Blind Faith

• About the Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Also by Ben Elton:
  
  • Dead Famous
    
  • Past Mortem
    
  • The First Casualty
    

Ben Elton
is one of Britain's most provocative and entertaining
writers. From celebrity to climate change, from the
First World War to the end of the world, his books give his
unique perspective on some of the most controversial
topics of our time.

He has written twelve major bestsellers, including
Stark
,
Popcorn
(winner of the Crime Writers' Association Gold
Dagger Award),
Inconceivable
(filmed as
Maybe Baby
, which
he also directed),
Dead Famous
,
High Society
(winner of the
WHSmith People's Choice Award) and
The First Casualty
.

He has also written some of television's most popular and
incisive comedy, including
The Young Ones
,
Blackadder
and
The Man from Auntie.
His stage work includes three West
End plays and the hit musicals
The Beautiful Game
and
We
Will Rock You
.

He is married with three children.

www.rbooks.co.uk

Critical acclaim for Ben Elton:

Chart Throb

'A brilliantly savage, laugh-out-loud page turner'
OK! Magazine

The First Casualty

'Riveting action scenes bristle with a queasy
energy . . . unputdownable'
Sunday Telegraph

'A work of formidable imaginative scope . . . the writing is so
good, the language so surprisingly subtle and the characters so
beautifully delineated'
Daily Telegraph

Past Mortem

'Engaging and smartly plotted'
Observer

'
Past Mortem
confirms Elton as craftsmanlike,
thoughtful and readable'
Daily Mail

'He has not lost his canny eye for the preoccupations of his
peers . . . its warm-hearted characterisation and deft pacing
should make the paperback popular on next summer's
beaches'
Sunday Times

High Society

'As I raced to the end, I found myself applauding Elton. This is
a tough subject tackled with courage and commitment'
Will Hutton,
The Observer Review

'A fix of high comedy from a writer who provokes almost as
much as he entertains'
Daily Mail

'Tremendous narrative momentum . . . genuinely
moving'
The Times

'A return to Elton's top fiery form'
Glamour
magazine

'Very racy, a compulsive read'
Mirror

Dead Famous

'One of Ben Elton's many triumphs with
Dead Famous
is
that he is superbly persuasive about the stage of the story:
the characterisation is a joy, the jokes are great, the
structuring is very clever and the thriller parts are ingenious
and full of suspense. And not only that – the satire (of
Big Brother
, of the television industry, of the arrogant
ignorance and rabid inarticulacy of yoof culture) is
scathing, intelligent and cherishable.

As House Arrest's twerpy contestants would put it,
wicked. Double wicked. Big up to Ben Elton and respect,
big time. Top, top book'
Mail on Sunday

'Brilliant . . . Ben has captured the verbal paucity of this world
perfectly . . . devastatingly accurate in its portrayal . . . read
Elton's book' Janet Street-Porter,
Independent on Sunday

'Elton has produced a book with pace and wit, real tension,
a dark background theme, and a big on-screen climax'
Independent

'One of the best whodunnits I have ever read . . . This is a
cracking read – a funny, gripping, hugely entertaining thriller, but
also a persuasive, dyspeptic account of the way we live now,
with our insane, inane cult of the celebrity'
Sunday Telegraph

Inconceivable

'Extremely funny, clever, well-written, sharp and
unexpectedly moving . . . This brilliant, chaotic satire merits
rereading several times'
Mail on Sunday

'Extremely funny without ever being tasteless or cruel . . . this
is Elton at his best – mature, humane, and still a laugh a
minute. At least'
Daily Telegraph

'A very funny book about a sensitive subject. The
characters are well-developed, the action is page-turning and
it's beginning to seem as if Ben Elton the writer might be even
funnier than Ben Elton the comic'
Daily Mail

'This is Elton doing what he does best, taking comedy
to a place most people wouldn't dream of visiting and asking
some serious questions while he's about it. It's a brave
and personal novel'
Mirror

'A tender, beautifully balanced romantic comedy'
Spectator

'Moving and thoroughly entertaining'
Daily Express

'Anyone who has had trouble starting a family will
recognize the fertility roller-coaster Elton perceptively
and wittily describes'
The Age,
Melbourne

Blast from the Past

'The action is tight and well-plotted, the dialogue is punchy
and the whole thing runs along so nicely that you never have
to feel you're reading a book at all'
Guardian

