'Yeah, yeah,' said Bergerac. 'But I'm telling ya, Bud, I'm not happy about you moving in on my territory.'
God smiled.
'All's fair in Heaven and on Earth,' He said.
'Screw you,' said Bergerac, giving God the finger.
Orwell, who was beginning to feel like David Beckham at a convention of Stephen Hawkings, poked his nose in to try to seek some understanding of what was going on.
'I'm getting a little lost here,' he said.
God and Bergerac looked at him with a due mixture of scorn, pity and contempt.
'You sold your soul to me when you were fifteen,' said Bergerac, 'because you wanted to sleep with your English teacher.'
God rolled His eyes.
'Mrs Cairns?' said Orwell.
'Mrs Cairns,' repeated Bergerac.
'She was hot for me!' said Orwell.
'The only reason,' said Bergerac, 'she went anywhere near your sorry, spotty little manhood, was because you sold your soul to me, and I turned her head so that she didn't know what the fuck she was doing.'
Orwell's mouth opened. Nothing immediately came out. He looked at God. He looked back at Bergerac. He thought of his fumbling, desperate, guilt-ridden fifteen minutes with Mrs Cairns.
'You are, I don't know, what?' he said.
'I,' said Bergerac, 'would be Satan, Prince of Darkness. I've just been toying with your pathetic soul for the last few days, you stupid anonymous little shit, because I'm a complete bastard. Now it's time to call in your number.'
This wasn't really helping Orwell. God, Satan, it was all getting a little too theological for him and he was beginning to believe that maybe he'd been transported to an asylum somewhere.
'So it's you who's been killing all the guys in the company?' said Orwell.
'Hell, no,' said Bergerac, invoking her hometown, 'that's some chick with her own agenda. Nothing to do with me, although you have to admire the quality of the work. But sure, I came along for the ride. I like to get more closely involved when there's murder going on.'
'I'm confused,' said Orwell.
'Fantastic,' said Bergerac. 'Let me aid you in your confusion.'
She pulled the gun from her coat pocket, and before there was even time for the surprise to register on Orwell's face, Bergerac had popped a bullet in his head, splattering his face across the window and Orwell's soul was descending to Hell.
The door opened, and Docherty and Clemens, the two police officers tasked with guarding Orwell, burst in all of a twitter. Two more perfect shots to the middle of the face, heads exploding everywhere and blood flying around the room, and they were both dead in crumpled bloody heaps on the floor.
God wiped the blood off His face, looking at Bergerac with contempt.
'For crying out loud,' He said. 'You're a piece of work.'
Bergerac smiled, the smile that had first so tormented Jude Orwell.
'Just trying to keep the natural order of things,' she said. 'Even if some of the rest of us aren't.'
'And what is that supposed to mean?'
Bergerac walked over to God and poked a finger in His chest. They held each other in a long stare.
'Barney Fucking Thomson,' said Bergerac eventually, 'that's what.'
God shrugged.
'I made a deal,' He said.
'And so did Thomson,' said Bergerac. 'With me. And a lot earlier than you did.'
'Hey, just remember,' said God, 'I'm the deity here. You're just some dumb-ass fallen angel.'
Bergerac shook her head and started to walk away.
'That just drives me nuts, all that deity shit. I don't want to hear it. I'm telling you, the Thomson thing isn't over, not by any stretch.'
Bergerac raised her middle finger at God as she walked out and then she was gone.
'Dumb ass,' muttered God, then He stood up, looked in the mirror, shook His head, and headed off to find the nearest bathroom.
The Muppets Are Back, And This Time They're A Washing Up Liquid!
Monk was on a plane to Glasgow. She had followed the Archbishop of Middlesex to Gatwick, had almost lost him, had managed to pick up his trail again, track him to the shuttle to Glasgow and somehow be lucky enough to get the last seat on the plane.
Middlesex and his mini-entourage were at the front of the plane, Monk fourteen rows back. She was bored, slightly anxious about what was going to happen at the other end, trying not to drink more than one small bottle of wine.
