by Tim Vine
‘I am glad to have been born a human.’
‘Has anyone around here read The Lord of the Flies?’
‘What is that lady going to cook later – fried ears, broiled cheek?’
Sue hurried away to the relative safety of the cheese, butter and yoghurt area; the sight of a thousand cheeses made her feel a little better, and by the time she arrived in the booze aisle her worries had evaporated. There, right there in all his glory, stood Keith. The first thing that struck Sue was how ridiculous he appeared in his Ferrari baseball cap: a man of his age in rural France, it just looked absurd.
‘Oh, Sue,’ he almost stuttered. ‘How’s you?’
‘Keith – well, very well thanks. Yes, very well,’ she reassured herself. ‘How’s things with you?’
‘Well, you know, keeping busy. I just posted off my parking ticket fine from the other day. €12, that’s all the fine was . . . I nearly wrote a bloody thank-you note with the cheque! Would’ve been 90 quid in the UK. I mowed the lawn all day yesterday, so I thought I’d better get out and about a bit today, hence this little bit of light shopping,’ he explained. Sue chuckled inwardly. Every single time she saw Keith he seemed to justify himself with tales of domestic life or manly work around the house, and it always involved mowing that lawn. The grass should be an immaculate prize-winner judging by the amount of time that he claimed to spend tending to it, but she knew that it was in reality a scrappy field around the back of his unkempt house. It had been several weeks since she had left Tom, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him. There was a part of her that wanted to know what kind of state he was in, and she didn’t want to hang about.
‘And have you seen Tom recently?’
‘Yeah, all’s fine. Tom has been, well . . . how should I say? He’s been caning the drink, you know, I don’t think he’s taken it too well.’
He detected a look of concern flash across Sue’s face. ‘Well, to be honest, Sue, he’s gay these days and keeps suggesting that we do something . . .’
Sue looked momentarily horrified.
‘God, look at your face . . . I’m only messing with you, Sue! He’s okay, just boozing a bit hard, you know. He’s even got one of those beer chiller dispenser things so he can have decent draught lager at home, he’s as chuffed as mint balls with it. Listen, here’s my email address, just drop me a message and I’ll keep you updated if you want.’ He gave her a card from his wallet. Sue thought that it was all a bit odd, but she took it anyway. Even if she couldn’t admit it to herself, she was still interested in Tom, and although she certainly didn’t want to actually see him, she could still find out about him, which was perfect. She left Keith squinting at the labels on endless bottles of whisky, trying to decide between the two cheapest available. He ended up buying both, the alcoholic’s most sensible option. After gathering her thoughts, she joined a queue at checkout number six, where an odd-looking local girl with a moon-like face into which small black eyes were sunken was grappling with the till. The use of cheque books in this day and age in France still surprised her and the majority of the older generation always paid this way, often causing tailbacks at supermarket checkouts. At the till and taking forever was a woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to Brian May from Queen, yabbering away with cheque book in hand, oblivious to the queue forming behind her. It was when Sue eventually reached the invigorating freshness of outside nine long minutes later that she sensed an urgent and brisk tightening of the air. In an instant the town darkened, as if at once plunged from brilliant sunshine into shade. The wind picked up, clouds streaming across the fractured sky as the rain started to fall. It was not normal rain. Random, sparse and huge drops came down, almost hurting as they spattered her face and hands. It felt warm, the water, and Sue suddenly realised that she needed a wash. She would wash away the memory of the pig’s heads and have a long soak in the bathtub when she got home. It was not a normal day.
Norman leant over the edge of the stained sofa, muting inane daytime TV with one hand while hoping to pick up the phone with the other before it abused him again with its violent electronic cry (a grey Panasonic AU-90, now discontinued, ringtone selected: ‘Wake Alert Classic’).
‘It’s Polly . . . it’s me . . . sis. You all right?’
‘Hiya Polls. Yeah, all good here. In fact, all great here!’ Norm replied.
‘You’re not stoned again, are you, Norm? It’s only lunchtime!’
