Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk

by James Lovegrove

  “I don’t know.”

  “I just don’t want you getting the impression that I’m some boggle-eyed lunatic who bites the heads off bats and has lots of strange leather-bound books at home. I’m not. I’m completely sane, and I dare say better adjusted than ninety-nine per cent of Christians. I mean, holy wars. What’s that all about? Christians seem to spend half their time killing other Christians, or failing that people from different religions, all in the name of a supposedly loving God. It’s like Pascal said: ‘Men never commit evil so fully and joyfully as when they do it for religious convictions.’ Look at the Irish situation – Catholics versus Protestants. It’s all so pointless, and it could end tomorrow if everyone stopped blowing each other up because they think God wants them to and started being true to their own natures instead.”

  “That’s a pretty simplistic view of the problem. There’s politics, history, territorialism...”

  “But when you get down to it,” she said, overriding him, “almost every conflict is a clash of ideologies. And if you dispense with all forms of orthodoxy – politics, nationalism, and especially religion – then what you’re left with is just people, human beings, and human beings by and large want to coexist in peace. They don’t want endless death and mayhem. It’s common sense.”

  “And that’s what your pentagram represents?” Guy said. “All of what you’ve just said?”

  “And more, but in essence, yes. It’s a reminder, a secret token of commitment. Believe me?”

  Guy found it hard to look at the tattoo. This was not helped by the fact that it was in such distractingly close proximity to Petra’s pussy. He made a conscious effort to focus on the pentagram and not the erotic, enticing pink-lipped slit just a few inches away.

  The tattoo was tiny and innocent, just lines etched in ink. Merely a symbol.

  “Can I touch it?” he asked.

  Amused, Petra popped the stub of her second cigarette in the empty Skol can she was using as an ashtray. “Go on, then. If it’ll make you feel better.”

  Guy placed a forefinger on her skin. Ludicrously, he anticipated some kind of reaction within himself, revulsion, nausea, something like that, or perhaps a sudden burning sensation in his fingertip, as though the tattoo was magically empowered and liable to scorch those who were intimidated by it. But there was nothing, just the soft warmth of a woman’s inner thigh.

  “You know what would make me feel better?” Petra said.

  “No.”

  “If you slide your finger up a bit. Go on. And a bit further.”

  “Like that?” said Guy, obliging.

  “Yes,” she purred. “Just like that. A bit further still. Oh, yes.”

  LITTLE BY LITTLE over the next few weeks, Petra explained her form of Satanism to Guy. She never lectured or hectored. She simply answered when he asked, laying out the fundamentals and leaving him to digest them.

  She told him she had started out as a student of the writings of Anton LaVey, the American occultist who ran his own Church of Satan in California and had published two key books, The Satanic Bible and The Satanic Rituals, neither of which Guy had heard of. Somehow the eccentric and inconsistent Mr Ingram had not seen fit to stock them at Shamballa (...And Other Dreams). She told Guy about LaVey’s notion that Satan was the “Black Flame” that burned inside every person, the embodiment of will, a source of great inner power if you knew how to tap it. She talked about the Nine Satanic Statements, a kind of secular Apostles’ Creed, and the Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth, a repudiation of the Ten Commandments. There was also a list of Nine Satanic Sins, among them Stupidity, Pretentiousness, Self-Deceit, Herd Conformity, Lack of Aesthetics – things to be avoided if you wished to lead a productive, fulfilling life.

  Petra had eventually drifted away from LaVey’s ideas. There was an undercurrent of selfishness there, a peculiarly American brand of fuck you which didn’t sit well with her. Plus, given that the whole point of LaVeyan Satanism was to foster self-reliance and individuality, then it was necessary, even obligatory, to turn your back on your teacher and find your own way. LaVey had provided her with a template to work from, at least. The rest was down to her.

  She was a rational, pragmatic person, so LaVey’s penchant for magical rites also held little appeal. She acknowledged that they served a function as psychodramas, enabling one to work through frustrations and mental blocks and emerge the other side with a clearer head and a healthier outlook. She felt, however, that enlightenment could come simply from approaching a problem carefully and with an open mind, confident in your own ability to resolve it.

