The Temple

by Brian Smith

Vengeance

  All of man’s affairs become diseased

  when he wishes to cure evils by evils.

  Sophocles

  A few days after the bomb attack on the bus, a small group of people gathered in a church for a funeral, a double funeral. John Lessing was the father of the little boy decapitated during the blast and grieving husband to a murdered wife. When he had learnt that not only politicians but even a representative of the Dryvellist Temple would be present at the victims’ funeral, he had refused to let his wife and son to say their farewells to a beautiful and cruel world the little lad had only known for ten months, in their presence. “It’s adding insult to injury!” he said and arranged for his wife and son to have a private funeral in private dignity and not as a public relations spectacle. The sad wailing sound of Mozart’s Lacrimosa echoed through the old church. His mother-in-law sobbed and the priest spoke what words of solace he could. A little later stout shoulders lifted a long coffin and a little coffin and slowly walked out of church. Chopin’s funeral march accompanied them on their last journey. When John Lessing looked down at his wife’s coffin and then the one containing his little bundle of joy, a pain and anger welled up deep inside of him that was beyond words. He clenched his fists and when he heard someone mumble “They’ve gone to a better place” his mind told him “They’ haven’t gone anywhere. They’re just fucking dead”. As he cast a handful of earth on each coffin there was a strong feeling growing in his heart. He couldn’t describe it or understand it yet, but it slowly ate away at his heart and took over his thinking. After the funeral there was the traditional meal and then the emptiness of his home, a wardrobe filled with his wife’s clothes still imbued with her scent, a little empty cot, and then the great nothingness.

  As he paced up and down his empty flat thoughts raced through his mind. “This isn’t happening.” “It’s just a nightmare and you’ll wake up again. Wake up!”

  But he didn’t wake up and the nightmare was his life. Over and over again pictures and sounds tormented his mind, the sound of an explosion, the wailing funeral march, the sound of earth falling on a coffin, the giggling of his baby, his wife’s voice,… again and again in an infinite loop.

  He stayed in the confines of his home refusing to open the door even to his close friends and relatives until the day of the great protest march. When he saw John Drew at the head of thousands marching through the city to demand justice he awoke from his stunned grieving torpor. Spontaneously he put on his shoes to join the march. The walk amongst the milling multitude was like a liberating breath of fresh air. For the first time he felt there was a way out of the land of darkness he felt himself trapped in. The demand for justice and action offered the hope that he would be given the opportunity to come to terms with his unbearable loss. He marched side by side with thousands of others, and when everyone chanted their slogans he shouted out his grief, his anger and his frustration. After the march he went to have dinner before going home. It was the first time since the bombing that he was able to sleep through the night.

  The following morning he prepared himself some breakfast and sat down in the living room with it. Eager to see if there was any reaction from the government to the protestors’ demands he switched on the TV.

  “…in what a government spokesman has described as a crackdown on rightwing extremists police units raided dozens of homes last night and arrested the ringleaders of yesterday’s unrest. Four hundred officers executed 38 warrants on Thursday. In all Police said they arrested 32 people aged between 16 and 44. Twenty-seven were men and five were women. Five of those arrested were charged with national security offences and the other 13 with incitement. All those charged have been remanded in custody to appear at Court later. The other 14 people arrested have been bailed pending further enquiries, police said.”

  The cup of coffee dropped out of his hand spilling the dark brown liquid on his white carpet. The brown stain spread as the coffee soaked into the material. Speechless with rage he turned the TV off and spent the rest of the day brooding.

  When evening turned to dusk he went rummaging through his flat for a number of things that he took to the bathroom one by one, a large empty glass bottle, an old rag, a siphon, a cork and a tin of turpentine left from the decorating work he had done some weeks earlier. He put on a pair of rubber gloves and then put the siphon in the bottle and poured the turpentine into it. Then he closed it tightly with the cork. He carefully wiped the bottle with a wet soapy cloth to make sure there were no fingerprints on it. He packed the bottle, the rag and a cigarette lighter in a small rucksack and then dressed in dark clothes and running shoes. He was just about to open the flat door when he paused and went back to the bedroom. He opened several drawers and cupboards before he found what he was looking for – a balaclava. Stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket he grabbed the rucksack and left his home.

  The sky was dark and the streets were full of people, many of them heading for home after a long day at work, others going out to enjoy themselves. Nobody took any notice of the solitary dark figure walking through town, his mind focused on his target. Passing through a park he saw a stone lying on the ground. He stopped to pick it up and let it slide into one of his large pockets. After almost an hour’s walk his target was in sight – the Dryvellist Temple. He looked around. Suddenly he felt very nervous. His heart was beating strongly and he felt the sweat on his hands. There was no one in sight. He took out the balaclava and pulled it over his head. Then he uncorked the bottle of turpentine and stuffed the old rag into the bottleneck. The turpentine soaked into the fabric. He hid the bottle inside his jacket, took the stone in one hand and the cigarette lighter in the other and approached the temple. The streets around the temple were deserted. ‘Lucky,’ he thought. ‘Wouldn’t want anyone around now.’ He walked around the building until he found some windows. One last look and he hurled the stone at one of them. The glass shattered. He quickly lit the rag in the bottle and threw the Molotov cocktail through the broken window. Then he ran without looking back.

  Brother Thomas was young. He had spent six months at the temple as an acolyte before being welcomed into the order as a full brother. It was the proudest achievement of his life. He revered and almost idolized Master Jeremiah who, in his eyes, was as close to God as any mortal could get. With Jeremiah’s help he had found the way to prayer and meditation to achieve inner peace and a oneness with the divine. He was walking along a corridor when he heard the stone John Lessing had cast come crashing through a window. He opened the door to investigate and, with the hands of fate inexorably pulling him in, entered the room. Seeing the broken window he walked towards it when the turpentine filled bottle came flying in. The bottle smashed against the wall just behind Thomas where it burst into a fiery inferno that engulfed poor Thomas. The burning turpentine drenched his back. In an agony of terror Thomas ran out of the room and back into the corridor, screaming, yelling, crying for his life and for the pain to end. Horrified brethren peered out of other rooms to see the human torch run and then collapse before reaching the end of the corridor. Someone got a fire extinguisher. Little plastic flakes melted on Thomas and put out the fire. Within a few minutes the wailing siren of an ambulance joined its voice to the low moans that still came from Thomas. The horrified paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher and took him to the ambulance. A shot of morphine. An oxygen mask. The ambulance raced through the night desperately trying to stay ahead of the winged death in cold pursuit. Its icy fingers reached for Thomas who briefly awoke moaning “Let flights of angels sing me to my rest”. The driver put his foot down and the roaring engine pulled slightly ahead of their unrelenting pursuer. The paramedic held Thomas’ hand. It was all he could do. Thomas’ hand tightened as the vehicle was overtaken. The screaming siren tore through the night carrying his lifeless body.

  The next day news of the arson attack and the gruesome murder filled all the news channels. John Lessing watched everything on TV. He thought taking revenge would
make him feel better. It didn’t. Like an evil demon sucking away his blood, his heart darkened and hardened and thirsted for more, more, always more. The photos of a smiling Thomas didn’t touch his heart. “He was one of them, so good riddance!” he muttered bitterly. “Let him rot in hell!” He didn’t see the pictures of Thomas as a child, he only saw his own son and wife, and the all consuming cancer of hatred continued eating through his heart.

  When the president was told of the attack on the temple he felt himself vindicated in taking strong action against the demonstrators. “There you see what kind of people they are,” he said to the home secretary. “This must not be allowed to continue. Do whatever you must, but find me those bastards!” Yet no matter how much the police interrogated those under arrest, no one would admit to anything. That, of course, did not stop the media for laying the blame at the feet of John Drew and his fellow demonstrators who were now called conspirators in a relentless propaganda drive.

  When Jeremiah heard of the horrific attack he was appalled at the dreadful injustice done against the holy temple. “So much for the president’s word that religion must be respected!” he said angrily. “By God I swear that this shall not remain unanswered!” he yelled with clenched fists.

  When the parents of Thomas were told of his fiery death they wept.

  When the general public watched everything on TV they recognized an escalating tit-for-tat that was spiralling out of control and with no one in sight to save the land.

  On the radio someone played Henry Purcell’s funeral march, the drum beating relentlessly and the trumpets blowing air under the wings of Death.

