The Devil's Truth

1.   Praesidium

The extraordinary meeting of the Praesidium took place on the top floor of a tall glass skyscraper in the heart of London, precisely where the Houses of Parliament stand.

Simon Goodfellow, Vice Chair of the Praesidium, a handsome man of medium build, with dark hair, hard grey eyes and a pale complexion, spoke quietly but with an unmistakable intensity.

"We have halted the aberration. Now we must make sure, once and for all, that these fanatics can never take matters so far again. And I mean once and for all and I mean never."

Manfred Bloch, the Praesidium’s Technical Director, an overweight and inflexible individual, intervened.

We really shouldn’t overreact. The aberration has been diffused. Of course we need to learn lessons, but there is certainly no need to employ a Praesidium sledgehammer to crack a single aberrant nut. My own staff had concerns about the management at Cadnam well before this incident and, had they survived, the Cadnam managers would have been held accountable. But it was simply a matter of poor intelligence and communication. If they had called on us for help earlier, the aberration would have been stopped long before it reached critical mass.

Simon Goodfellow’s grey eyes narrowed; his pallid lips curled inwards until they almost disappeared, compromising his good looks. The Technical Division had let them down badly. It was entirely understandable that Bloch should feel defensive, but that was no excuse for trying to obstruct the decisive measures that Simon knew must now be taken. Bloch would have been better advised to keep his mouth shut.

Lessons will certainly be learned, said Simon, sharply, and we should do nothing to impede Manfred as he climbs what must be for him a steep learning curve. But, in the meantime, the rest of us at this meeting had best focus on organising a definitive response to the aberration and to the cadre that conceived and then initiated it, despite… (and this he added solely for the benefit of Manfred Bloch) the best efforts of our technical division.

Then we must employ the services of a practitioner.

This was the first contribution made by John Noble, the Praesidium’s Chairman, a powerfully built, distinguished-looking man of above average height in his mid-fifties, a figure who exuded a natural authority. He always preferred to give Board members a chance to air their views before taking a decision – not that their views affected the decision; he simply liked to take soundings of the members’ mood.

The suggestion that the Praesidium was in need of the help of a practitioner caused a general stir and not a few gasps. It was many years since the Praesidium had felt the need to summon a practitioner, and it was not a decision to be taken lightly. First of all, the services of a practitioner were expensive, very expensive. Secondly, it demonstrated that the Praesidium could not deal with a problem without help. Thirdly, and most importantly, the employment of a practitioner meant that, at least temporarily, the Praesidium must relinquish control of events.

Do you think that is really necessary? enquired Manfred Bloch, uncowed by Simon Goodfellow’s admonition.

I very much doubt I would have suggested it, said the Chairman softly, gently stroking his neatly trimmed grey moustache with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, had I thought it unnecessary.

Encouraged by the Chairman’s quietly spoken but nonetheless incisive rebuke of Bloch, Simon Goodfellow decided to put the knife in.

Our technical director seems to have failed to grasp how close we came to disaster. The Storyteller’s latest cadre came within a whisker of initiating a beginning – what would have been the fourth beginning. The consequences would have been incalculable but they would certainly have included the end of this Praesidium and all we have worked for. We would have lost our grip on the nodes of power; we would have lost control of future history; to our eternal shame, we would have failed to fulfil the prime directive. This building, this magnificent parallel construct, would have been destroyed and we would have been destroyed within it.

John Noble briefly pondered whether you could endure eternal shame if you were abruptly destroyed, but Simon hadn’t finished.

All that would remain on this site would be the ludicrous mother of parliaments and the pathetic political elite of unenlightened humans who would persist in believing the fiction that they exercise any real power. There is no doubt in my mind, nor in the mind of anyone capable of clear thinking, that we need the intervention of a practitioner.

2.   The end of the beginning

A week before the meeting of the Praesidium, the Storyteller was sitting on his favourite bench outside the Elm Tree pub on the outskirts of Ringwood in Hampshire, enjoying the brilliant sunlight and a fourth pint of Guinness, half of which he had already drunk.

‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ he mused, as he lifted the glass from the table. ‘A sunny day, a pint of Guinness and, after years of trial, tribulation and failure, success at last.’

It was indeed a sunny day. The normal sunshine that fills a clear blue sky was augmented by the expanding ring of intense light engendered by the fourth beginning.

