October Skies (30 page)

 

Why do you not speak to me?

Preston stirred uneasily on his cot, not quite asleep, but not awake.

Why? Everything I’ve done, I have done for you.

But neither God, nor his emissary, the angel, spoke.

He felt hot and restless beneath the layers of blankets over him, kicking them back in his restless half-sleep.

The angel would only come to those he trusted . . . those God trusted. A truth he knew. The words of God were so precious, so very fragile, so easily taken and corrupted by those with ambition, by those self-appointed to speak on His behalf. The Bible, written by a succession of men with selfish agendas - greedy men, arrogant men. The Book of Mormon written by Joseph Smith, a man who hungered to escape anonymity, to author his very own religion from nothing. The Torah, the Qu’ran . . . an endless procession of pretenders.

I’m not like these men. I don’t do this for myself. I do this for you, God. So that finally it is YOUR words that people will hear, not mine. Nor any other man’s.

The silence was deafening.

Something was wrong. That was why Nephi was not coming to him, to translate the language of angels to one that his humble human mind could comprehend. Something was keeping Nephi away.

Perhaps Vander was right. Perhaps it was the Devil keeping him away. There was evil all around them. The dirty-faced savages out amongst the trees; the others in the camp; amongst them a Catholic family, a Muslim family, a Negro with skin scorched by sin, Keats - profane, ugly, crude - and his Indian partner.

And Lambert, of course, an atheist who tried to insinuate his way into Dorothy’s family like a snake, whispering dirty lies to both Samuel and Emily.

His thoughts, disjointed and fleeting as they were, were abruptly halted by a powerful, certain knowledge that he was not alone in his temple. He thought he heard the whisper of movement beside his cot, something that stirred inside his metal chest. The soft squeak of unoiled hinges opening, the gentle clink of fragile bones.

‘Is that you?’ he muttered breathlessly in the dark. ‘Have you come?’

William.

The voice, a quiet whisper, materialised in the pitch-black emptiness just above his cot.

‘Nephi?’

Yes.

An overpowering, euphoric surge of relief pulsed through Preston. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. ‘Oh, thank the Lord . . . thank the Lord! I was afraid that I’d done something wrong.’ Preston sat up. ‘Are we to start God’s work this night? To translate his message from the scrolls?’

He sensed movement in the dark, the brush of something passing by.

No.

The answer confused him momentarily. ‘Then what are we to do first?’ he asked.

I am leaving you, William.

The words hung in the air before him, incomprehensible for a moment. Words he never expected to hear. ‘Leaving? But . . . but why?’

There was no reply.

‘Why?’

Preston felt another gentle draught of movement coming from the pitch-black space in front of him, and heard the soft tinkle of the bones in their canvas sack.

You disappoint me.

‘How? How do I . . . what have I done wrong?’ Preston cried.

The angel left the question unanswered.

‘What have I done wrong?’ Preston cried again, his voice raised, his sweat-damp cheeks moistened further with tears. He felt a sudden cold blast of air from outside, chilling his damp body.

‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No! PLEASE NO!’

He jerked on the cot, suddenly fully awake and trembling like a mongrel left outside on a frozen night. But he was lying down, not sitting up as he thought he had been, and covered once more with his blankets, cold and damp with his sweat.

Was I dreaming?

Preston realised that he must have been. But it had felt so real, so dreadfully, painfully real. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and a wave of relief wash over him. Just a dream, then - a nightmare, in fact. The angel hadn’t spoken to him after all. With that realisation there was disappointment, but it was more than compensated by the relief that he’d not been judged and found wanting.

He reached for some matches, struck one and lit the wick of the oil lamp that sat on a small wooden crate beside his cot. It caught, flickered and glowed softly, pushing the darkness back through the wind-teased flap and out into the cold night.

He turned in his cot, the wooden frame creaking with the weight of his body, to see the metal chest sitting wide open.

‘Oh . . . n-no . . . no,’ he whispered.

 

Julian sat in what he was beginning to think of as the ‘waiting room’. Dr Thomas Griffith’s offices in Fulham consisted of a couple of rooms: his office and another, larger room in which his personal assistant sat behind a desk facing a sofa and a coffee table. Last time Julian had worked with him, his office had been a small study in his home.

The book was obviously doing well.

The phone had been answered at least four times since he had arrived and he half-listened to one-sided conversations whilst flicking through the Media pullout in today’s Times. From what he could hear there was a steady traffic of public appearance requests.

His eyes drifted onto a copy of USA Today.

On the cover was the image of a face he vaguely recognised. He reached across the coffee table and picked up the magazine. Then he managed to place him: it was the American businessman who had recently thrown his hat in for the presidential election. It was an item on the news show he’d caught during the flight back home; an outsider many were calling a fool because he was campaigning so early and was bound to peak and wilt before the final showdown in about eighteen months’ time.

He recalled the man was some kind of a religious figure . . . Shepherd, that was it, that was his name; a lay preacher of some kind with a lot of money to burn, and a lot of friendly, mostly religious, sponsors gathering around his campaign. Skimming through the article inside, he discovered Shepherd owned a regional media network in Utah, and ran a string of small spiritual colleges that, in the eyes of the journalist, were vaguely reminiscent of the Islamic madrasas in northern Pakistan.

The door to the office swung open to reveal Dr Griffith’s wide frame. He had put on even more weight since the last time Julian had seen him. At a glance he guessed he must weigh sixteen or seventeen stone.

A lot of good living.

‘Julian!’ his rich voice boomed as he thrust out a hand towards him. ‘Fantastic to see you again.’

Julian reached for his hand. ‘Good to see you too, Tom. Things are looking good, eh?’

‘Very good. I should be writing more and doing less television, really. I’m becoming like those media tramps I despise.’

