'Dad,' said Martin, more quietly. 'I'm not leaving. I'm staying here. I'm happy. This is what I want. Dad - this is what I want more than anything else in the whole world.'

Mme Musette stroked Martin's head once more. 'You see, Charlie? He's determined.'

'I'm still d.a.m.ned if I'm going to sacrifice him for you.'

'Well, we'll see about that,' replied M. Musette. 'We do have ways of making people do what we want. Not painful ways, mind you! We managed to bring you here simply by making it difficult for you. I could see what an obstinate man you were, right from the moment I first met you. Tragedy and failure usually make people grow obstinate.'

Charlie said nothing. Robyn came up and took hold of his 328.

hand, and said, 'Come on, Charlie, let's leave it for now. While there's life there's hope.'

'You're right, my dear,' said M. Musette. 'And after death, there is glory.'

Reluctantly, Charlie allowed himself to be led away. They visited the remaining eleven disciples, who were housed in what used to be the farm's feed store. All of them were already mutilated, some of them severely. Dulled by disgust, Charlie and Robyn were introduced to a seventeen-year-old girl without legs or b.r.e.a.s.t.s or ears; a twenty-two-year-old boy who had amputated his entire body below the waist, and who was being fed intravenously; and a stunningly good-looking woman of twenty-seven, who had cut off and eaten her own feet. The building smelled strongly of bile and antiseptic, and there were seven nurses and two doctors in constant attendance, keeping these pathetic sc.r.a.ps of human meat alive and conscious for one more day.

What Charlie and Robyn found most disconcerting, however, was the cheerfulness of everybody in the building, Devotees and staff alike. There was almost a carnival atmosphere, and most of the disciples were singing hymns and spirituals and laughing as if to cut oneself into pieces was the happiest privilege they had ever been given.

Charlie stood in front of the woman with no feet for a very long time, while she hummed 'Michael, Row The Boat Ash.o.r.e'. After a while, he said, 'Could I ask you your name?'

'Of course,' she said. 'My name's Janet. You're Martin's father, aren't you? I saw you in Connecticut.'

'Janet,' said Charlie, ignoring her question. 'Can you tell me why you're doing this? Can you explain to me what it is that has made you mutilate yourself this way?'

Janet's eyes were bright. 'I'm giving myself to Jesus. What better reason could I have than that?'

'Do you have a family? Parents? A husband?'

'I'm married, with two small children. A boy and a girl.'

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'And don't you think your family needs you?'

'Jesus needs me more.'

Charlie talked to two or three more disciples, but each time he found their devotion to the Celestines impossible to penetrate. They were like gentle, loving lunatics, who had discovered a dangerous but different reality, and could never be persuaded that what they were doing was madness.

Outside the disciples' building, Robyn said to M. Musette, 'They all believe in it, don't they? I mean, they all believe in it without one shadow of a doubt.'

'They believe in it because they know it to be true,' M. Musette replied. 'Besides, what else does the world have to offer them? Money, perhaps. But not much more. Everybody has to have spiritual goals, if they're going to be happy. If you give people a spiritual goal, their life is transformed, and you can never persuade them to go back to the time when their ambitions were circ.u.mscribed by material greed. Once you have felt Jesus's seamless robe brushing against your face while you sleep; once you have heard Him murmur in your ear, you are won over for ever!'

'I think Sergeant Dupree put it all in a nutsh.e.l.l,' said Charlie. 'He said you were a fruitcake.'

M. Musette smiled. 'Sergeant Dupree has to do what he is told, by his superiors. As long as he does what he is told, he can think whatever he likes.'

Now they walked back across the farmyard towards the main building. 'The last part of the guided tour,' announced M. Musette. 'Then we must retire to meditate and to pray, and to prepare everything for tomorrow.'

He led them back into the corridor, and into the room where the trestle tables were all laid out. 'This way.' He beckoned them, and he took them across the room and along another shorter corridor. At the end of this corridor, to Charlie's deep alarm, there were two stainless steel doors, with circular porthole windows.

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'The kitchen,' he whispered. 'The ritual kitchen.'

'Yes,' said Mme Musette, who was right behind him 'But why are you hanging back? The kitchen is the most fascinating part of our tour.'

'I don't want to go in there,' said Charlie.