The Storyteller continued his happy musings. By now Prune Leach, the short, wizened Irish engineering genius, and his equally brilliant, but much taller, rather less extrovert, partner Andrew Rimzil must be well on their way to Wales in the questors’ van. In the back of the van, Optimius, the sanguine penguin, and Elsa, the imperfect seal, would be happily consolidating their bizarre friendship despite their widely differing backgrounds and incongruous physical proportions. Above all, they would be revelling in a substantiality which neither had dreamed possible, nor thought themselves worthy of. (After all, Optimius was merely the offspring of a whimsical urge to explore an odd consonantal combination, and Elsa had quite simply been sired by an anagrammatic pun - in neither case, a favourable provenance for an existential miracle!)

Adam and Eve Smith would be back in their home in Harrow. They would be coming to terms with what they, with the help of Rambler, Numpty and Kit, not forgetting Luke, their golden retriever, had somehow achieved. No, not coming to terms with, rather beginning to explore the extraordinary implications of the process they had initiated.

The Storyteller was pondering all these happy thoughts when the light started to flicker. Now, of course sunlight shining through a clear blue sky doesn’t really flicker. I suppose if a bird flies overhead it may seem momentarily that something has interrupted the flow of light over a very small area. And certainly clouds can make the sunlight seem to flicker. But there were no clouds. And the flickering, although brief, affected the landscape - or so it seemed to the Storyteller - as far as the eye could see. When the flickering stopped, the sky was still blue and the sun was still shining, but there was something missing. The sunlight was still bright, but now it was normal; it was no longer exceptional.

The Storyteller stood up and immediately staggered forward, steadying himself by putting both hands on the table.

Oh no! he choked. It’s not possible; it cannot be possible.

But it was more than possible. It had happened. The fourth beginning had ended almost as soon as it had begun.

oooOooo

What on earth are you doing? shouted the usually equable Andrew Rimzil as Prune Leach threw the camper van across the three lanes of the M4 and screeched to a halt on the hard shoulder. The unexpected manoeuvre had given Andrew’s long frame quite a buffeting.

Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you feel it? Prune Leach demanded. Prune’s wrinkled brown face had gone pale.

See what? Feel what? Andrew asked, and then silently withdrew the question. Now he saw and felt what Prune had meant.

Oh, Jesus! said Prune. Look in the back.

Optimius, the sanguine penguin, was nestling into the bulky body of Elsa, the imperfect seal. Optimius’s eyes were filled with terror.

Don’t worry, said Elsa soothingly, gently patting the penguin with her flipper. Don’t worry. We’re together.

She had intended to say Don’t worry. Everything will be all right, but had changed her mind, because she instinctively knew that it wasn’t and wouldn’t be.

Hold on, Prune shouted. Hold on, both of you.

Elsa nodded, to indicate she would try.

The dissolution affected Optimius first. His smaller size made him more quickly vulnerable.

Please help me, Optimius pleaded, as holes began to appear in his body.

Can’t you do something? Prune demanded of Andrew Rimzil.

Andrew shook his head. There’s nothing I can do, he said. Somehow, despite everything, they’ve stopped it. He turned to address Elsa and Optimius. I’m so sorry, he said. Hold close to each other.

By now, Optimius had lost almost half of his substance, and Elsa also had large holes appearing in the fabric of her body.

They’re unsustainable, Andrew said quietly to Prune. At least the dissolution is painless.

It may be without pain but it’s not without fear, observed Prune. He could see Optimius was now just a smudge on Elsa’s failing form.

Thank you, both of you, Prune said. We will not forget you.

And it was over. The work of the Praesidium had made sure there was nothing to sustain the two unique aquatic creatures, given substance and life in the real world solely by the now-aborted fourth beginning.

oooOooo

Adam was at work when it happened. He had noticed the flickering light and had at first assumed it was an electrical fault in the power supply. No one else in the office seemed to have noticed anything. Then he knew. It was over.

oooOooo

Eve was at home finishing an article for a local newspaper on balancing a household budget. When the light started to flicker, she stopped typing and sat silently staring out of the window in the study for two or three minutes. The sun was still shining, but the sunlight was now no more than the light of the sun before the fourth beginning, not the light that had radiated across the world after the fourth beginning had blossomed. So it had failed; they had failed. Someone or something had stopped it. She felt a deep sadness and a profound sense of foreboding.

Just then, Luke, the ever-faithful family dog, ran into the study and rubbed against Eve’s legs, trying to give them both some comfort.

Life must go on, said Eve, without any great conviction.

Abso-bloody-lutely, replied Luke, although of course Eve couldn’t hear him.

3.   The Parallel Parliament

On the Wednesday that the Praesidium had met, a session of Prime Minister’s Questions had been in full swing in the identical but distinctly separate parallel location of the House of Commons.

