Tomas (19 page)

‘You are accused of unspeakable evil,' a prosecutor opens, ‘of perpetrating untold crimes of misery, mayhem and murder, of destroying civilisations and corrupting souls, and leading billions into temptation; of spreading pestilential disease and death. How do you plead?'

‘Not guilty,' replies a defence lawyer.

A barrage of defence arguments ensue.

‘My client is not of this world; therefore he is not subject to its laws,' says one.

‘Without evil, how can we understand good?' says another. ‘My client in fact does mankind a service and should be rewarded.'

‘Define good and evil,' says a third. ‘What were the Christian crusaders, or the conquistadors who exterminated the Aztecs, good or evil?'

‘This is madness,' says Judge Reynard. ‘Your client is obviously guilty. He's the Devil. No further debate is necessary. Does he have anything to say before I pass sentence?'

The Devil burnishes his horns with a cleft hand. His forked tail flicks in the air behind him. His yellow eyes focus on the judge. Clearly he's thinking hard. Eventually he stands, leans forward and, stroking his beard with long hoary fingers, makes the judge a proposition.

‘If I tell you how to rid the world of evil,' says the Devil, ‘will you spare me death?'

‘A fine fantasy,' says a prosecuting lawyer.

‘Your Honour?' asks the Devil.

Judge Reynard considers the proposition. On the one hand, he should be sentenced summarily. He is, after all, the Devil. On the other, this is an unusual case, plea bargains are part of the legal system and besides, he's curious.

‘Proceed,' says the judge.

‘Imagine a world,' the Devil says, ‘where you can walk anywhere at night, leave your house unlocked and keys in the car. Where drugs and street deals don't exist and trafficking is a thing of the past. Imagine never hearing
reports of an old lady being attacked or reading of the horrific work of a repeat offender. Graffiti becomes an art form. Mankind without ghettos, cartels, mafioso, gangs. In short, a world free of crime.'

‘Inconceivable,' a prosecutor says.

‘Is it?' the Devil replies. ‘What if by imprisoning two million of seven billion people it became a reality?'

The court stirs. This smacks of summary justice. And the legal profession is liberal by nature. In any event, it isn't possible and a prosecuting lawyer says so.

‘Are you certain?' the Devil replies. ‘The tiniest fraction of people organise crime. I should know, I create them. Street gangs, mafia cartels; narcotics and people-trafficking groups; families of hoodlums and miscreants. The police know exactly who they are. They could be arrested in a week.'

‘This is the language of the Middle Ages,' a prosecutor says from the bench. ‘Are you suggesting that we return to the law of the jungle? Even a beast has rights.' He sits down to a murmur of approval.

‘You were once asked,' the Devil addresses Judge Reynard, ‘whether a small means justifies a greater end? Would you summarily execute a future dictator in the knowledge it would save millions of lives?'

‘The answer is obvious,' the judge replies, ‘one life in exchange for millions.'

‘So what's the difference?' the Devil says. ‘Under my dominion, a few people subject millions to every imaginable abuse, degradation, addiction and perversion. Whole countries and communities are immobilised by
fear, not to mention the economic cost. Is it such a price?'

‘There may be a different perspective,' says one of the Devil's defence lawyers. ‘I was a soldier before I became a lawyer. My business was battle but I see no difference between crime and war. If anything, crime's worse. It's more pernicious, surreptitiously evil like my client, death by a thousand cuts. As least in war there's sometimes a principle involved. Crime is only ever about money. We're often promised clampdowns on crime. But they never work. Why not treat it as war?'

‘Very well,' says Judge Reynard, ‘we incarcerate all known criminals in the world. Then what?'

‘Abolish juries and have a two-strike system,' says the Devil.

The court erupts. Abolish juries? That is almost dictatorship. And why only two strikes? What of three, four or five? The soldier lawyer steps in to invite the Devil to explain.

‘You need to turn what is slow and complicated,' the Devil says, ‘into something fast and simple. No more juries who neither care nor want to be there, sitting like hens doing their knitting. Instead, panels of judges who've seen it all before. Trials would take days, instead of weeks, months or years. Justice would be swift and expert.'

