Year Zero (2000), page 25
"Hello, Molly," said Adam the Devil, mockingly. "Have you come to give me a Christmas present?"
For a moment or two, Molly wasn't sure whether he meant the deus ex machine or Angie. "No," she said, becoming suddenly very clear in her own mind as to exactly why she had come. "I've come to give you the opportunity to give one to me."
55
"Won't you come and see the view, Molly?" the Devil asked, unctuously. "It's quite spectacular. Even on a clear day, you can't see much of Earth, but if you look up, you can see forever. It's glorious by night—we're way above the primary pollution-layer here."
"Heights scare me," Molly said, flatly. The windows of the rotunda extended all the way from the shuttered ceiling to the red-carpeted floor. If she'd gone to stand by the window it would have been like standing on the lip of a precipice.
"Really?" said the Devil. "I love heights. I know all about the deus ex machine, by the way. In fact, I know rather more about it than you do, because I can see slightly more of the future than you can. Not that anyone can see the future clearly, of course, except for entities that elect to live in timeless Heavens where issues of causality simply don't arise. Personally, I've always considered that a bit of a cheat. Those of us who would rather live in lovely, delicious, precious time can only see the possibilities which exist and can only guess the likelihood of their emerging into solid fact, because the future is yet to be made, sculpted, and nailed down. So far, the only thing that's absolutely certain about your future and mine is that thirty-seven of those pathetic little creatures way down there are Heaven-bound. As to what becomes of the rest of us ... well, Molly, I'd like to say that it depends on me, but it doesn't. It really depends on you. Some responsibility! Would you like a drink, by the way?"
"No thanks," said Molly, shortly. The lift doors had long since closed behind her, carrying tall dark Tom back down into the bowels of the citadel, but she hadn't moved an inch. Nor had Angie.
The Devil seemed to be in a tolerant mood. Accepting that she wasn't going to cross the blood-red carpet to stand with him, he meekly came to her—but he didn't try to get too close. He stopped at a perfectly respectful distance, and the blue eyes with which he looked into Molly's were as mild as milk, with none of his usual flare and fury. He was wearing a salmon-pink sweater, brown slacks and flat shoes. He looked as if he'd just played nine holes of non-competitive golf for the sake of practising his swing.
"You don't believe me, do you?" he said, with a sigh. "You have no idea how inconvenient it is to be the Father of Lies. It's a title to be proud of, no doubt, but it makes it very hard to have a straight talk with anyone. Every time I tell the truth, people assume the opposite, so even when I'm being perfectly honest—especially when I'm being perfectly honest—the effect is confusingly deceptive. Perverse, or what? But I do need to be straight with you, Molly, because if I can't persuade you to do the right thing on New Year's Eve, all of this could come to nothing. All of it. I don't want that to happen, Molly and deep down, neither do you. I know that for a fact, by the way. It's one thing of which we can both be certain."
"Where's Christine?" Molly asked, bluntly.
The Devil raised his eyebrows and spread his arms slightly as if to indicate that he couldn't possibly be hiding anything. "She's around," he said. "She knows you're here. To tell the truth, I think she's secretly just as keen to see you as you are to see her, but she won't admit it to herself, so she'll hang on as long as she dares before putting in an appearance. Teenagers, eh! I haven't done her any harm, Molly. I've looked after her very well. I suppose, technically speaking, that it was statutory rape, but I am the Devil after all—no sin, no fun. Don't bother to reach suggestively towards the deus ex machine. We both know perfectly well that it's not a gun, and you're not going to point it at me and pull the trigger in a fit of mere petulance. In fact, we both know that you're not going to use it until midnight on New Year's Eve. That's what I want to talk to you about—and what you actually came here to talk to me about, whether you're prepared to admit it to yourself or not. We can settle this business sensibly, you know, if we just put our heads together and talk it through. We want the same things, Molly—none of this could have happened if we didn't."
"I don't think so," Molly said.