Once the traditional cross-party tributes to young men killed in current overseas military engagements were concluded, the jousting had begun in earnest.

The Leader of the Opposition was banging on about the National Health Service which, according to her, was unsafe in anyone’s hands other than hers. Without the money her party proposed to add to the existing budget (an indeterminate sum but considerably more than whatever the government finally decided to spend), the NHS, the jewel in the crown (not an entirely appropriate metaphor for a largely republican party) would be destroyed.

The Prime Minister replied that, while he loved the NHS at least as much as the honourable lady, he preferred to concentrate on the economy, pointing out that the country had so much debt that the annual interest on the debt alone was already greater than half the entire annual health service budget.

If the national economy were a business, the country would be bankrupt, said the Prime Minister. You could say that, without borrowing, this country would not be able to afford a health service at all, let alone a national health service free at the point of need.

Well who’s running the economy? snapped the Leader of the Opposition. At last we have a straight answer from the Prime Minister. This Government believes we cannot afford a health service of any kind, much less the one we all love and which, as I have said before, is safe only in our hands.

This sally produced a roar of approval from the opposition benches.

I see, said the Prime Minister, adopting his most authoritative voice, that the honourable lady is determined to play politics with the Health Service. Well, it will not do. We have invested more in the NHS than any government in the entire history of the NHS and will continue to do so. The Opposition’s open-ended promise to spend more on the NHS than us is palpably idiotic. We will spend every penny the country can afford. This must mean the Opposition intends to spend more money than the country can afford – a temptation to which, I might add, the Opposition invariably succumbs whenever the opportunity presents itself. That will mean even more borrowing, greater debt, still more onerous interest payments.

There is an alternative to borrowing, replied the Leader of the Opposition. It is time the rich took their fair share of the burden. We propose to increase taxes on the wealthy so that they will feel they truly belong to the society in which they live and from which they make their money.

Howls of delight from the Opposition benches.

Fine chance! muttered the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Pull that one, and they’ll all bugger off.

4.   Engineering

On the day the fourth beginning ended, Prune Leach and Andrew Rimzil had a decision to make.

Prune was more affected by the dissolution of Elsa and Optimius than his fellow engineer. He had grown particularly fond of the ebullient and ever optimistic Optimius. He admired the sanguine penguin’s courage and the determination with which the little fellow had thrown himself into the quest. As for Elsa, she had played a crucial role in giving them access to the Breakers’ mysland domain and blocking the alarm signal. Without her help, the quest would certainly have failed.

Of course Prune recognised that both creatures had attained existence through narrative quirks. In a sense, the flatulent Gwoat, the Storyteller’s now-deceased driver, had been Optimius’s progenitor, the casually unaware participant in a linguistic one night stand. And Elsa, the imperfect seal, had come into being purely as a narrative and anagrammatic expedient. But such ruminations entirely failed to do either of the creatures justice. Both of them had played a crucial role in the quest. More than that, both of them had developed personalities. They had shown loyalty to the questors and affection to each other. No, their passing was a bad, a tragic, business.

We should have done something, Prune said, addressing Andrew Rimzil, who was standing on the hard shoulder of the M4, apparently checking the tyres of the camper van.

There was nothing we could do. There was no time. And even if there had been time, I’m pretty sure there was nothing we could have done. The fourth beginning was terminated. Just imagine the power of those who stopped it, whoever or whatever they are.

Really? replied Prune, the lines on his wrinkled brow adopting a predominantly vertical mode Really? So you’re saying the inventors of the exponential drive and the paradox device – two inventions which, if made generally available, would at least speed up, if not radically alter, the course of human history – could do nothing to save the lives of two harmless, benign and entirely positive animals.

Yes, replied Andrew, patiently. I know you’re upset. I’m upset. But the moment the fourth beginning faltered, their fate was sealed. Don’t blame yourself, and don’t blame me. Why the fourth beginning failed, I don’t know. It seems the Breakers – assuming it was them – are more powerful than we thought. If you feel the need to blame anyone in our group, blame the Storyteller. He knew that Optimius and Elsa depended for their continued existence on the fourth beginning and that, if the quest failed, they would be destroyed. And yet he ushered them into being.

If you continue to stand on the hard shoulder, said Prune, frustrated that he had no answer to Andrew’s reasoning, you’re likely to be ushered out of being - or at least arrested by the police.

Andrew climbed back into the van, settling his long frame into the passenger seat.

So what do we do now? asked Prune. We could go on, but my heart’s not in it. The whole point of racing off to the Welsh coast was to let Elsa and Optimius cavort in the Irish Sea. I can’t see you or me cavorting at the best of times, and I certainly don’t feel like cavorting now.

