Mythangelus Read online

  I nodded. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘You will.’

  He touched my shoulder. ‘We will. You cannot deny us, Thiede.’

  And I smiled at him to reassure him, knowing that already I had left them.

  The Law of Being

  “To the House which none leave who have entered it

  To the Road from which there is no way back...”

  From an Assyrio-Babylonian stone tablet recounting the myth of Ishtar and Tammuz

  It was the biggest Transmission of Future Light convention ever. Held in Amsterdam, thousands of followers from all over Europe had flocked to see its luminary, Emory Patrick, in person. The diversions on offer included a week of rock concerts by over a dozen well-known bands, theatrical productions with a spiritual theme, and panel talks by eminent New Agers, occultists, writers and media stars. There would be group rituals, workshops, meditations and dances; night parties by communal fires. Everyone had the intention to drink and dope themselves into cheerful oblivion. To the many thousands of Future Lighters, as members of the movement liked to call themselves, Emory Patrick, rock star, philosopher and healer, was the new Messiah.

  Patrick had risen to prominence two years before. TOFL had been established round about the same time as the band, which was also named Future Light. Patrick was the singer and motivating force behind both the music and the movement, although he was assisted by two close friends and business partners, Linford Brown and Iliana Forsyth. Transmission of Future Light attracted the young. It was a beacon which shone relentlessly through the dusty, mildewed catacombs that orthodox belief systems had become, being youth-orientated, uncompromisingly modern, aggressively forward-thinking, and, perhaps most potently, largely free from dogma.

  Emory himself was the creed, simply by example: You can live like me, be like me. He was incredibly successful, and did not make any attempt to conceal the more commercial aspects of his movement, boldly asserting that there was no shame in having money or earning money, as long as you didn’t attempt to rip people off. Thus, the books, t-shirts, badges and magazines were plentiful (the merchandise sheets alone were virtually a magazine), but reasonably priced and made of quality materials. They were fun too. Future Light was not po-faced; its slogans sometimes included swear words and buzz words from youth culture. Its image was bright and vigorous, and its philosophy did not appear to carry any great threat to the establishment, even though the young flocked to Emory’s camp in droves.

  On the day before the convention started, Future Lighters from nearly a dozen European countries were setting up their stalls around the edge of the site. The high, razor-topped wire fences had already been erected, and TOFL security was patrolling with walky-talkies and dogs. Beyond the wire, as the following arrived in vans or on foot, brightly coloured tents were sprouting up into a sprawling and lively temporary community. There was an atmosphere of expectancy and excitement. Emory Patrick himself appeared around noon, in the kind of long black limo in which stars were expected to travel. He was accompanied by his band, their dancers and the inevitable presence of Iliana Forsyth and Linford Brown.

  Leaving Emory to meditate in his bungalow-sized caravan, and Iliana to supervise the last details of the catering, Linford wandered off to inspect the enormous, canopied stage. It too was in the last stages of completion, only a few more adjustments being required to the lighting rig. Linford wandered onto the stage and stared out over the vast space that would, by tomorrow, be filled with adoring Patrick devotees. He was a spare, angular man in his late thirties, who had perhaps lived a little too hard, but who had found, in Future Light, a comfortable niche in which to exercise his talents, which had been forged in the music industry. Emory Patrick was an easy person to work with and for. He was genuine. Although Linford was not at all religious, and grinned at the most avid followers who declared Emory was undoubtedly the New Son of God, he believed in Emory’s power as an individual. He believed Emory really did have the capacity to change the world in a positive way because, in loving people, he gave them courage and confidence in themselves. There were no tricks and no bullshit.

  Linford was just in the act of reflecting how perfect his life was when something large and dark hurtled past the edge of his vision and hit the stage with a sickening, liquid crack. Immediately, there were shouts and the sound of running feet. Linford blinked and stared at the object lying very close to his feet. It was the body of a man; very decidedly a body, rather than just a man, because the neck and limbs were all contorted into highly unusual angles and blood had begun to pool across the stage. Linford was stunned. He couldn’t move. Someone was shouting, ‘Get an ambulance, get an ambulance!’ and someone else was shoving Linford out of the way.