Julian grinned. ‘Or ex-media tramps in my case.’

Tom grinned. ‘You were never a tramp, Jules. Come on in,’ he said, gesturing to the study beyond. He turned to his assistant. ‘Judy, don’t put any calls through for the next half-hour or so, okay?’

‘Of course, Dr Griffith.’

Julian stepped into the office and sat in a winged leather seat opposite Tom’s expansive dark wood desk. ‘Very nice sanctum sanctorum you’ve got here,’ he said, looking around at the tasteful decor and the glistening sheen of polished wood.

‘I’ve always loved quality office furniture,’ said Tom as he pulled his seat out and sat heavily down. ‘It’s one of my weaknesses. The timber for this desk is reclaimed Indonesian teak - reclaimed from the hulls of fishing vessels. There’s no way to get your hands on that kind of wood without bribing the right official.’

‘My desk, by contrast, is a flat-pack from Ikea.’

Tom laughed, not unkindly. ‘I don’t recall you being as vain or materialistic as I am, though.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Julian with a wry smile. ‘Be nice to be able to put that to the test, though.’

Tom offered a conciliatory nod. ‘Things will turn around for you, Jules. You’re smart and you’re tenacious. That girl you worked with . . . Rose, was it?’

‘Yes, Rose.’

‘You’re still partners in crime?’

He nodded.

‘She’s an incredibly good film-maker. I really liked what you did with that series. And . . .’ said Tom, reaching across the vast expanse of his desk and pulling out a lined pad of paper from the pile in his in-tray ‘. . . I really think you two will be on your way back out of the wilderness with this,’ he said, flourishing a page of notes written in his spidery hand.

Tom reached for an inhaler on his desk and took a hit. Julian remembered the man suffered with asthma.

‘Bloody fascinating stuff this, Julian, absolutely bloody fascinating.’

‘You’ve had a chance to go through some of the stuff I sent over?’

‘I’ve been through most of it, Julian. I couldn’t put the damn thing down, even though I should be working on the foreword to a colleague’s book.’

‘So? What do you make of it all?’

Tom settled back into his chair and pursed his lips in thought for a few moments. ‘What I think you’ve got there, my friend, is a very detailed account of a serial killer going about his business.’

‘That’s the obvious conclusion, isn’t it?’

‘But here’s the big question. Which one of them is it?’

‘Maybe it’s more than one of them?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Could be.’

‘So?’

‘So from the account written by this Lambert character, it looks very much like the most likely culprit is the Mormon preacher, Preston.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He appears to exhibit all the obvious traits of a narcissistic messianic complex.’

‘A narcissistic . . . a what?’

‘A dyed-in-the-wool sociopath of the very worst kind. I’m not sure how this little tale ends up, Julian—’

‘I’m still working my way through the journal.’

‘But,’ Tom continued, ‘I’d be prepared to bet bloody good money it ends with the death of most of these people. In particular, most, if not all of his followers.’

Julian looked at him. ‘What makes you so certain of that?’

‘He’s a classic Reverend Jim Jones figure. You recall the Jonestown incident, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘A strong-willed, charismatic sociopath, driven by a delusion of some messianic destiny. The pattern I’m seeing in this Lambert journal is very similar: a religious patriarchal figure leading his devoted followers out into an isolated wilderness away from the interference and prying noses of authority; in Jim Jones’s case it was Guyana. In Preston’s case, I’m presuming, he was heading for some unclaimed tract beyond the reach of the US government to set up his own little kingdom. Away from the rule of law, away from the established Church of Latter Day Saints.’

Julian nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

Tom got up from his office chair and walked over to the door of his study. ‘Fancy some coffee?’

Julian nodded, and Tom cracked the door open and asked Judy to rustle up a cafetiere of Kilimanjaro Fairtrade for both of them. He closed the door gently.

‘To what end, though?’ Julian asked.

Tom smiled. ‘Like Jim Jones, like David Koresh . . . or to pick a few secular examples, like Idi Amin, Robert Mugabe . . . even Adolf Hitler - to realise his manifest destiny. To appease the particular malevolent imp inside him.’

Julian’s brows arched.

‘Imp?’

Tom spread his hands apologetically. ‘Forgive me. It’s a characterisation I’m using way too often right now. I’m consulting on a TV drama, a supernatural version of Cracker; the scriptwriters have been using that phrase, that metaphor in their dialogue, and I’m finding myself doing it now. It’s like catching someone else’s cold,’ he laughed. ‘No, I mean the delusion that’s driving him. Like I say, a classic dyed-in-the-wool sociopath. ’

Julian had heard the term many times, but had never been given a concise definition of it that made sense.

Tom seemed to pick up on that. ‘It’s an over-used word these days, Julian. One bandied about a bit too readily by screen-writers, crime novelists and daytime TV shrinks. It’s similar, in a way, to autism, an inability to comprehend the feelings of others; a total absence of the ability to empathise. But autism is an example of the brain misfiring, not working properly. It’s a disorder. On the other hand, the sociopathic tendency, I believe, is . . . for the sake of a better word an enhancement. It’s designed. ’

‘Designed?’

‘Darwinistically speaking, of course.’

Julian grinned with relief. ‘I thought for a terrifying moment there that you were going all creationist on me.’

Tom laughed. ‘No, I’ve seen enough of how the mind works to never be in any danger of suddenly finding God. No, by designed I mean the sociopathic tendency has evolved amongst a minority of people. Every serial killer is a sociopath; you’d need to be able to do what they do. The inability to perceive the feelings of others, the suffering of a victim, gives a killer an advantage . . . the competitive edge, if you like. Which, of course, in Darwinistic - one might even say Dawkinsian terms, these days - makes a hell of a lot of sense, if you think about it.’