by Heide Goody
“I don’t!” said Joan.
“What if a self-driving car hits someone? What if Microsoft’s AI twitterbot declares itself to be a neo-Nazi? That one’s already happened by the way. What if your home automation smart speaker starts listening in on your every conversation and reports you to the police if you say something suspicious? The world is changing and we’ve got to be ready for it.”
Traffic thinned and street lights became more spread out as the car passed through the outskirts of the town and into the countryside.
“Hacking is like a sharp knife,” said Felix.
“Dangerous,” said Joan.
“Useful,” said Felix.
“I was going to go for ‘fun’,” said Rutspud.
“It’s a tool,” said Felix. “It can be used for good or bad. But it’s not the tool that’s ever to blame. The information revolution has levelled the playing field in so many ways and there are plenty of us who want to use the powers we’ve been granted for the greater good.”
He tapped on his laptop. The display on the windscreen changed to a three-dimensional projection of the route ahead.
Joan frowned. “Did he just…?”
“Hack this car, yes,” said Felix.
Joan’s seatbelt unclicked and came loose by itself. Rutspud’s would have done the same if he’d been wearing one.
“I could crash this car and ensure I was the only survivor if I wanted to,” said Felix. It wasn’t a threat; it was a casual observation. “That wouldn’t be technology’s fault if I did. It would be mine. But mummy Winkstein raised good boys and I’m not going to do that.”
“Also, you’d find we’re surprisingly hard to kill,” said Rutspud.
The map on the screen shifted. The route through the village of Floxton Magor and onto the estate of Floxton House changed to one which took them round the estate and to a road that passed within a few hundred metres of the house.
“We don’t need to go to the front door of their mansion to actually spy on them,” said Felix. “We’re not dressed for the occasion.”
“I’d look dead good in a posh suit,” said Rutspud.
“I think there will be more gimp suits than monkey suits at tonight’s party.”
“I’d look dead good in a gimp suit too,” said Rutspud.
“Spare us the mental image, please,” said Joan.
The car followed Felix’s amended route, turning off before the village and down an unlit single-track lane, bordered on one side by a tall stone wall that marked the edge of the Ferret’s considerable country estate. The car glided silently into a passing place beneath the wall and its lights turned out.
“Okay, let’s see what we can make use of,” said Felix.
A tap of the keyboard and the windscreen display changed to what Joan quickly perceived to be the downstairs plan for a large house drawn in dramatic reds and oranges.
“What are the flashing orange circles?” said Joan.
“Hackable devices,” said Felix.
“There’s a lot of them,” said Rutspud.
“Aren’t there just?” said Felix. “And if we do a surface sweep of phone IDs and fitness trackers we can…”
Many of the dots on the screen sprouted names.
Joan tapped one. “Anette Cleaver? Didn’t we meet someone by that name? The woman at the church offices.”
“Now, you know I mentioned home automation smart speakers?” said Felix.
“Sure,” said Joan who didn’t want to admit that half the words Felix said entered her ears as pure gobbledegook and were filtered out before they got to her brain.
“Everyone thinks smart speakers are so amazing,” said Felix. “‘Alexis, play me some music’ and ‘Cortina, tell me what the weather is’ and everyone is so dazzled by the tech they forget that, a, people have been able to play music and see what the weather is for years without needing a voice-activated house bot and, b, that putting a smart speaker in your house is an open invite to MI5, the CIA, the Kremlin and Fox News to all listen in on everything you’re doing.” He tapped on the laptop. “Or me.”
The Eddy-Cab possessed a state of the art sound system which, to Joan’s understanding, meant that you really felt like you were inside the music when it was playing from all around you. The noise that now came from the speakers was one that Joan really didn’t want to be inside. Really, really didn’t want to be inside.
There was a thumping dance track but that was the least offensive element of it. Above it was a moaning and groaning round, like a room full of people with stomach aches. Except that wasn’t what it was.
“I’ve got over twenty phone and tablet cameras I can hack,” said Felix. “Give me a moment and I’ll bring up the visuals.”
“No!” said Joan but it was too late. Joan thrust her hand over her eyes.
“Most of that bumping and grinding is coming from the movies their streaming in each room,” said Felix.
“Yeah,” said Rutspud. “Most of the party guests still have their clothes on.”
Joan risked a peek. The map on the windscreen was overlaid with floating camera footage from various points in the house. Most of the guests did still have their clothes on but not enough of them for her liking.
Rutspud was a demon and not possessed of the same desires as humans. He found their love of fluffy animals frightening and disturbing. He found their desire to amass wealth in the form of paper rectangles and metal disks pointless and ridiculous. He found human nudity boring and their apparent obsession with getting each other naked and inserting things inside themselves and each other was dull in the extreme.
Even in death, humans were obsessed with sex. There were pits in Hell that positively writhed with rutting bodies, locked in a state of frustrated desire. How their empty and miserable fornications in Hell actually differed from their lives on earth was unclear but Rutspud was only a minor demon and it wasn’t his place to ask. Some of the scenes played out in Floxton House and relayed to the windscreen of the Eddy-Cab were so reminiscent of certain pits of the Third Circle that Rutspud felt a sudden pang of homesickness and sighed.