"And you won't believe anything I tell you, because I'm the Father of Lies. Well, Molly, I have more faith in you than that—which incidentally, is more faith than you've ever had in yourself. I think that if I tell you the truth now, so that you can chew it over at your leisure, you'll eventually see it for what it is. You'll leave here is a state of utter confusion and uncertainty, but when the deadline arrives, you'll have weighed everything very carefully indeed, and you'll have understood that there's only one possible explanation for everything that's happened this last year. I think you've already figured out that what Dr. De'Ath told you up in Bingley is balderdash, and that the little grey men don't really have a clue what's what. As for the giant octopuses scrawling graffiti on the moon—you must have seen that for the quirky wish-fulfilment fantasy it was. You're so close to working it out for yourself that you only need one last clue before it all falls into place. In a way, I'm sorry it has to be me that provides it, because I'm sure you'd have taken it better from the angel or dear old Lilith, but I'm the male lead in this little melodrama and we all have to play our parts."
He paused, as if waiting for permission to continue. "Go on," said Molly, obligingly.
"Well, Molly," the Father of Lies went on, "it really did start last New Year's Eve, at the B&B. Whatever De'Ath and Hyde may think, though, it certainly wasn't started by any paranoia-inducing drug—and much as I'd love to take credit for everything, it certainly wasn't started by me. It was you, Molly. It's always been you. You must have known that, even though you couldn't quite admit it to yourself. You started it —you and nobody else. Now it's up to you to finish it, either by sealing the circle or breaking it. Personally, I think you should break it. Trust your instincts, not your intellect."
"And how exactly, did I start it off, without the aid of any wonder drug?" Molly wanted to know.
"With the deus ex machine, of course. You don't actually fire it until New Year's Eve, but when you do fire it there's nothing whatsoever to stop its effects extending back in time, not merely to the beginning of the year but the beginning of time. In fact, if you think about it carefully, you'll see that it could hardly be otherwise. If the machine didn't reach back to the beginning of time and to the beginning of the year, how else could it set up the circumstances by which it could come into being as well as the circumstances of its firing? The only way it can establish itself within the universe and to credit itself with the power it needs to remake that universe is to put all their essential elements in their proper places primordially: God, Heaven, me, the giant octopuses, the greys, Chiliad Science, the angel, Elvis, Wingate, the Queen of the Fays, the men in black ... and you, Molly. You above all."
"Why me above all?" Molly demanded.
"Because somebody has to aim the device very carefully and pull the trigger," the Devil told her, "and somebody has to provide an appropriate target. That's you. You're the one who has to solve the angel's little riddle—and I think you've probably worked out by now what the answer seems to be. Unfortunately, you're wrong. You've been wrong all along. You've been wrong since the beginning of time, even though you haven't actually done it yet."
56
"What's all that supposed to mean?" Molly asked, warily. She knew, though, that the Devil was right. She had worked out to her own satisfaction exactly where the deus ex machine would have to be aimed if it were to complete year zero's new year resolution and give her what she needed. The last thing she needed was to have doubts cast upon her tentative decision—but she knew only too well that she could be wrong.
"Oh, come on," said the Devil. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to believe that you're going to aim it at me? I'd try to tempt you to do that, of course, if I thought it would work, but I know it wouldn't. It would just make you suspicious. You've already spent all the time you could spare going over the angel's instructions in your mind, trying to figure out exactly what he meant by having to aim it very carefully indeed —and we both know that you've already come to the conclusion that there's only one person at whom you can effectively aim it, because we both know that there's only one person who can be profoundly affected by it. It wasn't an easy decision, of course, and it wouldn't be easy to hold to it even if I let the matter ride, because we could be in the middle of a really tense climax if I cared to string things out that way. In the end, though, you'd stick to your guns—if you'll pardon the pun. You'd put the barrel of the deus ex machine in your mouth and point it at your hind-brain, and pull the trigger, so that it would blow you all the way back to the beginning of the year, in your brand new role as Molly the miracle-worker, Molly the Warrior Princess, Molly the saviour of the world. "In a sense, of course, that's already happened, because the assumption that that's what you'll do is already built into the way year zero has been unfolding—but the future still lies ahead of us, Molly, unformed and uncertain. There's still time to change your mind and make a fool of fate. You're not a prisoner of the assumptions that have foisted themselves upon you—it's still up to you to decide which of them will be set in historical stone and which of them will turn out to have been illusory phantoms of improbability. It's still year zero, Molly. The final question is still to be asked and answered and the final decision still has to be made—and deus ex machines are far too powerful for their action to be troubled by petty paradoxes. Everything is still possible, Molly, if only you're prepared to question your deepest assumptions, and figure out what you really and truly want."