‘And the two strikes?' asks the soldier lawyer.

‘That makes things simple for the criminal. First strike: understanding, forgiveness; no time, cost or effort spared in the attempt to rehabilitate. That should please your God. Second strike – it's over. The murderer seeking a weapon within hours of release. The rapist stalking his
victim on his first day of freedom. No more appeals, paroles, loopholes, remissions, reductions or sentences that say one thing but mean another.'

‘And how is this to be achieved?' asks Judge Reynard.

‘Stop listening to lawyers who are paid by the hour. Do you think they want speed? As for simplicity, how does that serve their puffed-up speeches? And what of the lawyers directly under my influence? The attorney of a Mafia boss; does he believe his client is innocent? Or the defender of an obviously guilty murderer who makes a closing speech that plays on the prejudices of the jury – you think he doesn't know what he's doing? Why do you listen to such people? There's always a libertarian principle, exception, inalienable right or point of order to argue. Even I can be defended.'

The Devil pauses and looks around the court.

‘I have existed since the dawn of time. Every few hundred years man ruptures his past. Fire is discovered. The wheel is invented. Printing replaces the written word. Steam locomotion industrialises the world. Slavery is abolished. The atom is split. Space is conquered. You need to rupture the law.'

‘And why are you telling us this?' the judge asks. ‘Why risk ruining your evil handywork?'

‘Because you'll never do it,' the Devil replies.

The judge wakes up, regretting that he has no time to analyse a dream in which truth is put into the Devil's mouth. With Cocksacks positioned at every street corner, he smiles at the irony of sharing the same fate as his dream devil.

The biggest problem in the world ever
…

Tereza's single concern on her final night is for the women of the West. She knows the reputation of Russian men, the soldiers in particular, and giant phalluses with massive distended testicles spell only one thing for womankind.

She dreams of fine white particles falling from the sky like the lightest, most beautiful snow. Instead of coating the earth – buildings, fields, objects, men – the particles only fall on women. Flakes seek out the ones who are indoors. They all find this odd, but don't think much about it and go to bed.

The next morning, women awake to a magic transformation. Everything that was previously impressive, attractive and alluring about men – muscles, money, machismo – has ceased to hold any interest for them. They immediately set out to confirm this strange new feeling.

‘I've just closed a big deal,' says a man, ‘how about some fun?' The girl looks away, bored. ‘Can I take you on my jet?' says another. ‘No thank you, I prefer commercial,' the girl replies. An abdomen king struts his stuff on the beach. Three bathing beauties stifle a yawn. ‘Let me help you get that part,' a producer offers with a knowing look. ‘I'll get it myself,' the one-time ‘producee' replies. ‘When I was at my house in the South of France …'a banker begins. ‘Was that a surreptitious money message?' the girl says cutting him short. ‘How vulgar.'

And that's it. In a heartbeat men lose their power over women. A monstrous problem, as big as the planet itself,
rears its terrifying head for the first time in human history. How are men going to have sex? Women are now impervious to money talk, boasts, promises, lies; all the clichés of the chase. Catastrophe!

Desperately men scramble to learn manners and interesting topics of conversation, the new weapons of seduction. Finishing schools for men are established in Switzerland. The Queen's butlers give free lessons on how to walk to armies of men on parade grounds. Museums are packed with males, library shelves are cleared. The world internet crashes. All knowledge is vacuumed up. For a time it works. Men manage to hold their own on the new level playing field. Soon, girls have heard all the knowledge and seen all the walks. Just for the hell of it, they turn things up a notch.

A man with great courtesy and not a hint of boast-fulness offers a girl a ride on his jet. ‘Fine,' she says, ‘but you'll have to give it to me.' And do you know what? He does. ‘You said before that you were worth €100 million,' says another to a doting admirer. ‘I want €10 million. Now.' Immediately he writes a cheque. ‘You can take me out for tea,' says a debutante, ‘but via Chanel. We'll visit Graff on the way home.'

Once power has been established, why stop in the middle? Why not go all the way? Although she is asleep, Tereza is conscious of that ancient truism – he who no longer cares has ultimate power. Except that the he is now a she. Within a few years all the money, power and influence in the world has shifted from men to women.

