by Ian Young
I jerk my head around to the Triumvirát leader. There’s a trace of a smile on his face. Unsworth too is watching me: a half-hearted smile, the kind of conciliatory smile you might give a person who has received bad news.
A race of sentient beings that existed billions of years before humans, and lived on an entirely different planet, had the same notion of God as we do. I watch in horror as images of a white-bearded man look down from … from Heaven? And human figures kneel beneath him. They’re worshipping God.
Architecturally wondrous buildings flash up on the screen, people congregated inside, hands clasped together before a man in robes, his arms outstretched.
‘We share the same notion of God as these people,’ says the man in a grey robe, as though my own thoughts have echoed around the building. ‘We lived many billions of years apart, on different planets fuelled by different suns, but we evolved along the same lines. And we possess the same idea of God’s appearance. How can this be?’
I feel a trickle run down my cheek. I wipe it away and sniffle. The man of God continued.
‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s an accurate representation of God or not. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. The truth is we are predisposed to accept his existence, to imagine him as our Father. Coincidence, Doctor Menendes?’
My throat is throttled by hopelessness. There is nothing I wanted to say, even if I could.
‘But, as a scientist, you don’t believe in coincidence, do you? From the very first cells, the RNA that programmed life and fuelled evolution was impregnated with the notion of God. That’s why the DNA is present, and that’s why the primitive cells are mixed with it. Every species that ever lived had the knowledge of God encoded in its DNA, thanks to this little ball. This isn’t a retrospective record of life. It’s predetermined life.’
I search my brain for an explanation to contradict this nonsense, some reasoned argument as to why two civilisations, separated by billions of years, and alien to each other, could worship the same God, in the same way. But I have nothing. The grey-robed man is right: I don’t believe in coincidence. And this scientific approach to life is forcing me to accept the only theory on the table: in some way or other, perhaps not as we understand it, there is a God.
I want to get out of here. My cheeks burn with shame, with a lifetime of conflict, of rebellion. I’ve been wrong. Turmoil destroyed my rationality. How would I face people again? These men are laughing at me. Smug, grinning faces bore into me like the kids at school once did. Stupid Andreia doesn’t believe in God. Where can I go from here? I want to take a jump off the nearest …
Kendrick! Oh sweet Lord. And the French writer, Chaubert. But I’m right, am I not? The Bible is false, creationism is false. There is no evidence for God’s continued involvement in our existence. My brain is recovering; I am forming theories, theories that prove my scientific beliefs.
‘Andreia?’ It’s Unsworth. ‘Would you like some water?’
‘Uh? Yes, please.’ My throat has opened up but it feels like I’ve swallowed fly paper.
Unsworth leaves the warehouse, returning a minute or so later with a glass of water. Or is it? Who cares, I drink anyway.
‘So you see, Andreia, we have no reason to eliminate you as a threat to the notion of God. Perhaps you would consider helping us spread the word? We need people like you to help us with our work.’
There’s no stopping them now. Here it is in black, white and glorious Technicolor: evidence for the existence of God. The innate belief system that God has programmed into our DNA, to know of him, to give thanks to him, has tortured billions of lives, has given extraordinary power to people, has twisted humanity, has stirred conflict for thousands of years, has broken my family apart. All this, and till now, it has been based on nothing more than faith. What might they do now they have the proof to back up their faith?
The images continue, picture after picture of a race following the same path of evolution as we have. But hang on … if this longing to believe in God is coded into our DNA then why do I not believe? Why, even now, can I not worship God? Is it because his existence, far back in the depths of a prehistoric ocean, gave life to a cruel species? What’s wrong with my DNA? Is it flawed? I am, as Voldemort from the Harry Potter books might say, not a pure blood? Surely there’s no place for rogue DNA in this new master race. Oh, the fucking irony! The survival of the species has been turned on its head. Won’t the Pillars make it their purpose to ensure natural selection eliminates the runts in their new society? The runts being those that can’t accept God because they have flawed DNA. Darwin would be turning in his grave.
‘Happily, Andreia, you and your kind are no longer a threat to The Pillars of Abraham. You are an assett. Shortly you will be released to live out your days in worship, of our one God. Spread the word!’
The man shouted the words like some evangelical preacher in you see on TV. If he things I’m going to start—
‘This is Stefan Horowitz.’ He points to a man stepping out from the shadows of the room’s periphery. ‘He is also a doctor, a surgeon to be precise. Before you leave, Dr Horowitz will ensure that your corrupt DNA ends with you.’
What’s he talking about? And then I begin to shake, my skin prickling as though all the tiny hairs are reaching out at once. ‘No,’ I say with little conviction. But as Horowitz begins to spread the contents of his bag on to a table, I find my voice.
‘What are you going to do?’
Two robed men take my arms and haul me to a bed.
‘No!’ I yell, my voice becoming a screech. ‘No, please no, you can’t!’
