Mythangelus

by Constantine, Storm

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. If I go back.’

  ‘I thought we’d decided that earlier,’ Iliana said sharply.

  Emory looked at her. ‘Had we? The convention’s only half-way through, Illa. I shall be returning to the site tomorrow.’

  ‘What? Are you mad?’ Iliana appeared to have forgotten there were strangers present. ‘You can’t! Your stupid stunt has probably drawn crazies from half the known world! It’s too dangerous for you to go back there.’

  ‘Iliana, there is no danger.’

  ‘Well you might have had the decency to mention this earlier!’

  ‘I hadn’t decided earlier.’

  Nina hoped Chantal was busy using her Talent on Patrick. She herself didn’t feel it was the right time to bring hers into play. Not yet. Some part of her still believed it wouldn’t be needed, and she hoped Chantal’s probing would back that conviction up. Her initial impression was of a man who was clearly used to adulation, but nevertheless did not take himself too seriously. Like Sable Grant, he was comfortable in his skin. He had a confident performer’s compelling eyes, but the charisma was just part of the act. This was a showman, not a messiah, she was sure of it. She could not imagine him raising somebody from the dead.

  ‘How’s your headache?’ he asked her.

  She shrugged. ‘Manageable.’

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  Aha, it was show time. With a cynical smile, Nina extended her arm. He took her hand in his. The skin was warm and dry, but there was no electric jolt. He’s not Talented, she thought. He’s not. Emory closed his eyes briefly and squeezed her fingers.

  ‘Stress,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t say.’

  He let her go and pulled a wry grin. ‘I can tell you’re not a believer.’

  She shrugged again. ‘Well...’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You clearly have your own belief system that works for you pretty well.’

  ‘Not as well as yours, I’m sure.’

  He grimaced. ‘Some people might say mine isn’t working too well at the moment. Strange, isn’t it? You give people what they want and it scares them.’

  ‘Like raising the dead?’

  Linford cleared his throat loudly and interjected. ‘I don’t think we should discuss that now, Emory.’

  ‘Why not?’ Emory asked in a reasonable voice. ‘I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about it.’

  ‘Look, neither am I...’ Linford blathered. ‘But...’

  Emory turned away from him. ‘You’re sceptical about that, aren’t you?’ he said to Nina.

  She nodded. ‘Do it again in front of me, and I might not be.’

  ‘Is that a challenge?’ Emory laughed.

  She raised her hands. ‘If you want it to be.’

  ‘Part of being what I am precludes rising to challenges.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind.’

  Emory smiled. ‘Ms Rose, I might not be able to provide the hard evidence you so obviously want, but what do you say to accompanying me to the site tomorrow? You could get some good pictures there at least, and a ringside view.’

  He was making it too easy for her. Nina felt edgy. ‘Er... yeah, thanks.’

  ‘That’d be marvellous!’ Chantal said.

  ‘I hope you’re doing the right thing, Emory,’ Iliana said.

  ‘I’m just doing what comes next,’ he answered.

  On the way back to their room an hour or so later, Chantal said, ‘Well, how’s your headache? Did the Great Man heal you or what?’

  Nina smiled. ‘The headache – and the gut ache which I didn’t mention – have gone, but they were caused by stress, being too tired and having drunk and smoked too much. I don’t think Emory was responsible for getting rid of them. I just sobered up and relaxed, that’s all.’

  ‘You really are too sceptical, Ms Rose!’

  ‘So enlighten me otherwise. What did you pick up?’

  Chantal pulled a face. ‘You won’t like it.’

  ‘What won’t I like?’

  ‘I couldn’t read him at all. He’d protected himself.’

  ‘Are you telling me he protected himself in a Talented way? Now that I really won’t like!’

  Chantal shrugged. ‘Non-paranorms can’t generally screen themselves, and when they do it’s reflexive. Otherwise, it registers as a Talent, I’m afraid. Anyway, why are you so anxious to prove Patrick isn’t a paranorm?’

