The Maggot People (11 page)

She sank down on a cushion and started to cry. Mama nodded at her followers. Elvira's light cotton tunic was removed. By now she was limp and weeping uncontrollably, her face creased with pain and anger. But she was picked up by strong arms and positioned in a leaning stone chair at the edge of the terrace, with a narrow ledge for the buttocks and leather straps on the armrests and at the base of the legs. In no time at all she was secured in the contraption, her legs prized wide apart so that she immodestly revealed herself.

The Buddhists snuggled together, trembling and asking themselves how they came to be here in this place, among these people they did not even know?

Mama walked up to Elvira. Cupping her hands, she could not resist nibbling her luscious little earlobes one final time, whilst whispering audibly: “Prometheus, the rider with his lance, you must have seen him in the paintings? He does not ride out to kill the monster, my darling girl. Prometheus does not save you. He is not the prince. He is the monster and you are the sacrifice. Do you understand?”

“Oh, shut up, you crazy old lesbian! I don't know what the hell you're talking about!” screamed Elvira with all the force she had left in her lungs. Mama Maggot pulled back abruptly, her ears ringing. Then she motioned for Michael to be brought forward.

He, meanwhile, was almost swooning, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His body was bloated like a gammon left over-long in brine, and he felt the maggots swarming against the outer reaches of his brain. By some preternatural ability the maggots seemed to be sensing what was about to happen. They moved ferociously inside him; making it clear to him that if he did not steer himself towards Elvira—if he did not allow them passage—he would be burnt up and consumed. He took one step, then another—like a prisoner walking the plank with a sword poking into his back. Even his eyes were pushing outwards, as if about to pop out of his skull.

Elvira pleaded with him, but there was no way back for him. Strangely enough he felt no remorse as he quickly moved closer to her and without a second thought plunged into her and—while Mama's lips murmured into Elvira's ear—spent himself. His spasms repeated again and again until he thought he'd die with the exertion of it—continuing for as long as it took the sun to rise, spreading an oily redness over the spent waves, rising and falling indecisively like aimless afterthoughts.

20
.

The next morning, after hanging around for as long as he dared on the beach, angrily throwing stones, he sneaked into the canteen, where he saw Elvira in a hooded black robe. She was sitting in a corner with Janine. Her skin looked very pale, and as he drew closer he realised it was because she'd been dusted in wood ash. Her hair had been shorn; her scalp was pockmarked and sickly gray.

As soon as Elvira caught sight of him she turned away, making it clear that she had no wish to speak to him. Janine stared at him. “It's okay, Michael,” she said in a flat, expressionless voice. “She knows it wasn't your fault. But she doesn't want to speak to you. Anyway, you don't need me anymore; you have to listen to others who are more important than me. I'm just a courier, Michael; I thought that would be good enough for you, but apparently not.” She paused, frowning at Michael, who stood there overwhelmed by the awfulness of what had happened last night. “Just go. Spare us the theatrics.”

At the other end of the canteen, Mama Maggot was holding court to two high-ranking police officers in uniform and a delegation from the Vatican fronted by a cardinal in purple robes. When she noticed him hovering by the hot drinks counter, Mama waved Michael over and introduced him. Monsignor O'Hara was a tall, slightly stooped Irishman, his silvery hair shot through with insipid streaks of yellow. There was a fixed, glazed leer on his face: a sense of outrage, also an unwholesome fascination with the absurd—to him, all things that were not his own thoughts were a huge absurdity.

“Ah, so here he is, the fellow you've prepared for me.”

O'Hara picked up his briefcase and shambled off towards the sunbaked terrace overlooking the sea, apparently expecting Michael to follow him. He spoke grandly and remotely, though with a lilting Irish accent.

“Wonderful place you have here. There's something almost Homeric about these waves, the way they wash in all pure and selfless. Christ would have lived here. Christ would have understood this. What a pity we cannot dwell on such things, what a pity we must concern ourselves with
finalities.”

