He heard a fluttering sound. One of the mangy-looking parrots was at the window again, perhaps the same one. It stood on the sill and looked at Shiva, then at the bowl on the floor. It must have smelled the congealing remains of the stew but was obviously frightened to fly into the shed. Shiva looked at the hooked, sharp beak and remembered the one on the post that had been chewing at the rope. Very slowly and gently, so as not to startle the kea, Shiva edged painfully over to the bowl and, gritting his teeth, put his bound wrists inside it. He dipped the piece of rope connecting them into the watery mess. The kea watched intently.
Shiva hoped its hunger was stronger than its fear. He lifted his hands out again and managed to pick up the bowl. He shuffled back against the wall. He put the bowl on his lap, held his roped wrists beside it. The bird twisted its head from side to side, assessing what was going on. Parrots, Shiva knew, were intelligent birds.
‘Come on,’ Shiva said encouragingly. ‘Come on.’
It hesitated, then fluttered down to the floor. It stood there out of reach, studying him without moving. Shiva closed his eyes and leaned his head wearily against the wall. This wasn’t going to work.
He felt a wind, then sharp little claws on his thigh. He opened his eyes. The parrot was perched on his leg and had put its head into the bowl. A dark little tongue flickered out of the open beak, greedily licking up the remains of the stew in the bottom of the bowl. He saw how thin it was. The bird kept one eye beadily fixed on Shiva. When it had finished, it jumped into the empty bowl and looked at Shiva’s bound wrists. There was a little of the stew on his fingers, and he feared the bird might bite them. The kea looked up at his face uncertainly for a moment, then stretched its head forward and began picking at the rope.
Some instinct to grub and peck had been stimulated, for the kea bit and tugged, swallowing pieces of rope as well as the stew smeared on it. Shiva sat as still as a stone, enduring his pain. The bird bit his wrists several times and blood began to flow, but he gritted his teeth and made no sound that might startle it. After about fifteen minutes the bird suddenly stopped, then flew up, perched on the windowsill for a moment, and was gone.
Though it brought pain to his shoulder, and to his wrists too now, Shiva tugged at the ropes. The strand linking his wrists was almost severed, and the kea’s pulling and pecking had loosened the others. He felt something give, and pulled his right hand free. He looked at his wrists; his hands and wrists were dotted with sharp little cuts, many bleeding. With his free hand he began picking at the ropes until both hands were free, then his legs. He arranged the ropes so it looked as though his limbs were still tied, then leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, trying to pull himself together. He arranged his hands in his lap so it looked as though they were still tied. Then he leaned back against the wall again, grateful for the dim light. The trousers of his best suit were dark with grime and dust now.
This time it was only a few minutes before he heard footsteps approaching the hut. The key turned. But it wasn’t James who came in, it was Parvati. She carried a gun, a large old revolver that looked huge in her little hand. In her other hand she carried an olive-oil lamp which she laid on the floor. She stood looking down at him. Her expression was annoyed, irritated.
‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She looked at his bloodied hands. For a second Shiva was afraid she might guess the truth, but she must have thought James had cut him, for she said: ‘So I see. He doesn’t think you’ve told him the truth. You should, or he’ll hurt you badly.’
Shiva laughed. ‘Have they sent you to play nice policeman to James’s nasty policeman?’ He looked at her. ‘Bad choice. Nice is the last thing you are. I thought that ever since I saw the photographs of that murdered watchman in Birmingham.’
‘Everything I’ve done has been for the Shining Light. That old man would have died soon anyway. He just went to hell a little early. The end is almost here.’
‘You’re bringing it.’
‘We’re fulfilling the prophecy. It’s God’s plan.’
‘Your God. How cruel and vile He is.’
She laughed contemptuously. ‘Who are human beings to set themselves up as more moral than Jesus Christ and Almighty God? He led Pastor Smith to the Black Book. Many others have had the book in the past, and none realized its significance. We are the instruments God has chosen to bring His plans to pass. The whole purpose of the prophecies was to give us, here in the Last Days, proof of what God wished us to do. And it was He that brought us to the submarine.’
‘There were several nuclear submarines never accounted for. I bet there are others washed up on uninhabited shores around the world.’
Her voice took on a note of cold intensity. ‘You’re saying it isn’t strange that an undamaged, fully armed submarine should be washed up on the remotest shores of the country where the Shining Light burns strongest, where one of us found it? No, this was meant.’
For a brief moment Shiva wondered if they could be right. But even if they were, it didn’t matter. Shiva knew what he must do now. Looking at Parvati, he knew he could kill her and do it with little feeling. And then he gave a long, shuddering, involuntary sigh.
She misread what the sigh meant. ‘You’re afraid of James coming back?’ she asked. She made her voice gentle. ‘There’s no shame in that. Tell me the truth, Shiva. Nobody’s coming after us, are they?’
