The Power(58)

‘So …??’

UrbanDox frowns, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘They’ll only keep the most genetically healthy of us alive. See, this is why God meant men to be the ones with the power. However bad we treat a woman – well, it’s like a slave.’

Tunde feels his shoulders tighten. Say nothing, just listen, take the footage, use it and sell it. Make money out of this scumbag, sell him out, show him up for what it is.

‘See, people got slavery wrong. If you have a slave, that slave’s your property, you don’t want damage to come to it. However bad any man treated a woman, he needs her in a fit condition to carry a child. But now … one genetically perfect man can sire a thousand – five thousand – children. And what do they need the rest of us for? They’re going to kill us all. Listen to me. Not one in a hundred will live. Perhaps not one in a thousand.’

‘And your evidence for that is …’

‘Oh, I’ve seen documents. And more than that, I can use my brain. So can you, son. I’ve watched you; you’re smart.’ UrbanDox lays a moist, clammy hand on Tunde’s arm. ‘Join us. Become part of what we’re doing. We’ll be there for you, son, when all these others have gone away, because we’re on the same side.’

Tunde nods.

‘We need laws now to protect men. We need curfews on women. We need the government to release all the funding they need to “research” that cure. We need men to stand up and be counted. We are being ruled by fags who worship women. We need to cut them down.’

‘And that’s the purpose of your terror attacks?’

UrbanDox smiles again. ‘You well know that I have never initiated or encouraged a terror attack.’

Yes, he’s been very careful.

‘But,’ says UrbanDox, ‘if I were in touch with any of those men, I’d guess they’d barely gotten started. A bunch of weapons got lost in the fall of the Soviet Union, you know. Real nasty stuff. Could be they have some of that.’

‘Wait,’ says Tunde. ‘Are you threatening to orchestrate domestic terrorism with nuclear weapons?’

‘I’m not threatening anything,’ says UrbanDox, his eyes pale and cold.





Allie



‘Mother Eve, will you give me your blessing?’

The boy is sweet. Fluffy, blond hair, a freckled, creamy face. He can’t be more than sixteen. His English is prettily accented with the mid-European tones of Bessapara. They’ve picked a good one.

Allie is only just on twenty herself and, although she has an air to her – an old soul, the piece in the New York Times reported several celebrity acolytes saying – there’s still that danger that she doesn’t always look to have quite the gravitas needed.

The young are close to God, they say, and young women, especially. Our Lady was only sixteen years old when she bore her sacrifice into the world. Still, it’s often as well to start with a blessing of someone who looks definitively younger.

‘Come close,’ says Allie, ‘and tell me your name.’

The cameras push in on the blond boy’s face. He is already crying and shaking. The crowd is mostly quiet; the sound of thirty thousand people breathing is broken only by the occasional shout of ‘Praise the Mother!’, or simply ‘Praise Her!’

The boy says, very quietly, ‘Christian.’

There’s a sound at that, an indrawn breath around the stadium.

‘That is a very good name,’ says Allie. ‘Don’t fear that it’s not a good name.’

Christian is all sobs. His mouth is open and wet and dark.

‘I know this is hard,’ says Allie, ‘but I am going to hold your hand, and when I do the peace of Our Mother will enter into you, do you understand?’

There is a magic in this, in telling what will happen, in saying it with full conviction. Christian nods again. Allie takes his hand. The camera holds steady for a moment on the pale hand clasped in the darker. Christian steadies. His breathing becomes more even. When the image pulls out, he is smiling, calm, even poised.

‘Now, Christian, you haven’t been able to walk since you were a child, have you?’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

Christian motions to his legs, lumpen underneath the blanket swaddling the lower half of his body. ‘I fell off a swing,’ he says, ‘when I was three. I broke my back.’ He smiles, full of trust. He makes a motion with his hands, as if he were breaking a pencil between his fingers.

‘You broke your back. And the doctors have told you you’ll never walk again, that’s right, isn’t it?’

Christian nods, slowly. ‘But I know I will,’ he says, his face peaceful.

‘I know you will, too, Christian, because the Mother has shown it to me.’

And the people who curate these events for her and make sure that the nerve damage isn’t too severe for her to be able to do anything. Christian had a friend from the same hospital; a nice kid, even more of a believer than Christian himself, but, unfortunately, the break was too profound for them to be sure she’d be able to cure it. Besides, he wasn’t right for this televised segment. Acne.

Allie lays her palm at the top of Christian’s spine, just at the back of his neck.