Joan mistook that sigh for some other sentiment.
“The wickedness of humanity upsets you?” she asked, surprised. “I thought you’d be used to it.”
“This video feed is going straight on the internet,” said Felix. A little red record icon appeared in the corner of the screen.
“Does it have to?” said Joan.
“Don’t you want to see these people exposed for what they are?”
Joan turned in her seat to face Felix. “I believe the centuries have mellowed me somewhat and I know the world is always changing. Even a few decades ago, if you’d asked me, I would have wanted these people punished.”
“Okay, I don’t know what you mean when you talk about being around for decades, let alone centuries, but –”
“I’m saying that I’m more of the opinion these days that what people get up to in their own homes is their own business.”
“Really?” said Rutspud. “Progressive relative morality from the Maid of Orleans?”
“If two consenting adults want to show their love and desire for each other with simple and natural acts of lovemaking then – Oh, my God! What’s she doing?”
“Which one?” said Rutspud.
“That one! That one! In the bathroom!”
Rutspud stood on the passenger seat to get a closer look.
“It looks like she’s pissing on him.”
“Why?! For the love of God, why?”
“I think it’s called –”
“Couldn’t she find a toilet? It’s right there, next to her!”
“No, I think he wants her to –”
“I mean, that’s got be unhygienic.”
“I believe urine is almost entirely sterile.”
Joan hid her face in her hand and took some deep breaths.
“You were saying…” smiled Rutspud.
Joan made a visible ef
fort to compose herself. “I was saying that if two consenting adults want to show their… their feelings by… by…”
“Pissing on each other,” offered Felix helpfully.
“Yes, by sharing some form of intimacy then… then… um, what are they doing now?”
Rutspud noted a quaver in Joan’s voice. For a woman who had been around for several hundred years, Joan hadn’t travelled much beyond the confines of her own small experiences and she was evidently easily shocked. Nonetheless, it took world-wise Rutspud a moment or two to work out what was going on in the peculiar charade being played out on the screen.
“Well, there’s a cup and a little baggy of paper squares and - Ah,” he said.
“Ah?” said Joan, tremulously.
“Yes, he’s offering her Holy Communion.”
“What?”
“Holy Communion. Mass. Eucharist. A Holy Communion of what looks like LSD wafers, washed down with a cup of fresh piss.”
Joan’s mouth opened but words failed to emerge.
“Two consenting adults,” Rutspud reminded her.
Joan managed to produce a strangled squeak but no actual words.
“In the privacy of their own home,” said Rutspud.
“Maldon Ferret’s home actually,” said Felix.
Joan closed her mouth as having it open clearly wasn’t doing her any good.
“If it helps,” said Felix. “That man isn’t a practising priest. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. And that woman is on the Church of England’s national strategy committee. You will be unsurprised to hear that they aren’t married. Well, they are but not to each other.”
Joan opened her mouth, gave an apoplectic squeak and closed it again.
“Now, shall we take a closer look at who everyone else is and what they’re doing?” said Felix.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Game had just become very interesting.
“My turn,” said Clovenhoof.
A roll of nine took him around the corner of the board.
“St Chad’s Cathedral. No one’s bought that yet,” said Nerys.
“Ooh, Catholic,” said Clovenhoof. “I do like the Catholics.”
“Really?” said Nerys archly.
“Sure. Their priests have much better bling and they believe their man in Rome knows what the Almighty’s thinking, which is frankly hilarious.
Ben opened a file folder. “Let’s remind ourselves of the new rules for the purchase of religious buildings after the St Philip’s fiasco.”
“Sure thing, Ben,” said Clovenhoof with a roll of his eyes. He flung five hundred pounds to buy the space into the bank. “Now, can I turn it into houses?”
Ben read from the rules. “It’s an automatically listed building. You can’t knock it down.”
“Nerys, you’re the council dude,” said Clovenhoof.
“Indeed, I am,” she said, whipping on her official councillor’s hat. “And I’m not going to un-list that building for you.”
Clovenhoof peered at the square. “What kind of income does it generate?”
“Depends on which day of the week you land on it,” said Ben. He began riffling through the pages of a much-thumbed desk diary.
“Stop” said Clovenhoof.
“Wednesday,” read Ben.
“Balls,” said Clovenhoof with feeling.
Okra Boddington, sitting next to Nerys, whispered in her ear.
“I can imagine,” she smirked, patting his knee affectionately.
“What?” said Clovenhoof.
“As financial advisor to the Church, Okra knows how little money churches make mid-week.”
“It’s a negative multiplier,” said Ben.
“How much do I get?” said Clovenhoof.
Ben set a stack of tiddlywinks and a shallow dish in front of Clovenhoof.
“It’s based on how many tiddlers you can shoot into that dish before Nerys and I finish saying the Lord’s Prayer backwards.”
Clovenhoof reached for the tiddlywinks.
Ben nudged Nerys and they began the race, “Amen. ever and ever for… glory the and power the… is thine for...”
