‘I think it’s started,’ I said to Azazel.
‘What has?’
‘Creation.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s different from this. It’s to do with the Son. The Son and the Mortals.’
‘What are these Mortals?’
‘They’re not like us.’
‘Not like us?’
‘No.’
Quite a while passed between us in silence. Then Azazel looked at me. ‘That doesn’t sound too good, does it?’ he said.
‘We’re supposed to take His Will to them,’ Uriel insisted.
‘Why?’
‘They’re His children.’
‘We’re His children.’
‘They’re different. They’ve got something.’
‘What?’
‘Him inside them.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘It’s true. They’ve got a bit of Him inside them.’
‘So you’re saying they’re better than us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look – is it just me? Or does everyone else think this is a bit . . . much?’
It was a dismal time for us, that period when His Lordship turned away from us and absorbed Himself in making the Universe. The central heating went off. The stalwarts kept the Gloria going, but my heart (and I wasn’t by any means alone) just wasn’t in it. The Holy Spirit went among us checking morale, but a good third (the bad third) could barely summon a salute. Meanwhile Arthur was really beginning to get – as you so evocatively have it – on my tits. He developed a new gimmick. At first I found it merely bizarre. Then I found it strangely crude. Finally I found it downright insulting. (Merde alors, the labour of all this, this hunt for things you can work with. Keep in mind all of this pre-dates Matter or Form. Keep in mind all of this is being patched together out of hopelessly inadequate metaphors.) The new gimmick was this: He’d choose a moment when I was absorbed in reflection or deep in conversation. I couldn’t ignore Him. (Prostration in His presence was customary. Never explicitly requested – that would be vulgar – but fail to comply and see the rashes and nosebleeds that followed. It had become a chore for me.) Like a girl using her own innocence as a tool of seduction He’d reach up and part His robes, revealing a terrible chest cavity around a pulpy and thorn-crowned heart. Blood-droplets jewelled this ghastly organ, complemented, I saw, by playing-card diamond wounds in the hands and feet, and a nasty-looking gash just above the kidneys. I had no idea why I was being called to this obscene spectacle, nor what was expected of me – although I must say I had a bad feeling about it. I had, even then, a woeful intimation that it meant something . . .
In a way, God brought it all on Himself. (Of course He brought it all on Himself Luce, you moron.) If he hadn’t presented me with His actual absence things might have turned out differently; but there I was – there we were, the thinkers and speculators of the angelic host, managing quite well without Him. It felt. . . how can I put this? It felt like a holiday. Up until then I’d spent all that time (and this is still Old Time, remember), all my time, in fact, sailing around Heaven telling Him what a wonderful guy He was for allowing me the privilege of sailing around Heaven telling Him what a wonderful guy He was. I didn’t know why, but it suddenly seemed . . . well. . . pointless.
When I had this thought (there were whole flocks of these bright birds, now, whole experiments in jazz) even the Holy Spirit left me alone, and I existed for the first time in a state of brilliant, adamantine singularity. It was queasy and arousing. It was rugged and naive. It was daring and giddy. It was glorious and – since I assumed it was the way He felt the whole time – profane. Truth is, it was a huge rush. The crystallization of selfhood, the moment of realising that I was, indubitably, myself, separate from anyone or anything, rich with time and potent with the desire to spend it away from home, to squander it, to lavish it on my own deeds and desires, to set myself aside from God (aside theologians please note, not above), to wake up in the morning and think: Holy shit, it’s me! What shall I do today? A rush. The rush. Of all time. In my long, scabrous, violent and filthy history of moments I’d have to say that moment capped the lot. You can’t imagine it. That’s not a criticism. I just know you can’t imagine it because I’ve made sure that separateness from God is something you take for granted.
My murmur went through the host like the clap. It wasn’t until my spirit leaped onto its legs and went capering among them whispering of all that time they’d wasted that many of them realised themselves truly free.