The sound of my hysterical screams echoes from the walls; it seems like the room is filled with tortured women. The doctor switches a light on above his head. The religious men lift me on to the bed and strap me down. One places a broad strip of tape across my mouth to stifle my screams, and then picks up a large pair of scissors. He begins cutting my clothes. I tense against the straps as the cold blade scrapes against the skin of my belly. The scissors cut along the front of my top, dissecting the material until the man is able to fold it back to reveal my bare torso. The other man unfastens my jeans and begins tugging until my panties are exposed. I turn my head to Unsworth, who looks away.
‘Please.’ My voice is weak, insipid with helplessness, stuck lips unable to form the simple word.
By the table there is a gas bottle attached to a mask. The doctor is fiddling with it. My arms and legs fight against the straps like I’m some kind of madwoman about to be lobotomised. The straps cut into my skin and I scream with pain, but my voice is muffled behind the thick tape. It seems like the shriek is just in my head. I watch the mask coming towards my face. One of the Pillars holds my head still until the doctor can switch on the gas. At the last second the doctor peels away the tape and pushes the mask over my mouth. I hold my breath as he turns the knob on the gas bottle.
Suddenly, the doctor slams his fist into my stomach. The force of the blow leaves me gasping for air and the gas begins to do its terrible work. I know he’s about to rip out my womb.
As I slip away, I hear noises, shouting, then … then two sharp cracks that make my ears sting. There’s coarse shouting, I can’t make out the words. The mask and the tape are no longer on my face and I suck in clean air, coughing and spluttering as though I’d been held under water. The shouting stops. A woman stands over me, folding my top back over my breasts. She’s talking to me but I can’t understand her, my mind still fogged-out by the gas.
And then I see him. The most beautiful sight I could ever hope to see. My saviour, my real saviour, one I can see and touch, one that I don’t have to imagine.
‘Hey, Mason,’ I say, my words slurred. ‘What took you so long?’
Mason smiles – that smug grin again, the grin I love. He releases the straps and helps me upright. ‘This is
Alabama,’ he says, ‘she helped us find you.’
I smile at the woman but can’t find any words to go with it.
The doctor is lying on the floor by the bed, blood spreading from beneath him like a red shadow. The grey-robed men of the Pillars of Abraham are also lying on the floor, watched over by Hanzel.
Mason picks me up – like he does every night. I curl an arm around his neck. I’ve never been awake when he’s done this before. ‘They were going to take my womb,’ I say.
Mason sets me down and holds me, stroking the back of my hair. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’
We shuffle towards the door. As we pass the table where the ball is at rest, Mason stops.
‘Don’t you want to take Howie’s ball?’
‘It’s not Howie’s ball,’ I say. ‘It’s God’s.’ The ball is lying open beside the computer that had been fed with the decoded database. It’s hollow. They’ve scooped out the DNA, leaving nothing but a shell. Stupid, stupid people. God’s relay baton that gave life to this universe and contained the blueprints of his creation is now an empty vessel, destroyed by the men he so supremely created to know instinctively of his greatness. Whoever he was, and for whatever reason he made this world, it ends here on a table in an empty warehouse in a country that cares least for his existence. Way to go, mankind.
‘Come on,’ I say, pulling at Mason’s arm, but he doesn’t move.
I look up from the table and see Dave, my Jewish friend, standing at the door with the driver from the other day. Dave has his gun trained on Mason; the driver has some kind of stubby machine pistol. Mason puts his gun down. So too does Hanzel.
‘Well, well,’ says Dave. ‘Saved by the cavalry. Doc, I swear I didn’t know what they had planned for you. But none of my business really.’
‘It’s over, mate,’ says Mason. ‘Let her go, she’s no threat to anyone.’
‘Ah, the great Mason. I could use a guy like you, ever thought of becoming an asset?’
‘What are you, CIA?’
Dave shrugs. ‘On second thoughts, you’re a bit too clean-cut for my line of work. On the floor, everyone. Mason, move away from the table.’
Dave walks over and picks up the ball. I watch him turn it over in his hands, twisting it round like we once did back on the boat all that time ago. Only now, nothing happens.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, dropping his arm to his side. ‘How the fuck did you clowns break it?’ Dave looks around the room and tosses the ball into the middle of the prone men of the Pillars of Abraham. Finally, this gift from God is nothing more than the baseball Howie described to me in a little cabin floating on the largest expanse of water in the known universe.
‘Unsworth,’ says Dave. ‘It’s been … memorable.’
Unsworth gets to his feet and I can’t stop myself sitting up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Sorry, my dear,’ says Unsworth. ‘I want you to know that I cried when I sent the Vrazi after you. I tried to recall him. When I saw you at the airport I had a chance to put things right. I made a call,’ he says, gesturing to Dave, ‘and arranged for you to be kept safe until—’
‘That’s enough, Unsworth. It hardly matters now.’ Dave mumbles something to the driver, who then starts placing small packages around the room. Explosives?
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shriek.
‘The Pillars of Abraham have preserved the notion of God for centuries,’ says Dave, gesturing to the robed men on the floor. ‘Now we know the truth, it’s not the kind of notion we want to preserve.’
‘But it proves God exists, or did exist. What more do you want?’
‘Quite right,’ says Dave. ‘But Uncle Sam believes in God … and we like our God just the way he is.’
