Dark Matter (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Michael Perkins

  Cut back to Flood, a longer shot. He stood alone on stage, his arms lifted in the ‘V’ for Victimhood sign that was his signature, and continued. He rolled the magnificent lines in his mouth, savouring them for his audience:

  “For the stars of heaven and the constellations thereof shall not give their light: the sun shall be darkened in his going forth, and the moon shall not cause her light to shine. And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogance of the proud to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible!”

  They thrilled to his battle call. In a nation beset by rebellion, terrorism, hunger, riots and all manner of natural disaster — a nation seemingly on the brink of collapse — Thomas Flood had an answer direct from God. By the end of the programme they had pledged a record sum to support the Warriors of Christ who would be descending on San Francisco. It would be Armageddon. (Perhaps some hoped the trolleys would be spared, but they were hushed by souls made of sterner stuff.)

  After broadcasting, Flood liked a cigarette. He was sweating and his broad shoulders were tight. He left the studio after thanking his co-ministers and the tech staff and walked outside into the bright Los Angeles sun; a tall ramblingly constructed man, a handsome patrician. There was no weakness in him, but he was tired, and he allowed his usually erect military school posture to slump. Upon his features was the satisfied but genially puzzled expression he showed only to the Lord; it differed sharply from the burning sincerity he projected in the blue lighted cathedral of the air.

  In the campus-like green courtyard of his own Parousia Foundation complex he had caused a garden to be built with a variety of sweet-scented trees and exotic flowers. There was a small pond alive with golden carp, a Mission oak, and a carved wooden bench, and it was there Flood headed to have his cigarette and settle the day’s accounts with the Lord.

  He stared at the water and flowers, and the high battlements guarding the fortress of his ministry. The sun made his eyes, weak from the studio lights, water, so that it might have seemed to an onlooker that he was weeping. He stretched his legs, concentrating on the polished toes of his expensive loafers as he sucked in the welcome nicotine.

  — You ask too much of me, master. I could feel their fear and anxiety coming at me in waves. This country is about to bottom out, and they know it. But the pledges were very strong: $460,000 in two hours!

  The voice answered him, as it always had:

  — The people are frightened.

  — So they should be. But why must I be the one to lead them?

  — Because you are... plausible. They created you. They own you.

  Flood opened his eyes and threw his cigarette into a discreetly placed stone ashtray. He heard members of his staff leaving the barn-like television studio and chatting as they strolled the garden paths. They’d be eating their lunches sitting on the benches around the pond, but he was not embarrassed about falling to his knees for an impromptu chat with God.

  — Lord, I am thy servant with every sinful inch of my being. But why?

  — Why what?

  — Why me? Why must I be the warrior to lead this Crusade? If the end is near, why can’t I be allowed to spend the remaining time atoning for my own sins and praying for your forgiveness?

  — Because you are my servant, stupid, and this is how it works. Don’t whine. You have several lifetimes to spend in my service. I am angry with San Francisco. I am a jealous God, and the people there worship other gods. You are my tool — the hammer with which I will smite them.

  — There is no forgiveness?

  — None for those who follow false gods. And none for hypocrites. Unless you follow my direction without hesitation I will keep you turning on the wheel.

  — But...

  — Don’t forget, I have all the time in the world.

  Thomas Flood returned to the sweetness of the world, with its soft warm breezes, exotic fragrances, and bird song. He stood up painfully, his knees stiff, and smiled at the members of his staff who were looking his way. Let them think his public prayers were ostentatious off-camera. Who could hear the Lord but him? It was the spirit that seized him. When the voice spoke, he knelt. When he wanted the voice to speak, he knelt.

  He strolled through the garden, nodding affably to his staff of technicians, fund assistants, secretaries, junior ministers, child care workers and security people, keeping a sharp eye out for temptation.

  For a man like him, temptation was everywhere. He knew Les Jardins des Delices. Oh yes, he was a sinful, needful man, and because he knew this he could touch the hearts of his flock, who were all sinful and needful. So many shadows to slip between...

  The world is sticky, he mused, as if a pot of glue had been poured out over it, covering everything with the certainty of sin, holding everything to earth that wanted to fly up to heaven. A man could put his hand anywhere and it would up stick there; when he tried to free it, up it would pop with sin glued to it.

  The topic of his sermon would be stickiness, he decided. When he broadcast tomorrow, he would ask his listeners to pray to come unglued. Flood chuckled at this impish thought, so unlike him.

  “I want you to come unglued from the world,” he would tell them. “I want you to detach yourself from everything that holds you to this miserable life. I want to give you wings that won’t stick to earth, to this suffering earth from which we shall be released...”

  Well, maybe that was going too far. He had a tendency to overreach himself. The voice talked to him and he transmitted it to the faithful, but sometimes his own ego got in the way of the transmission.

  He walked into the tunnel that led to his offices, pressed his hand against the glass and spoke so that the voice print technology would open the steel security doors. Time for business.