‘Nah, of course not.’
He had, in fact, just put out his third spliff of the day after getting out of bed with a slight Jamaican hangover at 11 a.m., and the day was floating along gently. He wasn’t going to let on that he’d been on a wake and bake programme for years now. ‘I’m all booked for the jolly to India. It’s two weeks on the beach, a final party, loads of drugs and loads of sunburn. Then I’m going to be sensible and grow up. I think Dad’s got a point, and I’m really gonna try to straighten out. I’m a fully-grown man and I need to sort myself out. But I’m not going to be too dull, first . . . party! I’m off next Sunday, can’t wait. What’s new? What’s going on with Brian, then? You seen him recently?’ he enquired.
He knew full well that Polly wouldn’t have given in to their father Tony’s blackmail – she had always been far too headstrong for that.
‘Of course I have. For all I care, Dad can give all his stinking money to the Ilfracombe Library or The Woking Cat Sanctuary – if such places exist! That’s great about India, you’ll have a great time. I’d love to come over, but I’m busy with things, lots going on with me at the mo. You know . . . well, Brian’s set up this group, and he has . . . well, followers. I’m at his side and we’ve kind of done it together, it’s great. I’ve never felt like this before, about anything really. He has incredible vision, with these great ideas and philosophies that people need to hear. He cares for . . .’
‘You what?’ Norman interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a bloody cult or something? It certainly sounds like it.’
‘No, of course not!’ Polly retorted defensively, a little too quickly, Norman noticed. At that moment Yatter entered the living room. He didn’t seem to care that Norman was clearly busy on the phone.
‘It’s ED!’ said Yatter to the room, with a smile.
‘Who’s ED?’ replied Norman instinctively.
‘What are you talking about? Who’s ED?’ came the bemused voice down the phone line.
Yatter was on a roll. ‘E is for Electric. D for Dwarf. I can’t believe I’ve never spotted it before, ED. Or do you prefer Edward?’ He watched Norman (now christened Edward, the Electric Dwarf or ED) squirm with annoyance. He had also deliberately spoken loudly, so whoever was on the phone would hear, even though he had no clue who it was.
Norman gave him the finger. ‘Look, I’m on the phone, okay?’ he snapped. ‘You’re not funny anyway.’
‘Sorry, Poll, don’t worry about it, it’s just Yatter messing around.’
But Polly had heard it all. ‘Don’t let that arsehole be so out of order with you. He’s a bully. You should come and speak to Brian and . . .’
‘Look, sis. This group, what the hell’s it all about? It sounds weird.’
There was a slight pause. Yatter was still hovering about, smirking. Norman knew that he’d put Polly on the spot. She explained, and Norman could sense that she was being careful with her words. ‘We are called The Section. We’re growing in number, maybe up to around eighty now, evolving into one large family. It’s not a religious thing, but we have great ideas and a companionship that is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. We don’t need money, so everyone is encouraged to come and live at the retreat and to give their funds to Brian and the group. We like to be free with ourselves and the expression of our . . .’
‘It’s a fucking cult, a cult I’m telling you! What the hell are you doing? The guy’s a nutter and a conman! You can’t . . .’ Norman tailed off, a bit too
stoned to explain himself coherently.
‘Norman,’ said Polly coldly. ‘Don’t speak about Brian that way, take the cork out of your arse, and if you won’t listen I won’t bother telling you.’ And she hung up the phone. Neither of them were to know that it was to be the last time that they would ever speak to each other.
Yatter was laughing by the kitchen. ‘Edward’s sister’s in a cult, Edward’s sister’s in a cult. Da de da de da de da, da de da de da de da,’ he chanted. ‘Edward’s sister’s in a cult, da de da de . . .’
Norman turned to face Yatter and shouted, surprising even himself, ‘FUCK OFF YOU PRICK!’
Yatter sheepishly retreated into his room and sat on his bed to make an entry in his book, The Bad Poet’s Society. It had been swirling around in his mind recently, and he just had to jot this down.