'You must,' M. Musette told him. 'How can you understand what is going to happen here tomorrow unless you see the kitchen?'

'I don't want to go in there, that's all.'

Robyn took hold of his hand. 'Come on, Charlie, you'll be all right.'

'Yes, come on, Charlie,' M. Musette mimicked. 'It's only a kitchen, you know.'

'I had a nightmare about it,' said Charlie. His legs refused to move forward.

'We all have nightmares,' said M. Musette. 'The only way to break their spell is to confront them in reality.'

'But I saw those same doors in my dream, those same stainless steel doors with those circular windows.'

M. Musette shrugged. 'In that case, you must have considerable powers of clairvoyance. Come along now, you mustn't miss this for anything.'

Charlie allowed Robyn to drag him towards the kitchen doors. M. Musette deliberately heightened the suspense by standing with his hands flat on the door, pausing before he pushed them open. 'Are you ready?' he asked. 'There will be no blood. We haven't started the ritual yet."

He opened the doors and marched ahead of them into the kitchen. Charlie and Robyn followed, still holding hands, and Mme Musette came behind.

The kitchen was almost fifty feet square. It was tiled in white, with a single green band running around it, and it was artificially lit with fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. In the centre of the room, there were twelve tables with stainless steel tops and gutters running all the way around them.

Charlie had seen tables like that before, in Quincy, They were similar to the tables used for autopsies, and the gutters allowed the bodily fluids to run off into the drains.

At the far end of the kitchen, there was a gas-fired range, large enough to serve a small hotel. Hanging up over the burners, there were rows of aluminium pots and pans, bains-maries, woks, colanders, and ladles.

They walked between the tables, their faces dully reflected in the stainless steel surfaces, like people who had drowned under ice. Each table was equipped with a full selection of Victorinox knives, butcher's saws, and surgical scalpels. There was also equipment for medical emergencies: oxygen, dressings, and electronic resuscitators in case of cardiac arrest. Each table was also provided with a large tilting mirror, so that the Devotees could see what they were doing while they amputated their own limbs.

'I feel sick,' said Charlie, looking around. 'This is even worse than my nightmare. This is worse because it's real.'

'I'm amazed that your Devotees can actually stand the shock and the pain of cutting off their own arms and legs,' Robyn remarked to M. Musette. Charlie thought, here she goes again, once a newspaper reporter, always a newspaper reporter.

M. Musette trailed his fingertips across the surface of one of the tables. 'The human body is a remarkable thing, Ms Harris. You may talk about worms being cut in half, and still wriggling away. But you can cut a human body down to practically nothing, you can cut a grown man down so small that you can carry him under your arm like a dog, and still he survives! And, of course, each time a man is reduced in size, his heart has less work to do, pumping blood around the length and breadth of his circulatory system, so the body in actual fact grows stronger and more capable of survival, right up until the very last coup. You know, there was a sideshow freak called Prince Randian, born without arms and legs. He lived until he was sixty-three, and fathered four children.'

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'But how do they stand the pain?' asked Robyn.

'All pain is relative,' said M. Musette. 'These Devotees are reaching for spiritual ecstasy, they feel very little pain. Some of them revel in it.'

'And what about you?' asked Charlie, looking at M. Musette keenly. 'You're supposed to be transformed tomorrow, aren't you? You're supposed to turn into Jesus Christ. Aren't you frightened?'

M. Musette turned to Mme Musette and gave her a smile. 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' he said. 'He is more than welcome to live inside of me.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Charlie couldn't sleep at all that night. Apart from his fear of what was going to happen in the morning, there was constant activity throughout the church compound as the Celestines prepared themselves for the second coming. Charlie heard shouting and laughing and hymn-singing, and at about two o'clock in the morning, somebody started playing a guitar. He stood by the darkened window of his room, watching the moon slowly slide across the sky. All he could see was the row of pecan trees and the corner of the building where Martin was being held. He tried reaching Martin by telepathy - by concentrating all his thoughts into making Martin wake up and realize what he was going to do - but there was no response.

He sat on his bed and bent his head forward and prayed. He hadn't prayed like this since he was a child, sitting next to his father at the Episcopalian Church on Sunday mornings, smelling the pipe tobacco on his father's suit, and staring down at his polished brown shoes.

O Lord, save me from this predicament. 0 Lord preserve my son. Whatever you want of me, you can have it. Just don't let Martin die.