Her body had taken a relaxed, unthreatening posture, and Shiva saw her hold on the gun relax a little. He kicked out with his right foot, the ropes flying away, knocking it from her hand. Parvati gave a cry of astonishment. He launched himself from the floor and butted her in the stomach. The gun dropped to the floor as Shiva’s weight toppled her over. She gagged and gasped for air as he pressed his elbow on her windpipe, but she still struggled fiercely, trying to get her arms free. Shiva reached for the gun, picked it up and smashed the butt down on her forehead. She gave a little grunt and went limp. He brought the gun down on her head twice more, until he was sure she was dead.
He stood up shakily and leaned against the wall. While attacking Parvati he had felt no pain, but now it washed over his shoulders and cut hands in waves. He felt faint and sank to the floor again, allowing himself a few seconds’ rest. Then he got up, walking around the room a couple of times to test the strength of his legs. Not looking at Parvati’s face, he bent and felt in her pockets for the key to the shed.
Now he must be quick, not hesitate for a moment. He took a few more deep breaths and felt himself fill with purpose, certainty. Hold this feeling, he told himself, hold it to the end.
He put out the lamp and opened the door quietly, just a crack, holding Parvati’s gun behind him. Lights shone out into the darkness from the buildings around. Though he had feared James might be coming back, the complex seemed deserted. The night air was warm and still. From somewhere he heard singing, hallelujahs, God’s elect preparing themselves for the End. He looked down the length of the jetty, the submarine visible as a black shape in the moonlight against the beautiful vista of Milford Sound at night. A full moon was reflected in the still water. The missiles the men had been dismantling had been covered by a tarpaulin. He made out two guards standing there, wearing dark kaftans. One looked young, slim and slight. The other was larger, older, and carried a rifle.
Shiva closed the door again and stood thinking. Somehow he had to disable the guards without shooting them, for the sound would bring people running. Then he would fire the gun at the detonator of one of the torpedoes. The whole lot would go up, and so would the missiles on the submarine. This corner of South Island would probably be devastated, but there were few people here and he hoped that the gigantic natural funnel of Milford Sound would absorb much of the energy. And the whole world would not go up in a nuclear war that devastated, shrunken humanity could surely not survive. And if God meant that he should fail, at least he would have tried, and if he found himself at some seat of judgment and an angry God thu
ndered at him and asked if he believed that his morality was greater than God’s, Shiva would answer ‘yes’ and go proudly down to hell.
He opened the door again, just a crack. The guards looked bored and listless. Shiva slipped the gun into his belt behind him, then opened the door and stood in full view. He raised his hands above his head and started walking slowly towards them.
They looked at him in astonishment. The one with the rifle raised it and pointed it at Shiva. He was in his fifties, fit-looking. The other guard was just a boy. He reminded Shiva of Michael at the church in Dunedin. He felt sorry for what he must do.
‘Stop right there!’ the older guard called. Shiva slowed his pace further, to a shuffle, but still walked on. ‘I want to confess everything,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the light.’
He was still too far away for the guards to hear properly. ‘What?’ the older one asked.
‘I have to tell you. God himself has visited me. See, my bonds are gone. See the stigmata, the blood running on my wrists.’ He made his voice tremble with emotion. The guards looked at each other. Shiva knew he sounded convincing; he had always been able to sound convincing. Even his clothes, ragged and dirty and torn now, added to the image. It was enough to throw the guards off balance. He came to a halt, perhaps twenty yards from the tarpaulin. He had walked at a slight angle, taking him near the water. He stopped and the two guards came slowly up to him.
‘How’d he get out?’ the young guard said. He sounded afraid. They both stepped right up to him. Shiva was in great pain, but he turned quickly and threw all his weight against the older man. He gave a shout and toppled into the water with his rifle, hitting it with a loud splash. Shiva pulled the gun from his waistband and pointed it at the young guard. ‘On your knees,’ he said. ‘Hands on your head.’
The boy obeyed. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready. I’m not prepared yet. This isn’t the time.’
Shiva swiped him across the side of the head with the gun and he went down with a groan. Shiva rolled him over and over until he too fell into the water. He could hear splashes and gurgling cries from the other guard, but there was no way for him to climb up again.
Shiva walked over to the tarpaulin and pulled it away. The pyramid of ugly, snub-nosed bombs lay there. Shiva picked one up and laid it on end as he had seen the technician do earlier. He had a momentary fear that he would not be able to unscrew the top, but it was surprisingly easy. He looked at the complex mechanism. The guard in the water was shouting now, loudly, his voice carrying far in the clear night. Shiva heard the singing stop. It must be now. He hesitated, then out of the blue remembered the two children fishing in the lake at Birmingham and felt a sudden overwhelming love for poor, fractured, weak, helpless humanity. God help them all, God should help them all if He existed.
He stood right above the bomb, aimed downwards and fired.
He saw a red light and then a blinding white light and in the middle of the white light the figure of Shiva, dancing in his circle of fire to keep the world in being, his face impassive.
1 Now Preston Street
2 7 July 1325
3 The robbery was April/May 1303
4 Monday 17 June 1348
The Lost Prophecies Page 39
