Jago (48 page)

It was not finished yet. Usually, Jago managed to wind it up with a pristine climax and withdrew to be wiped down by the handmaids. Tonight, he was grunting softly as he ground away at Hazel, using the senseless girl as if she were a sex doll.

She caught snatches of the bright-glowing fantasy pouring from Jago’s head, but, for the most part, her Talent let her see the tawdry truth: a haggard lecher fucking a brainwashed dupe.

She unwound Karen’s hand from her own and got out of her pew. Nearby, Jenny was on her knees, smiling quietly to herself, looking with worship at the Great Manifestation. Joan of Arc must have been mad, too.

Jago’s hands held Hazel to the altar. Tears flowed from shut-tight eyes as his dick knifed in and out of the girl.

‘Alleiluya,’ the Brethren sang, over and over. ‘Alleiluya, alleiluya…’

It wasn’t even Jago’s fault. He was mad because his people wanted him to be, begged him to be. Letting him play out his Messiah fantasies was a way of keeping his Talent caged. God knows, it wasn’t easy living with what they had in their heads. Chemicals in the brain. Sometimes the Talent felt like an alien parasite, edging out the original occupant of the body, taking over. Inside, there was probably a shred of the real Jago.

Susan walked to the aisle, where Mick had stripped Marie-Laure and was trying to penetrate the mindless woman, begging for a response, crying out in his own agony. Cindy and Phillip were spooning, hands held, teenagers in the back row of the stalls. Derek—without Wendy for once—was on his knees, praying, adoring, shoulders shaking. Sister Kate was stroking her pregnancy, pain and happiness mingled in her face. Their eyes all flashed gold and red as the Spirit moved them.

Useless, Susan accused herself.

All her Talent, all her powers, all the things that made her Witch Susan... Nothing had helped.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking at Hazel’s slumped, sleeping face.

It was stifling in the chapel, and her robe was sticky, scratchy.

Mick squirted semen on Marie-Laure’s belly, never having managed to get inside. He fell, sobbing, on the woman. Reviving a little, she stroked his back, needle-marks purple on her skin. Susan stepped around them, and walked towards the doorway.

She decided. No matter what might come down from the ministry, from David, no matter what James advised, she’d end this.

She looked at Jago, sensing he was nearly through, and his eyes bolted open. For the first time, Beloved, confused and questioning,
saw
Susan, recognized her for what she was. In this moment, he wanted more than anyone else for her to do what she could. Then, his face red, he began to shake. And light erupted all around.

* * *

In her arms, Jazz trembled like a bomb on the point of exploding. Allison held her tight. Ben-in-Allison stabbed into Jazz, sinking through their stretched-taut clothes. The fires burned on all sides. Allison felt Badmouth Ben flowing out of her, bursting from their male-female loins, struggling to be born again. Jazz’s head had worked a depression in the shingles, and her hair was a shaggy ruin, sharp stones clinging to her goth perm like ornaments to a Christmas tree. Even through Jazz’s clothes and her own, Allison could feel heat building up in her, feel the searing where their flesh met. The girl’s mouth was open, and she was sucking in fire. It flowed like a reverse film into Jazz’s mouth and nostrils, ears and eyes.

* * *

Jenny shared Love. Beloved had chosen well, Hazel was truly a Sister of the Agapemone. She was transported to her own Great Manifestation, and sang in joy. For a moment, she was Hazel, and Janet, and Marie-Laure, and Wendy. They were one person, a female embodiment of Love. Then she was herself again, weak from ecstasy, unable to stop babbling. A stage of her elevation was over. It had been very special, very tempting, very rewarding. But now Hazel was the Sister-Love, and she must step back, be truly a handmaiden, truly one of the Sisters. Humbly, she bowed her head. There was light all around. Everything was changed.

* * *

In the Keough cottage, Lytton held tight to the banisters. The screaming had stopped, and the house no longer shook as if in an earthquake. The madness had lasted a few minutes at most. Draper had ignored the whole thing, mind fixed on the corpse at the top of the stairs.

‘He’s not been dead long,’ Draper explained, ‘and we caught this young bugger slipping out, pockets full of silver candlesticks. He might as well have been wearing a striped jersey, a mask and a black beret, carrying a bag marked “swag”. He had over three hundred notes on him. Where’d a no-no like our Edward get that unless he was pilfering?’

‘But… but…’

He couldn’t complete the thought.