  That day a storm raged across the city. The noonday sky was as dark and sombre as though eventide was approaching. Heavy rain blown about by an icy bitter wind lashed the buildings and few people ventured outside. The main city square, where tourists and locals alike usually spent time in a street café or walked about with an ice cream, was deserted except for a solitary crow that braved the tempest and sat perched on the head of the city’s legendary founder.

  The wind and rain and cold seemed to quench people’s thirst for vengeance on that day. They stayed in their homes or if they had to venture out they dashed to the nearest place of safety. Yet while the storm raged outside there were dark clouds of a very different sort on the horizon inside a number of buildings that day.

  When the police and fire services had concluded their investigation at the Dryvellist Temple Master Jeremiah gathered the brethren in the grand hall. The weeping Diana had tears of bright red blood pouring down her pale face. Jeremiah positioned himself next to her and gazed at the gathering.

  “My brothers,” he said forcefully. “Today is a day of mourning for us. We have had the comfort of having Thomas as our brother cruelly taken away, but not that of having had him. He lives on in our hearts and we vow never to forget him. Young Thomas came to us seeking life and happiness and yet it is death that he found here at the hands of those who hate us for what we are. And yet, death? Is it death he found here? Not so I say unto you, my brethren, for the Lord himself watches over us. The only certainty we have in life is death, but we Dryvellers have the certainty in death of being well received by the Lord in eternity. And thus we can be sure that Brother Thomas is in a better place, a place where dreams are true, a place we true Dryvellers may all look forward to one day. And this is even more so for a martyr, and I can assure you that Thomas is a martyr. Has the Lord not promised martyrs the entry into superparadise where delights unimaginable await him who is pure of heart? It is said that cowards die many times before their deaths while the valiant never taste of death but once. And so it is with Brother Thomas. The only question I can ask you here today is this: Do you want to die many times or only once?”

  The brethren lifted their fists up in the air and chanted “Martyrdom! Martyrdom!...”

  Master Jeremiah lifted his hands to calm the enflamed brethren. “Brothers! The day will come when this dastardly deed shall be paid for and it is we who will present the bill. I call for a volunteer, brothers, let a volunteer rise to his feet.”

  The brethren stood up like a man. Jeremiah nodded satisfied, with a grim smile barely perceptible on his face.

  Three days later. Another dirge and another funeral. A dark brown wooden coffin containing the unfortunate Thomas and a copy of The Holy Dryvel was lowered into the ground. His parents, relatives and friends bade a tearful farewell and threw handfuls of earth and flowers down on the coffin. The Dryvellers and brethren stood and waited until Thomas' family had moved on. Thomas' parents had never been happy about him joining the order which they perceived as having a bad influence on him.

  Then Jeremiah delivered what was supposed to be a eulogy but what in fact was a poem he shamelessly copied from the Roman writer Lucretius:

  Departed comrade! Thou, redeemed from pain

  Shall sleep the sleep that kings desire in vain:

  Not thine the sense of loss

  But lo, for us the void

  That never shall be filled again.

  Not thine but ours the grief.

  All pain is fled from thee.

  And we are weeping in thy stead;

  Tears for the mourners who are left behind

  Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.

  He then invited the brethren to say a prayer for Thomas before he turned and walked away in a slow mournful way. The whole funeral took place under the watchful eyes of scores of reporters and some discreet security personnel. They filmed the brethren filing past the open grave in a long procession. Each of them said a little personal word of farewell and when the last of them had gone the gravediggers filled in the dark sad hole so that cheerful flowers would be able to be a companion for Thomas and a solace for his grieving parents.

  When the gravediggers had finished they stood in front of the grave and looked at the gravestone.

  “Aye, it’s true,” one of them said. “Look at that. Never seen a truer word on one in all these years I’ve worked here.”

  The inscription read:

  What you are,

  I was.

  What I am,

  You will be.

  City of Darkness

  There’s no educator better than necessity.

  Xenophon

  The imprisonment of John Drew and the brutal crackdown of the FDL, followed by the gruesome arson attack on the temple had left the nation in shock. Yet while many were petrified by the sudden outburst of violence it had the opposite effect on Cato. His father’s excruciating death in the Dryvellist Hospital and what could only be called a theft of his family estate had left deep and lasting scars. Not a day went by without these two things weighing heavily on his mind and the once cheerful young man had become quiet, withdrawn and bitter. Where once he had risen high on the wheel of fortune, his circumstances were now utterly reversed forcing him to make a living as a waiter. His sullen appearance meant he got few tips, gradually alienating him further from society, a society that he already felt deeply let down by.

  One evening Cato was at work as usual. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening and he didn’t mind. Less work meant he didn’t have to concentrate so much. When the restaurant was busy he sometimes made mistakes with the orders as he found it hard to keep his mind on the job. His thoughts kept wandering and he was often brooding when he could. This was one of the times when he had time for brooding. Suddenly he felt the manager’s elbow in his side and heard the quiet reproach “Customer”. A woman was sitting down at a table in a corner. He walked over and placed the menu in front of her without saying a word. The woman took a brief look at the menu and then glanced at the waiter, ready to give her order.

  “Cato!” she said surprised. “How nice to see you again. How have you been?”

  “Ah, hello Joan,” he said with an inscrutable expression. “What can I say. I’m getting on somehow. You can see what I’m doing here. There’s nothing really to tell.”

  Joan understood his
despondent tone and look.

  “I see,” she said carefully. “I really want to talk with you again. When do you finish here?”

  “Midnight.”

  “All right. I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

  He looked surprised. “Are you sure? It’s very late.”

  “I’m sure, Cato. See you then.”

  He took her order to the kitchen, surprised anyone was interested in him. But it felt good. It was a feeling he hadn’t known for months.

  A few hours later Joan was already standing outside the restaurant when Cato came out.

  “Hello Joan,” he said mildly surprised. “I thought you might not come.”

  “Of course I’ve come,” she said and took his arm. Come with me. I know the very place where we can have a drink and a quiet chat together.”

  He followed her without a word but with a barely discernable smile on his face.

  They had a few drinks in a small pub and talked about themselves, the temple and all else that had come to pass. After another drink or two Joan took him to her home in a taxi where they made passionate love before falling into deep exhausted sleep. They lay in each other’s arms in a happy embrace. Outside their private little Eden the city lay quiet and dark.

  After spending a blissful fortnight with Cato, Joan decided to arrange a meeting with Mark and Judas. Their private happiness was like a blossoming flower, yet one always under the threatening shadow of a crow’s dark wings. For while Cato was genuinely in love with Joan he found himself unable to get his mind free from the Dryvellers and what they had done. In the end it was Joan who determined that the only thing to do was to team up with Mark and Judas again to discuss if there was anything they could do.

  They met in Joan’s home over dinner and a few drinks and discussed everything that had happened.

  “So what I want to know,” Mark said, “is how we’re supposed to do anything. I mean, look at the FDL. All they did was to protest peacefully and they got thrown into prison for years.”

  Judas nodded. “Hey, I’m not going to jail. And what for? That protest achieved nothing.”

  Joan sighed. “Yes, I know, but we can’t just do nothing. At least I can’t. Look at what those swine did to Cato and many others. This won’t simply go away, vanish into thin air as if nothing had happened. It’s torturing Cato every day,” she said and put her hand on his arm. “No need to say anything, dear. I know what’s on your mind.”

  Cato looked to the floor and nodded a little.

  “So apart from what we can’t do, have you got any smart ideas?” Mark asked. “Because one thing’s for sure. Just sitting here and talking and moaning won’t get us anywhere. And I sure as hell don’t want to get involved in anything violent, I mean if you’re thinking of throwing fire bombs or stuff like that, then count me out. I don’t even want to hear about it.”

  “Mark’s right,” Cato said. “We mustn’t be violent or we’d be no different from them.”

  Joan nodded. “So we can’t be violent and we don’t want to be caught doing something useless. How about if we organize a protest where no one is caught or seen?”

  Judas laughed. “How do you want to do that?”

  “That’s easy,” Joan smiled. We’ll wear masks and we’ll not stay long. We’ll appear suddenly in one place, hand out some flyers and talk to a few people and then we’ll vanish again before the cops have time to get there.”

  “Shit that’s cool,” Judas grinned. “We’ll be like the Immortals.”

  “The Immortals?” Mark said.

  “Yea, I saw that on TV. In Persia there were these soldiers, and like, well, they wore masks and they never died, or something like that. So we’ll be wearing masks and we’ll never die because the coppers won’t get near us.”