  XII

  Healing and Dealing

  Thomas Flood sat at a massive mahogany desk in his dark, imposing office, looking across the room at the seventeenth century pulpit the workmen had installed the day before. It was tall and ornately carved with cherubs and vine leaves and gargoyles. It had disappeared from a church in Vienna during the war, and turned up only recently in a Sotheby’s catalogue. The television audience would never see it, of course: too ornate, too sensual; but he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him. Standing behind its soaring wooden bulk, he felt protected, one in a long line of prophets and preachers. He was most vulnerable below the waist, where the black thing, Asmodeus, lived, and the pulpit concealed it. Perhaps he would tell them the Lord wanted him to have the pulpit as a platform. Then what his flock would be able to see was the half of him they could have, the part of him that was able to heal them.

  He pressed a button on his desk to summon his secretary. When Mary Ruth limped in, he could tell the pain was much worse. She was a thin woman in her fifties with a blunt, mannish appearance and a perpetually sweet expression on her face. She had been with him for over twenty years, but her strength was failing. They would have to pray together so he could tell her he was letting her go.

  “Mary Ruth, you are a treasure. The pulpit is magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s just beautiful, Reverend Flood. A work of art. When they unpacked it, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. To think that some man with his hands and the grace of God could make such a wonderful thing!”

  “How is your leg? You seem to be favouring it.”

  “Thank you for asking. I couldn’t get much sleep last night, it hurt so much.”

  “Walk for me, Mary Ruth. Let me see how strong a hold the Devil has on that leg.”

  Flood watched his secretary drag her arthritic leg across the plush carpet, feeling a warm surge of the most unbelievable love well up in his breast. He frowned when he felt Asmodeus stir and stood up quickly, abruptly snapping himself from his stolen pleasure. Mary Ruth’s set sweet expression was jagged with the effort of moving her leg. Flood touched her elbow and fell to his knees on the carpet, pulling her down with him
before she was prepared. Her gasp of pain when her knee struck the carpet was gratifying and exciting. Gratifying because he’d been responsible for her pain, exciting because he could heal her suffering. He launched into prayer.

  “Lord, the Devil has afflicted one of the least among you; this good woman who is my helpmeet in our great battle for souls is in constant pain! She can barely walk! She limps along like... a cripple, when her spirit remains as strong and pure as your tears! Send her some relief from the affliction, merciful Lord!”

  Carefully, Flood reached out to put his healing hand on his secretary’s lame leg. He didn’t want to upset her.

  “It is this leg, Lord! I pray that you will heal with your infinite compassion the lameness of this dear, blessed lady who keeps my life in order. It’s hard for me to see her suffering so...”

  His hand pressed into her thin leg. He heard her groan because of the pressure, and he exulted. He ended his prayer with a quote from Scripture: “Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof; but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.”

  He stood up, feeling Asmodeus rising, and that was shame in the sight of the Lord. He helped Mary Ruth to her feet. Tears streamed down her face. Next time they prayed together, he would tell her she must retire.

  “The Lord will provide.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Flood.” She hobbled to the door, where he stopped her.

  “Send down for Jack, Mary Ruth. I want to discuss the figures from yesterday. Something doesn’t add up, and you know how I am about figures...”

  The poor old mare is ready for the pasture, he reflected. But where would he find a replacement so loyal and so discreet? He needed people around him he could trust, but he wondered if trust had become a luxury for him. Love Everyone, Trust Yourself was not a bad motto to live by, right up there with Never Complain, Never Explain — Just Kick Them Where They Will Surely Remember It.

  Jack entered on soft leopard feet, rubbing his hands together — a worrisome sign to Thomas Flood, who knew his treasurer’s every mannerism. He had trained himself to remember and analyse each of them. He trusted Jack with the collection plate, but only up to a point.

  “Remember Ecclesiastes, Jack: ‘Watching for riches consumeth the flesh, and the care thereof driveth away sleep.’ What did we take in after the Evening News yesterday, when everything was totalled up?”

  “Round figures? $450,000.”

  “What happened to $10,000 of that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your accounting was short $10,000. That is a lot of money to fall out of the plate.”

  “Oh. That’s part of your personal budget line. It came out of yesterday’s pledges.”

  Thomas Flood regarded his treasurer with a baleful eye.

  Jack looked down at the carpet, over to the pulpit, and back down at the carpet. He was a small, shy man with a bit of a lisp. Flood had prayed over it without result.

  “Your daughter, Reverend Flood. It was her monthly stipend.”

  “Blackmail. I have no daughter.”

  Jack sighed. He had been around this corner a few times before.

  “Perhaps so. But you made a deal. You pay, she stays away.”

  “Yes, Jack, I made a deal with the Devil in my daughter.”

  “As a matter of fact, there was a letter from her.”

  “I won’t give her a penny more.”

  “She’s living up in San Francisco. She wants to see you.”

  “What for?”

  “She says it’s about her mother.”

  “A whore is a deep ditch: don’t forget, Jack boy, what kind of woman her mother was. A very deep ditch.”

  “You haven’t seen Robin in two years. Since before she went to Paris.”

  “I’ll consult with the Lord and let you know. Meanwhile, I want you to work up some figures on the merger with our friends in Atlanta.”

