*
Filled to capacity, Hester’s temple room was silent.
Rows of people were sitting crossed legged on the white ceramic tile floor, heads bowed in contemplation. Hester’s twist was to offer a sermon without words. She had walked the believers into the room, allowed them a moment of awe, and then arranged all in an orderly fashion. Moving slowly amongst them, some old crippled shepherd tending her flock, Hester wondered how it would feel when finally there was something to say. In her, the ambition to raise the unwilling Percy to heights he did not desire, had to some extent been superseded by a greater interest: determining just how far it was possible to influence people. It was a notion drifting towards aspiration; a greedy thought that she might drive a new faith with ideas of her own.
For now, though, there was nothing to say, no way of guiding the recently devoted, other than to ask them to contemplate what they knew of the man they were told to admire.
‘Think of his miracles,’ Hester had demanded, ‘and what miracles might mean in a broader sense. Percy Field wishes us to find our own way, this much I know. But that does not mean he will not light a lamp. Be prepared for when he does.’
When silence fell, she set herself down in the chair she’d been using before Trudy arrived, and observed the bowed heads through tired eyes. Black hair, brown hair, blond and red. One bald. The red one reminded Hester of her trips to England, and the russet of autumn. She would like to see autumn again, one day, she decided. And the hairless head made her think of a man she had dated when she was eighteen. A builder. He had been a terrible flirt, or a good one, depending on your view, and as it turned out was married. After this discovery, she’d given him a chance to confess. He’d chosen to lie. So one dark night, she followed him home from work and watched as his solid form enveloped his tiny wife in a loving embrace, warmth of the house shining bright through uncovered windows. The wife had looked a dowdy sort, who clearly adored him. Hester smiled to herself. In those days, Hester herself had been very attractive. Not classically beautiful, but sexy as hell. Driven by hurt pride, young Hester’s intention was always to knock on the door and reveal the deceit. She knocked and the wife answered. Behind her, now thoroughly in the background, the follicly challenged cheat strolled by, hot drink in hand, without so much as a glance to see whom it was. The wife was not dowdy. Her face dazzled, wide smile disarming. Hester changed her mind. The happy woman was living blissfully within a lie, possibly of her own making, for who could say? Hester’s own lie – that she had lost her purse on the road outside, and had they found it – was nothing in comparison.
What were these people mulling over, she wondered, as her gaze trailed over the believers? Were they all really thinking about Percy Field? Were they considering his miracles, as she, Hester, instigator of all, looked on? They were lucky people, she decided, for clearly they had something missing in their lives, and here, Hester had enabled them to fill it with something wholesome. Helping others was never her motivation, but it made for a decent by-product.
Her eyes closed momentarily, quickly followed by a brief dream of sailing on a huge steam ship down a frighteningly narrow river. A hand on her shoulder woke her up.
‘Madam Hester. You have another visitor.’
Hester took a moment to regain full consciousness. ‘Who is it, Davina?’
‘Sir Norm. Will I send him through?’
‘No. It’ll disturb the others. I’ll come. Take him out onto the veranda.’
With Davina’s help, Hester got up and went ahead, while the maid fetched Norm. Hester stood for a moment, leaning against a rail, watching her gardener rake up hard brown leaves, and she thought once more of autumn colours. The reliability of a single season was something she had always enjoyed in Singapore, because it was possible to plan ahead. Any monotony was tempered by the immediate weather, either the severity of a thunderstorm or the sweltering heat of a sunny day. At anytime, rain might fall so hard the expressways would be forced to a halt. Variation was swift, the flashing change a quick fix for boredom. Severe it could be, but rarely did the weather give cause for an event to be entirely cancelled. It was interesting, whereas she had always considered four seasons far too slow for her liking. Temperate climates were well named. There might be some rain, a peek of the sun, maybe a short storm, perhaps fog, a light shower of snow, then nothing but days of grey, and even more of a slightly darker grey. From warm to mild to cold, and back again, over and over and taking an age about it. Strange, then, to find now this desire for autumn, particularly for a person born into the tropical savanna of Northern Australia.
‘Afternoon. Sorry I’m late. Where is everyone?’
Hester turned. Norm was always such a pleasing sight; such a clean cut looking man with his linen shirts and brilliant white hair; his handsome tanned face. ‘Inside.’
‘Goodness. They must be asleep!’
‘They are in my new temple room, reflecting upon miracles.’