The whole village had just screamed, Lytton included. He didn’t know why, but he’d screamed with the rest, clinging to Danny Keough’s banister and shouting like a dying man. He hadn’t been the only one. Teddy had screamed too, and the black constable. He was afraid even Danny Keough, stiff on the landing, had joined in. Now it was over, his ears weren’t used to it. Everything sounded like the scream.

‘This is serious, of course,’ Draper shouted.

* * *

In her dream, Hazel was happier than she’d ever been. She was on the beach at Brighton. The sun was tropical, the sea bluer than the summer sky. Paul was there, laughing and joking. And her parents, holding hands as they paddled. And Patch, with her faceless boyfriend, big glasses on, not reading a book. Susan, hair over one eye, posed for a snap, looking pretend sad. The light was so strong everything glittered and sparkled like molten gold, but it did not hurt her eyes. Music was playing, calling everyone. An open-topped double-decker bus, bright red, drove along the seafront, party-goers singing and dancing on the exposed deck. Everyone was around her, laughing, smiling, stroking. She was in love, but not with anyone in particular. Just in love.

* * *

‘Fuck me,’ X said, ‘what was that all about?’

Jeremy didn’t know.

‘Fuck me,’ X said again.

‘Yeah,’ said Ingraham, ‘that’s right, fuck you.’

‘No, fuck you.’

‘You!’

They began fighting. X made a fist and smashed Ingraham’s nose. Blood burst from his nostrils. Then X put his hands by his side, and Ingraham punched him in the stomach, doubling him over. X held his gut and straightened up, while Ingraham composed himself. X crouched and punched upwards between Ingraham’s legs. The boy strangled a cry, and took a moment or two to get his breath back.

The policemen came out of Mr Keough’s cottage, dragging Teddy Gilpin, the man from the Agapemone wandering after them. Jeremy watched X and Ingraham exchange blows, gradually losing interest in the fight even as eyes swelled and teeth were spat out.

* * *

Susan tried to hold on, but the world fell down around her head. Jago’s Talent was beyond even his control now. And it was loose.

* * *

Beloved gently stood back, and His Sister-Love slithered from the altar, falling in a faint, robes bunching up around her. Jenny had His towel ready, clean and scented, and she rubbed oils and ointments from His body. Kate helped, dabbing at Him. His Love enveloped them. The Lord God was in the flesh, and among the Brethren.

* * *

Teddy couldn’t explain, not to Draper, not to James. Constable Erskine held his arm up behind his back as school bullies sometimes did, giving him a wrench every minute or so, just to remind him how close he was to pain.

In the street, there were lots of people. People he knew. Sharon Coram, stripped down to a bra and a half-slip, was kissing a long-moustached Rasputin look-alike he didn’t recognize. Kev Conway and Beth Yatman passed a plastic container of Calver cider between them.

‘Kev,’ he said, ‘get—’

Erskine gave his arm a yank, and a knob of pain in his shoulder burst.

‘Hang him,’ someone shouted.

Two skunk lads, observed by a quiet and white-faced Jeremy Maskell, were belting each other silly by the garage forecourt. From a slightly tugged-aside curtain, a pale little-girl face looked down at Teddy as he was dragged into the road. He thought for a heart-stab moment it was Jenny, but it was Lisa. When he thought of Jenny, he preferred to think of her as she’d been when she looked like Lisa rather than as the God-bothered stranger she’d grown into.

‘Kick him in the goolies.’

‘Looks like your fans are out in force tonight, Gilpin Minor,’ Erskine said, pressing his knee to Teddy’s back.

‘Hang
him by his goolies.’

Sharon, whod always been a mean cow, took the trouble to spit in his face, then got back to work with Rasputin, her hands twisting in his crotch-length beard. Kev and Beth had gone away, slipping into the crowd, not wanting to admit they knew him. Teddy supposed he didn’t have any parents any more, much less any friends. Erskine wouldn’t let him wipe Sharon’s phlob from his face. He went quietly, bent almost double, looking up despite the pain in his neck, just in case Erskine fancied running his head into a wall.

James was with the police, but hadn’t done anything to stop them. That was the way it always was for Teddy, with teachers and adults. He always ended up disappointing them. The only person who looked him in the face was Jeremy, and the freak kid was hardly likely to be any help. Teddy knew he’d regret not getting out of the village this afternoon.

* * *

Susan watched Jago tie his robe about his middle again, putting away his dangling hosepipe of dick. The sickening thing was that, in the end, the Agapemone was just about Jago’s dick. The rest was trimming, a religious smokescreen to prevent him suffering guilt. She thanked God he’d never fancied her.