  “The universe is amoral,” she said. “It doesn’t care how we behave or what we do. The only truths are inner truths. Answers don’t come from outside, from other people or some nebulous supreme being. They come from within.”

  Guy, for his part, began revealing his past to her, particularly his repeated encounters with what he thought must be the Devil. In each instance Petra was able to offer a plausible rationale, showing him that he hadn’t in fact bumped into Beelzebub but had instead misinterpreted the experience and seen demonic influence where there was none. Molly Rosenkrantz, for example, had obviously been unhinged, quite conceivably schizophrenic, or at the very least so obsessive and insecure that she had faked being possessed by an evil spirit in order to tighten her hold over Guy. When that had had the opposite outcome, scaring him off, she had got desperate and resorted to the razor blade. And as for his vision of Alastor Wylie on the beach in Thailand, what drug was it he had taken? LSD? Ahem! That was a great big clue right there. Wylie had been busy elbowing his way into Guy’s life. Guy had had no wish for him to usurp the role of his late father. So his subconscious mind, liberated by the acid, had recast Wylie as the Devil. His id had been communicating its feelings to his ego in the way it knew best: through symbolism. There was nothing more to it than that.

  “But Clive Milward?” Guy said. “He died in a fire. It was as if...”

  “As if Satan was punishing him?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Petra snorted. “No, that was just what it was, a teenager disposing of a fag butt carelessly and setting the place alight by accident. I’ll tell you what’s instructive about that whole incident at school. You got those three boys expelled. You, Guy Lucas, were the agent of their downfall. Nobody else had anything to do with it, and that includes Satan. You triumphed. You did exactly what had to be done. They got their just deserts. That was the Satan here” – she jabbed Guy’s chest – “the Black Flame inside you, doing its job. Your stepdad seems to know a thing or two about that.”

  “Don’t call him that. Stepdad. Ugh.”

  “Your mother’s husband, then. Wylie. That whole sham ritual he put together – he got you back, good and proper. That’s how it works. Someone fucks with you, you fuck with them in return, at an appropriate level, to ensure they never do it again. No wonder he’s such a big cheese in the government. From what you’ve said about him, Wylie’s got Satanism down pat, even if he’d never call it that himself. He’s manipulative and shrewd, and I’m sure he never has a moment of self-doubt. He gets what he goes for. He makes the most of his life. He succeeds.”

  “You sound like you admire him.”

  “Subjectively, because of what he did to you, I think he’s a big fat turd,” Petra said. “But objectively, I have to say there’s a lot to like about the way he operates. If only he had more of a conscience, Alastor Wylie is the sort of man who could change the world for the better.

  AUTUMN GREYED INTO winter, and Guy fell ever more deeply under Petra’s spell. She seemed to be the person he had been waiting for all his adult life, the one who came along and made everything clearer, the one who spoke sense and put the world into perspective. He began to be unable to imagine himself without her. His dead-end job in a dead-end town became immaterial. Life was infinitely rich with Petra around.

  As Christmas approached, Guy grew convinced that he had found his soulmate. He started to
do something he had long since given up doing: making plans for the future. In all of them, Petra featured centrally.

  Then, one gusty Saturday afternoon, the Mods rolled into town.

  They came in a swarm of buzzing Vespas and Lambrettas, each scooter adorned with a plethora of rearview mirrors like elaborate chrome antlers. There had been fights all along the south coast that year, in places like Brighton and Hastings, gangs of Mods and Rockers coming down from London to clash on the beaches, a revival of a noble tradition going back to the ’sixties and the antagonism between the original Young Moderns and their mortal enemies the Teddy Boys. This particular group were out for a scuffle, but had apparently got lost on their way to the venue. Either that or they were simply enjoying a weekend jaunt to the seaside, although it seemed unlikely. The way they meandered up and down the seafront road on their scooters in close formation, now and then one of them veering across the white lines into the opposite lane, carried unmistakable menace. They were troublemakers, no doubt about it. Whatever they had in mind would be fun for them, but not for anyone else.

