24.

Many were found wandering aimlessly through the streets of the city, confused, their eyes half-closed, hands acting as shields against the glare of the sun. Others cowered in darkened rooms or hid in the basements of any building they could find access to. The London Underground system was brought to a halt when shocked motormen staggered from their trains, the sight of countless bodies they had ploughed through in the black tunnels a nightmare they would never forget. A search of the sewer network was ordered three men on inspection duty the day before had been reported missing and the searchers did not return. Corpses were found in the streets, many with bodies wasted, clothes bedraggled. Some had taken their own lives, others had died through self-neglect. Not all were in a helpless state: a large number were bewildered, remembering the violence they had committed during the night hours, but unable to explain it. Many of these, if they managed to find their way home, were hidden by their families. Once safely inside, they insisted that the curtains be drawn against the daylight; they listened apprehensively to the reports of the previous night's mass violence, aware they had been a part of it, but afraid to go to the police. Those close to them could only watch, frightened by what had happened, but reluctant to seek outside help, for they knew that anyone involved in the riots was being rounded up and taken away. It was midday before the wailing sirens of fire-engines ceased, but the sounds of ambulances rushing through the streets went on well into the afternoon. It was never truly estimated just how many lives had been lost or how many minds had been taken on that first night of terror, for events after that took on such major proportions and with such rapidity that it became hopeless to keep accurate accounts of human or material damage. The prime objective was to survive, not to record details.

It began all over again the following night.

And continued the night after that.

And the next.

The congregation inside the Temple of the Newly Ordained had gathered earlier that afternoon, for they knew the five o'clock curfew would not allow them to leave their homes and travel to the modern, white-painted building. They had been ordered to keep silent while they waited Brother Martin did not want their presence inside the church to be known but their minds were in a turmoil of excitement. They were afraid, but eager, too. Their leader had told them of what was to come and they had faith in his word. Brother Martin had the knowledge, for he had spoken with the Dark.

In a room at the far end of the church which was not really a church but rather an assembly hall with rows of benches, near the altar which was not really an altar but an elaborate lectern, sat a neatly dressed man, his features lit only by a solitary candle that stood on the table before him. The man's eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and rhythmic. He felt the tension emanating from the hall next door and smiled. It would help; the vibrations of the thought-flow would act as a guide. He was ready and they were ready. Nearly a hundred and fifty people. The Dark would make them welcome.

His eyes snapped open as a soft tap on the door roused him from his deep thoughts. One of his followers, a tall coloured man, entered the room. The coloured man was in his early thirties, his hair allowed to grow Afro-style, but his suit conservative. Brother Martin smiled at him.

'Is everything ready?' he asked.

The coloured man was too nervous to return the smile. 'Ready,' he affirmed.

'Are you afraid, Brother John?'

'Brother Martin, I'm shit-scared.'

Brother Martin laughed aloud and his follower managed to join in.

'There's nothing to fear any more, John. This moment has been a long time coming we mustn't balk at it.'

Brother John seemed uncertain. 'I know that, I know that. But what if you're wrong?'

Brother Martin's hand snaked out and struck the coloured man across the cheek. No resistance was offered, even though Brother John was at least a foot taller than his aggressor.

'Never doubt me, Brother John! I have spoken with the Dark and I have been told what we must do.' His voice became softer and he reached out and touched the cheek that now bore the marks of his hand. 'We've enjoyed what we've gained from these people, Brother, but it's time for something more, something better. Their faith has given us wealth; now they can help us reach something that transcends material gain.' He went to the door and turned towards his companion. 'Is the potion ready?' he asked.

'Yes, Brother Martin.'

'Let your faith rest in me, Brother John.' He opened the door and stepped into the hall beyond.

'Faith, shit,' the coloured man muttered. It had been good for them once, convincing the people they would find their salvation with Brother Martin, accepting their donations, travelling the country looking for more. They had trust in their leader, the man who preached that love was the giving of one's-self, the giving of one's possessions. And Brother Martin was there to receive everything they gave. Especially the women. Brother Martin would never turn away even the ugliest. It could churn a man's insides to think of some of the dogs Brother Martin had bedded. He, Brother John, had been more choosy.

The followers were grateful to be told lust was just as much a part of love as was affection: lust meant procreation and that led to more offspring to follow God's way. They loved to hear that to sin was good, for sin meant repentance, and only by repenting could they know humility, and only by feeling true humility could they reach the Almighty. Sin today, regret tomorrow what could be better? The only problem was that Brother Martin had come to believe his own preaching.