  Nina couldn’t tell her, partly because she didn’t know, and partly because once that fact had been proved, she would have to call the DPR for further instructions and she knew what they’d be. Since she’d become familiar with her Talent, she had never doubted it for an instant, but she still shrank from confronting Emory Patrick if he was Talented himself. It wasn’t that she felt she’d fail, or that he’d be more powerful than her; it was something else, something buried or undefined, something she didn’t want to know. ‘I suppose I don’t want to spoil his party, in a way. He’s not doing any harm.’

  ‘Well,’ Chantal said, ‘I’m sorry, but tomorrow I’ve got to phone in my report, and it will have to include that fact that Emory managed to block me tonight.’

  ‘We have no real proof yet. He might just be strong-minded. Can you delay reporting in until after we’ve been to the convention site?’

  Chantal didn’t look too happy about the request. ‘OK, but this is thin ice, Nina. If anything happens, and things get out of control at the site, my withholding information might incur disciplinary penalties.’

  ‘Look, I can use my Talent to make sure things don’t get out of control. Trust me.’

  Chantal sighed. ‘Well, as the lady said to our friend Mr Patrick, I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  In the morning, Nina woke up with a tense headache. She knew the DPR would want evidence that Patrick’s ‘miracle’ had been faked, and although she was sure it had been faked, she felt that Emory himself didn’t realise it. She was honest with herself enough to realise she wanted his image of sincerity and concern to be a true one. Had she dreamed about him?

  Chantal was a little surly with her. ‘You fancy him, don’t you!’ she accused.

  ‘He’s a stunner,’ Nina admitted, ‘but my guts are telling me he’s not Talented. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Yeah, course!’

  The two women went down to the lobby in uncomfortable silence.

  Accompanied by the triumvirate of Future Light, Nina and Chantal rode to the site in a hired limousine. Emory seemed calm and at ease, although his colleagues were rather antsy. Iliana flipped through a sheaf of schedule notes, while Linford fiddled with a pocket computer. Emory sat between them, hands comfortably laced, smiling gently to himself and not catching anybody’s eye. Nina didn’t want to look at him, but her eyes were continually drawn to his face. Wonderful bones! She chastised herself silently. Remember, this is a job, a job. The words became a mantra long before they approached the site.

  Chantal sat beside Nina, staring out of a side window. She was sullen and twitchy because Nina had repeated her request about not phoning in the report that morning. ‘I don’t want to contravene the rules!’ Chantal had said.

  Nina had been surprised by that; she hadn’t thought Chantal the sort of person to care about rules particularly.

  The silence in the car was oppressive. Its cold, purified air was sickly with vehicle deodorant.

  It was easy to tell when they were nearing the convention site, because there were so many people milling around wearing Emory Patrick T-shirts. Many of them wore back-packs. Even through the polarised, security windows of the limo, the pumping sound of loud music could be heard. The car glided forward, as noticeable as a hearse, but although people turned their heads to glance at it, no one appeared to realise it might contain the sacred presence of their Great Man. Nina wondered how Emory was feeling, knowing all these people were his, disciples of the pop Messiah. Her camera case felt heavy upon her knees. She noticed Emory looking at it. She sm
iled at him. He blinked at her, turned away.

  ‘Thank God they haven’t realised who’s in this car,’ Iliana said, shuffling her notes into a neat pile and inserting them into a briefcase. With her action, a sense of movement and communication came into the car. Linford put away his computer.

  ‘What are you going to do today?’ Nina asked Emory.

  ‘Talk to them,’ he replied. ‘Perform. Do what I’m here to do.’ His voice was almost cold. Nina felt as if he’d slapped her.

  ‘I called the band,’ Linford said. ‘They’re ready for you.’

  Emory nodded, distracted.

  He’s worried, Nina thought. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s worried.

  Having skirted the main entrance, they were now approaching a smaller gate in the high fence that led to the performers’ enclosure. Here, the crowds were pressing up against the site boundary, and the TOFL security staff was augmented by local police. The day was going to be hot. The police looked cheerful in shirt sleeves. Then, Nina noticed Chantal press her fingers against the car window. ‘Look at that. Shit, look at that.’