‘Temple room?’
‘Temple room,’ Hester repeated, proudly. ‘If you promise to be very quiet, I’ll show you. But there is no space to sit, other than in my chair. You’re welcome to it, if you’d like to join in. I thought I’d give them another ten minutes.’
‘Don’t you want to sit in?’ Norm’s face suddenly crinkled into one of regret, ‘Oh no! Did I disturb you, in your own contemplation? If I’d known, then of course I would have told Davina not to tell you I was here. I would have waited outside, quite happily.’
‘Norman, stop fretting. I was contemplating, yes, but you know what old people are like. I’d drifted off a bit, so I was perfectly happy to be disturbed. If I sleep all day I won’t sleep tonight.’
‘Sleeping? In the temple room? Hester!’
‘I couldn’t help it.’
Norm smiled. ‘I fell asleep during a sermon once. I’d been ill with the flu. Very embarrassing. I snored.’
‘Well I can tell you this much, Norman Sullivan, I do not snore.’ Hester thought she saw a flicker of amusement on his face. ‘I do not,’ she reiterated. ‘And I was actually contemplating within my dream,’ she paused, reflectively, ‘I wonder now if it was more a state of meditation.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Percy Field is the Prophet of God, and this is an indisputable fact. What I drew from my… my vision… was this: yes, we can feed the fire of enthusiasm, but even without the furnace, something of this magnitude will plough ahead on the current, regardless. If we don’t control it, it may smash a path. If we guide it, we shall find ourselves on a smoother journey.’
‘I thought Percy wanted us to find our own way?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t mean we should necessarily look for guidance from Percy. No. Until he is prepared to take the helm then we shall guide them, Norman.’ Hester gestured to the house. ‘I have made a start with the temple. We do not need to preach a particular doctrine…’
‘Do we have one?’
‘… nor should we seek to create one. All will become clear eventually. Life cannot be all about handouts, Norman. Your church gave you rules because one man determined them.’
‘And Percy will determine ours?’
‘Yes, but not because he has decided that God has spoken to him. If you will allow me to use your religion as an example? With all due respect, Norman, though he fought hard against the prejudice that he and his followers encountered, and perhaps for the time had sincere motives, Joseph Smith’s role was one he formed for himself. From finding the golden plates to translating the meaning of the script, it was his word only.’
‘Faith.’ Norm stated.
‘This is the twenty-first century, Norman. Faith is no longer enough.’
‘I am no longer a member of the church.’
‘I know. I wasn’t suggesting you were. And I know how difficult it was for you to walk away. For now, Percy is practising what we hope he will go on to teach: carving one’s own path, and making one’s own mistakes; learning to
be at peace with oneself. Long gone are the days when someone can say God told me this, or God told me that, so do as I say, and sound credible.’
Norm shook his head. ‘You’re wrong about that, Hester. Pretty much every mainstream religion is overflowing with that sort of claim.’
‘And every sane man looking in from the outside thinks it is mad.’
Norm sat down.
‘You don’t want to see the temple, Norman? To join in?’
‘I’ll see it when they’ve finished.’
Hester checked her watch, a white gold and diamond Rolex, given to her by her husband on their wedding day. It had been his mother’s. The silk moiré strap was original. Hester paused, as she looked at it. Why was she wearing this watch? It was her best. ‘Five more minutes and I’ll go in,’ she said, taking a seat next to Norm.
‘So you think Percy will become active with us?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He’s a private man whose biggest secret has been rumbled. He’ll come round and do the right thing, eventually. He might be a Prophet, but he is still an Englishman.’
‘Englishmen created an empire,’ Norm said.
‘And politely watched it crumble.’
‘I’m not sure it was always necessarily polite.’
‘Politer than when they formed it.’
‘We’re not doing Percy much credit,’ Norm chuckled.
Hester studied Norm’s face. His teeth really were very white. ‘Would you like a glass of wine, Norman?’
‘No, thank you. But don’t let me stop you.’
26. PERCY
Percy walked back from the condo recycling area feeling very sore, and a little sad. He’d grown fond of the sagging concrete table, but it kept filling up with water that neither he nor The Kraken could remember to empty, and the death knell had sounded. The man who had helped him carry it was the Indian-Singaporean guard who always annoyed Percy, with his sideways glances and short remarks. Though they hadn’t encountered one another many times over recent months, Percy could not help but dislike him.