They had both been surprised eight years ago when what had started out as a small-time confidence trick to gain a little extra cash had turned into an ongoing, lucrative profession. Those early years had been one great merry piss-take, both of them cracking up after meetings, their eyes too filled with laughter tears to count the night's take. They had both soon learned that money was not the only pleasurable benefit from their operation: the weakness of the flesh had quickly been established as a worthy sin for remorse. The more remorse he could help them feel, the more he praised the Lord he had been given to them as an instrument of sin. Privately, he would wink at John and ask: 'Who could resist the concept that to fuck illicitly is good for the soul?' But since Brother Martin, alias Marty Randall, had caught the syph three times in two years, his attitude had changed. Wasn't it only gonorrhoea that was supposed to drive you nuts? Gon today, gone tomorrow? Maybe it was just the idolization they had thrust upon Brother Martin that had made him begin to believe it all himself. Up until founding the Temple of the Newly Ordained, Randall Brother Martin had been small-time: now he had become something to be worshipped. It was enough to turn any mother's head. He, Brother John alias Johnny Parker, had watched with awe as Randall had begun to change over the years: his sermons had become more emotional, each one always reaching a crescendo that would leave the whole congregation on its feet, clapping and yelling, 'Amen, Brother Martin!' There were still the odd occasions when the two of them would snigger at each other and congratulate themselves on their good fortune and their flock's gullibility, but these occasions were becoming less and less frequent. Now, tonight, Brother Martin seemed to have really flipped his lid. Would he go through with it or was it just to test them all, a megalomaniac's way of proving his command over them, an experiment to be halted at the last moment? Brother John, alias Parker, hoped it was the latter.

Brother Martin strode to the lectern, his eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the brightness of the hall after the gloom in the small room next to it. A bustle of excitement greeted his entrance and the people nervously glanced at each other, afraid of what was about to happen, yet eager for this new and far-from-final experience. There were a few in the crowd who still doubted, but these were not too concerned with living anyway. Everything that was happening in the city gave credence to what Brother Martin told them. The time had come and they desired to be among the first.

Brother Martin directed their attention towards the three punch bowls that stood on a table at the head of the centre aisle. 'You see there, my dear brothers and sisters, our elixir,' his voice boomed out. 'With just one sip you will be eternal. You have seen for yourselves the chaos outside, the people who are dead yet still refuse to give up their bodies. Will you allow the torturous degenerations of the shell you inhabit, or will you follow me, cleanly, without stress? With purity!'

He allowed his eyes to glance over the congregation so that each member felt the words were meant for him or her alone. 'There are some among you who are afraid. We will help you overcome that fear. There are some among you who still doubt: we will help you overcome that doubt. There are many among you who hate the world and the terrible hardship it has caused you: and I say that is good! It's good to hate, for the world is a vile, loathsome place! Detest it, brothers, revile it, sisters! Remember the words: "Is not the day of the LORD darkness, and not light, and gloom with no brightness in it?" This is the day of the LORD! The brightness has gone!'

Brother Martin waved a hand and, at the signal, all the lights in the hall were flicked off by Brother John, who stood by the main switches. A moan came from the crowd as the hall was plunged into darkness, except for the poor light cast from the flickering candles strategically placed around the walls.

'Open the doors, Brother Samuel,' their leader commanded and a man standing by the temple's double-doors swung them wide. The darkness outside became part of the darkness inside. 'Concentrate, my brothers and sisters, bring the Dark to us. We must hurry.' He could see the street-lights beyond the temple grounds, the houses with every light in them turned on. The order had been given for every possible light in the capital to be left on overnight: the authorities knew the Dark's strength. Night after night it had returned, the natural darkness its ally, and each time the chaos had become greater. No one could tell who would succumb to its influence father, mother, brother, sister. Child. Friend. Neighbour. What evil lay tethered in each of these, waiting to be freed, yearning to be cut loose. The light was the only barrier. The Dark feared light. 'The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.' Gospel according to John. But man can overcome the light. Brother Martin chuckled to himself, the sockets of his eyes dark shadows in the candlelight.

'Come forth, drink of the liquid that will make us whole.' Brother Martin held out his arms towards the congregation.