"And what do I really and truly want?" Molly wanted to know.
"I may be the Devil, Molly," the Devil said, leaning forward seductively and smiling like a snake, "but I'm your Devil. You made me, in your own image. I may be the Father of Lies, but they're the lies to which you gave birth. We both know that I can't take the deus ex machine off you, by persuasion or by force, but we both know that you can agree to hand it over, as a gift—and we both know, deep down, that I'm the only one who can make proper use of it. I'm the better part of you, Molly—the instinctive, emotional, ambitious part. You might doubt my motives, but without me, you'd have no motives at all. You know better than to take Heavenly propaganda on trust, or you'd be one of the timeless thirty-seven. You're wise enough to know that you can't defeat evil by fire and flame or a retreat into claustrophobic sanctity; you have to work to transform it, to accept what can and must be accepted while controlling the rest. Listen to your heart, Molly. Listen to your heart—and give me the Christmas present I want more than anything else in the world. Give me the chance to work my miracle."
Molly remembered, dimly, that she had really fancied Francine's Adam during that magical couple of hours after the midnight that had divided 1999 from year zero. He could have had her for the asking—but he hadn't asked. It had taken her the best part of a year to figure out why. She heard the lift doors slide open behind her, but she didn't turn around. She was still looking deep into the guileful and guilty eyes of the Father of Lies. It was left to Angie to say: "Chris! Mum, it's Chris!"
Molly waited for Christine to walk around her and take her defiant stand beside her unsuitable lover.
"Hello Mum," Christine said dully. "I'm not coming with you, you know."
"Yes," said Molly, dully. "I know. How've you been, sweetie?"
"Never better," Christine said, unsurprisingly, "but not so sweet. You?"
"As well as can be expected," Molly said, "and not quite so sour. I've still got a spare dose of the immunization serum against the zombie flu, if you want it."
"I don't need it," Christine assured her. "Adam can take care of all that—can't you, Adam?"
"Absolutely," said the Devil. "Nobody gets the zombie flu without my say-so. Depend on it. We don't need your serum here, Molly. Angie would have been safe enough with the Jarvises, by the way, no matter how far and fast they rotted down. In any case, zombies are more sinned against than sinning. You should have listened to the greys—they'd begun to see the advantages of a world of zombies. They're not going to go ahead with the mass uplift, you know. They've accepted the logic of my pre-emptive strike. By this time, my favourite loose cannon should have blown Peaslee Pharmaceuticals sky high, and Edward Hyde, Marjorie De'Ath and your precious immunization serum with it. It's just you and me, Molly, as you and the deus ex machine always intended. We had to get here by the scenic route, but we had to get here. You could stay, if you wanted to, but I know you don't. You want to go back home and play happy families for a few precious days, until the Apocalypse of Evil falls due. I'm sorry that Christine prefers to stay here, but she's a free agent—I can't order her to go with you. I'll give you our mobile phone number, though. You can get through to us any time, day or night. She will talk to you, won't you, Christine?"
"I suppose so," Christine said, dully. She seemed slightly disappointed that things hadn't taken a more argumentative turn. She obviously had a lot of confused feelings bottled up inside.
"Thanks," said Molly. "I'll give you mine, darling. Please call, when you feel like it." She found an old receipt in her jacket pocket and used a pencil-stub to write her number on the back, then stuck her hand out in Christine's direction. After a moment's hesitation, Christine took the receipt.