Macedonian Chardonnay. She didn't like flying, nerves tingled with every bump. She sipped slowly and waited for the plane to go into a catastrophic nosedive.
***
Barney Thomson was also on a plane flying to Glasgow, for an out of the way meeting at which Thomas Bethlehem was acting as chief marketing consultant, and at which Barney had for some reason been employed to act as Bethlehem's advisor. Or rather, Bethlehem's co-advisor.
Barney had had time to get all his things together, and had tried to reach Daniella Monk before he left. That was the one thing that made him reluctant to head for home. Monk, however, was nowhere to be found. Even Frankenstein had been posted missing.
So, thinking that it wasn't like he was moving to Australia and that he was still only a short flight away, Barney had headed out to London City airport to board Bethlehem's private plane, knowing all the time that this would be the end of him and Monk, the end of something that hadn't really started. If he was to see her again, and he didn't even know how that was going to happen, whatever they had would likely be gone. It had been a holiday romance in its way. Without the holiday. Or much romance for that matter.
And so he sat on the plane heading north with Thomas Bethlehem, a private jet with seating for up to twenty people. However, on this flight there were more crew attending to their needs, than there were passengers.
Barney Thomson sat at the window, looking down on the bright white cloud beneath. It seemed like the whole of Britain was covered in cloud, and he wondered if it was snowing beneath it all, or if it would just be dreich and damp and Scottish to the end.
He kept his eyes on the window. Didn't want to look round, didn't want to catch the eyes of Bethlehem's other two assistants, brought along for the trip.
Taylor Bergerac was there, Bethlehem's newly installed right hand. Bethlehem had become enamoured of Bergerac in much the same way as had Orwell, and he had yet to see the true blackened soul lying dead and heartless beneath the gorgeous exterior.
His other assistant had been with him a little longer, but not quite as long as he realised. Harlequin Sweetlips sat across from Barney Thomson. Occasionally she stirred her gin & tonic, occasionally she looked out of the window at the floor of cloud, occasionally she glanced at the briefing she had prepared for Bethlehem for that evening's meeting; mostly, however, she stared at the back of the head of Barney Thomson, daring him to turn round and look at her. She wasn't sure why Barney was there, but neither was she surprised. Barney Thomson, she knew, had his part to play in the lives of them all.
Barney Thomson looked out of the window as the light faded to grey, and felt the eyes of Harlequin Sweetlips burning into the back of his skull.
***
The two planes arrived at Glasgow International Airport fifteen minutes apart. Half an hour later, three cars were heading along the M8 towards the Stirling turn off.
In the lead was a large black limousine containing the delegation from Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Some way behind that car, was a smaller vehicle, a black Audi, containing the delegation from the Archbishopric of Middlesex, including the Archbishop himself. Trailing behind that vehicle was an unmarked police car being driven by Detective Sergeant Monk. Frankenstein had used an old contact to make sure she'd have a car waiting for her, as they'd been pretty sure that the Archbishop and his crew weren't going to have to stand for an hour at the Hertz counter.
Monk was unaware of the lead car, the car containing Barney Thomson, Thomas Bethlehem and two of the most dangerous women to walk the face of God'
s Earth.
The hosts of the meeting, which was to be held in a small house overlooking a small loch in central Scotland, were already in place.
'Stirling cut off,' muttered Monk to herself, noticing the Audi veering away to its left.
She felt oddly nervous, could not place the source of her discomfort. Wondered what she would do if it turned out that the Archbishop was just heading off to the hills for a few days. At what point was she going to confront him and ask him exactly what he was up to?
She kept her eyes on the lights of the Audi up ahead and tried to switch off the concern. What would happen would happen, and she'd need to deal with it when it came.