Clovenhoof winked his tiddlers for all his was worth. He was a superior winker and had had a near-eternity of practice. He had heard that too much winking could make you go blind (particularly if your aim was poor), but what could you do to occupy yourself when bored, apart from a spot of winking?
By the time Ben and Nerys had completed “heaven in art who, Father Our,” Clovenhoof had amassed a tiny mountain of tiddlers in the dish.
“Booyakasha!” he declared and snapped his fingers. “Count ‘em and weep, losers.”
Ben did indeed count them and then, instead of weeping, announced, “Forty-one pounds, seventy-six.”
“I beg your pudding?” said Clovenhoof, affronted. “I winked all them tiddlers!”
“You are a massive winker,” agreed Nerys.
“Exactly!”
“And, on a wet Wednesday afternoon, that comes to just over forty quid,” said Ben.
“Sounds about right,” said Nerys as Okra whispered in her ear. “At least as a recognised religion, you get it tax free.”
“Tax free, eh?” said Clovenhoof. “Is everything I do through my church tax free?”
“You are now a registered charity.”
“It’s my turn,” said Nerys, reaching for the dice.
Clovenhoof snatched them away. “I’m thinking.”
“Think on your own time, church boy.”
Clovenhoof sat back, holding the dice out of Nerys’s reach. “So, this cathedral of mine, it’s – what? – a retail unit?”
“It’s a church,” said Ben.
“But it’s in the selling business: the Almighty’s good graces in exchange for cash.”
“A very cynical interpretation,” said Nerys.
“But it does sell those little Christmas cards and some locations have a coffee shop.”
“Yes,” agreed Ben cagily.
“So, I can add extra retail units,” said Clovenhoof and searched among his playing pieces. “Let’s see what I’ve got here…” He slapped a counter down.
“A massage parlour?” said Ben. “That’s hardly… um, what kind of massage parlour were you thinking of?”
“I’m going to whip out the pews and replace them with coin-operated massage chairs,” said Clovenhoof and put down another token.
“3-D cinema?” said Ben.
“We can do those national broadcast things, like what the cinemas do with the ballet and the opera. We get a superstar priest in and telecast it to all our churches.”
“Are there superstar priests?” asked Nerys.
“Who was that one in The Poseidon Adventure? Is he available or did he get burned up at the end?”
“That was a film, not a documentary,” said Ben.
“Not burned up then. Get him.” Clovenhoof placed a tiny plastic loaf of bread on the counter too. “Art-is-anal bakery.”
“It’s pronounced ‘artisanal’,” said Nerys.
“However you pronounce it, it means bakery that’s up its own arse,” said Clovenhoof. “It can bake bread and cakes for my coffee shop.”
Okra leaned forward to listen more closely.
“And my piece de resistance,” said Clovenhoof, plonking a miniature pylon on the square. “Free Wi-Fi for everyone. All day. Every day.”
“That will vastly increase the number of people coming through the doors,” agreed Ben.
Okra took notes on his tablet.
“I-I-I say,” he said. “D-do you have any more –”
“He wants to know if you have any other ideas for getting the church to make money,” said Nerys. “You should mention your bishops calendar idea.”
“I’m sure he’s not interested in that,” said Ben, disapprovingly.
“Go on. Okra could make something of it,” said Nerys.
“Seriously, it’s not worth your time,” said Ben.
/>
“Well, th-the thing is…” said Okra, “w-with revenues dropping like, er, well –”
“People are turning to Jeremy’s app for instant absolution,” said Nerys. “The march for solidarity resulted in dozens of nuns –”
“Actual, proper nuns,” said Okra.
“Yes. Shush, dear. Nerys is talking. With all those nuns in police custody and scores more taking up NHS beds with their ridiculous injuries, there’s a perfect shit-storm on social media. The church is out of money and goodwill and Okra is looking for a financial rescue package.”
“I’m not sure –” Okra said but Nerys mushed his lips shut with her fingers.
“Go on, Jeremy. Tell him.”
“So, you know that Calendar Girls thing?” Clovenhoof asked with one of his best grins. “The naked WI one?”
Okra nodded
“The one with their norks artfully concealed by floury bread rolls and the like,” said Clovenhoof reliving the memory.
“Baps,” said Nerys.
“Right. Their baps artfully concealed by floury bread rolls. Well, it did wonders for their public image and brought in a lot of moolah.”
“So, the obvious thing for the church to do –” started Nerys.
“Bishops,” said Clovenhoof. “Past and present. Let’s get a few ex-Archbishops of Canterbury in there. A nude pose from each of them, one per month. And here’s the thing, each of them is concealing their funky junk with a religious artefact or a symbol of the season. An Easter egg in springtime. A Christingle during advent – spicy! – or even a baby Jesus.”
“You mean that the archbishop should hold a little baby Jesus over his…?” Ben gestured to his groin.
“I’m not saying it needs to be nestling right in there, like in the straw in the manger, although a completely pubic nativity scene could be very tastefully done.”
“Tastefully,” echoed Nerys.
“And whether your nudey bishops position the items to conceal their loaf and two fishes or whether we cover them later with peelable stickers so the more adventurous calendar buyers can have a peek… Well, that’s entirely up to you.”
They all sat in silence for a long moment.