Despite the chill sweeping in through the open doors, beads of sweat broke out on Brother John's forehead. Oh man, oh man, he's really going through with it. He really wants to kill them all. Randall really believed all this shit the people upstairs were putting out about the Dark. Jesus, didn't he know it was just jive? The word was out on the street: it was a chemical gas that couldn't activate under sunlight or any other fucking light. Nobody knew who had released it a foreign power, terrorists? The fucking British scientists themselves? Nobody on the street knew. But the motherfuckers in power did. Only they weren't saying. Stay inside at night, keep your lights on that's all they were saying. Police and troops patrolled after curfew to make sure the rule was obeyed, using powerful searchlights themselves for their own protection. And this stupid fuck Randall was disobeying the law, turning all the lights out, ordering the doors opened. What the hell would happen when he discovered the mixture in those punch bowls had no cyanide in it? What would he do when the stupid fucking sheep who followed him didn't drop dead after they'd tasted Potion 99? He'd know who to blame: it was sweet Brother John who'd been given the order to get the poison. Where the fuck did Randall expect him to find enough cyanide to kill off a hundred and fifty mothers? Brother John began to edge his way down the side aisle, away from the three containers of harmless Sainsbury's own-brand wine towards the open doorway. Time to split. Should have done it a long time ago.

The congregation were filing forward, each holding a plastic beaker they had been issued with on entering the temple. Brother Martin smiled benignly as they passed him. A woman in her early forties threw herself at him, her face soaked with tears, nose running. Helpers broke her hold on Brother Martin and gently led her away, soothing her with words she hardly heard. A man in his sixties passed before him, eyes downcast.

'I'm afraid, Brother Martin,' he said.

Brother Martin reached out with both hands and touched his follower's shoulders. 'We all are, Brother . . .' what the shit was his name? '. . . dear friend, but our fear will soon be replaced by great joy. Have faith in me. I have spoken with the Dark.' Now move on, you silly bastard, before you frighten the others.

It was important not to allow the mood of euphoria, albeit a tense euphoria, to be broken: if one panicked, then others would follow. He needed them all, wanted their strength, for he really had spoken with the Dark. Or at least, he had dreamt he had spoken with it. It amounted to the same thing.

The Dark wanted him, but it also wanted his people. The more life that was given to it, the stronger it would become.

Brother Martin, alias Marty Randall, was happy to be the Dark's recruitment officer.

The people moved in an orderly flow to the punch bowls and then back to their seats, disguising Brother John's progress towards the doorway; the general dimness of the interior also offered concealment. However, he expected to hear Brother Martin calling him back at any moment, and the further he moved away from his leader the more nervous he became. He licked his lips, aware his throat had become very dry. Some of the flock looked at him enquiringly and he had to nod and smile at them reassuringly. He was thankful that the light was so poor, for it meant they could not see the perspiration he felt on his face. Brother Samuel was still standing near the open doors and Brother John approached him cautiously. This man was a devout follower, a mother who would lay down his life for their leader, a honky whose brain functioned only under the guidance of someone else. Just the kind of dogshit Randall needed to keep his followers in order. The big man cocked his head to one side like a curious labrador when Brother John drew near. He didn't like black men and he particularly didn't like Brother John. The nigger always seemed to have a smirk on his face, as if he were taking the piss all the time.

Brother John leaned forward and whispered into the big man's ear. 'Brother Martin wants you to go forward, Brother Samuel, and drink with the others. He feels they need your encouragement.'

Brother Samuel cast an anxious glance over the shadowy congregation. A deep moaning noise came from some of them, while several of the women were openly wailing. He tucked his hand into his jacket pocket and closed his fingers around the gun lying there. Brother Martin had warned him it might be necessary to persuade some of the followers to carry out what was required of them. But he had also told him that he was to wait until last, just in case any were not killed by the poison, or had only pretended to drink. A bullet in the head was to be the answer to that. Why had Brother Martin changed his mind?

'He told me to stay by the door.'

'I know, Brother Samuel,' the black man said patiently, aware that his legs were beginning to feel weak. He could hear Randall's voice from the front urging the people to concentrate, to draw the Dark to them. 'He's changed his mind. He needs you up there, Brother.'

'Who'd watch the door? Who'll see no one gets out?'

'No one's leaving. They want to follow Brother Martin.'

A crafty look came into the big man's face. The nigger wasn't wearing his usual smirk. And at this close range, he could see he was sweating. Brother John was afraid. 'Then why does he need me up there if they want to follow Brother Martin?'

Oh shit. 'One or two need help, Brother Samuel. They're not all as strong as you.'

'Are you as strong as me, Brother John? Do you need help?'

The coloured man tried to keep his hands from shaking. 'No, Brother Samuel. It's the others. Now you do what the man says, Brother, and get yourself up there. He's gonna get mad if you don't.'

The big man seemed uncertain. He looked towards Brother Martin, his hand leaving the weapon inside his jacket pocket.