  Soon enough they got bored of parading around. Hunger drove them to seek food. Mr Fernandinho’s chippie was the place they chose to find sustenance.

  They entered, all nine of them, with their crash helmets tucked under their arms, bumping tables ‘accidentally’ with their hips, kicking chair legs. Mr Fernandinho treated them diplomatically, which was out of character for him. He addressed them as ‘gentlemen’ and enquired politely how he might help.

  “Cod and chips all round,” said the tallest, skinniest Mod, whose parka bore Union Jack patches, a large RAF roundel on the back, and The Jam’s logo, drawn on the sleeve painstakingly in marker pen. His short centre-parted haircut was an almost exact replica of Paul Weller’s.

  “Guy, you heard the gentlemen,” said Mr Fernandinho. “Look lively.”

  While Guy fried the fish, there was more laddish rowdiness from the Mods. A sugar dispenser crashed to the floor, shattering to pieces. Mr Fernandinho hurried over with brush and dustpan, saying it was nothing, these things happened, never mind, no harm done. Guy just counted down the seconds until the meals were ready and the Mods were gone. The young men had brought an ugly mood with them into the chip shop – along with the smells of unwashed parka and diesel fumes – and he couldn’t wait for them to take it away again.

  “What are you looking at, twat?” one of them demanded, scowling.

  “Nothing,” said Guy. “Food’s almost ready. That’ll be eleven pounds twenty, all in.”

  “Eleven quid twenty,” the Mod said to his friends. “Who’s got cash? Anyone?”

  Heads were shaken. There were smirking, insolent looks all round. The Mods had never had any intention of paying.

  “Tell you what, gents,” said Mr Fernandinho. “First-time customers get a free meal.”

  “What you saying, you little brown shrimp?” snarled the tall Mod, whom Guy had to assume was the leader of the pack. “You think we can’t afford your crappy grub? You think we’re a bunch of tramps or something?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr Fernandinho, retreating back behind the serving counter. “It’s my usual offer. Open to everyone.”

  “Here,” said Guy, placing the last of nine newspaper-wrapped parcels on the countertop. “All ready. Bon appétit.”

  “Ooh-la-la!” said the Mods’ leader archly. “‘Bon appy-tee.’ Very sophisticated they are in this town.”

  “Why’s it such a fucking shithole then?” one of the gang remarked. “Nobody around. Rubbish little beach. Hasn’t even got a fucking pier. Whoever heard of a seaside town doesn’t have a fucking pier?”

  “Come on, let’s go,” said another of them. “I’m ruddy starving.”

  The Mods gathered up their meals and, to the great relief of Guy and Mr Fernandinho, made for the door.

  By terrible coincidence, that was when Petra arrived.

  She often dropped by, usually during Guy’s break hour, so the two of them could go and get a bite to eat or else just sit and chat while she had a cigarette. Mr Fernandinho still didn’t approve of her, but knew he had to put up with her. He was loath to ban her from the chip shop in case his best and only employee took umbrage and resigned.

  Guy spotted Petra through the window, saw how the Mods reacted to the sight of her, and knew instantly how things were going to pan out. It had the crushing inevitability of a traffic accident, a juggernaut on a collision course with a car, nothing anyone could do to prevent it happening.

  “Hello, what’s this?” said the Mods’ leader, looming over Petra. “A fucking human hedgehog.”

  The others cackled.

  Petra ducked her head and skirted round the gang. Guy sent up a small prayer of thanks that for once she had elected to keep her mouth shut.

  Then one of the Mods grabbed her arm.

  “Here, darling,” he said and made smoochy noises. “How about a snog? I don’t normally fancy your sort, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

  Guy began to move around the counter, picking up a mop as he went, the first weapon that came to hand. Mr Fernandinho waylaid him. “No. Not wise.”

  “Sod that,” Guy said, brushing his boss aside. “I have to help her.”

  Petra looked up at the Mod gripping tightly on her forearm. “Let go of me,” she said, coming across as remarkably calm.

  “Snog first.”

  “I’d rather kiss a dog’s arse, you tosser.”

  A couple of the Mods chortled. “That’s funny,” one said. “The last thing Graham kissed was a dog’s arse.”

