Jago (45 page)

A duffel-coated troubadour entertained the troops, singing along with his guitar, a song he had announced, sharply, as ‘The Ballad of Anthony William Jago’. He must have a grudge, an indoctrinated girlfriend or an emptied bank account. In the early days of the Agapemone, there had been falls from grace, apostates leaving the community. Since then, Jago had tightened up. Almost no one walked away any more.

‘No more sin, no more crime,’
the singer sang.

‘Folks can have a real good time,

Hell for most, Heaven for some,

At the Dawn of the New Millennium…’

The kid, who had big boots and unfashionable glasses, was better than most, but seemed to be scraping nerves.

‘I’m gonna live for ever and ever,

Look at me, folks, ain’t I clever?

I’m gonna reign for millions of years,

So hip-hip-hooray, and three big cheers…’

The doubt that had been pestering Lytton came into focus. ‘They’re not here,’ he said, suddenly.

‘Eh?’ said Pam.

Lytton shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Everyone had Susan’s handbills so the job was done, but the Brethren who’d been distributing them were gone. Wendy and Derek should be here. And Mick. And the others. But the Brethren had filtered out of the crowds and gone home. That gave Lytton a chill. The community’s evening meal should have been done with hours ago, and he would have expected the Brethren to emerge and mingle, soliciting donations, spreading propaganda, smiling emptily. It was time he went to the Agapemone, to check in with Susan. He did not want to miss anything.

‘Tell you the truth, folks,’
the singer continued,

‘Ain’t no lie,

When it comes down to it,

I… ain’t… never… gonna… die.’

The new-strung lights hissed and a bulb popped, dumping a whole area into dark.

‘Excuse me,’ Lytton said to Pam and Gary. ‘I’ll have to leave you two young people to it for a moment.’

He nodded towards the house, and began walking. Gary looked more enthusiastic left with Pam than she did being with him.

‘James,’ Kevin Conway shouted.

Lytton turned. Kev was waving to him, calling him over.

‘What now?’

There was no queue by the gate, just kids milling around. Beth was on her feet again, propped up against a hedge. Kevin was waving frantically. On the other side of the gate, Lytton saw the bland blond face of Constable Erskine, helmet off, Nazi-like and impassive.

‘James,’ Kev said, ‘we’ve got a problem…’

P
aul heard the doors being locked from the inside. Whatever was going on inside, he was shut out. He held Hazel’s face in his mind, seeing her not recognize him, calmly standing among the Sisters of the Agapemone. He admitted it. He’d lost her. The realization was as sharp as his jabbing tooth. He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

The Agapemone was closed to him, its thick walls holding in the secrets of Jago’s Brethren. Holding in Hazel. Sister Hazel. Paul wondered how he was going to explain this development—and the explanation would be demanded from
him
—to Hazel’s family. Her father would automatically blame Paul, and probably take out a contract on him. Patch, he wasn’t so sure of. She understood her sister better than anyone. She might even not be surprised. He would tell Patch, then let her break it to her father. That was as good a cowardly way as any to get out of it. Maybe he should call Patch now.

Someone had set up an amplifier and was playing gospel music very loud, shaking a tambourine along with the tapes. People were dancing, throwing themselves in the air like voodoo-worshippers.

How was he going to put it to Patch? Hazel has found God. Hazel has found religion. Not found, caught, the way you catch herpes. Hazel has caught religion. Not one of your High Street religions either, C of E or the Roman Candles. Not even the Hare Krishnas or the Unitarians, the Church of the Latter-Day Saints or the Church of Jesus Christ—Scientist. No, Hazel had strolled past the franchise churches and even wandered beyond the usual cults, the Unification Church, the Scientologists, the Jesus freaks, the Church of Satan, the Church of Elvis…

The Agapemone. The Abode of Love. He made fists, and resisted an impulse to hammer on the doors. ‘Hello, Love,’ he would have shouted. ‘Are you at home, Love? Answering the doorbell, Love? Registered letter for Love Divine. Step outside, Love.’

‘Lord god,’ he said, emptied of feeling, emptied of anger.

He couldn’t stand here all night. Paul walked off, elbowing through crowds. Away from the Manor House, he was surrounded by cacophony. There was music in the air, jarring and ill-proportioned. And a hundred clashing voices. And bodies in motion. Someone with a boom-box was playing Loud Shit, loud and shitty. He even recognized the track, ‘Heavier’n Osmium, Hotter’n Hell’. People were either fighting around the sound or slam-dancing. Someone collided with him, sorried, and backed off.

