Steal the Lightning

by Tim Lees

  It was not a time when I imagined anything was likely to go wrong.

  Chapter 18

  Not the Village Fête

  The first trace of Big Hollow was a little mom-and-pop diner partnered with a gas station. The sign made me laugh:

  EAT HERE

  GET GAS

  A half mile on we passed the skeleton of some huge building rotting by the highway. There were girders streaked with rust, and concrete floors, big as a football field. But no walls, no roof.

  Angel looked at it.

  “Welcome to the Midwest,” she said, and sang, like a ’40s ballad, “Where industry—is just a memory . . .”

  “What do you think it was?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Someone’s livelihood, though. Sad.”

  I agreed it was, and then, like travelers everywhere, we pretty much forgot about it. We passed a big, wood-clad house. A veranda ran around it, and there were rocking chairs out, and hanging baskets full of flowers.

  “We could live out here,” I said. “Somewhere like that, yeah?”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause . . . it’s a great house. I fancy living in the countryside. And I bet it wouldn’t cost that much. I mean—”

  She was silent for a while. That bothered me. I kept my eyes front, like it took all my effort just to drive.

  She said, “This isn’t England, Chris.”

  “Obviously—”

  “You can’t just—catch a bus into the nearest town. There’s a reason it’s cheap here. It’s ’cause no one wants to live here. You know?”

  “Still,” I said. “Still . . .”

  A stand of trees slid by. A farmhouse in the distance, its white roof shining. A plowed field like pleated cloth. Then there were houses—smaller, these, wooden shacks with chain-link fences. We passed a general store, and then, at once, were on an urban street. “In ten yards, turn right,” said the GPS. In ten yards was a party shop—balloons and booze and glitter—and I swung right, bouncing down the hill. They had one of those mansion-like town halls even the smallest towns all seemed to manage, and we slid around this and came to what looked like a public park, and the GPS told us we’d reached our destination. A notion I was not at first convinced about.

  A big marquee had been erected on the lawns, striped pink and blue, and half a dozen smaller tents had sprung up next to it. I saw kids with cotton candy, adults strolling, chatting, sipping from canned drinks.

  “Not like England?” I said. “You think?”

  “What?”

  “Village fête. They have ’em every summer, in the country. Tombola, raffles, soak-the-bloke. It’s fun. Morris dancing, too.”

  “What?”

  “Old fertility ritual. Wouldn’t try it personally, but some people love it.” I was searching for a parking place. The streets were lined with cars. “Like a fun fair, you know? Family day out. Games and stuff. Boy Scouts. Fund-raising . . .”

  “That,” she said, “is not a fun fair.”

  “Well. Whatever you call it.”

  “That,” she told me, “is a tent revival. It’s a church meeting.” When I said nothing, she said, “Read the signs, for God’s sake! They look like a fricking fun fair?”

  I had seen the signs, of course—“Pray” and “Jesus is Lord”—but you couldn’t turn a corner in the States without religious slogans smacking you across the face. Now, though, I said, “Church meeting . . . ?”

  She was craning round, trying to get the measure of things.

  “We’re looking for a god,” she said. “Could be someone got here first . . .”

  Chapter 19

  Trying to Find the Reverend

  The Gemini Motel was said to be the best in town. I carried my own bags upstairs and tipped the bellboy for the privilege. It was a large room with a double bed, a dresser and a view across a field where half a dozen crows milled and cawed and argued with each other.

  I shut the door on the bellboy, and Angel slipped her arms around my waist.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  I held her, felt the muscles moving in her back, and I ran my tongue over her lips, catching that salt taste, walking her slowly backwards to the bed.

  “Let’s give the crows a show.”

  Most companies have rules to stop you mentoring your loved ones. There are good reasons for this. We had arrived at noon, but it was late before we crawled out of our room and drove back into town. By then the sun was just a small, red disk, flickering between the trees. Seen from the corner of the eye, it looked like some excited bird, flapping to escape its cage.

  The crows had left their mark upon my psyche.

