What's Up, God?
A Romance of the Apocalypse.
Gollancz, 1995; Indigo (Gollancz) paperback 1996
Jerry loves Alice. if we had been six years old we would have carved
it on a tree. But as we were both nineteen we chiselled it on the back
of the bed at the hostel in the Via di Croce just off the Spanish Steps
in Rome. It was Luna time. We met just like that, on the road, between
Perugia and Assisi, where she and her two travelling companions, Annemarie
and Anthea, had broken down in their Fiat Uno. I was tooling down alone
in the souped up Trabant, a vehicle no-one could believe was on the
road, which I'd been lent by my only surviving sane relative, Adolfo,
who was a restorer of lost hope cars in Terni. Mum and Dad used to
take me to visit Sophia's parents in Milan, when I was knee-high to
a muskrat, and the bi-annual Italian holidays continued, much to my
delight, after her parents' demise, as my mother loved to smell the
air of her native Umbria, although she had been born in Hounslow. She
too was an only child. The family legend was that my maternal grandfather
had come from a line of Ducal castoffs from Urbino, while Nonna had
come from a tiny Umbrian village which hid from man, for good reason,
as its name was Bastardo.
There was no one in Bastardo who remembered our name, or who wanted to be known
to the outside world, but we did track down Adolfo and his old mother in the
bustling town of Terni. They were twelfth cousins thrice removed, or something.
But I returned, for the first time alone, in '89, to the rolling countryside,
the hilltop towns, and the three damosels...
I peeled Alice off the other two with a consummate ease which belied my natural
state as clubfoot-and-mouth. Somehow I disentangled my vowels, straightened my
carriage and stopped dribbling into the antipasti. She was a dark haired somewhat
wispy presence from the folds of Wiltzhire, oh yes, the honey hills of Bath-Avon.
We were still a crowd of four in Assisi, as we clip clopped through the winding
saintly streets past the souvenir shops with their thousand tiny plastic monks,
but the two of us managed to lose Annemarie and Anthea in the Basilica, and climbed
the mountain at dusk. Its amazing how corny the real thing turns out. But we
headed south, after arranging a liaison between the superfluous duo and two very
workmanlike Italian garage attendants, who, unlike Saint Francis, had no interest
in the birds and the bees. We last saw the quartet heading north in a Lamborgini
which had been left in their care. I took her through Bastardo but we did not
stop, till Orvieto, where we climbed to the castle and parked for the night.
And then it was down Numero Uno to Roma, the Spanish Steps, the Collosseo, San
Pietro. They had unveiled the restored Michelangelos in the Sistine Chapel, that
primary riot of reds, greens, oranges and blues. But the dour masterpiece of
the Last Judgement was still hidden by canvas. The Pope had to decide whether
the restorers would be permitted to take the knickers off the nude figures which
had been covered up by the great artist's enemies immediately after his death.
We speculated on the effect of the restored mural, given the other panels: The
intense burst of unfaded genius... But I never saw it, as I never returned to
Italy.
She died. We returned, on separate flights, to Blighty, determined to set up
shop forever, in a remote cottage in Freedonia, and live off love, nectar and
pine kernels. As it happens I researched a one bed flat in Notting Hill. She
worked for a conglomerate travel agent, and enjoyed a whole raft of freebies.
They gave her an assignment to spot holiday chalets in Portugal. The plane went
down over Northern Spain. Finis Alice.
We never got, you see, to the usual stage: The morning muss, the drab discovery
of nauseating habits, the hair in the comb, the blanket stealing, the night belches,
the hiding of one's sneakers, the incompatibility of in-laws, the clash of tastes
in food, art, music. We were just stuck in Rumpelstitskin and Rapunzel. Abelard
and Louise. Heckel and Jeckel.
Her parents collected what was left of the body and buried it in Bath. What's
past is the past. What's gone is gone. The dead are dead. Or are they?
I watched, with the blood draining from my face, as the Archangel Gabriel told
Paxman:
"All will return, at the age, and in the appearance each person had when
at the last moment of their full vigour. There will be no decay, no illness,
no anguish."
The age old saw. If only... We've read enough novels, seen enough special effects
shimmering on the big or small screen... Boy, we ain't seen nuthin' yet...
The Personal is over, says the Dodo.
But what if its only just beginning?
First love. What a barrel of onions. The Dodo was looking at me shrewdly.
"The Spanish Steps," I said.
"I never learned them," he remarked, "the twist, the cha cha and
the fox trot. I went to tango classes once. But that lambada - forget it."
I couldn't answer that. The golf buggy rolled on down the steel corridor. Networks
of pipes and cables crisscrossing above. Narrow catwalks on either side. A bit
like the Channel Tunnel. But no fresh croissants, I'll bet, on the other side.
"Beautiful, was she?" he gave me that shrewd look again. Taking his
eyes off the road, not that there was anything there to see. "Blonde, waving
hair in the sunlight? Peaches and cream?"
