddling 'coruscate' and 'excoriate'. The gist however was that Waldo had both produced a meaningful piece and simultaneously exposed the essential shallowness of much conceptual art. For a few weeks the pub's takings tripled then the exhibition ended. Waldo got forty percent and mine host hung on to the elephant as a seedy attraction to the pub's bruised and resentful regulars. Six months later the big chain which owned the pub turfed out both elephant and manager and turned it into a Disneyfied Irish Theme Pub called Kelly's just in time for the war.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's go back to Brighton, the previous September. Abel had found a spot out of the wind to whiffle through the fresh (if ten- year-old) batch of invoices. Waldo had said there was more to be discovered and Abel was keen to know what. Clair was busy texting a classmate about meeting up on Monday night and George Walker Bush was dreaming about his speech to the UN which would triumphantly prove the necessity for war. Tony Blair was going through reasons for war like Homer through a bag of pretzels. Dubya may have been able to hoodwink the Yanks that Saddam was tied up with nine-eleven but many Brits found the line that a relatively secular Saddam was hated and despised by al-Qaeda's Islamic extremists far more credible. Osama bin Laden had even offered his guerillas to help drive Saddam out of Kuwait in '91 but had been spurned. Britain was split about 70-30. Seventy per cent of the democracy did not want war. The thirty per cent included most of the media including, to its eternal disgrace, the Observer, which sucked at the Downing Street tit. Rupert Murdoch, in one of the few honest remarks about the war, said he was looking forward to the $20 barrel of oil. Agonised lefties tied themselves in knots by effectively saying that even an illegal war could be good if it got rid of Saddam. Saddam. Sounded

quite chummy using what many people took to be his Christian name. Some commentators even called him Hussein, adding to the gaiety of nations.

On Brighton beach the sky darkened. Abel had found a number of invoices initialled KK. What was it Waldo had said? Anyway, he'd have to leave it for now. There was just time for a quick bite if they were to make the congruence early.

By eight the little hall was packed with nearly two hundred people. The lights dimmed and Continental Drift opened with a set of mischievously tweaked hornpipes that had the audience smiling and tapping their feet. The white walls and ceiling served as screens for shadow-projections of sea and sky and soaring birds. At the back left of the hall a ball rolled on the sea moving gradually forward and growing in size. Heads began to swivel and soon everyone was watching. The music caught a new mood of aching wistfulness. Colour first seeped then surged into the scene and the object was seen to be a big clear plastic barrel which was being propelled by a tubby little bloke sauntering along inside it. Laughter and cheers as the faithful recognised Waldo dressed in the robes and headdress of the Jesus of children's picture Bibles. Had the robe had pockets his hands would have been in them. The tub rolled along the wall, up the steps to the stage and onto the wings just as Waldo stepped out. For a moment image and real person were superimposed until with a flash and cymbal-crash the image vanished and Waldo stood alone in the spotlight. He shrugged off his Jesus costume. Underneath was Elvis in white with a painted eagle on his chest and butterflies up his legs. You had to laugh.

'Thank you.' Waldo waited till the noise died down. 'Thank you. Yes, you too can walk on water. And now, my personal tribute to Elvis, The King.' Beat. 'I'm going to make myself a fried peanut-butter and bacon and banana sandwich and eat it right here on stage. Just joking.'

'I am thrilled to be opening this new Syntheist resource centre. We've called it Pharos, after the lighthouse near Alexandria, one of the wonders of the ancient world. I hope it will be a light in these dark times. Syntheism is open and searching. We want the truth and are fed lie after lie. It can be discouraging. Diogenes the Cynic was once asked why he was begging alms from a statue. He replied it gave him practice in being refused. It often seems that the average person has no power at all vis-a-vis governments and faceless corporations. This is intentional. The ideal is the worker and consumer whose opinions can be disregarded. The average "voter" as Gwyn Thomas calls him. Let's take a straw poll. How many people here are opposed to going to war with Iraq? Hm. The vast, to use the scientific term, majority. And pro-war? Only three, four, five of you. Would you like to tell us why? The lady in blue over there.'

A radio mike materialised and was passed along. A thin shorthaired lady stood resolutely up and spoke into it. 'Hello. My name's Ruth McNab. I'm sorry to say I think you're all making a terrible mistake.' Her anguished eyes darted around the room. 'I work with Iraqi asylum seekers and they say that all their relatives back home want more than anything else to get rid of Saddam Hussein. I've heard the most awful details of some of the things he and his psychotic sons have done. There is a record of documented atrocities as long as my arm. I do believe he's got WMD (if only because we sold them to him). He would use them without turning a hair. I know the neocons have their own agenda but I can't see any realistic alternative. And we Brits should be involved if only

because Tony Blair may have some humanitarian influence over the Bush administration. That's all.'

'Thank you, Ruth,' said Waldo gently. 'It took courage to say that and it is always worth being reminded that there are people of good will and sincerity on the other side as well as plenty of selfseeking toerags and hypocrites on our own. Any more "pro" voices out there? Why should we go to war?'

'To push up the value of my arms portfolio,' shouted the middle-aged class clown.

'Good point,' said Waldo matter-of-factly. 'Britain is a big exporter of arms. We are all willy-nilly up to our necks in murder. To quote Macbeth: "I am in blood Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er." It's true that Saddam is a crazed dictator but until not so very long ago he was our crazed dictator. When I say "our" I mean of course we and our American overlords. We supported him in the war against Iran (although, to be fair, we sold arms to both sides) and even later. The first Gulf War when Saddam invaded Kuwait is instructive. When we Brits literally put Iraq on the map we were careful to cut off access to the sea so that we could control the oil. That was why we invented Kuwait. The Yanks gave Saddam to understand that they weren't concerned with inter-Arab wars. Saddam, hopelessly outclassed technologically, fell into the trap. The Iraqi army was smashed, much infrastructure was deliberately destroyed and the Americans and Brits had complete control over Iraqi airspace. Immediately after the war there were uprisings in both the south and north of the country. The previous February, George Bush Senior had broadcast this message on the Voice of America.' Waldo consulted a card. '"There is another way for the bloodshed to stop: And that is, for the Iraqi military and the Iraqi people to take matters into their own hands and force Saddam Hussein, the dictator, to step aside and then comply with the United Nations' resolutions and rejoin the family of peace-loving nations." Unquote. Not the world's snappiest soundbite. Foolishly, Kurds and Shiites believed that this indicated US support for their uprisings. Imagine their surprise then, when far from supporting them we (having, remember, total control of airspace) sold Saddam yet more weapons and let him use ground forces, draining of the marshes and helicopter gunships to crush the uprising. As Saddam was grinding out the last sparks George Bush Senior denied that he'd ever "misled anybody" and said that he and his pals had never actually set out to overthrow Saddam. It's possible that a broken dictator still strong enough to keep his people down might be to our advantage in the country with the world's second-largest oil reserves. Meanwhile the sanctions we have imposed have killed thousands through malnutrition and disease and stunted the growth of a generation. Oh, and made the people even more dependent on Saddam as he controls the rations which keep people alive. So, can illegal intervention ever be good? Is it true that nothing could be worse than life under a tyrant? No, things could always be worse or they could be better. What is undeniable is that many innocent people and even some of our own troops will die. But I think, Ruth, that if there is a happy outcome it will be despite rather than because of our leaders. The word of the week is "democracy", but can we trust Blush and Bare (Waldo coyly crossed his legs and covered his crotch), sorry, I mean Butch and Glare,' (he struck a macho pose) 'do deliver it to Iraq when they deny it to their own people? Despite, for instance, a large majority of voters both here and in the US being against it, an attack on

Iraq seems inevitable. The point is what can we, as individuals and as Syntheists, do?' Waldo milked the rhetorical pause, smiled broadly and resumed: 'For me Syntheism is about understanding what is going on behind the scenes. Cui bono? Who is the gainer? Well, the armed forces and their suppliers obviously, the oil industry (Condoleeza Rice was with Chevron. They named a tanker after her.), reconstruction by big American firms paid for by Iraqi oil, and so on. Big business, in a word. And this is where Syntheists en masse can have an effect. We can take our overdrafts elsewhere, we can tell of crimes committed. Our accountancy section is always glad to hear of financial chicanery and we do everything in our power to keep names out of it. We want spies, although the path of the whistleblower is very hard. As I said before, I've been looking into Iraq after the first Gulf War with particular reference to British companies involved in anything from sanctions-busting to bribes. Doubt is like neglected housework – you don't know where to start. I'd like to pass on some wisdom from Dotty, my beloved wife , on the subject: "Start anywhere," Waldo said in a ringing falsetto, "but start!" (His voice dropped an octave.) 'Start anywhere and an order imposes itself. You want to clear the surface? No, first you must empty the dishwasher. That's how things impose their own order. The target is not Big Business per se but the underlying philosophy. All this Green talk, for instance, is nonsense in a system predicated on increasing consumption. The real joke is that moderate poverty is much more fun. As Nietzsche pointed out: he that possesses much is so much the more possessed. We've never been more chained. Wealth per se doesn't matter. What's important is power. And power depends on knowledge. The reason that all shades of opinion are encouraged in Syntheism is that knowledge thrives on challenge and contradiction. If you want to know the weak points in your argument ask an enemy. An honest enemy is a true friend. And if congruence is about anything it is about incorporating as many diversities as possible into the great dance of life. To those who say: "How can you dance in a world full of suffering?" I would say how can you not?' Waldo capered surprisingly nimbly across the stage. (He'd copied the moves from a videoed masterclass by Geraint Evans.) 'Great burdens,' he continued, ' must be borne lightly. When a pianist makes those dazzling passages look easy it's because, to her, they actually are easy – but that's only after years of practice.'

The light projected on the walls had been growing dimmer and was now a deep twilight blue. A black silhouette of a lighthouse on jagged rocks reared up at the back of the stage. Waldo's white outfit seemed to glow with an inner light.

'We have called this resource centre "Pharos",' he declaimed, 'after the great lighthouse, one of the wonders of the ancient world. Not only did it warn of danger but it guided seafarers to the port of Alexandria, home of the largest library in the classical world. We live in literally amazing times. Amid marvels we live in overload. Sensory overload, information overload, bureaucratic overload. Technique and knowledge can take you far but beyond them lies wisdom. In an age of doubt rely on your tastes. Cultivate them. Learn what you like. Mix with like-minded folk. Above all, enjoy!' Waldo waved goodbye and walked offstage.

The lighthouse lit up and swept its beam around the room, the band surged into "Let the Good Times Roll" (a la Louis Jordan) and the party started.

Waldo stepped behind a wall of cartons to change. The Elvis and Jesus costumes had

to be returned to the fancy-dress shop by eleven the next morning so Waldo got back into his comfy old flannels, checked woollen shirt and cableknit cardigan and set out to press the flesh. By ducking out of the back exit and coming up an alley he circumvented the dancehall with its now psychedelic lightshow and coming in the front joined the more sedate Syntheists in the cafe bit where a buffet had been set out. Squeals went up at his appearance and soon an adoring swarm of middleaged women enveloped him, clucking and cooing.

Claire watched condescendingly from the far corner with a pose of brittle sophistication. Now that she was an insider she had some idea of the hard work involved – the scripting and rescripting of an offhand bon mot and the stopwatch precision of lighting and machinery. The trouble was that Waldo, having spent hours of meticulous rehearsal, would then like as not jettison the whole thing and wing it. Kept the boys on their toes, that was for sure.

Waldo eventually managed to free himself and made for the quiche. A sharp-faced little man in a dark suit darted up to him.

'Are you Waldo Blaise Lillicrap?' 'Yes. I am.' 'This is for you.' The man thrust an envelope into Waldo's hand. 'You've laid your

hand on it, sir, now it's yours.' 'But who are you? What is it?' Waldo was amiably perplexed. 'James Dawlish, sir, bailiff. I have served you a summons. Now I must go.' The little

man turned and made a slick exit combining speed and decorum. Waldo calmly placed the unopened brown envelope on his tray, which he then filled up

with quiche, potato salad, roll and butter, scones and jam and cream and a pot of tea. The buzz of speculation peaked and receded.

Dotty appeared beside him and steered him to a table for two.

'What was that all about?' she asked apprehensively, smiling and waving gaily at some departing revellers.

'It's a summons of some sort, but it can wait. When did anything good ever come out of a brown envelope? M. This grub's good. Did they get that cooker hood sorted after?' 'Yes. They had to take the vent up to the level of the stench pipe but it's sorted now.'

'You wonder if there's a belt of foul odours circling the globe about four metres up. Pity the poor birds that have to fly through it. Mind you they say exhaust fumes in central London are the equivalent of smoking twenty a day.'

Dotty knew that Waldo wouldn't discuss business until he'd eaten so she waited patiently. At last Waldo drained his second cup of tea with real fullcream milk (not that awful UHT stuff) and patted his lips with a paper napkin. He put on his reading glasses and slit open the envelope with a butter knife. His heart sank at the OHMS court letterhead and legal phraseology but the nub of it was more dismal still. It seemed Trench and Gorton were suing him for libel and had obtained an injunction prohibiting him from mentioning anything further about the firm and ordering him to remove all references to Trench and Gorton from his website forthwith. He would be hearing from their lawyers.

'Trench and Gorton,' he told Dotty. 'They're suing me for libel.' He passed over the summons.

Dotty laid the paper on the table and went through it slowly, twice. She sighed. 'Libel's a bugger,' she said frankly. 'Even if you win it costs you. Maybe they'll accept a public apology and a promise to lay off them, but we'd better take legal advice. What's the name of that lawyer Val sometimes uses?'

'Con something. Conrad Ellembogen is it? Yes. He'd be a good first port of call. No. First I must tell people what's going on.'

'Is that wise d'you think?'

'Yes. It's best to nip speculation in the bud.' Waldo rose to his feet and tapped the milk jug with a teaspoon. 'Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention. Thank you.'

In the hall the band had just finished a set and the heavy doors (salvaged from a demolished bank) opened, releasing a throng of revellers in search of refreshment. Waldo waited until things had calmed down a bit then climbed up onto a table and tried again.

It took less than half a minute for complete silence to obtain. Waldo undeniably had something.

'My friends,' he began soberly, 'I'm sorry to spoil your fun but I felt you should know that I have just been served with a summons. Trench and Gorton have issued a writ of libel against me. I have to remove every reference to them from our website and am forbidden from further comment till the matter is resolved. I cannot, nor do I wish to prohibit anyone else from discussing the case but, particularly in the hysterical mood at present, there is a distinct possibility of harrassment. Needless to say, I have said nothing about the company concerned which was not verifiably true but as the old proverb observes: The greater the truth the greater the libel. I'll have to take legal advice but I'll keep you all informed of the options and no course of action will be decided without the full participation of the Syntheist congruence.

'Thank you. Go back to your revelry. As Ronnie Scott used to say, you've made a happy man very old.'

A laugh broke the tension and Waldo was mobbed as he jumped off the table. The rest of the room agglutinated into buzzing clumps.

Abel saw that Waldo was unlikely to be free for some time and joined the smaller crowd around Dotty's table just as that formidable woman was finishing a phonecall.

'Yes, that's the lot for now. OK. Bye, Fabian.' She switched off and stowed her mobile. 'That was Fabian,' she told her hearers. 'Our resident IT genius. I've told him to take everything about Trench and Gorton off the website although as it's already out there I can't see the point. I've set up a meeting with our lawyer first thing tomorrow and we'll have to take it from there. If anyone wants to examine the summons there it is.' She passed it to waiting hands.

'I'll set up a fighting fund for if it comes to trial,' said a man who looked like the manager of a building society which he was.

'Thanks, Reg. It's a bit previous, like, but I'll bear your offer in mind.' Dotty smiled and squeezed his hand.

Claire, who'd been talking to Val in the corner, came over looking alarmed. She wormed her way in next to Abel who was perusing the summons glumly and put a paper napkin scrawled with biro on the table. (Her palmtop had lately packed it in and its data

was being expensively retrieved.) 'Sorry, can I just say something?' Claire interrupted half-a-dozen conversations. 'I've

just had a word with Val, our press officer, and she says libel cases can be an absolute disaster. Even if you win, the costs can be astronomical and if you lose you can be bankrupted. Also the presumption of innocence doesn't apply – it's up to you to prove that you're right not for the claimant to prove you wrong. The relatively good news, she says, is that most cases are settled out of court.'

As the implications of Waldo's injunction spread through the crowd it began to turn ugly. Claire was frightened to see how literally true this was as faces reddened and twisted into scowls. Indignation shrilled and there was much angry muttering although there were also pacific pockets here and there. Abel had pushed his way through to Waldo to offer his undying fealty only for his hero to leap up onto the table again and blow quite a creditable trumpet-blast through a rolled-up menu. In the startled silence Waldo spoke: 'My fellow Syntheists,' he said, 'thank you for your support – I will wear it at all times. This injunction comes as a relief, in a way. The people of whom I can no longer speak ('Trench and Gorton!' shouted a defiant voice) have at last revealed themselves as corporate bullies. I don't know whether this will ever come to court but if we decide to let it I promise to use that platform to put all we know about,' hand cupped to ear elicited a roar of 'Trench and Gorton!' 'and their sinister connections on the record. Now, I think, would be an excellent time to put the energy of anger to work. Whoever wishes may join me in the hall for a brief congruence before the music resumes. We'll try a little experiment in alchemy – to turn the gall of hate into the honey of love. Or at least have fun trying. Tonight's for fun. As Byron says: "Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after." Just give me five minutes.' And Waldo stepped down from table to chair to floor and strolled into the hall pulling to the mighty doors behind him.

The buzz seemed to Abel to have changed from anger to anticipation. If anyone could sort out this mess, it was Waldo.

As the cafe wasn't licensed the wine table had a box labelled "Suggested Donation £1". Reg, who'd wanted to set up a fighting fund, pointedly dropped in a twenty pound note and soon a little pile of paper money had appeared.

The doors opened and the faithful streamed in with Abel and Claire well to the fore.

There was no razzamatazz. Waldo simply stood on the stage in his homely clothes with the band behind him.

'Croeso,' said Waldo. 'That means welcome in Welsh. I'd like to tell you a ghost story. There is indeed such a thing as the spirit world – it is made of memory and imagination and feelings. How it is connected to the material world is by no means easy to say. I've heard quantum mechanics defined as: the dreams stuff is made of, which seems to me to nail it. We are at the mercy of a commercial system interested only in the bottom line. It's taken me a long time to learn that it's not flip cynicism but actually true that while there are profits in the murder of innocents or poisoning of the environment there are always those who leap at the chance. Indeed, corporations are legally bound to maximise shareholder value. If that means breaking the law for a fine which is generally a slap on the wrist then so be it. Just another business expense. Profit is their sole raison d'être.'

Waldo spoke low and pleasantly, simply stating wellknown facts among friends.

'It is useless to take up an armed struggle against those who are immeasurably richer and more powerful than we are. They could crush us like ants. Our strength is that their spirit is poor. The funny thing is that they don't even know what they're missing. In the dog eat dog world of the rat-race there's ever less space for esprit de corps. Which brings me back to my ghost-story – Joshua and the battle of Jericho.

'Now the story goes thusly: as the Children of Israel approached the Jordan, Joshua sent out two spies into Jericho, where they were rumbled and hidden by the harlot Rahab who'd clocked what the Jews had done to the Amorites and Sihon and Og and wanted to join the winning side. Are you still with me? Like any good ghost story the whole thing was drenched in magic and ritual. When the priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant waded into the Jordan the water heaped up a la Red Sea on either side and the Children of Israel passed over on dry land and as soon as the priests too had crossed over the water flooded back. After laying siege to Jericho the army, priests with trumpets and priests with the Ark, compassed the city once a day for six days and seven times on the seventh day. And on the seventh compass of the seventh day when the priests blew their shofars Joshua told the Children of Israel to shout a mighty shout and the wall fell flat. The army waded in and put the entire city to the sword. They killed young and old, men and women, oxen, sheep and asses. Only Rahab and her family were spared. As we say in the valleys: the girl done good. According to Matthew, Rahab the harlot was the grandmother of Jesse, father of David, king of the Jews and alleged ancestor of Jesus, and Mohammed too for all I know. And, genealogists have proved, of all us Europeans too. We're all children of Rahab the harlot of Jericho (assuming she was a real gal and not just a convenient symbol in the saga).'

Waldo paused. The spotlight followed him as he paced, hands clasped behind him, to one side and the other of the tiny stage and back to the centre. He smiled and spread out his hands.

'There is plenty of meat in the story of Joshua,' Waldo licked his lips with relish, 'but the bit relevant to us today is the knocking down of the wall with trumpets. The trumpet of today is the internet. Walls are rising wherever you look. Resonance is the thing to bear in mind. It has become almost impossible to keep the lid on truth despite the best efforts of governments and businessmen. Of course revelations come too late too often but there are scandals and scapegoats. Companies may even cut their losses and regroup. There is now a fulltime industry in the management of truth – from government spin to legal intimidation' (a chorus of 'Trench and Gorton!' answered Waldo's expression of innocent inquiry) to ownership of media. Or the cognoscenti may simply declare you unfashionable – which is professional death. But there is still a place for the timely fact. My hope is that organisations will be replaced by organisms. Let us try to push the force that is Syntheist congruence away from articulations of dry sticks and towards the zest and flexibility of life. The simplest life-form is of a complexity and sophistication far beyond anything made by man but that doesn't mean we shouldn't aspire to it. The difference between organism and organisation is that of life and death. Into each life a little death must fall. Oh God, we're back in quantum physics. How about a song to strike off the gloomy shackles of reason? Let's have Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho with the Ad

Hoc Four. Join in the chorus. Let's really let rip.' Waldo wandered off to one side, smiling affably, while the spots came up on the

members of Continental Drift, clustered, like a barbershop quartet, around one mikc. 'God knows Joshua fit the battle round Jericho, Jericho, Jericohohoho,

Joshua fit the battle round Jericho, An' the walls come a-tumblin' down.' The boys sang well and on the repeat of the chorus the audience joined lustily in. The high yelping tenor and oomphy harmonies were lifted from the Golden Gate

Quartet but with an air of affectionate parody. The words told a simple story and told it well.

'You may talk about your men of Gideon, You may brag about your men of Saul, But they're none like good ol' Joshua At the battle of Jericho...

'Go blow them rams' horns, Joshua cried, And the Devil can do you no harm. Old Joshua shouted 'Glory!' And the walls come a-tumblin' down... Down, down, down, down, down, Tumblin' down. Oo wah!'

Waldo had been walking towards the group crouching a bit more with each 'down' until he was waddling like a toad on its hind legs, only to bounce up and join in on the 'oo wah!' shimmying jazz hands.

Got a good laugh and a round of applause which he shared with the band, who bowed and smiled and went back to their instruments.

Waldo seized the microphone and the lights went out. The room was plunged into darkness amid a few feminine squeals but most of the audience waited patiently, thinking it part of the show.

'Stay calm.' The reassuring boom of Waldo's unmiked voice rang out in the sudden silence. No fridges hummed, no fluorescents buzzed, the central heating pump had stopped its churning. Only the red exit signs glowed on a separate circuit. From outside came the murmur of traffic.

'Has anyone got a shillen' for the 'lectric?' quavered Waldo, broadly Welsh, riding the laugh. 'Seriously, now, this darkness is a great opportunity. I suggest we leave our torches and lighters alone for the moment. Modern society is relentlessly visual – it can be a relief to let our other senses have their say. Let's listen to the world breathing – in two three four, hold two three four, out two three four, hold two three four...'

Soon the whole room was breathing together, creating an amusing little draught. Claire squeezed Abel's hand and had her own enfolded in his bony bigness. 'Darkness be my friend, my strength,' Waldo declaimed. 'Darkness hides much

ugliness and if it aids the villain it also hides those who pass by...' Waldo waxed elegiac and led his listeners efficiently to the symbolic orgasm of

congruence. About three and a half minutes, a new record. In the reverent hush which followed, Waldo shuffled offstage and groped his way out

of the back door to see what had happened to the power. The band played softly in the dark. From outside the hall there was some muffled yelling and the slamming of car doors and rasp of diminishing engine-noise. The lights came back on. A ragged cheer went up. There was no sign of Waldo but the band's sound system boomed back into life and the party started.

Chapter 15

During a break in the dancing Dotty bustled up to Abel. 'Have you seen Waldo?' she asked, her intense gaze belying her casual air. 'No. Not since congruence. And not strictly even then. Why do you ask?' Stooped

benevolence. 'Well, he seems to have disappeared. Gone off without a dicky-bird. That's not like

him at all. He has his faults but fair dos he lets me know what he's up to. Would you mind checking the Gents for me, bach? But don't say anything, I don't want to alarm anyone unnecessarily.'

'Sure.' And Abel strode off to the toilets while Dotty commandeered Claire. Waldo wasn't in the bog. Nor outside having a quick fag nor yet lying dead in the

alley. A call to the hotel revealed no sign of him and Abel began to panic. Worse still, the file

of invoices which Waldo had given him had vanished from his briefcase which he'd left behind the chiller cabinet for safekeeping. As far as he could tell in the trippy laser lightshow there'd been no apparent signs of violence on the stage, no blood-spots lit lurid blue. The writ for libel had also gone but Waldo could've had that.

Dotty phoned the police and the hospital and drew a blank. The police said they couldn't open a missing person's file till he'd been gone twenty-four hours. Not to worry – the vast majority of missing persons turned up again within that time. Yes, yes, they would contact her if any new facts came to light.

The music licence ran out at midnight. Ten past found Val, Dotty, Abel and Claire standing briefly under a streetlight in the pouring rain sharing phone numbers before splitting up. Val was staying in the same hotel as Dotty and would keep them fully informed. No need for alarm. Go on home. Dotty seemed her usual ebullient self but her eyes were unaccustomedly worried.

Claire had booked them cheap fixed-time train tickets so the youngsters had to go. Their carriage was packed and they were wedged next to the door when a smartly-suited

bloke made his smiling way over to them. 'You are Abel Caldecot and Claire Chubb are you not?' Home counties Mockney. 'Yes,' said Abel slowly. 'Ow good. My name's Lance. Someone would like to meet you. Come with me. I've

upgraded you to first class.' The lovers exchanged a glance and Claire nodded. Perhaps the someone was Waldo

and all would be explained. They followed Lance through a connecting door and into a world of relative luxury. A heavyset man with a grizzled crewcut and rimless glasses looked up from his laptop and held out a hand.

'Mr Caldecot, Miz Chubb, pleased to meet you.' Perfunctory handshakes. 'My name is Koos Koster. Come. Siddown.' Koos's South African accent showed through his English affectations. They sat. 'We should have got together before now. I'm the Chief Design Executive at Trench and Gorton. Let me tell you our side of the story. Go on, young lady, get it all down. We have nothing to hide.'

'Where's Waldo?' said Abel urgently. 'What have you done with him?'

Koos shrugged. 'We served him with a writ of libel to stop his publishing of lies which were injurious to our company. What do you mean, where is he? Don't say he's gone missing. I dare say there's some simple explanation. But whatever it is I can assure you we had nothing whatever to do with it. Why would we? We pursue our objectives by strictly legal means. I'll tell you what – you ask me any questions you like about Trench and Gorton's operations and I'll do my best to answer you. Like Churchill, I prefer jaw- jaw to war war. My friend Lance here is our Chief Cultural Liaison Officer. He speaks four languages and has contacts all over the world. He's very good at getting people to work together.'

Claire glared at Koos in the opposite corner. 'Well then, why not try dialogue in the first place? Why go flinging writs about?'

'Ag man, we've tried that over and over but Mr. Lillicrap won't budge. We have to protect our reputation. It's a legal obligation to our shareholders.'

'We've printed nothing about you that's not verifiably true,' said Abel primly.

'Oh no? I've read your website and it's crammed with inflammatory rhetoric about our company.'

'Just a minute,' Claire broke in grimly. 'Isn't there something a bit off about our meeting like this, a suspicion of, like, secret deals that might prejudice a trial?'

'No, Claire.' Cleh. 'As long as it is amicable and there is no suggestion of undue pressure on either side. No threats or bribes, I promise you.'

'OK, then.' Abel took the plunge. 'What do you think about our going to war with Iraq?'

'What I personally think is irrelevant. Speaking for the company, we naturally hope for reconstruction work after the war and for that reason we approve of British involvement.' A shrug. 'You play the hand you're dealt.'