The moon vanished behind the pecans and soon the sky began to lighten. He had prayed that time would stand still, and that this morning would never come. But by seven o'clock the sky was firmly blue and the sun was shining across the whitewashed buildings. At seven-thirty, the man with the close-cropped hair brought Charlie a cup of black coffee and two wholemeal breadrolls, with jack cheese.

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'A happy day for you, huh?' Charlie asked him, as he set the food down on top of the bedside locker.

The man looked at him without expression, and left.

Charlie drank his coffee but he couldn't manage to swallow any bread. He went to the window again to see if there was any activity around Martin's building, but it appeared to be deserted. He couldn't even see Ben, who had been sitting outside guarding it for most of the night. Perhaps they had taken Martin to the main building already.

At nine o'clock, the man with the close-cropped hair came back and said. 'The rituals are about to begin. M. Musette wants you to come now.'

Without a word, .Charlie put on his jacket and b.u.t.toned it up. Then he followed the man outside. In spite of the sunshine, the morning was quite cold. His breath smoked in the damp air as he walked towards the main building. As they reached the doors, Charlie could hear singing. '0 G.o.d, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come . . .'

The man took hold of his elbow and guided him into the main room. Overnight, there had been a transformation. The walls of the room were now hung with yellow and gold banners, and the tables were set with plates and gla.s.ses and silver cutlery, and beautifully arranged centrepieces of flowers. Every table was crowded with Celestine Guides, dressed in plain white-hooded robes - businessmen, bankers, musicians, television producers, fashion models, writers, salesmen, mechanics - men and women from a rainbow of backgrounds. Charlie recognized several famous media faces as he was ushered between the tables to the end of the room. He saw at least one well-known politician, and a singer whose records he had once bought, and right at the end of the table next to the kitchen doors, Sheriff Norman Podmore, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in prayer.

Charlie was taken to the end of the centremost table, facing the white-draped altar. M. Musette was kneeling at the altar 335.

in prayer, flanked on one side by Mme Musette, and on the other side by one of the Guides from L'figlise des Anges in New Orleans. Sunlight fell from the clerestory windows high above, and an electronic organ softly played an inspirational interlude before the next hymn.

The man with the close-cropped hair said, 'Wait there,' and left Charlie standing a little way behind M. Musette. As Charlie stood there, his hands down by his sides, it occurred to him that he could jump on M. Musette and seize him around the throat and strangle him. But he probably wasn't strong enough to do it - even if he did manage to fend off the bodyguards -and he wouldn't have a chance at all of helping Martin if he screwed up. So he remained where he was, feeling tense and jittery, while M. Musette continued to pray, and the organ continued to pour out 'Jesus Wants Me That I Know.'

At last, M. Musette stood up, and came across to Charlie. It was uncanny, but he did almost look as if he were possessed of a great inner light. He was certainly happy, and at peace with himself. He took hold of Charlie's arm and led him to the table. 'The proud father,' he said. 'G.o.d bless this day, and G.o.d bless you.'

'G.o.d bless you, too, you maniac,' said Charlie. But M. Musette was quite beyond insults now. He stood at the head of the table, and beamed at Charlie on his left, and Mme Musette on his right, and the surrounding company of Cel-estines.

'In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I bless this meal, which is to be eaten in the sure and certain knowledge of the resurrection of our Saviour.'

'Amen,' chorused the Celestines. Charlie swallowed, because his mouth felt so dry.

'Please, sit,' M. Musette invited him. 'You are about to eat the meal of your life.'

Charlie said, 'Oh, no. Not a chance. I'm not going to eat that stuff.'

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'That would be very impolite of you, as well as impious,' said Mme Musette. She was dressed almost like a nun, with a starched wimple. 'This meal is the product of one thousand times one thousand lives. It is the true reflection of the Last Supper. How can you refuse to take part in the sacrament? And how can you let down your son? This is your son's day of glory!'

Charlie reached across for the cut-gla.s.s water jug and poured himself a large gla.s.s of cold water. He drank it without saying a word. He had promised himself during the night that he wouldn't allow the Musettes to provoke him. He had to think clearly and logically and be prepared to act at a split-second's notice.

