The Two Confessions by John Whitbourn (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

Samuel'svoice stumbled. ‘I've seen - half seen - it before.’

Spokesmannodded. ‘It located you some weeks ago and sent word. He or she has been yourfaithful companion ever since.’

Thatwas a concept Trevan refused to toy with. He resumed his seat before speaking.

‘Ithought it was the virgin suicides who found….’

‘Emissaries,not scouts,’ said the manipulated woman, in-between ecstatic gasps. ‘Abeautiful gesture to flush out our quarry.’

Samuelwondered at the choice of words: she was fairly flushed herself.

‘Theynow tup in Heaven,’ her partner reassured Trevan - as if he could care. ‘Do notworry for them.’

‘You...should not have known me,’ said Samuel, trying desperately to think thingsthrough. ‘Steps were taken....’

‘Andmost thorough ones,’ agreed Spokesman. ‘We were put to great pains. All mentionof you seemed gone from this world.’

‘Anda sicarii nipped off our enquiring fingers,’ said the digital lovemaker(appropriately enough).

‘So- we grew - our own – Samuel - Trevan.’

Theyoung woman was approaching climax now and spoke in short, breathless, bursts.She just assumed he would understand - or perhaps she had better things tothink about.

‘Showhim,’ said Spokesman, indulgently.

Therewas one figure at the feast, heavily shrouded and stock-still, who'd not spokenyet. Samuel hadn't queried that, only wishing they were all so amenable.

‘Stand!’ordered Spokesman - and for a moment Trevan thought he meant him.

Ina way he did. The quiet figure rose and allowed itself to be unwrapped. Samuelsaw that even the Bogomils were sickened.

Itwas him - more or less: mostly less. Removal of the coat and hat hinted at it;loss of the muffler made things crystal clear.

SamuelTrevan was in there somewhere, alongside bits of many others: all sortsof others; carelessly mixed. Numerous false-starts were either sterile-shiny orsealed off by cysts. Granted, all the correct features were present - but as ifthrown on from a distance. The creature seemed crushingly sorrowed to be alive.

‘Speak!’Spokesman commanded harshly.

Thepseudo-Trevan flinched. Then its crooked mouth split. There were teeth and gumsbut all misaligned. A thick tongue played over them.

‘SAM-U-WEL,’it mumbled, with botch-constructed chords, the very sound of cat-gut undertorture. ‘SAM-U-WEL TREE-VAN.’

‘Enough!’ordered Spokesman.

Againit cowered. Samuel realised they must have had to educate their creation fromscratch - and not been patient teachers.

Spokesmanleft his seat and crossed to behind the facsimile. He then looked across at thereal thing as he massaged the travesty's shoulders. It clearly wished to shrinkaway from him but dared not.

‘Eventhe most transitory of visits leaves calling cards,’ Spokesman explained. ‘Abrush against stone equals a flaking of skin; sweat or tears contain a certainessence of the self. Not even your Church's dousing of fire could expunge themall, not when a puissant god directed our swabs and tweezers. Flesh from otherscould then make up the great defect. Eventually, encouraged and fed with blood,these scraps of... you predominated. In time, you could even be coaxed to speak- and you said….’

Heapplied all his height and power to a cruel squeeze of the muscles beneath hisfingertips. The mock-Samuel bucked and lisped:

‘SAM-U-WEL!SAM-U-WEL TREE-VAN!’

Eachword equalled agony. The real Trevan didn't doubt old wounds were thusreopened. He even felt empathy - but directly stamped on it. Far better to becallous then admit kinship betwixt himself and... that.

‘Whichwas sufficient for our supernatural hound,’ said Spokesman, moderating hisgrip. ‘A name, a - rough and ready - likeness: it was enough. Thereby you wereat last found. We thought you might care to admire our handiwork.’

Samuelhad that glass of wine now. Lost Holy Land summers came back to life in hismouth and revived him.

‘Youthought wrong.’

‘Ohwell, no one is perfect,’ said Spokesman. ‘At least, not till they take thevow. In any case, we no longer need this poor copy.’

Andthen he said something indistinct. The guardian of the door sped forward in ashimmering of sparks struck from the air. It started to devour the secondSamuel.

Atfirst, the creation shrieked out its torment, but then a curt order compelledsilence. Trevan sought to avoid both watching and cowardice but failedon either count. Each time a large chunk was torn away by unseen teeth he hadto turn aside, but then the sounds of consumption drew him back. At the end hisdoppelganger turned pleadingly to him/itself, so Samuel was there to see thelight die in it/his eyes. Then they too were plucked out and went down into theelectric maw. Finally, the demonic thing moved on to a noisy lapping up of thepuddles and smears it had made.

Strangely,all Samuel found to think about was the mess and how it might be explained. Itwas his name on the invitations and menu.

‘MrWaterhouse, the manager, is a convert,’ Spokesman informed him: though Trevanhad not said a word. ‘He will not complain.’

Andthat was the most frightening thing of all. They had apparent access to histhoughts.

‘Youasked, albeit rhetorically,’ Spokesman ploughed on, smirking at Trevan'sdismay, ‘why you were here. I shall enlighten you. Destiny moves beneath yourfeet and propels you along like a tide. One may, of course, align oneself andswim with it, and so arrive faster. Or, as with you, one may even deny thereare such things as tides....’

Thatgot a group response from the devotees, too perverse and gloating to properlybe called laughter.

‘Butyou are swept along all the same.’ Spokesman enounced each word very clearly,most anxious that Trevan should understand.

‘Towhere?’ It happily occurred to Samuel that he'd spent his life swimming againstthe tide. A few more years wouldn't hurt. But then he suppressed the rebelliousthought lest it too should be read.

‘Youare the enemy of our enemy,’ answered Spokesman, albeit indirectly, ‘andtherefore our friend. You will bring Hell to Earth - oh yes you will - and thusencourage souls to our god.’

‘Andif I don't - won't? What then? That?’ Trevan indicated the remnant tracesof the constructed him.

Thevery notion seemed to horrify them.

‘Noindeed,’ said the post-orgasmic woman, now coiled languid and content in herchair. ‘You are our promised one; our future. We would hardly abort you!’

Spokesmansomehow curtailed their demon's dinner and had it re-attend the exit. Thedouble doors were sullenly flung open and crashed against panelled walls.Samuel's would-be masters (whatever they might say otherwise) were dismissinghim.

‘Goforth, blessed one,’ said Spokesman. ‘Be yourself - and so be ours!’

Trevanwasn't going to turn down the chance.