'And has your firm had previous dealings in Iraq?' Abel offhand.

'Not directly, but some of our subsidiaries have been involved in authorised work in that country. I would like to say on the record that at all times our associates and ourselves have acted entirely legally and we always ensure that our actions are cleared at

the highest level. At the highest level.' Koos paused to let Claire get it down on her serviette. Ow. She was getting writer's

cramp. Lance frootled in his briefcase and fished out a little pad of post-its which he passed to Claire. She thanked him before she could stop herself.

Abel was explaining Syntheism to Koos. He would be some time. Claire switched her attention to Lance. 'So, Lance, what exactly do you actually do?' 'I liaise. I facilitate. I organise conferences and hotels and I make sure that we can

communicate effectively with our business associates. It can be fun. You get to meet interesting people with interesting cultures.'

'Have you ever been to Iraq yourself?' No-nonsense.

'Not as such, no, although I was out in Saudi for a year and I met lots of Iraqi exiles. I happen to speak Arabic, which is a great help in understanding people.'

'Do you know why we're going to war?'

'What's really happening is a corporate takeover. It's all about business. And when it comes to sharing out the spoils we must be there. We're not monsters, you know.' Lance smiled disarmingly. 'We're the good guys. We build dams and bridges and waterworks.' He turned up open hands.

'You have a long string of botched and environmentally destructive projects behind you with at least three lawsuits pending,' Claire pointed out.

'Ah. If you want to be a journalist you must learn to check your sources. Much of what has been written about us has come from the mouths of our enemies. We are sometimes a convenient scapegoat for the corruption of others. And yet we keep being hired by those that know the true story. Funny that.'

'Bullshit. We have Chapter and verse for every one of our allegations. And we haven't singled you out as a horrible exception, we've singled you out because you're so typical.' Claire, her face icy, felt her heart pounding. Should she ask about Iraq in '91? No, better not.

'As Waldo says: "Cross two truths to make a lie,' Abel expatiated to Koos.

'Ja, OK, sure.' Koos amiably stopped the flow. 'But let's get down to brass tacks, hey. Listen, people. There is an easy way to get us to call this libel thing off. You've obviously got a source of confidential information about us which could be of use to our business rivals. Now no business can lose its confidentiality and survive. We are investigating this affair with vigour and make no mistake we will find the person or people responsible – but it would speed things up if you just told us who it was.' Koos held up a world-weary hand to stem the protests. 'It's OK. I don't expect names now but you might just pass the message on to Mr. Lillicrap. We would even guarantee not to charge the perp, except with such statutory crimes as he or she may have committed, as long as he left our company forthwith.'

'Well, as it happens, I don't know who he or she is,' Claire was spitting nails, 'and if I did I would never betray a source.'

Koos watched this display of principle with a condescending smile which redoubled her fury. Abel stepped in to soothe her redfaced sputtering.

'If your corporation is entitled to confidentiality then so are we. I'm sure I speak for Waldo when I say that, like Claire, we would never betray a source. But you promised to

answer my questions.' 'Ja.'

'OK then. Which of our various investigations into your firm worries you the most and what is your side of the story?'

Koos had to laugh. Abel had, in the words of the old South African joke, the cheek of a white man. 'Nice one, Abel,' he acknowledged. 'I must take issue with the word "worried" but, that aside, I'd say that one place where you've really got hold of the wrong end of the stick is that story of the bridge in Botswana. It just so happens I was there and saw it all. What happened bore no resemblance whatever to your report. Lemme tell you. Business is a dirty game. Everyone spreads lies about their rivals. The truth is that the bridge was at no time in danger of collapse. It worked just fine. In fact it was such a success that we took the precaution of reinforcing it to allow for a higher than anticipated volume of traffic. End of story. You've been sold a pup.'

'So it didn't end up at three times the price either, I suppose?'

Koos shrugged. 'There are always unexpected contingencies. The system of competitive bidding means that everyone underquotes and hopes to make it up on the extras. Don't quote me on that by the way, but if you're studying accountancy you'll quickly find out yourself that's how it works. I don't like it either, but that's how it is. And at the end of the day you actually end up with a realistic price for the job.'

'We also work with the population,' Lance broke in eagerly, 'and try and involve the communities. We have excellent training schemes for our workers and we often work in partnership with governments and NGOs.' Wide-eyed candour.

To Claire, Lance's smooth professionalism had the effect of showing up Abel's boyish earnestness in a rather painful way. Koos simply shifted his ground and dodged Abel's questions. Nailing down shadows came to mind.

'Koos Koster,' mused Claire approximately, 'do you ever initial invoices and things with KK?'

A palpable hit. Something there. Koos's eyes flickered nervously around the carriage. He took a deep breath. 'I suppose I might have, at one time, but not for years now. I stopped because it was too easy to copy. Why do you ask?' Koos had himself under control. 'I suppose you know that theft of confidential papers is a crime,' he continued in leaden tones, 'and one, moreover, for which we shouldn't hesitate to prosecute. But as I said about this libel business, we would prefer not to have recourse to the law. You tell Waldo what I said, hey? I'm sure we can sort this out amicably.'

'Omigod! This is our station,' shrieked Claire in sudden alarm and she and Abel scrambled up and out. Koos promised to keep in touch.

It was not till he was back in his room that Abel looked in his briefcase and found that the missing file had been returned. Of Waldo there was no word.

Chapter 16

Morning brought no relief. News that Waldo was missing had leaked out as had news of the libel suit from Trench and Gorton. Something smelt fishy. The papers had a field

day and soon the internet was buzzing with conspiracy theories. Monday came and Waldo had moved down to second-page news. There was now an

official police investigation into his disappearance. Trench and Gorton vehemently denied any complicity.

Abel had a faint but persistent memory of shouting, car doors slamming and a tyrescreeching getaway. CCTV evidence from round the corner showed a Ford Mondeo speeding up the street at about the same time. The number plates turned out to belong to a scrapped Volvo. The car itself had not been traced. Stan was owed a few days off and volunteered his services.

He met Abel and Claire in the university refectory over pies, chips and gravy and cups of tea. Stan had improved. He'd filled out a bit and if his newfound decency had made him a bit dull at least he was no longer odious. From the fact that there'd been no ransom note or declaration of responsibility, things looked grave. For his own very good reasons Waldo might be lying low but it went directly contrary to his character to go off without a word. If Dotty was playing a part she was the best actress the world has ever seen. The silence boded ill. Waldo's bank account hadn't been touched. What if, too soon to make assumptions of course, Waldo was, you know, dead?

Abel felt a wave of desolation pulse blackly through him. Was another loved one to be torn from his heart? Stan sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. Claire sniffled and a part of her began writing Waldo's obituary. A snide little voice in her head remembered the joke that Elvis's death had been a good career move but then she thought of Dotty's anguish and felt low.

Waldo had once said that when he died he wanted to be hacked up and fed to the hyaenas in the zoo. He said the poor beasts must often have watched humans and licked their lips. Give them something to laugh about for once. Abel almost smiled. Well, at least he'd have his bittersweet memories. No, don't be ridiculous. Waldo would bounce irrepressibly back. Perhaps it was a deliberate test of faith. Or the equivalent of a Zen master unexpectedly giving a novice a good thwack across the shoulders with a stout cane just to call his attention to the here and now.

'I just can't see how killing Waldo would make any sense.' Claire clutched her head in her hands. 'Trench and Gorton would be the obvious suspects so they'd have to be like mental to do it. No,' hands back on table, 'my guess is that he's being held by our beloved security police and we'll see him after twenty-eight days.'

'Well, I've put out a few feelers but nuffink yet,' said Stan helpfully. 'Course that means zilch. It's early days yet. Let's hope you're right, Claire. That would at least make some kind of sense. Meanwhile I'm going back to Brighton, see if I can blag some CCTV footage and look up a few old mates. That car strikes me as our best hope at the moment.'

'Look, Stan, keep a tab on your expenses and we'll cover them,' said Abel determinedly. 'Waldo's punctilious about that sort of thing. Dotty said that she's very grateful for your help but you mustn't be out of pocket. How's Tracey, by the say?' Abel switched tracks.

'Trace? Oh, she's fine.' Stan's face took on a rather cloying tenderness. 'We're off to Cyprus next month, just the two of us, for a week. One of her friends's got a cottage there. We found it through Synthsoc. But we must find Waldo before we go. Thanks for

the pie and chips, guys. I'll be in touch.' And Stan went his largely unlamented way. 'Sum times,' Abel quoted his idol, 'there is no bright side. That's sum s.u.m.,' he

continued in exegetical mode. 'I mean what are sum times and are they also only sometimes sum times?' Claire sighed. 'I must admit it's hard to see a bright side at the moment. I almost wish Waldo was just some disappearing conman pulling a scam – at least he'd be more likely to be alive.'

'Maybe he's found out something the government wants suppressed,' Claire shook her head, 'or he's had an attack of amnesia and wandered off, or he's running away from that summons. We just don't know. Val says most of journalism these days is idle speculation. Whatiffery. I'm afraid, love, we'll just have to like wait.'

They waited. Tony Blair released his September dossier with its ludicrously inflated claims of the Iraqi threat and Waldo dropped out of the papers. Chemical, biological, even nuclear Weapons of Mass Destruction – Saddam had 'em. We were forty-five minutes from annihilation. British bases in Cyprus and Tracey's friend's holiday cottage were at very real risk. All hogwash as it turned out after the war. But when did a bully pick a fight he couldn't win?

Almost a fortnight had passed with no sign of Waldo although an internet congruence presided over by a recording of the one and only in full flow had been a resounding success. From the emails and blogs it seemed that a wave of poignant ecstasy had washed over the congruence of Syntheists, arming, ironically, their resolution. Meanwhile, in the equally unreal world of the neocons the wardrums thundered ever louder. The war would be self-financing. We would be greeted as liberators, welcomed with flowers and virgins and cries of joy. Oil would be plentiful and cheap. Peace would spread across the Middle East like rosy-fingered dawn.

The twenty-eight days that terror suspects could be legally held in custody came and went and Waldo was neither charged nor released. This reduced the likelihood that his abductors were official. The police were hopeless. It was a Syntheist in Tesco's Clubcard division who first caught a possible glimpse of him. What people buy each week can be as characteristic as fingerprints: this lets supermarkets target their blandishments at our weak spots. Arnold, which was the young statistician's name, had had a long conversation with Dotty regarding Waldo's regular purchases, favourites and occasional treats. It was just possible that Waldo was living elsewhere under an assumed name having perhaps lost his memory but retained his tastes. Or maybe he wanted to lie doggo for some very good reason (creditors? An angry husband?) in which case perhaps we should respect his privacy?

'Oh, no,' Dotty had delivered Arnold a phonic slap in the chops, 'none of that sort of caper. If he's there you bloody find him. I hope this call's not being recorded for training purposes, by the way.'

'No. I'm in a public phonebox. Anyway I'm not doing anything strictly illegal. I'm working on it in my own time. Don't worry, Dotty. If it can be done, I'll do it.'

'Good lad. It's the first sensible suggestion anyone's made. Sorry I was a bit sharp like. I've just had a gutful of that policeman who interviewed me. I wouldn't call him thick but if brains were dynamite there wouldn't be enough to blow his cap off.' Dotty

sighed. 'That's one of Waldo's favourites, poor dab.' Sniff. 'Good luck, bach. I'll let you know if I think of anything else.'

Dotty's diary entry for the day in question read in part:

'B phoned up out of blue. Some scheme for tracing X through his "purchasing profile". Told him X's favourite sweets (Cadbury's Bourneville, Snickers, Twix) cakes and biscuits (toffee waffles, Lotus, Hobnobs and petticoat tail shortbreads), John West's sardines, Jumbo dry-roast peanuts, Baxter's cream of mushroom and the odd Tesco's sherry trifle. Booze: Brains Bitter and Blackthorn cider and the occasional bottle of Peach Schnapps. Any red wine under a fiver. Yorkshire tea. Ordinary Nescafé. I feel like a rind or a husk like Cousin Julia in Cold Comfort Farm. Don't know where to put myself. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Plagued by Syntheists and God-botherers. Furious and weepy by turns. Called him X. Shld be Y?'

The black fountain pen ink in which she wrote had a couple of splashes which could have been tears.

'Esse out again,' she continued. 'Choked w. ashes. Hell of a job to get it going. Chimney won't draw when wind's fr. N. Miss X.'

At the news that Waldo had gone missing, the Syntheists promptly split up into those who wanted to preserve all his works unchanged and those (like Abel) who saw as the revealed truth that fossilisation and rigidity were enemies of the spirit. Unlike what Waldo called Axe of God. A feeling that Waldo was probably dead gradually took hold. Perhaps he'd simply filled his pockets with cobbles and walked into the sea and his body had been eaten by conger eels and crabs. Abel's heart was torn but he threw himself into the sheaf of invoices which had been Waldo's last bequest. Of course he didn't know what Koos and Lance had taken out or, for that matter, inserted, but his careful cross- checking showed no obvious discrepancies.

Trench and Gorton had put the libel case on hold until Waldo was found but amid all the war-hysteria no-one even noticed.

The car in the video of Waldo's possible abduction had finally been reported stolen: the owners were in Disneyland in Florida and had left the car parked on the street. Two days after Waldo'd vanished its burnt-out shell was found on a bit of waste ground in Hackney and traced through an unscathed chassis number. An alloy wheel had melted and flowed into a poignant silver question-mark. No trace of Waldo was found.

Forty days and nights rolled by and Abel's hopes of a miracle shrank. Then Tesco's software came up trumps.

Arnold had found twenty-seven people who'd regularly bought six of Waldo's favourites in the past month, five who'd bought seven and three who'd bought eight.

Stan was thrilled that Waldo might still be alive and volunteered to do some discreet digging. His week in Cyprus with Tracey had made a new man of him. They'd 'made love' to the internet broadcast of one of Waldo's congruences and Stan had felt it was the deepest moment of his life. Then sadness at Waldo's fate had engulfed them and they lay in each other's arms and cried. The last few days were perfect. The sun, the sea, the sweet-sour little black grapes which grew on the trellis and plopped glibly out of their skins as you bit them. Stan was even persuaded to try Greek dancing among the men at the taverna. Showing off to Tracey raised him to heights of which he'd not known

himself capable. Not too bad for a foreigner. The retsina, the sherry, the kebabs, the hangover. No-one seemed too worried about being (allegedly) forty-five minutes from annihilation.

Back in London he'd thrown himself into his ambulance work and had already racked up a couple of days in lieu and was happy to take as much unpaid leave as the job might require.

None of the three highest matches looked particularly likely. Stan ran them down. One was an elderly widow in Cheam who looked after her divorced daughter's three children on weekends; one ran a small tool-hire business in Hornchurch and bred whippets on the side. Wife in a wheelchair. Why he did the weekly shop. Unlikely. The last prospect was more intriguing. Although the card was in the name of Mrs. Josephine Lovatt (the very name was suspicious) it had not been used in the Tesco nearest her P.O. Box address in Stroud since a week before Waldo had vanished but only in one particular store in central London, beginning two days after Waldo's disappearance. Had she simply moved or was she house-sitting or just possibly a member of one of those civil liberties groups which periodically swapped loyalty cards to keep the state's sticky fingers off them? And where was Mr. Lovatt?

Chapter 17

Waldo was not dead. He was well in body but his spirit was sore. He was locked in the soundproof mixing box of what had once been a recording studio. It was a sturdy booth, some seven metres by three with one stout door and a sealed plate-glass window facing the performance area. A bed, a microwave, a toilet cubicle and a shower had been shoehorned into the space. There was a four-metre strip of coconut matting for pacing. The whole thing was squeezed into one side of the basement of a flat in the heart of the City's legal district although Waldo didn't know that. His incarceration was friendly but firm. Waldo had fallen into the clutches of religious loonies, nice enough people but deluded. The actual kidnapping had been farmed out to professionals and Waldo's chloroformed body had been handed over to his captors. There were four of them, fundamentalist Christians and followers of a dead American preacher who'd called himself Brother Jabez. Ed, the leader of the group, was an ex-Southern Baptist. He could have been a pin-up from a fifties magazine with his blonde crewcut, blue eyes and perfect teeth. He wore jeans and tee shirts with lame slogans like Just Say No and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam. His age, which could've been from thirty-five to fifty was, in fact, forty-two. The other three Jabezites were Brits. Christine, the only woman, was dowdy and anaemic, with long English teeth which she infrequently bared in an apologetic smile. Her dull eyes lit up when her husband Norm (a retired plumber from Stoke) uttered a few carefully-chosen words. Conroy (called Con) was the strong silent type. A tough boy from Chingford, his stocky build and fanatical tenacity terrified Waldo. Con's strained politeness conjured up the image of a pit bull on a choke chain.

Con passed much of the time watching Waldo through the plate-glass window while he pumped iron on the stage. According to certain infallible signs vouchsafed them by the

Master (via the American leadership of the Church) it seemed that he, Waldo, was the Chosen One – the one who would lead the elect to heaven in the imminent rapture. One of these signs was that Waldo would deny that he was the messiah.

'I'm not the messiah,' he'd joked, 'I'm a very naughty boy.' He'd found possibly the only group of four people in London not one of whom got the reference to The Life of Brian. At least one of the men was in the basement at all times so there was no hope of tapping messages on pipes or setting off the fire alarm or that sort of caper.

Their sacred text, the Book of Jabez, had been dictated to their saintly founder by the Angel Uriel himself. Waldo had briefly flicked through some of its turgid pages during his research into religion and remembered a hodgepodge of semi-literate plunderings from the Book of Revelations intercut with apocalyptic warnings against the Reprobate. There were hints of a Great Secret which would explain the purpose of our life here on earth and of the Heavenly Salvation in store for all true believers. Waldo squirmed at the knowledge that some of this bullshit was too close to Syntheism for comfort.

Unfortunately the soul of Brother Jabez (real name James Cannard) had been 'harvested' before he could divulge this great secret but he had left a list of signs by which they might know his successor. These were, of course, couched in prophetic gobbledygook which could be twisted to point unerringly at Waldo. 'The spotted bitch will bark but the son of Israel shall pay her no heed.' The spotted bitch being, obviously, Dotty – and the Welsh had long (if mistakenly) considered themselves the lost tribe of Israel. Waldo was worried sick about Dotty despite Christine's wellmeant lies that his wife had been informed he was alive and well. Anyway, none of that mattered now as the date of the Rapture came on apace.

As for further proof of Waldo's historic role (if such were needed) what could 'Seek him who stands astride the River of Blood' mean but a Welshman with an English name? Again, Severn contains the word Sever, a word intimately associated with blood. And not only that...

In vain did Waldo argue about Apophenia or the seeing of patterns where there were none – these clowns had the sort of invincible ignorance off which invective and jokes alike bounced like popcorn off a rhino. No sense of humour. Waldo couldn't cope with people he couldn't make laugh.

The forthcoming war with Iraq, Waldo was told, was to be the Last Crusade. As soon as the Antichrist Saddam Hussein was defeated a miracle would occur. Jew and Muslim alike would spontaneously accept Jesus the Christ as their personal saviour and this would herald the End of Days and the coming of the Kingdom of God. And it was through Waldo alone that this miracle was to be accomplished. He was being held in readiness for the day when the Voice of God should speak through such a fragile reed and be heard around the world.

In the meantime he was to be made as comfortable as possible. Christine was off to the shops and would cheerfully pick up any staples or delicacies his clogged little heart desired. At first Waldo had been too distressed to care, but four days of eating Marie biscuits and drinking own-brand tea had been enough. He started drawing up lists.

'Just have to bake the messed of it,' thought Waldo with a chuckle that soured into a sob. Joy and Woe are Woven fine indeed. How posey and selfindulgent his last 'retreat'

now seemed. A fortnight passed interminably quickly. The one thing his captors had denied him was access to internet and media. There was a selection of DVDs of a nauseating wholesomeness. Disney bear thinking about. Waldo ordered Buster Keaton and Tom and Jerry and The Man with Two Brains. He spent much time trying to work out where he was. During the day there was the throb of a big city but by seven at night the place was almost dead. When the door opened there were sometimes faint rumours of trains and boats and planes. Cars and buses and taxis. Odd siren. But the dead acoustic showed the futility of screaming. Waldo was afraid. These decent selfrighteous people were mad. Day followed day and Waldo's anxiety increased. A set prison sentence would have been bearable – what knotted his guts was the not knowing. He feared Dotty was suffering horribly. Perhaps a coffin full of bricks had been buried somewhere and people were already getting used to his absence. The pressure got to him and griping pains were followed by the runs. The Elsan had to be emptied twice as often and always with the same cheerful alacrity. Inside the fibreglass box was Waldo's only chance of privacy. He sat for hours in a funk of shit and chemicals and read the King James Bible. He'd also got a book of crossword puzzles which soothed him. It was good to see something where logic and order prevailed in the face of initial bafflement. That there was one and only one right solution was enormously comforting.

By the fourth week Waldo was visibly dwindling. He took in two notches on his belt. There was no question of sending for a doctor but the Children of Jabez prayed for him. Waldo prevailed upon Norm to go to a doctor and mimic his symptoms and was rewarded with a course of antibiotics which only made things worse.

As the weeks stretched out Waldo tried kaolin and morphine, imodium and two days of nothing but what Rick Stein had once called: 'the eggs that bind' which induced Norm to install an extractor fan. Waldo was surprised that Norm, so craftsmanlike and practical in everyday life, should be such a fervent Jabezite but such was the case. Most of his time was spent tapping away at his laptop with only the odd 'Yes!' or 'Amen' or 'Hallelujah' to show what he was up to. Waldo caught an odd reflection of the screen in the glass and could see glimpses of a garish website full of apocalyptic pictures and the current fashion in spreadsheets, flowcharts and bullet points. Waldo tried Colpermin (which made everything taste of peppermint and scented his shit); fasting for a couple of days (which worked at the time) but as soon as he started eating again the cramps came back. Smoking helped a bit and had the added advantage of driving his captors at least temporarily out of the mixing booth. It amused him that people who confidently expected to be transported to heaven any day now should worry about the effects of passive smoking but Ed patiently explained that the body was a gift from God, a temple – and it was a sin to defile it.

'So let's get this straight,' said Waldo slowly with a frown of simpleminded puzzlement, 'smoking bad wine good. Although poor old Ham might beg to differ. Condemned to be a drawer of wood and hewer of water for eternity just cause he saw his drunken father's shlong. How do you hew water anyway? And what about pork? Two of the three Abrahamic religions condemn it. Or sex? Is that good or bad? And con-tra-cep- tion. Didn't God tell us to be fruitful and multiply? See where that's got us. In any case aren't you guys expecting to be snatched up to Heaven every whipstitch?'

'I know you're just yankin' mah chain.' Ed smiled through clenched teeth. 'But the answers to any question you care to name are right here in this book. Just read it with an open mind and I'll bet any objections you might raise you'll find Brother Jabez has got there ahead of you and is busy sweeping the floor with them. Read it. You'll see.' Ed skewered Waldo with his opaque china-blue eyes and held out the little book, about the size of a pocket bible.

'Thanks.' Waldo took it. 'I'll 'ave a butchers later, like.' Maroon reconstituted leather, he noted with authorial expertise. Gold-tooled. Cheap glued binding. Thick paper. A couple of hours' reading maybe, although he supposed it had taken Ed most of a year. Still, he had to find out what made the Church of Jabez tick. Being in a recording studio it had occurred to Waldo that he was probably being filmed so he'd stuck to his stage persona at first and was able to join in the Jabezite prayer-sessions with a gusto which bordered on piss-take. His offer of conducting them through a congruence was refused with pained regret at his obstinacy. He became surly and unco-operative.

Dog-whipping day came and went. Autumn deepened into winter. Outside, despite increasingly vehement opposition, the war machine ground on. Lies and distortions came thick and fast and the Syntheist website seethed with indignation. Claire spent all her spare time collating anti-war sources and devouring Pilger, Chomsky and Fisk. Abel turned twenty-one and discovered that all the work he'd put into analysing Trench and Gorton's accounts had paid off on his course. He turned out to have a keen eye for slush funds and money-laundering and insider trading and the myriad tax dodges of the leaders of the business world. He'd managed to find a link between Trench and Gorton and Halliburton via a subcontractor in New Orleans. Trench and Gorton had recently donated £20,000 to New Labour.

With Waldo gone, Syntheism badly needed a temporary charismatic new leader. None of the contenders was much cop. Those who mimicked Waldo were pale imitations (Waldo had playfully labelled a Chapter of Outtakes and Inversions 'Pay Limitations') while those who went their own way were often seen as Judases. Dotty more or less singlehandedly kept the show on the road. The succession, should Waldo be truly gone, was to be handled as a talent contest with all Syntheists able to vote. Tom Jacobs, a young standup comic, sometimes known as the British Bill Hicks, had conducted the best congruence to date, turning the rage at Blair's venality into a feeling of fierce joy through two of Waldo's mantras: Living well is the best revenge and Hate makes Late makes Lave makes Love. He was OK but no Waldo Lillicrap. Abel had congrued but Claire had resisted the final surrender. It felt too disloyal to Waldo's memory. And still the uncertainty persisted as if it would never end.

Arnold of Tesco's also had alarming news. After seven weeks of regularly buying a broad spread of Waldo's favourites, the woman in the City of London had abruptly changed tack. Out went Toffee Waffles and Twixes and Crawford's Petticoat Tails and in came rice cakes and soya milk and lentils on top of her normal Thursday shop.

Stan had been unable to find Mrs. Josephine Lovatt. Her address in Stroud was a P.O.Box number. The Post Office could of course furnish no further details without a court order. He'd tried hanging around the relevant Tesco on a Thursday morning about her usual time. Maybe 'Josephine Lovatt' was Waldo himself! Stan imagined his heart as

a tethered balloon ready to soar into heaven at the first sight of his beloved leader. No, no. He was dead! Over three weeks he had trailed seven women back home with not a nibble. Christine had in fact twice walked right by him but the mousy little woman passed under his radar.

At a meeting with Abel, Stan and Claire it was Danny who came up with another possibility: 'Rice cakes, soya milk, margarine. Oy veh. Rings a bell.' Danny stroked his vanished beard. 'Sounds like an exclusion diet. I know from those. Lots of Jews are lactose-intolerant or allergic to wheat. My uncle Hymie comes out in bright red blotches if he so much as walks through a kitchen where someone's making challah. Could it be that Waldo, if in fact this person is Waldo, is suffering from some sort of intolerance?'

Next Thursday found Stan at a seat in the café where he could keep an eye on the rice cakes while eking out a long breakfast with cups of tea and jam doughnuts. Two and a half hours and not one fucking person bought rice cakes. Arnold's next receipt showed that Mrs. Lovatt had abandoned these exotics and gone back to some of Waldo's old favourites.

Autumn deepened into winter and Bush and Blair carried on their preparations for war in a blizzard of lies, patriotic bluster, bullying and a slashing attack on civil liberties. Christmas was coming. Journalists who'd kept shtum about the suffering of the Iraqi people under the vicious US-driven sanctions now looked forward to a humanitarian intervention from these latterday Herods. We would be welcomed with open arms. The war would pay for itself. Peace and democracy would spring up in sweet fountains which would wash away despots across the Middle East. Joy to the world. Not to mention the rich pickings in the reconstruction of all the infrastructure which we'd destroyed. Buy Halliburton. Buy Brown and Root. Buy BP and Texaco. This is not about oil.

Chapter 18

Danny's guess about the change in diet had been spot-on. Waldo had indeed been trying an exclusion diet – cutting out all wheat and dairy and following the blandly awful meal suggestions in the allergy book. The thought of having to spend the rest of his life eating jelly and kosher cream-substitute and dunking rice cakes into tea poisoned with soya milk was a daunting one. Luckily this diet hadn't worked either and he sank with relief back into his bad old ways.

When Waldo's captors weren't watching him they lived in the flat above the basement. He could hear very faint noises at night – a flushing loo or the urgent tones of a TV. During the day there was the occasional deep whine of electric motors and he'd once heard a recorded announcement when both basement and mixing-booth doors had been briefly open. 'Ground floor, doors clo...' it had said before Norm cut it off. So, a building. The whine was lower going up and the longest journey was about six times the shortest. Six or seven floors, he reckoned. There were other people moving freely about beyond a couple of walls and yet there was no way of reaching them. The black waters of despair closed over him. He couldn't breathe and the longing for fresh air was almost overwhelming. And Norm had bad breath.