  Cato peered at Judas with his clear blue eyes. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, old chap. I like it. The Immortals definitely has a ring to it. It’ll help us attract more attention and if the media report about the Immortals then the effect of our protest will be magnified hugely.”

  Mark nodded his agreement.

  “All right, then,” Joan said. Then let’s talk about what we want to write and what masks we can use.”

  “Won’t the protest be a bit small if it’s just the four of us?” Mark asked.

  “What do you have in mind?” Joan asked.

  “How about if we get in touch with some FDL people. It’s just their leaders in jail. I’m sure the others are really pissed off with what happened and at least some of them will join us.”

  “That’s a darn good idea,” Joan said. “And I know just where to start.”

  5.30pm. Rush hour. The blazing red sun has already vanished behind the city’s tall buildings and soon the late afternoon will give way to a gloomy dusk that heralds nightfall. Huge crowds are milling through the town on their way home. They are pushing their way through a public square. Suddenly a person dressed in dark clothes appears. The head is covered by a dark hood with a white mask in front. Moments later there are dozens of figures all dressed alike. They hand out flyers demanding freedom of speech, the release of all FDL prisoners and a police investigation of the Master Jeremiah and the Dryvellist Temple. At the same time they start a rhythmical chant:

  “Stop Dryvellism! Free John Drew!”

  Many people are attracted by the unusual sight and take a flyer or even film the protestors with their mobile phones. After three minutes the protestors simply melt away. They vanish into different directions, be it into a side street, a bus or into one of the many entrances of the city’s underground transport system. By the time the police arrive all that is to see is an agitated crowd, many of whom strongly disagreed with the harsh stance the government took on the FDL. So instead of finding honest citizens willing to help in their investigation the police are booed. The handful of officers who came, discover that any questions they ask are met with heated replies and in the end they are ordered to leave the scene so as not to inflame the situation any further. And all this is also recorded and quickly sent by messaging devices to colleagues, friends and family members.

  A mere two hours later film footage of the protest is headline news on TV followed by footage showing the police being booed and driven away by an angry crowd of commuters. There are even some brief scenes of the first FDL march and the terror attack on the bus.

  The Immortals are by this time safely back in their homes and eagerly watch the evening news.

  “That’s fantastic!” Joan said to Cato. “Just look at all the attention we got on our first protest. I bet that’ll have the president and his Dryveller pals hot under their collars.”

  Cato smiled. “Yes, I suppose it will. All we’ve got to do now is to keep it up till things reach a boiling point. We’ve got to keep the attention focused on them.”

  Over the next week the Immortals staged a flash protest every evening in different places in town with the same results. The police invariably arrived too late to even catch a glimpse of them and authorities were getting increasingly frustrated by both their inability to stop the protests and by the apparent popularity of the protests. Despite repeated appeals and even the offer of a reward no one was willing turn them in or to try to restrain any of the protesters.

  Meanwhile Jeremiah was watching events unfold seated in the posh armchair that graced his spacious living room in the opulent mansion he had bought himself from the temple’s ill-gotten gains. Despite all the luxury surrounding him he was in an increasingly foul mood. Not only did the protesters keep raking up the sins of the past, they were also successful at keeping the temple’s wrongdoings on everyone’s mind thus making it very difficult for Jeremiah to carry on his usual business of cheating people out of their money.

  “Something’s got to be done,” he cursed one day. “If the police weren’t so bloody useless the whole matter would be long forgotten, ancient history, but what can we do to distract people from these stupid protests?”

  He stared at the
precious Persian carpet on his floor turning things over in his mind.

  “What we need,” he said at long last, “is a spectacle. A huge show for people to see what we Dryvellers are really like. Indeed,” he said loudly feeling encouraged by his own idea, “a grandiose spectacle that’ll be the talk of the town, no what am I saying, the talk of the nation. Something so grand and marvellous that it has never even been attempted before! The only question is, what kind of show that would be.”

  In spite of repeated scandals involving the temple Jeremiah had managed to amass a small fortune from various ventures and events. He decided to hire a number of famous pop stars, actors, circus performers and magicians and combine all of them in an unheard of way into the fabulous extravaganza he had envisioned. In addition to this he organized a national lottery just for this event where huge prizes were offered. He calculated that the lure of an incredible show and the possibility of huge winnings would be enough to draw in even the most hardened critics of Dryvellism. And he was right. Tickets for the show were sold out within hours of box offices opening and the rights to televise the event were successfully auctioned to the highest bidder. It was beginning to look like a winning formula for fantastic publicity for the temple combined with a substantial income. Jeremiah calculated that this one event might even net the temple more than they had ever taken in before. Not even the daily protests by the Immortals could do anything to dampen the excited spirit with which people were looking forward to the show. If anything, there were people who were beginning to look at the protesters askance. Forgotten were the terror attack, the scandal about the hospital and a score of other ill-deeds. The only thing left on people’s minds was the show.

  “What a bunch of gormless sheep people are,” Jeremiah laughed. “Give them some great entertainment and they’ll forget you burned their house down last week.”

  But if Jeremiah was in a jubilant mood, the opposite was true for the Immortals.

  “I don’t know why we’re still bothering,” Judas said one day to Joan, Cato and Mark. “I mean it’s not like we’re achieving anything. It was all right at first, but now no one cares. All they want is that darn show.”

  “Oh please don’t say that,” Joan said. “You mustn’t give up.”

  “And why not?” he interrupted her. “Why can’t I give up? Why do I have to waste time on this and risk going to jail? For what? I mean, yea like, it was fun for a while and we had them really pissed off, but it’s over now. Money wins. You see what that bloody Jeremiah can do because he’s filthy rich.”

  Mark didn’t know what to reply and gloomily stared at the floor, but Cato slowly nodded.

  “He’s right,” he said to the others. “Why should we risk anything if we’re achieving nothing?”

  “You’re not serious,” Joan said in shock. “After all you’ve gone through, how could you give up? Just think of your dad and your home.”

  “I know,” Cato sighed. “But going on with a pointless protest isn’t going to change the past, is it? And people don’t even want to hear us anymore. That show has completely blocked out reality from their minds.”

  “And that’s exactly why we have to carry on. We’re the only ones who can still remind people of who the Dryvellers really are,” Joan pleaded.

  “I’m sorry Joan, but it’s over,” Cato said. “If Jeremiah and Co. go back to doing nasty things we’ve got a chance to start again, but as long as the show is a go we haven’t got a chance.

  The four friends sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “And what,” Mark said haltingly, “what if there is no show?”

  “Yea, like God is going to come along and cancel the show,” Judas said with a sardonic grin.

  “No, I mean we could cancel the show,” Mark said. “Just imagine if after all the hype the show was called off. That would leave folks with a very bad taste in the mouth to say the least and they’d be sure to remember everything else about the Dryvellers again.”

  “And just how do you propose to stop a huge show from going ahead?” Cato asked. “That’s a mega event. There must be tons of security and police around. They’ve got the country’s largest indoor stadium and even if we managed to get in, what could we do? Another protest there wouldn’t do much good. We’d only get booed and arrested.”

  “Yes, Mark,” Joan said. “Do enlighten us.”

  Mark smiled. “Actually, I know exactly how we can do it.”

  The day of the show drew nearer and nearer, but Mark stayed tight-lipped about what he was going to do. He merely instructed the Immortals to be in place outside the stadium at a certain time and to trust him.

  The big day came. A triumphant Jeremiah was strutting around the stadium making last minute inspections before the crowds were to be admitted. Huge numbers of people were already queuing outside the gates and he was nervous that everything should be perfect. He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes to admittance.

  His mobile phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve got a problem, Master Jeremiah,” the show manager said. You’d better come down to the changing rooms.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Jeremiah said with a sense of foreboding.

  When he opened the door to the changing room he was greeted by a horrendous scene that left him petrified. The floor was covered in vomit and faeces. Opposite the door stood one of the lead actors clutching his bowels and throwing up. Suddenly his bowels erupted and a wet brown substance slid down his legs. The manager spotted Jeremiah and quickly crossed the room.

  “It’s horrible, I don’t know what to do and…”

  In his haste to reach Jeremiah he slipped on the wet floor and fell flat in the ghastly stinking liquid that was sloshing about, splashing brown drops all over Jeremiah’s suit. Jeremiah turned on the spot and fled.

