two things. The gods don’t owe us anything. That’s not why we worship. We worship because they’re gods. This is their universe, not ours. What they choose they choose and it’s not ours to know why.”
Christ, thought Billy, what a grim theology. It was a wonder they could keep anyone in the room, without the emotional quid pro quo of hope. That’s what Billy thought, but he saw that it was not nihilism in that room. That it was full of hope, whatever the Teuthex said; and he the Teuthex, Billy thought, quietly hopeful too. Doctrine was not quite doctrine.
“And second,” said Moore. “Remember the movement that looks like not moving.” A small frisson at that.
There was no communion, no passing out of, what, sacred calamari? Only some discordant and clunky wordless hymn, a silent prayer, and the worshippers left. Each as they filed out glanced at Billy with a strange and needy look. The young men looked positively hungry, and nervous to meet his eye.
Dane and Moore came to meet him. “So,” said the Teuthex. “That was your first service.”
“What was that squirrel?” Billy said.
“Freelancer,” Dane said.
“What? Freelance what?”
“Familiar.” Familiar. “Don’t look like that. Familiar. Don’t act like you’ve never heard of one.”
Billy thought of black cats. “Where is it now?”
“I don’t know, I don’t want to know. It did what I paid it for.” Dane did not look at him. “Job done. So it’s gone.”
“What did you pay it?”
“I paid it nuts, Billy. What would you think I’d pay a squirrel?” Dane’s face was so deadpan flat Billy could not tell if what he was facing was the truth or contempt. Welcome to this world of work. Magic animals got paid in something, nuts or something. Billy examined the pictures and books in Moore’s own dark grey chambers.
“Baron …” Billy said.
“Oh, we know Baron,” said Dane. “And his little friends.”
“He told me some books got stolen.”
“They’re in the library,” said the Teuthex. He poured tea. “Can’t use a photocopy to persuade the world.”
Billy nodded as if that made sense. He faced Moore. “What’s happening?” he said. “What did that … man … want? And why are you keeping me prisoner?”
Moore looked quizzical. “Prisoner? Where is it you want to go?”
There was a silence. “I’m getting out of here,” Billy said. And then very quickly he said, “What did … Goss … do to Leon?”
“Would you be very offended if I said I don’t believe you?” Moore said. “That you want to get out? I’m not sure you do.” He met Billy’s stare. “What did you see?” Billy almost recoiled at the eagerness in his voice. “Last night. What did you dream? You don’t even know why you’re not safe, Billy. And if you go to Baron and Vardy you’ll be considerably less so.
“I know what they said about us.” He almost twinkled, a vicar being a good sport. “But that little faith-gang called ‘police’ can’t help, you know. You’re in the Tattoo’s sights, now.”
“Think about the Tattoo,” Dane said. “That face. That man’s face on another man’s back. How was you going to deal with that, Billy?” After a silence Dane said, “How you going to get the police to deal with that?”
“It isn’t just that, either,” Moore said. “As if that weren’t enough. I know it’s all a bit … Well. But it isn’t just the Tattoo, even. Suddenly, ever since something or other, everyone agrees the end’s in sight. Nothing unusual in that, you might say, and you’d be right except that I do mean everyone. That has … ramifications for you. You need to be with a power. Let me tell you. We are the Congregation of God Kraken. And this is our time.”
THEY EXPLAINED.
London was full of dissident gods.
Why? Well they have to live somewhere. A city living in its own afterlife. Why not?
Of course, they’re all over, gods are. Theurgic vermin, those once worshipped or still worshipped in secret, those half worshipped, those feared and resented, petty divinities: they infect everybloody-where. The ecosystems of godhead are fecund, because there’s nothing and nowhere that can’t generate the awe on which they graze. But just because there are cockroaches everywhere doesn’t mean there aren’t cockroaches in particular in a New York kitchen. And just because angels keep their ancient places and every stone, cigarette packet, tor and town has its deities, doesn’t mean there’s nothing special about London.
The streets of London are stone synapses hardwired for worship. Walk the right or wrong way down Tooting