Waldo struggled to make sense of the whole setup. This joke must be costing someone a small fortune.

Early on he'd buttonholed Ed: 'Look, Ed, if Trench and Gorton are behind this you can tell them I'll do whatever they want. I'll retract everything – I'll even pay them damages. Just let me sign something and I'll never bother them again.'

'You're barkin' up the wrong tree mister,' said Ed with a shrug. 'I don't know no Trench and Gorton. I just do what mah lord Jesus Christ commands.'

'But I presume Jesus didn't tell you so himself. Who was his mouthpiece? I'm sure if I can speak to whoever's in control they'll see there's been a terrible mistake.'

'No, sir. The prophecy is unfoldin' exactly as Brother Jabez foretold. There are no mistakes when you're filled with the Holy Spirit. The Last Days are upon us – the Rapture's on its way.'

'Bet you it's not. Give me a date and I'll stake all my worldly possessions against all yours that none of this stuff you're prophesying will come to pass. Come on, boyo. Put your money where your mouth is.' Waldo slapped the table.

'Gambling's a sin,' Norm chipped in, looking up from his laptop. 'Besides, soon all earthly things will vanish like frost in the sunshine of a new day.'

'I thought the rapture was the start of seven years of torment,' Waldo mildly observed.

'Only for the Reprobate, the Hardened Sinner, the Left Behind.' Norm recited by heart. 'The Saved will be translated directly to Heaven.'

'That's where you come in,' explained Ed. 'With your God-given powers of persuasion you can save millions from the years of suffering which God in his infinite wisdom and mercy deems necessary to purify their souls. That is why we must keep you away from worldly temptations – in order that the message may ripen in your heart. When you speak you will speak the Great Truth and the world will know God.'

'Look, mate. I'm a joky atheist. Who's gonna listen to me? If I live till Saddam falls, that is. Be a bit unfortunate if I kicked the bucket before delivering your vital message. Surely there must be a doctor among you Jabezites who could examine me? I wouldn't let on who I was and I doubt anyone would recognise me anyway.'

This last was true. Waldo had let his hair and beard grow and in his fraying, saggy clothes he looked like a tramp.

Christine had bought him an entire new wardrobe from Marks and Spencer. Waldo condescended to wear only the socks, underpants and dressing-gown while the clothes in which he'd been kidnapped were washed.

'Have you told Dotty I'm poorly?' he fired pointblank at Christine one day.

'Er, yes, well there's no cause for alarm. We wouldn't want to worry her now, would we?'

'But she knows I'm alive does she? Remember, it's a sin to tell a lie.' 'Ask Ed about it.' Christine bit her lip and blushed unbecomingly. 'I see. I thought you people were crazy but honest. I was wrong.' Waldo spoke more in

sorrow than anger. 'Does it give you pleasure to torture the innocent?' Norm lumbered to his feet as Christine hid her face and fled. She pushed her husband

away and banged frantically on the door until Con let her out. Remember Con? Me neither.

Waldo flung himself on his Ikea bed and turned his face to the wall. He'd clung to the thought that Dotty knew he was safe and would do her utmost to rescue him despite the gnawing worm of doubt: but Christine's blush had done for that. No-one even knew he was alive apart from a handful of religious lunatics. He curled into a foetal ball and sobbed.

Norm, not overburdened with emotional empathy, shrugged helplessly and went back to his laptop. He was planning a central-heating system for a converted warehouse in Barrow-in-Furness to augment the subsistence wages the Jabezites paid him. This seemed at odds with his firm conviction that the Apocalypse was upon us but Brother Jabez had warned against a final dizzy spree of maxed-out credit cards, intoxication and unsafe sex. Jesus loved best those steady, diligent souls who stuck to their posts and piloted the ship safely through the storm. In the words of Ecclesiastes: 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Jabez, as Waldo helpfully pointed out to Ed, had for some reason omitted the rest of the quotation: 'for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.'

'Hardly a pretty picture of the afterlife is it?' Waldo sneered. 'Heaven came along later; the Old Testament is interested in the here and now. Is God gonna help me smite the Amalekites and get me women and camels and sheep? If not, he can fuck off. He's not the only god in town.'

'Has it ever struck you that maybe your sickness is a punishment for blasphemy?' Ed's dead eyes. 'God is offering you love and forgiveness if you truly repent.'

'OK. Let him cure me first and I'll think about it.' 'You can't bargain with God.' 'So the Jews invented a god who wouldn't bargain already?' Waldo raised one

eyebrow. 'What about when Abraham dickered God down from fifty to only ten righteous souls to save Sodom? 'Course, God knew there weren't even ten good men in Sodom so he destroyed it anyway but at least Abie tried.'

Ed shook his head. 'There ain't none so blind as those who will not see.' Ed clasped his hands and sank his head in prayer. 'Oh Lord,' he waxed fervent,' if it please thee, I beseech thee to open the eyes of Waldo Lillicrap to thy glory, that he may see the truth and also his mouth that he may proclaim it throughout the world. Amen.'

Waldo rolled up his eyes. Did Americans feel no shame? Christine tapped at the door and was admitted with a tray with Waldo's supper. Christine was a fair plain cook but she had outdone herself. There were two ears of

sweetcorn glistening with salt and butter and fried chicken with handcut matchstick chips and grilled pineapple and peas. Afters were suet pudding and custard. Brains Bitter during with tea to follow. Five hours after the bust-up she was still redeyed and sniffly.

'I want to apologise to you, Waldo,' she said humbly. 'I shouldn't have lied to you but I didn't want to upset you more than necessary. The thing is that your words will have a much greater impact if you seem to have come back from the dead. I had to do it! The future of humanity is in your hands!'

Waldo gave her a long, reproachful look then shrugged. 'I can forgive easily enough,' he said. 'You know not what you doeth, that's for sure. But you can't expect me to forget. Nice meal, by the way. So remorse does have an upside.'

Waldo tucked in. It must have been all that sweetcorn because, a few hours later, his guts seized up. It was as if a bag of cement had set in his stomach. Waldo remembered how to find McBurney's point (thumb in navel, little finger on hipbone, press middle finger down) but the tenderness seemed no worse there than anywhere else so it probably wasn't appendicitis – not that he told the Jabezites so. Sweat poured off him, soaking the pillow, and his abdomen swelled like an overinflated football. And the pain. He lay on his back and groaned which both perturbed the Jabezites and brought him some relief. Stasis. He could neither spew nor shit. He begged for a doctor and they held a prayer-meeting. Ask bread get stone.

Ed, Norm and Christine withdrew from the booth into a corner of the studio leaving Conroy to watch over the patient. Faint sounds of altercation came through the glass. Had Waldo sat up he would have seen both Ed and Norm vainly trying to calm a furious and panicky Christine.

Conroy sat absentmindedly squeezing a pair of sprung grip-strengtheners after Waldo had rejected his offers of help: 'Don't touch me. Fuck off and let me die. I hope you're getting this on film, you bastards.' A fit of shivering with chattering teeth. Waldo could have clamped his jaw but the castanets took his mind off the pain and penetrated even Conroy's consciousness.

'You cold or what?' Since shaving his head Conroy had been sensitised to lower temperatures. 'D'you wanna cuppa or a blanket or something?'

'Maybe a hot-water bottle.' 'I'll see if we got one.' Conroy left the booth, locking the door behind him and went to confer. Waldo, alone

for the first time since his capture, overcame his pain and lassitude enough to reach for his notebook and scribble: 'My name is Waldo Lillicrap. I'm being held here against my will. Call the police. Big reward.' He tore off the page and slipped it in his waistband.

'A hottie?' Christine's nursely side bobbed up. 'Yes, I've got one upstairs. I'll get it now. As for you two, I want a decision by the time I get back. If he dies, I promise you I shall go straight to the police.'

She sped on her errand of mercy. By the time she got back Waldo was feverish again but he balanced the 'hottie' in its pink crocheted jacket like a squirming poultice on his stomach and willed the heat to penetrate and soothe and relax.

Ed went out to phone the Jabezite headquarters in Tuba City, Arizona from a callbox. There was good news. The doctor who'd attended Brother Jabez in his last illness just happened to be at a conference in London at this time and could surely be prevailed upon to visit Waldo. Things would be put in hand at once.

Ed hung up, vastly relieved. There were strict instructions to call church headquarters only in direst need and thankfully his boss Cecil (pronounced Seesill) had conceded that this was just such a case. He went off to tell Waldo the good tidings.

Chapter 19

Stan was back at work so Abel decided to give Tesco's one more go. He drew a complete blank until, on his way back to the Charade he saw a woman loading bags into the back of a Volkswagen Golf and noticed that half the boot was full of five-litre bottles of Elsan. Getting closer he saw that one of her bags had both a bar of Bournville chocolate and a packet of toffee waffles on top. The woman, who was, of course, Christine, didn't look like the hearty outdoor sort or even a keen caravaner. She was small and mousy and her forehead bore the deep groove of the frequently puzzled. The ends of her greying hair had been gnawed and she had a generally downtrodden look. Even Waldo, denied sex these long months, had never once been tempted.

She slammed the boot shut and set off with Abel on her tail. They headed for the City. Her black Golf, while eight years old, was immaculate. Abel had caught the flash of a wedding ring. Could see her 'hubby' buffing up the car ('the old girl') of a weekend. A chrome outline of a fish had been stuck on the boot. She reminded Abel of a Sunday School teacher he'd once had. She'd smelt of mothballs and old flower-water and everything she touched turned to dust. Her Jesus seemed to express his love in the form of disapproval.

Christine drove on through the thickening traffic towards London's legal district. Near Lincoln's Inn Abel was caught by a red light as Christine turned off down into a maze of little streets. When Abel got going again she was nowhere to be seen. He frantically criss- crossed the area. She wasn't parked anywhere and he'd probably have seen her if she'd gone straight on. He went back to where he'd lost her and noticed that in a row of imposing-looking buildings was a fifties-style office-block with an underground car park. He found parking half a mile away and walked back. A board by the square-pillared portico gave the name of the building as Latimer Chambers and listed the names of twenty-seven barristers. Underneath, in much smaller letters, were the words Building Supervisor N. Draper Number 2 Ground floor. Yes. She could well be a janitor's wife. She was obviously no barrister. If she was here. If, indeed, she had anything to do with Waldo. None of the names on the sign was Lovatt.

Abel tutted and shook his head and withdrew across the road to ponder his next move.

Lights came up the tunnel under Latimer Chambers and a car stopped by the metal- barred gate. There was a click and a hum and the door rumbled slowly sideways. A sleek silver Mercedes slid out and merged with the traffic. A quick survey disclosed no CCTV cameras but Abel unhurriedly crossed the street holding a newspaper over his head as if to keep off the light drizzle. The door was still slowly closing. Abel simply stepped into the garage just before the door jolted to behind him. The car-park was almost full of expensive cars including an Aston Martin and two Porsches. In a dark corner furthest from the lift was the Golf he'd followed from Tesco's.

There was a clashing of keys from the grey metal service door by the Golf. Abel ducked behind a Lexus. The woman. A man. Lights flashed as he popped the locks with his blip. Norm and Christine. She had a shopping trolley, he two heavy-duty bags. Boot open. She took out four five-litre containers of Elsan and packed them in her trolley while Norm stashed the remaining four in his bags. Abel was just jotting down the numberplate and the time when he caught a moving reflection. He half-turned but not soon enough to dodge the thud of a heavy Yellow Pages on his head. Old police trick. Knocked you cold but left no mark. Abel slept.

He woke up with a splitting headache, tied to a steel chair with nylon ties. He tried to groan but his mouth had been ducktaped shut. He went through the clichés of concussion. Blurred vision? Check. Blurred and double to be precise. Headache? Sharp as a dagger and at the same time pounding dully on the inside of his skull to get out. Abel closed his eyes, gingerly shook his head and tried again. He was in Con's room. It looked like what it was: part of an oldfashioned office building converted into a flat. Where one might have expected wood and leather there was melamine and plastic. A chair, a desk, a single bed all militarily neat and spartan. No windows. Original flickery strip light. A technicolour poster of Christ on the cross was pinned up next to a photo of Brother Jabez looking prophetic – the farseeing eye and jutting jaw. Con lay on the bed reading a bodybuilding magazine. As Abel stirred Con sat up and eyed him levelly. Apparently reassured he swung his legs off the bed, put on his trainers, went to the door and mumbled something. Ed and Norm came in with kitchen chairs while Con sat on the bed.

Ed spoke: 'Accordin' to the stuff in your pockets you are a university student called Abel Caldecot and a Syntheist. Is that right?'

Abel nodded.

'You also seem to be some sort of spy. Sent perhaps by the Antichrist. Okay, listen feller, we're gonna let you talk but any yellin' or screamin' and Brother Conroy here'll shut you up for good. Do you understand?'

Con tugged a bootlace so it that cut into his fleshy fists.

Oh shit. Abel nodded. Con muscled over and said: 'Sorry mate, this is gonna hurt a bit. (Imagine Con's London accent bristling with apostrophes.) One, two...' he ripped off the tape unexpectedly, 'three.'

Abel gasped as it seemed that a layer of skin had been stripped from his face but the pain soon settled into a steady burn. 'Water,' he croaked, 'and something for a pounding headache.'

Norm went, a tap ran, he returned with a glass of water and two paracetomols on a saucer. He held the glass while Abel sipped and swallowed.

It struck him that all three were apprehensive despite their position of power.

'What have you done with Waldo?' he blurted. 'You may's well hand him over. Friends of mine know I'm here. It's only a matter of time till the police come.'

'Waldo is doing the Lord's work,' Norm stated calmly. 'Nothing must be allowed to stand in his way.'

'You mean he's alive?' Abel's joy brought a tear to his eye. 'Where is he – what have you done to him?' He realised now that he'd secretly reconciled himself to Waldo's death – this sudden resurrection shot a shaft of warming sunlight into the chill terror deep in his bones.

'Too loud,' Ed warned grimly. 'Brother Waldo's safe, don't worry yore pretty little head about him. What I want to know is how you found us. I reckon it's something to do with that shopping list in your pocket.'

Oh well. 'Yeh. OK. You got it. Customer shopping profile off the lady's Tesco Clubcard. That and a bootful of Elsan. I mean, Gray's Inn Road's hardly caravanning country is it?'

'So you followed Christine back from Tesco's,' said Ed forensically, 'Well, well. We

must be more careful in future. As for the police being on our tail – we turned on yore cellphone and there's been no calls or texts or messages in over five hours. That wasn't all from that little bump on the head, by the way, we also gave you a whiff of chloroform. My guess is no-one knows you're here.'

'"God will throw sand in the eyes of thine enemies."' Norm quoted sententiously from the Book of Jabez.

'Waldo says enemies are just acquaintances we haven't met yet,' responded Abel, smiling somewhat stiffly. His immersion in Syntheism had not been in vain.

'That sounds like that moral reveletism Brother Jabez warned us about. Now is the time to choose once and for all. The Last Days are upon us.' Ed closed his eyes.

'Amen,' chorused Con and Norm.

'But what do you want with Waldo?' Abel's anguish burst out like pus from a popped pimple.

Norm expatiated, 'Brother Waldo is the chosen one. The stone which the builders rejected will become the trumpet of the Lord calling the world to salvation as foretold in the Book of Jabez.'

'Brother Waldo is also a strong brand with positive public recognition value.' Ed had worked in PR. 'The effect of his seeming resurrection and his revelation of the True Message will shake the world.'

'And has Waldo agreed to do this?' asked Abel fearfully.

'It's not up to him.' Ed shrugged. 'Brother Waldo is personally irrelevant. He is a match to light God's fire. God offers us all the choice. If, as I pray he will, Brother Waldo chooses salvation, he will be Raptured up to Heaven with the Righteous – if not, he faces seven years of Tribulation, ending in the Day of Judgement.'

'Oy veh,' Abel heard Danny's voice in his head, 'another meshuggeneh.'

'And when is God going to make this announcement through Waldo's mouth?' he asked neutrally.

'On the eve of Saddam Hussein's downfall.' Ed looked Abel straight in the eye. 'It won't be long now.'

'For God shall speak,' Norm quoted confidently from the Book of Jabez, 'and from the West shall come a three-tailed fiery dragon. And it will consume the AntiChrist who dwells betwixt two rivers. And all men will know that Christ is the Lord and bow down to him and worship him.'

'Amen,' chorused Ed and Con.

'You really believe that war in Iraq will convert the whole world to Christianity?' Abel's incredulity got the better of caution.

'No sir, we don't believe it.' Ed's direct stare. 'We know it.' O...kay. 'The thing is: what to do with you. What have you found out and who have you told

about it?' Ed came over and perched on the edge of Con's desk, too close to Abel for comfort. A foot dangled at crotch level.

Abel flinched. He squeezed his legs together and suddenly realised his bladder was full.

'Well, at least four people knew directly that I was staking out that branch of Tesco's

and one of those was an ex-cop. He'll be wondering what's happened to me. By this time maybe like a couple of dozen people know I'm missing.' Abel thought distractedly of his car piling up parking tickets. He was in court, arguing with a judge. Still, if being kidnapped wasn't a good excuse, what was? 'Look,' he came back to the matter in hand. 'Just let us go. I promise we won't put the police on to you and I'm sure I speak for Waldo when I say we won't press charges. We'll even pay a ransom. Surely,' he burst out desperately, 'surely if God wants Waldo he can find him. What does it matter where he happens to be?'

'Would you pour out your finest wine from a dirty bottle?' Ed responded passionately. 'We are doing the Lord's work. Brother Waldo must be purified and made ready for the Word. It has been necessary to halt the pollution of his soul by the outside world. We can't risk you spoiling all that now.'

'So you're what, sort of brainwashing him?'

'No. Not at all.' Ed looked offended. 'We simply present him with the truth and hope he'll come on board. But it must be of his own free will.'

Christine appeared in the doorway and caught Norm's eye. She looked stricken and was actually wringing her apron in her hands.

Norm got up and left, closing the door behind him. Voices of two men rumbled comfortably through the thin wall intercut with Christine's sharp yelps. What was that word? Sounded like hospital.

Ed hastily stuck out his head and the voices retreated into inaudibility. A door slammed. Ed bit his lip and moved absent-mindedly over to the desk.

'I thought I heard the word "hospital",' Abel said. 'If you've injured Waldo I'll never forgive you.'

'Brother Waldo's fine.' Ed exchanged an uneasy look with Con. He wasn't a good liar. 'Sister Christine's worried about her mother's cancer is all. The thing is what to do with you. I was all for killing you but I've been told it's God's will that we keep you as a hostage. Then if anyone gets too close to Waldo we'll threaten to kill you first. Trouble is there's only one secure facility so you'll have to share with Brother Waldo. I guess it can't do any harm for him to know that war's on its way now.'

'Is it?' Abel demanded, 'Three days ago two million people marched against it in London. There were protests in eight hundred cities around the world. It's all lies. Saddam had nothing to do with 9/11. Al Qaeda hates Saddam. They even volunteered to fight alongside us in the last war to drive him out of Kuwait. As for the idea that he's an imminent threat to the most powerful nation on earth – it's just laughable.'

'Saddam Hussein is the AntiChrist. He must be overthrown. President Bush and Prime Minister Blair are doing God's bidding. There will be war. I know it and you know it. Ain't nothin' gonna stop it now. The Rapture will soon be upon us.'

'Amen.' Con was a man of few words.

'Yeh.' Abel was deflated. 'I suppose you're right, about the war at any rate.' The back of his head was itchy. The movement of his arm stopped as soon as it started as the nylon ties compressed his flesh. His hand had gone dead. A moment of claustrophobic panic swept over him but he rode it out. He closed his eyes and focused on his headache which seemed a little better. The panic ebbed. He looked around him.

A tinny rendition of Roaring Jelly suddenly startled everyone as Abel's phone rang for what seemed a very long time. No-one touched it and the jaunty folk tune stopped at last. A moment later a chirpy burble announced that a message was waiting. In the passage outside a door opened, closed and was triple-locked. (Yale, deadbolt mortise, security chain.) Norm came back into the room just as Ed was retrieving the last number called on Abel's mobile. He wrote it down. Claire.

'How do you access your voicemails?' Ed demanded. 'I won't tell you.' 'Yes, you will. Look, buddy, we don't want to hurt you but if we must we'll do it. I've

already got all your contacts. I see the last call was from someone called Claire. Maybe I should just ring her now.'

'Yes, good idea.' Abel thought quickly. If his phone was used it might be possible to trace it to at least the nearest mobile phone mast.

'I don't think so,' said Ed flatly. 'We'll deal with her later. First let's hear her message. What's your PIN?'

'I want to hear it too.'

Ed shrugged. 'We'll all listen. I'll put it on loudspeaker function.' His thumbs navigated the keys and switched the speaker on. He went back to MESSAGES. 'What's your PIN?'

'666.' 'What?' Ed couldn't believe his ears. 'The number of the Beast,' Norm rumbled uneasily. 'It's just a joke,' said Abel feebly. 'Waldo said that unlike the fairy-tale of Beauty and

the Beast, a kiss didn't turn a beast into a handsome prince – it was more like the other way round. For a while my girlfriend called me the Beast and it was an easy number to remember, that's all.'

'There are some things you don't joke about,' said Ed sententiously. 'Here. You key it in.'

'Can't. My circulation's been cut off. How about untying my arms? I'm hardly going anywhere strapped to this chair.'

A curt nod and Con snipped the nylon ties with a pair of toenail clippers.

Abel's arms itched and tingled. He scratched and rubbed and flexed his fingers. Ed held out the phone while Con loomed behind Abel in case of any funny business.

Bink bink bink. Click. Claire's voice: 'Hi Bones. Any luck at Tesco's? I've dug up some more dirt on Trench and Gorton. Could you pick up some poppadums and mango chutney on your way home? We're having chicken vindaloo. Love you. Byee.'

'Well, I don't think that was the AntiChrist,' said Abel tartly. Claire. My girlfriend. She'll be expecting me back by seven at the latest. And the friend that I took over the surveillance from, the cop, is probably already on your trail – I was supposed to contact him this afternoon.'

The doorbell rang. Norm went to the peephole in the door and shot back white-faced. 'It's the police,' he blurted. 'What shall we do?' 'Quick Con! Gag him.' A strip of ducktape was torn from the roll and stuck over Abel's mouth.

'Alright.' Ed was masterful. 'You're coming with us. Any trouble and Con here will kayo you again. Cut those things off his legs Con. We'll put him in the basement.'

One part of the basement was walled off and Christine opened a door as they approached.

The bell rang as if it meant it. Ed and Con hustled Abel off downstairs, arms twisted behind his back. A door clanged behind them. Going down the stairs Abel noticed a little window onto the underground car park. One-way mirror perhaps. So that was how he'd been spotted. The basement was large and cold. The air was dead. The walls and ceiling were covered with grey foam wedges which blotted up sound.

Upstairs, Norm finally opened the door and found to his relief that the uniformed stranger was not a policeman after all but a blue-uniformed deliveryman with spares for the boiler.

Chapter 20

Waldo felt like death. The doctor had come and had been so obvious a Jabezite that he hadn't even bothered handing him the note. Yet another American who found Southern Baptists too broadminded. It was obvious that Brother Doctor Gideon knew all about him. A nervously pompous, awestruck man doesn't inspire much confidence as a doctor. Brother Gideon's greying hair had gone bald in patches (alopecia areata) giving him a mangy look and his watery eyes and blushing nose showed a weakness for the bottle. Still, he got out his stethoscope and thermometer after a briefish prayer and did his stuff.

He took a full history of the disease and gingerly palpated the distended sacred gut – to Waldo's grunts of pain.

'Well sir, there appears to be an intestinal blockage of some sort.' 'No shit.' Nope. Feeble pun flew by Brother Doctor Gideon's head. 'Hm. There are a number of conditions which could cause these symptoms but I

reckon it's most likely Crohn's disease, which while debilitating is not, of itself, dangerous. I'll know more when I've run some tests.'

'Is it curable?' Waldo croaked.

'Not as such, no. Only God can do that. But it can go into remission for years at a time. Medical science can't yet cure your disease, but we can alleviate the symptoms and control it to let you lead a practically normal life. I'll leave you some medication – anti- inflammatories and pain-killers. Try and drink lots of fluids but don't eat anything until your bowels have opened. I'll come back tomorrow to see how you're getting' on.'

'Thanks, Doc.'

'As for your spiritual dis-ease,' Gideon girded his dutiful loins, 'I prescribe hope and prayer. There is still time to accept Christ Jesus as your personal saviour.'

Waldo closed his eyes and went back to lying as still as possible. Doctor Brother Gideon took the hint.

The door of the recording booth closed behind the doctor and was locked and bolted by Christine.

Waldo heard muffled shouting but didn't care. Gideon was apparently tearing a strip

off of Christine for not consulting him sooner. Any change in the patient's condition must be communicated to him at once. No, there was no immediate danger. Christine's relief at this prompted some grovelling contrition ignoring the fact that Ed was to blame and she'd been all for calling a doctor from the start.

Somewhat mollified, the doctor instructed Christine in her nursing duties and went. Waldo lay. Time stopped. The lump in his gut sat like lead. Despite a strong reluctance to eat or drink he at last forced himself up and swallowed some pills with a couple of sips of water. Brimming uneasiness like carrying a saucerful of mercury. He fell back into a semi-stupor. Typical. First time alone for months and he couldn't raise the energy for a wank.

Uh-oh. Waldo lunged for the wastepaper bin as his stomach knotted up. Up came the orange pills and water but not the expected relief of disgorging a load. His last meal had left the stomach for the ileum by now so all that he was able to cough up was some bitter brown mucus. This didn't stop the cramps, the dry heaves, the spitting and drool.

The door opened and Abel was thrust inside. Locks clashed behind him. At first, he didn't recognise the bearded tramp leaning over the side of his bed loudly retching into a bucket. Then there was a groan in a Welsh accent and Waldo's eyes glanced dully up. He sat up straight and stared.

'Abel, my boy! What are you doing here? Don't say they've got you too.' Waldo wiped his mouth and beard with tissues.

Abel ripped off his gag (double ouch!) and rushed over to the bed. 'Waldo. You look terrible. What have those bastards done to you?' 'Nothing. No! Don't touch me. My guts have turned to agonising stone but it will pass.

You can see why women make such a fuss about childbirth. But how did they get hold of you? Don't mind me if I groan, by the way. Means nothing but it seems to help.'

'OK. But listen: the police are at the door.' 'The police? Really?' 'That's why they shoved me in here. When Norm said there was a policeman at the

door they panicked. Would it help if we screamed?' 'You're joking. Norm told me this was a recording studio in the 'sixties – a bunch of

rich kids fancied being pop stars. It sops up sound like Weetabix sops up milk. Besides, we don't want to put ideas into our captors' head, do we?' As if.

'No, that would never do.' Abel was relieved that Waldo's dry sense of humour had remained intact.

'We'll wait quietly. In any event, I'm not up to any action man stuff.' Waldo groaned. 'But quick, tell me all the news. How did they get hold of you?'

Abel told his tale of woe and Waldo wept unashamedly at his young friend's troubles. The news that Dotty was well and had by no means given him up for dead surprised him with a rush of tenderness, humility and gratitude that was not unrelated to the 'congruence' he sometimes inspired in others. The trite phrase 'to love with all your heart' swelled its sails with scented winds and breasted the orange and purple dawn. Another gripe, another groan and then that sweetest of sounds to Waldo – a gurgle from his pipes. He smiled.

'I feel a little movement. I think the worst is over. Don't tell that lot though. I wants

'em to sweat.' 'What's wrong with you?' Abel asked fearfully. 'Well, the quack thinks it's Crohn's.' Waldo spoke in a low monotone. 'It's a second-

rate kind of disease. Down towards the smutty, comical end of the spectrum. There's nothing noble or tragic about it. No operatic heroine ever died of Crohn's disease. But I won't lie to you – it's a bit debilitating. Takes it out of you, like. Tell me, where are we? What is this place?'

'We're in the basement of an office block of lawyers' chambers. It's in the middle of the legal district of the City of London.'

'Aha. That's why it's dead after rush hour. Lawyers chambers eh? Someone's got a sense of humour.'

