Only Human (25 page)

‘Righty-ho. I've got Mr Villiers on the line for you.'

‘Splendid - ah, Tristram, how's tricks? Yes, just fine, except for this Consolidated Oilfields result. How do you pick 'em,Tristram, a blindfold and a pin and the
Mammoth Book of Losers?
Yes, I know it was always speculative, but there's speculative and there's taking twenty grand of the diocesan tea money and putting it on a three-legged greyhound. Yes, sell the whole blasted holding, at least we can offset the loss against the capital gains tax on the Lanesco bid. What? Yes, of
course
I want you to take up those rights, He might have been born in a bloody stable but I wasn't.Yes, right, see you for golf on Sunday. Bye.'

He slammed down the phone, muttered something theological (at least, it had God in it somewhere) and reached for his calculator. He was in the middle of a complex double-grossing-up calculation when Nicky appeared again.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘It's that vicar. He won't go away.'

‘Won't he? Call the police. And get me last week's
Investor's Chronicle
, would you? There's a bit in there about the De Beers interim figures I need to look at before next week's synod.'

Before Nicky could move, the door burst open and Artofel charged in. Smoothly pressing the panic button with his knee, the Bishop nodded to Nicky that it was all right, he'd deal with it, and stood up.

‘You,' he said, ‘out. Now, before I have you thrown out.'

‘But My Lord,' Artofel replied, bewildered, ‘I need your help. It's serious. There's a major conspiracy of demons plotting to take over the world, and since you're my immediate superior—'

The Bishop looked at him. Long practice gave him the confidence to put this one in the Harmless category. ‘So?' he said. ‘You're a priest. Deal with it.'

‘What?'

‘You heard,' replied the Bishop, sitting down and picking up a sheaf of papers. ‘You're a fully trained clergyman, you ought to know what to do. If you've forgotten, look it up.'

‘But you don't understand,' Artofel cried, planting his hands on the desktop and leaning forwards. ‘These aren't just ordinary demons like you and - I mean, just ordinary demons. They're - they're
evil
. Really they are. They want to—'

‘Listen.' The Bishop lolled back in his chair and lit a cigar. ‘Calm down and stop breathing in my face. Thank you. Now then, look at this picture on the wall. See it?'

‘Yes, My Lord. It's you.'

‘Very good. And what's that written underneath it?'

Artofel looked closely. ‘The Right Reverend Trevor Jones, Bishop of . . .'

‘Quite,' His Lordship replied. ‘Bishop. In other words, management. Look, son, every time a screw comes loose on the production line at Dagenham, they don't send for the Managing Director to come and tighten it. No, they do it themselves, because that's their job, and he's got his. My job is to manage. Demons are strictly a field operative's responsibility. Got a book?'

‘What? I mean, yes, but listen . . .'

‘Bell? Candle? White sheet with hole for your head to go through? Then get out and earn your pay, and stop bothering me. Or would you rather I transferred you to a nice quiet living somewhere in Moss Side? Always an opening there for enthusiastic young clergymen who come barging in disturbing their superiors. Ah, the hell with these Sainsbury's cigars, go out as soon as look at you. Got a light?'

‘No, sorry.' Artofel took a deep breath. All it needed, he was sure, was for him to find the right words so that he could explain. After all, it was important; and, as the man had just said, rogue demons were the responsibility of the local Topside field officers. That was what they were there for; surely he could understand
that
. . . ‘Please,' he said, ‘you've got to listen. It's not just the ordinary demons this time. I know all about them, and the bilateral Topside/ Flipside non-aggression treaties. Dammit, I'm one of . . .I know about these things. But this is different. These demons are
breaking the rules
.'

The Bishop ground his teeth, a small mannerism of his which helped relieve tension. ‘Now then, my friend,' he said, in a voice that suggested that he was being patient now, for a limited period only, Irritate Now While Stocks Last. ‘We pride ourselves on being a tolerant Church, as you know. We don't mind batty vicars, so long as they keep their paws off the choirboys and don't go on the telly. It's all part of the picturesque charm, dotty vicars, it helps get bums on pews. But you are rapidly ceasing to be picturesque and becoming a pain in the jacksy. Now get back to your church, forgive some sins, bless a few crispbreads, do whatever it is you people do and don't let me ever catch you in here again. Understood? That's a direct order. Now hop it.'