  Nina looked. Hot glint of chrome against the fence. She saw wheelchairs, hundreds of them, people with other people carried in their arms, children lolling mindless and drooling against desperate breasts. She saw bodies without limbs, and limbs in plaster, atrophied, deformed.

  ‘Oh... my... God!’ Iliana looked disgusted. She turned away from the window.

  ‘Aren’t you used to this?’ Nina asked. ‘Isn’t this part of the show?’

  Emory gave her what she supposed amounted to a hard look.

  Linford said, ‘No, no it isn’t.’

  ‘You brought this to us,’ Iliana said, not looking at Emory. ‘By Christ, you brought this to us!’

  People had stuck things to the wire fence; messages, entreaties, petitions, ribbons, babies’ clothes, photographs. Overhead, helicopters whirred like carrion birds.

  ‘They can’t get in, those people,’ Iliana said. ‘It’s tickets only.’

  ‘Fortunate for you,’ Nina said.

  Emory Patrick said nothing.

  The car swept round behind the enormous canopied stage and parked among a cluster of marquees and caravans. The flattened grass was damp underfoot, squeezed of its juice, and strewn with sand in places. The air smelled of hot rubber and electricity. People were milling everywhere, all wearing identification clips. Security was heavy. Dour men were marching around, speaking into walky-talkies. Photographers and video crews, who were either Future Light employees, or people who’d paid their way in somehow, were weighed down with equipment, the majority of which was pointed at the car. Everyone had been informed Emory Patrick was going to make an appearance. Getting out of the car, Nina sensed the atmosphere immediately, like that of a huge, hungry beast that, scenting meat nearby, was straining to be let out of its cage. The crowd beyond the stage, hidden from this area, was a gigantic muted roar, the buzz of the helicopters an almost insignificant guttural whine above it. Word was being passed around already, perhaps a wordless telepathic message: Emory Patrick is here. They must have sensed his presence.

  ‘This is freaky,’ Chantal whispered to Nina. ‘Too powerful. I wish you’d have let me phone in.’

  ‘I didn’t physically stop you,’ Nina hissed back waspishly. ‘I only asked a favour. You didn’t have to agree.’

  Chantal shrugged and moved away.

  Emory Patrick was last out of the car. As soon as he set foot on the ground, flanked by Linford and Iliana, the crowd of officials and Future Light personnel swooped on him in a twittering, sycophantic flock. He smiled affably, nodded and raised his hands, Linford and Iliana clearing a path ahead of him. Iliana, dressed in black leather, her hair piled high, her eyes hidden behind huge shades looked mean. People skittered out of her path. Nina and Chantal, already apart in feeling, were separated by the milling bodies, shunted away from the star.

  Everyone converged in one of the marquees, where wine and beer were being served on trays. Nina, remaining near the entrance, helped herself to a beer and took her camera out of its case. Linford came over. ‘He’s going on stage in ten minutes to address the crowd,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t waste any time, does he!’

  ‘Er... no. You can follow us up. He’s asked you to.’

  Nina nodded. ‘OK. Is this anything like you expected?’

  Linford pulled a sour face. ‘Emory’s appearances are always a powerful event, but this is different. Kind of hysterical.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you here, but Emory was insistent. Seems like he and Iliana have both taken a fancy to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d certainly influenced Iliana, but was unconvinced her Talent had swayed Emory Patrick in her favour. Neither had she sensed any evidence of it.

  ‘I don’t think he should be doing this,’ Linford said suddenly.

  ‘I know. I think you’re probably right.’

  He smiled gratefully. ‘The crowds at the fence are causing a problem. We’ve been told the riot control squads might have to be called in.’

  ‘God! Didn’t realise it was that bad. How awful.’

  ‘It’s worse at the main entrance, apparently. They’re all sick. They’ve come from everywhere. Seems like thousands of them. Where have they come from?’ Linford shook his head in despair. Nina felt an unexpected stab of sympathy.

  ‘Riot squads to control sick people?’ she asked. ‘Seems a bit extreme.’

  ‘There’s so many of them. They’re all trying to get in, to get at Emory. They want him to heal them.’

  ‘Like Lourdes or something,’ Nina said.

