Evensong

Unconsciously—he never used his famous charm cynically—Taber put on his I’m Listening face. “If I can. What is it?”

“Your faith.” Jones hefted his rifle angrily. “I’ve never had a faith, either before or after I was diagnosed. Why do you?”

“The answer’s in the question. It’s my faith. It’s what I believe.”

Jones snorted derisively and was about to turn away without replying, but something in the way Taber returned his gaze—maybe the charm was starting to work—made him respond. “Alright, so it’s what you believe. So does God give you certainty?”

Surprisingly, Taber laughed out loud. “That’s the last thing God gives me. God shows me some wonderful unexpectedness.” Despite the tension, some members of the congregation rolled their eyes. They’d heard this one before.

But Jones hadn’t. “Unexpectedness?”

“Yes, unexpectedness. Let me tell you a story...”

“A true story?”

“Not yet. This is set in the distant future. Humanity has at last found the actual, physical location of God. It is at the edge of the known universe, billions of light-years away. No human could survive the journey, so they send a robotic probe. Even with faster-than-light travel, the journey takes years, and tension mounts over the centuries: What will the probe find? Eventually it completes the journey, and its robot voice calls back, from the edge of the universe, telling them that it has found God. That it now knows God’s nature and identity.

“And do you know what it said, in answer to all their questions? She’s black. And an atheist.”

Some of the congregation, the minority who hadn’t heard it before, laughed. So did Jones and a couple of his colleagues.

Taber decided to leave it there for now. A small bit of rapport gained, but better not to overdo it.

The British Heart Foundation was more difficult. The CEO refused to take individual responsibility for the money, and insisted on contacting Board members, despite Rani Desai muttering darkly about having a heart attack herself. Eventually the necessary acceptances were obtained, and still within an hour, though the process had threatened to overrun. Rani Desai made the electronic transfer, and sent Jones’ wristcom the screen showing the transaction.

“Good,” said Jones. “You see, that’s why we need a generous time allowance. Things like this are bound to happen...

And we didn’t look like we were going to start shooting hostages, did we?”

“No.” She wanted to point out that there was no question of shooting anyway, as the hour hadn’t been exceeded, but felt it was best to let him have that one. She didn’t think he’d react irrationally if provoked, but she wasn’t sure.

“And you’ll remember what I said about those people outside, won’t you?”

“Yes. As long as the hostages are unharmed.”

“Then I think we have a reasonable working arrangement. Now...two down, nine to go. Number Three is the Multiple Sclerosis Research Trust. It’s now...ah, nearly midnight: 11:57 p.m. You have one hour.”

“Turn yourself in,” Taber said suddenly to Jones, a couple of minutes later.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If you won’t turn yourself in, turn yourself into someone else. Do this some other way. Don’t threaten innocent people.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not tell them all the eleven on your list now?”

“Because we’re the ones with the guns, and this is how we want to do it.”

“You mean how your employers want you to do it. You’re no terrorists. They hired you to make some point for them. What is it? And who are they?”

Jones didn’t answer. The cathedral clock chimed. The last September night became the first October morning.

“Number eleven is different, isn’t it?” Taber continued. “We’ll hit number eleven about eight in the morning, when the other ten have been done. When everyone will be getting up, and will hear it on the news.”

“You’re quite smart.”

“So is Rani Desai. You think she hasn’t come to the same conclusion?”

“Doesn’t matter. They won’t come in as long as we have the explosives rigged, and as long as we haven’t killed anyone. They’ll play it out rather than risk lives, because our demands are so easy. Exactly the way we pitched them.”

“‘Play it out’ is right.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Watching you and the others here, all this feels staged. Like a performance. And maybe I’d have the same feeling if I could see Rani Desai and her people. Maybe they’re acting, too.”

Jones smiled ruefully. “You’re wasted here, Dean Taber. But you’re only half right. It’s real enough for them outside.”

Other charities followed. They included The Alzheimers Society, The Brain Tumour Trust, The Muscular Dystrophy Research Campaign, and The British Neurological Research Trust. By seven in the morning, the first morning of October, they reached number ten on the list: The Society of Friends.