  Outside the stadium the crowd was getting restive. It was twenty minutes after the gates should have been opened. Some of the people had been waiting for hours and their patience was wearing very thin. Their feet and legs were tired and all they wanted was to be let in so they could get to their seats and watch the show. Then the unthinkable happened.

  There was a ring tone on the loudspeaker system that meant an announcement was to follow. A hush fell over the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. It is with great regret that I must inform you that tonight’s show has been cancelled. Please remain calm and…”

  It was the moment Mark had instructed the Immortals to wait for. They were dressed in ordinary clothes like any other member of the crowd and stood in different places. Then they started to chant:

  “The show is a cheat! Fuck Dryvellism!”

  They shouted over and over again and it wasn’t long before the rest of the crowd fell in. The jovial mood of half an hour before had turned sour. Then someone threw an empty bottle at the building. It shattered. For a moment everything was quiet. Then a furious roar gripped the crowd who threw anything they could lay their hands on and tried to fight their way into the stadium.

  Instead of a wonderful show on TV the horrified nation watched a pitched battle between an angry mob and desperate riot police who suddenly found that the people they had come to protect had suddenly become their enemies. A pitched battle raged around the main entrance, but in the end the strong gates defended by riot police were too much for the unarmed crowd and after more than an hour of fighting that left scores of people wounded and rushed off in ambulances, the crowd began to waver and then slowly withdraw from the stadium.

  In view of people’s disappointment the chief of police wisely decided not to make any arrests.

  No one saw or heard of Mark till the next day when he called Joan.

  “Feel like lunch, Joan?”

  “Hell, yea, we’ve all been waiting to hear from you. Where have you been?”

  He laughed. “See you at our usual place at noon, all right?”

  When they were all seated Mark calmly read the menu and placed his order.

>   “Oh for God’s sake, Mark. How did you do it?” Cato asked.

  He smiled. “It wasn’t that hard, really. I’ve got a part-time job at the stadium and I have access to all the food and drinks that are delivered for performers, so I laced that with laxatives and some other nasty stuff. Nothing really dangerous, but enough to give anyone who ate the food the most horrible and uncontrollable diarrhoea and vomiting. You should have seen the changing room. It was drenched in puke and shit.” He grinned. “Not bad for a part-time job, eh? Though I suppose I’d better start looking for a new job now.”

  The others stared at him not sure whether to feel delighted or sickened.

  “That’s great, Mark. But you know what,” Joan said. “I really don’t feel like eating anymore. See you later.”

  She stood up and left the restaurant.

  The fiasco at the stadium meant that Jeremiah had to refund all entrance and lottery tickets, as well as the money he got for auctioning the TV rights. Yet at the same time he had to pay for the stadium and all the celebrities he had hired. In fact a number of them were even suing him for food poisoning.

  All in all the biggest event of the year had turned into the biggest fiasco and Jeremiah suddenly found himself in a situation where he was unable to pay for everything.

  There was speculation in the media as to whether the food poisoning was due to sabotage or illness, but in Jeremiah’s mind there was no doubt: “Those cursed haters. They’re going to pay.”

  War

  War never takes a wicked man by chance,

  the good man always.

  Sophocles, Philoctetes

  In the inky black night of a new moon four men crossed the border and entered the country. The hilly woodlands they were crossing were at a considerable distance from the nearest village and the difficult terrain meant that there were no roads or border guards. The four men had good reason to enter the country in secret. Not only were they the murderers of Brother James, who had tried to blackmail Master Jeremiah, but more importantly they had undergone clandestine military training during their stay abroad. Each of them was carrying a large heavy rucksack filled to the brim with explosives, detonators, ammunition and other deadly tools in the trade of a terrorist, though they saw themselves as freedom fighters. The names of these four men, who were about to enter the annals of Dryvellism, were Bohemon, Tancred, Herman and Richard. To be able to cross the forest in total darkness they were wearing night vision goggles. An eerie silence pervaded the land. Only the wind rose at times to cause a rustling in the leaves that came and went like the ebbing waters of the sea. Mostly it was so quiet that the only sound they heard was their own breathing and twigs snapping under their boots. The little troupe passed by in silence to avoid detection. The going was slow and arduous and their secret meeting point still a long way off. Tancred led the way with a compass, his watchful eyes both on the luminescent dial and on his surroundings to make sure they kept on the right track and to avoid falling into an ambush. To guard against the latter the four men were carrying assault rifles of a foreign make, the kind favoured by terrorists and guerrilla groups around the world.

  After some ten hours of marching the exhausted men were inwardly begging for the end of their yomp when far in the east a little grey line on the horizon heralded the dawn. Not long after the black sky above the forest changed from black to grey and as light slowly entered the woodland the men were able to take off their night vision goggles from their tired eyes. Bohemon gave the hand signal for a short break in which they wolfed down some sandwiches and coffee from a thermos flask.

  A few minutes later they were back on their feet again. They had to reach their rendezvous point by a certain time and there was no time to waste. Feeling confident they marched through a sparsely wooded area, but they were not alone. A hunter was out early hoping to shoot some of the deer that had been causing problems to farmers down in one of the valleys. At first he thought he had spotted the deer when he saw movement in the undergrowth, but when he peered through the telescopic lens he soon recognized the men. Curious about what they were doing he kept watching them until he saw the assault rifles. Their clothes didn’t look anything like the uniforms border guards wore. He didn’t know who they were or what they were up to, but armed men in the border area could only mean trouble. He waited until the group had vanished between the trees. Then he took out his mobile phone and informed the police.

  Twenty minutes later the men found a dirt road used by foresters. They turned west and walked for a few more minutes until they reached their rendezvous point. Parked on the dirt road was a dark green van that Jeremiah had bought cheaply second hand. The license plates were stolen from a vehicle whose owners he knew were away on a trip. Jeremiah was sitting in the driver’s seat. When he spotted the four men he opened the door and walked towards them.

  “My dear brothers!” he said delightedly. “It’s been a long time. Welcome home.”

  “It’s good to be home, Master Jeremiah,” Tancred said, “and better still to see you again.”

  “Hear, hear,” Richard said. “But let’s not hang around. I won’t feel safe till we’ve put some distance between us and the borderlands and besides, we can talk all we want while we’re on our way.”

  “I second that,” Bohemon said.

  “Very well, very well,” Jeremiah replied. “I have no particular wish to stay here any longer myself. The sooner we’re on our way to do the Lord’s work, the better. So without any further ado I suggest we just get going.”

  A few minutes later the van turned off the dirt track onto a pukka road. After rumbling over the dirt road Jeremiah was happy to put his foot down on the accelerator and speed off. Moments later flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror. Jeremiah cursed.

  “How in devil’s name did the police get here?” he said.

  “Never mind how,” Tancred said. “Just keep going and drive like hell. We’ll see to the rest.”

  The police car pursued the fleeing van and had soon caught up. Tancred watched it through the rear window. When it was close enough he kicked open the back door, pointed his assault rifle at the driver and squeezed the trigger. The rounds shattered the glass and tore through the driver. The police car veered off the road and disappeared into a ditch.

  “Problem solved,” Tancred grinned and slammed the door shut.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Bohemon grumbled. “I don’t like the way they turned up so quickly just when we got onto the road. Something’s not right here, I’m telling you.”

  “Trust in the Lord, my dear Bohemon,” Jeremiah said, “and the Lord will provide. Now don’t you worry about the police. We’ll be in town soon enough. Everything’s been arranged and taken care of.”

  A few hours later they arrived at their destination. A grimy old brick building in a part of town with a very poor reputation. It suited their purposes admirably. Jeremiah had been able to rent a small flat for cash without any questions asked or the need to provide identity. It was on the first floor and at the back of the building a fire escape allowed for a line of retreat should there be problems at the main entrance. They got out of the van and while the four men were grabbing their gear Jeremiah looked down the road. Not far from where they were he recognized the Jamaica Inn where he was shanghaied on the night he first met Sycko. “How very curious,” he said, “that the Lord should bring me back here. There’s still a bill waiting to be settled in any case.” He turned and led the way into the block of flats trying to remember the name of the old man in the Jamaica Inn who had robbed him. They walked upstairs and Jeremiah opened the door.

  “It may not look like much,” Jeremiah said, “but I think you’ll find that it suits our purposes perfectly. No one here cares about who you are or what you do. People keep to themselves and you won’t find anyone here who’s friendly with the police. In fact the police never venture into this part of town unless they really have to.”