‘Come on, come on,’ the guard had said. ‘You a weak man. I will take most of the weight.’
Percy had struggled. The edge of the table pressed hard into the part of his hand damaged by a small china cat, causing the area to become unbearably tender as they shuffled along with the great weight of the table strung between them. He’d been forced to put it down several times. Though perfectly healed, the pink scar throbbed.
‘It was only a toy,’ the guard said, after the fourth time the table was dropped. Scowling, he jabbed at his own palm, ‘A toy!’ The guard had run into Percy immediately after the incident, and even then shown no concern.
Percy hooked his wrists under the squared metal tube supporting the tabletop, and lifted. It wasn’t comfortable; the heaviness crushed against his tendons painfully and his arteries felt horribly compressed. With regret, Percy realised he was indeed becoming weak. Once upon a time, his strong arms would have raised tendon and muscle to resisted the pressure. Too long not working with his hands was taking its toll.
‘You make a mess with your blood. Not nice.’ The guard said, making conversation as he waited for Percy to organise himself. ‘Very hard to clean up.’
Percy ignored him. Then he’d turned his hands over, and tried lifting by using the backs. It was too awkward.
The guard had laughed. ‘Like a girl, lah! You stick your bottom out, like a girl.’ He looked around, for an audience, posing as if he were a camp praying mantis.
Percy lashed out. ‘And what were you doing walking around here in the early hours of the morning?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I saw you. A while ago, in the rain. Walking around at night when I know you never work nights. Scurrying about. What were you up to, huh? Robbing towels?’
‘What is robbing towels? This is my place of work.’
‘You weren’t working.’
The guard was staring at Percy blankly, but soon realisation flooded the man’s face. A smile drew itself up, and the guard said, ‘Ah yes. Very nice lady at number twenty.’
‘You dirty bastard.’
‘Why? I am not the one parading my penis. Come. Pick it up. The table, not your penis.’
It was then Percy realised there was nothing for it but to cope with the pain in his hand. And perhaps complain about the guard. Once the job was done, Percy thanked him. He said very little back, other than to tell Percy what his next mission was. He was tracking down some children who had been throwing water bombs at the guardhouse.
What was the point of the guardhouse, Percy wondered, as he walked along? He’d arrived back very late the night before, and while the guard on duty was sitting upright, he was in fact sound asleep. And there was no physical barrier to get past, apart from the flimsy rising-arm for vehicles, that went up and down, up and down, up and down, but could easily be smashed to pieces by the weight of a child’s tricycle.
It wasn’t far to walk from the dumping zone back to the house. Percy’s feet were bare, something the guard had criticised him for, saying that next he would be moaning because he had cut his feet, as well as his hand. Again the guard had jabbed at his palm. Percy ignored him. One of the many things he increasingly enjoyed about the climate was the freedom to walk barefoot, comfortably. He still loathed flip-flops and sandals, occasionally pondering how they might be outlawed, always preferring a fully enclosed foot where possible. But there was something pleasingly maverick about bare feet outside of the home, he felt; new pleasure running in the face of all he had felt before.
The email received that morning from Art agreed with this view.
Fieldy,
I think I know what you mean about bare feet, though in the digging game, the baring of any foot is for reckless fools. Not only do you risk trimming your own shoe size, no worthwhile force can be applied when pressing down on the back part of the shovel blade. The ball of the foot, whilst reasonably tough, is not designed to take such centralised pressure, the arch even less so. After the tour of the veg patch, I’ll run a workshop on it, if you’d like.
I am thinking you might be becoming a bit soft, out there in the land of warmth and plenty? Not the bare feet thing, for clearly walking on exposed skin is a man’s prerogative. It’s more that you seem to be obsessing about the people that chased you. Assuming you haven’t dreamt it, I think it is great that you have suddenly changed from po-faced-Percy (that one is from the wife; apologies) to phenomenon-Fieldy. Maybe you can magic up some slug-eating dragon for me? Preferably one that can empty the dishwasher too. And fly with me on its back, as well, if that’s okay.
You could of course solve the issue of popularity by coming home, where the streets would be lined with just one: me, holding my spade high for you to walk beneath.
Got to rush, Art.