Door-furniture rattled. Waldo dropped Abel a quick wink and stretched out rigid, closed his eyes and sucked in his cheeks.

Christine came in followed by Con.

'How are you feeling, Brother Waldo?' Christine's eyes flickered anxiously between Waldo and Abel like a cornered rat.

Waldo half-opened his eyes and passed a slow tongue-tip over his dry lips. He groaned.

'Threw up those pills. I don't say I actually want to die – I'm beyond caring.' 'Can I get you anything?' she pleaded. Brother Doctor says you must drink lots.' 'No. Nothing. Go away.' 'And you?' She eyed Abel dubiously. He seemed an unlikely diabolical emissary.

Christine went with her heart. 'Would you like something to eat? It's toad in the hole,' she added, nodding encouragingly.

Waldo's toe nudged Abel's as he sat hunched miserably on the end of the bed. Christine made a mean toad in the hole.

'Yeh. OK. Thanks.' A wild thought flashed through his head: what if he grab Christine and threaten to kill her with, say, that teaspoon he could get them out but then reflected that the threatened death of a scrawny old chicken like her would be easily written off as martyrdom. And Con looked like he could tear off limbs with one hand. What the fuck had happened to the police?

The cellar door clanged dully and there was some shouting but no pounding of boots or police whistles or battering rams. The yelling subsided and in a minute the door the the recording-booth opened and Ed appeared, looking cocky.

'OK folks. Relax. False alarm. It wasn't the police after all, just some delivery guy.' Norm, hulking in the background, looked sheepish. Con carried on chewing gum. Waldo lurched over the edge of the bed and went in for some rather histrionic dry

retching. Abel, overcome by the unfairness of it all, put his head in his hands and sobbed. Christine scuttled off to see to the cooking. Norm, shaken by his panicky blunder and Ed's furious sarcasm suddenly saw that this

dingy little booth, smelling of shit and smoke and chemicals seemed an unlikely cradle of the message which would save mankind. Could this vomiting tramp really be the Golden

Trumpet of the Lord? Was this lanky boy really an emissary of the Antichrist? Norm remembered lending Waldo his cherished copy of Left Behind. A Novel of the Earth's Last Days. Waldo had sniggered and guffawed his way through it ridiculing everything from the names of the cardboard characters 'Rayford Steele, oh please!' and the ludicrously unlikely plot. 'So tell me Norm, when all these people are Raptured and leave their clothes behind in a tidy pile, what about glasses and hearing aids and wigs and Dutch caps and colostomy bags?' Waldo broke into song:

'After the ball was over She took out her glass eye Put her false teeth in water Shook from her hair the dye Kicked her false leg in the corner Took off her false nails and all Then what was left went to bye-bye After the ball.' He'd trampled the tender flowers of Norm's heart but Norm had suddenly seen the

book through Waldo's eyes and it had been an unsettling experience. Total immersion in the works of Brother Jabez had restored and even strengthened his faith but under the shouty exhortations a quiet worm of doubt gnawed.

Christine also seemed to be wavering. The possibility that Waldo might die before the fall of Saddam kept her awake and whimpering at night. The thought of reviving him with her body, her saggy Abishag to his King David, flitted through her mind at the most inopportune moments. And now this new boy Abel, trailing disaster in his wake – a comet shaking pestilence from its long hair. If he could find them might not others? Not to mention the lump in her breast. Please God, the Rapture would be soon!

Ed, the cops having failed to show, was cocky. There was no need to run, they were staying put. God's plan was unfolding in its infallible majesty.

'I've found a text forecasting the arrival of our young friend to the day,' Ed announced. 'Where is our trust in the Lord when we allow ourselves to panic? It wasn't just Norm. It was all of us.'

The three men were on the little stage sitting on bits of Con's gymnastic equipment. Ed sat on the exercise bike, Norm on the tilting bench and Con in the rowing machine. 'I didn't panic,' said Con evenly, after a minute. 'No, that's right Brother Con,' Ed conceded handsomely. 'You didn't. Well done.

You're an example to us all.' If there was a hint of sarcasm there Con missed it. Ed's theory was that Con was simply too dumb to know the meaning of fear.

'What do we do now?' asked Norm humbly.

'We pray for Divine Guidance.' Ed wasn't gonna be outhumbled. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands in prayer. 'Oh Lord,' he began, 'enlighten our hearts and minds that we may come to know our duty and act with wisdom and justice through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.'

Amen.

God's guidance led them to carry on as before except that no-one was ever to be alone with the two prisoners at any time which meant that most guarding would have to be

done from outside the recording booth. Con took first watch.

Chapter 21

By eight that night Claire was worried. No 'Bones'. No text, no call, no email. Stan had rung up asking to speak to Abel and on hearing her news had become gravely concerned. Claire felt a sick fatalism as if the machinery which had swallowed up Waldo had inexorably dragged her lover into its maw. She thought of the screw in Mummy's mincer wolfing down gobbets of meat. The cold certainty that she would never see him again surprised her with tears and left a vast desolate emptiness behind it. No. Now was not the time to be selfindulgent.

Stan had offered to check with the police and the hospitals so Claire rang Dotty in Porthcawl for a brisk dose of common sense. Dotty was dismayed. She knew Abel was a 'tidy lad' who was as unlikely as Waldo to vanish without a word. Plus he'd been engaged in trying to find Waldo and had got caught up in something beyond his control. Most likely it was some trivial mundanity. But her advice was to treat it as serious till proven otherwise. At least this should 'put a rocket up those wasters in the police.' For one Syntheist to vanish from the face of the earth. Meh. For two to vanish without trace began to look like a pattern. She hoped it wouldn't come to it but the second Abel was officially listed as a missing person she'd stick to the relevant authorities like shit to a shoe. 'They knows me. I'll put the fear of God in them.'

Claire didn't doubt it. She hung up and checked her emails yet again. One from Harvey asking Abel to call him regarding some new stuff from 'M' (their mole at Trench and Gorton). That could wait. The upcoming war had everyone running about like headless chickens. Website. Magazine. Oh God! Where was Abel? She found herself gnawing her thumbnail, a babyish habit which she thought she'd long outgrown.

Stan had a contact at Traffic Control from his old P.I. Days. Doug was happy to trawl through all the relevant footage, for the usual fee, which, by the way, had gone up since they'd last spoken.

Stan dickered a bit for old times' sake and to save the Syntheists a few quid. He recalled with self-loathing how, in his old life, he'd casually padded Doug's already exorbitant charges to further gouge his clients. Luckily Doug was on an early-morning shift so he'd be able to get at it first thing tomorrow.

Stan handed over details of Abel's car and of the branch of Tesco's which he was supposed to have visited. The Tesco car park was monitored by a private company, so that was out. Arnold thought he could get to see Tesco's instore CCTV. If the police conceded that Abel had been abducted they could call in all that stuff but that would take days and the villains may already have scarpered. Still, he could do no more and he was unavoidably on duty in the morning. He hoped Waldo was still alive and able to bask in the glow of God's loving congruence. And Abel too, obviously. Stan kissed the photo of Tracey on his bedside table (Tracey too) and turned out the light.

Next morning he got hold of Doug who'd picked up one sighting of Abel's car heading south towards the City. Trouble was, it hadn't appeared again on any of the obvious

routes further on. Of course the number of cameras grew exponentially, the bigger the radius. And if Abel had left the major routes, that was it. He'd go up to five hundred quids' worth then see what they'd got.

OK. Stan knew that Dotty would unquestionably insist on paying for that and his own expenses and as Doug's activities were not exactly legal, she didn't want a receipt. She could trust him. The novel feeling of trustworthiness braced him to look at what they knew. If Abel had not crossed the river or gone out along any of the main thoroughfares might he not still be in the City? If he'd found the mystery shopper she'd want to live reasonably close to that branch of Tesco's. He'd suggest that the police comb the area once they got off their arses. Meanwhile he'd hit a brick wall. Still, they were definitely on Waldo's trail.

Or were they? Had Abel also been thrown to the wolves?

Friday came and went. Claire posted a missing notice on the Synthsoc website stating that Abel had been investigating Waldo's disappearance and the branch of Tesco's where he'd last been seen. Arnold had retrieved footage of Abel mooching about the aisles and having a cup of coffee and a custard slice but he spoke to no-one and left alone at midday with a small bag of groceries.

The police agreed that the disappearance of another prominent Syntheist was suspicious and soon the papers were onto it. The Saturday Guardian hinted at dark forces doing the government's dirty work while the Sunday Sport favoured alien abductions.

There was no sign of Abel's car as Con could have told them, having belatedly realised that he should move both it and Abel's mobile far away. He'd got the key and reluctant directions from Abel but by the time he arrived at Wormley Gardens the car had gone. Con didn't know what to think. Abel hadn't seemed to be lying and his directions had been clear – in Wormley Gardens opposite a dry-cleaners. But this was a tow-away zone at certain times. So much for that.

He'd taken the tube out to Tooting Bec, switched on the phone and listened for new messages. He'd punched in the 666 code with the end of a biro as if the Devil might electrocute him through the keys. No new messages. He turned off the phone, wiped it for prints and dumped it in a bin.

It was not until Wednesday that anything happened. Claire snatched up the buff envelope from the doormat. It was addressed to Abel and it tersely informed him that his vehicle, a Daihatsu Charade with such and such a licence number had been illegally parked untaxed in Wormley Gardens for an extended period. The vehicle had been towed away and crushed. He owed the council £547 for their trouble.

The car had been removed at 10:00 a.m. On the Friday morning after Abel had disappeared and he'd bought a parking ticket at 12:33 the previous day. That was pretty snappy even for them. It seemed that no tax disc had been displayed and Claire recalled the propensity of the holder to lose suction and fall off the windscreen. Where was Wormley Gardens? Claire reached for her A to Z. Ah. There. In the heart of the City.

She rang Stan, then Dotty then the police. Wheels began to grind. Cops took over the trafficam work but dug up no more than Doug had dug up. Radiating out from Wormley Gardens they were showing Abel's picture to anyone who might have been expected to be about last Thursday at the approximate time, without, so far, any success. There was also

a team working South London from the site of the phone mast with which his last contact had been made. Not to mention the host of spurious sightings from all over the country. Claire hit the keyboard, begging fellow Syntheists to report any relevant information

to the police. An internet congruence would be held tomorrow to channel vital energy. As a bit of light relief she had tossed in a fact which Harvey had gleaned from the

latest tranche of papers: it turned out that Trench and Gorton (referred to as The Company Who Can't be Named) had made a large donation to the Jabezite Foundation. A few minutes of Googling established that the Jabezites were fundamentalist Christians who believed the end was nigh. Very nigh. The upcoming war in Iraq allegedly heralded the Rapture. So why was a firm of Civil Engineers giving money to a bunch of nutters? Did their shareholders know?

The message board was soon buzzing. One post went to the heart of the matter:

'hi guys heres y t & g gave jabezites $$$. the head honcho of jabezites is well in with the crazies pushing bush to war. Calls it a crusade.'

Claire sighed. So far so sordid. Of course Trench and Gorton wanted war. The more destruction the more civil-engineering work there'd be later if Blair managed to garner a few crumbs from Halliburton's table. But was that all there was to it? She went dutifully back to the Jabezites' website with the aching hollow in her heart caused by Abel's absence.

The 'head honcho' turned out to be the Reverend Philadelphus Tugwood Junior who was, indeed, well-connected. He came of a fine old Southern family. (Was there any other sort?) Relatives included a judge, a mayor, a senator and two congressmen. The Rev. himself had interests in a string of private jails, a defence contractor and a lobbying consultancy. He sat on the board of the third biggest bank in Texas. His personal net worth was estimated in excess of half a billion dollars. She remembered Abel repeating Waldo's saying that the trouble with fundamentalists was too little fun and too much dementalism. God, she missed her lover. She felt for Griselda being brutally crushed into a cube and the tears came. She'd been fond of the old car. Abel and his Dad had spent a rather touching father and son weekend together putting in a new cylinder-head gasket and drilling holes in the floor so that the water that got in could at least get out again. Since then Griselda had been patient indeed and Claire cherished memories of Abel driving through the night, the lights carving swathes out of the darkness and herself warm and drowsy beside him. She'd seen cars crushed on TV – the crumpling bodies, the splintering glass, the 'graak' and 'squinch' of deformed metal. No, the image was too poignant.

'Warren', as she timidly called Abel's father, had been a great source of reassurance to her and the tension with her parents over the upcoming war had been swept aside by this new catastrophe, uncovering the love and concern that had been there all along. Claire sniffed, dabbed her eyes and went back to work.

'He that is Hidden shall be revealed,' Brother Jabez had prophesied, 'and with his mouth will he speak the Word of God which shall herald the Rapture.'

'Sure it's the mouth through which he'll speak?' thought Claire sarkily. Oh, God. Not the 'Glorious Crusade' again! We're-a gonna whup them Mooslems tell they bow down to the Prince of Peace.

Stan had finally got hold of the Tesco car park videos which showed only arrivals and departures. It seemed reasonable to assume that one of the seven cars which had come out in the minute before Abel appeared was the one he was following. When he passed the dual-carriageway cameras a few minutes later only two of the seven were near him. Stan took this information to his mate in Traffic Control. One hour and two hundred quid later he knew that one car, a green Range Rover, was owned by a retired bank manager of, no doubt, exemplary probity. Who's Who listed his hobbies as fly-fishing and English porcelain. He lived in Hampstead. The black Golf, however, was registered in the name of Mrs. Josephine Lovatt. At an address in the Cotswolds which didn't exist.

Chapter 22

A week passed. Waldo was much better. Brother Doctor Gideon (to use the clumsy Jabezite locution) had attended and pumped him full of steroids. Waldo's appetite roared back like the tide bounding up the Bay of Fundy and soon he was eating like a horse.

Abel's delight at his idol's recovery was tempered by depression at the thought that they could both grow old and die here and no-one would ever know.

He would have been even more depressed to know that a policeman had called on Norm that very morning with a photo of Abel. Sorry. No. Norm had seen nothing. He was crossed off the list.

'I've asked a hundred and twenty-eight people this morning,' (the cop felt hard done by) 'and no-one saw nuffink. Bleedin' marvlous. Anyway, thank you for your time sir. I'll see myself out.'

'No problemo. Hope you find him.' Norm was positively breezy.

'No 'ope, mate. The mo'er was prolly dumped there by some toerag.' Plod plodded off.

In the basement Abel had been filling Waldo in on the march to war and the latest on Trench and Gorton.

'There was this huge demo in London against the war.' Abel lit up a bit. 'Between half a million and two million strong depending on who was counting. It was quite Syntheistic in the way all these different groups got together for peace. There were also huge demos in cities around the world.'

'And have we stopped them?'

'No. Not a chance. Bush and Blair are going for it, no matter what. As fast as one lie is exposed here come two more. Trench and Gorton are desperate to get into the reconstruction after we've destroyed the country but Halliburton's already the preferred bidder out of a field of one. Mind you, Trench and Gorton have shares in a couple of Halliburton subsidiaries so all is not lost. Funnily enough a couple of Trench and Gorton men got hold of us on the train the night you vanished. Those new invoices you gave me had been taken out of my briefcase. They denied all knowledge of that but when we got back home they were apparently all there again.'

'Who were these people?' 'A South African called Koos Koster who's one of their top guys. Some of the

invoices were initialled KK and he half admitted it might have been him. And a PRO called Lance. Actually they were quite pleasant and let us ask them anything we liked. They claimed to be misunderstood. They were really the good guys, bringing water and roads to needy people. They said they'd had no option but to sue you for libel but they implied pretty clearly that they saw the threat purely as a negotiating ploy.'

'And what's happened now?'

'Well, since you've been missing we've heard no more of it. I mean, we've posted some fairly damning stuff about them and they haven't renewed their injunction or used our right of reply. Of course, everyone's obsessed with the war right now.'

'Yeh. The Jabezites believe it'll bring on the Rapture.' Waldo rolled up his eyes. 'I'm supposed to be the mouthpiece of the Lord. When I speak the Jews will rebuild the temple and the whole world will embrace Christianity.'

'Sure thing. What's with these people?'

'Remember that bit in Blazing Saddles where the Waco Kid is explaining to Sheriff Bart why the townspeople are all agin him and he says: "You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know... morons."'

However the morons of Jabez had taken sound advice. Con took the Golf out into the country and torched it. Norm had travelled up north and bought a replacement. Same colour, model, year. A fake logbook had been procured, backdating Norm's ownership to two-and-a-half years, the time at which he'd bought the first car – which he'd allegedly sold to a Mrs Josephine Lovatt for cash two days after Waldo's capture.

Had anyone probed this tissue of lies it would have fallen apart like mildewed net curtains, but no-one did.

February passed. The world was told that Saddam's arsenal threatened the stability of the Middle East. We were forty-five minutes from destruction. Biological, chemical, perhaps even nuclear missiles were just waiting to be deployed. And, for the liberal among us, we were deposing a hated and brutal dictator who had caused immense suffering to his own people. We would be welcomed with flowers and comely maidens. Freedom. Democracy.

The anti camp pointed out that Saddam's son-in-law, who'd defected to the West in 1995 (the man who'd run Iraq's nuclear, chemical, biological and missile programs) claimed that Iraq had destroyed all their Weapons of Mass Destruction after the Gulf War. United Nations weapons inspectors had so far found nothing and needed only a further few months of work to know for sure. As for supporting Islamic fundamentalists, Osama bin Laden had offered the US his troops in the Gulf War to help drive out the 'infidel' dictator from Kuwait. Iraq was in fact a relatively secular state. Some stuff about Sunnis and Shias which made people's eyes glaze over. Who knew or cared Islam was split into two major sects? The proposed war was nothing more than an illegal regime-change to grab Iraq's oil. As for brutality, it was doubtful if the worst of Saddam's excesses had exceeded the punishment which ten years of sanctions had inflicted on the children of Iraq. Moot. And anyway, war should be the last resort, not some preemptive strike of highly dubious legality based on wishful thinking, ignorance and lies.

Waldo got the gist. 'There are two other good reasons not to interfere,' he told Abel.

'Where one side is much stronger than the other the conflict is likely to be at least quick. People accept the new reality and get on with it. Outside interference often merely prolongs the inevitable at hugely increased cost and suffering. The other thing is self- reliance. Opposition breeds discipline and doctrine and cunning so that when your turn comes you have at least some idea what to do. It's much better if the revolution comes from within. Unfortunately neither of these obtains in the present instance. Unless the Yanks now plan to stay in Iraq for ever.'

'No. They seem to think that "liberalising" the economy will solve everything.' Abel's lip curled. 'The invisible hand of Adam Smith and all that. Rupert Murdoch is hoping oil will come down to twenty dollars a barrel and the neocons are saying the war'll pay for itself. Meanwhile Bush shrugs off the fact that the US deficit is ballooning out of control.'

'I see.' Waldo sighed. 'Business as usual. Weren't Republicans the ones always bleating about balancing the budget? O tempora o mores. As a matter of interest, what was in that last bundle of invoices I gave you?'

'Well, assuming they hadn't been interfered with in some way, the only interesting things were what turned out to be spares for industrial incinerators. Seemed odd, mixed in with an order for hydraulic equipment. I just wish we had a wider view.'

'It's like when we finally got a widescreen telly last year and realised that floppy- haired actor wasn't called Ugh Rant in the credits after all and the comedian wasn't Ill Ailey. One I prepared earlier.'

Abel smiled wanly. Forced confinement with his hero hadn't been easy. Long hours sometimes passed in apathetic silence and Waldo's choice of movies and music could grate. Abel didn't think he could sit through another viewing of Young Frankenstein though Waldo roared with laughter each time. That said, moments of concord were correspondingly sweeter. Abel missed Claire and was tormented by physical memories: the feel of her pubis soft as a horse's nose under his hand or the moist kiss of cuntlips against his thigh. He imagined her dressed only in a necklace (which somehow intensified her nakedness).

The Jabezites on the other hand were full of fervour. Each step on the road to war brought the Rapture that much closer. Waldo's condition was improving rapidly although Brother Doctor Gideon had warned that prolonged usage of steroids could lead to muscle wastage, genital shrinkage and the appearance commonly called moonface. But as the Rapture was imminent this was beside the point. What was more worrying was that Waldo showed no sign of changing sides. He said often that the upcoming invasion was a cynical exercise in asset-grabbing which would cost thousands or even millions of innocent lives, make terrorism worse and possibly destabilise the whole region. At the same time, if mouthing some preposterous claptrap would free the two of them, he'd sign on the dotted line. Of course, from a purely personal point of view, if war would free him from this dingy dungeon it couldn't come soon enough.

Abel had tried to apply Syntheistic Wisdom to their situation but Waldo's response was unexpected.

'Look, Abel. That stuff's just nonsense,' he said kindly. 'I tried to make it consistent, like the rules of a game, but most of Syntheism is preposterous twaddle although here and

there I may have hit on a truth by accident. That said, there are worse ways of seeing the world but it is only one among many. It means well and if it gives people a sense of belonging there's no harm in it. You take a game seriously while you're playing it but you know it's a game. Syntheism is supposed to be a blend of the best of all religions but to tell the truth I know next to nothing about religion. The whole subject bores me rigid. The thought that it's all bollocks will keep popping up. Mind you, the King James Bible is a first-class read. Rich and resonant and yet plain and crude. Particularly the Old Testament. Puts me in mind of some of the boys back in Pwlldwfn. The characters are so realistic. Whole parade of scoundrels. Sly, treacherous, lecherous, casually cruel one minute, praising god with singing and dancing the next. It's tricky reconciling say Moses casually slaughtering half his people with Gentle Jesus meek and mild.

'Well then, how do you explain congruence? If that feeling of people from all backgrounds and races coming together as part of one organism is an illusion I'll eat my hat.'

'I don't deny the reality of the feeling,' Waldo emphasized, ' although I've never experienced it myself, mind. Nearest I've come was with magic mushrooms. Some say congruence is like ecstasy without drugs. As to what causes it I ahven't got a blid-dy clew mahn.' Stage Welshman. 'To call it hypnotism or mass hysteria,' he reverted, 'explains nothing. I think it's the human capacity for love (that blunt instrument of a word) that does it. I suppose that makes me a pimp.'

Abel understood that Waldo was testing him with mischievous suggestions he didn't himself believe. Sweet.

'I'm serious, you dull bugger.' Waldo laid a hand on Abel's arm. 'The whole invented religion thing started as a joke. At least I never consciously misled anyone but I've never told the truth so much or been believed so little. A doesn't cause B just by being in the same place at the same time. If I can do it, anybody can.'

'That's just not true.' Abel fought his shock. 'We haven't found anyone half as good as you at channelling congruence. Sales of your DVDs have more than doubled since you vanished. If you didn't believe in what you were doing, why do it?'

'Two reasons. Money was one. Until you've experienced the trauma of long-term unemployment you have no idea how grateful you are for a steady trickle of income. The other thing was politics. I saw a chance to have my voice heard and I took it. I even convinced myself that I was doing good in a small way.'

'Much more than a small way. You've turned people's lives around – mine, for one. You've given us hope again. I don't believe for one second that your prime motivation's money. I'm an accountant and nothing I've seen hasn't been clear and above board. I think I'd know if you'd been creaming off millions and stashing if offshore and there's absolutely no sign of that. Define what you mean by "politics".'

'Politics to me means changing public opinion, not choosing between Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. It's a way of using my outrage at the ongoing slaughter of innocents. What's needed is not brilliance. The original thinker needs courage more than brains. To say what many people secretly think needs guts. More people now are living with poverty and disease than at any time in human history. Many, many, many more. And yet we got to the moon. Never have the rich been richer or the poor poorer. Of

course controlling public opinion is like wrestling with a python but I gave it my best shot.'

'Well over three quarters of the general public and ninety-three per cent of Syntheists are against the war. The Stop the War Coalition read out your letter to the Guardian from the platform.'

'Well, if that didn't do it nothing will,' said Waldo sarcastically. 'I shouldn't have gone with my army of likeable misfits. I should have taken Trench and Gorton's shilling and got rich. I'm telling you this, my boy, because I like you. You have admirable qualities but you are still at an age where you can become infatuated. I remember at one time thinking that Bob Dylan was the wisest man who'd ever lived. Really. I thought that. Don't think it of me. I'm not even Bob Dylan. So now we're about to add the bloodshed and terror of war to the obscenity of sanctions which Dennis Halliday, one of the UN humanitarian inspectors, condemned as 'genocidal'. We were told Saddam was starving his own people. Public opinion doesn't matter a damn. We live under a kleptocracy.'

Abel eyed him shrewdly. 'You would never knuckle under to big business,' he scoffed. 'What about changing the meaning of life or "leaning of mife" as you once called it.' 'Yes. A few of my jokes were good,' Waldo conceded. 'What's a "mife"? A miffed

wife I suppose. That's what Syntheism was supposed to be about – playfulness. Why must people take not taking things seriously, so seriously? Lighten up boyo or I'll burst into tears.'

Abel smiled. Waldo had been blunt and hurtful but at least the urge to prove him wrong had taken Abel's mind off his own misery. Perhaps that had been the sage's benign intention all along! He saw it all now.

The afternoon passed more amicably over a game of Scrabble with tea and crumpets and strawberry jam.

All this sitting around and eating began to tell on Abel's waistline. He'd taken to wearing his jeans unbuttoned and with the zip half down, belt on the next hole.

The weather was unseasonably warm and the trickle of tepid air from the ventilator grille in the basement ceiling made the air in the recording-booth unbearably close. Sometimes a sudden delicious coolness implied rain outside and sometimes Christine's hair showed signs of having been out in the wind. On March the fifth she mentioned that it had been raining and she'd got soaked. This stirred Waldo unbearably. A sudden longing for spring flowers and blue skies and larksong on the Welsh hills surged bleakly through him. He pictured a mossy lane with twisted trees and windflowers and violets and celandines. Clouds white and fluffy as newborn lambs. And horizons. The furthest he could now see was some forty feet to the far corner of the basement. The fluorescent striplights in the basement stayed on although the lights in the recording booth itself were reduced to one low-energy bulb to let the prisoners sleep. A timer on the outside wall switched off at eleven and on again at seven. This lent structure to the day.

Waldo thought of Dotty's tub of purple polyanthus on the patio which would, by now, be in full bloom. Not to mention the miniature daffodils and grape hyacinth. He choked back a sob and sank his head in his hands. All the tragic history of the Welsh with its poverty and exploitation rose up in him. He surrendered to its black bile and threw himself on his face into the pillows and wept.

Abel waited till he'd quietened down then brought over a box of Mansize tissues and gently lifted Waldo up and hugged him sideways in awkward consolation.

Waldo dabbed his eyes and blew his nose. 'Sorry about that but sometimes it gets a bit much. We could die here, two more victims of stupidity.'

'No. We'll get out. Sooner or later they're sure to find us.' Abel was half right.

Chapter 23

Claire stumbled on the key by accident. She was working on an article for Synthsoc, the online journal, paraphrasing the Newsweek story that Saddam's son-in-law had defected to the West. He claimed that all WMD had been destroyed after the Gulf War. Hussein Kamel had been in personal charge of the programme. He'd given detailed descriptions of all the facilities and said that the plan was to rearm when circumstances permitted.

Hussein Kamel had wanted to be the new Saddam. When the West wouldn't bite he'd eventually gone back to Iraq where he was put to death. His story had been comprehensively rubbished by the right. Kemal's 'evidence' had been a bluff. And even if it had been true Saddam (or was it Hussein?) had had ample time to rearm, a scenario the weapons inspectors found implausible given the crippling sanctions in place.

In other news, the last piece that Abel was working on had been how transfer pricing within companies could save vast amounts of tax. Claire felt she owed it to him to keep his memory alive. Abel's thoughts must be given to the world. Transfer pricing, while legal, was of questionable morality. Abel's long stable of examples had been drawn largely from Trench and Gorton's invoices.

Val had asked for a thousand words and Claire had only eight hundred and twenty- three. She was tired. She'd finish it off tomorrow. She saved the article and went to bed.

At seven the next morning her phone woke her. 'Yes.' She shot up in bed, heart hammering. 'Is that Claire Chubb?' Smooth male voice. 'Speaking.'

'Oh good. Sorry to call so early, but it's important. This is Lance Dawlish here from Trench and Gorton. We met on the Brighton train.'

'I remember.' Coldly. 'What do you want?'

