Jack Yeovil - Demon Download

"I was boating, mama. It gets wet."

"Pah! You should always be fit to be seen, Chantal."

Father Daguerre, a wrestler in a cassock, stood a Little apart, with another priest. "Hello, Chantal," the French priest said, a sly look creeping over his face. '"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen…'"

Chantal pouted a little, and put a hand on her bony hip. She was being invited to perform again. "Easy. The Epistle of St Paul to the Hebrews, Chapter 11, Verse 1."

Father Daguerre nodded, unsmiling. "And…?"

Chantal sighed, a Utile embarassed. '"For by it the elders obtained a good report. Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.'"

"Excellent, excellent," said the priest. "Latin?"

Chantal switched languages. '"By faith Abel offered unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain, by which…"'

"Hebrew?"

That was trickier. '"…by which he obtained witness that he was righteous, God testifying of his gifts; and by it…'"

"Greek?"

"Ancient or modern?"

"Ancient, showoff."

'"…and by it he being dead yet speaketh. By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death; and was not found, because God had translated him: for before…'"

"BASIC?"

"Not verbally. I could type it out for you. It's quite easy."

"English?"

"Kid's stuff, Father.'…for before his translation he had this testimony that he pleased God.'"

"And Russian?"

Chantal had to translate in her head. Greek to Russian was the easiest. '"…But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe…'"

The other priest, whose black suit was edged with red, cut in, speaking Russian like a native,'"…must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.'"

Chantal looked carefully at the new priest. He was pale, and had shoulder-length hair and a high forehead. In a strange way, he reminded her of Petya Tcherkassoff.

"This is Cardinal Grinko, Chantal," said her mother. "He's a friend of Father Daguerre's. He's come from the Vatican to talk with your father. He is a Special Envoy from Pope Mandela."

The Cardinal bowed. There was something about him that made him special, Chantal knew. She was having one of her insights. His mouth went up on one side, and their eyes met. The others didn't notice, and Chantal didn't really understand what had passed between them, but she realized that she had formed a bond with this stranger.

"Good afternoon, Cardinal," she said, doing her best to curtsey with only a T-shirt to lift.

"Please, Chantal, call me Georgi."

GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. 1988.

"Chantal, stand up straight."

"Yes, mother."

Isabella Juillerat adjusted her veil, and smoothed her floorlength glitterblack crinoline. When the news came through that she had been widowed, three top Milan couturiers had stayed up overnight to design a selection of mourning wear for her and made their competing presentations in rapid succession the next morning. She had, as usual, picked the most expensive range.

Chantal's heavy collar scratched. It didn't seem possible, but since the fittings she seemed at last—and at the worst imaginable time—to have developed breasts. She had been standing up for three hours now, and desperately needed to pee. She told her trained body to stand still and put up with it all. It was the least it could do.

The funeral cortege had slowly made its way to the cemetery. The streets were thick with people. Mother called them gawkers, but Chantal suspected much of their grief was genuine. Those not in black wore black armbands. Only the immediate family and VTPs—and the media, of course—were actually allowed into the cemetery. The Juillerat Monument, as it would now be called, was drowned in wreaths.

Jean-Marie LePen was speaking now, straying from the subject to harp on international unity or some such nebulous concept. In life, her father and LePen had fought an undeclared war for the seven months of the latter's presidency of the UEC, and Papa had referred to the President in private as "a freaking mad dog sonofabitch who should be put down." LePen's speech basically boiled down to an unconvincing declaration of "I didn't do it."

Maybe he didn't. Thomas Juillerat, without ever holding any elected or appointed national office, had made devoted friends and equally devoted enemies right and left. When the story was released, LePen wouldn't have been the only individual to leap for joy. The Japanese, Korean and Californian boardrooms of GenTech, the cabinet offices of Prime Minister Ian Paisley, the White House of President Charlton Heston, the mosques of Teheran and Ferdy and Imelda's Malacanang in Manila would be resounding with choruses of "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead."

Chantal had sworn not to cry. Her mother had delicately been leaking from her tearducts all morning, especially when there was a camera aimed in her direction. She had to be helped by Father Daguerre when it came to getting into the car.

It had happened on the steps of the International Courts in Brussels, after the ruling against organ-farming practices in the Third World had gone Papa's way. He had been giving an interview to a Russian newsnet when person or persons unknown had jostled him, slipping an electrostilletto into his neck. The device discharged for five minutes, but it was likely that he had died within seconds. He had had his first minor coronary three months earlier. The Belgian police had made no arrests and extensive examination of all the films of the event revealed only blurred, impossible-to-identify figures on the steps. The assassin would probably be wearing a different face—a different sex, even—now.

Isabella was fidgeting. Chantal supposed she was worrying over the seating arrangements at the memorial reception mis evening, and then chided herself for the uncharitable thought. She said a silent Hail Mary.

They could have ended their marriage, Chantal knew. Cardinal Gcorgi had explained to her that Pope Mandela had lifted the church's bar on divorce. But Isabella didn't necessarily approve of all the current Pope's doctrinal changes. And, come to think of it, Papa had never shown any real wish to change his situation. There had been women, from time to time, but they all drifted away as Isabella had done. It was impossible to compete with the cares of all the world. Chantal knew that.

Her cheeks were wet, she realized. Father Daguerre put a hand on her shoulder, and she laid her hand over it.

Georgi had come up from Rome for the funeral. He had been attending Mandela in what, it was feared, would be the Pope's last illness. He shook hands with Isabella and gave his condolences, and then stood before Chantal. He put his hand out, and delicately wiped her tears.

"Chantal, if there's ever anything I can do, you have my private numbers."

She bowed, and he was gone. The British Minister of War, Angus McGuinness, was in his place, giving out a clammy handshake and a mumbled inanity. Then, it was a corporate queen from some tax shelter, hoping for a Vogue lay-out with her flounced dress.

The funeral lasted all afternoon.

DUBLIN, REPUBLIC OF EIRE. 1991.

"Sister Chantal, show us what you can do."

She bowed her head as demurely as possible, and took a seat at the console. The computer rooms of the St Patrick's Seminary were in prefab huts in the centre of the campus. The class had to sit down on desks and tables when there weren't chairs to spare. Her fingers flew as she penetrated the blocks. The hard fingertips she had developed with endless hours of fingerbattering the gym wall connected with the keys. This was too simple a task for her, although it was beyond most of the other novices.