The Maggot People (21 page)

Giacomo scowled. “Don't try to blag me, you silly bitch. I'm not concerned with your feelings. We're here to ensure that God wins the cosmic battle, and He will only do that if we sweep out the old, corrupt, secular institutions. Governments, for instance, have to go…” His eyes swept over his team as he addressed them: “I'm concerned that you people don't fully understand our program. Do you?”

There was universal agreement that they
did
understand. Very quickly, the meeting broke up with handshakes and spilled coffee and a lingering smell of exclusive aftershave.

As soon as he was by himself, Giacomo had a fit of remorse. Maybe those bloody Churchill memoirs he was reading had gone to his head? He sat there for a while, then picked up the phone and dialed an extension.

“Has Barings been done yet? Barings… or what's-his-name? That bastard I sent down. Has he been emptied yet?”

A weary voice at the other end informed him that what's-his-name had been emptied and hung up to dry five minutes ago, but could certainly be resuscitated, except the shift had just changed. Reversing the process would thus necessitate calling back the last shift, paying overtime, holding back the new shift in the service elevator and…

“Forget it,” Giacomo cried and hung up.

The door clicked behind him and Paolo walked in. “I heard about your economist,” he said. “I suppose you're regretting it already?”

“Yes. Of course. But what was I supposed to do? I'm a passionate man; I can't help it.”

“Well,” said Paolo, struggling with the seal of a jumbo-pack of pork scratchings, “you could control yourself.”

“Ah, it's all too much. Old Nick is running rings around us,” sighed Giacomo. “It's like watching Brazil playing Belgium in the semi-final. And we have problems in Beijing.”

“In Beijing of all places?” said Paolo, munching. “Do we really care?”

“Paolo, the world is changing. The World of Matter is rising up to fight us. There's no long, slow ride down the hill for us, my old friend, no waiting little inn surrounded by olive trees. Oh, no. And certainly no glasses of cold beer on the table. It wouldn't surprise me if we end our days in an American prison, being waterboarded, having our asses interrogated off or flown around in planes to be tortured by Syrians.”

“Well, I suppose technically speaking we're guilty of crimes against humanity,” said Paolo. “Most of the people we send down to the stripping room will never open their eyes again; let's face it. There are too many maggots in the world. God wants to punish us and that's all there is to it.”

“Pretty fucking disgraceful, aren't we?” Giacomo chuckled diabolically, then stopped and shot his friend an irritated look. “We're doing what we have to do, Paolo. That old word,
humanity
, that's what's causing all the trouble. When it boils down to it, who's really human anyway? Or humane, should I say? If people really cared about each other, they'd sort out their fucking
issues
, wouldn't they?”

“True enough,” Paolo agreed.

“But they don't; they won't even admit there are any issues. Let me tell you, Paolo, Homo sapiens will sink into the abyss while watching television and eating a bag of potato crisps. And because Homo sapiens refuses to sort out the problems, we're going to have to do it for him. As for these prawn-eating, Rolex-wearing, Chinese simpletons, we can't just let them take over, can we? Cut down our forests, drill up our oil, and turn Eden into a filthified dump, all for the sake of their blessed Lear jets and hookers and Bentleys and Picassos. Idiots!” Giacomo sucked in air and calmed himself. “In the final analysis we'll be doing all the killing for humanitarian reasons.”

The two men sat quietly watching the rising smoke of their cigars.

Then, articulating a thought common to them both, Paolo muttered, “I suppose Michael and Ariel felt they could live without our friendship.” And then added wistfully, “In their place, I wouldn't have turned down the chance of a long sleep.”

“There was something about that boy. How he got out of that cave I'll never know. Bloody miracle if you ask me.”

“The odd thing is he doesn't even believe in God.”

“It's awful, but I think God prefers him to the both of us, Paolo. We'd better start praying there isn't a heaven at all, because if there is I doubt we'll ever see it. Which makes our sacrifice even greater.”

Paolo took him literally. “I agree. Let's go and pray for a while.”

Reluctantly, Giacomo agreed.

