by Glen Johnson
“So many things people worship, profess to be doing, when it’s all clearly wrote down in His Book, and they continually refuse to take notice of it. Even devoting their lives to it, when they are doing it all wrong.” Her laugh filled the room and echoed off the enclosed walls.
“Keep appearing as an angel of light, the Book says. Right in His Book it says I will try and confuse them, and they don’t listen. Its made my job a lot easier.” More laughter and snapping of dried skin and sinew.
“His Book is right there in front of them, accessible to all, word for word, how He had it written down eons ago, over a period of sixteen hundred years, by over forty different people from all walks of life, from fishermen, tentmakers, doctors, kings, shepherd’s, tax collectors and prophets, just to name a few. The word bible, or biblica, means small library, because it’s made up of sixty-six books. But people ignore His words. Ignore what the Books say and simply follow any person who has an opinion, or a loud boring gospel cable show.
“Millions died trying to get the Book translated into the common tongue, from its Latin and Greek works, so the different churches couldn’t say whatever they wanted, controlling the masses. Millions died painfully throughout the Spanish Inquisitions and crusades. And now you can buy it in over a thousand languages. Numerous versions, old and new tongues. And unbelievably it’s there to be picked up by their own hands and see what it says about everything. But people misinterpret its meaning and completely ignore certain parts all together, calling some parts stories, adding extra books or paragraphs, and as I’ve already said, taking whole sections out.
“Truly it makes my job of confusing mankind – and taking most with me when I’m eventually destroyed – a hell of a lot easier.” Her face became dark, she just reminded herself about something she keeps trying to forget.
Her face became relaxed again. “Everything in its place.” She carried on where she had left off, before going into her strange rambling.
“No water in Egypt went unaffected. Driven by thirst many drank from the red waters. Funny, but those who drunk from the Nile lost their bellybutton. Don’t ask me why, it just happened.” She started laughing as if that thought was in someway funny.
“It reminded me of Adam an Eve. They had no bellybutton either. Think about it, they were created from the earth, not born. No umbilical cord joined them to a human mother.”
I was still listening, but I was also pondering on the words she had just spoken. I felt confused, if indeed he was right and he had been misleading mankind for as long as man had been walking on the earth, then why would he explain this to me, to be written down in my book, for all to read?
“Pharaoh still went on being unresponsive. Until Moses brought about the rest of the ten plagues. I went on helping Pharaoh’s magicians, copying the first three, to show them they were just cheap parlor tricks. Until He brought about he next seven. Of course I could have copied them, but didn’t see why I needed to.” Her face was plain showing no expression, trying to convince herself that the words were true, as much as trying to convince me. But I knew he was lying, if he could have copied them he would have. But I said nothing, not wanting to anger him again.
The weird looking face continued. “Each plague was brought forth to shame and prove that Egypt’s main Gods were false. Each plague targeting an individual God who should have had the power to stop that particular infestation.
“For instance, the first plague that turned the Nile into blood shamed Hapi and Anuket the Nile God and Goddess. The second plague was of frogs, putting, Heqt the God of frogs to shame. The third was lice, proving that, Kheper; the God of beetles and flies was a fake. He was also humiliated in the fourth plague, which were flies. The fifth killed the cattle shaming, Apis who was the Sacred Bull. The sixth was boils making, Imhotep, the physician God, and Thor the magic and healing God, look like twats. The seventh was hail proving, Nut the sky Goddess to also be a crock of shit. Eight was locusts that, Seth the God of crops couldn’t stop. The ninth was darkness that even, Ra the sun God couldn’t defeat. The tenth was the death of the first-born. Even Pharaoh’s son died.
“But obviously, if I had created the Gods, then they were false. The ten plagues proved that fact.
“Pharaoh couldn’t prevent the death of his first born. You have to remember that his people viewed him as a God; a God reincarnate, the earthly manifestation of Ra the Sun God, and they believed he should have been able to prevent the death of his own son. Strangely, Ra doesn’t mean sun; it means creative power and creator.
“Racked with guilt and pain and angered by Moses’ God, Pharaoh sent the Hebrews away. So ashamed that he done this, no mention of the exodus was ever registered in Egyptian hieroglyphs. They only ever mentioned their conquests, not failures.
“Almost six million Hebrews made up the long wide line that wormed out of upper and lower Egypt. All carrying what belongings they possessed; livestock, food, clothing and everything they would need to start afresh, in what Moses called the Promised Land – flowing with milk and honey. Flowing with weapon bearing armies more like.” She gripped the cigarette and flick her wrist, making it rain ash.
“I’m sure most wouldn’t have left, if they realized they would die in the desert.” She scratched an itch on her cheek, the sound of the skin flaking off her finger sounded like sandpaper being rubbed.
“God walked before them, a grand pillar of cloud by day and a majestic pillar of fire by night. To let them know He was with them.” She closed her eyes for a few moments, drawing hard upon the cancer stick.
“Moses followed the pillar by day and night, bringing them to the shores of the Red Sea.