"Even miracles don't happen overnight," the Devil said, letting a sarcastic gleam show in his eye for the first time. "In fact, every single one of them requires the reconstruction of eternity. We'll see you on Sunday anyway, of course—it'll be quite a party. Are you absolutely sure that you wouldn't like to take a look at the view, Molly? It's traditional, you know—kingdoms of the world, and all that."
"I don't like heights," Molly said, again.
"Pity," said the Devil, as Molly heard the doors of the lift slide open again behind her. "Acrophobia is a strictly cerebral failing, you know—a folly of consciousness. If we could only trust our instincts ... our hind-brains love heights, because they're not prey to any discomfiting delusions of grandeur." He chuckled self-indulgently.
It was Angie who said to Christine: "Please, Chris!"
It was to Molly that Christine said: "I can't, Ange. This is where I belong now."
"Going down," said tall dark Tom, holding the elevator doors apart as they vainly attempted to follow the mechanical instinct urging them to slide shut. Molly put her hand on Angie's shoulder and guided her into the car.
"Think it over," said the Devil, amiably. "Then go with your instincts."
57
Molly and Angie took the tube back home. Molly was glad that the system was still working, and doubly glad that she didn't have to watch the collapse of civilization that was taking place above her head. There was something comforting about always travelling in tunnels, with nothing beyond the windows but blank and carefully-constructed walls. Tunnels were the antithesis of vertigo-inducing heights. From dizzy heights you couldn't help seeing the kingdoms of the world in all their horrid, crawling expanse, but when you looked into the window of a tube-train all you could see was your own face staring back from a reflected carriage, with nothing behind it but nothing. There was safety in reflection, duplication and circularity . . . at least until you started thinking.
Molly had no difficulty in imagining what it was like up above. By now, seven out of every ten Londoners would be zombies. By tomorrow it would be eight, and by Boxing Day —assuming that the Devil was right about Wingate having blown himself up and the serum with him—it would be ten. They wouldn't all be equally far gone, of course, and most of them would be ready and eager to continue the traditional binge of false generosity and honest self-indulgence all the way through to the new year. Even zombies could get stinking drunk, probably more easily than ordinary folk. The world wouldn't actually dissolve into mere atoms on the thirty-first, but by then the completion of the process would be assured. Nothing but a miracle would be able to prevent it—which wasn't surprising if, as the Devil alleged, it was a version of the very same miracle that had created the conditions for the world's possible salvation.
There was safety in reflection, duplication and circularity, Molly thought, but none at all in an open-ended universe that merely went on and on forever, with one thing leading to another, never recoiling on itself to erase mistakes and offer second chances.
"Is the world really going to end, Mummy?" Angie asked, as the train drew away from King's Cross, heading for Camden Town.
"No, love," Molly said. "That's just a manner of speaking. The world never ends, even if you put a gun to your head and take yourself out of it by blowing your brain to smithereens. But it's never the same world from one year to the next, let alone one century to the next or one millennium to the next. It changes, and you can't hold it back."
Too true, she added, silently, to her herself. You have your kids, you lose your kids, you try to get them back, but you can 't ever really get them back, because they're not the same kids from one year to the next, and they stop being yours as soon as they become themselves, and no matter how well you try to protect them, you can't choose for them whether they'll be zombies or real people, brides of Christ or mistresses of the Devil, scientists or fools. All you can hope for is the possibility that they might learn from your mistakes without having to repeat them—that they'll never have to get to the same old end of the same old line with nowhere to go to but nowhere. Done the tragedy, done the farce—what's next?
"I'd give you a Christmas present," Angie said, "if I had any money to buy one—but I haven't."
"I'd give you the world," Molly assured her, "if I had it to give—but I'm not quite sure how that particular trick's supposed to work. I almost was, but now the Devil's sown the seeds of doubt again, I really don't know what to do."