  Herman smiled. “This place i
s great. And when I think where we spent the last few months it’s almost like paradise.”

  “Exactly,” Tancred said. “After living in a cave or sleeping in ditches any place with running water and a warm bed is great. But even if folks around here keep to themselves I think it’s better if you leave now, Master Jeremiah. We can’t risk having the van spotted in this street by anyone. In fact, it would be best to get rid of it altogether.”

  Jeremiah thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll be going then and will contact you through the agreed channel.”

  Jeremiah drove the van to a garage he knew was involved in dodgy businesses and sold it for a pittance. He removed the stolen license plates and discarded them into a small river.

  The night the four belligerent monks crossed the border some of the Immortals were celebrating their success against Jeremiah. In the four days since the show was cancelled the public mood had soured. The Immortals suddenly found themselves appreciated again and the media were full of negative publicity about the temple, Jeremiah and Dryvellism in general.

  One of the Immortals had a large garden where she had invited everyone for a barbecue. Halfway through the evening and after a few beers Joan climbed onto a chair.

  “My friends,” she called, “brave hearts do not back down!”

  There were loud cheers and everyone clapped their hands.

  “We’ve had a great victory, but there’s still much to be done. Tonight we celebrate, tomorrow we’ll redouble our efforts.”

  “Three cheers to that,” someone shouted.

  “Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray! Hip-hip hurray!” the crowd cheered.

  Joan grinned delightedly. “And you know what, folks, we’ve got a great surprise coming for the government and that horrid temple. So all of you, have fun tonight and tomorrow morning make sure to watch the news. If those bastards think our little evening flash demos are the best we can do then they’ve got a big shock coming!”

  Two teams of Immortals were absent from the party, though if anyone should ask about them, there were a hundred people to swear an oath in a court of law that they had been present all night long at the barbecue. These two teams had been practising for some time how to climb up the outside of a building under cover of darkness.

  One team ascended the steep grey walls of the presidential palace and while the president was snoring in ignorant bliss in his large bed they set about changing the appearance of the palace. To be exact they sprayed the exterior with graffiti. When the paintwork was dry they applied a transparent protective layer on top to make it very difficult for anyone trying to remove the paint.

  The second team did the same thing at the Dryvellist Temple.

  Their job done the two teams quietly descended the buildings and vanished into the night like vengeful phantoms.

  The occupants of the two buildings had noticed nothing, so when in the morning they got up and looked out of the windows they were surprised to see people in the streets looking up at them, pointing, gesticulating, and even laughing. It was only when TV crews and photographers arrived that they understood something was seriously amiss. When the president hurried outside with his bodyguards and looked at his palace he nearly had a heart attack. There was a huge portrait of himself with the word ‘Dictator’ on his chest on one side of the palace. On the top just under the roof and on the other side it said:

  ‘Freedom of Speech!’ and ‘Free John Drew!’

  The president was livid and hurried back inside.

  When Jeremiah inspected the outside of the temple he was greeted by three slogans:

  ‘Dryvellism is a lie!’

  ‘Dryvellists are fraudsters!’

  ‘Jeremiah is a Murderer!’

  When Cato switched off his TV he said “Talk about poking a beehive with a stick.”

  Joan grinned. “Even that foolish president we have will have to realize sooner or later that he’s got to side with the people. If he doesn’t protect us from those religious fruitcakes and gangsters then he can’t complain if we make life difficult for him.”

  “Did you see how he was yelling at his staff?” Cato sniggered.

  “How long will it take them to remove the paint?”

  “A few days at least, I’d guess. They can’t wash it off or paint over it because we gave it a special coating. Mark thinks they’ll have to sandblast it, and that’ll take time. The media will love the spectacle so we should see everything repeated on telly for maybe a week.”

  “I just wonder how that bastard Jeremiah is going to take it.” Joan said.

  “Does it matter? Let him be hopping mad and get the heebie-jeebies if he wants to. After all the money he lost at the cancelled show he must be broke. All he can hope for is not to do anything else that might put people off from making donations.”

  Joan nodded. “Yea, I guess you’re right. And if we keep up the pressure and he can’t pay his rent the whole spook will be over before we know it.”

  “Fools, imbeciles, gormless twats!” Jeremiah yelled at the crestfallen brothers outside the temple. Despite their best efforts at removing the offending graffiti they had miserably failed. They had tried different soaps, detergents and cleansers all to the same effect. Even a tin of paint remover had turned out useless. The graffiti continued to stubbornly cling to the walls looking just as it had done before the brothers had tried to remove it.

  “It’s just paint!” Jeremiah yelled. “Any old idiot can scrape paint off a wall. Get it off or I’ll get the skin of your flesh!”

  He stormed off before anyone had the chance to reply.

  In his fury Jeremiah went straight to the dead letter box he had set up in the park. In one corner stood the statue of a Greek athlete throwing a javelin. It was a very lifelike work of art that even went as far as replicating bodily orifices. Jeremiah walked behind the statue and looked around. There was no one in sight. He took a small scroll of paper that contained a coded message from his pocket, walked up to the athlete’s behind and pushed the scroll up his rectum with one finger. It was a tight fit and he had to pull hard to get his finger out again.

  “You like it mate, don’t you?” a voice behind him suddenly said.

  Jeremiah turned round startled. A middle aged man with greasy hair, a pot belly and thick pouty lips stood there leering at him. The man stepped closer. Jeremiah wanted to take a step back but he was blocked by the statue.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Jeremiah said.

  “Oh, come off it mate,” the man leered. “I know just what you want. No need to pretend with me, mate. I can give it to you.”

  “You can what?” Jeremiah said incredulously.

  The man came closer, reeking of sweat and drooling over his victim. Unable to control himself any longer he grabbed Jeremiah by the crotch with one hand and firmly placed his other hand on a buttock.

  “Oh, me and you’re going to be great pals,” he breathed in Jeremiah’s face.

  Jeremiah stood in shock for an instant but then he came to again. He pushed the man away violently and exclaimed “You filthy, disgusting rat! Perverted vermin, away from me! Never have I been so insulted in my life, you sordid stinking beast! Pox and pestilence upon you! Get thee hence! Be gone with you, you wicked pernicious pustule!”

  Waving and flailing his arms wildly Jeremiah assaulted the surprised man who then turned and fled.

  Jeremiah breathed in deeply trying to regain his composure. “Truly the ways of the Lord are mysterious,” he said at last. Making sure there was no one around this time he quickly checked that nothing of the scroll was visible in the athlete’s rectum before he quickly walked away from the place of his infamy.

  Later that day Richard went for a leisurely stroll in the park. Richard retrieved the secret message from the dead letter box and went back to their little flat to decode it.

  “Master Jeremiah is brilliant,” Richard said when they got back and told the others about where the message was hidden.

&n
bsp; “A pure genius,” Tancred agreed. “No one would ever even think of looking in such a place.” He unrolled the paper and put it down flat on a table. The paper was covered in rows of numbers. He took a copy of The Holy Dryvel and opened it.

  “Now let’s see what Master Jeremiah has written to us,” Tancred said.

  “How do you decipher it?” Bohemon asked.

  “That’s easy. There are always three numbers. The first one represents the page, the second one a line on that page, and the third one a word in that line. It’s known as a book code and it’s unbreakable.”

  “You mean even the government or police couldn’t work it out?” Richard asked.

  “That’s right. I told you Master Jeremiah is a genius.”

  “By the Grace of God,” Herman said. “Let us not incur the wrath of the Lord in vainglorious pride, my brothers.”

  “Quite right, Brother Herman,” Tancred said. “Let us be united in drivel and prayer and humbly implore the Lord for His Grace and His blessings in our undertaking.”

  After their prayer Tancred decoded the message and they started their preparations.

  The following morning Tancred and Richard stood waiting at a lonely stretch of road in town. Richard was slowly pushing a pram along the side of the road.

  Tancred checked his watch. “Should be any minute now.”

  Richard’s grip tightened on the handles and he sent a quick prayer up to the Lord. Then he saw the familiar yellow that all school buses in the country were painted with. At the right distance he started crossing the road pushing the pram in front of him. In the middle of the road he stumbled and fell. The bus driver braked and brought the bus to a standstill just a few feet away from Richard. He opened the doors and jumped down to the road. “Are you all right, man?”