The two men took the elevator up and, at the approach of midnight, eased their tired, millennial knees onto the venerable slabs of St. Peter's.

37
.

Although it was half past two in the morning and Rome lay in deep mist, O'Hara was awake in his rib-shaped cell, clutching a bottle of single malt to his heart.

Outside the bars stood a hawk-like ecclesiast with an unpleasant intelligence about him as he perused the Irish renegade within. O'Hara kept pacing to and fro, compulsively swinging his head like a captive bear. His two-day stubble and too-much darting eyes did not impress. The ecclesiast, Sergio Rodriguez, was the Vatican's maggot liaison officer and a man of power. He had a condescending tone when addressing O'Hara, whom he viewed as damaged goods.

“Patrick, you've asked me here and I've come at considerable inconvenience, but, given the circumstances, I've tried to be obliging. My assumption, based on your own words, is that you… wish to talk about the problem of Monsignor Giacomo.”

“Correct,” said O'Hara savagely. “And I need your help… your authority… to start dealing with it in a forceful manner. Basically, he needs bumping off.”

“Dear God, where do you think you are? We don't bump people off. We may in exceptional cases remove them, but that's quite different. Do also bear in mind that you're no longer one of our congregation. Technically, I no longer have jurisdiction over you.” The liaison officer gave him a troubled, lingering stare. “You have joined the subterranean branch, Patrick; you have very publicly taken their vows and drunk from the Holy Grail and at this very moment you are in a devotional cell, preparing for enshrinement.”

“Don't!” cried O'Hara, “Please don't use that damned word. Even linguistically I'm dead set against these people.”

“I don't think they are so very concerned about that,” Rodriguez observed drily.

“If we don't deal with this hooligan, he and his little friends will bleed us dry. The Church will fall into ruin.”

“Oh, come now, the subterranean branch has always played its little apocalyptic games, neutralizing people here and there and hiding them in boxes. No one ever took it very seriously. This Giacomo is a gluttonous, simple man. As long as he's supplied with sucking pig and harlots he won't give us any trouble, you'll find.”

“Are you aware of his plans for China?” O'Hara asked. “He's set on wiping it out. Also America.”

Rodriguez's eyes flickered pedantically. “You mustn't put so much emphasis on people. Salt cod and virgin oil are purchased by the barrel, but people are not quantifiable numerically. Most of them are rotten, and many so deeply flawed that converting them to fertilizer is a rather attractive proposition, and also morally advisable. Don't you see this, Cardinal?” He waved his hands expressively, as if to introduce a note of practicality and logic. “I have to say in many respects I have a great deal of admiration for the maggot church. It is working its way through some of the world's most distasteful elements—criminals, drug addicts, tramps, refugees, prostitutes, squatters, and other ne'er-do-wells—removing them from circulation and taking away their ability to produce delinquent children. I might also add that His Holiness agrees with me, heavy though it is for him to admit it.”

“Monsignor, I am sorry, but you are missing the point.”

This time Rodriguez sucked in his breath and could not quite keep his composure, but before he could reopen his mouth there was a tap on the door behind him and his private secretary popped his head through. “Your Eminence, there's absolute mayhem upstairs. They're sending out search parties but they can't find Him. The cavern is empty and…”

“Oh, do go away! We already know all about this little Michael fellow,” said O'Hara.

“I don't mean the young Englishman,” said the secretary, turning to Rodriguez. “I mean Jesus! He's gone. His tomb's empty and they don't know where He is.”

“How can that be?” Rodriguez propped himself up against the bars.

O'Hara saw hundreds of tiny bright lights dancing like fireflies in front of him. He grabbed Rodriguez and spat his booze-smelling words into his face: “I warned you, you stuck-up Spanish git. I told you to deal with that corrupt, fat swine. Why didn't you have Giacomo killed? Why?”

“In fact it was
your
job, wasn't it? And you failed,” Rodriguez spat back.

