A Sacred Storm (26 page)

“He did,” said Jennings. “But I hadn't really thought about having healing hands. I'm not too sure if I've got that kind of power. To be honest the effects feel like they've worn off a bit now.”

“There's no harm in giving it a try though, is there?”

“No, I suppose not. It's just—”

“Just what?”

“Nothing. Let's give it a go.” Jennings had been about to question the wisdom of treating someone he was desperately in love with, but realized that saying anything would only implicate himself even further. He wasn't worried about doing her any harm, he just felt that the whole thing might be too emotional for him to deal with. Breaking down in front of her was the last thing he wanted to do.

Stella lay down across the bed with her arms by her side and closed her eyes. Jennings tried to remember what Stratton had told him about the ritual of Reiki. First he went to the dressing table and lit a couple of candles. Then, after turning the light off, he washed his hands thoroughly in the sink. He looked at Stella in the flickering flames and smiled. He was about to get started when he remembered that soft music was an aid. After flicking through the screen menu quickly he decided on a little Mozart.

“Are you still there?” asked Stella.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I'm just going to put some music on. It'll help you to relax.”

“I'll be asleep by the time you get to me at this rate.”

Jennings selected the music and then washed his hands again. He rubbed them to get the energy flowing and then placed them on Stella's forehead, fingers facing downwards over her eyes. Stratton had told him that he could hold his hands above the patient and the treatment would still work, but as it was his first go Jennings decided that contact might be best until he got the hang of things.

There was no initial spark of electricity as he laid his hands on her, just a gentle feeling of calm. Her skin felt slightly cold. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the flow of energy from his crown through to his palms. At first he could feel nothing, and he wondered if he was actually doing anything at all. But gradually he began to sense a charge channelling through, and his hands started to heat up. Within a couple of minutes he was lost in another world. The music seemed to be playing inside him.

After a while he moved his hands to Stella's crown and stayed there until instinct told him to move on. He continued like this down her body, channelling energy into each chakra until he felt the urge to move on again. He felt light like never before, as if his body was made of air. And although he was aware of Stella beneath him, he was no longer conscious of who she was or what he felt for her. Time and space blended into one as he lost himself in the moment.

Eventually he felt the impulse to stop and he slowly opened his eyes and withdrew his hands from Stella's body. The room was bathed in a heavenly haze and her face emitted a golden glow that rose at least two inches from her skin. He blinked a number of times to make sure it wasn't a trick of the light. His palms were still throbbing with heat, and when he placed them together he felt a shiver run through his spine, as if he'd just completed an electrical circuit. The sensation was so intense he felt like bursting into tears.

He stood there soaking in the atmosphere for almost ten minutes, before switching on the lights and blowing out the candles. Stella didn't move or make a sound. He bent over and kissed her lightly on the forehead then left the room, killing the lights once more and leaving it in peaceful darkness. He went back to his quarters and slept without thought.

Jonathan Ayres looked out across the river to St Peter's Basilica, its illuminated dome dominating the skyline. A whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he smiled and let the warm evening air brush his face. He pictured the scene in the square with the faithful eagerly awaiting another glimpse of their Messiah. Everything so far had gone to plan. Soon the whole Christian world would be behind them. He took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the marble ashtray.

Inside the suite his bodyguards, Andrew Stone and Bob Davis, were watching the football on television. It wasn't his idea of a good night in, but he liked to defer to them occasionally just to keep them sweet. They knew far too much about him and his dealings to make enemies of.

“Is it nearly over yet?” he asked as he walked back in from the balcony.

“Just about boss,” said Davis. “We're into injury time now.”

“What's the score?” he asked, pretending to give a shit.

“0-0,” said Davis.

“Fascinating,” Ayres muttered under his breath.

The game finished and Stone and Davis went out onto the balcony for a post-match cigarette. Ayres reclaimed the sofa and switched over to the satellite news channel. He was less than impressed to find the initial reports focusing on the Mahdi and his appearances in Islamabad. They needed to get Christiano out into the world soon or they would lose momentum.

The telephone rang and Ayres picked up. It was the guard at reception announcing the arrival of Casper Fox, one of the Home Secretary's army of staff who never seemed to do anything but plant obstacles in his way. He said to bring him up.

Fox was in his late twenties with dark hair. He had an innocent-looking boyish face that disguised an ambitious, calculating mind. Fox by name, fox by nature. He was the type of sharp youngster that Ayres admired, but he was also a bloody nuisance if he wasn't on your side. And at the moment Ayres sensed they were almost certainly in opposite camps.

“Ah, Casper! How good to see you!” he said ebulliently, showing the young civil servant into the suite. “How are you doing? Did you have a good flight?”

Fox laid his briefcase on the dining table and sat down in one of the chairs. “It was alright, but it was bloody nightmare getting a ticket. Is there nobody in the world who doesn't want to come to Rome right now? We had to put pressure on BA to free up a couple of seats.”

“Yes,” said Ayres. “It's certainly popular. But can you blame people? It's not every day that the Son of God returns to earth, is it?”

Fox cast a dubious glance at the Prime Minister. “If indeed he is the Son of God, sir.”

“You have your doubts?”

“Let's just say I'm keeping an open mind about the whole thing. I'll reserve judgement until I meet him myself.”

“And what if I told you that he was the real thing? Would you not believe me?”

“I'd believe that you believe it, Prime Minister. But you're a devout Catholic and I'm not. You have far more reason to believe than I do. I'm an atheist, so it's going to take a hell of a lot more than your say so to convince me of his divine provenance. No offence, of course.”