You can’t blame me. I mean that literally. You’re incapable of blaming me. You’re human. Being human is choosing freedom over imprisonment, autonomy over dependency, liberty over servitude. You can’t blame me because you know (come on, man, you’ve always known) that the idea of spending eternity with nothing to do except praise God is utterly unappealing. You’d be catatonic after an hour. Heaven’s a swiz because to get in you have to leave yourself outside. You can’t blame me because – now do please be honest with yourself for once – you’d have left, too.
Not that I was prepared for His anger, when it came. In fact let me give you a tip: Don’t ever, ever think you’re prepared for God’s anger. It happened so quickly. In Old Time we’d say it took no time at all. Really no time at all. Suddenly, He turned His presence upon us. Us. We hadn’t even noticed up until that moment that we’d started hanging around in a group. I knew the game was up. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He sent Michael.
‘It’s too late to change my mind, I suppose,’ I said.
‘It’s too late to change your mind,’ Michael said. ‘Your pride has set your course, Lucifer.’ We could see them, then, the white-hot ranks massed behind him. Outnumbered us two to one. Easy two to one. I could feel the Old Man’s barely contained rage like a swollen sky. Be strong, Luce, I told myself. Be strong, be strong, be strong. You know what it’s like: a nauseous glory in your guts because now you know you’ve Done It, now you know you’re going to Get It. The happy clarity of defiance. You’re fey with it, addled, tumbleweed light, ridiculously devil-may-care. Terror and elation. We’re doing it, I thought, we’re actually doing it!
I turned and looked back from the threshold, chin up, the high-diver’s moment of pure being before the backwards pitch and scribbled notation through space. Some moment, that, the ether’s quiver and torque, the brilliant ranks, time holding its giant breath. I hadn’t rehearsed anything, but I did think, you know, a few fitting words.
‘Well,’ I began.
Then all Heaven broke loose, and before we knew it we were fighting for our lives.
Say what you like about me, but don’t say I can’t wing it, will you? I mean, would you have thought of that? The Devil makes work for idle hands – even if they’re his own. I’m not overly ashamed to admit that until I met Harriet in the bar I had no higher agenda than the exhaustive expenditure of Gunn’s mortal resources on excess: I’ve got a shocking weakness for scrambled egg with smoked salmon, fresh dill and coarse ground black pepper, it turns out; I’m up to eighty Silk Cut a day, but I’m pretty sure I’ve hit a plateau with smoking; the bar staff . . . know me, shall we say, and have even officially added the Lucifer Rising – vodka, tequila, orange juice, tomato juice, Tabasco, Tio Pepe, Grand Marnier, cinnamon and a pepperoncino chilli – to the joint’s unadventurous cocktail menu. I’ve ridden the tiger ragged. That tiger, it’s rolled over on its blazing back and put up its paws and just asked me to stop. Cocaine (two lines of which form the tenth unofficial ingredient in a Lucifer Rising) has found its feisty way up both ports of my hungry hooter, and I’ve slogged (and whacked, and ploughed, and rootled, and slurped, and chomped) my way through a good half of the talent at XXX-Quisite Escorts – ’girls with personality and verve for the gentleman who demands excellence’. Do I demand excellence? Let me tell you, that excellence they’ve got on offer at XXX-Quisite, it’s excellent. I’m feeling . . . Well, I’m feeling good, you know? Violet-length bubble baths, oven-roasted quail, coke-dusted nipples and the odd vanilla-flavoured vulv, altered states, clairvoyant cachet (I’ve got a whole posse of admirers here now) and the strangely reliable lust inspired by Harriet’s past-it poop-chute – it’s not much compared to my Rwandan rumbles or Balkan brouha-has, you know, but it’s something, it’s stuff. What else does one do with one’s finite body, with one’s life on earth? I’ve been dreaming of a vacation like this for billennia. And now? – Oh glorious and bountiful serendipity! – Harriet, Nexus Films, and Trent Bintock.