Designed. Evolved is what he meant, thought Percy, as he walked up the steps to his house. He went to the kitchen and wetted a tea towel with ice-cold water from the chiller, before wrapping his hand. He set the kettle to boil and checked the fridge for ingredients to nibble on, but found none. The fridge was no longer his own. How did someone not living in the house manage to dominate such an important thing? Was it the influence of The Kraken, or Sal? After all, it was Sal who paid for the helper and for the food she cooked, for the roof over his head. He caught himself. Not the roof. The company paid for that.
The kettle whistled and Percy made himself a cup of tea, before sitting down on the deck outside. It was averagely hot and he sweated a little as he sat drinking. With the coldness of the towel already gone, he took it off and from habit threw it to where the table had stood; the cloth fell to the wooden floor. He looked at the empty space, and then put his drink down on a chair, before resting his feet upon another. He had a lot to think about that he didn’t want to, so he concentrated on Art and his vegetable patch, pondering the sort of day Art would consider ideal versus Percy’s own perfect day. Art would dig and Percy might wa
lk, but they’d both end up in the pub.
Percy was soon slumbering. He was feeling a little hung-over from a night spent at a new pub he’d found, a short taxi-ride away. It wasn’t better than The Tired Turtle, but it made a change. A Chinese guy dressed as a cowboy ran it, and the place was kitted out as a Wild West saloon. It was named The Wagon, so wheels were a prominent feature, along with photos of Hollywood greats in starring Western roles. In England, Percy might have mocked it, but here it seemed to have a quaint charm all of its own.
Phrike discovered it. It had two pool tables, rather than one as at The Turtle, and a dartboard. Percy wasn’t sure if Billy the Kid ever played darts, or pool for that matter, but it made the space feel very British; old school British, which he liked. He thought Art would have enjoyed it, if he could adjust to the icy bottled lager being served.
Even before meeting Phrike, Percy knew he was going to get drunk. He’d noticed some girls spying on him from the road outside his condo. Feeling that people were watching him was becoming a regular thing. He’d called Phrike about it and Phrike had then invited him out for a drink to talk it over more fully. This offer had made Percy anxious. It was like Art saying he wanted to talk about his feelings. But before that, there had been the walk. This was the thing leaving him in need of too much beer.
Percy had met up with Verity. The Botanic Gardens was brimming with life, and they had strolled at a leisurely pace. She had brought Cocoa along, since Norm was attending a meeting at Hester’s and he was nervous of Cocoa and the veranda.
‘He’s convinced there are cobra underneath it.’
‘There probably are.’
‘Maybe. But I can’t see Cocoa chasing a snake. He’s worried because Hester had dogs that used to love playing with snakes. You can imagine what happened to them, Percy.’
Despite himself, he asked the question, ‘What meeting at Hester’s?’
This question seemed to stop Verity. She settled down on a shady bench. He’d sat too, feeling the warmth of hot blood glowing from her. Cocoa lay down on the path, prostrate.
‘She’s always much quieter with you than with Norm,’ he observed, flicking a finger towards the dog.
‘She can’t get away with it, with me.’ Verity chuckled softly. ‘Poor Norm, Cocoa listens to the maid more than him. Don’t get me wrong, Cocoa loves my Norman, but she’s in charge. I’ve told him to be firmer, but he thinks it’s cruel.’ She nudged Cocoa lightly with her toes, ‘Take the piss, don’t you, you little rat bag.’ She paused, smiling affectionately at the animal, Cocoa not raising even a hairy eyebrow. ‘And in answer to your question, Percy, I think you know which meeting. We’re not talking The Discussion Group here, are we.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah indeed. My husband has always been very fond of you. You understand what I mean by fond, don’t you?’ She looked at him, startling blue eyes seeming gentle, not piercing as they often could be.
He’d nodded.
‘What this new thing is, I don’t know. I can’t speak for him and I really cannot speak for the others. Personally, I think it is a way for him to admire you without upsetting himself. Do you understand what I mean by that?’
Percy had again nodded; a small tip of the head to acknowledge what she was saying, though he could only guess at her full meaning. She was perhaps saying that Norm could feel as strongly as he wanted, as he was driven to, and it would not challenge Norm’s own ingrained dislike of who he was; a gay man. Perhaps it was not dislike, but fear.
‘I think they are mad,’ Verity went on. ‘Who in this day and age believes in Prophets? And that you might be one? Well, it’s laughable.’ She gripped his arm, suddenly. ‘Oh my God! No offence, Percy. That was an awful thing to say.’