I think we must return to Ringwood. I’m hoping the Storyteller is still there. We need to know why the fourth beginning was aborted.

Do we? asked Prune grumpily. I’m not sure it’s any of our business. We joined the questors because Kit asked us to. It wasn’t our quest. We were just doing Kit a favour. What’s more, whatever stopped the fourth beginning seems to be pretty powerful and pretty determined. It eliminated Elsa and Optimius without a second thought, and I suspect it wouldn’t hesitate to destroy anyone else who upset it.

Not like you to back away from a fight, Andrew opined. It’s me who is usually the cautious one.

I’m not backing away from a fight, said Prune. I’m just asking whether it’s our fight. And even if, in some way, it is our fight, whether the fight isn’t already over? And we lost.

There’s only one way to find answers, said Andrew. We need to talk to the Storyteller. So let’s come off at the next junction and head back to Ringwood. The first pint of Guinness is on me.

5.   Conference at the Elm Tree

When Prune Leach and Andrew Rimzil reached the Elm Tree pub in the late afternoon, they found the Storyteller sitting where they had left him, on one of the benches outside the pub. He had a single empty glass on the table in front of him.

I thought you might come back.

What happened? asked Prune. Surely, if anyone knew the answer, it would be the Storyteller.

It stopped, replied the Storyteller.

I know it stopped, said Prune. But why did it stop? What stopped it?

I don’t know, the Storyteller replied.

You know Elsa and Optimius were destroyed, said Prune.

It sounded like an accusation, and indeed it was.

I guessed as much. I’m very sorry; I was sure we had done it. I know there can be false beginnings, but I was certain we had succeeded this time. I really thought we had put everything in place.

How about a drink? suggested Andrew Rimzil. I’ll get the first round. Three pints of Guinness?

Andrew set off into the pub to fetch the drinks. Prune sat down opposite the Storyteller. So what happens now?

No idea, the Storyteller answered. Prune realised the man was deeply depressed.

Well do we try to restart the beginning, or do we just walk away? Prune probed.

A beginning is not like a car or a van, the Storyteller answered. You can’t just restart it. The chances of initiating a beginning are one in a million, one in a billion, one in a trillion. The odds against being able to put everything in place are astronomical. That’s why I was so happy when it seemed we had succeeded. Of course I had hoped to see a beginning in my life time but I had not expected it. No one has a right to expect it. And yet we came close, so close.

There we are, said Andrew, carefully putting the tray down on the bench. One pint apiece.

All three picked up a glass and drank.

So what do we do? asked Andrew.

Prune answered. Well it seems we do nothing. It seems we failed and there’s nothing we can do about it. We put in an enormous amount of effort, gave it our best shot, made full use of the exponential drive and the paradox device – in short, did everything we could – and it still just wasn’t good enough.

I’m not blaming you, said the Storyteller.

That’s big of you, snapped Prune. I wasn’t planning to take the blame. If we’re going to blame anyone…

Andrew interrupted: Blaming anyone is pointless. We simply have to decide whether there is anything worth trying now and, if there is, whether we want to try it.

There isn’t. So we can’t. said the Storyteller.

So that’s it. Andrew and I pop back over to Ireland and carry on as though nothing has happened.

Prune Leach finished his pint and banged the glass down onto the wooden table with some force. The glass shattered. There were shards of glass everywhere.

Bugger! Prune exclaimed.

That’s certainly no way to treat a chalice of Guinness, a cup of black gold, or a goblet of the divine nectar, said a voice that all three of them recognised. And ‘bugger’ is no way to greet an old friend.

My God, said Prune and Andrew in unison, Kit, it’s you."

I think it’s probably your round, said Kit, addressing Prune.

Kit settled himself on to the bench beside Andrew in the only available space with an ease and accuracy that belied his sightless eyes.

It’s great to see you, said Prune, getting up, although I’ve no idea what all that drivel about chalices, etc. was about.

Andrew and the Storyteller also stood up, and, with feigned reluctance, Kit arose to give each of them a warm embrace.

It’s good to be with you all again, he conceded as he resumed his seat, although it could have been in happier circumstance.

Prune trundled off to buy the drinks.

We were discussing what we should do now, said the Storyteller. I was explaining to our Irish friend that it is hopeless.

I’ll admit we have had a setback, said Kit, a major setback. But hopelessness is a state of mind. Feeling hopeless guarantees failure. What about the three beginnings: the universe, life and consciousness? Looking for them to happen before they had happened would have seemed hopeless – but they happened.