Artofel took a step forwards and closed his fists. The Bishop jumped out of his chair, grabbing for the ornate and heavy crosier propped against the wall. ‘Nicky!' he yelled. ‘I thought I told you to call the Filth. Where are they?'

‘It's all right.' Artofel came round the side of the desk, and found the head of the crosier prodding in his stomach. ‘Oh for pity's sake,' he said, losing his temper, ‘put that ridiculous thing down and come and look at your computer.'

The Bishop scowled. ‘What's my computer got to do with . . .?'

‘I didn't want to have to do this,' Artofel said, tapping keys. ‘Still, you wouldn't listen, so you've brought it on yourself. I'm not really a vicar.'

‘Not any more you're not.'

‘I never was,' Artofel replied, as text scrolled up like approaching thunderclouds. ‘I'm a Duke of Hell, and before you start yelling bloody murder I'll prove it to you. Now, you know your security codes? Grade Four, levels green and above, categories nine and four hundred and six?'

The Bishop's jaw dropped. ‘Hey,' he objected. ‘How'd you know about that stuff? That's supposed to be restricted.'

‘Joke,' Artofel replied. ‘Show me any Topside junior-level access code I can't bypass and I'll buy you a vanilla slice. Here we go,' he added, as the screen settled down. ‘Now, press that key there, and you'll see my personnel file. My works number is 976404312, and I put fifty Nicks a week into the office Lottery syndicate. Go on, press the button.'

A few moments later the Bishop looked up from the screen, his expression one of terrified awe. ‘My God,' he said. ‘It's true. You're a fiend.'

‘Correct. Oh come on, put that silly crucifix down, we're all on the same side really.' Artofel frowned, as the penny tinkled on the floor of his mind. ‘Didn't you know?' he said. ‘Gosh. I'd have thought they'd have told you that. What,' he added cruelly, ‘with you being
management
and everything.'

The Bishop looked at him suspiciously. ‘How do I know that?' he demanded. ‘I mean, you're just saying that to tempt me. Begone, foul spawn of night—'

‘Please be quiet. Thank you. Now,' Artofel continued, tapping a few more keys, ‘the point is this. There's a syndicate of demons out there - our people, I'm ashamed to say; there's a few good apples in every barrel - who've broken the rules. They've got some sort of conspiracy to overthrow the Boss, and you've got to stop it. Got that?'

The Bishop turned pale. ‘There's devils conspiring to overthrow Satan, and you're asking
me
to intervene?'

Artofel started counting to ten; he got as far as three. ‘Not Satan, you idiot.The
Boss
. Haven't you been listening to a word I've said? Now, under the Bethlehem protocol, any unauthorised hostile activity by an agent of one side falls to be dealt with by the other side's local officer in whose jurisdiction the breach occurs. In this case, you.' He smiled, and sat down in the Bishop's swivel chair. ‘So what are you going to do about it?' he asked politely.

‘I - I don't know,' the Bishop replied, flopping bonelessly into the visitor's chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘What's the conspiracy about? Do you know? Sir?' he added quickly.

‘No,' Artofel replied. ‘All I know is, I've somehow been scooped up out of my incarnation as a Duke of Hell and beamed down here into the body of a Church of England vicar. And now,' he went on grimly, ‘they want the body. I don't know what for, but it seems logical that they want this particular body because of something to do with the transmigration. Sound reasonable to you?'

‘Um,' the Bishop replied.

‘Quite.' Artofel steepled his fingers. ‘I've also got an idea,' he went on, ‘that it's somehow connected with Kawaguchiya Integrated Circuits - you know, the computer firm?'

‘KIC?' The Bishop's face creased with panic. ‘Christ, I've got shares in them.'

‘Indeed?' Artofel grinned. ‘Well, in that case, you either stand to make a killing or lose your cassock, I don't know which right now. That's actually the very least of your problems. Might you not feel that a diabolical plot to undermine the authority of God is perhaps slightly more important even than that?'