'A strong beginning, and the reminder that it is fear itself that
makes you jump wouldn't be out of place in a psychological
thriller.
Blast from the Past
is a comedy, but an edgy comedy
. . . a slick moral satire that works as a hairy cliff-hanger'
Sunday Times

'
Blast from the Past
is a wicked, rip-roaring ride which charts the
fine lines separating hilarity from horror; the oily gut of fear
from the delicious shiver of anticipation'
West Australian

'Only Ben Elton could combine uncomfortable questions
about gender politics with a gripping, page-turning narrative
and jokes that make you laugh out loud' Tony Parsons

Also by Ben Elton

STARK
GRIDLOCK
THIS OTHER EDEN
POPCORN
BLAST FROM THE PAST
INCONCEIVABLE
DEAD FAMOUS
HIGH SOCIETY
PAST MORTEM
THE FIRST CASUALTY
CHART THROB

and published by Black Swan

Ben Elton

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407033839

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
161–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk

BLIND FAITH
A BLACK SWAN BOOK: 9780552773904

First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers
Black Swan edition published 2008

Copyright © Ben Elton 2007

Ben Elton has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK
can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009

ISBN: 9781407033839

Version 1.0

Typeset in 11/16pt Giovanni Book by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

For my wife and children

Trafford said goodbye to his wife, kissed their tiny baby on
the forehead and began to unlock the various bolts and
deadlocks that secured their front door.

'And a very good morning to you
too
, Trafford,' said the
voice of Barbieheart.

'Yes, of course, good morning, Barbieheart,' Trafford
replied nervously. 'Good morning indeed, I mean goodbye
. . . I mean . . . well, I mean I don't want to be late, you see.'

'I'm not holding you up, Trafford.'

'No. Absolutely.'

'Well now, you take care to have a great day.'

'Thank you. Thank you very much. I will.'

Trafford's wife looked at him angrily. He knew that
Chantorria suspected him of deliberately not greeting
Barbieheart, as some kind of protest, some bizarre bid for
independence. She was right, of course.

'Sometimes he doesn't even say good morning to
me
,'
Chantorria volunteered apologetically, waving at
Barbieheart's face on the wallscreen.

She was only trying to suck up; Trafford knew
Chantorria hated Barbieheart as much as he did. But trying
to keep her sweet was the right thing to do, the safe thing
to do. At least one member of the family had a sense of
what was proper.

Barbieheart extracted her hand from the huge sack of
cheesy snacks on which she was breakfasting and waved
back. She was moderator of the tenement chat room and,
having grown too large to leave her apartment, she was
scarcely ever absent from her post. A constant presence in
every household, Barbieheart was an extra member of the
family and one whom Trafford deeply resented.

'Go, go! Run, Trafford!' Barbieheart said with exaggerated
cheeriness. 'It's a brand new day, praise the Love.'

Trafford left his apartment and began to descend the
many litter-strewn, rat-infested staircases to the street
below. The lift worked but Trafford never used it. He
claimed he liked to walk down for the exercise but really it
was so that he could enjoy a few brief moments away from
communitainment screens. He could never admit that, of
course: it would look dangerously weird. After all, what
was not to like about a news and entertainment video on
the wall of a boring lift?

Out on the pavement Trafford headed for the tube
station, picking his way carefully through the cellophane,
the filthy pink ribbons, the rotting blooms, the little
photographs, the scribbled-on scraps of paper and the
gilt-edged cards:

Gathered unto the Lord.

One more star in the zodiac.

A new heartbeat in Heaven.

He knew better than to tread on a single kiss-laden
message or wilted flower; he had seen men beaten
senseless for less. They missed nothing, those keening
women who gathered on the pavements in the heat of the
morning to mourn their dead and broadcast to the street
the age-old songs of grief.

I will always love you.

The heart must go on.

One foot wrong, one petal defiled, and that weeping,
hugging huddle would without doubt consider themselves
to have been shown disrespect. And disrespect was
something for which, even in their grief, these women were
constantly vigilant. Even a suspicion of disrespect would
turn public sorrow instantly to public rage. The fuse was
short, the tinder dry; it took almost nothing to summon
forth the mob from the surrounding apartment buildings
and spark an orgy of People's Justice which the police
would regret but not condemn. Many who fell victim to the
righteous fury of the mob never understood what offence it
was that they had unwittingly given, just as many who
rushed to join the frenzied mêlée could only guess at what
outrage the object of their fury had committed. Something
to do with children, no doubt, because nobody dissed the
people's kiddies. Least of all the dead ones.