  Tancred came up behind the driver and hit him hard with a sock filled with sand. The driver collapsed and Tancred dragged him to the side of the road while Richard took their weapons from the pram and boarded the bus. Twenty-seven pairs of surprised eyes looked at him as he stood at the front of the bus brandishing a submachine gun.

  “Right, kids. Just shut up and stay on your seats and you’ll be fine, but if you try any tricks I’ll shoot you.”

  Terrified some of the younger ones started crying.

  Tancred got on the bus, closed the doors and drove off. After a few minutes the bus turned off the road and went into an abandoned warehouse where the children were forced off the bus one by one. Bohemon and Herman tied their hands behind their backs and gagged their mouths before forcing them into the back of a truck. Then Tancred drove the empty school bus out of town and left it standing in a little wood.

  Bohemon, Herman and Richard drove the children to the other side of the city. They parked next to a service shaft of the city’s metro system and made the children walk down a long spiral staircase. The terrified children, some as young as six, had to walk along a long corridor that only had intermittent lighting. The corridor branched off in different directions, one of which led to an abandoned section of the metro. They crossed the dark platform and climbed down to the track. After following the track for about five minutes Tancred stopped in front of a steel door. He opened it.

  “In you go, kids,” he said. “This is your new home for the time being.”

  The three brothers followed the children through the door. There was a narrow corridor that led to another massive steel door.

  “Here we are,” Tancred said. “This place was a bomb shelter during the war. No one’s been here for more than fifty years so we won’t have to worry about any surprise visitors.”

  He untied the hands of one of the older boys.

  “There are camping beds and boxes of food down there, and you’ll find a toilet and running water in another room. Don’t waste your breath shouting. No one would hear you here in a thousand years. So just relax kids and enjoy your school break. We’ll be back in a day or two to see how you’re doing.”

  He slammed the door shut and bolted it from the outside with two thick bolts he had installed the day before just as Jeremiah had instructed him.

  They then drove the stolen truck away and left it standing far away at the side of the road as though it had been taken by joyriders.

  At lunchtime Cato switched the TV on to see if there was any more news about their graffiti campaign.

  “This morning at around seven forty-five, armed men hijacked a school bus with twenty seven children on board. The driver was later found by the side of the road where he was lying unconscious. It is not known where the bus was taken to, but a short time ago we received a video from the kidnappers outlining their demands. We have, of course, passed any information we have on to the police to help free the kidnapped children, but we have also decided, after careful deliberation, that the public have the right to know what is going on, so we are going to show the video to you now.

  First the title appeared:

  Blood Moon

  Then a man wearing military fatigues and a balaclava spoke to the camera.

  “We are the Holy Dryvellist Resistance Army. After continuing attacks and hate crimes against our community, against the true believers, God’s own people, we have had no choice but to defend ourselves. We therefore issue the following demands to the government:

  - Enact legislation that makes blasphemy and Dryvellophobia a capital offence punishable by death.

  - Establish Dryvellist courts in which Dryvellers are tried for any offence committed according to Dryvellist law.

  - The teaching of Dryvellism is to be mandatory for all school children.

  - The so called theory of evolution must be banned from schools. It must be replaced by the true teaching of creationism and storkism as revealed in The Holy Dryvel.

  If our demands are not fully and unconditionally met by the government within one week, we will have no choice but to execute one of the hostages every day.

  “This is very distressing news and I must apologize for showing you this, but as I mentioned before, we think the public should know what is really happening. Now, I understand that some of the parents of the hostages are gathered at their children’s school so we’re going there live to our correspondent Cecilia Hopewell. Hi, Cecilia. Can you tell our viewers what is happening?”

  “Hi Harold. Parents came to the school more than two hours ago and they have only just come out again now. This is an extremely distressing time for all of them, but I managed to talk to one of the mothers.

  Hello, your daughter was on board the hijacked bus?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I took her to the bus myself this morning like every day. I’m so afraid now.”

  She burst into tears.

  “I’m so sorry. Has the school been able to tell you anything?”

  “Nothing. They know nothing. They told us to go home and wait. I don’t know how I can wait. I only want to have my baby back. She’s only seven years old. She’s never done anyone any harm. Please don’t hurt her, I’m begging you not to hurt her. If it’s money you want we’ll pay anything you say, but don’t hurt my baby…”

  Her husband put his arm around her and walked her away from the camera.

  “That was very upsetting. Thank you Cecilia for your report. And over to the presidential palace now where the president is about to make a statement.”

  The camera showed the president walking to a set of microphones.

  “My fellow citizens. We are all in shock at the horrible events of today. My thoughts and prayers at this time are with the kidnapped children and their families. I would like to assure you that the police are doing everything they can to free the children. I want to appeal to everyone, if you have any information that might be relevant, do contact the police. My government is offering a reward of one million for any information leading to the liberation of the kidnapped children.

  At the same time I want to appeal to the kidnappers not to harm anyone. We can talk about everything, though I must stress that
this government will not give in to blackmail.

  We as a nation should also consider whether the blame for this terrible crime lies solely with the kidnappers or if there are other factors. For some time now there have been those, who under the guise of anonymity have continuously provoked and angered the Dryvellist community. While this in no way can serve as an excuse for violence or possibly murder we should understand that people who are provoked and insulted may at times do rash things they would not otherwise have done. We as a government will therefore have to examine whether religious groups and communities should be protected from hate speech and offensive behaviour. This country once had powerful blasphemy laws. It is high time we considered re-instating them.”

  Angered Cato turned the TV off.

  “Well isn’t that just bloody typical,” he said to Joan. “Those gangsters kidnap kids and threaten to murder them and we get the blame because we dare demonstrate against fraud, lies and bombs on buses. Whatever next? Maybe rapists, robbers and murderers will get special protection from hate speech against them and anyone who criticizes their crimes will be locked up or executed? Fuck! That man is just such a wanker. How did he ever become president?”

  “What about the children, Cato? We can’t go on demonstrating now.”

  “No,” he sighed, “I suppose we can’t. Let’s keep quiet until things are sorted out, but God help that swine Jeremiah if any of the kids are harmed. I’ll strangle him myself.”

  The Truth Hurts

  The greatest enemy of all

  is considered he

  who tells the truth.

  Plato, The Republic

  While everyone was preoccupied with the rapidly deteriorating situation there was one person who was trying to work out if there was a way how he could personally profit. In the evening Judas was sitting on his dingy old sofa in the living room. When he saw the news report about the kidnapped children he was sure that Jeremiah had to be behind it. And the more he thought about Jeremiah the more determined he was to find a way to get something out of the whole affair for himself. “And if I manage to help those kids as well,” he murmured, “all the better.”

  The morning after the kidnapping Judas got up early, earlier than he had in years, and went to the temple. He was wearing a wide rimmed grey hat and dark sunglasses, a grey T-shirt and black trousers, and he carried a rucksack containing a baseball cap and some other clothes. When he got near the temple he concealed himself behind a tree on the far side of the road from where he could watch the entrance to the temple.

  Several hours later, it was almost noon, Jeremiah parked his car in a side street and then entered the temple. He came out again a few minutes later and Judas carefully followed him at a distance. Jeremiah led him straight to the park where he hid another scroll in the statue’s bottom, all of which Judas saw from behind some bushes. When Jeremiah had gone, Judas quickly inspected the statue and peered up the dark hole where he spotted the paper scroll.

  “Now isn’t that interesting,” he said. “Jeremiah’s posting a letter up some bloke’s butt.”

  He took the paper out and unrolled it, but was unable to understand the coded message. He quickly rolled it up and put it back again. Then he hid himself behind some bushes and settled down for a lengthy wait.

  “The good thing about not slaving away in some regular job is that you’ve got plenty of time,” he said and smiled.

  In the event he didn’t have to wait long. Less than half an hour later Richard appeared and went straight to the statue without even bothering to see if anyone else was around. He took the secret message and walked back to his flat. Had he made the effort to turn round to see if he was being followed he might have spotted Judas some way behind him, but he was so sure of Jeremiah’s ingenuity and the protective hand the Lord was holding over them that it never even occurred to him he was under observation.

  Judas spent all day opposite the building where the four brothers were staying without seeing one of them. He waited for some time after all the lights in the windows went out and then decided that there was no point in waiting any longer. His feet were killing him and he was more than happy to go home and lie down.

