Michael raised his gun and considered the possibility of disobeying her and giving up the ghost. In the end he listened to a deeper, protesting voice telling him to do what she said. Was this the selfish ego she had spoken of, prompted by fear?
The barrel was equipped with a silencer. It made hardly a noise, only a sort of thud that he recognized from countless American films. It was much easier than he had thought.
The soft-nosed bullet shredded it utterly, leaving a trail of blood and gore. One moment there was a puppy there, jumping about. And then there was no puppy.
As soon as he’d fired the weapon and completed his task, one of the fur-robed girls tottered up to him and took his weapon away.
With a hum, the glass tube sank back into its recess in the floor. Mama Maggot stood up. “And so, Michael, now it is time to ask ourselves the question; is it more painless to die cleanly than it is to live in pain?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, but I think you are beginning to learn. I didn’t know you were such a good boy, Michael. I suspected that I would never see you again outside this room. I suspected it.” She smiled as if she was pleased that she’d be seeing an awful lot more of him. Pursing her lips, she continued: “I don’t know what you’re repressing, you ought to just feel it and do it… you know? Feel it and do it, in that order. You know why? Because you’re okay, that’s why.”
When he heard his own words repeated to him, he looked up and was properly afraid for the first time.
18
After a few days of training, Michael was again woken one night at about two or three. Janine was standing over him, insistently shaking his shoulder.
“What is this place?” he grumbled. “The house of no sleep?”
“You’re not shooting dogs tonight,” said Janine with a troubled gaze.
Nervously he put on a clean white robe hanging on the door, then followed her outside. Dim solar powered lamps marked out the path down to the main house, but Janine climbed the hill and he followed without question.
Fifty meters below, they could make out the lit-up, screened-off terrace, where an orgy was in process. A band was playing flutes, sitars, cymbals, and tabla drums.
“So these five people have been tricked? They’re being maggotized?” he said.
“They’re being co-opted, yes.”
“Is that kind?”
“Kind.” She stared at him, shaking her head at his baffling stupidity. “I don’t think your training is working. What kind of sugar-coated Disneyland do you live in?”
“I think it’s just called normal life.”
“Ha! There’s no normal life for you, my friend. Not anymore.”
“I’m not your friend. And you’re not mine. Not after what you did to me.”
“What did I do?”
“You brought me here.”
They smoked in silence, watching as the Tantric ceremony below reached its apogee, with wails and frantic drumming. “I suppose,” said Janine, who seemed to feel she had to qualify his accusation, “we all have to deal with our mortality, whatever we are: maggot people, flesh-heads, fuckwits, normals. We’re all in the same boat. Look around you; look at the world full of people sleeping their way through life. When they die it scarcely matters because they weren’t really born in the first place and they never opened their eyes. You’re awake, you could try to be happy about it. And I’m wide awake and I have no intention of dying.”
“That’s just selfish.”
She stood up and stubbed out her cigarette. “Idealist. Come on.” She led him down the hill. “Where are we going?”
“Sorry. She asked for you,” said Janine, racing backwards into her obscure universe of self-justification.
They came to a circular stone building without windows. Mama Maggot was standing outside. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked a sturdy wooden door leading into what looked like a brewery. There was a large metal tank with a thick Perspex cover and a system of pipes and filters leading up through the ceiling. The tank was full to the rim with white, churning maggots. Beyond the faint hum of generators and fans, one could just about make out the slight hissing sound of their bodies rubbing together.
Michael shivered: he would have liked to pour gasoline on them and torch the little bastards.
“Hear that?” said Mama. “In spite of all your aggression, your hatred and your vengeance, I’ll explain it to you. This is actually the song of the maggot. Shakespeare knew it well. He eulogized the maggot; it was the great leveler to him. He referred to it as the worm; did you know that?”
“Sort of,” said Michael.
“To Shakespeare the worm was always a symbol of what lies beyond. And the ultimate meaningless of anything we try to do on this Earth. Whether we’re kings or paupers there will always be a worm waiting for us, even from the very moment of our birth. You, for instance; as usual your mind is absorbed with self-importance. But do you have any idea of how long you are destined to stay here among us?”
“No one does.”
“That’s right. No one does. Only I know. I know how much time should be allotted to everyone and that is why people do what I tell them to do. I make a judgment on their viability.” Her fish-eyes revolved as she chuckled and held up a key. “In our group we refer to this as the passepartout, the master key. Shall I show you why?” She smiled with genuine amusement. “For goodness sake don’t be so afraid, Michael; it’s only your little life at stake, your little ego. The world will still be here after you’ve gone.” He felt his hackles rise, but before he could say anything, she put her hand on his wrist and squeezed. “If you want to live, Michael, do what I say. And don’t use bad language.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Bad thoughts are a hundred times worse than words and you are a very transparent sort. Also a very lucky one. You’re due for renewal and I’m going to give it to you.”
“Renewal?”
“Shut up,” said Janine. “Listen to her.”
“There’s a cycle,” said Mama. “So we’ve learnt to breed the maggots and keep them in perfect condition.” She walked over to the vat and peered inside with an expert eye. “This batch is perfect. Very young and pristine, very healthy, with a life expectancy of around fifteen years. Are you interested, Michael?”
He flushed. “I’m not getting this. What do I have to do?”
She grabbed him by the neck. “Look, my friend. I’ve got the measure of you, I know how to determine a person when I see him and you don’t have much time, you’ve used up too much of it with all your narcotics and drink. In a month or two they’ll stop moving inside you and then you’ll be gone. Why do you think Janine is still alive?” She looked across at Janine, who grew pale. “Because she does what we say and we reward her.”
There was a long silence with nothing but the indistinct hissing from the vat, which seemed to be growing in intensity. Michael peered over at Janine, standing to one side with her face deferentially turned to the ground.
“So. What I’d like you to do now is undress and come here.”
Janine whispered urgently: “Hurry up!”
Michael took off his robe and left it folded on the floor.
To one side of the vat was a strange adjustable rack, with two padded, curved prongs that fitted comfortably round one’s neck. Michael reversed into it, and Mama adjusted the height of the prong so that it held his cranium tightly. There was a metal-tipped nozzle attached to a heavy duty rubber hose, which she sprayed with some sort of lubricant, then fed it unceremoniously into his anal cavity.