  ‘Fucking hell, he’s dead, man, he’s dead!’

  People in Emory Patrick t-shirts were swarming all over the stage. The corpse was one of the lighting technicians, Linford realised. Must have fallen. Oh God! He turned away, collapsed onto his belly and vomited over the edge of the stage. Wiping his mouth, numb in the midst of confusion and panic, he looked up and saw Emory walking towards him, obviously having been disturbed from his trance by the shouting.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Emory asked.

  For a brief moment, Linford was filled with the blinding realisation that everything he had worked for was about to be demolished. He did not want to tell Emory what had happened, didn’t want him to see the hideous broken flesh, which was screened by the frantic huddle of people on the stage. He wanted to lead Emory away, because then nothing would change. Linford, though imaginative, was also something of a sceptic. He rarely heeded his instincts. ‘An accident,’ he said. ‘Terrible accident.’

  Emory climbed nimbly up onto the stage. He looked vulnerable and fragile and young, his long hair tied back, his eyes wide and curious.

  Struggling into a kneeling position, Linford put out his hand to grab hold of Emory’s shirt. ‘Leave it, Mori. There’s nothing we can do...’

  Emory looked down at him. He didn’t say anything, but something in his almost vacant expression rekindled Linford’s bone-deep apprehension.

  ‘Mori...’

  Emory was pushing through the crowd. Linford followed. People had instinctively drawn back as Emory approached, allowing him to squat beside the corpse. Emory’s face was still expressionless. Squatting in the pool of blood, he methodically straightened the limbs and head of the dead man.

  ‘Mori, don’t,’ Linford said in a soft voice. He couldn’t bear to look at the corpse again, but rested a hand on Emory’s shoulder. Surely, the body should be left alone until the proper authorities had arrived? Ignoring Linford’s plea, Emory lightly placed both of his hands on the dead man’s chest. His head drooped forward. Linford could see that Emory was shaking. He wished the ambulance would come. Emory himself would need treatment for shock. The onlookers were observing Emory’s behaviour in wide-eyed silence. Some appeared awed, which was typical of TOFL people when Emory did anything, while others looked a little embarrassed. Seconds passed.

  When the dead man twitched and uttered a groan, three of the people watching fainted immediately.

  Linford swayed and stepped away from Emory Patrick. He felt bile rise in his throat again. This isn’t real. Can’t be. No, the guy wasn’t dead. Stunned. He was just stunned! Yes. The rationalising thoughts gushed through Linford’s mind. Around him, people were moaning or weeping, while others were muttering grateful prayers. Yet, beyond the circle of their bodies, the silence of the day was immaculate.

  Ignoring the spectators, Emory helped the lighting technician to sit up. The two men embraced and Emory kissed the resurrectee on his bloodied mouth. Watching, Linford bit through the edge of his tongue.

  Doctors, who would later examine the man who fell to his death, would find no trace of a fracture, not even a bruise.

  Nina Vivian was a very disgruntled woman. Primarily because she could not believe the Department of Paranormal Resources was taking this business seriously, and seco
ndly because she had bad feelings about getting involved in it. Call it guts, call it instinct, or good old Mother Goddess, she wasn’t interested. The DPR unfortunately were interested, and as she was one of their Temps, and a very special one at that, their interests were inevitably hers to share.

  ‘Of course, there is always the possibility this guy is not a fake, not even Talented, but exactly what his followers claim he is?’ She only said it to provoke her companion, but still twisted the rather emotive statement into a question, before laying the printout she’d been given down on the desk in front of her. The high-ceilinged office was bathed in the muted light of a single desk lamp. Outside, rain patted at the windows. It was very late.

  The man seated behind the desk in partial shadow was swivelling gently in his plush executive chair. With his fingers steepled against his chin, he raised one immaculately curved eyebrow. ‘That cannot be ruled out completely yet, but personally I find it hard to convince myself it might be the explanation. My dear Nina, as an experienced member of the DPR yourself, I am sure you must feel, as I do, this man has to be one of ours.’