O'Hara released his grip on the maggot liaison officer and took another slug at his bottle. “You never listened to me, did you? Oh no, you were always against me. Just because you could see others ridiculing me you had to do the same. You never had a mind of your own, you're a trivial little shit. You empty the pontiff's chamber pot and this makes you feel important. You'll go down in history as one of the idiots who misplaced our Shining Star, our Lord.” He stopped to regain his breath, then opened his mouth wide and cried: “Whose responsibility was it to keep a close eye on the Maggot Church and ensure the safekeeping of our precious Holy Lord? It was yours, you snail-eating Spanish fuck. You failed to…”

But his sentence was cut short. While he'd been raging, Rodriguez had popped his head out of the door and ordered a guard inside to perform a little task.

O'Hara didn't see it coming.

He never had the vaguest presentiment of mortality as he launched into his attack on Rodriguez. Why not release his pent-up fury? He was finished anyway. This Spaniard was not ever going to see it his way. All that awaited O'Hara now, at best, was a return to Limerick, where he would spend his last days staring idly at the shamrock etched into the thick white foam of his pint.

When he looked up, something came whistling through the air, hitting him very hard in the face and knocking him over. He enjoyed a momentary, close-up perspective of the fibrous weave of a rug, which struck him as fascinating.

It occurred to him that he should have spent more time in his life looking at the tiny things.

38
.

The resurrection of Jesus had taken place as follows:

On the third day of their vigil by the steel doors, Michael and Ariel had hidden in a side passage when they saw a procession of women in white robes moving towards them with lit candles. They shuffled along as if tranquilized—utterly catatonic, singing torpidly while their eyes gazed into infinity.

When the serpentine procession reached the steel doors, two stout Teutonic maids with tresses like golden loaves of bread stepped up to the scanners and pressed their palms to the glass screens.

There was a rumbling sound as the steel doors rolled aside for them like the waters of the Jordan.

Michael and Ariel had simply joined the tail end of the line as it curved into the Lord's chamber.

The women did not hang about once they got inside. Within seconds they were burning incense, sweeping, mopping, sprinkling the floor with essential oils and opening the Lord's sarcophagus and rubbing ointments into his skin.

Ariel grew conscious of a great inner turmoil. She sat down and pressed her palms against her temples. Thoughts bubbled up in her, and she would have loved to turn off what felt like a churning radio inside her head.

Michael seemed to be having the same problem. He paced about, muttering: “What do we do now? We have to do something.”

Ariel closed her eyes and felt herself falling into a trance. She smelled damp soil under trees, heard wind rustling through overhead leaves. The physical world beyond this place, the wheeling stars, the operation of the Earth—these were the images that ran through her mind.

She felt something wriggling against her stomach, under her blouse. She unbuttoned herself. What she saw was a surprise, even to her.

A small hole had opened in the middle of her navel.

A fat, orange maggot wriggled out and lay against the lining of her trousers. She almost did not want to touch it. It had two black, glistening eyes and it seemed to be looking at her.

Ariel stood up and slowly advanced towards the sarcophagus where Jesus lay. The women stood aside to let her pass. She opened Jesus's mouth and placed the orange maggot on his tongue.

Within a few seconds, colour returned to the sallow, pale cheeks. His eyes swiveled and opened. They were light brown, like sandalwood. The speed at which the body refilled itself was nothing short of miraculous.

By the time the women had filed out of the chamber, still singing, Jesus was rising out of his sarcophagus. He stepped out and brushed the dust off his cloak.

His hair had been combed and oiled every week for two thousand years, and his face massaged and moisturized. He looked like a normal man in his early thirties, who hadn't had his hair cut for a good while.

“Follow me,” said Jesus, who seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He walked briskly to an elevator, which he called down even though it was locked and alarmed. The doors opened smoothly and they all stepped inside.

A few minutes later they were back on the surface, walking through a crowded street in Rome. After the darkness of the caves, the bright streets filled them with wonder. The sun beat down, transforming every crumbling façade, every weather-beaten face.

“What do we do now?” Michael whispered to Ariel. “I don't know. We follow him.”

They looked at the figure of Jesus in front of them. He was walking briskly, a certain amusement in his eyes as he took in the urban scene: the cars, the aircraft passing over.