  ‘No, not like that,’ Linford replied. ‘It’s fevered, desperate... They’re like animals. One of the video crews has been filming it all. I’ve seen the footage. They’re running it on a VCR back there.’ He gestured behind him and then shook his head again. ‘I wish we could go back to England this minute. Perhaps you can use your influence on Emory. He likes you.’

  How ironic, Nina thought. That’s probably exactly what I’m here to do. ‘I’ve hardly met him, Linford,’ she said. ‘I really don’t think I can get involved.’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh well. You’d better come with me now. Where’s your assistant?’

  ‘Oh, she’s around. It’s OK. I can manage by myself for this.’

  The view from the side of the stage was breathtaking. Before Emory or any of his musicians and dancers appeared, Nina climbed up the speaker stacks and took a few shots of the crowd, using her most powerful lens to take a look at the distant boundary fence, the thousands of desperate faces pressed up against it, the desperate fingers hooked through the wire. The audience itself was a swaying, colourful monster, arms rising and falling in some sort of cult dance. Voices ululated into the summer morning, a crooning chant that held an undeniable note of threat in its depths. Overhead, police helicopters were weaving their own frantic dance, back and forth, back and forth, as if they were concerned about what was happening, but unsure what to do. An enormous security man wearing an old ripped Emory Patrick t-shirt came and shouted at Nina to get down. Reluctantly, because although the crowd alarmed her slightly, she found the sight of it compelling, Nina scrambled down and allowed the man to direct her, none too gently to where Linford and Iliana, along with a group of Future Light satellites, were standing in a raised enclosure to the right of the stage.

  Even before Nina reached them, the crowd began to scream. She turned around, fighting away from the security man’s insistent hold on her arm. Everyone in the vast audience was rising to their feet. The colourful, hungry monster was flexing its spine. The hairs rose reflexively on Nina’s neck and arms. She didn’t even have to look to know that Emory Patrick had just walked on stage.

  Iliana, nervous and tense, pulled Nina towards her. ‘What do you think?’ she asked in a desperate, brittle voice.

  Nina shook her head. ‘Awesome,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ Iliana re
plied. ‘Don’t know if it’s good or bad yet.’

  Emory Patrick’s voice came over the p.a., almost drowned out by the baying of his devotees. He greeted them, made a few jokes about remarks the media had printed recently, and then called for silence.

  Never! Nina thought. He’s got to be kidding.

  The crowd fell silent.

  ‘Now we shall breathe together!’ Emory told them.

  Nina’s own breath was caught in her throat. She was aware of Iliana’s fingers digging into her arm through her leather jacket. She was aware of many thousands of chests aligning themselves into a single organ. ‘Oh God,’ she said weakly.

  If the planet itself could sigh, it would sound like this, she thought.

  Tranquillity fell over the crowd like narcotic dust. Emory breathed. The crowd breathed. Emory’s arms swayed. The crowd swayed.

  Is this a Talent at work, Nina thought. Is it? She was unsure.

  Then, the music started up, faintly and slowly at first, and a line of dancers whirled on to the stage. Emory dropped his arms, dropped his head onto his chest.

  He’s left us, Nina thought. He’s no longer here. He’s somewhere else.

  The reality Emory Patrick inhabited was that of his own power, his own universe. A great crashing of drums came through the p.a.

  Emory raised his head and roared.

  The crowd went wild.

  Nina lifted her camera and began to take shots automatically, her lens pointed at Emory Patrick. He was in her sights. She could act now, couldn’t she? Somehow, she hadn’t the will. She just kept firing the shutter, again and again. He turned his head. Had he sensed her? Had he seen her? No, his eyes were closed. The music swelled around her, a cushion for the power of Emory’s voice as he hurled his philosophy at the crowd. The words meant nothing to her. Drained, Nina patted Iliana’s hand and indicated she wanted to go and sit on the steps that led down to the ground. Iliana, thinking this was an invitation, followed. The steps were like a small pocket of no-time, where the sound of the music and the crowd was muted.

  ‘He’s really on form,’ Iliana said. ‘Brilliantly so. Perhaps this fiasco will turn out for the best after all.’