  Nina grimaced. She didn’t really believe Emory Patrick was a paranorm or a Messiah. ‘It’s a stunt,’ she said. ‘Has to be.’

  The man’s eyebrow lifted again. ‘Well, whatever your opinion, because of the enormity of what Patrick appears to have done, coupled with his considerable influence, it is imperative we establish whether he’s paranormal or simply a cheap magician. If it’s the former, then we’ll have to have a little chat with him.’

  Nina wrinkled her nose and peered at the black and white digitised photograph on the polished mahogany. What looked back at her was a prime and immaculate specimen of masculinity. ‘He looks like a rock star to me, nothing more.’

  The man smiled tolerantly. ‘The media seems to concur with you. However, some of the individuals who witnessed the event were not connected to the organisation – caterers and so on – and Patrick’s people have been insisting they be given lie detection tests to prove their man’s a miracle worker.’ He rolled his eyes in exasperated scorn. ‘Although Patrick himself has refused to discuss the subject, several of his staff have appeared on TV, earnestly insisting the resurrection was genuine.’

  ‘Great media stuff!’ Nina said.

  ‘Quite.’

  Nina grinned. ‘Personally, I think it’s a great stunt!’ She gestured at the printout. ‘Come on, Gervase, your initial research doesn’t seem to have thrown up anything damning. This guy’s clean. He’s just a showman.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I don’t believe anyone making that much money from such a project can possibly be clean, but then I am not a spiritual person. Perhaps I’m too cynical.’

  Nina pushed her fingers through her hair. It felt lank. She’d been called from her bed in the middle of the night before what promised to be an excellent shoot in the morning. The DPR didn’t call her out at any time unless something big was going down. Nina Vivian only did ‘big stuff’. She leaned back in her chair, sending a hopeful message to the Receiver she knew was sitting out in the next office that yes, she was rather in need of a large coffee. ‘So, spit it out Gervase, what d’you want, or expect, me to do with this?’ She flicked her nails against the photograph.

  He spread out his hands. ‘Do what you do best, my dear, in your expert inimical way. Investigate... bring him in, if necessary.’

  She sighed. ‘I hope you’re not going to say anything like I’m booked on a flight to Amsterdam in the morning, because that will annoy me intensely. I have Sable Grant up before my lenses first thing, and believe me, I can’t and won’t miss that.’

  Gervase Allerby closed his eyes and laughed silently, throwing back his head. ‘No, Ms Vivian, your flight is booked for early afternoon. That should give you enough time. I tuned in to your schedule before I woke you.’

  ‘Efficient. So what was I dreaming?’

  He grinned. ‘My dear, I never pry.’

  Sable Grant proved more tractable than Nina would dared have hoped for, which at one time would have been an unusual trait in an up and coming starlet. Not so nowadays. The image had changed. The New Age had bit deep into Hollywood flesh, and everything was mellow. Nina still couldn’t help wondering how much of the girl’s perfect bone structure and flawless configuration was indebted to the surgeon’s cosmetic knife. Perhaps America bred these lissom creatures as a kind of sub-species, whose natural habitat was the film industry. Even though Nina was aware that all self-respecting stars made a point of discussing in their interviews how much they shunned the prima donna temperament nowadays, she still wouldn’t have believed it until she’d met Sable. Everything was natural, everything was relaxed. Only desperately insecure people possessed painful egos to inflict on others. Sable was well at home in her skin. She was charming.

  During a break, while Viennese coffee and wafer-thin Continental chocolate biscuits were handed round by attentive film company personnel, Sable Grant hunkered down beside Nina, who was sitting on a pile of packing cases, fiddling with her equipment. She didn’t need to fiddle with her equipment, but it prevented her having to make conversation. There was nobody there Nina thought it was worth talking to. Just the girl and her entourage. She didn’t imagine the girl would want to speak to her.

  ‘You’re good,’ Sable said. ‘You make me feel so tranquil.’

  Nina smiled. She didn’t think Ms Grant would ever be anything other than tranquil in front of a camera. ‘That’s kind of you. Thanks.’ Was she supposed to deliver a compliment back now?