  Downtown, crowds had gathered. There was nothing that unusual about them. A few had dressed up—suits, and summer frocks—but most were in their casual clothes, out for a summer evening. We parked a little distance off, then walked over to mingle with the faithful.

  Angel had a look on her face, like she almost wanted to join in, but knew she couldn’t anymore. She squeezed my hand, and pulled me close.

  “Sinning’s over,” I said. “Time to get holy now.”

  I could smell barbecue. We found the kitchen stall—profits to the church—and bought a couple of burgers. The woman there told me to “Have a blessed day.”

  “See that?” said Angel. “They’ve got a Bible quiz. That’s for the kids. My aunt’d drop me off there and I’d sit and answer all the questions. Man, was I pissed if I didn’t win! I was a vile kid, I really was.”

  “Yeah, your dad was telling me . . .”

  “Get out!”

  “But, hey—you used to go to these things? Tent revivals?”

  “Few times. When I was a kid. My aunt Tokela used to take me. She was kind of a holy roller back in those days. Oh, I saw it all—laying on of hands, talking in tongues, healing the sick—the whole nine yards.”

  A little girl went by holding a balloon with big, pink letters: Jesus is Lord.

  “You’ve got an Aunt Tequila?” I said.

  “Different spelling. Hey, I’ve got a cousin named Quovadis, all one word, so careful what you say. Me and my brothers got the straight names in the family. Though there’s still some people mail me, thinking I’m some Latino dude.”

  “And you’re not? Oh my God—”

  “Hush up. Now—let’s get our little toys and act like Field Ops, shall we? I don’t want to be training forever, you know. Fun though it is,” she said, and winked at me.

  I was seeing history here. Or I would be, if I didn’t do my job.

  You got a god taking up residence. The area would have an atmosphere, a sense of presence to it. Not everyone would feel it, but enough would pick up on the vibe to give the place a reputation, and others would be drawn there, and some would feel the influence, and some would maybe suffer visions or hallucinations, and word would get around. Soon the place would turn into a shrine. Then a temple or a church. Wait around a year or two, and watch it happen. As in ancient times, so too today.

  I kept on glancing at the reader. The figures wavered, fluctuated, but one thing was apparent, straight off: as we made for the main tent, they were going up.

  There was singing. Sounded like a proper choir in there. Drums too. There were big signs up for a Reverend Richard Cleary (God’s Word—tonite!!!). We didn’t even try to go inside. In the growing dusk, we slipped around the outside, stepping over guy-lines, sticking to the shadows.

  I’d have thought the source-point would be somewhere in the tent. That made sense. But the readings didn’t indicate that.

  We went on.

  Behind the tent there was a pond. It had been partially fenced off, round much of the far side, which struck me as a strange thing, like someone had begun the job and never finished it. The pond was large and circular, big enough to have a jetty, where a couple of rowing boats were moored. Some trees rose up behind it, and further still, I got a glimpse of streetlights.

  The gospel chorus roared out throu
gh the canvas, and I knew already: it was going to be the pond.

  I didn’t want that. But I knew it, anyway: it had to be the pond. The tent backed onto it. The tent went right up to the water’s edge. I waved my reader at the water. Then I stopped.

  There was somebody in front of me.

  He stepped out of the shadows, a black guy, heavy-built, a little paunchy, but big across the shoulders, big in the hands, and done up in some very fancy couture: a beautiful, pale blue suit, a yellow waistcoat, pink tie on a light blue shirt. His head was shaved, his gray moustache neatly trimmed. He was about fifty, I suppose, and despite his age and dress sense it was obvious why he was there. A bouncer is a bouncer, no matter how you dress him up.

  “Can I help you people?”

  “I hope you can, sir.” I was going for a direct approach but Angel, behind me, piped up, “Is the Reverend about, sir? See, we really need to see him. Soonest possible.”

  She’d made her voice all high and awestruck, like a little girl who’s just seen her first Disney flick. It seemed to work, though. The big guy visibly relaxed.