Men now stand naked, gibbering, desperate for sex
before their female masters. It's not difficult to guess what happens next.

First, girls decide to quieten down the world. Like men, it's too noisy. Cars, so precious to men, are the first to go.The substitute form of transport is men in harness with bits in their mouths, pulling rickshaw-like carriages, encouraged by a whip. Thereafter, men are banned from speaking altogether, other than to pay female-approved compliments and answer questions about menial tasks such as: ‘Has the house been cleaned since this morning?'

Second, women begin to experiment with having sex without men. Initially they find other methods that are just as pleasurable. Men were never that good, anyway. All that mess, fuss and need for satisfaction. After a while, they start to prefer sex by themselves. This fashion spreads, and soon the female masters no longer copulate with their male slaves. It's a short distance to the final step.

With great thought and care as to selection, sperm is taken from the top academics, artists, scientists and athletes, enough to last an eternity. Women now control births. Naturally, only female embryos are chosen. Within a hundred years men become extinct. Tereza's dream ends with her floating above a planet full of soft colours, marshmallow shapes, high-pitched laughter and girls having cocktails by the sea.

A lesson in togetherness
…

While Reynard and Tereza dream, Tomas meets the Emperor in the grand salon of his fabulous Onion. They sit in candlelight in comfortable armchairs, with magnificent views of the sea and mountains beyond.

Tomas is white with anxiety and shaking uncontrollably. He feels sick. Cocksack paratroopers are falling all over Europe: city squares, street corners, road junctions, stations, ports and airports across the West have been occupied. Soon the Onion will be surrounded. In retrospect, his plan seems mad. Maybe he listened too intently to the Emperor's lessons on risk, failure and mediocrity. In following the first, he is about to give a masterclass in the second two.

‘Courage, my friend,' says the Emperor. ‘The eve of battle is always the worst. Come, let's speak of something else. Allow me to distract you with a question.'

Tomas stares blankly ahead, immobilised by the coming terror.

‘What is the answer to one of life's most difficult problems? How can two people remain together?' the Emperor asks.

Tomas remains silent, unable to think.

‘Haven't you noticed a pattern?' the Emperor continues. ‘Sexual infatuation followed by immediate coupling; then the magic fades. Once the rabbit is out of the hat, where's the surprise? A creeping mist descends and the couple enter a twilight world where nothing grows. Then it's downhill all the way: rows, recriminations and rudeness.

Lastly, there is heartbreak and pain.'

Tomas is still a frozen blank.

‘Come, Tomas,' says the Emperor. ‘Is there a trick, or a magic formula? How can this cycle be broken?'

‘There should be respect between two people,' Tomas eventually replies.

‘And …' says the Emperor.

‘You need to be alike and share the same interests.'

‘And …'

‘Integrity's important, as is a sense of humour.'

‘There's much in what you say,' replies the Emperor. ‘But it is not, alas, the answer. I need one word for everyone to have, a guiding star to happiness.'

The Emperor makes a discreet gesture and a moonbeam touches the edge of Tomas's chair. Tomas immediately fires off a dozen words. ‘Love, children, intelligence, consideration, decency, humour, compassion, forgiveness, moderation, truthfulness, tolerance, equality, passion.'

‘Those are good words,' the Emperor replies, ‘but none of them is right. The answer is … ' He pauses to study Tomas's reaction. ‘Distance,' he says; ‘it's the only way for a relationship to work.'

Tomas shifts in his chair. What cynicism is this? His bombardment of clichés failed to hit the target. But distance? Is it another of the Emperor's contrary opinions?

‘Why is it that so many relationships don't work and divorce is at a record high? The answer is simple. At the start, it's all froth and slather, there's no backwards gear. People go crashing in. Weeks, months or years later, there's an accident.'

‘What about passion?' asks Tomas.

‘Passion's fine if it's part of something else. Otherwise it fades. You know that. But people are swept by its tide, so they blunder from one encounter to the next like a drunk clinging to one lamp-post after another on his way home.'