  But the thought of getting rich quickly at Jeremiah’s expense made sure that he woke up early the next day again. Worried that he might be too late he hurried back to the spot where he had stood all afternoon the day before. This time he was in luck. After a few minutes Richard and another man, it was Tancred, came out and walked to a bus stop. Judas got on the bus with them and followed them across town until he saw them enter the metro’s service shaft.

  “Well, well, well,” he said quietly. “What have we got here? Don’t tell me Jeremiah’s pals work for the metro. I’ll bet those swine have got the kids hidden down there somewhere.”

  He jotted down the address and went to a café for breakfast and to think things over.

  After some fresh croissants and a cup of invigorating coffee he made up his mind to pay Jeremiah a visit at his home.

  “Let’s see if I can’t spoil his morning.” On the way he came upon a toyshop where he bought a real looking toy gun. Then he caught a bus to the area where Jeremiah lived.

  When he rang the bell he hid the toy gun behind his back. As Judas was wearing the hat and sunglasses Jeremiah didn’t recognize him and opened the door. As soon as he opened the door Judas pushed the gun in his face and forced him back into the house. He slammed the door shut with one foot.

  “What, what do you want?” Jeremiah stammered.

  “What I really want is to blow your fucking brains out,” Judas said aggressively. “But failing that I’ll settle for second best, which means five million in hard currency.”

  Jeremiah swallowed hard. “I haven’t got that. In fact I…”

  Judas hit him in the face with the pistol.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” he yelled. “I don’t care if you have it or not, but you can get it. I know where your pals are hiding and where they’re keeping the kids.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Judas told him both addresses.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” Judas said threateningly, “you’ll get those idiot kidnappers of yours to drop their religious demands and ask for money instead.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “And why’s that? It’s quite simple really even you should understand it. They ask for money and release the kids. You pay me and I won’t bother you again, and you can easily claim that the kidnappers weren’t Dryvellers. They just used their religious demands to put the police on a false trail. When all the dust is settled you can go back to cheating people out of their money as you’ve been doing till now.”

  The plan was breathtaking, even for Jeremiah.

  “I, I can’t do that.”

  “If you don’t I’ll rat you out to the cops. There’s a nice reward for info on those kids. If you want me to keep my trap shut you’ll have to cough up a lot more than that measly million the cops are offering.”

  Jeremiah understood when he was beaten.

  “All right, I’ll try, but I can’t promise they’ll pay…”

  “Oh, they will pay, don’t you worry about that. They’ll deny it in public, of course, but they’ll find the dosh. That president has no guts and the last thing he wants is dead kids on the evening news. He’s like you, really. He’ll do anything to get himself out of trouble. You’ll be hearing from me, but don’t be long. I’m not patient and I’ll be watching you, so don’t try anything stupid. Now close your eyes and turn round.”

  As soon as Jeremiah turned his back to him, Judas quickly left.

  The sudden violent intrusion into his home left Jeremiah in a panic. Disregarding all caution he got into his car and drove directly to the building where the four brethren were hiding. He parked opposite the building and rushed upstairs. Bohemon opened the door.

  “Master Jeremiah!” he called in surprise.

&nbs
p; “Quiet, you fool,” Jeremiah said pushing his way into the flat and slamming the door shut.

  “What are you shouting my name for? Do you want the whole building to know I’m here?”

  “I’m sorry, Master Jeremiah, but I thought we agreed you’d never come here again. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Will you be quiet! I do the thinking, not you. Where are the others?” he asked seeing Herman come from another room.

  “They went to see the children earlier this morning. I don’t know when they’ll be back, maybe at noon, maybe later.”

  Jeremiah paced up and down the room impatiently.

  “Why is no one ever there when you need them,” he cursed.

  Herman looked at Bohemon questioningly, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

  “What is wrong?” Herman asked. “Maybe we can help.”

  “What is wrong?” Jeremiah said annoyed. “Everything is wrong. Call the others. I need them here now.”

  Bohemon and Herman looked at each other.

  “But Master Jeremiah,” Herman said, “we haven’t got mobile phones. We agreed before our mission that it was too risky. And we thought you’d only communicate via the dead letter box because…”

  “Yes, yes, because,” Jeremiah exploded. “I know why. Don’t give me any ‘buts’ and ‘because’.”

  Jeremiah breathed in deeply, about to say more, when they heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and moments later Tancred and Richard came in.

  “Brethren!” Jeremiah exclaimed before they had time to say anything. “A most terrible thing has befallen us.” And he told them about the visit he had from Judas and what his demands were.

  Tancred frowned. “We can’t give in to that. We’d betray everything we’re fighting for, everything that’s sacred.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Jeremiah said acidly.

  “I like radical solutions,” Tancred said. “Let’s set him a trap and kill him.”

  “And what if he doesn’t fall for the trap or he’s told someone else?” Richard asked. “How can you know it’s only one man? Maybe there’re others working with him.”

  “Pox and pestilence,” Jeremiah cursed. “Maybe this and maybe that. If I needed idle chatter I’d go to market and ask a bunch of market hags. What I need is a solution. The matter is very simple. For the time being we have to give in to the demands. We’ll negotiate the release of the kids and get money. We’ll get enough money to satisfy that swine and for our own needs. As to our real demands to the government we can just come back to those later. They are merely postponed, not cancelled. If we’re able to set a trap for that bastard and keep all the cash for ourselves, all the better. As soon as we get the cash you’ll move to a different place and we’ll have to change our way of communicating. It’s all very simple really. Are we all agreed?”

  Jeremiah looked up from the floor he’d been staring at. Tancred, Bohemon and Richard nodded their assent.

  “Now where the devil’s Herman? Does he think I’m just talking for fun or what’s wrong with him?”

  “I think I heard the front door a minute ago,” Richard said.

  Jeremiah quickly checked the flat.

  “By the great sacred top hat, what’s got into that man?” Jeremiah cursed.

  “I don’t think he’s happy about changing our demands to money,” Richard said. “Herman is very devout.”

  “Not happy?” Jeremiah said incredulously. “How dare he. Has he already forgotten the Laws of the Lord?” Jeremiah looked at them strictly. “Does anyone here remember the second law?”

  “Obey the Lord as made manifest through the Master of the Temple,” they said in unison.

  “Precisely,” Jeremiah exclaimed. A devout Dryveller obeys the Lord, and a devout Dryveller always knows what the Lord wants by heeding the words of the Master of the Temple. That’s where true happiness lies, in obedience to me.”

  Shocked by Jeremiah’s sudden demand that they blackmail the government for money rather than religious concessions Herman left the flat on impulse. He ran downstairs and then walked away from the building without paying attention to where he was going. “Master Jeremiah just wants money!” was the constant thought on his mind. The reasons Jeremiah had given for the change of plans had failed to register with the devout Herman, whose only thoughts were how to further Dryvellism and the Glory of the Lord. Herman walked along the streets, shaking his head and muttering. Sometimes he drew strange glances from the people in the streets, but for the most part no one paid attention to him. At first he could only think about how Master Jeremiah, the man he had trusted and believed in with all his heart, could betray Dryvellism. But the more he thought about it the surer he was of his conviction that it was a betrayal. Several hours later he stopped in his tracks and said “Master Jeremiah is a traitor. Master Jeremiah is a traitor,” he shouted. People stared at him. He was red in the face and he felt the mounting anger in his heart. “What to do? What to do?” was his next thought. It was out of the question that he should help Jeremiah in any way. Even doing nothing wasn’t good enough, it only meant that he allowed Jeremiah to continue his evil scheme. No, he would have to take decisive action. He looked around and suddenly realized that his feet had carried him into the vicinity of the temple without noticing it.

  “Praise to the Lord, for He has guided me,” Herman said. It struck him that there was a divine plan which was responsible for taking him near the temple. Then he realized that he, Brother Herman, was destined for greater things than being a mere brother. It was his destiny to save the true religion. More determined than he had ever been in his life he hurried to the temple. He entered the grand hall and went to the place that was reserved for Jeremiah. The sacred top hat was in its usual place. Herman took it and put it on. Then he called for the brethren to assemble. His voice rang strong and clear through the building. The surprised brethren hurried into the hall where they were astounded to see Herman again. And not only was he back, he was wearing the sacred top hat and calling a general assembly both of which were privileges only allowed to Master Jeremiah.

  “Brother Herman,” someone said. “We rejoice to see you again, but what is the meaning of this? How dare you wear the sacred top hat?”