“Pharaoh had now had time to ponder on everything that had happened. Angered and now wanting revenge – and his slaves back –Pharaoh gathered his army to give chase. They pinned the Hebrews into a vast gorge. There they would be trapped and slaughtered like cattle. They were many, but what were they compared to the well trained fighting force of the most powerful army of the time. One lion is better than five hundred sheep, the saying goes. Moses had almost six million sheep on his hands. That eventually changed.
“But,” she gave a long drawn out sigh, “he came to their aid, as they were screaming and clambering over each other, trying to work out what to do, like a bunch of frightened sheep that they were, all pissing themselves and trembling with terror.
“Moses was instructed to raise his staff over the waters. He did. It parted. They got away to the safety of the over side. Old famous story. Every child knows it. Interestingly the area they crossed was a thirteen-kilometer path in the Gulf of Akaba, which took them directly into Midian.
“Pharaoh was giving chase across the bed of the ocean, when the walls of held water collapsed, crushing down upon his army and wiped them all away.
“Hooray, they were saved.” She coughed once. This was impressive for a body that didn’t really have any lungs or throat with which to do so. Plumes of skin particles rained out of her decayed body in a thick cloud.
A fly landed on her face and started to walk in circles on her cheek. Then quick as a flash in disappeared up her left nostril. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Saved,” she said. “Soon they began to murmur and complain about being taken from Egypt. Wanting sweet food, cucumbers, and melons – like they used to have. Not this tasteless gunk of manna. Tasted like chicken actually.
“Funny enough, they complained about the dirty brown food falling from the sky. They said they wanted meat. ‘Give us flesh, give us flesh, that we may eat,’ they shouted.
“So He had a wind burst forth, driving quails from the sea, making them fall all about the camp. They were so greedy they collected the dead birds all day, all night, and all the next day. Heaping them up into huge piles. Not one single bird had been consumed in those two days. They were so selfish they were just trying to horde as much as they could.
“So His anger blazed against them, striking down thousands. Nasty temper on Him sometimes. For some
reason the place was named Kibrothhattaavah, meaning Graves of Lust. Their bones are still below the sand. Today you call the area Wady Murrah. In fact an archaeological dig site has found some of their remains in Erweis el-Ebeirig. It’s about thirty miles north-east of Sinai.”
She gave a twisted Cheshire cat smile.
“But I will talk further on the subject of the Israelites when I return. About the way they continued to upset Him. In fact, I’m surprised there was any Hebrews left. At one point He said none from the age of twenty years and above would see the Promised Land. They had to wander for thirty-eight years while they died off. Then they complained against Mosses and Aaron. He made the earth swallow thousands, with fire devouring hundreds more. Then He sent a scourge that kills another fourteen thousand and seven hundred. And they still murmured against Him. So He sends poisonous serpents to kill many more.
“The tale of the Israelites is one full of complaining and culling. Those who murmured died. You would think that after the tens of thousands that had been killed they would have leaned their lesson. But no.” She went to stand.
“Where are you going?” I asked, confused.
She looked down, because she now stood slightly hunched over in front of me. Dried decomposed mummified body with a fleshly head.
“You are going to stay here tonight. Yes?”
Yes, I was. I had enjoyed doing nothing all day. Even though I remember little of it. I still needed time to recuperate from the fire – my chest still ached from the smoke. My ears still had a dull ringing, like tinnitus.
She read my mind, because I never uttered anything aloud.
“I will return upstairs, depositing the body in the same place. I don’t want you to have to drag the body away from where you intend to sleep.” With that she turned and slowly headed for the stairs.
“One thing,” I said.
She turned slowly, as if on a turntable.
I pointed to the smouldering cigarette that was hanging from her wet lips.
“Ah. Good point,” she muttered while taking one more heavy drag upon it, before giving it up. She used a dried hand to toss it into the flames.
Then turning she headed towards the rickety stairs. Her head from behind started to convert back to its decayed state. Tufts of lank hair fell to the floor, instantly disappearing as if consumed by time. The skin on the skull dried and pulled hard, clinging tight to the bone, turning back to its leathery brown colour. Suddenly, thinking of something else, she turned. Her face had changed back to its former dead self. Only her lips remained, so she should depart the message.
“Tomorrow when you wake, leave. Do not be in this house at dinnertime tomorrow.” With that she turned and disappeared around the corner of the stairs. I could hear the slow, sure-footed steps leading to the only bedroom.
Then a loud thud, to announce the body was once again lying on the floor. Lifeless.
I pondered on why he would tell me to leave. He obviously knew something, but was unwilling to divulge that information. I shrugged it off.
Besides, I was going to leave first light anyway.
Strange how things turn out.
It was the last time I heard any of the biblical story from him. And how I found out the truth about everything. And how I had been played like a fool. Everything he had told me had been a lie, misdirection.
Things are not always what they seem.
The truth can be a lot more daunting.
24
Mirror Image
I awoke with a headache, eyes glued together; tongue feeling like it had been carpeted while I slept. I remembered nothing from my dreams, no fading images – nada.