“None taken, Casper. We're all entitled to an opinion. Although I think that anybody who's been to the Vatican over the last few days would disagree with your scepticism. Anyway, I'm being terribly rude, can I get you a drink?”

“A mineral water would be great thanks.”

Ayres plucked a bottle of
Evian
from the fridge and handed it to Fox. “There you go, old chap. If you want anything stronger let me know.”

Fox opened the bottle and glugged half of it down. “That's better,” he said, wiping his lips. “Now, let's get down to business.”

Ayres sat down at the table opposite Fox. He didn't like the young man's arrogant attitude one little bit. But it was the same with most of the civil service. They had very little respect for political position because they knew it was really themselves who ran the country. They were generally polite, but there was always a lingering air of disdain, particularly if you weren't playing ball.

“So, what can I do for you, Casper?” he said with as much charm as he could muster.

“Well, Prime Minister, it's like this, to put it simply – we need you back in Britain.”

“And you came all the way here to tell me that?”

“The Home Secretary has phoned you repeatedly today and you have not answered any of his calls.”

“I've been busy, Casper. It's obviously not a national emergency otherwise he would have used the appropriate channels and got through.”

“No, it's not a national emergency, well at least not yet. But it's certainly heading that way if you ask me.”

“What do you mean?”

Fox took another gulp of water. “To put it mildly, the people of Britain are showing signs of unrest. Since the two religions announced their respective ‘saviours' on Saturday there have been incidents all over the country. The ignorant element of the British public have used the news as an excuse to unleash what are essentially racist attacks. You know how sensitive things are already with the war on terror, this has just pushed people over the edge.”

“But surely these are just isolated incidents,” Ayres countered. “I haven't seen anything on the news.”

“You wouldn't, would you?” said Fox. “All the airtime's being taken up with these ridiculous religious claims. And besides, all that's happened so far has been fairly localized and not really worthy of national or international coverage. But all these little episodes add up and the police are getting very nervous about the whole thing. Every constabulary in the country is on alert.”

Ayres took a sip of whisky. “But surely people should be celebrating the coming of the Messiah,” he said.

“Maybe in your little world they are, Jonathan,” said Fox. “Perhaps here in Rome, at the heart of the Catholic Church, everything's nice and rosy. But we live in a country of cultural diversity. Do you really think that having the world's two major religions at loggerheads is good for the British public?”

“We are not at loggerheads,” Ayres emphasised.

“Really?” Fox questioned. “I beg to differ. Both sides have, to all intents and purposes, denounced the other as a fake. Nobody's started a slanging match, but the accusation is pretty much implied in everything either camp says. Are you telling me that you think the Muslim's have a legitimate ‘saviour' just like you.”

“Of course they don't,” said Ayres. “Their claims are preposterous. Let's not forget that they only made the announcement in retaliation to the Catholic Church's.”

Fox sighed. “Listen, Jonathan, I really don't want to get into an argument about who pulled whose hair first. The point I'm making is that the situation is far more tense in Britain than most other countries. We need you to come back home immediately and make a statement to the British public. They need to hear a strong leader telling them not to panic and that everything's going to be okay.”

“What exactly am I supposed to say. I'm not going to betray my beliefs just to appease the public.”

“Why not? You've done it most of your political career,” Fox said disparagingly.

Ayres boiled over and slammed his fist on the table, causing his whisky to spill. “How dare you speak to me like that you jumped up little fuck. Are you forgetting who the fuck I am. I am the fucking Prime Minister of Great Britain, and don't you fucking forget it!”

Fox didn't flinch. “I know exactly who you are, Jonathan. Or who you purport to be at least. And I know exactly who I am. I'm a civil servant and it makes no odds to me whose name is on the door of number 10. Governments will come and go over my working life, but I won't. I'll still be in Downing Street when you're a long-faded memory consigned to the history books of incompetence.”

Ayres grabbed his fallen glass and went to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself another whisky. Fox was under his skin, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of another outburst. He took a large gulp and returned to the table. “Listen, Casper,” he said. “This bickering is getting us nowhere. I really do appreciate what you're saying about the situation back home, but I'm not sure you appreciate the importance of the situation over here. This is all about power and Britain's position in the new world order. Nothing will ever be the same again now that the Messiah has returned. The Church will wield more power than you can possibly imagine. Whether you like it or not politics is going to be governed by religion. I'm in an extremely good position over here as far as the Vatican is concerned and I don't intend to relinquish my influence just because a few yokels are too ignorant to distinguish between race and religion. The American President is here as well you know. Do you really want me to come back and let him grab all the attention? I think we've lost enough standing in the world over the last hundred years, without giving any more ground when we don't need to.”

Fox yawned. “Look, Jonathan,” he said. “If you don't come back there's every chance you won't have a country to lead. I don't know if you're aware of this, but there's also a certain leadership challenge to attend to. Brian Carrick is gaining support by the day. You're not going to stamp out his threat by swanning about in Rome. Like I said, it doesn't really make any difference to me who's running the country. But even I know that a change of leader at this juncture is not what the nation needs. You seem to think that I'm here as your enemy, when really I'm trying to help you.”

“Carrick's full of hot air,” said Ayres. “If the party want to get behind him then good luck to them. In a few weeks' time, once Christiano has been established as the Son of God, no-one will want to be voting for anybody but me. Mark my words, Casper – if I play this right over her then we're going to become a superpower. In fact, make that an ultrapower.”

“There's too many ifs for my liking Jonathan, and the Home Secretary feels the same. What if Christiano is exposed to be exactly what he is – a street magician? What happens then? I'll tell you what happens – Britain becomes a laughing stock, and you become its chief jester.”