The Gift of the Century
If you offer a peppermill without peppercorns
It’s as irritating as offering a child a remote-controlled toy
At Christmastime . . .
Without batteries.
By Yatter
In Wales, Polly was shaking. She too had surprised herself with her solid defence of The Section and the argument with Norman. She was sitting alone on a wicker chair by the phone in the hallway for a while when Brian’s hand landed on her skinny shoulder. ‘Everything okay?’ he enquired blandly.
‘Sure,’ she reassured him, ‘it’s all good.’
‘Well, that’s great. We’re going to ramp it up tonight at the meet, you’ll see, it’ll be something.’ He smiled, but without pleasure.
When Polly probed him inquisitively with moist eyes, he just repeated ‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’
That evening the usual group was assembled in the barn, now just short of forty men and women. The atmosphere felt charged somehow, a little strained, possibly due to the sight of a sheep tethered to a stone weight next to a table on which sat a car battery, some jump leads, an ancient apothecary’s glass bottle, an old book and a hunting knife. The excited yet muted chatter babbled past the beams overhead and reverberated around the eves. Everyone, including Polly, was waiting for the arrival of Brian, and Brian knew that everyone was expecting him at any time. That was why he delayed his arrival, in true star style, to whet the appetite of the followers until they were desperate. The newly-installed Bose Professional PA system eventually crackled into life, with Brian’s instantly recognizable voice blasting out: ‘Friends, followers, people of The Section . . . I love you.’ This roused everyone to cheers, and everyone in the room was clapping and smiling as Brian bounded in, wireless microphone attached around his head, bobbing in front of his lips. He was clearly relishing his role, and moved like a svelte rock singer onstage at Madison Square Gardens. ‘Yes, people, yes! I’m feeling the love, the good vibes, the positivity. This is why we are The Section . . . banishing the horrors which lie beyond the confines of this place, our beautiful place. Have we all washed our feet? Yes? That’s great, the wonderful togetherness I’m feeling in this room . . . how we all watch each other’s backs and look out for one another. We will not follow some ancient creed – as centuries of conflict and misery only go to prove to us beyond doubt that it doesn’t work – we will trailblaze along our given path. It is us who will show the way, of which we alone can control the destiny.’
At this, Brian picked up a battered hardback copy of the King James Bible, and ripped out a couple of random pages. Without scrunching them or tearing them up, he smashed them into his dry mouth and grimaced as he chewed on the ageing paper and its bitter-tasting ink, before grabbing a small bottle of Evian from a back pocket, theatrically swilling the hideous mixture and tilting his head back to force it down his neck.
‘Books like this Bible are of no interest on the inside, we have no need for irrelevant words among us. You are a beautiful family, my cherished family, and so I wish to share my recent vision with you.’ He paused for effect, straightened up and continued to address the group, appearing to deliver his words to a non-existent listener at the back of the barn. ‘Just last night, I had a dream in which the Spirit told me clearly that today, July 22nd, is The Section’s Sacred Date. This will be our date every year, to be known simply as the Sacred Date. And on this date, we will sacrifice a sheep. This blessed animal will then be hung for a night, before being prepared for our tribe’s feast tomorrow evening. In the Gospel according to St.Mark, Chapter 16, Verse 18, it is stated: They will take up serpents, and if they drink anything deadly, it will by no means hurt them. Does this have any significance for us and The Section? But of course, it all makes a lot of sense. So, to this end, and for the love of our God, I will now drink poison.’ Brian suddenly picked up the bottle from the table, lifted the glass lid and, pushing his microphone down with the bottle, took three of four gulps of clear liquid. Looks of astonishment and panic filled the crowd, and fearful cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Brian, what are you doing?’ filled the barn. Polly rushed up to a smiling Brian, who dramatically wiped his mouth. ‘We have nothing to fear, for God is on our side. Sometimes, especially as a Leader, we must demonstrate our Faith, even if maybe my life insurance doesn’t stretch to this!’ These words and the feeble quip reassured the followers and restored calm, but not for long, as Brian was now untangling the red and black jump leads. ‘Here we have a 12-volt car battery, live and fully charged. The leads are attached, and it’s all ready. I will first take the shock myself as an empathetic act of togetherness with the sheep.’
