by Kim Newman
* * *
The Whore of Babylon had crawled back from the Pit, unconsumed by the lake of fire. This gave Jenny pause. It wasn’t in the prophecies. The Whore stood up, foul in her defiance, summoning the demons of the Pit for one last assault on the Citadel of the Beloved. Apollyon, the demon queen who served ultimate good, strode to face the Whore, but was knocked away from the unclean woman by an unseen force.
‘Take that, bitch,’ the Whore swore.
Apollyon’s head twisted, hair waving Medusa-snakes around her. She screamed as the Whore forced herself into her head, tearing and scratching with her witch mind.
‘Beloved,’ Jenny said.
He stood, towering over His throne, and looked wrath at the Whore. The wanton, seized by the Beloved Glance, was paralysed, and Apollyon wriggled free. She wiped the spittle of her scream from her chin.
Beloved and the Whore faced each other. Jenny felt invisible forces clashing around them as the Divine and the Damned locked death grips. Gasping, the Whore broke the look-lock, turning her head aside, covering her eyes. The harlot was defeated. Utterly. Jenny chided herself for the momentary faltering of her faith. She found her voice. ‘And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison…’
* * *
His shoulder lurched out of joint. The more it hurt, the more Paul seemed in the grips of a maddened farmer, not a walking tree. But it didn’t matter. Real or not, the Green Man would kill him.
The pain stopped, and the Green Man stiffened. A shape had climbed Maskell’s trunk and fixed twiggy branches to his head, pulling and shaking.
Jeremy!
Paul slithered through the Green Man’s grip, and had to hold on to prevent himself from falling. Jeremy was wrapped around his father’s head, stopping up the bung-hole of his mouth. The boy’s branches twirled and wound tight about Maskell’s head, shoulders and arms. The vines parted, and Paul let himself drop, pushing away from the Green Man so he fell through the door, on to the welcome mat of the Agapemone. Shoving the floor with his feet, he sledged on the mat, away from the gaping doorway.
Maskell wasn’t fighting Jeremy off, because the Tree was coming apart. Sue-Clare Maskell’s head peeled away from her husband’s chest, face pink in the green. Paul slammed the door into its hole. The Green Man was too busy with his family to pursue him further. He was home, if not free. Before him, the staircase rose, a stepped spiral disappearing into the light. He began to climb towards Heaven.
* * *
Susan understood the torments of the Damned. She faced Jago, and it was worse than she could have imagined. The Lord God penetrated her mind as easily as she would crumble a fortune cookie, and sucked her whole being up in a single swallow, spitting it back out again into the cup of her skull. Physical pain was the least part of it.
She tried, but couldn’t get a mental purchase on Jago. It was like trying to hold the core of a nuclear reactor with bare hands. Jago knew all about her—about her Talent, about IPSIT, about her snake duties—and always had. He had never bothered with her. There had been no reason to. Like James, she was never any real threat. They hadn’t even irritated him enough before now to be worth the trouble of swatting.
Allison came close, and slapped her cheek. The palm blow was nothing compared to the pain inside her mind. Susan laughed at the petty hurt, and Allison hit her again, in the stomach, with a knuckle-knotted fist. She doubled over as a reflex.
‘Whore,’ Allison spat.
The Brethren called her names. Whore, harlot, wanton, slut, unclean, filth, shit, dirt, cunt. That didn’t hurt either. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.
Great, Allison thought back at her, we’ll use sticks and stones.
She fell down, and faces loomed. Jenny and Allison.
‘We fixed your lover,’ Jenny said, righteous but spiteful. Susan realized she meant James. ‘We crucified the Anti-Christ. Upside down.’
That hurt, but only a little.
‘Goodbye, Jenny,’ Susan said.
The angry saint was struck by her own name. For a moment, Susan saw the girl she had known these last months. Pretty, smart, lost.
‘I forgive you.’
Jenny looked the other way, and Allison spat again. She had sticks in one hand, and stones in the other.
