But Derek wasn't a Runie, nor was he a Christian. Nor was he anything else. But now, in his hour of need and his hour of loss, he really truly wished that he was.
Derek rose from his bed and locked his bedroom door, then he cleared a space on the carpet and knelt down in that space.
'Dear God,' prayed Derek. 'I expect you're a bit surprised to hear from me. Although if you know everything, then I suppose you're not. But I do want to ask you a favour. I know that people only pray to you when they want something. So that's why I'm praying to you. But you know that anyway. And it's not for me. Well, it is, sort of. But mostly it's for someone else. It's for Kelly. Kelly Anna Sirjan. One of your flock. I love her, God, and I miss her so much. Being away from her breaks my heart and I'm so afraid that something terrible has happened to her. And you'd know if it has. And if it has, will you please do something about it? Will you please bring her back to me, God? If you do, I promise that I'll try not to be such a prat in future. And not greedy. In fact I've got ten thousand pounds here and I'll give it all to charity. To the society for small and shoeless boys in need of a good hiding, or something. Anything you want, just you name it. I know it's not really my money, but you can have it. Please bring Kelly back to me unharmed. Please God, I beg you. Please. Amen. Love, Derek.'
And having prayed, Derek felt a lot better. No less fretful and no less worried, but a lot better in himself that he had prayed and so was, beneath all the greed and prattishness, ultimately a good person.
And, he noticed now, he was also a very hungry person, having not eaten a single thing all day. And a very thirsty person too.
So Derek went out again. Finally found a pub that he hadn't been thrown out of for raving, and as it was now too late in the evening to order a surf and turf, ordered ten packets of crisps instead and drank a great deal of Scotch.
And finally, crisp-filled and drunken, Derek staggered home, set his alarm clock, with inebriated care, for seven o'clock the following morning and dropped down, fully clothed and smelling bad and very stubbly now indeed, upon his single bed.
He did not sleep the sleep of the blessedly drunk. Derek slept the tossing terrible sleep of the sweating tossing troubled. Horrible dreams tormented him.
Kelly under attack from something monstrous. Something that was all-consuming, everywhere. A black spiralling, tangling network of worms and snakes and evil curly things. And Derek was powerless to help her. He was on the outside of something and she was deep within. It was all too terribly terrible. And rather awful as well.
Alarm bells rang and rang and rang.
And Derek awoke to find his alarm clock ringing.
It was Monday morning.
Seven of the clock.
And Derek knew, just knew, that this was going to be the worst day of his life.
'Kelly,' he whispered. 'Kelly, where are you? Please come back to me, Kelly. Please God, send her back to me. Kelly, oh Kelly, where are you?'
21
Kelly was no longer anywhere in particular.
When she performed the foolish, but purposeful, dance that Shibboleth had bobbed and bounced before her and vanished into wherever he vanished into, her first thoughts had been that she would very likely not be dancing out again.
She had put her trust in Shibboleth, and Kelly felt that this was probably a mistake. Normally she trusted but one person in the world. And this one person was Kelly Anna Sirjan.
Bright light opened up before her. A sky of blue with a big fat smiley sun. And chorusing sparrows on treetop perches. And snoozing tomcats and all. She was standing in the Butt's Estate, upon the area of grass before the Seamen's Mission.
'Brentford,' she said. 'I am back in Brentford.'
Kelly was not back in Brentford.
'I'm not back in Brentford,' she continued. 'This isn't Brentford. It's wrong.'
'Which bit is wrong?' The old man sat upon a bench. He smiled a toothless smile at Kelly. 'Which bit don't you like, my little dear?'
'Little dear?' Kelly viewed the ancient. He had the look of a man who had once been someone. Even though his frame was sunken under the weight of many years, there was still an alertness in that face. A fearsome intelligence. A vitality.
He was dressed in what had once been an expensive suit of Boleskine green tweed mix. It hung from his shoulders and its trouser cuffs draggled in the dirt.
'What immediately strikes you as wrong?' the ancient asked.
'All,' said Kelly. 'It isn't real. It's a simulation.'
The ancient fellow nodded, withered dewlaps dangled, turkey fashion.
Kelly's composure was remarkable. 'Where is Shibboleth?' she asked.
'The bad boy who entered before you? He is no longer part of the game.'
'Game?' Kelly looked down at the oldster. There was something familiar about him. She'd seen that face before, somewhere. But younger. Oh yes, of course.
'Mr Remington Mute,' said Kelly Anna Sirjan.
'Kelly Anna Sirjan,' said Mr Remington Mute.
Kelly approached Mr Mute. 'I have much to say to you,' she said.
'I trust you also have much to ask me, little dear. Aren't you puzzled as to your whereabouts?'
Kelly managed a smile. 'I didn't know what to expect,' she said. 'But I didn't expect that whatever it was would be real. I thought perhaps some simulation of a cathedral with a great Net-serving computer system up on the high altar.'
'That's a bit old hat,' said Remington Mute. 'And I should know, I wear an old hat myself.'
'And are you real?' Kelly asked. 'If I were to reach out and punch your old face, would you dissolve, or would you hit the deck?'
'I fear that I'd hit the deck,' said Remington Mute. 'But I wouldn't recommend that you employ your Dimac, you are in my world now.'
'And are you happy in your world, Mr Mute?'
The ancient stretched out his arms. Hideous joint-cracking sounds issued from them. 'No,' said Remington Mute. 'Things have not gone quite as well as I might have wished.'
Kelly stood, swaying gently upon her holistic footwear. Somehow this didn't seem the time for a cosy chat. This seemed the time for action. Although exactly what that action should be, she didn't know.
'Raring to go, aren't you?' said Remington Mute. 'Do you want me to set you off running? I could give you something to fight.'
'Where is Shibboleth?' Kelly asked. 'What have you done with him?'
'Would finding Shibboleth be good for a goal? Could we make a game out of that, do you think? You as a warrior princess with a sacred sword, or perhaps you'd rather be a ninja?'
'So that's it then,' said Kelly. 'I'm inside your go mango game.'
'Or go womango?' Remington Mute laughed noisily, the sound resembling that of pebbles being shaken in an old tin can. 'You're not inside go mango, or rather go mango is not inside you.'
'Then I can leave here, if I choose?'
Remington Mute shrugged his old and rounded shoulders. 'I suppose you could try to leave,' he said. 'But why would you want to? You still believe that in some way you can stop this thing. You do believe that, don't you?'
'I don't know,' said Kelly.
'Perhaps you could just switch it off? Pull out its plug.'
'Perhaps, if I knew where the plug is.'
'Should we make a game of that, then? Basic platform, ascend to the uppermost level, enter the inner sanctum, locate the golden key?'