'I want to stop you making a big mistake. A little bird tells me that you're working on a piece on us. We're looking into an injunction but I thought you might prefer to resolve this amicably.'

Now Claire had told no-one that she'd be running Abel's piece on transfer pricing. As far as she knew, the only copy was on the hard disk of her laptop. Oh.

'I suppose you know computer-hacking is a crime,' she acidly remarked, 'see you in court, Lance.'

'No, wait. I've got some important news for you personally. Let's meet at that caff on the corner, you know, Becky's All-Day Breakfasts. I promise you won't be disappointed.

How about eight thirty?' Important news. Claire's heart leapt up. 'Is it about Abel?' she asked breathlessly. 'I can't say anything on the phone. But it's good news. Trust me, you'll want to hear it.

But it's for you only. Come alone. Byee.' Claire had a cup of tea then washed and dressed but still contrived to be ten minutes

late. Lance was in a corner piling into the £3.40 Full English Special and cheerfully waved her over.

'Hi Claire. What can I get you.' Lance's sharp suit cut through the general scruffiness. Becky's clientele was poor – students and the elderly. Claire was in ripped denims and pink trainers with a long pink-striped jersey. Lance lifted a languid hand showing off a snow-white cuff with a chunky gold link. The waitress trotted over at once. Claire ordered scrambled eggs on brown toast and a capuccino. She had a few quid from the change-jar by the bedroom mirror. Her journalistic independence couldn't be bought with a mess of pottage.

'So what's this important news?' Claire essayed insouciance but she looked tired and worried. Panda eyes. Her nose looked pointier and her skin had lost its glow.

'Now look here. What I'm about to tell you must be strictly off the record. OK?' 'OK.' 'No recording. No notes.' Lance locked eyes. 'I'll have to have your promise on that

before I go any further. Trust me, if any of this were to leak out it would be absolutely disastrous to everyone. Everyone.' He paused meaningly. 'You must tell no-one. Do you promise?'

'I can't do that. But I'd certainly promise to keep my sources confidential. Look Lance,' Claire lost control and grabbed his hand, 'if you know like anything about Abel or Waldo you've got to tell me! Alright I'll promise to keep it to myself but I must know now.' So much for journalistic integrity.

'OK.' Sincerely. 'All I know is that both Waldo and your boyfriend are safe and well. I can't tell you how I know – you wouldn't want me to betray my sources.'

'Are you sure?' 'About ninety-eight per cent. My sources are very reliable.' 'Oh God.' Claire's eyes brimmed over. She unhanded Lance and rootled about in her

pocket for a tissue. Dab. Sniff. 'Oh, I can't say what a relief it is to know that. I'm sorry,' her eyes were horrified, 'but I can't not tell Dotty. It's been even worse for her than for me. I simply have to tell her.'

'There's no need. She already knows.' Claire swivelled as Koos Koster came up behind her. 'I told her myself. Sorry I'm late. Good morning Miz Chubb. May I join you and Lance here?' The heavy accent and heavier gallantry were still there.

He sat without being asked. Claire was cornered between two suits.

'Koos continued: 'Ja, as soon as we knew for sure we realised that you two had got to be told. But we would be very grateful if you kept it to yourselves.'

'Why?'

'Because we may be able to open a channel of communication with the kidnappers but it's a very delicate business. One false link and the chain is broken. If they think we're

doublecrossing them who knows what they might do, hey?' 'What do you want from us?' 'Just lay off the attacks on our company.' Koos held up a palm to forestall Claire's

indignation. 'You don't realise what you've got mixed up in. There are some very nasty people out there.'

'This is some serious shit,' confirmed Lance, down wid de yoof.

'No, listen, it's not for our sake only.' Koos resumed. 'I mean, we don't care what lies you spread about us. We're looking forward to our day in court. But some of our clients are a bit more sensitive. Keep on though, you're gonna piss off some very important people. The consequences for your loved ones could be catastrophic.'

Blackmail with threats.

'That's why we'd rather not apply for an injunction,' Lance explained. 'We could stop you like a shot but that might well alert the people who're holding our friends. Softly softly catchee monkey as the wise old Chinese saying has it.'

'Mrs Lillicraps' on board,' said Koos. 'She saw the desirability of keeping shtum. After all if we get them both back there's still that libel trial. I recommend you save your ammunition for that.'

'So we were getting close to something hot,' Claire muttered bitterly, 'and you thought you could shut us up with some cock-and-bull story about Waldo and Abel. Why should I believe a word of it?'

'It's only natural to be sceptical.' Lance reached down and took something from his attaché case. 'Here we are. Recognise this?'

He passed Claire a bangle made of what looked like black strimmer cord but was in fact elephant hair. Abel's bracelet. His father had bought it from an Aka Pygmy when he'd landed up in the Congo at the end of the war. Abel wore it always although Claire found it a bit creepy, to be honest. She looked at it. It was Abel's all right. She could see his bony hairy wrist thrust through it. No Saint's tooth was more evocative. Abel's personality radiated from it filling Claire with a sense of warmth and wellbeing. She surreptitiously sniffed the bracelet. It even smelt of him! Or at least of the Wright's Coal Tar soap for which Abel had a strange predilection. She preferred Dove herself. Of course, the bracelet of itself proved nothing. It could have been taken from her beloved at any time or even hacked off his dead arm. No. He was alive! She felt it. But why should she believe anything these lying bastards told her?

Koos was saying something. 'Seriously. Listen to me now young lady. It's in all our interests that Waldo and Abel are released unharmed.'

'Your interests? Why?'

'Because his death or continuing imprisonment could make him a martyr. Because I still believe we could resolve our differences amicably and because I'm strongly opposed to any infringement of personal liberty. By the way, don't go running away with the idea that we are in any way tied up with these kidnappers, whoever they may be. I must emphasize that we are not ourselves in any way responsible for the predicament in which your friends presently find themselves.'

'So who is holding them? What do they want?' Claire plucked convulsively at Koos's sleeve then snatched away her hand as if she'd touched a hot stove. 'If you know

something and you're witholding it from the police that's a crime.' 'We know nothing.' Lance smiled blandly. 'We didn't find these people: they came to

us. They made it a condition of their confession that we were to tell no-one but yourself and Mrs Lillicrap. We were told in no uncertain terms that we would endanger lives if we let this knowledge become general.'

'That still begs the question of why they just happened to come to you, of all people.'

'Not really.' Koos shrugged. 'Our new security consultant is a rather better investigator than the late and frankly unlamented Stan.' The eyes that looked at Claire over goldframed halfmoons were very cold. 'He was convinced that Mr Lillicrap had gone to ground somewhere to avoid fighting a libel case which he was bound to lose. He thought young Abel's disappearance was tied up with that too. He put an ad on half a dozen websites saying that he was a private investigator looking into the disappearance of our two friends, that a substantial reward had been offered and that any information received would be held in the strictest confidence. It took a while but at last he got a nibble. A woman came to see him just yesterday. She wouldn't say which group was holding them or where or why. She said only two things: that both Waldo and Abel were safe and well and that going to the police or the media would be, to say the very least, counter-productive. She insisted that you and Mrs Lillicrap should be the only ones informed. I'd have thought you'd be both delighted and relieved.'

'I would be if I could believe it. If I seem unduly suspicious it's because I've had my hopes crushed before.' Claire's heart was hammering. 'How did your snoop know she was telling the truth? She could've been making it all up for the money. That bangle proves nothing.'

'Ag no, man. Nick had a long talk with her and he's convinced she's genuine.' Koos was calm and matter-of-fact. 'There was something else. She said Abel had passed on a phrase that you'd recognise. What was it again, hey?'

Lance consulted his little notebook. 'The, er, the Athole Cummers. Does that mean anything to you?'

Indeed it did. That was the name of the last tune from Kerr's Merry Melodies that they'd played together. Abel had rather naughtily dedicated it to Danny and Dipak. The Athole Cummers. That was Abel all right. It was inconceivable that anyone else could have picked those words by chance. He was alive!

Claire's last doubts vanished. The love of her life was alive! The tension which had stiffened her neck and shoulders and tied her guts in knots these many weeks, melted away. The golden peal of a bell filled the universe with its clear chime of changing chords.

A snatch of pop beat in her brain: 'I'm so glad. I'm so glad. I'm glad I'm glad I'm glad. I'm so glad. I'm so glad. I'm glad I'm glad I'm glad. I'm so glad...'

But just beneath the exultation was pain and fear. The pain of separation, which had dulled to an ache, was ripped raw again. The fear was something new. Claire had never known violence to her person or felt the chill air of imminent ruin. But this was the real thing. This pair of cultivated gentlemen would kill Abel without a qualm if the bottom line demanded it. It was obvious, despite their protestations, that Trench and Gorton were up to their necks in the kidnapping. They held Abel and Waldo's lives in their hands. All

she had to do was spike the story she was working on. It was a no-brainer. God, she was tired.

'So what do you reckon?' Koos's leaden delivery belied his smile. 'Do we have a deal?'

'I guess.'

'You agree to stop attacking us for the time being and we'll do our utmost to try and free your loved ones.' Koos shot her a look from under lowered brows. 'But I must have your solemn promise to mention this news to no-one but Mrs Lillicrap. Otherwise all bets are off.'

'OK. I promise.'

'Another reason for discretion is that our informant is a woman.' Lance was at his most emollient. 'Nick said that she seemed terrified of being found out. She'd only come forward because she couldn't bear the thought of what you and Mrs Lillicrap were going through. If it gets out that she's betrayed her pals I wouldn't give much for her chances. She also said that they were to be released unharmed quite soon although Nick couldn't pin her down as to whether she meant weeks, months or years.'

'But who are these people?' Claire's worried eyes darted from Lance to Koos and back again. 'What do they want?'

Lance shrugged. 'Your guess is as good as mine. The woman was a middle-aged Caucasian with a cross around her neck so I think we can rule out Muslim fundamentalists, at any rate. She also refused the reward, which has got to boost her credibility. Nick wanted to follow her but she got him to drop her at Kings Cross and waited while he drove away. She didn't want any further contact but said that if you and Mrs Lillicrap wanted to send back a brief message to show that you'd received the information, she'd contact Nick in the next couple of days.'

'I suggest you make it something that only the recipient would recognise.' Koos studied his finger-nails. 'So's he knows its really from you.'

Claire thought back to one of her favourite memories. She and Abel were sitting up in bed. It was warm and cosy. They'd spent the entire evening sipping cider and choosing ringtones for their mobiles. Abel had, as we've heard, settled for Roaring Jelly while Claire had gone for A Pretty Duck, a melancholy Elizabethan ayre by John Bartlet in which a girl sweetly bewails her solitary state. Claire had toyed with the prospect of a life alone ('To whom shall I-hi make moan?') from the fort of her smug coupledom. Would Abel find the reminder soothing or heartrending? At least he'd know it was from her.

Lance pushed over his biro and notepad. Claire waited while the waitress put down her plate and cup and took Koos's order for an Americano and a blueberry muffin.

'Take your time.' Lance shot back his cuff and looked at the chunky chronometer on his wrist. It was one of those things with four subsidiary dials for seconds, days, months and phases of the moon. It was also a stopwatch and had a rotating bezel for different time zones. 'Eat your breakfast while it's still warm. My next appointment's not for an hour or so.'

Claire realised that she was hungry and fell on the greasy, rubbery eggs with relish. Since Abel had disappeared she'd been living on pizzas and pot noodles and instant coffee which left her feeling bloated and pimply and unsatisfied. It had felt wrong for her

to be enjoying herself while her lover was undergoing who knew what torments but now that she knew he was alive she owed it to him to look good. But what to write? 'I'll always love you? I'll wait for as long as it takes? Always in my thoughts?' No, Those cold clichés were things you engraved on tombstones. Their love was different. It was fine and playful and tender. She washed down the last of her leathery toast with a mouthful of tepid coffee and reached for the pad.

'Keep it short, hey,' Koos cautioned. 'This lady said she didn't dare write anything down so she'll just have to remember it. Make it something he'll recognise as coming from you.'

'OK. Hang on, I'm thinking.' Claire wrote in block letters: 'Hope is the thing with feathers.' (Abel had given her a copy of Emily Dickinson for her last birthday with that poem written out on the flyleaf.) 'I love you. See you soon. Your Pretty Duck, Claire.'

The message seemed flippant and sordid and cheap. Totally inadequate to convey the agonising yearning in her heart to be held again in Abel's bony arms.

'Thanks.' Lance took the pad and put it in his pocket. 'I'll see that Nick gets this a.s.a.p. Would you like anything else to eat or drink? This is on us.'

'No thank you. I'd better go. I've got a lecture at ten.' Lance stood at once and moved aside to let her out. 'Nice to see you again, Ms Chubb.' Koos offered a hand which Claire mechanically

took. A brief businesslike clasp. 'We'll keep you up to date on any new developments.' 'Thank you.' Humbly. 'And thanks for letting me know they're alright. You don't know what it means to me. I promise I won't discuss it with anyone but Dotty.' Ugh.

Here she was grovelling to thieves and murderers but there was no limit to her self- abasement if it would save Abel's life. La Traviata wasn't in it.

She shook hands with Lance too then left the dim lights and formica and bead curtains of the caff and stepped into the bright sunlight of a new day.

The first thing was to phone Dotty. Claire turned off the busy high street and trotted briskly to the little park where she and Abel had spent many happy hours. It was unseasonably warm for March and many early flowers were out. The knowledge that Abel (and Waldo) were safe invested each tender green leaf and gaudy flower with a poignant beauty in what was actually a pretty staid little park. She found a bench and sat.

Phone on, Wait. Cheery burble as it mates with the nearest tower. Favourites. Bink bink bink bink Dotty. OK. Call. Two hundred miles away Dotty was potting up some busy lizzies in the conservatory when the phone rang. She bustled through to the kitchen wiping composty hands on her apron. Damn. She'd have to sweep the floor after. Beedlybeedlybeep. Ring ring.

'Hello.' 'Hello Dotty. It's Claire. Have you heard?' 'Yes indeed cariad. That Mr Koster from Trench and Gorton came to see me last night

with the news.' 'Did you believe him?' 'Yes, I think so. He gave me a machine-embroidered label from Waldo's jersey. I gave

him a roll of them for his birthday. They say "Back".' 'Why "Back"?'

'It was a sort of joke. Waldo was hopeless. He was forever getting his teeshirts and pullovers on back to front. Eventually, I got so fed up that I sewed on these labels as a little reminder. There was also a phrase we used to use when we were courting that no- one but Waldo would have known. So yes. I do think they're alive.'

'Oh. Thank God. Oh, Dotty, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear you say that,' Claire babbled. 'Until they took Abel I didn't really know what you were suffering but these last few weeks have been an absolute nightmare. Do you think they'll be released soon?'

'Well, I certainly hope so, bach, but there's no way of knowing. One thing's for sure. Trench and Gorton know more than they're letting on – but they hold all the cards. We have no choice but to trust them. That Koos Koster as good as told me that Waldo's life depended on our keeping this to ourselves. I promised and I meant it. I really think we must keep this under our hats just for the moment. We must talk soon. I don't trust the phone. I'm heading down to Brighton on Wednesday. Meet me on the way back. Meantime, I know it's hard, but please keep all this to yourself.'

'I will. See you Wednesday.'

'Yes, indeed. I'll email you the details. Keep sane, as Waldo used to say. Let's get them back safe first then we'll see. Damn that Waldo.' Dotty sniffed. 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'd almost resigned myself to his death and was starting to remake my life and, typical Waldo, up he pops again. Don't get me wrong, bach. I'm over the moon that they're alive but at the same time I'm bloody furious that he got himself captured in the first place. Anyhow,' Dotty was her normal brisk self again, 'all this will keep. I must go now. See you soon. Take care.'

She was gone.

Claire felt very alone again. At least Abel was alive. She pictured him in durance vile – the bars, the manacles, the rats. Or were he and Waldo in one cell? Perhaps Abel was revelling in this exclusive access to his Lord and Master. She quashed a jealous spasm with the hope that for Abel's sake this was so. And two had to be better than solitary confinement. She felt so helpless. Still, it would be a marvellous story when they got out. And she'd be in pole position for an exclusive... No. It was too much. She slumped back on the bench, closed her eyes and let the unseasonably warm March sunshine soak into her bones. What was the big secret that had made Trench and Gorton swing into action? Claire took one deep breath then another. Yawned. Slept.

The rush to war hurtled on. Operation Iraqi Liberation had changed its name to the acronymically less blatant Operation Iraqi Freedom. Oif. Blend of oil and oaf..? Talk of 'crusades' was (eventually) discouraged. Claim and counterclaim proliferated. Boo! Baa! Bah! As Waldo had once put it. Saddam had anthrax and chemical weapons and mobile biological laboratories and longrange missiles and dirty bombs. We were forty-five minutes from armageddon.

In America the Church of Jabez was predicting that the upcoming war was a sign that the End Times were upon us and the Rapture was nigh. When the Antichrist Saddam Hussein was cast down the Truth would be manifest and Hindu and Muslim and Jew would acknowledge Jesus the Christ as their saviour and would be translated to Heaven while the stiffnecked and reprobate faced a bracing spell of Hell on earth – a Purgatory as a last chance to renounce their evil ways. And so on.

Claire dreamt fitfully. She was strapped to her bed with that broad pink ribbon they wrap around wedding cakes. Then Mummy was leaning over her with a maniacal gleam in her eye, binding her tighter and tighter and making a chillingly inhuman chattering sound as she did so.

Claire struggled back to consciousness. The dream faded but left her feeling jolted. The chattering continued. She turned and saw that a squirrel had jumped up on the bench and was bristling with the indignation of not yet having been fed. Cheeky little blighter, Claire's 'Daddy' might have said. God, she felt alone. Was everything just out for itself? She ached to tell someone her news about Abel and to link into a girly circle of reassurance and friendship and hope. How keep the glad tidings from the Syntheist community? Without Waldo there was turmoil and schism. How had he reconciled all these fissiparous elements? A word from her could reunite them. No. She couldn't risk it. Not if there was the remotest possibility of causing Abel and Waldo harm. That squirrel had big teeth. It could give a very nasty nip.

'I'm sorry,' she regretfully informed the little animal, 'but I've got nothing for you.' The squirrel, unimpressed, shook its bottlebrush tail and hopped a bit closer. 'Alright, alright, wait!' Claire had remembered something. Sure enough. She frootled

in her cloth bag. Yes. There was half a limp digestive biscuit covered in fluff. She threw it on the path and the squirrel was onto it in a flash. It sat up boldly demanding more even as it stuffed in the biscuit as fast as it could.

Claire had to go anyway. There were lectures and she needed a loo. She would keep her secret at least until she saw Dotty. As to what Abel would have done in the interim, she had no doubt. He would have spared no effort to find out what had made Trench and Gorton so edgy. They hadn't made her promise to stop digging – only to temporarily suppress her findings. But they'd already hacked into her laptop. What was to stop them bugging the flat or tapping the phone? She'd written a little piece on the erosion of civil liberties since the 'war on terror' but the feeling of being personally spied on was horribly unsettling. She looked around nervously. A few 'wrinklies'. A gardener spiking the lawn, a crocodile of kids. CCTV cameras all over the place. But she would not be cowed. She'd use an internet café from now on and she'd write nothing down. She'd have a talk with Harvey about transfer pricing. Abel was alive! The sun shone. The fountain in the little pond hurled itself joyously upward. A jogger jinked to avoid a knot of new mums with pushchairs. His teeshirt said: 'War in Iraq? Not in my name.' House music plugged his ears and set his rhythm. Right on, thought Claire sardonically, and embraced her destiny.

Chapter 24

In the cellar too, things had started to move. On Tuesday afternoon the entire God squad squeezed into the recording booth, bringing good news. The Rapture was on its way! Waldo's golden moment was at hand! Soon, not only he and Abel but the whole world would be free. Free to choose between loving salvation and an eternity of pain. Ed had prayed for them: 'Dear Lord, enlighten the darkness of these thy sinful children and lead them to the true way through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.'

'Amen.' Christine smiled disappointedly at Waldo and wiped away a tear.

'I'm pleased to see you're looking well again, Sir.' Ed got down to business. 'But I'm kinda concerned about your appearance. This is gonna be the greatest moment of your life and you look like a wino.'

'What about the lilies of the field?' Waldo sneered. 'I thought God was going to clothe me in golden raiment and put words in my mouth.'

'God can do all things,' Ed exclaimed piously, 'as you will soon see. But in this case He chooses to act through his servants. We have been told to smarten you up. These are the words you will say.' He handed Waldo a looseleaf folder.

'And if I go along with you does that mean we will be freed immediately after?'

'Who knows what God will require of you,' Ed said gazing unseeingly at the ceiling, 'but as far as we, the Sons of Jabez, are concerned y'all'll be free to go.'

'The End of Days is at hand,' Christine blurted. 'There is still time to repent. If you see someone on the edge of a volcano you must do all you can to turn them back. I'm begging, Brother Waldo. Please, please join us before it's too late.'

'You have everything to gain and nothing to lose,' rumbled Norm.

'Pascal's wager,' Waldo pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'I always thought it despicable to behave as if you believed, in the hope that one day you really would. Did he think God wouldn't know he was cheating? Still, if it'll get us out of here I'll sign on the dotted line. As Groucho Marx said: "Those are my principles. If you don't like them, I have others."' Groucho's waggling eyebrows, rolling eyes and cheesy grin.

Abel was startled into a laugh but the Jabezites remained grim.

'Tough crowd,' Waldo sidemouthed to his disciple. He opened the folder and there were the words God would put in his mouth. It was the usual Apocalyptic drivel but Waldo examined it carefully, pursing his lips judiciously and allowing the odd grunt of satisfaction or nod of the head to escape him.

The Jabezites waited tensely (apart form the gumchewing Con) until Waldo had read all six pages and looked up again.

'Well?' Ed's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. 'Will you learn that speech?'

'I will. And no false modesty, mind, but I'm the boyo who could really put it over. Are you sure you don't want me wild-eyed and bearded and clad in dungy rags like an Old Testament prophet?'

'Absolutely sure.' Ed would Brooks Brothers no wavering. 'We've been told to get you a dark business suit with a white shirt and a tie if you expect to be taken seriously. You'll only get one chance to do it right.' The old PR man in Ed eyed Waldo dubiously.

'For the Great Seal will burst asunder and the Word of the Lord shall be as it were a Mighty Beacon on the Mountain of Truth,' clarified Norm.

'So, why the sudden activity?' Waldo wondered. 'Has the war started?' 'Not yet. But soon.' Ed. 'When the Forces of Dark and the Forces of Light shall Contend and the Light shall

Prevail – then shall Mankind and Womankind Choose of their Choice.' Norm spoke in capitals.

'The forces of dark and the forces of light?' Waldo mused. 'Is it the actual equinox you

mean? We're actually going to invade Iraq on the equinox? Well, fuck me with a fishfork. Excuse my French. The coming up of the light. That's quite a poetic symbol for rape and murder. Can't see Dubya thinking that one up – he must have a poet on his staff.'

'President Bush is doing the Lord's work,' said Ed stiffly. 'I also have work to do. I'm pleased you're cooperating at last Brother Waldo. The prophecies are all coming true. Soon all will be revealed, Thank the Lord.'

Three 'Amens'.

'Think nothing of it.' Waldo tossed the red folder which fluttered onto his bed like a startled chicken. 'I'll have a butchers at the script after.'

Ed took a long breath then clamped his jaw, turned and went followed by Con and Norm. Christine lingered a moment, putting the detritus of the prisoners' last meal (lunch) on her tray. Once the men were out and had locked the door behind them Christine bent down to pick up Waldo's mug, bringing her mouth close to his ear.

'I passed on your messages,' she whispered. 'Your wife sent one back for you.' Christine closed her eyes to concentrate: '"The dog in the bed in Ogmore-by-Sea,"' she enunciated carefully.

'Ha. Yes, indeed. Thank you Christine.' Waldo took a moment to reply. His eyes were wet. He was back in a barn in Ogmore in the days when he was courting Dotty. They'd been rained out of their tent and had slipped into a nearby barn and laid out their sleeping bags on some hay bales. Coitus had ensued followed by the sleep of the forswunk.

Dawn dawned and Dotty was shocked to see that during the night a huge boxer dog had somehow crept into their bed and stretched out at full length between them. She stifled a shriek (they didn't want the farmer to find them) and noticed that Waldo had flung an arm over the animal as he slept. 'Waldo, Waldo, wake up.' Dotty gingerly touched his shoulder.

Waldo pulled the dog to him and planted a kiss on its slobbery chops. Then he opened his eyes. Then he was ten feet away dressed only in a teeshirt and visibly detumescing. The dog, delighted by this new game, began running around barking and showering them with spittle. Dotty was helpless with laughter. They'd managed to dress and slip away (locking the dog in the barn) just before the farmer came out to investigate. He was yelling: 'Shadrach! Shadrach! What is it you dull bugger?'

That was the day Waldo had proposed to Dotty and had been accepted.

Abel received his message avidly and began at once agonising about hidden meanings. 'Hope is the thing with feathers. I love you.' She loved him. (Odd as it was to hear the words from Christine's paintless lips.)

'See you soon,' she'd said. Did she know something or was it just wishful thinking? 'Your Pretty Duck. Claire.' As if he might have forgotten his pretty duck. Abel tried and failed to call up her face. But she was there for him. The banal phrase seemed suddenly profoundly meaningful. 'Your Pretty Duck.' Your. Belonging to you. The pretty duck bobbing in its sad pond of isolation. ('To whom shall I-hi make moan?')

Christine picked up her tray and asked what they'd like for supper. She'd been thinking of Chicken Maryland with trifle for afters.

Under cover of culinary chit-chat Waldo smiled at Christine and said, softly: 'Thanks for what you did, girl. You don't know what it means to me. You're a good person.'

Abel nodded fervently. Christine blushed and ducked her head. 'And don't forget to fry the bananas in butter,' Waldo continued in normal tones, 'And

a sprinkle of cinnamon.' 'Yes. Of course. See you later.' Christine crossed to the door which was opened and

locked behind her by Norm. Abel and Waldo went at once into a huddle, keeping it down in case of bugs. 'Do you think Christine really did pass on our messages?' Abel asked anxiously. 'Yes. I think so. Dotty used a phrase that would mean nothing to anyone but the two of

us.' Waldo sighed. 'It evoked very pleasant memories.' 'Claire's too. There were a couple of references to private stuff. There was a line from

an Emily Dickinson poem. You turned me on to her. It wrote it on the flyleaf of her collected works. "'Hope' is the thing with feathers." I forget now how it goes on.'

'I think it's quite chirpy, on the whole,' said Waldo. 'She had a way with words, did our Emily. "There came a wind like a bugle - "' he suddenly declaimed,

"It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doors As from an Emerald Ghost - The Doom's electric Moccasin That very instant passed - On a strange Mob of panting Trees And fences fled away And rivers where the Houses ran Those looked that lived – that Day - The Bell within the steeple wild The flying tidings told - How much can come And much can go, And yet abide the World!" That was my party piece when I was a kiddie.' Waldo sighed again. 'Vivid images,

mind. "The Doom's electric Moccasin." Was she referring to the footwear or the snake? Perhaps we'll never know. Still apt now, though. It looks as if the invasion of Iraq's imminent.'

'Do you think they'll really go in on the equinox?' Abel looked anguished. Since his capture he too had let his hair and beard grow although the latter was as yet thin and patchy. He knit his brows. 'When is the equinox anyway?'

'March the twenty-first if I remember aright. Ah, the old astrological days. I got a fair mileage out of the balance of day and night. That's the vernal equinox. Of course they may mean the autumnal one which is September twenty-third, but I fancy the Ram over the Scales. What's today anyway?'

Abel consulted the Biblical calendar the Jabezites had given them. March was illustrated with an old movie still of Charlton Heston's Moses parting the Red Sea. Abel

found the end of the crossed-out days. 'Tuesday the eleventh.' 'Hm. Ten days. OK. This is what I'm going to do.' Waldo turned on some Louis

Jordan loud then closed in on Abel and whispered for a long time. Abel nodded intently as Waldo outlined his scheme. At the end he smiled.

They shook on it.