He walked into the village. The cider tent was doing bank-holiday business. Walking through the crowds, Paul felt like the Invisible Man. Annoyed with himself, he realized he was crying. He kept to the road, but the festival had overspilled its site and was leaking into the village. There were people all around, dancing, yelling, singing, wrestling.

Someone else rammed into him. ‘Watch out, fuckface,’ a young voice snarled. A paper carton crushed on the asphalt of the road, yellow-green cider spraying. Paul spread his hands in a shrug and said sorry.

‘So you should be,’ the young man said.

Looking up, Paul saw the face of the youth he had bumped. His red mohican stood up like the spinal crest of a prehistoric monster. Recognition came like a spark.

* * *

The Iron Insect’s disciple grabbed, getting a strong grip on his shoulder. Ferg counter-grabbed, catching the man’s wrist, trying to push him away.

‘Ferg,’ said Jessica, ‘what’s wrong?’

As if she didn’t know.

She was putting on an act for his benefit, pretending not to know the disciple. Salim stood quietly by, ready to slip a blade into Ferg’s back. Dolar and Syreeta goggled, overdoing innocent bewilderment.

‘Last night,’ the disciple said, ‘the war machine, you saw it? The Martian war machine?’

Ferg trembled and jerked his head forwards. He’d have nutted the disciple, but the man would have steel in his skull. That would be a good way to catch Ferg, to get him to smash his head open.

‘He didn’t mean to make you drop the cider,’ Jessica said.

Ferg hawked and spat in the disciple’s face.

‘Eeuurgh,’ Dolar said, ‘filthy beast.’

Jessica took a step back. She was out of it, letting her superior take over the fight. The disciple wiped himself with his hand, cold evil in his face. It was incredible he could pass for human. Underneath his plastic skin, you could see the steel skull. His eyes were frozen crystals, machine fluid pouring out of them.

‘Mister, I’m sorry,’ Jessica said, still pretending.

Ferg ran. He ran hard, feet lifting up, slamming down. He had to get away. If they caught him, the Iron Insect would get into his brain, sucking his memories.

* * *

As he ran, Paul’s chest hurt. Gerald had given him a few bruises, and he wasn’t used to running, anyway. A twenty-yard sprint to catch a bus left him with a throbbing head and pained ribs. His feet flapped, and he couldn’t breathe properly. His cursed tooth twinged. He ran after Ferg, and people ran after him. The girl was following, and a couple of others.

‘Gangway,’ he shouted at people.

Mostly they’d already been pushed aside by Ferg, so he had an easier time of it. The kid was younger than him, not that much fitter, and badly spooked. And he was slowing down.

‘Just… want… to… talk…’ he gasped, each word a knife in his lungs.

They were in the village proper now. Ferg put a foot wrong and tumbled, skidding on his hands and face. He fell by the dead tree outside the pub and lay there, branch shadows across him. None of the locals or visitors in the crowded pub garden made a move to help the fallen boy. They barely noticed him, continued with their drinking.

‘Ferg,’ Paul shouted.

He reached the tree and knelt by the dazed boy, helping him sit up. Ferg had cuts on his hands and a scratch down one cheek, but wasn’t badly hurt. The girl was there now. Unable to speak, she sank by the low wall of the pub garden and fought to get her puff back. There were others with her: an Indian or Pakistani boy, an old hippie, a woman with a headband.

‘What’s wrong with Ferg?’ the woman asked.

Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What did you do to him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why chase him?’

He had no easy answer. Ferg, recovered from his knock, kept his mouth shut like an arrested Mafia don waiting for the mob lawyer. This close, Paul realized the boy was scared to the point of paralysis. Holding Ferg’s arm, he could feel steel-cord tension in him.

‘Ferg,’ the girl said, ‘Ferg?’

Ferg looked away, face to the tree. Paul realized something else. What Ferg was terrified of. Him.

* * *

Ferg looked up and saw the Iron Insect’s limbs stretched against the sky. They were coated in gnarled wood, but unmistakable. They curled like fingers making a fist. He knew he was caught. The disciple had him. The others stood around, victorious. It was over. He might be the last human being in England.

‘Ferg?’ Jessica said, carrying on the cruel game. ‘What’s wrong?’