***
As they drove on, one of the men in the lead car was getting a sense of where they were going, and it wasn't just the driver. Barney Thomson watched the dark countryside go by, no snow up here, as they cut off the M9 at Stirling and headed out towards Callander. He had been out this way before, seemingly centuries earlier, almost in another life. There seemed an inevitability about his life, that in some way it was coming full circle. This wasn't quite where it had all started, that would have been in the dingy little barbershop in Partick, but this place held dark memories, a place that still haunted him after all these years.
There were several towns they could be going to, several hotels at which they might stop, but he knew it would be none of them. They were heading out past Callander, on the road to Loch Lubnaig.
He didn't know who was controlling all this, and he was positive it wasn't Thomas Bethlehem, but of the two women who were travelling with him, one of them he felt sure was a brutal, sadistic and entirely cold-hearted killer, while the other ... . well, the other was much, much more unpleasant.
'Where are we going?' asked Bethlehem suddenly. He had been staring blankly out of the window, letting the dreary night speed by, lost in thought. There had been no conversation since the car journey had started. 'What was wrong with the hotel in Glasgow?'
Sweetlips glanced at him, gave a small shrug. Barney noticed a rare look of puzzlement. Sweetlips knew no better than Bethlehem.
'I chose it,' said Bergerac, not looking at Bethlehem. 'A neutral venue in an out of the way facility.'
'Facility?' said Bethlehem. 'We hanging out with the military?'
'It's a hut,' replied Bergerac tersely.
Bethlehem shrugged. Immune to the tone. Looked back out of the window at the dark grey of evening. Barney felt drawn to look at Bergerac. He stared at the pale, smooth skin of her beautiful cheeks, the perfect red of her lips. Could not take his eyes from her. And even though she wasn't looking at him, he could tell that she knew he was staring. He wanted to look away, but it was as though she had him in some kind of mind lock, and the beauty that held his gaze was terrible.
Suddenly Barney felt himself being drawn down a dark tunnel, his mind hurtling through black space. He closed his eyes, but he was still in the same place, travelling at a thousand miles an hour, the dark black of his life flashing past.
The vision closed in. Barney was standing in the barber's shop in Partick, where he had plied his trade for over twenty years. It had been a decade and a lifetime since he'd left, but he remembered every corner, every pair of scissors, every nick out of every chair, every scuff mark on the floor, every unsold can of Brylcreem that had sat sadly on a shelf for fifteen years.
He felt something on his chest and looked down. His shirt was covered in some strange red substance that looked like blood, but couldn't be. How could his shirt be suddenly covered in blood? And then he noticed what was lying on the floor at his feet.
A body. The body of Wullie Henderson, his old boss, a pair of scissors buried in his stomach. Wullie was dead, by Barney's hand.
He looked around the shop, glanced at the time. 5:07pm. It was dark outside, the blinds were drawn. Barney could feel a growing sense of panic, but not at being suddenly thrust into the netherworld of his past. The panic came from knowing that he was going to have to do something about the body lying at his feet, and quickly too.
He staggered away from the body, his mind racing, his heart thumping. What did you do with a dead body? He had no idea. How was he supposed to know what to do in these circumstances?
Phoning the police made sense, but he knew that they wouldn't believe he hadn't meant to kill Wullie. Phoning the police would be the equivalent of going down to the travel agents to book a ten year holiday in a prison of his choice. Phoning the police would be insane.
He needed help, but he had no one to ask. Even if he did, how could he drag anyone into this mess of his own doing?
'Barney,' said a voice away to his right. A calm, reassuring voice.
He turned. There was a woman sitting in the corner. Long brown hair, her legs crossed. Beautiful lips, pale skin. Up until now Barney had remembered everything, had a sense of déjà vu about proceedings. But not this. This was new.
'Who are you?' he asked. 'The police?'
She smiled, a warm reassuring smile.
'Not the police, Barney. The police won't help you, will they? I can help.'
Barney stared at her. He couldn't remember this at all.
'How can you help?' he asked. 'Take the body away?'