* * *
As he climbed, the stairs became less earthly. Patched carpet gave way to levels of light. Stained banisters became marbled curves. The air was thinner here, suggesting that angels conversed with helium-strangled voices. The Manor House was still the base, but the construction was mainly candyfloss fantasy. Paul’s anger died, fear bubbling in the back of his throat. The noise of the outside dimmed. The faint chinking that accompanied his upward steps was, he realized, the box of drawing pins in his pocket.
* * *
His brother was on his chest. Terry dipped his snout and clamped jaws around his neck. Teddy waited for teeth to sink in, to tear his windpipe loose, to puncture his arteries. Terry snuffled and took his snout away, leaving warm wet on Teddy’s neck. Terry licked his brother’s face with scary affection, eyes shining like Allison’s.
Teddy wondered how long Terry’s good mood would last. They were occasional, and never stayed long. His brother’s weight shifted, and he was able to sit. He experimentally slipped his fingers into the fur of Terry’s neck, and scratched in the way their dog used to like when he was alive. Doug Dog, Teddy called him, which always struck even Terry as comical, although their parents never saw why it was funny.
Terry grinned, showing white teeth and red gums.
As little kids, Teddy and Terry had pretended Doug Dog had his own cartoon series on television. In a funny American accent, Teddy would announce, ‘Gilpin Productions Ink Preeeeesents… The Adventures of DOUUUUG DOGGG!… in Superhypermegadoggovision with Stereoscopic Doggy Farts… Innnn Collar… Tonight’s Episode, Bone Free… Guest Starring Woof Barking, Pete Pinscher and A1 Satian…’
Terry growled when Teddy’s scratching slowed, and snapped at the air. This could not last.
‘Down, Doug,’ he tried, and Terry’s tongue lolled again, steam coming out of his mouth. Teddy kept scratching.
* * *
On one landing, Paul found Brother Derek, face painted in psychedelic stripes, crying and hugging something.
‘Wendy,’ he said, over and over. ‘Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…’
Paul saw the dead Sister’s calm face, and realized it was attached to the black-and-red rag bundle Derek was clinging to. She’d been flayed from neck to waist. The blood had clotted, but she was still leaking.
Derek had found her in a room, and dragged her to the landing. There was a rust-red trail to mark her path.
‘She’s dead,’ he said, gingerly touching Derek’s shoulder.
The Brother whirled, and rounded on him.
‘I know that,’ he mewled, hurt. ‘I’m not mad. But Wendy isn’t supposed to be dead. None of the Chosen are supposed to die. We’re supposed to be judged, every man and woman, according to our works.’
It was impossible that Wendy be judged and found wanting.
‘She was a saint. She passed her life atoning.’
Wendy was an empty thing, no longer interested. Derek rocked her.
‘This isn’t supposed to happen,’ he said. ‘Not to Wendy.’
‘Not to anyone,’ Paul agreed.
He left them, aching legs carrying him up more steps. He must be near Jago’s Paradise now. He was sure he’d covered Clouds One through Eight.
* * *
Allison hit the woman, trying to prevent her escape into senselessness. It was important she be aware of what was done to her. With the Anti-Christ, it had been over too soon. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. The Whore of Babylon would suffer all the torments. New torments crowded into her brain, whispered by the last of Badmouth Ben, and her hands were impatient to try them. There was time. As Apollyon, in the service of the Lord Jago, she’d have an eterni
ty.
* * *
‘I saw the Holy City, New Jerusalem, coming down from God out of Heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.’
Hazel didn’t know where the words came from, but as she spoke, they were true. Spires shot up like skyrockets, cupolas expanded like mushrooms, glittering bridges and walkways spanned turrets and towers, bobbing aircars passed through glass and steel canyons, choirs and orchestras made music in many plazas, saints and angels strolled upon the mezzanines. There were shops, concert halls, schools, galleries, parks, gardens, statues, fountains, trees, ice-cream parlours, bandstands, showrooms, cinemas, discotheques, night clubs, zoos and pavement cafes.
‘Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men,’ Beloved said, almost quietly, so only she could have heard, ‘and He will dwell with them…
‘His whisper filled the Heavens, and all the faithful heard. Hazel saw her handmaids, Jenny and Allison, on their knees, giving thanks. Even the outcast looked up with worship in her face, a last convert. Their praises rose and entwined around Beloved and His Sister-Love.