Chapter 25

Claire coped with her day. She'd found out a few things. A classmate of Abel's had kindly explained the ins and outs of transfer pricing. It was a tax-avoidance scam but it was arguably legal, or at least difficult to police, and everyone did it. There seemed nothing in that to have triggered Trench and Gorton's alarm. But when Claire Googled the actual examples used by Abel it turned out that there were some burners and fire-bars and pumps that were specifically used in commercial incinerators. Furnaces always evoked Nazi death-camps for Claire but the incinerators in question were too small for mass burning of corpses. Besides, Iraq was already littered with mass graves. As well as Saddam's victims, Iraqi casualties of the Gulf War had been bulldozed into trenches by our side, some of them (allegedly) not even dead. The incinerators were claimed to be for the safe and clean disposal of medical and other hazardous waste.

Further details required registration on the firm's website but Claire didn't want to cause ripples.

The invoice was dated January 1992. The incinerator parts had been delivered to Amman in Jordan where they'd at once tripled in price and then vanished into thin air. Perhaps Harvey knew something but she didn't dare ask. Assuming they'd been smuggled into Iraq, what did that mean?

Back in her room alone she felt nervy. It was like watching a fiddler twist his peg and knowing that any instant now the string would snap.

The phone rang. 'Hello. Oh. Hello, Mummy.' Bright and positive. 'Hello, Darling. Just checking that everything's alright.' Claire could see her mother's worried eyes. 'Yes, fine thanks. Well, as fine as possible in the circumstances.' (Waldo called them

circus dances.) 'I'm feeling more hopeful that things will turn out OK. I'm sure Abel and Waldo will be rescued soon. I don't know why – it's just a feeling.' The lie direct.

'Yes, Darling. I'm sure you're right.' Humour the patient. 'Would you like some more soup? Daddy will be down your way next week.'

'Gosh, no thanks. There's still loads in the freezer. Actually, that's a really good idea. I'll have some of the leek and potato for supper.'

Claire prattled away for a few minutes then tactfully disengaged herself and hung up.

Mummy was a trouper, she thought. What must it be doing to her to see her daughter's dreams turned to ash? Claire's sob suddenly turned to hot tears. She could feel herself sliding towards hysteria but caught herself just in time.

She dutifully microwaved some soup and frozen garlic bread and took the comforting

stodge and glop to bed. By nine she was asleep, hot water bottle clasped between her thighs in place of Abel's bony leg.

Chapter 26

A shaft of sunlight woke her early. Another beautiful day. Oh my God there was that article for Val!

Claire deleted the copy of Abel's piece and managed to churn out five hundred words on United Nations resolutions which she tacked onto a précis of the Newsweek article on Hussein Kamel.

Send. Let Trench and Gorton know that she was obeying orders. Later she went into town and phoned Danny from a public callbox. 'Clairkeleh! Good to hear from you again. Any news?' 'No, I'm afraid not.' Gulp. 'I actually want to pick your brains, Danny. Have you got a

minute?' 'For you, sweetie, a minute and a heff. No, seriously, it's surprising and depressing

how few people feel the urge to buy handmade jewellery on a Tuesday morning. Nu, so how I'm can helpink?'

Samples of Danny's voice were injected into the torrent of other slices of voice on the phone line only to be picked out and reassembled in Claire's tinny earpiece. Still his warmth and compassion came through.

'Well, let's keep this general,' Claire suggested. 'What's the one thing everyone's thinking of?'

'The war in Iraq, I suppose. Coming soon to a cinema near you.' Danny sighed. 'Innocent men, women and children are going to die or be maimed. And a few of the guilty as well. And for what?'

'I had hoped you were going to tell me. Specifically about the business side of things. That B.Com of yours must be good for something. Also, you're the only person I know who reads the Financial Times.'

'Yes, war provides rich pickings. Hold onto your armaments shares. All of Bush's neocon sponsors come from Oil or Armaments or Construction. Condoleezza Rice was a director of Chevron and had an oil-tanker named after her. Dick Cheney was CEO of Halliburton, Rumsfeld was tied up with Bechtel and so on. What Waldo calls the "kleptocrazy". Suddenly it's not so funny.'

'So you reckon British companies aren't going to get a look-in?' Claire stuffed more money into the phone. It was odd to be using this public convenience instead of her beloved mobile. She glanced round to make sure no-one was near. Could Trench and Gorton have bugged this call-box? Unlikely.

'Well,' Danny brought her back to her question, 'a lot of them have American connections anyway. As you know, where a company is registered is these days a matter of convenience. But there'll be a lot of money sloshing around. Good thing Bush doesn't worry his pretty little head with things like record deficits. Anyway Paul Wolfowitz (of

whom the Observer's Nick Cohen speaks so warmly) says this war will be self-financing. No doubt we Brits will pick up a few crumbs.'

'And what would cause a British company to be ruled out of the action? What if they'd been sanctions-busting?'

'Maybe. But such things take years, are difficult to prove and have a way of involving cabinet ministers and matters of national security. And who would cast the first stone? Particularly now, on the brink of war. No, I'd say it's more likely to be something embarrassing to the powers that be. If it turns out this fictional company has been secretly supporting the Stop the War Coalition, say, or putting it about that Bush and Blair were gay lovers. Blush and Bare as Waldo once called them. If only. I get the feeling that the war and Waldo and Abel's disappearance are tied up somehow. It's an awful thing to admit but somehow I feel that if war's inevitable then the sooner it comes, the better, if it means forcing whoever's holding them to show their hand. I'm sure they're alive. At the last congruence I could feel their spirits with me.'

'Yes,' Claire said eagerly, 'I'm sure you're right. I dreamt about Abel last night and he told me everything would be alright. I woke up feeling calm and happy for the first time since he vanished. Anyway, not a word to anyone of what I've been asking you about. I'm preparing a big story and I don't want to be scooped.' It was surprising to Claire how easily the lies came. 'And listen, Danny. No names and no pack drill but I'm pretty sure that my laptop's been hacked into.'

'Oh dear.' '"Oh dear" indeed.' 'Who do you suspect?' 'I don't know. Could be the intelligence services or some other online fraudster. I've

downloaded more security and changed my passwords and all that. My bank says there's been no unusual activity in my account but I changed my PIN numbers anyway. Quite a lot of hassle, actually. Oh, and I don't trust my phone either. I'm in a public callbox at the moment.'

'Claire, dollink, you must be careful.' Danny paid her the compliment of at once taking her claims seriously. 'There are a lot of very nasty people about. People whose idea of the 'War on Terror' is massacring Afghan wedding parties and dropping cluster bombs for kids to play with. Nize babies. Now we're off on an illegal war in Iraq.'

'Yeh. It's amazing how blatant they are about it. The jackboot in the face school of diplomacy. Anyway, I've run out of money. Thanks for the chat. Love to Dipak.'

'Thanks. I'll tell him. You must come for supper sometime soon.' 'I'd love to. I'll let you know. Stay sane.' They hung up. Something embarrassing to the powers that be...

It would keep.

Chapter 27

The war machine trundled on. Wednesday brought Dotty. Claire met her in the East

Grinstead station coffee bar between trains. They hugged and kissed. They were of a height, the stout little woman and the slight young girl. They took their tray over to a table in the far corner away from the few other customers.

'I don't suppose you've heard anything more from Trench and Gorton?' Claire asked hopefully.

'Not a dickie-bird. I said I'd give them a week then I was going to the police – but that was just talk.' Dotty clasped Claire's hands in her own and fixed sad eyes on her face. 'But for now I really think we have to keep this to ourselves. It's early days yet. What with the war-hysteria there are fingers on hair-triggers all over the place. We'll have to work through that Koos Koster and his slimy sidekick for now. I wish I knew what it was that you dug up that touched a nerve.'

Claire gently detached her hands from Dotty's and placed them heartfeltly on her heart.

'I had a talk with Danny about that. Nothing about you know... I kept it all very general. What he said was that anyone hoping to get in on the feeding frenzy would probably be more worried about embarrassing the current crop of thieves and murderers than by past criminality like sanctions-busting or whatever.'

'I thought they were unembarrassable.' Dotty shook her head. 'It seems that those documents proving Saddam was buying yellowcake uranium from Niger were clumsy forgeries but it's business as usual. Exactly what was in that article they made you pull?'

'Well, apart from that stuff in Newsweek which was out there anyway, there was only the last thing Abel wrote: an article explaining transfer pricing. He only mentioned Trench and Gorton a few times for examples of how the same thing could cost ten times more in one country than another. It's a rather sordid little tax fiddle. The only thing at all out of the ordinary was that some of the parts he used as examples were for industrial incinerators.'

'Not..?'

'No, not for burning bodies. They're mostly used by hospitals for hazardous waste.' Claire took a sip of her smoothie. 'Anyway, the invoice only takes us as far as Jordan. God knows what happened to the stuff after that.'

'Leave it with me, bach,' said Dotty reassuringly. 'I'll see what I can do. I don't suppose one more dirty secret coming out will stop the war but it might shoulder Trench and Gorton away from the trough. At the very least it might give us a weapon to use against them.'

'Be very careful.' Claire bit her lip. 'They hacked into my computer, you know. They could well be spying on us right now. I used to think the civil rights people were being a bit paranoid about CCTV cameras everywhere but you suddenly see their sinister potential. I'm afraid, you know. I mean I used to feel safe – I thought I lived in a country where people were basically honest and decent and there was the rule of law.' She snorted at such babyish naivety. 'I had no idea what's really going on.'

'Well as Waldo always said: "If you can do nothing, do it with all your might." He was wiser than he knew, poor dab. I know it's hard, but for their sakes we must be strong.'

Claire noticed for the first time that Dotty looked tired. Pity and self-pity welled up in her. She just wanted it to be over – to have Abel back again and for their lives to return to

the happy trajectory of yore. 'How are things going at Pharos?' she asked. 'Not too bad. It's paying its way.' Dotty sighed. 'It was strange going back to the last

place where I saw Waldo, knowing what I now know. I had to pick someone to lead the equinoctial congruence there. I felt like such a Judas.'

'Who'd you pick?'

'That bloke off the telly. Justin something. Waldo used to call him Justin Case cause he was always a supporting actor.'

'Justin Dupont?' Claire thought of the character actor whose craggy good looks and eyes twinkling under bushy brows had landed him roles as sturdy countrymen and policemen and soldiers: all, admittedly, of the second rank. 'Yes, he'd be good. I must say without the support of the Syntheist community I don't think I'd have got through these last few weeks. People have been marvellous. And thanks for breaking your journey to see me. I feel ever so much better.'

'Come to the congruence in Brighton on the twenty-first.' Dotty smiled warmly. I'll see you there. Keep in touch.'

'Of course I'll come. I was going to anyway. Danny's offered me a lift. You'd better go now. Your train's in two minutes.'

They stood and hugged and kissed cheeks. Dotty's breasts comfortably smothered Claire's little apples. It felt good. Some of Dotty's strength entered her slight frame (for which she felt her bum was too big).

Dotty went. Claire watched her smart trouser-suit with a billowing cape bustle off to her train. Dotty had an attaché case in one hand and a knitting bag slung over her shoulder. She turned and waved briefly and was gone. Doors slammed, a guard whistled, the train moved off.

Chapter 28

Waldo was working. A haircut and shave and a sharp suit had transformed him. He went through the script with a fine-tooth comb although it was so badly written that the words, as Waldo said, 'tripped off the tongue and stuck in the teeth'.

Abel had been privy to some of Waldo's back-stage work before but the detail of each cadence and gesture was both a revelation and a disenchantment. Through helping Waldo with his lines he knew the thing by heart. The script was black with Waldo's notes to 'Smite brow' or 'Shake head sorrowfully' or 'Beam'. Despite the verbal infelicities of the script Waldo was perversely proud of having changed not a single word.

He boomed and ranted and wheedled with such apparent sincerity that Abel was frightened.

Two days passed and then three. Waldo had gone overnight from cynical outsider to fervent believer. He asked humbly to read the works of Brother Jabez and spent hours poring over the text with a reasonable facsimile of reverent amazement. If it hadn't been

for a fugitive wink as Waldo was grovelling in the shit of self-abasement Abel would have been sunk. Then there was his own alleged conversion to be considered. Could he use his passion for Syntheism with all its subtlety and ambiguity to pretend an enthusiasm for this superstitious claptrap? Remembering, however, some of his own gushier encomia his ears reddened. The plan was that he would hold out for a day or two against the combined force of the other five then be miraculously Born Again. Abel remembered his mother Daisy's advice when he'd played Polonius in the school production of Hamlet. 'Where Hamlet says: "What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba / That he should weep for her?" that's the whole secret of acting,' she'd said. 'The actor's not weeping for Hecuba but for something inside himself.' That had been at the start of the cancer. 'To play Polonius you must become a pompous toady – and we've all been one of those from time to time!'

Right. Abel had to believe that the End Times were upon us. The Rapture was at hand for True Believers. Was the Jabezite heaven all that different from that heaven on earth called congruence? He flirted with the idea that Ed and Con and Christine and Norm were right and that Saddam's fall would see Christ return in all his glory. Abel saw light and air and cleanness. The worst of imprisonment was not the smell and the cramped conditions but the humiliation of powerlessness and the shame of being always observed. He could see the appeal of an escape to an eternity of bliss. Of course, Claire would be Left Behind. No, the Jabezites' spite was the last straw. Their doctrines reeked of suppressed rancour and envy and lust. And nonsense. They were 'pro-life' but supported capital punishment and war, believed in the literal truth of the Bible but needed the wisdom of Brother Jabez to discern its real meaning and 'knew' that Intelligent Design had utterly vanquished evolution. They also combined fervent support for Israel with lowgrade antisemitism and a hatred of Islam. It wouldn't be easy for Abel to play at being all he most despised but he'd give it his best shot.

In the studio beyond the booth things were moving. Con's bodybuilding equipment was piled up on one side of the stage and Norm had replaced the bulbs in the spotlights and was setting up video cameras and mikes. Any hope that Waldo would be freed to deliver his message vanished. The Jabezites were crazy but not entirely stupid.

'Brother Abel.' Waldo looked up from his Jabezite scriptures and beckoned his young acolyte to him.

Abel sulked over to the bed and sat down. The idea was to stage disputes which Waldo would win. It was chastening to see how easily he demolished Abel's best Syntheistic arguments with dogmatic idiocy. But not this time. Waldo put on a CD and a Welsh male voice choir roared into 'Delilah'.

'Abel, my boy,' Waldo said quietly, 'We'll have to risk their suspicions, but I've got an idea. You told me once that you could sign for the deaf.'

'Yes, Mum taught at a deaf school. Music therapy. I learnt it from her. It's quite fun when you get into it, like a secret language. Why?'

'I want you to teach me to spell out "Latimer Chambers".'

'Right,' Abel said slowly. 'You'll want the fingerspelling alphabet. I hope I can remember it. I'm pretty rusty.'

'Oh, it'll come back. But don't write anything down, mind. I'll try and disguise it

among my normal gestures. Maybe a new letter each time I make a point. Look, pull up the table. If we keep our hands in our laps we can practise without them suspecting us of anything more than mutual masturbation. Get the Scrabble.'

The song ended and Waldo stopped the CD. Ed and Norm were still bent over a plan of the stage and had noticed nothing. Abel brought up the table and the two sat side by side on the bed and set out the

Scrabble board. 'I could do with an L,' said Waldo glumly fiddling with the letters in his rack. 'An L.

Do we allow Welsh place names?' Under the table Abel laid a forefinger across the palm of his left hand. Waldo glanced

down and followed suit. They managed L, A and T signalled by Waldo's singing: 'A You're Adorable' and then 'Tea for Two' respectively. Then there was lunch, after which Waldo started to stitch the signs seamlessly into his act.

The blue screen at the back of the stage came down with a crash, toppling one of the cameras off its tripod and onto the concrete floor. Norm picked it up, looked horrified and glumly shook his head. That would come out of his pay.

The delay was good. Waldo needed time to learn the rest of the letters.

After tea there was another prayer meeting at which Abel pretended to show the first signs of weakening and grudgingly admitted that perhaps all religions did not after all share a core truth and that some of the prophecies of the Book of Jabez did indeed seem to hit the nail on the head.

'"For the sixth angel shall pour out his bowl upon the mighty river Euphrates,"' gusted Waldo, '"and dry up the waters thereof to prepare the way for the Kings from the land where the sun sets."' (Saint John, from whom this had been stolen, had mistakenly put 'kings of the sunrising'.) 'Well,' said Waldo, 'If that isn't a direct reference to Saddam draining the marshes followed by Western intervention I'll eat my hat. I was wrong, Brother Abel, about as wrong as it's possible for a man to be.'

'I've never seen Saddam as an angel exactly,' objected Abel. 'Drying up the marshes was a despicable crime and an ecological disaster.'

'We must smash the Smoky Mirror of Appearance and let in the Light of the Kingdom of Heaven,' said Waldo calmly. 'Of course the man Saddam is what Bertie Wooster might well have called a "foul blot" but insofar as he advances the work of The Lord he is acting as an angel.'

'"And they shall be gathered all together in the place which is called Armageddon,"' rumbled Norm, '"and they shall be judged of their judgement. And they that repent not of the doings of their evildoing they will be condemned to Seven Years of Tribulation – yea and seven times seven. But those who follow the Lord will be Raptured to Heaven forthwith."'

'The Rapture's a-comin',' Said Ed earnestly. 'Ya better believe it.'

'Please, Brother Abel, my boy,' beseeched Waldo, 'It's not too late to repent of your sinful ways. I once was blind but now I see. Don't throw away an eternity of bliss for a stubborn mistake.'

'Join us,' Christine breathed. 'You can be Born Again.' 'Oh Lord,' Ed loudly prayed, 'Open the heart of Brother Abel to thy loving truth that

he may learn humility and know the joys of thy service.' Waldo looked beseechingly at his young friend as he joined in the final Amen. Abel didn't have to pretend to feel bullied and isolated. The Jabezites were everything

he most hated in religion: they were pompous bigots and dull, dull, dull. They rang out Glad Tidings on a leper's wooden bell. Well, at least he'd make them wait for his 'conversion'. He threw himself gingerly on the rickety bed and buried his face in the pillow.

The Jabezites trooped out of the booth. Ed and Norm kept watch and carried on fitting out the studio.

Ed was the 'creative' type while Norm's experience with electronics was patchy, so progress was slow.

Abel clung to the fact that Claire knew he was alive and that she had not forgotten or betrayed him. This strengthened his resolve. Waldo's plan to send out a message through the deaf was brilliant but it had to be blatant enough to be clear while not arousing suspicion among the 'non-hearing-impaired community'as Waldo called the rest of us. Then there was the problem that no matter how spectacular Waldo's resurrection and conversion might be it had to compete with the imminence of war. Still it was their only chance. That or the Rapture.

Abel sat up and took a sip of cold tea and a bite of Jaffa cake and went back to the board.

By dinnertime Waldo had learnt the signs for five more letters and had been comprehensively thrashed at Scrabble. This was because Abel had finally realised that the game was more about numbers than vocabulary, while Waldo'd been somewhat distracted.

After dinner, Waldo had a full dress rehearsal. His sharp new suit sported a threepointed handkerchief sticking out of the breast pocket. He wore a buttermilk shirt and his feet were shod in shiny black leather loafers. The only jarring note was the Jabezite tie which rather spoilt the sober ensemble. It showed the figure of a golden Christ hurling sinners into an orange hell with one hand. The other held a golden book of Brother Jabez's revelations from whose pages tiny people streamed upwards like incense into the royal blue of heaven lit by the radiant beams of the old Jew's halo.

Waldo's short hair was Brylcreemed to his head and a fresh and careful shave had skinned his ample cheeks pink. The contrast to the pallor of his face was unsettling. He stood there, pompous as a deacon, and gave Abel the works.

Abel seemed to quail before Waldo's rhetoric and sank his head in his hands but kept his eyes on Waldo's fingers. The signing leapt out at Abel but Norm, watching through the glass, showed no sign of alarm. Waldo spelt on. 'L', the finger across the palm, making a point. 'A', an emphasis. 'T' was a graphic evocation of the spear piercing Jesus's side. 'I' counted off 'the second way' and so on.

As Waldo went on blithely signing Abel was seized with excitement and the mischievous glee of outwitting an enemy. He remembered the tension of hide and seek: as a five-year-old as the seeker approached the rusty old dustbin in which he'd huddled, sniffed around without lifting the lid and then dashed off after a visible victim. Then, when time was called, the clang, the pursuit, the sweet victory of the first-touched base,

hair shedding rust as he ran. Abel began giggling helplessly but kept his head in his hands and seemed, more or less, to sob.

Waldo, having spelt 'Latimer', had run out of letters but carried on working up to a Rapturous climax: 'For the time to choose of your choice is upon all of mankind, yea, and all of womankind also.' (Waldo's mouth twitched but his expression was unrelentingly stern.) 'And by these signs shall ye knoweth that the Last Times are upon us: For there shall be a mighty battle fought in the land of Two Rivers and the Godly shall prevail. And it will be a time as of wonders and miracles beyond compare. For the world will see that the Prince of Peace is their saviour and those that gladly take his yoke shall be saved and joyous shall be their portion, but those who blaspheme and utter heresies and whore after strange gods shall be condemned to the Time of Tribulation that they may suffer and be stung by scorpions and be scourged with scourges that they may repent them of their several sins.'

Waldo poured on the hwyl of generations of Welsh preachers. He lifted his face to the radiance of the striplight and grasped his lapels. His voice boomed out in the little booth.

'That is one way – the way of darkness and of the foul stench of sin. The sweet flesh of lust shall be revealed as diseased and putrid and covered with sores and your Palaces of Pride shall be crushed like eggshells, for God is not mocked.

'For the time is come when darkness and light shall contend each one with the other for we come at the end of an Age of Darkness and false prophets but the light shall extinguish the dark and shall reign forever.'

Waldo's tones became honeyed. He began to sway. 'Brethren and Sistren,' he wheedled, 'the Rapture is almost upon us but there is yet time. God is merciful and loving. The sacrifice of a truly penitent heart can still be laid at His feet but time is short. The blackness of your sin can become as it were the pure white of atonement. Come to Christ while there is yet time!'

Atonement. Waldo had, in a previous life, tied in 'at one-ment' with the supposed dive into the supposed collective unconscious which he called 'congruence'. If Syntheism was the essence of the truths in all faiths then must not even Jabezism be an ugly mask for the truths beneath? Did not Waldo himself say that illusion's truth is truer than truth itself?

Abel resisted no longer. He no longer heard the words. He abandoned himself to the familiar voice and cadences and gently slipped the surly bonds of earth and congrued. For a few minutes he left his prison cell and felt the oneness of spirit with Waldo and Claire and Danny and Dotty and even Stan and the Jabezites.

Waldo still had it. Abel was saved.

Chapter 29

On the train after meeting Claire, Dotty had taken a risk. Their mole in the bowels of Trench and Gorton's accounts department had elaborate security precautions which meant that the person had so far escaped detection. Neither Waldo nor Dotty had ever met the man or woman face to face. From time to time a bundle of photocopied invoices

would arrive in the post – never posted from the same place twice. There was an emergency number which Dotty had memorised but never used. A text message could be left. Stan had once shown Waldo where to look for bugs and homing devices so Dotty spent some time examining her bag and shoes in the loo of the London train. At Victoria she'd taken the tube for Paddington where she'd boarded the Cardiff train and waited till the last minute to jump off again. No-one else followed so if she'd had a tail he was now going West. She made her way to the tube and wound up, after a couple of changes, in Bond Street. There she bought a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile and sat in a tearoom while an obliging waitress put it on to charge. Half an hour gave enough pep for a call. Dotty hoped she'd remembered the number correctly – it had never been written down – and sent a text: 'More info on incinerator parts needed. Thanx.'

Then back to catch a later train having taken out the SIM card and dumped the phone. The card she snipped up with toenail scissors and put in a separate bin. Thirty-seven quid cash that little joke had cost her. Not to mention tube fares and capuccino and cake.

Saturday brought post. Dotty had taken to waiting for the postman lest someone beat her to it. A padded envelope held a handful of photocopies of expenses chits in the name of Koos Koster. There were hotel and restaurant bills and tickets for football matches. The most frequent recipient of corporate largesse seemed to be one Abdul Jabaar who'd appeared in Amman in 1992, a couple of weeks before the incinerator parts were shipped and who'd turned up in subsequent years in places as various as Beijing, Switzerland and Lesotho. The last slip was from Florida. Two nights in an expensive hotel not quite three weeks ago.

Dotty headed for the library and was lucky enough to find an unoccupied computer and logged on. Ten minutes of Googling told her that Dr. Abdul Jabaar was an eminent Iraqi scientist interested in high-temperature chemistry. He had twice made depositions to the UN weapons inspectors that all Saddam's WMD had been destroyed and had not been replaced. In 2002 he'd claimed political asylum in the US which was suspiciously quickly granted. And Koos Koster was an associate of this man? The librarian was approaching with a pensioner in tow. It looked like Dotty's timeslot was up. She deleted all her enquiries and stood up. She'd taken no notes and the padded envelope was in the bag on her lap. The old chap, whom she knew by sight, seemed an unlikely mugger and she could not believe that the librarian (one Margred Morgan, whom Dotty had known for 'absolute yonks') was in the pay of Trench and Gorton. Dotty smiled her goodbyes and left. Behind the library was a little walk by the river. She stumped along, thinking things over. Let's see:

Dr. Abdul Jabaar was connected to both Saddam and Trench and Gorton. Dr. Abdul Jabaar swore that Saddam had no weapons of mass destruction. Blair's figleaf for the war was the extraordinary threat to world peace represented by Saddam's armaments. Trench and Gorton wanted to cash in on the war. If Dr. Abdul Jabaar was right and Koos Koster somehow knew he was right and said so that would not endear the company to the powers that be. If she could prove Koos Koster knew that the casus belli was a fraud while at the same time he was beating the drum for war, not to mention the years of sanctions-busting that lived in the house that Jack built. The important thing was to think it through. She would say nothing to Claire for the moment.

Dotty remembered a bird-trap her uncle had built. A garden sieve was canted up on a crazy arrangement of sticks and string. A bird had only to hop on a twig to have the whole thing crash down on it. She couldn't altogether discount the risk that one misstep could prove fatal to Waldo. So could doing nothing, of course. The afternoon passed in an agony of indecision. Evening came. Who'd said: 'I keep my friends close and my enemies even closer'? Good advice, thought Dotty, as she scrolled through her contacts for Koos Koster's number.

Chapter 30

Koos had troubles of his own. The Church of Jabez in America had managed to infuriate both Muslims and Jews worldwide with its message that the War in Iraq heralded mass conversion to Christianity as the only road to an imminent heaven (or hell). The fact that the Jabezites now owned thirty percent of Trench and Gorton was unfortunate. Had Koos known that it was the UK Jabezites who were holding Waldo and Abel prisoner not five miles from his London office he would have 'blown a gasket'. Then there was Abdul Jabaar. He and Abdul went back a long way. The vexed incinerator parts had been needed to destroy Saddam's chemical and biological weapons after the Gulf War. Koos had been involved in commissioning the incinerators and he'd had some of the flue gas and ashes analysed. He'd even signed off the report on a test firing. Both sides had done well out of that little deal. Abdul was gung ho for the war. The trouble was that he wanted to hit Saddam now while he was at his weakest and after a few cognacs insisted on loudly telling people so. This was good sense but in poor taste. Made us look more like spineless bullies than heroic liberators. Koos had wangled Abdul a job in Trench and Gorton's Scientific Compliance unit and shipped him off to inspect the corrosion on a bridge in Belize. Of course he was still only a plane flight or email away but if he could be kept clear until after the war had started he might yet get to be Trench and Gorton's top man in Iraq. Trouble was Abdul had Koos by the balls. All Trench and Gorton's sanctions-busting had been meticulously documented by Abdul as insurance. The first thing after the liberation of Iraq must be the destruction of government files. If Abdul could be shoehorned in he'd see to that. He claimed to be an old friend of Ahmed Chalabi, the favoured US puppet. If and if. The situation with the Syntheist Two was equally iffy. Koos truly had no idea that the Jabezites were involved and that the capture of Waldo on the very day he'd issued a writ against him was just one of those meaningless coincidences in which life abounds. A casual remark over a game of golf between the CEOs of T&G and the Jabezite Trust had been misinterpreted. Will no-one rid me of this turbulent priest? Ha ha. A steer that Waldo had been identified as the one spoken of in the sacred texts of Jabez had clinched it. A kidnapping was arranged at arm's length. If anyone in T&G knew what had happened to Waldo, they kept it to themselves. Koos Koster certainly knew nothing. Furthermore if that woman from the kidnappers didn't contact Nick again they were completely stymied. He just had to keep Dotty and Claire on side for the next few weeks. It was a stroke of luck that this lever against them had appeared just as he'd been about to resort to an injunction. It was as if someone was

looking out for Koos Koster. Saturday evening found Koos relaxing in his flat overlooking Regent's Park. He was

lying back in his leather recliner watching the football on his kick-ass TV when the phone rang. He killed the box and checked out the caller ID.