‘Huh? Oh, well, yes, I suppose so. Look, if I could just have a moment to phone my broker. You see, it's diocesan money and I'm responsible.'

Artofel sighed. ‘Bureaucrats,' he murmured. ‘Waste of space, all of them. In fact, the only reason I don't wash my hands of the lot of 'em is I'm one too.' He hesitated for a moment as a thought crept under the door of his mind. ‘Your broker,' he said. ‘Decent sort of a chap?'

‘I suppose so,' the Bishop replied. ‘Fairly sound on overall portfolio strategy, if a trifle over-inclined to—'

‘No, no, I didn't mean is he competent, I asked you if he was
decent
. Honest. Upright. Full of righteousness and so forth.'

The Bishop shook his head. ‘I doubt that very much,' he replied. ‘Wouldn't have got very far in the stockbroking lark if he was.'

‘Splendid. Right, I want you to ring him up and tell him to sell all your KIC stocks immediately. Sound worried.'

‘Won't be hard,' the Bishop said. ‘You really think they're a bad investment at this time?'

‘Oh for - listen. I want to start a run on their shares. One of those wild, irrational lemming-like panics the Stock Exchange is so famous for. I'm not sure what effect it'll have, but if KIC is involved somehow, it might force something to happen and we might be a bit closer to finding out what's going on.'

‘You think that's wise?'

Artofel shrugged. ‘No idea,' he replied. ‘But somebody's got to do something. I'm just a vicar and you're useless. What else do you suggest?'

The Bishop thought for a moment. ‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘And even if it doesn't work, we could still make a packet on the side if we buy at the bottom, using nominees of course, maybe through a Channel Islands trust . . .'

Artofel looked at him with distaste. ‘My Lord,' he said. ‘Ever wondered whether you might possibly be in the wrong job?'

‘Me?' The Bishop reflected briefly. ‘No. Why?'

‘Doesn't matter.You just make the call, and leave Good and Evil to me. After all,' he added ruefully, ‘I'm not a clergyman. I'm a wages clerk.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, get on with it.'

 

Softly, like rose-petals drifting down on top of a snowdrift, the undercarriage of Zxprxp's Starglider touched the roof of Ten Downing Street. With a faint sigh, the anti-gravitational inertial dampers took the weight, and he cut the engines.

Below, the inevitable policeman stood, hands behind back, eyes staring straight ahead. If he'd looked up, he might have thought it was an updated version of Santa's sleigh, or a very large mutant pigeon. Fortunately, he didn't hear a sound or move a muscle. He didn't even register the faint whirr, like a faery blender, of the circular saw cutting a neat round hole in the roof.

Well, Zxprxp reflected as he lowered himself down into the attic, this would seem to be the place; all I've got to do now is find the leader. Oh well, it's not a very big building.

The automatically triggered remote controls built into his belt-mounted instrument array dealt with all the various alarms and security devices without his even knowing there were any. Accordingly, when he pushed open a door and found a humanoid life form sitting in the room behind it, his attention wasn't distracted by hordes of security guards abseiling in through windows. ‘Excuse me,' he said.

The man turned his head, stared at him; said nothing.

‘I come in peace,' Zxprxp said automatically. ‘Um, are you the Prime Minister?'

The man carried on staring at him out of round, expressionless eyes. For some reason best known to himself, he was sitting on top of a big, old-fashioned wardrobe, underneath which someone had laid ten or twelve thick, fleecy duvets and a pile of cushions. Since, where Zxprxp came from, intelligent life forms rested and slept curled up inside the boles of giant fungi and stored their equivalent of clothes in the discarded shells of
hrtewqztqx
eggs, he had no way of knowing whether what the man was doing was normal or not. Reasonable to assume, he decided, that it was. After all, this is their
leader
. They wouldn't have a weirdo or an idiot as their leader, now would they? Stood to reason.

‘Um,' Zxprxp said, ‘I'm from another planet. I'm here to, er, study your dominant species with a view to establishing diplomatic links between our two worlds. Thanks to my universal translation device, I can understand what you say.That is, if you were to say anything, I'm sure I'd be able to understand it. Hello?'