  Graham rounded on his colleague. “Shut it, you nob.” He turned back to Petra. “In that case, how about a fuck? I’ve heard about you punk birds. You’re slags. Gagging for it all the time. I’ll do you, only it’ll have to be from behind so’s I don’t have to look at all them safety pins and whatnot, ’cause they’re right off-putting.”

  “How are you going to manage that with nuts the size of a football?” Petra asked.

  “I’m sorry, you what?”

  “I said...”

  And she kneed him in the groin.

  Graham the Mod let out a wheezing gasp and sank to the ground, clutching himself between the legs.

  Petra spun round and headed for the chip shop doorway. Guy was nearly there, the mop brandished like a quarterstaff.

  “Get inside! Quick!” he urged her. As soon as she was across the threshold he would lock and bolt the door, then phone the police.

  She almost made it.

  The gang leader got in her way and brought her down with a punch to the face. As Petra fell, she made a sound halfway between a shriek and a groan. Guy propelled himself through the doorway, not caring what might happen next, not even thinking about his own safety. He rammed the mop at the Mod like a lance, only to find that in all the excitement he was holding it with the head forwards. The clump of thick cotton strings had almost no effect on the Mod, other than pissing him off.

  “Seriously?” he said, glancing down at the mop then back up at Guy. “You arsehole.”

  He snatched the mop out of Guy’s grasp, snapped the handle in two across his thigh, and tossed both halves aside. Then he loosed off a roundhouse that laid Guy flat.

  Guy had never been hit so hard before, not even when the three bullies had beaten him up at Scarsworth Hall. He rolled on the pavement, unmanned by the impact and the searing pain. He couldn’t get up. He just wanted to curl into a foetal ball and never be hit again.

  Sadly, the Mods felt differently. They started raining down kicks and stamps on him. Guy’s flailing hands seized hold of a foot and he tried to flip its owner over, but another of the Mods booted his elbow and his arm went numb and he had to let go. He could dimly hear Petra screaming, telling the Mods to stop, leave her boyfriend alone. Through the forest of kicking legs he saw her snatch up a discarded crash helmet and swing it at the gang leader’s head. The man was hardly fazed; he evidently had a pretty thick skull. He swivel
led round and belted Petra in the belly.

  The blow bent her double. As she sank to her knees, heaving for breath, the Mod grabbed a handful of her hair spikes and began dragging her. Petra scrabbled for purchase with her heels as he hauled her round the side of the chip shop, into the narrow alleyway that ran between it and the seaside souvenirs emporium next door. Guy scrambled frantically after her on all fours, but a toecap came up under into his midriff and he was sent flying over onto his side. He sprawled in the gutter, winded, paralysed with agony, while the Mods hurried off laughing to join their leader in the alleyway.

  The sounds Guy heard then – the tearing of clothes, Petra’s rasping screeches of protest, the Mods’ inane chuckling – would haunt him for many days to come. He peered up and down the street. It was deserted. Where was everyone? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Where were the fucking police? Surely someone must have called them by now.

  With a Herculean effort, he raised himself to his knees. He spied one half of the broken mop handle nearby. He reached for it, at the same time pushing himself fully upright. The world teetered. The road seemed to rise and fall beneath him. He walked. Every step was a battle, as though he were aboard a ship pitching up and down in a storm. Yet he staggered on.

  In the alleyway, most of the Mods were gathered in a knot, shoulder to shoulder, looking on. Beyond them, the gang leader was crouched over Petra, his jeans down, pumping away at her from the rear. Petra lay prone on the sordid brick floor of the alleyway. Her battered, bloodied face wore a look of numb resignation, her mouth hanging loose with disgust. Her whole body jerked each time the Mod thrust into her.

  The other Mods were agog, mesmerised by the act of rape, so much so that they barely registered as Guy elbowed his way through. It was only when he reached the front that they realised he wasn’t one of their own kind, and by then it was too late.

  Guy raised the mop handle above his head with the splintered end pointing downwards. He drove it, hard as he could, into the gang leader’s back, using the roundel on his parka as a target.