And there were so many dead ones.

Death was everywhere. In the buzz of insects' wings, in
the splashing of the dirty water and borne on the whisper
of the wind. It stalked everybody, old and young alike, but
it was the young who were the most vulnerable and they
suffered most.

Libra Divine: Heaven has a brand new superstar.

Tyson Armani: Simply the best.

Malibu: A candle in the wind.

So many dead children. Millions and millions of them.
No stretch of pavement without its shrine. No personal
web page without its catalogue of tiny faces that had
looked upon the world for such a short time but lived on
now only in Heaven and in cyberspace.

My little sister.

My tiny cousin.

My boy. My girl.

All safe now in the arms of Jesus. And Diana. The
Love Spirit and the Lord. Dead but safe. Safe, thank God,
from paedophiles.

Sagiquarius: Pure for ever. Defiled, never.

Child mortality was the burning cross that branded the
souls of the nation, the pain that the people must bear in
repentance for the sins of their faithless forefathers. No
child was safe: the plagues which swept through the
community affected rich and poor alike. God's great plan
was no respecter of wealth or rank, although without
doubt the more crowded the district, the more severe were
the epidemics that afflicted it. Bumps and sores, boils and
pustules, aching bones, running eyes and infected chests,
these were the dangers that an infant must negotiate
before it had even learned to walk. The mother who
brought six babies into the world could only hope to take
three of them to McDonald's to celebrate their fifth
birthdays. For half of them at least, the party sacks would
never be filled.

Chantorria had recently given birth to their first child, a
time of joy but also a time of grim trepidation. Like all
new parents, she and Trafford had spent the weeks since
their daughter's arrival listening out for telltale coughs,
watching for rashes and testing constantly for sensitivity to
sound and light.

Now, however, it was time for Trafford to return to work
and this particular day was a Fizzy Coff. Fizzy Coff was
short for 'physical office' and meant that it was a day when
Trafford's personally adapted work structure required him
to attend his actual workplace, as opposed to the virtual
version which existed online and which he could get to
without leaving his bed.

Fizzy Coffs were a statutory requirement; the law
expected each person to spend at least 25 per cent of
their working hours in the company of real, physical
colleagues in a real physical space. It was intended at
some point to increase this proportion to 50 per cent
and the transport system was supposedly being updated
to cope with the extra travel hours, but Trafford
doubted that it would ever happen. All future planning
for the transport system seemed to him to focus on the
modest ambition of preventing it from grinding to a
complete halt.

Fizzy Coffs were a relatively recent development. Twenty
solstices previously, when Trafford had first entered
employment, he had not been required to go out to a
physical workplace at all. Few people did, except those
whose job was serving food and drink or lapdancing. That
had been in a time when the virtues of the virtual had
gone unchallenged. The public health advantages of
keeping people apart had been obvious and it was
generally assumed that at some point all work would be
done at home. But the growing trend towards social
dysfunction had alerted both the Temple and the
government to the human need for Face Time. Care
workers and spiritual counsellors had concluded that
people who dealt exclusively with virtual individuals
tended to be at an emotional disadvantage when
confronted with the real thing. Unable to relate to fellow
members of the community, they were awkward,
tongue-tied, and would occasionally shoot at random
as many people as they could before turning their guns
on themselves.

It had also become clear that it was impossible to meet
a series of sexual partners while sitting alone in a tiny
flat in front of a computer screen surrounded by pizza
boxes. This had of course brought the Temple into the
debate. With one in two children dying in infancy, the first
and foremost spiritual duty of the people was to produce
more children and you cannot produce children without
sexual partners. The High Council of the Temple had
therefore let it be known that the government must enable
the people to interact more regularly, and so Fizzy Coffs
became mandatory.

It was therefore principally in order to produce children
and to prevent them from developing into deranged
killers that Trafford found himself picking his way
through the emotionally charged litter of a permanently
traumatized society in the burning heat of a stinking
Sagittarian morning.