‘God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death. Neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away.’
Slowly, they floated down towards the streets. All around, citizens were celebrating. It was carnival. Confetti blew on the warm breeze. Children laughed. Wild animals roamed among the people, letting themselves be petted. A little girl hugged a smiling tiger. A bear with a pink heart in his fur capered in baggy pants, to a tune played by a long-legged mountebank in a multicoloured coat. New Jerusalem bustled around them, market stalls open, musicians and dancers performing, potters and sculptors displaying their wares. Among the pots laid out on a long trestle, Hazel saw her own plate, with the face of the sorrowful woman, made whole again.
The face was that of the outcast, Susan. Her glazed eye stared out, one last tear starting. The tear grew as Hazel focused on it, disturbing her. There were discords in the music of Heaven.
‘Behold,’ said Beloved, ‘I make all things new…’
* * *
On the stairs, Paul found James’s gun, thrown away. He picked it up, feeling cold reality. It was a tool for killing things.
Waves of light streamed around. He held the gun in his left hand and took the box of drawing pins out of his pocket, shaking a few loose. He made a fist over them, and pain showed him prosaic stairs.
He popped the pins into his mouth, and shifted the gun to his right hand.
Upwards and onwards...
* * *
‘I am the Alpha and the Omega,’ Jago said, voice like gentle thunder, ‘the beginning and the end.’
Susan was on her knees at last, between Allison and Jenny, heart overcome, belief pouring out. Jago was the Lord God, and the Kingdom of Heaven was at hand.
‘He that overcometh shall inherit all things, and I will be his God, and he shall be my son…’
Susan saw a shaggy figure at the gates of the city, stalking Beloved with a sword of ice. She opened her mouth to warn the faithful, but her voice would not come.
‘…but the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death…’
Beloved’s face was terrible in His wrath. Red lightning cracked over the city, cellophane skies crackling and crumpling.
The stalker shouldered through the gates and slipped among the Chosen. He was the last of the liars. Susan loved him for it. Ashamed, she kept her silence.
‘Come hither,’ Jenny said to her, delighted, ‘I will shew thee the bride, the Lamb’s wife…’
* * *
Terry was changing back, shoulders growing, hair shedding. Teddy stopped scratching his brother’s throat. As he lost wolfishness, he snarled more, became aggressive. No amount of ‘Down, Doug’ would keep him pacified. While he was wrapped in transformation, Teddy threw his brother, fast becoming painfully heavy, aside, and stood. Terry rolled on the grass, backbone shifting. Teddy ran into the darkness.
* * *
Heat was all around Maskell. His sap was swelling, popping and bubbling through his skin. Jeremy, Hannah and Sue-Clare had broken away, and the Light had got too close. He was burning to his roots, the goodness of the soil feeding the fire. The flames ate into him, crumbling his leaves to orange ash, chewing the meat of his limbs. An electric shock shot up through his quirt, striking a killing blow to his heart.
* * *
Jenny was a little girl again. Jesus H. Christ smiled to her, blowing a kiss. His bicycle rested against a wall, chrome polished to burning mirrors. Granddad, who had come to Heaven years earlier, was there, a young man in uniform as he had been in the pictures in the family album, dancing with Grandmother Annie, whom she had never even known. Her mum and dad brought round soft drinks in bright-coloured paper cups. Balloons drifted past, and party poppers went off, jetting streamers of harmless fire into the air. Lisa, her sister, ran past, chasing a winged cat, chortling delight. Cherubic servants circulated with silver salvers of triangular sandwiches. Hummingbirds and bluebirds trilled.
Her throat was hoarse, but a sip of the liqueur Mum gave her soothed the pain—the last she’d ever feel—away.
Beloved and His Sister-Love embraced.
Susan, cleaned and redeemed, sat awkwardly to one side, not believing she’d been judged worthy of the New Jerusalem. Jenny had always known the Lord God was merciful, and Loved even his errant children. Allison, a queen of the fay, twirled in her white dress, darkness gone from her. Joyful music was all around. John Lennon sang ‘All You Need is Love’, strumming his guitar with six-fingered hands.