  “Now,” he said, “at present, Brother Clear-eye is in prayer and meditation. Readying himself for the meeting. He is with the Lord, asking for guidance, and you know I can’t disturb him during that. When those two get to talking, I swear—they could just go on all night sometimes.” He smiled in an avuncular way. “Still got some seats inside. You want to hear what the Lord’s got to say by him, you go on in.” He gestured back the way we’d come. “After, you want to see the Reverend, he’ll make himself available. That’s how it goes.”

  “But we’ve come so far,” she said. She whined, which wasn’t her at all, and she clasped her hands, practically pleading with the guy. It was an impressive act.

  “After,” said the man, more firmly now.

  We took the hint.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to me, as we made off. “These things are fun. If you don’t take them too seriously.”

  I said, “They’ve fenced the local fishing pond. And why don’t they want us going there?”

  “You,” she said, “have a suspicious mind.”

  Chapter 20

  An Unexpected Rendezvous

  It was a beautiful illusion. Outside, a tent; inside, soft light seeped out from behind banks of flowers that lined the walls. The air was thick with perfume. There were flowers around the tent poles, flowers at the entranceway, and flowers taped to a proscenium arch, framing the stage with color.

  It must have been the world’s worst place for hay fever.

  What really made it, though—what really got me—was the choir.

  The choir was glorious. They rocked. There was a drummer and a guy with a keyboard and a bass player, all lurking in the background. The choir was over to the left, all dressed in white with sky-blue sashes, and they swayed to the beat, and their voices were a solid thing—truly a wall of sound. A fat woman in front of us jumped to her feet and stood there, swinging like a pendulum. A man raised his arms into the air, his hands twisting ecstatically. A voice behind yelled “Hallelujah!” and I almost wanted to join in.

  “Place is buzzing,” I said.

  “Listen to the harmony!” Angel was leaning forward in her seat. “Listen how they change it every verse!” She put her head on one side, lips moving, trying to find the notes. “These guys are good!”

  We’d been there just a few minutes when Richard Cleary made his entrance.

  There was no fanfare, no announcement, yet instantly, the whole place was aware of him. Faces in the choir turned, someone in the row ahead of us was craning up, and you could see the ripple run around the congregation. There was fever here, excitement—

  It was a rock concert.

  It struck me, suddenly. It took me right back to my first few shows, in my early teens: the same techniques. You get the audience stretched out almost to breaking point, they’ve waited so long. Then a shadow moves. You can’t tell who it is, but everybody cheers. A couple of hard whacks on the drums. Some tuning up. The rush is there. But it’s only when the singer finally arrives, the lights blaze on, and everyone goes wild—

  That’s how Cleary was. The stagecraft was a little different, but the buildup was the same. First, just glimpses, and a thrill that rustled through the audience—was that him? Did you see him? Is he there?

  I, too, was craned up in my seat. I saw a tall, thin white man, down behind the choir. He swapped a few words with one of the functionaries there, last-minute instructions, maybe. Then he vanished. A moment later, he was on the other side, heading for the podium—but he stopped, shook hands with this man, spoke a few words to another, touched a woman on the forehead—and the crowd went crazy. People were reaching out, clutching at him, and he’d flash that smile like a blessing, raise a hand . . . Then he was free of them. He sprang onto the podium—the kind of big, dynamic, alpha-male leap that aging politicians try, and don’t always achieve.

  He did it perfectly.

  Cleary was young (though maybe not all that young) and slender, and his hair was blond and brushed to the side and he wore blue jeans, like so many of his audience, and a pale blue shirt, and as he rose to the lectern everybody in the place was on their feet. Me, Angel—everyone. He raised his hands, he shook his head, but the roar just wouldn’t quit. He let it carry on. Then slowly, and with great significance, he brought his hands together. The crowd began to calm. They knew the routine. Reverend Cleary bowed his head. “Not for me, but for Him . . .” and in the rush of applause, I caught one word over the PA: “. . . pray.”

  There was a hush. I found myself staring out at row on row of bowed heads, and, self-consciously, I put my own head down.