'Hello. Is that Mr Koos Koster?' 'Speaking. Good evening, Mrs Lillicrap.' 'I don't want to say anything over the phone but I think we need to talk.' 'What, now?' 'No, tomorrow will do.' Dotty was briskly adamant. 'Now then, when and where shall

we meet?' Koos watched his round of golf vanish. No way. It was with some important clients

and that guy from Chevron. 'Listen Mrs Lillicrap, I'm tied up tomorrow but I'll have a couple of hours for lunch.

Would it be possible for you to come to me? We could meet at my club. On me. Of course, you'd be reimbursed for first-class travel expenses.' Koos Koster was a substantial businessman, his ponderous drone implied, who could not be expected to flit about the country like a gadfly. However, he gallantly recognised the validity of her request and would treat it with the required seriousness.

'Fine. Email me the details.'

Good, thought Dotty, hanging up. Let him stew. She'd heard the edge of anxiety behind Koos's bullshit. Hard to see how he could justify bringing her up to London as a business expense. Wonder if it comes out of his own pocket?

Koos had a sip of his second-best scotch and settled back in his Bacelona chair but the evening was ruined. Vera was due later but he didn't feel like ersatz Slavic Passion any more. He'd call the agency and cancel. As for Dotty, he hated bargaining from a position of weakness – he'd have to rely on bluff to scare her quiet. Shit.

Koos microwaved himself a frozen lasagne, poured a glass of pinotage and watched an old episode of Morse. Bed. A quick wank over the mental picture of Vera bending over and parting her cheeks and an uneasy sleep troubled by indigestion.

The alarm on his mobile roused him at seven. He showered in his multijet power- shower, cynically considering that it used one and a half times as much water as the bath it 'ecologically' replaced. Breakfast was Weetabix and semi-skimmed milk followed by toast with Rose's Lime Marmalade. Nescafé.

Koos dressed in his golfing clobber, picked up his spiked shoes and clubs and headed for his Lexus. The four men met in the bar at nine – the course was booked for 9:30. Jim Dixon, one of Chevron's top oil analysts, talked about Iraq's oil reserves. Koos talked about vital infrastructure while Tim and Tom (yes, really) discussed private security opportunities and corporate lobbying respectively. There was much mutual massaging of projections and a general feeling that good times were just around the corner. Why, Paul Wolfowitz said the war would pay for itself!

Koos was the only one of the foursome who'd actually been to Iraq. He didn't mention having helped design the dams with which Saddam had drained the marshes, but he had a pretty shrewd idea of what would be needed after we'd finished destroying such bridges and power-stations as had survived the Gulf War. He even put in a good word for Abdul

as a gobetween. The golf went well. Jim won by three strokes and stood them drinks at the clubhouse.

After a couple of quick 'snorts' of Scotch Koos went off to the members' dining-room to find Dotty. He'd asked the steward to put them at a table for two in the bay window and he arrived just in time to see her being shepherded across the room in her provincial Sunday best. An amused eyebrow or two was raised but Dotty was determinedly oblivious. Koos caught her eye and she made for him.

They shook and sat. A waiter appeared with menus.

'Don't go,' said Dotty. 'I'll order now.' She scanned the menu. 'Yes. Roast pork and apple sauce, please, bach. And don't stint on the crackling. And apple pie with cream for afters.'

'Yes, madam. And to drink?' 'Pint of bitter. Let's try the Spitfire.' 'Very good. And sir?' Sir went for the lamb shank in red wine and tap water (driving). March sun shone through the bay window lighting the snowy tablecloth. The vase held

grape hyacinths and miniature narcissi, the table napkins were rolled inside ebony rings, the (plated) silverware hefted well. The window looked out on bowling greens and to a little mixed woodland beyond. All most agreeable, as it damn well should have been for what membership cost. Still, worth it to Trench and Gorton. Clients loved the place.

Dotty, having taken off her provincial hat to reveal a provincial hairstyle, had other things on her mind.

'So, Mr Koster, any news?' 'No, Mrs Lillicrap, I'm afraid not. But it's early days yet.' 'Not for me, I can assure you.' 'Of course not, no offense meant. I just meant it's early days since we made contact.' 'And you maintain that Trench and Gorton know nothing about the kidnapping of my

husband beyond what you've told me?' 'I swear on my mother's grave that I know nothing about the business but what our

investigator told me.' Koos's face, used to lying convincingly, felt less comfortable conveying truth.

'That's bad news for you then,' said Dotty soberly. 'If you're not involved there's no reason to hold back on anything we might dig up about you.'

'What about this woman's warning that any publicity at all would endanger lives? Also, we may not have been involved in the original abduction but believe me we've been working our socks off to try and get a lead on her. All I can tell you so far is that she seems to have no criminal record. Nick wangled a day looking at mugshots and we're trying to get hold of some CCTV footage. The point is that Nick is the only one who's actually seen her.' Koos let this sink in.

One waiter brought bread and another brought beer and water. When they were alone again Dotty said: 'Tell me about Abdul Jabaar.'

Koos's eyes darted left and right. She'd touched him on the raw. He stopped buttering his roll and shrugged unconvincingly. 'What about him? Dr Jabaar is an old associate of mine. He's an Iraqi exile; an excellent scientist; a Shiite married to a Sunni; a business

colleague.' 'Until a couple of years ago he was one of Saddam's top scientists wasn't he?' 'Yes he was. But he didn't exactly have a choice. As soon as he managed to get his

wife and kids out of the country he defected. But he had nothing to do with WMD. His field was civil engineering.'

Koos felt the full horror behind the metaphor of skating on thin ice. The fear of creak and splinter, the black and icy water, fathoms deep. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

'So why the long list of expensive lunches and dinners and fancy hotels?' Dotty's inquisitive stare out-torqued Torquemada.

Koos squirmed. 'Those were entirely business meetings. Dr Jabaar is an important client, that's all. What's all this got to do with the price of eggs?'

Dotty eyed him levelly. 'We wondered why you were so keen to have that article on transfer pricing pulled. The only thing that seemed at all odd was those incinerator parts you'd shipped to Jordan. That was a fortnight after you'd met Dr Jabaar in Amman. By the way, Dr Jabaar, according to the internet, which never lies, is an expert in high- temperature chemistry. Tell me, where exactly in Jordan did those incinerator parts end up?'

Koos ran a tongue over his lips and took a sip of water. 'I can't say anything about that. But I can assure you that it was in a good cause. Look, I won't deny that I would find a focus on that business very inconvenient on the eve of war. Let's talk hypothetically now. And not a word to anyone else, hey. Let's say if there was a bit of smuggling involved it was in a good cause. Let's say the equipment was needed in order to destroy Saddam's arsenal of chemical and biological weapons. I can't see an English jury finding me guilty of helping out an old friend to destroy WMD.'

Dotty chuckled evilly. 'So you know, you bugger. Friend Abdul was at the centre of things till quite recently, wasn't he? You know Saddam's a paper tiger and this hysteria about WMDs is a load of hooey. And you can't say a thing. That would attack the justification for war. You won't stop it, of course, but the neocons won't be handing your company any contracts, that's for sure. All those generous donations to Dubya and New Labour gone for nothing. Duw Duw.'

'OK,' Koos conceded, 'Let's say you've got something I want and I've got something you want. I thought we'd come to an agreement.'

'I just want to make sure you'll stick to your side of the bargain.'

The food arrived. The waiter remembered who'd ordered what, which was a good sign. Dotty fell to and Koos felt he might after all risk a glass of pinotage.

Dotty finished crunching crackling and spoke. 'Don't worry. I won't welsh on the deal as our American cousins so pungently put it. If I thought there was any chance this information might stop the war it would be different, but I see no hope of that.'

'No. Unless Saddam Hussein leaves peacefully at the last minute which seems pretty unlikely. If there must be a war at least it'll be over quickly. The point is, something had to be done. Sanctions were killing people just as effectively as bombs. Abdul Jabaar's own sister died of cholera from untreated water. Believe me, the sooner we get in there and start rebuilding infrastructure, the better. If you bump us off track there are plenty of

other firms who'd jump at the chance. Iraq could be a great country again. From the Iraqis I've met, I'm telling you we'll be welcomed as liberators.'

'If you can liberate my husband and the boy that'll be quite enough, thank you. Oh, and if we lay off you till your contracts are sorted, you might quietly drop that libel writ.'

'I think I can see my way clear to that – although we reserve our right to initiate proceedings in the event of fresh libels.'

'Fine.' Dotty shrugged. 'I'll give it another week to see what you come up with.'

'This woman did say they'd be released soon,' Koos reassured her. 'I agree that our best option is to wait and see.'

'Fine. We'll call a truce. Let's talk about something else. I see Trench and Gorton stock is down again. Mind you, the market's been pretty sluggish since 9/11. I suppose the war'll be a temporary boost. Meanwhile Bush is running record deficits and cutting taxes for the rich. Weren't Republicans the ones who were always banging on about balancing the budget? I suppose stealing Iraq's oil is the logical next step. Doesn't it frighten you that the world's most powerful man is next-door to an idiot?'

'At least he's got the sense to know he's not up to the job – the real power is with Rumsfeld and Cheney.'

'Why doesn't that reassure me somehow?' Dotty rolled her eyes up exasperatedly. 'Even Bush senior used to refer to those guys as "crazies". Not to mention the religious right which sees the whole sordid adventure as a glorious crusade. Fair do's, at least Waldo didn't think everyone had to be a Syntheist. Even from a strictly financial point of view, is it wise to get involved with incompetents? I'd be sucking up to the Chinese if I was you.'

A rictus grin. 'You're a very astute lady,' said Koos, beginning to appreciate her. 'I wish our advisers could be so succinct. Listen, believe me I share a lot of your reservations about the people in charge and the reasons for war. But like it or not it's coming and to survive as a business we simply must be involved. We can both do good and make money. What's not to like? All companies have, as you know, a fiduciary obligation to maximise shareholder value. Not to participate in the biggest potential construction project in years would be actionable.'

'I've heard that it's already been carved up by US interests not unconnected to the Bush gang. No-one else gets a look-in.'

'Ah. Let's just say we have extensive American connections. We have, for instance, the controlling vote in a Halliburton subsidiary. We're quietly confident.'

'I see.' She saw. It was true that she could put the kibosh on Trench and Gorton's involvement in Iraq but what would it achieve? They would simply be replaced by someone else and it probably wouldn't do anything to get Waldo back. Not to mention years of expensive litigation. She and Koos were both over a barrel. The only thing was to wait.

Sweets arrived and the talk switched to Rugby. A Welsh woman and a white South African male quickly found common ground. Koos was surprised and intrigued by Dotty's knowledge and understanding of the game. The idea of fucking her crossed his mind. She had something that brought out the masochist in him. So much of being a senior executive was about inflicting pain that imagining being on the receiving end was quite relaxing. Big tits to lick and suck. Hm. Maybe not. Certainly not now. The thing is – where was Waldo?

Chapter 31

Monday morning in the basement of Latimer Chambers found Waldo and Abel playing Scrabble again. Waldo was now practising his fingerspelling by using the letters of Latimer Chambers to make words. He spelt out 'bears slam cretins (sic)' and 'Christ maims shame' and 'mirth times tables'.

Abel spelt back: 'ha ha' and 'this is slic (sic)' and 'crime is cream'.

On the stage things were proceeding smoothly. After lunch Waldo was actually let out of the booth and up onto the stage for sound checks and camera angles and lights. Even surrounded by three guards the relief was immense. The ceiling soared some twelve feet or more and the walls were well out of reach. Even the dank and chilly air smelt better than the fetid fug of the booth. Waldo was a new man. Grave, courteous, proud to have been called to be the mouthpiece of God yet humble enough to see his utter unworthiness. His first words into the mike were: 'Being kidnapped was the best thing that's ever happened to me – it has given me eternal salvation. I can't thank you enough.' Perfect. Waldo had often seen the timidity of the new convert anxious to fit in.

Norm, earphones on his head, nodded to show that the sound levels were fine and was thrilled that the prophecies were all coming true. How could he have doubted it? Tears blurred his eyes.

Waldo diffidently offered technical help. The cameras should look up at him – that spot was reflecting off his head. The cameras should be static in accordance with the gravity of the message, showing Waldo from the waist up. This was no time for fancy effects, but even so a bit of pancake makeup would be handy otherwise, as the Messenger said, 'I look like a boiled baby. Not to mention that those steroids Dr. Brother Gideon kindly gave me have brought me out in pimples.'

Christine was promoted to Cosmetics Consultant and went off to a theatrical supplier for greasepaint and powders and creams.

Ed was reassured. The guy was a pro after all. He seemed really committed to the project. The glorious end was in sight.

There was nothing to be done till Christine returned so Waldo went placidly back to his cell both to coach Abel in his alleged conversion and to practise his fingerspelling.

Ed brought tea and toffee-waffles and a prologue to Waldo's revelations, which stated: 'My name is Waldo Lillicrap and I am privileged to be the bearer of the voice of God. It was the will of God that I withdraw from society for a time in order to purify myself that I might be the trumpet of the Lord and the bringer of the Word of the End of Days. I profoundly regret the distress that I have brought to my loved ones but my discovery of the truth of the Jabezite scriptures has led to good news for all mankind. I call upon you to open your hearts to God's mercy through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.'

The hamminess was just right. Only Abel noticed the odd sarcastic touch. After a serious talk with Waldo, Abel had taken a long shower and shaved off his wispy beard. He'd put on the new knitted shirt and cords that Christine had got him and cleaned his trainers. He was still tall and thin but now had a little pot-belly.

'Brother Ed?' Abel looked anxiously up at his jailer from his seat on the folding chair and bit his lip.

'Yessir.' 'When do you reckon the Rapture will arrive?' 'Soon, Brother Abel, very soon. There is still time to repent of your evil ways and join

the ranks of the Godly.' 'I'm ready. Brother Waldo has convinced me of the truth. I want to be born again.'

Puppy eyes. 'Hey, well done buddy.' Ed clapped him on the shoulder. 'Welcome aboard. Sister

Christine will be real pleased. I'll tell the others. We'll have a prayer-meeting and confirmation ceremony later. For now, let the three of us pray together.'

They prayed and Ed went off to spread the glad tidings. Norm looked up from his tinkering to give Abel a thumbs-up through the glass and even Con smiled and nodded an acknowledgement.

After a late lunch brought them by a fluttering and gushing Christine, Waldo was inexpertly made-up and pushed onto the stage to perform.

There were a couple of false starts but soon Waldo was repeating his prologue which now included the announcement that Brother Abel too was alive and well and had freely joined the Last Crusade – as he slid through the treacle Waldo fingerspelt: 'Lies. All. Lies.'

He held up the latest issue of one of Con's bodybuilding magazines to prove contemporaneity. There followed the speech itself during which Waldo fingerspelt 'Latimer Chambers' twice. He only hoped the whole thing wasn't ruined in the edit but if he knew writers, whoever had written that turgid text would fight for every syllable of deathless prose.

Three more takes followed and Ed went off to send copies to Head Office.

Lord Goldsmith, the Attorney General, had told the House of Lords that War with Iraq was, after all, legal. The fact that this was the opposite of what was rumoured to be his previous opinion was noted with satisfaction or disgust depending on taste.

Ed saw it as the Will of God.

For once his superiors back in the States seemed satisfied with him. The second take was deemed the best with its clumsy amateurishness giving a folksy air of authenticity. A background of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem would be added and discreet mood-music dubbed in. It would be online with all the media alerted at 6 a.m. GMT tomorrow.

The Leader himself had had a word. 'Brother Ed, are you ready for the Rapture?' 'I sure am, Brother Leader Sir.' 'Excellent. You have been a good soldier of the Lord, Brother Edward. Your reward is

close at hand. The signs are certain. The Rapture is almost upon us.' 'I hear you Brother Leader, thank the Lord.' 'Amen.' Brother Leader hung up. Waldo put out a good message. If his sincerity was

suspect his delivery couldn't be faulted. Ed went off to enthuse his troops for this last push. 'Alea jacta est.' Waldo remarked to Abel (over the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves). 'The

die is cast. Let's hope these morons don't turn on us when the Last Days don't show up on time. They might be dumb but let's hope they aren't deaf. Was I clear enough?'

'Absolutely. One or two little mistakes but the meaning shone out. Those three Ls in the middle of "all lies" were masterly. I don't think the Jabezites suspected a thing.'

'Well, all we can do is wait.'

Chapter 32

On Tuesday the eighteenth of March, 2003 at 15:34 GMT Tony Blair addressed the House of Commons. He acknowledged that there were dissenting voices and he like totally saw their point of view. They had tried diplomacy, God knows, and Saddam Hussein had obstructed them at every step. He'd had his chance again and again and again and again and again. Enough of turning the other cheek. 'The only persuasive power to which he responds,' Tony told the world, 'is 250,000 allied troops on his doorstep.'

He mentioned that Hussein Kamel, Saddam's son-in-law, had defected to Jordan in 1995. 'He disclosed a far more extensive BW (biological weapons) programme and for the first time said Iraq had weaponised the programme; something Saddam had always strenuously denied.' Blair did not go on to state that this reliable source also claimed the weapons had all been destroyed.

There were some numbers about mustard gas (1000 shells) and anthrax (10,000 litres) unaccounted for and loose talk of VX nerve agent and programmes for nukes.

But this wasn't just about Iraq. To back down now would show every crackpot dictator that we don't have the guts for action.

'There are glib,' Tony continued, 'and sometimes foolish comparisons with the 1930s. No one here is an appeaser. But the only relevant point of analogy is that with history, we know what happened. We can look back and say: there's the time; that was the moment; for example, when Czechoslovakia was swallowed up by the Nazis – that's when we should have acted.

'But it wasn't clear at the time.'

Or was it? He believed that now was the time. We knew there were terrorists all over the place. What if an evil dictator sold them his WMD? Didn't bear thinking about. Saddam and Al-Qaeda. September the eleventh. Not that Tony was for regime change. Oh no. He just wanted compliance with UN resolution 1441. But let's face it if Saddam were to go, that would be no bad thing. War in Iraq could bring like, you know, peace to the region. Israel would lie down with Palestine and freedom and democracy would bloom. Our armed forces 'whose morale is high and whose purpose is clear' were ready to act. Bring it on.

He begged to move the motion. Nine hours of acrimonious debate followed, ending late at night with a victory for the

government with Tory support although one hundred and thirty-nine Labour members rebelled.

Claire was covering a protest meeting outside in Parliament Square. Ninety-seven percent of Syntheists were against the war. Mind you, seventy percent of Americans thought Saddam was behind 9/11.

After a late night Claire was woken early by an excited Dotty. 'I've only got a minute bach. Have you seen it?' 'Seen what?' 'Waldo's on the telly. There's this DVD of him spouting some nonsense about the

Rapture and how the war's part of God's plan. He's lost weight and he looks a bit peaky but OK. He says Abel's fine too. He claims the two of them have converted to the Church of Jabez but I daresay there's a gun in his back. But it's him alright.'

'Omigod! That's marvellous, Dotty. But are they still being held? Did Waldo say when they'd be freed?'

'Not a dicky-bird. He seems to be standing in front of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem but that could have been faked. At least we know they're OK and that things are finally moving.'

Dotty was as bright and forceful as ever but Claire fancied a profound sadness there too, which may have been due to her own sick headache hovering in the wings.

'Listen, Claire,' Dotty went on, 'you'll probably be pestered by reporters. I've already had three of the buggers after me. I think we'd better keep that other business to ourselves for the time being. Keep your TV on. They're sure to show that clip again. There goes the doorbell. Half past six it is! I'll have to go – speak again later. Ciao.'

'Stay sane.'

Claire turned on the pink bedside TV her folks had given her for doing well in her A- levels. Coming up to the headlines at 6:30. Of course the imminent war was the big story but Waldo made second last in the running order.

'Waldo Lillicrap,' the newsreader smoothly announced, 'the founder of Syntheism, who disappeared in 2002 has turned up alive and well in a DVD received by this station a short while ago.' (Play silent clip in background.) 'It seems authentic but there is no independent confirmation at this stage. Mr Lillicrap announces his conversion to Jabezism and the Church of Jabez fully endorses his apocalyptic message while denying any knowledge of Mr Lillicrap's whereabouts. According the the Church of Jabez,' she continued deadpan, 'the Day of Judgement is to fall on Friday the twenty-first of March at noon in Jerusalem. Now football...' Claire turned off the TV and looked online. The man in the clip was definitely Waldo but she had to see more. Ah. The Church of Jabez had the whole thing on its website. Oh God, you had to register. Name, address, religious denomination, e-mail, phone. Would she like to make a donation? Two minutes of unskippable hard-sell later and Waldo was being touted as the mouthpiece of the Lord as foretold in the scriptures of Brother Jabez. At last. Waldo launched into his prologue and Claire gorged both ear and eye. It was a delight and relief to see Waldo again even if he was spouting some weird shit, but her hunger for Abel was keener than ever.

The phone rang. Mummy. Yes, she'd seen it. Marvelous news. Was the whole thing a publicity stunt as some commentators were openly speculating? What on earth was the

Church of Jabez? And so on. Love you. Bye. Claire switched her attention back to the screen just in time for Waldo's urgent final

plea: 'I beg all of God's children to turn their backs on the darkness of sin and delusion and embrace the light of God's truth. Repent! The Day of the Final Reckoning is at hand as foretold in the Book of Jabez. Your world will end in three days. Join us,' (Waldo flung out his arms) 'before it's too late!'

The phone rang.

'Hi Claire. Hope I didn't wake you. It's Lance. Lance Dawlish from Trench and Gorton. I suppose you've seen the DVD.'

'Yes. I have.' 'Proof positive that Waldo's OK. Isn't that great news?' 'Yes it is. So it looks like he's been kidnapped and brainwashed by the Church of

Jabez. That same Church of Jabez which happens to be a large shareholder in your company. And you still maintain you knew nothing about it?'

'Absolutely nothing.' Lance was unruffled. 'Our involvement with the Church of Jabez is on strictly commercial lines. As far as we're concerned all that apocalyptic nonsense is simply a very effective way to raise capital. Pecunia non olent as Vespasian once remarked.'

'And the rush to war justified as a last crusade?'

'Every little helps. And for what it's worth I genuinely believe that what we're doing is in the longterm interest of the people of Iraq. In a free, democratic, prosperous Iraq religious fundamentalism of all types will wither on the vine.'

'Yeah, right.' Claire snorted derision. 'Watch out for low-flying pigs. Have you heard anything more from this woman who came forward in the first place?'

'I'm afraid not. But she's been right so far about their being alive and well and I'm inclined to believe her when she says they'll be released soon. I'm sure the police are already looking into the Church of Jabez. What worries me is what these idiots will do when the world doesn't end on Friday. I think we'll need all the inside help we can get. Believe me, now is not the time to rock the boat. Frankly, if it was me I'd be thinking of how to save Waldo's reputation after he's done a complete u-turn on everything he said before. Maybe he's sincere and really believes this stuff. How many of your Syntheists would follow him into the Church of Jabez?'

'Come on! People will say anything under pressure.'

'I saw no sign of pressure. Why couldn't he simply have gone on a religious retreat and come back a fervent Jabezite? Or is it one of his complicated jokes? In which case he's misjudged it badly. People don't like being taken for mugs. I don't think that's the case myself, mind, but it's the sort of loose talk that these things generate. Luckily for him it couldn't have come out at a better time. Everyone's focused on the war, but even so a performance like that will take a long time to live down. You know what the tabloids are like once they get their teeth into something.'

'God, Lance, you're such a shit.' Lightly. 'But I suppose you might have a point. We'll have to update our website but I'll make no mention of the other business for the time being. I've spoken to Dotty and she says we'll start with a clean slate once they're both safely back. Meanwhile, I expect you to try and screw the truth out of your Jabezite

business partners and to go to the police with anything you know.' 'Of course. As long as there's no danger to your loved ones.' 'Naturally. Goodbye, Lance.' 'Goodbye, Claire. I'll let you know the minute there's any new development. Byee.' Claire watched Waldo's performance again and her heart sank. If the boyo was faking

it he was damned good. The warmongers (Lance) would welcome the prowar bits and dismiss the apocalyptic ravings. Syntheists were likely to go the other way. Some would see the thing as postmodern ironic and some might even be panicked into joining the Church of Jabez. More were likely to be disgusted and disillusioned. Still, it was exciting news. No doubt the tabloids were already dusting off their poison pens.

The next couple of hours passed in a flurry of emails and phonecalls and domestic chores. The breakthrough was a call from Abel's Dad, Warren, just after ten.

'Hello, Claire. This is Warren Caldecot. Thanks for the email. I've just watched the video. It's such a relief to know that Abel's OK I just can't tell you.'

Claire felt the remorse of having had to conceal the news from him before. Abel's disappearance had aged him. Last time they met she'd noticed a tremor in his left hand. The folds at the corners of his mouth had deepened. At last the lying could stop.

'Yes. These last few months have been hell. I just hope they can come home soon.' Sniff.

'We all do. Um. What do you think of the actual message?' Warren was studiedly neutral. 'Have they really gone over to this bunch of lunatics?'

'No. I'm certain not. As Dotty says, he's got a gun in his back.' 'That's good. By the way, did you notice Waldo's hands?' 'Now that you mention it, they did look a bit fidgety.' 'I suppose you know that Daisy, my late wife, used to teach at a school for the deaf?' 'Yes. Abel often mentioned it.'

'She taught him sign language. They used to tease me sometimes by signing away so I couldn't follow. It looks to me like Waldo might be doing something similar. It might be worth checking out. I'm still in touch with one or two of Daisy's colleagues.'

'Well, thanks Warren, but I think we should check it out more discreetly. A friend of mine,' Claire lied, 'is profoundly deaf – I could ask her. And I think Waldo's wife Dotty should be involved.'

'Yes. You're right. I've met her a couple of times. A forceful lady. I'll give her a ring. Anyway, it's great news about Abel and Waldo. But don't get your hopes up. The thing with the hands may be nothing.'

'Let's hope you're wrong and it's not just nervous fiddling. I'll chase it up and let you know a.s.a.p. And Warren, thanks for giving me something to do. It's the sitting round feeling impotent that's so hard to bear. I'll get onto it right away. Love to Becky.'

'Thanks. We'll speak soon. Goodbye, Claire.' 'Bye, Warren.' Claire watched the clip again with mounting excitement. Warren was onto something.

If only her deaf schoolchum had been real! And if Warren had spotted it what was the chance of someone else doing so? High. Luckily everyone was obsessed with 'shock and awe' and the blustering cacophony of the eve of war. Softening up had already started.

Now, how to get it done without alerting Trench and Gorton or the media? She cycled into Uni and eventually located the Special Needs Department. A helpful lady there had suggested that in view of Claire's deliberately vague description of the perpetrator's gestures it sounded like he was spelling things out rather than signing. Claire spent an hour with Waldo on her laptop and a fingerspelling chart. At the end she had: LIESALLLIESLATIMERCHAMBIRSLATIMERCHAMBIRS and a splitting headache. Of course! 'Lies, all lies.' Typical Waldo sticking up rabbit ears behind the boss's head in the company photograph. A chill ran up Claire's spine as she thought of the fury of Jabezites mocked. And who or what was Latimer (or L.A.TIMER) Chambirs? (Presumably Chambers.) Could it be a block of flats (or flak of blots as Waldo used to say). She couldn't risk Googling it on her own laptop so it was off to the cyber-café once more. There were, it seemed, two sets of 'Latimer Chambers' in the UK. One was in Aberdeen and the other was in the City of London not five minutes walk from where Abel had parked Griselda. The website advertised sumptuously appointed office space and the tenants were all firms of barristers and other leading lights of the legal profession. Adding the word 'Jabezite' to 'Latimer Chambers' brought up no matches. The police, then? If they went charging in in their size twelves would they panic the captors into killing their hostages? Besides, Val said that all the papers had police 'sources' and the chance of keeping Waldo's treachery secret was effectively nil. And at any moment another fingerspeller might spot the message. Of course Waldo's prophetic rantings went on a bit: few people watched to the end. The media had already filleted out the bits best suited to their own slant. Waldo was either an entertaining two-bit conman who'd wasted police time on his staged disappearance or a disappointment of a man who'd say anything to get out of a tight spot. Still one had to be relieved that the fellow was still alive. 'Hitler' had already appeared on the Syntheist website letters page but the predominant mood was of relief and gratitude. Waldo's speech had been analyzed backwards and forwards and up and down. The Syntheists were in a tizzy over Waldo (and, of course, Abel).