He waited to be changed.

* * *

‘He’s in shock,’ Paul said.

The girl listened to him.

‘Are you a doctor?’

‘No, I’m a PhD candidate.’

‘Then who gives a toss what you think?’

She was angry, protective. She’d hoped for someone authoritative to explain things to her. She sat by Ferg and hugged, hands curving around his face. He cringed as if she were a Martian, bloodsucking tentacles attaching to his flesh, poison-dripping mandibles tearing his skin.

‘Ferg?’

She let go of him, hurt in her face. The boy squirmed against the ground, pulling in his arms and legs and covering his face.

‘Last night,’ Paul said, ‘at the fire, we saw… something.’

‘You’re him,’ the woman said, ‘the man who went up the hill.’

‘Yes.’

‘He wouldn’t talk about it,’ she explained. ‘What happened up there?’

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he lied. ‘I don’t really know myself.’

The Asian boy looked disgusted and said, ‘You too, huh?’

‘Very sharp,’ Paul told him. ‘Me too. If you weren’t there, you wouldn’t believe me. If you were, you’d be like us. Everything is changed. You can’t go home again.’

Up by the Agapemone, people started cheering. Din cascaded down the hill, and the cry was taken up by the people in the pub garden. A smile spread on the old hippie’s face, and he joined his voice with the others. The mass emotion scared Paul further. In the moonlight, he saw the outline of the Manor House, stained-glass windows multicoloured pinpoints. He remembered Hazel’s eyes as she failed to recognize him, as she was tugged to the chapel.

The girl stood up and began to caterwaul, her joyous, mindless shout lost in the racket. The Asian boy and the hippie woman joined in. Paul saw that in the pub garden even the resentful locals, red-faced and middle-aged, were taking part. The sound was like a football crowd during the slow-motion replay of a last-second winning goal from the home team. The massed voices were a natural force. He was afraid his eardrums would burst. The people were not screaming or shouting or singing. They were not voicing recognizable words. They were opening their throats and making noise. He didn’t know how many thousands of people were part of the one giant voice, but it was one sound now, impossible to shut out of his head, impossible to resist.

Paul’s mouth was open, and the yell was spewing out. Then he saw Ferg, looking up at him, mouth shut, eyes cool, and the noise did not get past his tonsils.

* * *

The Iron Insect’s followers chirruped in worship. Invisible but obvious, monsters strode among the crowds, exciting commotion wherever they stepped. Ferg saw them all give in, drop the pretence. Dolar was first, but the others followed almost immediately. Jessica joined in. Then Salim, Syreeta, everyone. The disciple began, but stopped. And Ferg realized he was wrong. The man from the fire wasn’t a disciple. He was like him, one of the hold-outs. One of the last real people. The man looked at him. Ferg stood up. The noise of the Iron Insect’s worshippers was hideous, louder than any rock concert he had ever been to, louder than a hurricane. The man’s mouth opened and closed, but there was no way Ferg could have heard anything he said. He shrugged and held out his hand. The man mouthed exaggeratedly, and tapped his chest. Finally, Ferg worked it out. Paul. The man was introducing himself. Paul took his hand, and held fast. Among the ranks of the alien-infested, Ferg wasn’t alone. He held on to Paul’s hand as if it were the only fixed point in a collapsing universe.

S
usan went with the tide, filing towards the chapel with the rest of the Brethren. Inside, pain was a constant, shutting her senses down one by one.

‘We share Love,’ said Karen, taking up the phrase that rustled, a meaningless wind, through the congregation.

Brother Derek grinned, and nodded towards the postulant. ‘Looks smashin’, doesn’t she?’

Even if she shut her eyes, Susan could sense Jago. He was nearing, swelling large, blotting out all else. Beloved
was
the pain, a man-sized wound in her mind. In the dark of her head, he stood out like a man on fire, as if her mind were a night sight sensitive to body heat. His heart burned like a candleflame. Tonight, Jago’s Talent was active, reaching out beyond himself, dragging his followers into the world he’d made in his own image. It took all Susan’s strength to hold still, not to be sucked into Beloved’s vortex.

Angels and demons crowded in with the Brethren. Christs in the windows cried red from their wounds. According to David, Jago was a deluded Talent. Nothing more. With powers beyond the ordinary—like hers—and a misguided faith, he was capable of casting himself as his own holy trinity.