They sat on a stone bench. Just ahead of them the volcanic rocks plunged steeply into the sea and shoals of glittering fish moved lazily through the green-blue depths.

As soon as their refreshments arrived, O'Hara tucked into coffee and biscuits and figs, making smacking noises as he sucked his fingers. His gold crucifix glittered. All the while, his shrewd, sick gaze lingered on Michael as if analyzing his every nuance. There was not a trace of self-consciousness about this examination—only fevered desire bursting out of him like bats spilling out of a cave—desire for the fulfillment of his purpose, whatever it was.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Michael cautiously. “Why are you here? What would a cleric want with us?” He felt his voice becoming tremulous when he spoke. O'Hara seemed pleased about his question.

“Do you think you are so evil that you're beneath our attention? God is concerned with all things, God is in all things, even in you.” O'Hara's absentee smile returned, full of delight at this mental game, and noting with satisfaction that Michael was at a loss.

“Actually, yes. I think I am evil,” said Michael after thinking it through. “I think we all are. I think we forgive ourselves and excuse ourselves. But, based on what I've seen, also what I've done… I'd say there's something evil at work here, and it's actually inside of us.”

“Of course. Any fool can see that,” said O'Hara. “Any goodness down here must fight a long, hard battle to win through. So don't judge yourself so hard in spite of the shameful things you have done. Consider a little more your actual survival in this place. I assume like most people you have a desire to continue breathing the sweet air of this planet and walk barefoot in the grass and wake up in the mornings?” He stopped for a finely weighted pause. “Where do I begin, talking to someone who knows so little? There has always been a maggot element in the Vatican, almost from the first moment the blessed Baptist started walking the hills. But there's rivalry between us and the flesh-bound priests. They don't much like us, though we can't see what's so special about them just because they have hearts and lungs and stomachs and theoretically the freedom to procreate, which we don't. We're regulated in the downstairs department,” he added jauntily, then stopped and resumed his perusal of the waves. “But I'm surprised that you should begin by asking about me. Are you not more concerned about yourself, your own existence?”

“Not really,” said Michael. “I'm rapidly losing interest.”

“Very astute of you. Losing interest is often the best way of getting on in the world. Because you're no longer taking things so damned seriously. People like you have to learn to catch a decent wind when it comes along. And get those damned sails up.” He glowered at Michael across the bony ridge of his wavering nose. “Because if you miss it, you could be stuck here for a bloody long time. In fact you may never leave at all. And between you and me,” he whispered, “this place is just a coven of hags.”

Michael sighed. “It is.”

O'Hara nodded. “Excellent. Common ground is always welcome. But I can get you out of this place; I can give you freedom.

Would you like that?”

“Yes,” said Michael, forgetting his misgivings. “How?”

“We're having some problems, in the form of a flesh-head, an abbot outside Barcelona. A disreputable type. He's threatening to spill his guts, tell the world about the maggot.”

“Why? What's he hoping to achieve by it?”

“Why?” The outrage on his face redoubled. “My word, what a question to ask! Let me see now. First I suppose he's embittered and second of course he's full of self-importance. He's been overlooked, he feels slighted. This way he can hold us to ransom in the name of morality.” O'Hara shook his head disapprovingly and moistened his lips with sweet wine. “I'm going to tell you something, Michael, because I see promise in you, and I can respect that. This Elvira, who you supposedly deflowered last night. She's been a maggot for years.”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“It's an old trick and you're a very young man. They deflated her beforehand, she was nigh on half-full; that's why they tied her to the stone seat; she could hardly stand on her own two legs. Then you came along. But you never transformed her; the work had already been done for you.” O'Hara leaned forward and shook him hard by the shoulder: “These people are playing with your mind, for what purpose God only knows. I don't seek to do that. All I am saying to you in a very straightforward manner is that there is something I want you to do for me. Unlike them, I don't want to destroy you or use you or steer your steps. I have work for you, it's as simple as that.” He stopped. “There's some danger involved, I admit it, but the rewards are great. Afterwards you can go overseas. We'll furnish you with money to keep you ticking over.”