I pulled hard on the blanket, tossing over my shoulder onto the back of the chair. No blood. I gave a long sigh of relief. Fingernails as clean as I had left them yesterday.
Grainy diffused light crept through the pulled curtains, making the light look like it had already passed through a cloth before it even reach the tatty, dusty old brown curtains.
Slowly, clambering to my feet, I wandered upstairs, ignoring the bedroom and its pulled tight door, and used the dirty toilet.
Now clean and refreshed I stood before the front door. Backpack full of money. Still wearing the gaudy black tracksuit, with the black baseball cap pulled down tight over my dyed hair. I twisted the door handle and stepped into the narrow wet cobblestone street.
It had rained hard during the night. I seemed to remember drifting in and out of sleep and noticed the rain hammering on the greasy windowpanes.
Now it was simply a misty light rain that soaks you within minutes. The sky above was dark pewter, clouds boiling between the gaps in the house roofs above. The houses looked like they were leaning over, inspecting me.
Broken tiles littered the street. Beside doorposts bushes sat in terracotta pots, almost stripped of leaves. Milk bottles lying on there sides, some broken making pools of white liquid, looking oddly out of place. Small birds fluttering in the gaps between buildings, trying to find better hiding places under the eaves.
Head down, hands in pockets, I set out, heading back the way I had come.
I knew of no other roads apart from the one I used to get here. Other roads headed in all directions, but I didn’t know where they ended. I needed to get back to the main motorway and find another car.
The village was deserted, it could’ve been a ghost town for all I knew, or cared. But around the next corner I could hear activity. Banging and loud rattling, accompanied by the droning noise of machinery.
As I turned the corner I could see the dustbin lorry, slowly crawling along the narrow main street. Dustmen, who were wrapped up tight against the rain and early morning chill, were pushing the large green plastic bins onto the hooks at the back of the truck, the truck then swallowing the contents, along with its rumbling sound; sounding like a large overfed beast.
I remembered the bins and large bulging black bags from the day before last. Obviously because of the fire the road had been closed.
No one paid any attention to me as I passed, hunched against the drizzling rain, on the opposite side of the narrow street.
NatWest bank had a clock hanging from its grey wall. Just past six. A few shops had their lights on, preparing for another day. A collection of homes had lights on downstairs. The old people who awoke at the crack of dawn, trying to use up every last minute they have left before going off into the unknown.
The rain started to fall a little heavier. Head down I pushed on. Tracksuit soaked through to my skin already. I soon left the cramped streets behind.
I cleared the village and headed along down the narrow lane. Eventually I reached the service station entrance. Not one vehicle past me on the way. Not one other living person.
It had been a day since the fire in the hotel, even though the images would never leave me in peace. The smoke was still churning from some section that I couldn’t see from my location.
Head down, once again, I headed toward the service station.
I was hungry, and also didn’t quite know how I was going to get anywhere, deciding hitchhiking was a little too risky because my face had been plastered all over the television.
I walked quickly across the mammoth car park; pointedly refusing to look in the direction the hotel had once sat. But I couldn’t help giving it a quick glance. I noticed bundles of brightly coloured objects leant against the melted remains of a car park bin. Petals had been strewn across the car park by the high winds. Relatives and friends having left their flower tributes to loved ones. I looked away, ashamed.
I felt naked and exposed in the middle of the open car park. I felt like someone was going to latch their hand onto my shoulder any minute and say, “Hold on one fucking minute, aren’t you the bastard who caused the fire? Isn’t it all your fault?”
I was being paranoid. Knowing people didn’t give a shit who I was, or where I was heading. I could lie down on the wet concrete car park, and the likelihood that anyone would even ask that
I was okay was very slim. It wasn’t that people didn’t care; it was because they were so caught up in their own lives – problems and miseries – that another problem was something they didn’t want. Let someone else check the person was okay.
This reminded me of another crime. As I have already said, my mind holds an assortment of junk information, and this situation reminded me of something I had read not so long ago. I am an avid reader of true-life crime stories.
It was about a twenty-eight-year-old woman called, Catherine Genovese, or otherwise known as Kitty Genovese. The murder was the talk of New York City. Why? Because she was stabbed seventeen times by a man who came back twice to finish her off. But that wasn’t what was so exceptional about this murder. The fact that thirty-seven people witnessed the murder and not one of them reported it while it was happening.
When Winston Moseley stabbed her from behind, Kitty screamed to high heaven, expecting someone to come to her aid, because she was right outside the apartment where she lived. The man ran off, leaving Kitty bleeding, but alive. But when no one came to Kitty’s aid, Moseley ran back and started stabbing her again. She screamed, just barely alive. He ran again. Then when no one came to her aid the second time – people were actually watching from the windows above – Moseley ran back and finished her off. It wasn’t until she lay dead in a pool of her own congealing blood that someone eventually phoned the police. Over half an hour after the attack started! If just one person wanted to, they could’ve saved her life. And that was in 1964, forty-eight years ago, the world is even more atrocious today.