  ‘I really wanted to come to England. I love it. I love the history.’

  Don’t they always, Nina thought. ‘Yeah... there’s plenty of that.’

  ‘And you have Emory Patrick over here too. That’s wild.’

  Nina looked up sharply, far too sharply. It was her DPR persona look, not the habitual laid-back expression of Nina Vivian, photographer.

  ‘What is it?’ Sable asked quickly, eyes wide.

  Nina shook her head. These New Age techniques the stars were getting into made them too damn sensitive for her liking. ‘Oh, coincidence, you know. I was just thinking about him. I have to photograph him tomorrow.’

  Sable’s eyes widened. ‘Really! Wow, I mean, how lucky for you.’ She laid a beautiful, long-fingered hand on Nina’s knee and lowered her voice. ‘Hey, I know this might be a heavy question, but is there any chance I could get to meet him? Could you, like, arrange that for me?’

  Nina smiled. ‘I’m sorry. The shoot’s in Amsterdam, not London. I wish I could oblige but...’ She gestured helplessly.

  ‘That’s OK. I understand. I would have liked to meet him though. Just to see whether he’s on the level.’

  Nina was surprised. ‘Think he’s a fake, then?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not exactly. I think I’m scared he might be all that his people claim he is. It’s strange, but in a way I think that would be worse.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nina said. ‘I suppose it would.’

  Linford Brown was worried. Since the incident at the convention, everyone had thought it best if Emory moved to a hotel, rather than stay in the caravan on site. The place was crawling with media scum. Emory had seemed dazed, as if he’d been severely drained of energy after the lighting guy had done the sit up and walk gig. Emory had passively submitted to Linford’s and Iliana’s suggestion of privacy, only now he wouldn’t come out of the hotel room at all, and wasn’t taking calls. He was still eating, but refused to see anyone other than hotel staff. Now, Linford was standing outside the door to room 223, trying to address the person inside, getting more and more wound up by the fact that people kept walking by and giving him strange looks. The TOFL Security man on duty outside Emory’s door studiously ignored the proceedings.

  The convention had been limping along since the incident at the site, but the atmosphere seemed flat without Emory there. People were understandably disappointed. After all, they’d paid a large fee for the privilege of seeing him. The b
and performances, sideshows and panel talks had continued as planned, but the audiences only wanted to talk and hear about Emory’s healing miracle. All other subjects seemed to have lost their appeal. This obsession was beginning to frustrate the official convention guests. Several of them had left after the first day, mainly writers and scholars who claimed they found the publicity associated with the event somewhat distasteful. It was fortunate the musicians and actors had taken an opposite stance and were unashamedly lapping the publicity up. What worried Linford more than absconding guests was the amount of people who were turning up at the site gates demanding entrance. None of these newcomers had tickets – the event had sold out months ago– and they were either invalids or accompanied by invalids. They had come to see the master. They wanted his healing power. Despite being kept outside the site, they would not go away.

  Linford himself was feeling dazed and drained of energy. He’d always been behind Emory a hundred per cent, had believed without reservation in the man’s sincerity and convictions, had basked in the Apollo glow of Emory’s charisma. Only he hadn’t believed in miracles. This was spooky shit. Future Light was meant to be about finding yourself in a world gone crazy, and using that self-knowledge to enlighten others, thereby helping the world to heal. Now, the whole movement was poised on the brink of zipping back to the Dark Ages as fast as it could. Just as Emory did the one thing that perhaps proved his followers’ claim that he was the New Son of God beyond all doubt, an immovable host of doubts was cast over the organisation. It was all too weird. It didn’t fit into Linford’s scheme. Now the man himself was acting crazy.

  ‘Look, Mori, I have to talk to you. Don’t do this to me, man. Let me in!’ Normally, Linford would not raise his voice to Emory, but perhaps, he gambled, a little uncharacteristic aggression might produce results that habitual serenity would not. ‘I’m not taking any more of this shit! If this door doesn’t open right now, I’m out of here. For good. I mean it!’ He thumped the door with a closed fist and then kicked it. He heard the lock rattle.