Everyone else was obsessed by the war.

Claire needed help. She went to the nearest phone-box and got hold of Dotty, who was to call her back from her friend's house at nextdoor but one. Claire waited impatiently until at last (a few minutes later) the phone rang. She told Dotty all. It seemed likely that far from being in Jerusalem Waldo was possibly being held in a building called Latimer Chambers in the City of London. It seemed to be a nest of irreproachable lawyers whom the police would be reluctant to antagonise.

Dotty saw that time was of the essence and reluctantly agreed that Stan would have to be trusted. And Danny too, as he was nearby. The first thing was surveillance. Stan was at home. He was working nights and he'd been woken by Tracey an hour ago with the news of Waldo's resurrection. The Jabezite rantings, on the other hand, he'd taken at face value and had been reduced to despair. On the other hand, if Waldo was sincere, then Stan would follow him into Jabezism. Claire's phonecall with her explanation of Waldo's clever subterfuge had restored his faith. Of course Waldo was no Jabezite! And he was certainly no coward. Waldo was alive! What a guy! Was there anything he couldn't do?

An hour and a half later Stan, Danny and Claire convened on the pavement opposite

Latimer Chambers. Danny was in Hassidic uniform, having spray-painted his pink payess black again and powdered his face to a talmud scholar's pallor. Stan was in a cheap grey suit with blue shirt and his local cricket-club tie. Claire looked delectable in long caterpillar-striped jersey, denims and trainers.

A midnight-blue Bentley surged up from the underground car park and merged with the traffic. The gate trundled slowly to behind it. The building shouted reputable discretion. Brick and brass and Portland stone. A few people came and went but nothing ominous seemed to be happening.

Stan went over for a dekko and found an empty lobby with lifts and staircases and a doorway leading to offices on the ground floor. He took the lift to the top storey and found the same red carpet with oak doors, identical save for what was written on their brass plates.

He tried a couple of receptionists but no, there were no messages for Stout at either. Stan had enough experience of lawyers' offices to see that these were topnotch. The rent must be astronomical. He took the lift down to the basement car park, had a quick look at the vehicles parked there, shook his head and got back into the lift as if he'd got out on the wrong floor. Many of these places had CCTV and Stan wasn't about to do anything observably illegal. Besides, he'd seen what he wanted. He rejoined Claire and Danny on the corner.

'I reckon this is it all right.' Stan nodded curtly. 'When I was watching Abel's car on the traffic cameras there was a black Golf a couple of cars ahead of him and there's one just the same in the garage there. I didn't recognise the number but it's the same model and colour and year. It's parked in the superintendent's spot. The lawyers' offices are high class. White-collar crime only. I can't see them kidnapping people.'

'But I can't see them as rabid Christian fundamentalists either,' Danny contributed. 'I say it's most likely the building superintendent. I wonder... these Jabezites. Isn't it a part of their plan that all the Jews will convert to Christianity? After all, we are the only ones who can rebuild the temple.' Danny smiled impishly. 'I can pretend Waldo's speech has converted me and some irresistible force that I can't explain has brought me to his door. If he chucks me out or calls the cops that'll tell us something. Or if he welcomes me with open arms. I could say there was a whole army of Chassidim from all over London headed this way.'

'That's about as plausible as some of their own ideas,' Claire mused, 'but maybe we should stick to one miracle at a time. What if we all three said we'd independently seen the light and just happened to meet on the doorstep?'

'No. I'll need backup if I run into trouble but I hope they won't see me as a threat.'

The garage door of Latimer Chambers slid aside and a black Volkswagen Golf pulled up the ramp. Christine looked left and right and drove off.

Claire took in the woman's anxious expression and noticed the gaudy gold cross round her neck which she fingered while waiting for a break in the traffic. Oh my god! Ten to one that was the woman described by Lance!

'I wonder if that's the mysterious Josephine Lovatt?' Claire narrowed her eyes. 'You know, the one whose debit card payed for all that stuff at Tesco's.'

'She looks sort of familiar.' Stan riffled through the stained and tattered pages of his

memory. 'Yeah. You may be right. I think I saw her in Tesco's. And I missed her.' Stan was smitten with remorse. He might by now have rescued Waldo singlehanded. Or, of course, by blundering in, killed him.

Danny had meanwhile been putting fat felt-tip to cardboard and now held up a sign saying:

REPENT! REBUILD THE TEMPLE! COME TO CHRIST! The plan was that he was to pace up and down the lobby of Latimer Chambers making

a nuisance of himself until something happened. Stan and Claire were to keep a discreet eye out, ready to act if necessary.

Danny would go in first to be followed a few minutes later by Stan, in the guise of a Court Messenger clutching an A4 envelope stuffed with newspaper. Claire was to wait on the street ready to call the police if Stan didn't reappear within twenty minutes. Could Abel really be within yards of her, locked in a sordid cell? Or was the woman driving to his prison somewhere else? She tried to sense Abel's nearness and to send him her love and reassurance. She still found it hard to believe that the smug façade of Latimer Chambers could hide horror and depravity but that was where Waldo had undeniably sent them. Unless it was the one in Aberdeen. And then that woman in the black Golf. No, this had to be it. Hold on, Abel my darling, I'm coming! Watchglance. Two minutes.

Inside the brown marble lobby Danny marched silently back and forth across the scant traffic. A secretary hurried past this embarrassment and went off to find Mr Hucker. A little later the lift opened, disgorging three nondescripts and a burly grim-faced lawyer. He planted himself in front of Danny. 'Excuse me, Sir,' he said loudly. 'This is private property. I must ask you to leave.' Approaching closer to Danny he whispered: 'Fuck off or I'll call the police.' Three office clones and Stan stood and watched.

Danny smiled beatifically. 'Repent,' he sonorously urged. Rebuild the Temple. Come to Christ.' He deftly sidestepped the stuffed shirt and resumed his marching.

The lawyer pondered his options. The fact that Danny was a meshuggeneh Jew was problematic. Mr Hucker had no wish to alienate his many Jewish clients and colleagues. Jews were touchy. One could so easily be branded anti-semitic. Besides, he was now late for a meeting. He made an executive decision to pass the buck.

He crossed to the Building Supervisor's door and rang the bell. Norm opened up.

'Look, Norm, there's this guy in the lobby's being a nuisance. Could you get rid of him quietly, do you think? He's disturbing the clients.'

'Certainly, Mr Hucker. Leave it with me.' Norm looked up just as Danny swivelled at the far end of the lobby and held up his placard before him. Norm gaped then recollected himself and pulled the door to behind him.

Mr Hucker strode masterfully back to the lift and left. 'Repent!' Danny called our cheerfully. 'Rebuild the Temple! Come to Christ!' Claire could hear him from across the road. 'That's a very interesting message, Sir.' Norm approached carefully. 'Would you like

to come and discuss it with me elsewhere?' 'God has led my steps to this place,' boomed Danny. 'I could not do otherwise.' Danny

yielded to temptation. 'Across London at this very moment thousands of Jews have seen the light and are wending their way hither. Verily I say unto you that the Rapture is upon us. Repent!' Danny let his placard fall, bowed his head and clasped his hands in silent prayer.

The image of London streets full of Hassidim all converging on Latimer Chambers was grotesque, like something out of Monty Python. Sweat broke out on Norm's forehead. A drop slithered into his eye. It stung. Norm passed a sleeve over his wet face and gently took Danny's arm. The placard dropped to the floor and the harmless lunatic subsided at once and meekly allowed himself to be led outside to a bench. This looked onto a narrow strip of garden with a bed of hellebores. Stan came out of the building holding Danny's placard by one corner.

''Ere y' go, mate,' he said gruffly depositing it in the zealot's lap. A raised eyebrow offered Norm assistance, a reassuring little shake of the head gratefully declined. Stan went off round the corner. Claire, spying a vacant window seat in the coffee-shop popped in for a capuccino. She was too conspicuous standing out on the pavement. She could watch Danny and Norm in comfort. They looked deep in fervent discussion with no sign of aggro.

Danny was enjoying himself. Norm, wide-eyed with credulity, was eating out of his hand. His Fundamentalism was obvious even if he'd not yet declared himself. Danny's account of how God had spoken to him of the coming Rapture a full week ago thrilled Norm. Independent verification and all that. Yes, Danny had indeed seen Mr Lillicrap's marvellous broadcast and it had strengthened his vision. He'd had no idea why God had sent him to Latimer Chambers but he now saw that Norm was the very person he'd been destined to meet. They were brothers in Christ. But Danny was not alone. In Israel, he knew of secret plans to rebuild the Temple. Bulldozers and stonemasons were standing by and groves of Shittim wood awaited the chainsaw, hallelujah!

'We must cleanse ourselves of our sins,' Danny said piously. 'I am called now to walk the streets proclaiming salvation. God bless you.'

So saying he stoold up, spread the poster across his chest and set off down the path.

It was unfortunate that Christine chose this moment to return from the drycleaners. Keyed up as she was for the upcoming Rapture, the sight of a Hassidic Jew urging repentance and conversion caught her eye just as she was going down the ramp to the underground car-park. The gate had not yet fully opened. Her wing crumpled onto the edge of it, knocking it off its track and thus blocking the exit. Norm, who'd been just about to go inside, turned and came running. Danny fell to his knees and locked his hands in silent prayer. Stan hurried up, paramedic card at the ready.

Norm got there first, torn between concern for his wife and for his no-claims bonus. The driver's door was against the wall. Norm pulled open the nearside door which opened halfway with a loud creak.

'Christine, are you alright?'

'Yes. I think so. Something startled me. Oh, Norm, I'm so sorry.' And Christine began to weep.

'Excuse me Sir.' Stan bustled up out of nowhere. 'I'm a paramedic. May I be of assistance?'

Norm, hapless in the face of female distress, got out of the way and left it to the experts. The wing had cut into a tyre. He'd need his heavy-duty tinsnips and a hacksaw. His first priority was to get his car out of the way and get the gate working again.

Stan gentled Christine out of the car and onto the bench where Norm and Danny had lately been sitting. He checked her pulse and vision and breathing and reflexes and pronounced her fine, if a little shaken. Norm, hulking in the background was distracted by an aggrieved hooting from the garage and went off to explain that things were in hand. Yes, a little accident. The wife, you know. Norm would clear the obstruction in no time. Sorry again, Sir. Most unfortunate. Claire, having seen the accident, arrived with a paper cup of strong sweet tea, her mother's sovereign remedy for shock.

Norm burbled that if Christine was sure she was OK he had to go and clear the gateway. Christine nodded. She'd be in shortly. Her good woolen coat and best dress which she'd just collected from the dry-cleaners were in a crumpled heap on the floor of the car.

Norm went. 'Are you feeling better, Mrs Lovatt?' Stan solicited. Christine jumped as if stung. 'I'm not Mrs Lovatt,' she gasped. 'My name's Draper. Mrs Christine Draper.' 'Oh, I'm sorry.' Polite disbelief. 'I could've sworn that was the name you gave me as I

was helping you out of the car. Mrs Josephine Lovatt. I must have misheard.' Christine recoiled into the misery of guilt. Had she in fact let slip the name when she was in shock? She didn't remember doing so but it was just possible. She had been very

forgetful of late. She mechanically took the tea which Claire put in her hand and sipped it gratefully. She wasn't eager to go in and face the music. Norm, she knew, would go on and on about the car in his grumbling drone as if all this stuff wouldn't be irrelevant by Friday. Perhaps it was a sign. Everything was a sign.

Danny, at the periphery of her vision, stopped praying, stood up and hoisted his poster. Christine turned and gave a little shriek.

Danny approached, rolling the poster into a tube.

'I'm sorry I startled you Sister Christine,' said Danny ruefully. 'Please forgive me. I'm on your side. God has brought me here as I was just explaining to Brother Norm.'

Said Norm now reappeared behind the gate with Con and an assortment of tools. He gave his wife a brief smile and a thumbs-up and nodded his approval of Danny. Then the bending, sawing, drilling and hammering commenced.

Claire could stand it no longer. 'What do the words "A Pretty Duck" mean to you, Mrs Draper?' she asked silkily.

This time there was no doubt. Christine blanched, goggled and gawped then looked about frantically for a way of escape. Norm was under the car and Con had his back to them as he tried to crowbar the wing free of the gate. Oh God, she was getting palpitations.

'You're the woman who went to that detective aren't you?' Claire accused her. 'Where are they – where are Abel and Waldo?'

Christine glanced down at the cellar and bit her lip. 'God has brought us here,' said Danny with placid conviction. 'All that happens is the

manifestation of His Divine Will. Waldo and Abel must be freed to spread the glad tidings of Brother Jabez. You, Sister Christine, are the instrument of his choosing. You have the Golden Key!'

'Where are they?' Claire's desperate eyes locked with Christine's. 'Please, please, tell me.'

'I can't, I mean I don't know what you're talking about.' Christine sounded panicky. 'I, I must go inside. Thank you for your help.' And Christine struggled guiltily to her feet. 'I don't think that's a good idea.' Danny smiled blandly. 'Brother Norm confided in

me that you were both members of the Church of Jabez. The voice of God has brought me here to Latimer Chambers and I won't leave until I know why.'

Christine sank back onto the bench.

'Danny phoned me and my friend Stanley and told us of his revelation,' said Claire persuasively. 'He knows that you're involved in some way and the way you reacted proves that he was right. There's no going back. Other people know we're here. Stanley, by the way, is an ex-policeman. Your cooperation at this point would count to your advantage.'

'Police?' Christine swallowed hard. Where was Norm when she needed him?

Norm was in fact down in the basement getting his trolley-jack. He'd briefly told Ed of Danny's disquieting arrival and of how he'd come to see that it was a miracle. For now though he had to get the gate working. Con would be back soon. Christine was fine, if a bit shaken.

For some reason, Norm didn't mention the army of Christianised Hasidim converging on the City. Ed was jumpy enough as it was. He'd tried twice to phone for instructions but had been told that Brother Giles's number was no longer available. His emails bounced back. Ed was beginning to suspect he'd been played for a sucker. He chewed angrily on his gum. In the booth Abel and Waldo were apathetically watching a DVD of My Fair Lady.

Ed bounced on the balls of his feet, torn between fight and flight. No, there must be some simple explanation. Heck, the Rapture was almost here. What had Norm been saying about some converted Jew wanting to rebuild the Temple? He had to admit that so far Brother Waldo's broadcast had failed to set the world on fire. But perhaps it had lit a spark.

Both Waldo and Abel were depressed. If the fingerspelling hadn't worked, they'd prostituted themselves for nothing. Waldo would have lost all credibility. Of course, for some devious reason of the own, the Jabezites may have suppressed or mutilated the video: but Ed's delight at the broadcast had seemed real enough. Still, their only hope was to play the Holy Fool and somehow talk their way out.

Upstairs, Ed could hear the faint ringing of the phone over the music in the booth. Why wasn't someone answering? Had Norm and Con and Christine abandoned him too? The ringing went on and on. Maybe it was Brother Cecil with further instructions. Ed bit his lip. The ringing stopped.

'I have often walked

Down this street before But the pavement always stayed Beneath my feet before...'

The phone rang again. Ed snapped. He took a quick look at the padlocked door of the booth and headed for the phone, carefully locking and bolting the basement door behind him.

Waldo and Abel were alone for the first time since their capture. A cat may have been kept out of the dairy all its life but it waits and watches and grabs its chance. So the plan which Waldo had turned over in his head for months clicked into place.

'Quick, boyo. Take off your clothes.' Waldo pulled off his shirt. 'Look, lie them down by 'ere as if you've just been taken up to heaven. Then you hide under the bed and I'll hide in the loo and let's see if we can get Ed in here on his own. We'll use the element of surprise and this teapot.'

'Right.' Abel saw. 'He'll think we've been Raptured and he's been Left Behind.' He quickly shucked off his clothes, laid them in a neat pile and squeezed his long, naked body under the bed.

Waldo had just vanished into the portaloo when Ed returned. The phonecall had been about loft insulation. He saw that the recording booth was apparently empty. The shock so dislocated his brain that it took him a moment to realise the significance of the two piles of clothes. He opened the door of the booth.

'Brother Waldo!' A hoarse cry. 'Where are you?' Ed ran forward into Abel's scything kick from under the bed which tripped him over. Waldo emerged naked from the toilet and smashed Christine's precious Crown Derby teapot on the back of Ed's head as Abel convulsively flipped the bed on top of him. Waldo's blow hadn't knocked Ed out but he was pinned helplessly by the bed onto which an equally naked Abel had thrown himself. Ed, his head pressed sideways against the floor, goggled at the naked Waldo. The sage held a pointed shard of teapot to his cheek.

'One word out of you, buddy, and this point goes in your eye. Do I make myself clear?'

Ed emitted a strangled 'urk'.

'We're going to tie you up and gag you. Any shit from you and I'll kick your fuckin' 'ead in. It would give me great pleasure to kill you but there's no time. Abel will hold this dagger on you while I get some equipment.

Waldo snatched up a belt, a tie and a sock. The belt tied Ed's neck to the iron bedframe. A wrenched-off table leg stuck through it made an effective garrotte. Abel kept up a light tension as Waldo stuffed a sock into Ed's less than enthusiastic mouth and tied it in with his lurid Jabezite tie. They turned the bed sideways so that Waldo could tie Ed's hands and feet with dental floss. Then they took his keys, dumped the bed back on top of him, dressed quickly and left, locking the booth behind them. Both were armed with table-legs spiked with nails. (Norm had braced that rickety article with a handful of three- inch lost-head ovals.) They moved swiftly to the door, making little noise in the dead acoustic. The phone rang unanswered upstairs. It was possible that Con and Norm and

Christine and maybe others were waiting beyond the steelclad fire door, but unlikely. Waldo found the right key and with a double twirl the deadbolt slid back. The door opened slowly onto a concrete stairwell. The door into the garage was locked and none of Ed's keys fitted. The fugitives stopped halfway up the stairs to look through the one-way mirror. To their delight both Norm and Con were busy shoving the crippled Golf out of the way.

'Let's get out of here before they get back.' Waldo tried the Yale lock on the back door of the flat but Norm had conscientiously snibbed it behind him Standing rules were that guards were only allowed into the flat with a secret knock (shave-and-a-haircut).

Smashing the door down would be extremely difficult and the noise would bring the Jabezites running. It was a sickening disappointment but they would have to wait and surprise their captors. Waldo ripped the cord off an old vacuum cleaner and set up a trip- wire at the top of the stairs. Christine was due with their lunch about now. Con or Norm could be shoved down the stairs but Christine could be easily overpowered. There was a tiny landing by the door and here our trepid warriors waited.

Chapter 33

Da dee da dee da dee da da. Da dee da da...

Claire snatched the phone from her pocket. 'Hello. Ah, Dotty. Yes. Yes, it is the place. We've got the woman who passed on those messages. She understands we were sent here by God but she won't tell us where Waldo and Abel are. Yes, sure, if you like.' Claire pressed the phone on Christine. 'It's Waldo's wife Dotty,' she said. 'She'd like a word.'

Christine took the phone like a poisoned chalice. She lifted it slowly to her ear. 'Yes?' 'This is Dotty Lillicrap. To whom am I talking?' 'My name's, um, Christine Draper.' She licked her dry lips.

'So, Christine, what can you tell me about Waldo?'

'Brother Waldo has seen the light.' Christine gulped. 'He will be Raptured soon. That's all I can tell you except that his dearest wish is that you repent of your sins and join us. That is his great message to all mankind.'

'I'd like to hear it from his own lips.' Dotty was sweetly reasonable. 'If he's really gone over to you lot, why not free him to spread the good news? Unless you're forcing him in some way which you don't want exposed.'

'No!' Christine's cry was heartfelt. 'We would do nothing to harm him or Brother Abel either. Brother Waldo is the Mouthpiece of the Lord. I'd cut off my right hand rather than hurt him.'

'But you won't tell us where he is?'

'I can't. In two days all will be revealed. Please don't ask me any more.' And Christine thrust Claire's phone back at her.

'Hi Dotty. It's me again. What are we going to do?'

'I think we may as well call in the police. These people aren't going to harm the boys as long as they reckon Waldo's one of them, but who knows what they'll do if they find

out he's tricked them – which could happen at any moment.' 'Yes, I think you're right.' 'OK bach, I'll get onto my contact right away. I'm on the train. We'll be at Paddington

in just over an hour. I'll keep in touch.' Dotty cut off. 'Right,' Claire was grim. 'Dotty's called the police. I think, Christine, you'd better

wait here with us till they come. An expression of terror crossed Christine's face and she held a hand to her chest. 'My

heart,' she gasped. 'Can't breathe.' 'It's all right,' Stan soothed her. 'It's most likely just a panic attack. Has anyone got a

paper bag?' 'Yes. I have.' Danny reached into a roomy black pocket and pulled out a little bag

containing two Snickers bars and a dayglo orange felt-tip which he shook out into his hand.

'Now just breathe slowly in and out of this dear, and you'll be fine.' Stan, with the authority of his first-aid training behind him, was another person. Christine tremblingly pressed the bag to her mouth and the cycle of crumple and puff began. The panic abated slowly, leaving only real fear.

Through the one-way mirror Abel saw that Norm was heading out of the garage while Con was coming their way trailing the trolley-jack.

'Con's coming,' he whispered to Waldo and they took up position. Abel was one step up on the stairs while Waldo was pressed against the wall by the door.

Con approached. They could hear him whistling Onward Christian Soldiers over the harsh chittering of steel wheels on concrete. There was a pause for keywork and the door swung open. Con's incessant exercising stood him in good stead. He glimpsed Abel's table-leg swinging at his head and jumped back out of the way as Abel and Waldo appeared in the doorway. There was an instant of shocked realisation then Con showed what he was made of by sprinting through the garage and out down the street.

Norm watched him go, mildly puzzled. He turned to Christine who was making go- away gestures and took a step towards her. She found her voice: 'Oh, Norm, they've called the police. Get away!'

'Police?' He approached the bench. 'But surely it was just a minor accident on private property?'

'Not the car. The other stuff.'

Norm was spared further conjecture by the appearance behind him of Waldo and Abel, armed with spiked clubs. So Con hadn't just been running an errand for Ed.

'Abel! Waldo!' Claire had spotted the lurking figures and hurled the soft missile of her body at her love. Stan and Danny surrounded their spiritual leader leaving Norm and Christine unguarded although they seemed too dazed to run away.

As a police car turned in to the drive Waldo's trousers fell down. A photographer from the Sun who just happened (yeh, right) to be passing caught the moment for all eternity. Waldo was back.

Chapter 34

The next hours were busy. Christine, Norm and Ed had been arrested and taken away. Their insistence that the Rapture was imminent was beginning to sound a bit desperate. Dotty turned up and, alarmed by Waldo's relatively gaunt appearance, burst into tears followed by hugs and kisses. As Waldo had written: Billing and cooing beat killing and booing.

All the unravelling took years. Waldo's abduction, it eventually turned out, had been ordered by the head of a private equity consortium which specialised in mulcting religious organisations. Ravenstone, as it was called, had their claws into the Jabezites but as they were fast approaching their sell-by date, Ravenstone switched their attention to the Syntheists. Initial contact with Waldo having proved useless it had become necessary to remove him. Who better for the task than the credulous Jabezites? New texts were discovered pointing to Waldo as God's chosen emissary who needed a period in seclusion to purify himself for the task. With Waldo gone and a puppet in place there was no reason not to triple or quadruple the income stream. Ravenstone's mistake had been to assume that, with Waldo out of the way, Dotty would be more amenable to reason. Not so. The consortium now focused on Scientology. They'd decided to let the Jabizites keep Waldo until the war was underway and even to let them video his 'conversion' and apocalyptic message in the hope of squeezing a few more quid out of their deluded believers, as well as giving the war a boost and destroying Waldo's left-wing credibility for ever. In the interests of deniability it turned out that all Ed's orders had been given over the phone by an actor with a talent for mimicry.

With the Rapture's no-show the Church of Jabez folded its tents and slunk away. Brother Giles (Ed's Line Manager) turned out to have mortgaged all the church property and salted away the proceeds in the tax haven where he now lives in unextraditable splendour.

Brother Leader Philadelphus also seemed to have done well out of the Jabezite debacle and had unblushingly started a new apocalyptic church which continues to grow.

But back to the nineteenth of March 2003.

Waldo and Abel had been taken (along with Dotty, Danny, Stan and Claire) to the nearest police station where they'd all given statements and Waldo and Abel had been seen by a doctor and two counsellors. That wasted most of the day. Waldo did a telephone interview for the BBC News at Six which went as follows:

Interviewer: Thank you for agreeing to talk to us so soon after your harrowing ordeal, Mr Lillicrap.

Waldo: Well, I'm glad of the opportunity to say a few things though I'm still feeling somewhat disorientated. I've just come through the worst seven months of my life but I know my suffering is as nothing compared to what we're about to inflict on Iraq.

Interviewer: I take it that you're opposed to the war despite what you said on your broadcast.

Waldo: You take it right. Bush and Blair should be tried under their own terrorist laws for incitement to murder. Or ship them off to Guantanamo Bay, see how they like

imprisonment without trial. Interviewer (nervously): To return to your Jabezite video, for a moment. Have you in

fact converted to Jabezism? Waldo: Don't be so dull, man! The whole thing was piffle. I'd have said anything to

get out. Didn't you pick up on the signing? Interviewer: Signing? Waldo: Well, fingerspelling for the deaf. That's the trouble with cutting everything into

clips – you miss the important bits. Run the whole thing again. You'll find I spelt out 'Lies. All lies' and 'Latimer Chambers', thus subverting the content and saying where we were. How did the police say they'd found us?

Interviewer: Acting on information received.

Waldo: Yes, well the police were useless. We were rescued thanks to my friend Abel's father and Abel's girlfriend Claire Chubb, who realised what I was doing.

Interviewer: And what of the apocalyptic warnings?

Waldo: Lies, man, all lies. We're heading towards rupture not rapture. There is no God. If the world ends it'll be entirely of our own doing.

Interviewer: I'm afraid we're nearly out of time, Mr Lillicrap. It's great news that you and Abel Caldecot have been released unharmed. Thank you for talking to us. What, in fifteen seconds, are your immediate plans?

Waldo: To get back home with my wife and start living again. It's only when you lose your freedom that you come to realise just how precious it is. Clichėd but true. We should all be worried.

Interviewer: Indeed. Thank you Mr Lillicrap. I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot more from you in the next few weeks.

Danny had taken Stan back for one of Dipak's famous curries and Waldo and Dotty, Abel and Claire had found a quiet tearoom for a chat. Waldo gave Claire an extended version of his story for the website. Abel filled in the gaps but Claire would pump him later. Dotty updated them on Trench and Gorton and in particular the activities of Koos Koster and Dr Abdul Jabaar. But where such news would ordinarily have electrified them it could not compare with the feelings of love and gratitude and flaring anger and piercing regret that were churning their innards. Not to mention the bone-weary fatigue.

The couples split up. Waldo and Dotty travelled first-class and managed to get back to Wales unrecognised. Most people were preoccupied with the imminent war.

Dotty's diary for that day reads:

X home again after the shock of that Jabezite broadcast. Marvelous to have him back but we're both very weepy. Sat out on the patio until nearly midnight under a duvet. X kept sighing and talking about breathing fresh air and looking up at the sky. Gone nearly seven months! He's changed. Says this next congruence will be his last. Sick of all the lies. Daresay he'll get a good price for his story.

Next day the slaughter began.