'Don't worry,' said M. Musette, laying his hand on top of his wife's two fingers. 'Mr McLean is a connoisseur. Once he has tasted long pig for the first time, he will be hooked for ever.'

'Long pig?' asked Charlie. 'What's that?'

'Just my little joke,' said M. Musette. 'Long pig is the euphemism the Caribs used for human flesh. You see, the trouble with human flesh is that it tastes so very good. Well cooked, it is rich and firm, and better than the very best beef. It is illegal to eat it only because those who have tasted it always long for more. It's a fact, historically proven! Take that poor Australian convict who escaped with his fellow prisoners from MacQuarie Harbour. He ended up eating them, to stay alive; but once he had tasted human flesh, he killed people deliberately so that he could get more. The Donner party who were stranded in the Sierras ate the bodies of those who died, and one Mr Keseberg was found boiling the liver and lungs of a young boy in a pot, even though he had left whole legs of oxen untouched. The ox-meat, he said, was too dry eating.'

Charlie glanced from M. Musette to Mme Musette, and then quickly searched around to see if he could see where Robyn was. At last he caught sight of her two tables away, and 337.

she looked as sick and as tired and miserable as he did. M. Musette, undeterred by Charlie's inattention, continued to tell him about modern-day cannibalism.

'Look at those boys who were stranded in the Andes after that airplane crash! They ate their friends, and they were haunted afterward by what they had done. But sometimes in the darkness of the night the craving comes and the craving is like a drug! It is irresistible! It is not only gastronomic, but erotic - and this is quite apart from its powerful spiritual significance. Many primitive tribes used to eat the brains and the hearts of their dead fathers and mothers in order that they should inherit their intelligence and their strength. The Fore people of Eastern New Guinea still do it today - only they tend to be less than fastidious about hygiene, and they suffer quite frequently from a progressive and fatal disease called kuru. No chances of contracting kuru today, I hasten to add. All the meat will be fresh and clean!'

Charlie closed his eyes. He prayed that when he opened them again he would be somewhere else, and that his encounter with the Celestines would have proved to have been nothing but a long and troublesome nightmare. But he could not block his ears, either to the low burbling of conversation all around him, or to M. Musette's persistent monologue about the delights of human flesh. Eventually he opened his eyes again to find Mme Musette smiling at him like a sister of mercy. If only she were.

'Come now,' said M. Musette, bristling with enthusiasm, 'now that I have said grace, you may accompany me to the kitchens.'

Charlie said, 'I'd rather stay here, if it's all the same to you.'

'Charlie,' M. Musette insisted, in a low and threatening voice, 'you may accompany me to the kitchens.'

Charlie took a deep breath, then pushed back his chair. 'I'm warning you now, if any harm comes to Martin or Miss Harris ...'

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M. Musette linked arms with him. 'What will you do? Strangle me with your bare hands?'

Charlie felt an odd little chill. That was exactly what he had been thinking about doing, only a few moments before. He began to wonder if there was something spiritual about M. Musette - if all his years of eating human flesh had invested him with an extra sense of psychic perception. After all, if so many tribes had believed in eating human flesh in order to acquire the brains and the strength of the people they had devoured, maybe there was something in it.

Or maybe M. Musette and his followers were all deranged; and Charlie was becoming deranged too.

M. Musette said, 'I heard this morning about M. Fontenot. They found his body in a bayou, drowned. Accidental death, that's what they said,' He squeezed Charlie's arm uncomfortably tight. 'He was one of my dearest friends, Fontenot. I just thought you might like to know that. His death is very painful to me.'

Charlie said nothing. If M. Musette was psychic enough to be able to work out that M. Fontenot had died trying to chase after him, then there was nothing he could do to conceal it. If he wasn't, then Charlie certainly wasn't going to admit it.

They approached the kitchen doors. The windows were black, like tunnels going to nowhere at all, tunnels that never ended. From inside the kitchen Charlie could hear the clattering of knives and the dull ringing sound of saucepans, and something else. Grunts, and suffocated cries, and the spasmodic rasping of saws.

'I can't go in,' he told M. Musette. His face felt as if it had no blood in it at all.

M. Musette tugged at his arm, coaxing, threatening. 'You must. This is what you came for. This is what you came to see. This is what you have been pursuing so hotly, both asleep and awake.'

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Charlie swallowed but his throat was utterly dry. 'I can't go in.'