I shook my head, not ready to articulate.
"That's the whole problem, you see," he chattered, "Requiescat
in pacem. Rest in peace. What's the point of raking over old coals? Opening every
bloody old wound we thought was properly healed. Consider the financial ballyhoo.
Parents demanding back their inheritance. Mortgages rejigged. Insurance claims.
Personal and public equity will collapse overnight. Forget the governments, nobody
misses us. But without the markets ticking over... I know you chaps think we
should be sharing and sharing alike but you need something to share to start
with. And think of all the poor old and even not so old dead people who we thought
had found their peace. What of their shock? Will they welcome it? Its not British.
Its not right. How can they be fed, cared for, housed? What about employment?
Social security? What if the Day of Judgement is delayed? can you trust these
Angel people? Who are they? Where have they come from? That's what we've been
trying to find out. That's where you come in, Gerald."
Me? Hang about mate! But the buggy has come to a stop, coming round the bend
into an open arena of rows of men and women tending monitor screens. A cornucopia
of shimmering images, radar blips and strobing lines. Above the whole a radial
projection of the world which looked as if it had been lifted from the set of
Doctor Strangelove. But no multiple Peter Sellerses. Tiny lights blinked all
over the map, from little England to the vastness of Russia, China, the United
States and everywhere else.
Ici Londres. Ici Londres. "This is the Caucus Room," said the Dodo,
nudging me into one screen strewn corner, "and these are my fellows, Duck,
Lory, Mouse and Eaglet. Magpie and the Canary are over there. Crab across that
pile - " he waved to an appropriately hunched figure with what looked like
barnacles on his bare skull, and a pinkish claw waved back, "we'll need
a working name for you. How about Rabbit? Brown, White's out on patrol."
Very droll. Four eager young men and two earnest young women gave me the eye,
out of crisp white, airline uniforms. Piloting the ship of state through the
fog. Or the Titanic, reborn in Disneyworld.
"Jerry Davis," I named myself, keeping demonstrably out of this Wonderland.
"Where's the Mad Hatter?" the Dodo asked the Eaglet, who was a pert
wee blonde with a pony tail.
"He's in the croquet court with the Queen." said the Eaglet, "they're
trying to wake up the Dormouse."
"Well, we'll just have to wait our turn," said the Dodo, throwing me
an apologetic glance. "We get a bit carried away with our similes, I'm afraid.
Keeps our spirits up. This corner of a foreign field and so on. Although we're
actually directly under Wandsworth. Its amazing what goes on under people's noses.
You see, we try to keep tabs on as much as possible. Dealing with a unique challenge.
Not having the foggiest idea of whether any of our secrets are secret. Enemies
of God. It used to be a criminal offence in Iran. Very serious. But so far we're
still ticking over."
"I'm not so sure I understand this," I said, reluctantly entering into
some kind of intercourse with this phantasm, "if you're the government,
what's the position of the, er, people up above in Whitehall? The puppet P.M.
and all the other Pinocchios?"
"Indeed, the little wooden men who dance without strings. Well put. At the
end of the day, it depends what you have faith in, your country or a pig in the
poke."
"So this is not God at all we're dealing with? You think there'll be no
resurre-ctions?" My heart gave a little flop and thump, of dread, or relief?
"We're not saying that. We've closed no options. We're keeping an open mind.
We know the Enemy has the capability. There have been try outs, in Punjab and
Kazakhstan. We've monitored remote villages in which the population appeared
to have spontaneously expanded. A rash of old people suddenly crowding the villages,
but after that the story's blurred. Streets emptied, everyone staying indoors.
Then all surveillance failed. A blanket blindness. As if they know when we're
watching, and we can be turned on or off."
"Surely," I said, spotting another flaw, "if there's a government,
whatever it is, in Downing Street, they would have access to this place. Or have
you locked them off?"
"We've had the option since the Irish Massacre of '96. One can't entrust
politics to politicians, especially if they get themselves blown up, don't you
think? Those in the public eye are too vulnerable to be in control of Ultimate
options. We activated the Committee. The White Queen's Court. Its a broad church.
Very catholic. We have Labour members, Lib-Democrats, Jocks, Taffys. The Mock
Turtle is a Paddy. Defence of the Realm. No shilly-shallying. We saw off the
Eurofudge of the early nineties. If the P.M. wants to sell us out now to some
external, bureaucratic sky jockeys he can think again. We got rid of Divine Rights
long ago. The P.M. knows we're here. But he hasn't been given the keys. If his
new masters want to fight their way in here we'll give them a bloody raw welcome."
"And if its all true? The Resurrection, the Last Judgement?"
"Then I for one will stand up like a man and say: `I fought for Queen and
Country and I'm proud of it. Do your worst.' Just take it on the chin and no
snivelling."
"Stiff upper lip, in the face of eternal damnation."
"I can promise you nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat."
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