And so, before an astonished Polly could do anything to stop him, Brian efficiently clipped the crocodile clips onto his hands, before emitting a bizarrely gurgled and muted squeal as his body convulsed and jumped violently upwards and backwards before crashing down onto the hard ground. What joy Brian harboured in his heart, sensing an imminent burst of power over people! The harsh clamps had pulled the flesh clean off the backs of his burnt hands, and he lay curled up, bleeding and giving off a terrible stench which assailed his nostrils. A stunned silence was broken by Brian himself, who shouted out, ‘THE SECTION !’ Fortunately his headset was still in place despite the shock and fall, and his pained cry filled the barn and echoed beyond, bouncing around the courtyard between the farm buildings which hugged the side of a hill and clung together to form this unlikely settlement. One of the latest recruits, an older man called Derek, ran across to help Brian to his feet. He stood up, beaming and flashing his recently-whitened teeth to his followers as the entire room jumped up and applauded and shouted out. Brian knew that he had everyone glued to the spectacle, and he had absolute control. ‘God gives us strength against the forked tongues, the evil world beyond these walls, and the greed of money that ravages mankind. We need nothing . . . not like those outside, yet we will want for nothing. Togetherness is the key, to be as one in an impenetrable circle of faith and harmony, here on this farm where we will support one another. If any of you wish to see me to discuss the liberation of worldly goods, please speak to me after.’
Without another word, Brian turned and swiftly picked up the knife, lunged at the top of the unwitting sheep’s neck and stabbed wildly and with extraordinary aggression three times until the animal tottered over silently on its right side, crimson liquid spewing hideously from the fatal wounds. He walked slowly and exited the building, staring ahead and dripping blood as he left. Silence filled the air, and the group was left stunned by the sequence of events it had just witnessed, which were like a Carry On movie directed by David Cronenberg. The pretty and young Jordan towards the back of the crowd surprised herself by enjoying an intense attack of lechery for Brian. She smiled for the first time that day, brimming with desire.
Brian had, in fact, managed to liberate large amounts of cash from fourteen members of The Section, even a detached house in Bristol, and had amassed significant personal wealth from the ongoing operation. This he had divulged to Polly, but only a much watered-down version of the magnitude of his successe
s, letting her believe that it was all for the advancement of the group. The Cayman Islands Trust operation that he had set up with a cunning financial advisor remained his little secret, as did the modest £150,000 that he had recently set aside in his personal current account for spending money. He was wise, however, and had never flashed the cash, preferring to hoard it away for the most part now, waiting for the day when he could decide that enough was enough.
Elvis was sniffing gingerly around the suitcase that lay open by the TV, laying bare its deadly contents in kit form. Meanwhile Ahmed sat on the edge of the sofa with an instant coffee, uninjured hand perched slightly over the rim of the mug as he savoured the sensation of hot wet steam on his palm and fingers. There was no particular sound in the house, just that of the dog doing his thing, scrabbling about, perplexed at the unfamiliar item and its strange scents. Ahmed felt a surge of strength mingled with an excitement and energy that flowed through him, flush with a sense of drive and passion. Nevertheless, he had decided to take his time and savour this moment, relishing the experience of these life-changing few days. He wondered how many more cups of coffee he would have time for during the remainder of his existence, and it dawned on him that this would certainly be one of his last few. Steam rising from the mug diverted his thoughts to the impending explosion, Ahmed imagining the plumes of smoke that his destruction was surely going to cause soon, even very soon. Elvis turned to him with soppy wide eyes which clearly were prying: but what’s all the weird stuff on the table, Master? Ahmed tapped his foot on the grubby carpet, his eye flickered briefly, and he took a long slurp of the comforting hot black liquid.