  And Jack scurried back to his office, where he directed a staff of twenty number crunchers, most of them Pentecostals, in managing the Parousia Foundation empire. Because he laboured over his spreadsheets, Thomas Flood could kneel and pray, secure in the knowledge that his money was safe. The Lord’s Treasury...

  But before prayer, a nap. I need my strength to address the Lord. He pressed a button on his desk console and a panel opened behind him onto a large dressing room. Here he made up for his broadcasts and kept a narrow couch where he napped.

  Often, he dreamed. Sometimes brief flashes of nightmare struck, and he awoke wondering if in these last days, the world had cracked open. He stretched out and pulled a blanket over his shoulders. Asleep, he watched himself stand up and walk, but no one saw him until he opened his mouth and poured forth hell and damnation. His wife, who often appeared in his nightmares, and his daughter, who seldom did, appeared before him wearing the white robes of angels but with their heads turned from his view. He spoke to them of hell and they turned eyes full of overwhelming defiant lust upon him. And he ripped the angelic garments from them in anger and they were transformed back into serpents crawling on their bellies on the ground...

  And then it happened in his dream that he branded his daughter, that he stamped her back with fire to burn the Devil from her. But Asmodeus entered her and corrupted her... and he slew the great harlot, her mother...

  Thomas Flood came awake with a dry mouth, his heart racing. He fell to his knees next to the bed and prayed for relief from the nightmares.

  — I have tried to atone to her, Heavenly Father. But as is the mother, so is the daughter.

  — Thomas Flood quotes Scripture. Don’t make me laugh. Did you forget this one? ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these...’ You violated her innocence. You burned her body.

  — You made me who I am, Master.

  — I’m sorry, I won’t take the blame for you, even if it was a botched job.

  — She wants to visit me. She wants to talk about her mother.

  — Tell her about her mother. Explain.

  — I’ve tried, but she won’t listen. There is a devil in her.

  — Don’t argue with me. See her. Tell her again.

  — Thy will be done. But what should I say?

  — Tell her the truth, you pusillanimous hypocrite. You murdered your wife.

  Thomas Flood looked out over the studio audience, waiting for the singing to stop. He hated Christian rock, but it brought them in. They came to be healed — the hope in their eyes was almost blinding — but they also came to be entertained. They wanted theatre, and the Parousia Foundation gave them theatre — and aerobics classes, daycare, and sweatshirts — whatever they wanted, just so they came.

  Flood himself preferred the simple old hymns — “And He walks with me, and He talks with me” — but that was part of the old style of churchgoing. So were sermons that offered no answers. The world had become a perilous place, and people demanded answers.

  A technician attached a tiny microphone to the top of Thomas Flood’s bright red tie. The music stopped. The eyes that were recognised across the globe, cold blue eyes that saw right through you, were staring straight at America, prime time, into its living rooms and bedrooms, into its wounded psyche. The rich baritone voice asked them:

  “Why is pornography anathema in the sight of God and of all true Christians? The answer to this question is available to us right in the Book of James: ‘But each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust. Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death.’

  “Friends, lust comes into everything. It has many disguises... I’m going to relate to you a misadventure that befell a young minister of God to illustrate this important truth about the power of lust. The story is about the temptation that a young man is likely to fall prey to. Temptation is tricky, like old Satan himself. Did you know that in the dictionary it says that temptation is ‘a thing that attracts’ but then after that it says it’s an ‘inci
tement to sin’? No wonder it’s confusing. We all like to go towards the thing that attracts, don’t we? Whether it’s...”

  He paused to drink from a glass of tea at this point.

  “...good for us or not. Whether it’s right in the eyes of Our Lord and Shepherd is not something we consider when we’re young and ready to find a life’s partner. We see the raiment of the flesh and we are blinded. We are hypnotised by the sight of a well turned figure. Or so it happened to one young man — and some of you may already have guessed that this young man was me.

  “Her name was Rebecca, straight from the good book, and she was attractive. Comely. She was a definition of temptation in her comeliness. She was fair, almost pale, and her hair was black as the crow’s wing, black and glossy. And her eyes, well, they were jewels you wanted to look at forever.”

  Another sip of tea. He smiled benignly as they waited for him to resume. He had them now. He looked over the heads of the attentive studio audience as if he saw the angel Azrael approaching on a cloud suspended from the ceiling.

  He resumed: “Rebecca became my bride, and I was the happiest young minister in the State of....well, just call it matrimony. Holy matrimony.” Here they laughed, and he paused again. “But my happiness was built on the satisfaction of lust. Satiation was the rule Rebecca lived by, as I learned to my sorrow on our wedding night. I began to neglect my relationship with God. The marriage bed became a grave of lust for me. Now, some might say, if children resulted from this carnal union, why then the marriage is fruitful and that is all that need be said. But I knew my soul was struggling with the Devil. I knew...”

  Here he paused and seemed lost in thought, as indeed he was. He was recalling the visitation of the Devil in his marriage bed, and the vision stunned him with its power. He was between Rebecca’s thighs rooting there with his lips to taste her where he shouldn’t, and the snake appeared from her fundament, the green terrible snake of lust struck and bit his tongue, his lascivious tongue...