'Oh no, you have to do that yourself. But I can give you advice, make sure things go a little more smoothly than they might otherwise.' She smiled again. The look on her face became a little more wicked. 'Turn heads,' she added.
Barney could feel his throat dry, his breath catching. He looked over his shoulder, wondered if there was anyone outside. Turned back to the woman in the corner. She was now sitting at a desk, a parchment in front of her, a pen lying at its side.
'All you have to do is sign this,' she said, indicating the parchment.
Barney walked over and glanced down at the piece of paper. It was blank. He looked fearfully up into the eyes of the woman.
'What am I signing?' he asked.
'Do you want my help or not?' she asked, the voice suddenly with a bitter edge.
Barney looked down at the blood on his shirt, turned back and stared at the body of Wullie Henderson on the floor.
'I have nothing to give,' said Barney, turning back.
The woman had become harder. The beauty was fading.
'We all have something to give, Barney Thomson,' she said, and this time the voice sounded much deeper, much more menacing, and suddenly Barney knew. His soul. He was trading his soul in order to get out of this mess, to get out of the tricky problem created by accidentally stabbing his boss in the chest with a pair of scissors.
It's hard to get a grasp on eternity as a concept, especially when faced with the difficulties of the present.
He lifted the pen, held it over the paper for a second, and then began to scrawl his name. There was no ink. He stopped and looked at her, curious, despairing. He just wanted this to be over with.
She leaned over, took the pen, and gently pressed the nib against Barney's chest. The pen immediately began to draw up the blood.
'You can sign using the blood of your victim,' she said, holding the pen back to him. 'Fitting, don't you think?'
Barney took the pen, stared at the drop of red blood hanging on the nib, then leaned forward and slowly signed his name. He glanced up at the woman. She was gone. The parchment signed, she had instantly disappeared. As had the desk, the parchment and the pen from Barney's hand.
He turned and looked at the body, glanced back over his shoulder. He felt sure that there had been something there a second ago, but the memory of it was completely gone.
'Come on,' said the voice in his head, 'you have to get a move on. Now, here's where you start.'
The voice rattled out instructions, and Barney Thomson got to work clearing up the detritus of the first instance of accidental murder in his life.
Barney shuddered and opened his eyes. Stared straight at Bergerac, who was now sitting with her head resting back on the chair, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. It looked
like she might be about to start snoring, but it was impossible to imagine Taylor Bergerac snoring.
Barney took his eyes from her and looked out of the window. The dark forest flew by, as they headed away from Callander, having passed quickly through.
He looked at his own dim reflection in the window. The scene from the shop, the memory that he did not actually remember, now stamped on his brain.
The voice, he remembered it well. The common sense and clear-cut decision making that had come from nowhere. At the time he'd had no idea how on Earth he had managed to acquire it, but now he knew. Now he knew that all those things the man in the Fyodor Dostoevsky mask had told him two years previously had been true.
The voice had come at a terrible cost.
The Reformation Lives On
It was almost time for the formal signing of the papers; centuries of mistrust and suspicion about to be swept away in one dramatic gesture. It was a moment to be written in the history books, a moment that could so easily have been accompanied by the most splendid pageantry; however, all the interested parties had agreed that for this ever-increasingly secular society, low key was best.
When the formal announcement was made to Parliament and the public, there would be outrage, no question. There would be old legislation brought out and quoted and re-quoted. There would be arguments in the Lords and in the Commons and in the press and on the streets, in village halls and churches and in pubs. People would argue and fight, because that's what people did. In reality, however, they'd be no more interested than they were in that week's reality TV show, be it dancing, surviving, singing or living in a house.
The men and women sitting around the table, however, had to believe that this was more important than Celebrity Get Me To The Toilet!
There were ten people sitting round the table in their little factions. Noticeably, the largest contingent was from the marketing agency, the people who would try selling the new religious product to Britain, and the rest of the Anglican world.
The implication was obvious; it didn't really matter what decisions the meeting would come to, it was how they were sold that was important.
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