Are you saying we should hope for a miracle? asked Andrew, who was by no means dismissing the possibility out of hand.

You can hope for a miracle if you like but such a leap into the supernatural is unnecessary. The first three beginnings were not miracles; they were just incredibly unlikely. Take this glass, said Kit, proudly displaying a perfectly clean glass. See its flawless, stable form; see how perfectly if fills the space it occupies; see how it precisely delineates the boundaries between what it contains and everything else. It’s all unlikely but nonetheless real and true.

Have you been drinking? asked Andrew. It was not like Kit to ramble.

I may have taken a little refreshment at the last hostelry I passed, or rather patronised, in the course of my travels, Kit replied.

Just as Prune was returning with the four pints of Guinness, one of the bar staff, a young lad on work experience charged with clearing the tables outside the pub, collected four empty glasses from the table, making room for Prune’s round.

So what are you suggesting? asked the Storyteller.

In my opinion, said Kit, with only the slightest hint of a slur, we should sit here and drink until the pain of failure is assuaged, and the flickering candle of hope burns more brightly. Tomorrow, we should make plans to contact the Smiths after allowing them a reasonable period of time to adjust to the new situation. When Adam and Eve are ready, we need to take soundings. But, for now, let us drown our sorrows in the sea of experience until some flotsam of optimism bobs to the surface.

So, persuaded by Kit’s metaphorical flourish, that is exactly what they did. Only Andrew Rimzil noticed that there were no shards of glass on the table. And even Andrew had failed to notice how many empty glasses the lad had taken away.

6.   The Job Opportunity

A month after the fourth beginning had been terminated, Adam Smith returned home from work in good spirits. Eve was surprised. From the moment the fourth beginning had failed, their lives had sunk back into a dull, humdrum routine, a routine that had seemed tolerable before they had set out with the Storyteller on the quest, but which now seemed deeply depressing and pointless.

You seem happy, said Eve, as though she was accusing him of inappropriate behaviour.

I’ve been head-hunted, said Adam proudly.

You’ve been what?

I’ve been head-hunted. You know. A firm of consultants wants to talk to me about a job – a much better job, with a lot more money.

Are you sure? asked Eve.

There’s no need to sound quite so surprised, Adam responded with mock-petulance. Of course I’m sure. A chap called David Minofel contacted me on my mobile. He said he wants to meet me. I checked out his credentials, and he’s a partner in Slievins, a leading head-hunting consultancy in the City.

Well, I suppose that’s good news, said Eve.

Don’t overdo the joy thing. I thought you’d be pleased. Quite a lot has gone wrong recently. This has to be good news.

Eve sighed. Perhaps Adam was right but she still couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. In the company of the Storyteller, they had been on a mind-enlightening, soul-challenging, spiritually-uplifting quest that had included an interview with God; a sojourn with Prometheus; an excursion through space and time; and, for Adam, a spell in hell. In the end, with the help of Rambler and Numpty, and of course the blind man Kit, they had seemed to prevail. They had somehow initiated the fourth beginning. OK, the fourth beginning had been stopped, aborted by people unknown, probably Breakers. But the attempt had been heroic, noble, truly inspirational. Adam’s news of a possible promotion and enhanced salary, while welcome enough, was not really in the same league. Indeed there was something rather demeaning about it. They had sought the truth. They had glimpsed the truth. They had achieved something remarkable. No, a better job and a salary hike were not the stuff of which great stories are made. No, not all. Or so Eve thought.

Come on, Eve, Adam interrupted Eve’s thoughts. Give a man some encouragement. They’re a top consultancy, dealing in top jobs. They wouldn’t have contacted me if they didn’t have something pretty impressive in mind.

Yes, said Eve, desperately trying to sound more positive than she felt. Yes, of course. It’s good news. Well done. So what happens now?

Well, it’s all a bit of a rush, Adam replied, relieved that Eve seemed to responding positively at last. I guess they have a post they want to fill pretty urgently. This Minofel chap wants to meet me tomorrow – here, at home. He wants to meet both of us, wants to see that we’re a stable partnership, have all the right values – you know what these consultants are like.

‘Oh dear,’ thought Luke, the golden retriever. ‘Eve won’t like that: having to put on a show for a business consultant intruding into her home. What had their home life to do with a stranger? What right had he to assess them? What did he know about what they had been through?’

But Luke was wrong. Eve didn’t want an argument. To be honest, she didn’t feel up to it. If Adam wanted the job, she would put up with it, even do her best to help.

The collapse of the fourth beginning had taken more out of her than she or Luke had realised.

7.   Practitioner selection

John Noble, Praesidium