Brother John was cursing himself for not having left sooner. He should have vanished as soon as Randall had begun his crazy suicide talk. It had become a fascination with him after the mass self-destruction of the People's Temple sect in Guyana several years before, and kindled even further by the other group suicide that had taken place in the suburbs of London just about a year ago. During the last few weeks it had become an obsession; it was as though he had discovered the ultimate truth. Oh Jesus, he should have scooted when Randall ordered him to get the cyanide. He couldn't believe the man intended to go through with it. It was no place to be when they all sat around gawking at each other, waiting to drop like flies. They wouldn't be amused and neither would Brother Martin.

'Come on, Brother Samuel, don't keep him waiting.'

Unfortunately for the coloured man, Brother Martin had been scanning the crowd for him. Brother John's faith had seemed a little shaky over the last few days. He needed help, perhaps coercion. Of late he had become a cause of concern, his enthusiasm for Brother Martin's way seemed to be waning. It might be a good idea to let him be the first to taste this nectar of the after-life.

'Brother John, I can't see you? Where are you?'

The coloured man groaned inwardly. 'Right here, Brother Martin,' he said aloud.

'Come to the front, Brother, where we can see you. Yours will be the honour of leading the way.'

'I, uh, I'm not worthy of that honour, Brother Martin. Only you can lead us.' Brother John licked his lips and glanced nervously towards the doorway.

Brother Martin laughed. 'We are all worthy! Come now, drink first.' He walked over to a punch bowl and dipped a white beaker into the dark red liquid, then proffered it towards the black man. Heads began to turn and look towards Brother John. As if guessing his intention, Brother Samuel moved his big frame into the entrance, blocking any escape.

Oooooh shit! Brother John's head screamed and he brought his knee up into the big man's groin area. Brother Samuel fell to his knees, his hands clutching at his genitals. Brother John jumped through the open doorway into the even greater darkness outside. And stopped.

It was around him like cold clammy hands, like icy treacle smearing itself over his skin. He shivered and looked around, but could see only blurred pinpoints of light in the distance. He backed away from it, but it came with him as though it were stuck to his body. He felt an eerie kind of probing going on inside his head and cried out when the cold fingers touched something inside his mind. No, I don't want this! something inside him screamed, but another voice answered, yes, yes, you do!

Other hands reached around his throat, and these were real hands, the big, strong hands of Brother Samuel. The grip began to tighten as the inky blackness enveloped both men, and Brother John's thoughts tumbled over themselves to run from the unreal dark fingers that touched and ravaged his mind. He sank to the hard paving stones leading up to the temple, the big man standing behind him, never letting go, and slowly he realized Brother Martin was right: this was the eternity they had been seeking. Although his body was trembling with the pain, something inside him was dancing with happiness. Oh, you mother, you were right, Brother Martin, Brother Marty Randall, you were soooo right. Even as his closed throat strained to suck in air through to his lungs, his lips were parted in a rapturous smile. His red-filled vision began to cloud into a deepening blackness and soon that was all there was total, welcoming darkness. Amen to that.

Brother Samuel dragged the limp body back into the temple and the Dark followed, flowing in greedily, spreading and seeping, dimming the already faint light from the candles. Brother Martin closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, ignoring the sudden cries of fear around him, welcoming the Dark into his church.

'We will drink the poison and join you,' he said aloud and wondered at the mocking laugh he thought he heard. It had sounded like Brother John. One by one, the candles sputtered and finally went out.

'Tell them to keep the noise down, Alex. If the law finds out you've got a meeting going on in the back, they'll have your licence.' Sheila Bryan held the glass up to make sure she had wiped away all the smears in the bottom of the pint glass. It wasn't often the pub's glasses received such close scrutiny, but then it wasn't often a curfew was imposed. She briefly wondered if there had been such restrictions during the war. She didn't think so, but couldn't be sure; it was before her time.

'They're all right. They're not disturbin' anybody.' Her husband, Alex, regarded Sheila with ill-disguised impatience. He was a hefty man, large of gut, loud of voice, and it needed a woman with similar attributes to handle him. He was just approaching forty, she had just said goodbye to her twenties; their mutual largeness somehow made them appear the same age.

'I don't know why you have anything to do with them, anyway,' Sheila said, placing the glass next to its dry companions on the bar. Ash from the cigarette dangling between her lips fell into the murky washing up water as she leaned forward and reached in for another glass.

'They've got the right idea, that's why,' Alex retorted as he dumped the tray of glasses on the draining-board next to the sink. 'They want another round.'

'Well they'll have to use those. I'm not using fresh glasses.'

'Of course they'll bleedin' use these. Who's askin' for new ones? I don't know what gets into you at times. We wouldn't be makin' a penny if we didn't 'av that lot tonight. Bloody filth keepin' everyone indoors.'