‘You crazy son of a prick!’ seethes Alabama, spittle dancing on her lips, her face flushing the same colour as her hair. She looks like she could really kick his arse right now.
‘Charming,’ says Dave, looking quizzically at Alabama. ‘Have we met? Anyways, I’m going to miss you guys.’
Dave nods at Unsworth. ‘Shame, really. Took a bit of effort to get you on the board, so to speak.
‘It was you!’ Hanzel steps forward, jabbing a finger at Dave, clearly unable to see the gun pointing at his chest. ‘You murdered the Catholic priest in Prague four months ago.’
‘You got me.’ Dave raises a hand but keeps his gun pointing in our direction.
‘Why the crucifix?’
Dave shrugs. ‘Dramatic irony?’
‘Well, strictly speaking,’ begins Mason, ‘dramatic iron—’
Hanzel holds his hand up to silence Mason. Thank God. ‘You were here ten years ago, weren’t you?’
‘I’m always here, detective,’ said Dave, shrugging.
The driver has finished laying the bombs that will kill us all and joins Dave near the door. I watch Father Unsworth’s face drain of colour. He looks like a waxwork figure that hasn’t been painted yet.
‘Over there, Unsworth.’ Dave uses the gun to indicate that Unsworth should re-join our little group of martyrs. ‘Sorry, buddy.’
‘You’re a murdering psycho,’ says Unsworth with seething menace, but Dave just shrugs again. That’s getting real annoying.
‘You’re just going to murder everyone here?’ I said, incredulous.
‘I told you, we can’t have people spreading a different notion of God to the one that gives Uncle Sam its power.’
‘Hello? Anyone there?’
An accented voice filters down the hallway behind the driver. It sounds like a Czech guy, perhaps the caretaker or someone. The driver and Dave turn swiftly, the driver letting out a short burst of gunfire without any time to assess the danger.
‘Tom!’ Alabama screams. She rushes forward but seems to stumble and falls flat on the floor. Only, it isn’t a stumble. She scoops up Mason’s gun and fires at the two Americans. They drop where they stand, like dummies being dumped on the floor. Alabama scrambles to her feet, runs past the dead men and into the corridor. Mason is quick to follow her; I feel a pang of jealousy.
By now the Pillars of Abraham have started to rise. I too get to my feet and hurry after Mason. I hear Hanzel shouting at the grey-robed men. When I glance back, I see he’s gathered the guns together and is talking into his phone.
Alabama is weeping over the writhing body of a young man, telling him everything is going to be OK. Of all the claims that are hard to believe, that’s probably the hardest of the lot.
Epilogue
One month later
I step out of the car and just stand there for a moment, enjoying the sun on my face. The sounds are so familiar, even after all this time: the traffic, the music from someone’s open-topped car, the rapid chatter of passing strangers. And the singing. It no longer seems so alien to listen to the singing, nor does it seem futile. As a chemist I understand how breathing deeply raises oxygen levels in the body and fills the singer with euphoria. I ought to try it sometime.
A few days ago I had an email from Alabama. She discovered that my friend Dave was a go-between, acting on behalf of several governments, arms dealers and munitions manufacturers, ensuring the work of the Pillars of Abraham continued to exert influence over a vulnerable world. All he needed to do his work was a trustworthy contact on the Kolegium.
I look up at the little church, my leg trembling at the foot of the steps that lead to the closed door. Alabama’s colleague at the embassy, the Legal Attaché, had turned a blind eye to the Pillars’ activities, all for the greater good of the US of A, or so Dave convinced him. With a vacancy at the Prague embassy opening up, I consider there is one outstanding candidate, a candidate with a personal reason to return to Prague, or so she hinted.
I take the steps one at a time, keeping my eyes on the
wooden door until I stand right before it. It’s never locked, particularly on a Sunday. As I pull on the heavy door, the singing crescendos in my ears and I feel a prickle of tears in my eyes. I creep along the stone floor until I stand just behind the last row of people to the right of the central aisle. I can’t see over their heads, but soon they will sit, leaving me quite exposed. I don’t recognise the hymn they’re singing, but I recognise the gradual slowing of tempo as they come to the end of the last verse. The church echoes with the final triumphant chord pumping from the huge organ pipes behind the altar. As the sound fades, everyone takes their seats and there he is, standing in the centre, arms outstretched ready to bless his congregation.
I hear footsteps behind me and a hand takes mine. I grip Mason’s strong fingers and begin to walk down the aisle. There, on the front row, is my mother, and next to her, my brother, Lucas. They shuffle along and I kneel down on the pew, burying my face in my hands and crying ceaselessly until I feel my dad’s hand come to rest on the top of my head.
* * *
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Acknowledgments
My thanks go first to my wife, Petra, for allowing me the time to write this story, and for her help with the Czech language. Also to my good friend, Pavel Černy, for his insights into Czech governmental organisations and politics.
My beta readers, Sheila Young, Andy Ross, and Darrol Tolan, whose kind words and wise feedback helped shape the text.
My proofreader, Meg Humpries, who always goes above and beyond with her thoughts and expert advice.