‘No offence taken, Vee.’ And there was none. No one thought it was more ridiculous than Percy did. ‘But in this day and age, as you put it, why does a man like Norm not admit who he is? Face it, who even cares?’ He’d shrugged as he said it, displaying that he, for one, didn’t.
Verity had regarded him then with a degree of disappointment, he thought. ‘Percy, do you really need to ask that question?’ She loosened her grip on his arm.
He thought about it, and then nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’
She placed her hands flat on her thighs, rubbing as she searched about for something to say. ‘What are you, Percy?’
He didn’t understand.
‘What are you? Summarise yourself for me.’
‘Such as?’
‘Describe yourself. Say, “My name is Percy Field and I am a white man born in England.” You were born in England?’
‘I was.’
‘Okay. Say it then. I am a white man born in England…’
Percy hesitated.
‘Say it.’
‘I am a white man born in England…’
‘And I fancy women.’
‘And I fancy women.’
Verity had looked pleased. Percy already suspected a trap. ‘Say the whole thing,’ she instructed.
‘My name is Percy Field and I am a white man born in England and I fancy women.’
‘Good. Now I want you to picture this. Look at all these people. And look at me. Think of the world at large. For the sake of argument, you now have to accept what I tell you about this world. In this world, men fancy men and women fancy women. They are in the majority. And it is so normal to be homosexual, that it is not permitted for people to fancy anyone of the opposite sex. Okay? Opposite is wrong.’
‘Okay.’
‘You’re picturing?’
‘Yes.’
But all Percy could think of was Opposite Day. The boy neighbour had harassed him for a full hour with tales of Opposite Day, saying goodbye for hello and yes for no. It proved that it was possible for the child to be even more annoying than he usually was, rather than the opposite.
‘I want you to shut your eyes and believe it, Percy. I want you to picture same sex parents, and think about all those films where the love match is between same sex couples. You see it.’
‘Hmm. I suppose.’
‘NO. You don’t suppose. Feel it. I am not asking you to fancy men. I am asking you to imagine living in a world where being homosexual is the norm.’
Percy opened an eye. ‘The norm?’
‘Turn of phrase. Stop it. Shut your eyes.’
Percy did. ‘Everyone is gay.’
‘No. Everyone is not gay. Everyone is homosexual. There are no special terms, because homosexual is the standard. Only if you are heterosexual might you hear a different name, and it probably won’t be nice.’
Percy tried to picture what Verity wanted. He tried to imagine the world she described. He thought about not trying, about just sitting there with his eyes closed, but felt he was unlikely to get away with it.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘you, Percy Field, live in an environment where heterosexuality is illegal. It is so frowned upon that the authorities have decreed it cannot exist. Men can only love men. Women can only love women. This is the core of family values.’
‘Fine.’
‘So you accept this? You accept this world where heterosexuality is illegal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say again what I told you to say.’
‘My name is Percy Field and I was born in England and I fancy women.’
‘You forgot the bit about being white, but never mind. So you fancy women? You dare to say you fancy women, when you know this cannot be possible?’
Percy tipped his head back, and looked to the sky. ‘I get your point.’
‘It’s called putting yourself in someone else’s shoes, Percy.’
‘I get it. And I get that being gay isn’t as widely accepted as I thought.’
‘Damn right it isn’t. And Norm was raised to believe gay people should fight it; that being homosexual cannot be. One man came out in our church and they sent him off to be cured, for God’s sake! Cured! Can you believe people actually still t
hink that way, Percy? And what the bloody hell has it got to do with them, anyway? Served them right, in any case; he came back with a boyfriend.’
‘I guess you can leave the church but the church doesn’t leave you.’
‘Exactly. He’s been told his whole life he has brown eyes even though when he looks in the mirror he sees blue. Why he didn’t marry someone equally devout, I do not know. It would have made more sense.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Only that it’s easier to keep things hidden from yourself, when you’re both blind.’
‘He met a woman he could love,’ Percy said.
Verity smiled, ‘Thank you.’
‘You love him?’
‘I do.’
‘And what about us?’
‘Us?’ she asked.
‘No strings. We agreed. But when I think of the last time we were here… well...’
Verity’s mood softened. ‘No strings all round is what we have here, my love.’ She touched his hand. ‘Shall we walk on?’
Percy thought of the empty shed they’d found before, in the un-trodden part of the Gardens, and his heartbeat quickened.
The Cult of Following, Book Two Page 19
