Stephen Lawhead - The Paradise War

Simon clutched the steering wheel with both hands and punched the accelerator for emphasis, bobbing his head to the cadence of his words and glancing sideways at me every now and then to make sure I was still listening. Meanwhile, I bided my time, waiting for an opportunity to toss a monkey wrench into his fast-whirling gears.

«We won't have any place to call our own, but we'll all have cold Guinness in cans, and inscrutible Braun coffeemakers, and chic Benetton sweatshirts, and nifty Nike Cross-Trainers, and gold-plated Mont Blanc fountain pens, and Canon fax machines, and Renaults and Porsches and Mercedes and Subs and Fiats and Yugos and Ladas and Hyundais, and Givenchy, and Chanel pour Homme, and Aeroflot holidays, and Costa Del Sol condos, and Piat D'Or, and Viva Espania, and Sony, and Yamaha, and Suzuki, and Honda, and Hitachi, and Toshiba, and Kawasaki, and Nissan, and Minolta, and Panasonic, and Mitsu-bloody-bishi!

«Do we care?» he demanded rhetorically. «Hell, no! We don't bat an eye. We don't turn a hair. We don't twitch a solitary sedentary muscle. We sit transfixed before the Tube Almighty, lulled into false Nirvana by a stupefying Combination of pernicious banality and blather while innocuous cathode rays transform our healthy gray cells into Jellied veal!»

As harangues go, it was one of Simon's better efforts. But his dolorous litanies could endure ad infinitum and I was growing weary. He paused for breath and I saw my chance.

'If you're so unhappy,» I said, throwing myself into the withering flow of invective, «why do you stay here?»

Curiously, that stopped him. He turned his face to me.

«What did you say?»

«You heard me. If you're as miserable as you make yourself out to be, and if things are as bad as you say-~why not leave? You could go anywhere.»

Simon smiled his thin, superior smile. «Show me a place where it's better,» he challenged, «and I'm on my way.»

Offhand, I could not think of any place perfect enough for Simon. I might have suggested the States, but the same demons infesting Britain were running rampant in America as well. The last time I was back home, I hardly recognized the place-it wasn't at all as I remembered. Even in my own small, mid-American town the sense of community had all but vanished, gobbled up by ravening corporations and the townsfolk's own blind addiction to a quick-buck economy and voracious consumerism. 'We might not have a Fourth of July parade down Main Street any more, or Christmas carols in the park,» my dad had said, «but we sure as hell got McDonald's, and Pizza Hut, and Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a Wal-Mart mini-mall that's open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week!»

That was the way of the world: greedy, grim, and ghastly.

It was like that everywhere, and I was tired of being reminded of it every time I turned around. So I rounded on Simon, looked him in the eye, and I threw his challenge back in his face. «Do you mean to tell me that if you found a place that suited you better, you'd leave?»

«Like a shot!»

«Ha!» I gloated. «You never would. I know you, Simon-you're a classic malcontent. You're not happy unless you're miserable.»

«Oh, really?»

«It's true, Simon,» I declared. «If everything was perfect you'd be depressed. That's right. You actually like things the way they are.»

«Well, thank you so much, Dr. Freud,» Simon snarled. «I deeply appreciate your incisive analysis.» He punched the accelerator to the floor.

I thrust home my point. «You might as well admit it, Simon-you're a crap hound, and you love it. You are a connoisseur of misery: Doom on the halfshell! Bring it on! The worse things get, the better you like it. Decadence suits you-in fact, you prefer it. You delight in decline; you revel in rot.»

«Watch out,» he replied softly-so softly I almost didn't hear him, «I just might surprise you one day, friend.»

I had hoped to see Loch Ness. But all I saw was my own blear-eyed reflection in the car window, made lurid by the map light in the dashboard. It was dark. And late. I was hungry, bored, and tired, aching to stop, and silently cursing myself for being a party to this idiotic outing.

The things I said about Simon were essentially true. He came from a long line of manic depressives, megalomaniacs, and megalomaniac depressives. Still, I had only hoped to get him off his whinging binge. Instead, my impromptu psychoanalysis produced a strained and heavy silence between us. Simon lapsed into sullen withdrawal and would speak only in monosyllabic grunts for the next seven hours. I carried out my navigational duties nevertheless, disregarding his sulk.

The map in my lap put us just south of Inverness. I turned from the window, and peered at the atlas under my thumb.

We were on the A82 approaching a village called Lochend.

The narrow body of the famous monster-bearing lake itself lay a hundred yards off to the right, invisible in the darkness.

«We should see some lights soon,» I said. «Three or four miles.»

I was still bent over the Bartholomew when Simon screamed. «Bloody hell!»

He hit the brakes and swerved. I was thrown against the door. My head thumped the window.

The car dry-skidded to a stop on the road. «Did you see it?» Simon yelled. «Did you see it?»

«Ow!» I rubbed my head. «See what? I didn't see anything.

Simon's eyes glinted wildly in the dim light. He jammed the gearshift into reverse, and the car began rolling backward. «It was one of those things!»

«Things? What things?»

«You know,» he said, twisting around to see out the rear window, «one of those mythical creatures.» His voice was shaky and his hands were trembling.

«A mythical creature-well, that certainly narrows it down.» I craned my neck to look out the back as well, but saw nothing. «What sort of mythical creature exactly?»

«Oh, for God's sake, Lewis!» he shouted, his voice rising hysterically. «Did you see it, or didn't you?»

«All right, calm down. I believe you.» Obviously, he had been driving far too long. «Whatever it was, it's gone now.»

I started to turn away and saw, fleetingly highlighted in the red-and-white glow of the tail lights, the ragged torso of a man. Rather, I saw the upper thigh and lower stomach, and part of an arm as it swung away and out of sight. Judging from the proportions, the body must have been gigantic. I only saw it for the briefest instant, but my strongest impression, the thing that stuck fast in my mind, was that of tree leaves.

«There!» bellowed Simon triumphantly, slamming on the brakes. «There it is again!» He tore at the door handle and burst from the car. He ran up the road a few yards.

«Simon! Get back here!» I yelled, and waited. The sound of his footsteps died away. «Simon?»

Hanging over the seatback, I peered out the rear window. I could not make out a thing beyond the few feet of tarmac illuminated by the tail lights. The engine purred quietly, and through the open car door I heard the sough of wind in the pines like the hissing of giant snakes.

I kept my eyes on the circle of light and presently glimpsed the rapid movement of an approaching figure. A moment later, Simon's face floated into view. He slid into the car, Slammed the door, and locked it. He put his hands on the Steering wheel, but made no other move.

«Well? Did you see anything?»

«You saw it, too, Lewis. I know you did.» He turned to face me. His eyes were bright, his lips drawn back over his teeth. I had never seen him so excited.

«Look, it happened so fast. I don't know what I saw. Let's just get out of here, okay?»

«Describe it.» His voice cracked with the effort it took to hold it level.

«Like I said, I don't think I cou-«