Michael focused his energies. “What exactly would you have me do?”

“Ah yes.” He put his briefcase on his lap and unlocked it, then took out a pistol with a silencer, which he pointed at Michael's face. “I want you to go to the offending Abbot. I will have you furnished with letters of recommendation from Rome. He will have no choice but to take you on as a novice. When you get the chance you put a bullet in his head. If at all possible, get your hands on as many of his documents as you can, which may be rather difficult as he's bound to have them secreted or locked away in strongboxes. Search his quarters, search his office. Oh, and don't concern yourself about the police. Once the Vatican machine finds out he's been murdered all the details will be duly covered up; that's standard practice.” He paused. “Have no fear of divine recrimination, either. We've all agreed it's the only thing to be done, and you have absolution.”

Michael sat still, listening to the waves.

I'll slip away when they're not looking, he told himself. I'll play the innocent but I'll do what they say. Afterwards I'll go to the Greek islands. I've got fifteen years of life left in me; I'll fish and sleep in a cave and then when my time's up I'll swim out and drown myself.

His reverie faded and he was aware of O'Hara waiting for his response.

“Sure,” said Michael. “It's easy. I just pull the trigger, that's all.”

The Cardinal held the gun under Michael's nose. “Keep pulling it until the target looks like a shredded puppy.”

21
.

Almost before he knew it, he was in an air-conditioned coach crunching across the gravel, leaving St. Helena behind. He'd been given a full collar shirt and cassock to wear, and they were quite unbearable in the heat. But as he sank into his seat and the cool air streamed over his flaming red face, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

The brothers and sisters of St. Helena in their sandals and white cloaks had come to wave them off.

Mama, standing at the head of the assembled group, had put on a colorful embroidered belt to set her apart. Elvira stood beside her, dressed in gray now to indicate she was close to blooming. Three white doves, attached to her by long red silk ribbons, pumped their wings frantically overhead as she strode forward ceremoniously, lifting her hand in a parting salute.

She seemed to be searching the coach's windows for him, and when she found him, her grave expression changed abruptly. She stuck out her tongue, taunting him, then held up a pair of golden scissors and cut the ribbons. The three doves rose into the sky, trailing their long red jesses.

Mama leaned forward and took Elvira's tongue into her mouth with tremendous greed.

Michael stared at the two women, deeply troubled by their inhumanity, also relieved that he would never have to see them again. Another thought struck him: maybe this was precisely what they wanted him to feel? Once a person is broken, he can be bent and twisted. A broken man is a mechanical instrument made of flesh. Hadn't Mama Maggot told him so?

He rested back in his seat, choosing not to talk to anyone, focusing his attention instead on the video screens showing Pope Innocent giving his benedictions, waving his white-robed arm over the assembled masses in St. Peter's Square.

The sea crossing and disembarkation in Marseilles were uneventful, but just before they reached the Spanish border, O'Hara told Michael he would be dropped off at the train station in Perpignan.

At about noon, the bus pulled into the small, dusty town and waited with its engine idling. Perpignan lay, as it has always lain, a conflicted settlement on an undefined border.

O'Hara walked into the station with Michael, clutching at his arm. Old ladies smiled fondly at these two saintly men so urgently engaged in conversation. Talking of God, no doubt.

They stopped outside the station café just as the Barcelona-bound train pulled in with screeching brakes like a many-armed serpent, North African immigrant workers hanging out of the windows, smoking and laughing, finally on their way home after months of undignified labor among infidel Parisians.

O'Hara gave Michael the address of a bar in the Gothic quarter of Barcelona, where a local crook by name of Sergio had a weapon for him to pick up. “A nice little Beretta,” said O'Hara. “Should do you just fine. But do throw it away somewhere safe once you've finished with it.”

He gave him a photograph of the abbot, a rotund and rather harmless-looking cleric. On the back of it was written the name of a monastery in Ripoll.