'The Law says it's dangerous to go out at night.'

'That's all bollocks. They've got somethin' goin' on, that's all, somethin' they don't want anybody to see.'

'Don't be bloody daft. You've seen what's going on on the telly. Riots, fires all those murders.'

'Yeh, because somebody's used a nerve gas on us, that's why. Bastard Lefties, that's who's done it, brought it in for their friends abroad.'

Sheila stood up from the sink and took the cigarette from her mouth with damp fingers. 'What are you talking about now?' she said, looking at her husband with disdain.

'Everyone knows the Commies are behind it. They won't tell you on the news, but just you ask anyone. It'll be New York next, maybe Washington. You wait and see. Then Paris, then Rome. All over. Won't 'appen in Russia, though.'

'Oh you do talk wet, Alex. That mob next door been filling your head with ideas again?'

Alex ignored the question and began filling the glasses with their appropriate drinks. 'It makes sense when you think about it,' he said undeterred as he poured.

His wife raised her eyes towards the ceiling and resumed polishing the glasses. It was worrying, though, the whole town being placed under some kind of martial law. It was the sort of thing you expected to happen in foreign parts, but not England. Not London. Why should they have to keep all lights on as though they were afraid of the dark? The Dark: that was what everyone was calling it because it only happened at night-time. They said people were losing their minds with it, roaming around the streets setting fires, killing. There was no sense to it. She, herself, had seen the army trucks searching the streets in the early hours of the morning, picking up people who seemed to be wandering loose and taking them away somewhere. She'd watched them from the window upstairs one morning when she couldn't sleep. Some poor sod had been just lying in the road, covering his head with his hands. There had been blood on his fingers because he had been trying to pull up the manhole cover in the middle of the road, but it must have been too heavy, or he couldn't get a grip. He didn't say a word when they slung him into the truck, and his face had been deathly white, white as a ghost, and his eyes black and half-shut. She shivered. It was like one of those old horror films, like Quatermass.

'Where's all the fuckin' light ales?'

Her attention was abruptly drawn back to her husband. 'Don't swear in the bar, Alex, I've asked you before.'

He looked back at her, then around at the empty saloon bar. 'There's no one 'ere, you know.'

'That's not the point. You've got to get out of the habit. It's not necessary.'

Silly cow, he said to himself. Then aloud, 'We can't 'av used all the light, we've only 'ad lunchtime trade the past couple of weeks.'

'Alex, there's plenty in the cellar if you'd like to make the effort and go down and get it.'

Alex's sigh turned into a grunt when he leaned forward and pulled at the ring set into the trapdoor behind the bar. He heaved it open and stared down at the blackness below. 'I thought we were supposed to turn on all the lights,' he said.

'I did,' his wife replied, looking over his shoulder into the square of darkness.

'Well that one's not bleedin' on, is it?'

Sheila walked over to the set of light switches that lay near the doorway to a small back room they used mainly as an office, their living quarters being on the floor above. 'They're all on,' she called back to her husband. 'The bulb must have gone.'

'Oh fuck it,' her husband groaned.

'I'll get you another one, Alex. You can put it in.'

'Great,' Alex replied wearily. He wanted to get back to the meeting; he enjoyed listening to the boys and tonight, because there were no other customers, was the ideal opportunity to sit in on their discussions. Fortunately, his was a Free House, so no interfering nosey-parker could inform any brewery of the type of organizations he allowed to hold meetings in his pub. One of his mates, a publican in Shore-ditch, had had to vacate when the brewery which owned the pub discovered he was letting his back rooms out for National Front meetings. That was the trouble with being a tenant-landlord you had to dance to someone else's tune. 'Come on, Sheila,' he called out, 'let's 'av it!'

She returned, a cold look on her face, and handed him a torch and a new light bulb.

'Forty watt?' he said disgustedly. 'This ain't gonna be much cop, is it?'

'It's all we've got,' she replied patiently. 'And you can bring up some Babycham while you're down there.'

'Babycham? Who the 'ell's gonna be drinkin' that tonight?'

'It's for tomorrow lunchtime. You know we're packed during the day now.'

'Yeh, they're all making up for what they can't get in the evening.'

'Just as well they are, otherwise we'd soon go broke. Hurry up, or your mates will be screaming for their beer.'

'They're not me mates.'

'You could have fooled me. You spend enough time with them.'

'I just 'appen to agree with a lot of what they say. You've seen 'ow many blacks there is around 'ere. More of them than us.'

'Oh go on, get down there. You talk like a big kid at times.'