The rest of the Brethren were fixed on their leader now, murmuring Beloved, reciting random scraps of the Song of Solomon. Mick was crying, trying to Love himself. Marie-Laure was beside him, head up for once, quietly contemptuous. Cindy and Phillip still held hands.

Ignored by all, Susan stepped past Jago, taking care not to touch so much as the hem of his garment, and knelt by Hazel. Jenny and Kate were too busy adoring to bother with the postulant, so it fell to Witch Susan. The girl was just asleep, dreaming sweet dreams. She didn’t even seem to be bruised by the Great Manifestation. But Susan had no way of knowing how damaged Hazel was in her mind. For the moment, she arranged the robe around her, covering her sacrifice’s body. She hoped Hazel was on the pill, or not ovulating. One Jago was enough for the world.

‘Hazel,’ she said, touching the girl’s face.

The others were leaving the chapel, following Beloved’s procession. Karen, a weak link, lingered, and came over.

‘Help me with her,’ Susan said.

‘She’s blessed,’ Karen said, admiring.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

As Jago walked away, Susan felt his power dwindle. But she knew it wouldn’t dissipate this time. It was outside him, rushing through the whole village, making dreams come true. How long had Alder been waiting for Jago, she wondered, waiting for the fuse to set the explosion? There were individual screams now, of pain and terror. Jago’s charade was continuing, with real blood spilled, real people hurt. Soon, she was afraid, the Massacre of the Innocents would start. That would be another role for Jago’s biblical CV: Herod.

‘She’s coming round,’ Karen said.

Hazel was murmuring in her sleep, smiling, stretching like a cat. Her eyes slipped open. ‘Beloved,’ Hazel said.

Susan knew the girl was lost.

* * *

Terry and the Toad held the thrashing Jazz down as fire poured into her. Allison straddled the girl, watching the ritual work itself out. Almost all the fire was in Jazz now. Allison was herself again in body. She would always have Badmouth Ben in her heart, but she’d absorbed his flesh completely. It had been interesting being half a man for a minute, but she wouldn’t want to try it for life.

Auras swirled in the air, clinging like overlapping curtains. Allison could touch them. Forces in the earth were welling up. This was a site of power, and it was flowing into Jazz. The goth should be honoured. She was full of fire now, as hard to touch as a boiling kettle. Allison stood up and rubbed her burned thighs. Her jeans were scorched where she’d been straddling Jazz. Terry and the Toad kept their grips on the girl’s wrists, smoke pouring through their fingers as they yelped with pain.

Jazz’s face was scarlet now, fire burning under skin, reddening flesh like a bulb inside a thick shade. It didn’t hurt the girl, but she found it hard to contain the power. Her legs kicked, spike bootheels stabbing shingles, and her shoulders wriggled against the ground. Allison, feeling the Spirit inside her, knelt and delicately extracted Jazz’s stiletto from its sheath. The instrument was warm, but not uncomfortable to the touch. It had already been consecrated with blood. Inside Allison, Ben’s breath quickened at the feel of the knife he’d used. And Wendy flinched, remembering its sharp slipperiness.

There were fires down in the village, and the shouts of a fight. She knelt again, one knee against Jazz’s tight stomach, forcing the girl’s back against the ground. She ignored the burning pain and touched the tip of the stiletto to Jazz’s chest, slicing away the gauze scarves to rest against the black stretch of leotard over her ribs where Allison could see the pulse of her heart. The last of the fire was gone, and Jazz was trying to twist under the knife. Allison pressed slightly, and the knifepoint scratched a hole in fabric, drawing a dewdrop of blood.

* * *

People ran past Paul, jostling him. Ferg was crouched down by the wall, arms over his head. Dolar was grinning and holding out his hands to touch people, some of whom hit him as they passed. He didn’t seem to mind. Ferg’s girlfriend was pressed against Ferg, though he was cringing away from her. The Asian kid and Dolar’s companion were totally bewildered.

‘Peace,’ Dolar was saying.

There was a boom, and Dolar was lifted off his feet, slammed against the tree. He slipped to the ground, a rose-shaped splatter on his shoulder, seeping into his muslin shirt. He put his hand to the blooming blood and stared at it, disbelieving what he saw or felt. There was another boom, and a patch of the tree’s black bark exploded, showing orange flesh beneath. A man in striped pyjamas stood in the street, shotgun in his hands. He was trying to reload, fishing cartridges out of his top pocket, muttering something about ‘beatnik bastards’.