* * *
The hammer was back and there was a bullet in the chamber. Even Paul, who had never held a real gun before, knew all he had to do was point and pull the trigger. The trick was getting close enough to point.
He had been walking through the light, towards the music. When he found the music, he’d find Jago. And Hazel. He tried to think whether he now loved Hazel or not. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t even know if he was saving a world or destroying one. That didn’t really matter either.
Curtains parted, and he was in the streets of a celestial city. It was vaguely Middle Eastern, like a Technicolor bazaar in an Arabian Nights fantasy, but 1930s science-fiction skyscrapers grew above. He heard Beethoven, Bach, Brahms and Mahler conducting their own posthumous works, setting knee-weakeningly transcendental music to bright new words by Shelley, Keats, Shakespeare and William Blake. Happy people rejoiced, in robes of flowing white that could have been classical or futurist. There was little to do in Heaven apart from rejoice. After a while, he assumed, it would get infernally boring.
He wandered through the city, knowing Jago would be its centre. Turning a corner after a mosque carved from Italian ice cream, he bumped into Janet. She didn’t have wings any more, but was still an Angel. Smiling, she embraced him with lung-puncturing force, and he clung to the gun, hoping it wouldn’t go off.
‘We share Love,’ she said, her tone suggesting she was willing to share one variety of Love here and now.
Paul gulped, drawing pins rattling against his teeth.
Janet let him go. Paul hoped there’d be a good deprogramming service available for her after this was over. Once she’d been counselled for five years, he might even try to get her telephone number. He saluted her, touching the sight of the gun to his forehead, and she giggled at how silly he looked. He left her rejoicing.
* * *
Jeremy watched his father burn, and cried. Daddy had changed, had been mean and cruel, but he was still his daddy, and Jeremy somehow knew none of it had really been his fault. When they were close together, Jeremy had been surprised to find out how much Daddy hurt. They were both afraid of the dark, but of different darks. There was fire all around, and Jeremy was huddled with his sister and mother. As he s
creamed and shook, Daddy became his old self again, and Jeremy could not watch. He pressed his face to Mummy, and she held him tight, whispering comfort through her own tears. Jeremy could still hear his daddy. As he burned, leaves and branches fell away, showing the actual daddy underneath.
* * *
Allison was washed clean in an instant. Her greasy skin cleared up, her hair was newly shampooed and combed out. Her other life had been a dream, and this princess was her true self. There’d been blood on her hands, but it was cleaned away. She was at Jenny’s party, surrounded by flattering boys who weren’t afraid of her. Soul II Soul was playing. Ben was gone, cast aside like an old snakeskin, no longer necessary. He was outside now, handsome and cool and tall, face fixed, machine gleaming. She drank the cordial of Heaven, and felt she had earned her reward. For the first time, she laughed genuine laughter, feeling it tickle her chest and throat as it came out. As she laughed, she was aware she was coming, gently. The pleasure made her weak, then strong again. Someone brought her a new drink, and she sipped, trying not to giggle.
* * *
Paul found Jago in the town square of Heaven, standing on his pedestal, surrounded by a street party. His heart glowed a fond red in his breast, shining through transparent flesh like a billion-watt rosebulb. His own heart kicked as he saw Hazel, robed in white, standing on a pedestal just beneath him, her face turned up to his, his head dipped to kiss her.
The first stab of pain let him see the dusk and the attic.
Then, Heaven was back, stretching into the forever distance, pillars of Light rising, fountains of golden milk spurting. The moon belonged to everyone, the best things in life were free. Happy days were here again, the skies above were clear again. Troubles melted like lemon drops way above the chimney tops. The corn was as high as an elephant’s eye.
An Angel handed him a snowdrop for peace, which melted in his hand. He looked around the square. Estate agents owned platinum skyscrapers, bristling with inviting signs. Newspaper stalls sold nothing but the Reader’s Digest. Burger restaurants were got up like primary-coloured plastic cathedrals. Pearly kings and queens break-danced in front of the Christian bookshop. The quadruplex cinema was showing E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, A Room with a View, Three Men and a Baby and Steel Magnolias.