  Then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Can you move up there?”

  I looked around. Sometimes it’s weird, seeing a person out of context. I took in the mildly anxious eyes, the long, dark tongue of hair left stranded in the center of his forehead, the loose plaid shirt, and I thought, Why is he looking at me that way?

  Then I said, “Silverman . . . ?”

  Chapter 21

  The Show Begins

  I am not a religious man. The job tends to preclude it. But I’ve seen my share of miracles, endured my altered states, and been on first-name terms with entities who might, by common definition of the term, be called divine. Or else infernal. At that level, the difference is entirely down to where you’re standing.

  I am not religious. Yet, as a performer, I thought Cleary had some style. He started in a pleasant, down-home manner, to let you know he’d shared the life you lived (at least, if you lived in Big Hollow, he had). He talked about his papa being laid off, and his mom, who (“like so many of you women do”) worked two jobs just to get the family through, but was still a mother and a homemaker—“A saint,” he said. “She makes me humble.” And he talked about his cousin, “practically my twin,” who “fell away,” “got into drugs,” and died, a lost, abandoned soul with no one near to help. And Cleary stood a moment, and he shook his head. “I guess it was the only way the Lord could end his suffering.”

  The crowd grew quiet. He waited till he heard them stir. He let them pick the pace; then he moved on. He talked about corruption in the government, bribery from interest groups and secular societies, about sexual deviants, pushing through their anti-Christian laws, and the murderers of unborn babies, and the politicians who took bribes and feathered their own nests at everyone’s expense, and I wondered just how big a haul the Reverend Cleary would wind up with from tonight, because the offertory bags kept coming round, and everyone put money in them, and the more he got the audience worked up, the more the cash kept flowing. I heard gasps and hallelujahs all around. At intervals, some neat, staid-looking gent or lady would spring onto their feet and give a holler for the grace of God. Everyone, it seemed, was having a good time.

  Silverman said, “Hang on. There’s a big finish.”

  There were three of us now, jammed
onto the two chairs. Silverman held up his phone, videoing Cleary and the audience.

  “Won’t let me bring a real camera. I tried it first time. They act like everybody’s welcome, but they’re not.”

  “First time . . . ?” I said.

  “Few weeks back.” He lowered the phone, replayed a few seconds, flicked back to Record. “Then, I heard you’d be here. Say cheese.”

  He aimed the phone at me.

  “Get that away. And what d’you mean, you heard I’d be here? I didn’t know myself till yesterday.”

  A woman behind went, “Shush!” in a voice like a cobra.

  To Silverman, I said, “What’s this about?”

  “Tell you later.”

  “First you turn up with a flask, and now you’re here, and—”

  “Hallelujah!” screamed the cobra woman. I daresay she’d been building to it; I hoped we hadn’t put her off her moment.

  I said, “And what do you mean, a few weeks back? How long have you been doing this?”

  “Oh—six months or so. Not sure, exactly.”

  “Six months? Jesus—”

  “Jeeeeee-sus!” echoed the cobra lady. I began to feel I knew her much, much better than I wanted to.

  “Trust me,” said Silverman. He gestured to the front of the tent. “It’ll get interesting, like I said. Keep watching.”

  Chapter 22

  Faces in the Water

  So I watched. I listened. There was little new in Cleary’s speech, which I suppose is good, if you’re claiming the authority of a two-thousand-year-old book. He knew his audience. He knew their fears, their hopes; and most of all, he knew their sins. Who there didn’t have impure thoughts? Neglect their family? Do drugs, or drink too much? Lie to their boss, their kids, their spouse, their parents? He got them all wound up, and then, everyone wriggling in embarrassment, he spun it all onto its head. Now he spoke of freedom, liberation, and redemption, new life through Christ—he played that crowd just like an orchestra, building the crescendo, note by note. And while the spotlight lingered on his tall, handsome figure, the lights elsewhere had all dimmed down, and the choir and band had left the podium, and the canvas wall behind was being slowly drawn aside, inch by inch, like theater curtains.