  Herman briefly related what had happened since his departure and how Jeremiah had betrayed Dryvellism for money. The brethren looked at him in disbelief. After a moment of silence a heated and even fierce debate broke out between those who believed Herman and those who could not accept that Master Jeremiah could do any wrong. Herman found himself forgotten for the moment. He thought about what he could do to convince the brethren of the sad truth. There was only one thing he could think of. He hesitated for a moment because of the camaraderie he still felt for Tancred, Richard and Bohemon, but then he thought that they had sided with Jeremiah. And who sided with a traitor deserved a traitor’s dues.

  Herman left the grand hall and went to Jeremiah’s office. He picked up the receiver and dialled the emergency police number. He gave the location of the kidnapped children and the hiding place of the kidnappers themselves before hanging up. Then he went back to the grand hall.

  Jeremiah was sitting at a table in the flat with Tancred, Bohemon and Richard. They were working on the revised draught of demands to the government in which they asked for roughly the double amount of money in return for the safe release of the hostages that Judas wanted from them.

  After Herman had suddenly left them Jeremiah suffered from a sudden outbreak of verbal diarrhoea. He became so absorbed in his diatribe against Herman and anyone not willing to obey his commands that he forgot about why he had come. Finally Tancred reminded him and they were all glad to get to work again on the matters at hand.

  “You will see that I’m right,” Jeremiah said. The government will pay anything we ask of them and then we’ll be able to push them for things we really want.”

  “You mean we won’t hand over the hostages when they’ve paid the money?” Richard asked.r />
  “That’s an interesting question,” Jeremiah mused. “But unfortunately I think we’ll have to go through with any deal we have with them. If we don’t they’ll never trust us again and it’ll be much harder to persuade them to do what we want. No, what I mean is when we have the money and we’ve got rid of that blackmailer we’ll just find a new pressure point against the government. In fact I…”

  Jeremiah was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Windows to the flat were smashed and tear gas grenades came flying in. Jeremiah was petrified, but the others dashed for their guns. Tancred was the first to open fire. He lay under a window, held a submachine gun up and squeezed the trigger. Moment later bullets were flying everywhere. From the building opposite police snipers opened fire. One of the bullets hit Jeremiah in the head.

  That evening the liberation of the child hostages and the successful operation against the kidnappers was all over the news. People across the nation were hugely relieved that the children were unharmed. No one cared that the kidnappers were all dead, but people were shocked to hear that Jeremiah, Master of the Dryvellist Temple was among them. When Cato and Joan heard the news they jumped up from the sofa and danced for joy.

  “I knew it,” Cato said. “I just knew that fucking Jeremiah was behind everything. Finally we’ve got it in public. Now even our daft president will have to admit we’re right and that Dryvellism is evil.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Joan asked. “The temple’s still there. Being rid of Jeremiah is good, but it never was about him alone, was it?”

  Cato frowned. “You’re right. There’s still work to be done. At least now we’ll have everyone behind us. What we need now is a huge rally demanding that Dryvellism be banned. They can’t possibly arrest us now, not after what happened to those kids. We’ll have the whole nation marching with us. And you know what, dear? Let’s strike while the iron’s hot. Call everyone and we’ll go into town tonight.”

  The only person truly unhappy about the day’s events was Judas. His dreams of sudden riches had vanished into thin air and once again he had tried and failed to get a personal gain from Jeremiah. He stayed at home feeling depressed and drank one can of beer after the other while watching TV. Later in the evening reports of a sudden rally in the downtown area were broadcast. Pictures showed a huge crowd being led by the Immortals in their unmistakable masks. That gave Judas an idea.

  “Jeremiah may be gone,” he said, “but there’s still a nice little reward out for the capture of the Immortals.” He switched off the TV, put on his old worn out shoes and went to the nearest police station to file a report against Cato, Joan, Mark and a number of other leading figures in the Immortals’ movement. When Cato and the others got home that night the police were already waiting for them and placed them all under arrest.

  When Judas got his reward a few days later the first thing he did was to pay The Jamaica Inn a visit where he enjoyed the services that were available both downstairs and upstairs.

  The Immortals were taken to court and charged with incitement and endangering national security.

  They tried to defend themselves by showing that they had only demonstrated against criminal actions of the Dryvellers.

  The judge replied that “The truth is no defence” and sentenced them to lengthy jail terms.

  Following the Dryvellist plot and the arrest of the Immortals there was nationwide outrage. Newspapers called for urgent action, politicians called for decisive action, the president announced some steps in the right direction, and in the end no one changed anything.

  And so after a few sports events, a large number of sitcoms, soap operas and other televised opium for the masses, not to mention an affair by a famous pop singer, the whole sad story vanished from the public mind. In fact, within a fortnight it had been forgotten.

  Epilogue

  Only the educated are free.

  Epictetus, Discourses

  Master Herman of the Holy Dryvellist Temple stood in the grand hall and looked at the assembled brethren. He felt their eager eyes resting on him, every eye adding to the heavy burden he had shouldered.

  “Brethren,” he said. “We have gone through hard times together. The hatred and Dryvellophobia that has ravaged our community have left indelible marks on our soul. There are those who are not with us anymore and not a day shall pass where we do not remember what they have done for us, for Dryvellism and for the Lord. It is said that a generation of Dryvellers is like a generation of leaves. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the living tree blossoms with leaves again in the spring. And are we not gathered here in our living tree, our holy temple from whence the green leaves of our faith blossom and grow anew? Are we not like the green leaves that strive up towards the sunlight to reap the energy and power they need in their daily fight for survival?”

  A spontaneous burst of applause.

  “I know that things have seemed very bad at times. Let us not forget that war is the last of all things to go according to schedule. We must learn to let go of our expectations and hopes and at the same time learn to accept and indeed cherish those things the Lord has thought it wise to bestow upon us. It is manifest to all of us here that we are engaged in a bitter struggle for survival, a war, against all those who deny Dryvellism. It would be foolish to pray for an untroubled life in this much troubled world. Rather we should ask the Lord to give us enduring hearts. We must endure the hate and hostility of the outside world, a world that has conspired against Dryvellism, while at the same time we must always be ready to welcome with open arms those who have the courage to admit to the truth in this hostile world. As such it gives me special pleasure to introduce you to my young friend Bill Slayer who has taken the first step away from the benighted existence he believed to be life. Let us give him a warm welcome, let us pray together.”

  The congregation drivelled and drooled and chanted a prayer of welcome to Novice Slayer.

  By the same author

  Captain Kim Pottinger has been based on Mars for several years and he is feeling bored with the red dustball. All that is about to change when newly arrived Dr. Larry Wathen goes with him to find out why a team of scientists investigating Cydonia, an area famous for the Face and some pyramid shaped mountains, cannot be reached by radio anymore. Of particular concern to Kim is that his girlfriend Jane is one of the missing scientists. The discovery they make shatters their understanding of both Mars and Earth. But when things begin to go awry they wonder if they will ever return to Earth...

  What is the truth about Mars? A gripping adventure story that began thousands of years ago on Earth in a land long vanished beneath the waves.

  The Mars Conspiracy

  ISBN-13: 978-1499620160

  Visit the author’s personal page:

  www.briansmith.de

  IS THERE ANY WAY TO SURVIVE?  

   What would happen if modern military forces fought against the armies of World War One, just 100 years ago? A massacre? And how would we fare against an alien invader 1000 years more advanced than we are?

  Eight gripping apocalyptic short stories about the end of the world. As we all know from Hollywood films the end usually begins in America - the rest of the world is an afterthought. The surprising twists and humour make each of the stories unique and fascinating to read.

   

  NEW, EXCITING, HORRIFYING TALES THAT WILL CAPTURE YOUR IMAGINATION

  The End of America: & the rest of the world

   ISBN-13: 978-1499534122

  www.briansmith.de

  Dare Quest

  Series for young readers aged 8 – 12.

  There is an evil man prowling the streets of London in 1892. He lures poor children with food and the promise of a better life. Where does he take the children?

  A terrible murder is committed. What is the dark secret behind it?

  It's a case for Sherlock Holmes.

  Then Edward and Anthony are called in on the case. Who made the dare? And
what is the connection between the murder and the missing children?

  Can YOU survive the Dare Quest challenge?

  Read them all:

  The Chinese Pirate

  The Red Planet

  The Tiger

  Queen Cleopatra

  Free the Slaves

  The End of the World

  Sherlock Holmes

  The Man from the Ice

  The Crystal Skull

  www.briansmith.de