This Other Eden (48 page)

Finally
she heard footsteps on the stairs within and the door was opened by a
dreamy-looking young woman, completely naked, with quite the largest breasts
and the smallest pupils that Rosalie had ever seen.

‘Hi,’
said the very stoned woman. ‘Aren’t the stars amazing. People never take time
to look at things, do they? I mean,
really
look at them. Come on in.’

Rosalie
followed the girl down the spiral staircase and found herself yet again in
Jurgen Thor’s bedroom. How different it was from the other two occasions on
which she had seen it. Then it had been a chic and elegant palace of seduction,
now it looked like Sodom and Gomorrah must have looked on the days when the
populace had decided to stop being so prissy, throw inhibition to the wind and
get properly naughty.

There
must have been thirty naked bodies in the room. Jurgen never had any problem
assembling a decent guest-list for his orgies. People were thrilled to be
invited to his legendary and, until recently, totally exclusive private home.
Jurgen was one of the most important and respected people in the world,
everybody wanted to know him. Society beauties flocked around, as did
free-spirited Natura hippie girls … they always had. Jurgen was never shy
of making the most of this popularity for the purpose of sexual conquest, these
days he just did it in bulk, that was all.

For a
nice Catholic girl the whole outrageous scene was something of a shock, and as
she looked around the room Rosalie might have thought that she was dreaming,
except that these were not the sort of dreams that she had.

‘What
on earth have you all been doing?’ Rosalie asked, perhaps rather stupidly.

‘We’ve
been making good thoughts and feelings,’ the large-breasted girl replied.
‘They’ll emanate out from this place and make the whole world beautiful again.’
Which was not a bad excuse for getting rat-faced drunk and shagging a lot of
virtual strangers.

The
girl drifted away, leaving Rosalie alone on the stairs. Most of the company
were asleep, or unconscious more like, to judge from their unnatural positions.
A few couples however were still lazily making love in a distant, soporific
kind of a way. One or two others were drinking and smoking, staring trance-like
into the middle distance and nodding sagely, as if in agreement with some
brilliant point, even though no one had actually said anything. Jurgen Thor
himself lay in the centre of it all, unconscious upon his great bed, prostrate
amongst no less than four women, one of whom was still half awake and sleepily
blowing Jurgen’s sleepy member.

Jurgen
was still a magnificent figure of a man, but Rosalie could not help but feel a
bit queasy, contemplating the state he was in. She liked a party as much as the
next girl, but to be so off your head that you could have somebody going down
on you and not even notice was slightly sick-making, in Rosalie’s opinion.
However, she was not there to moralise, she had a desperately important job to
do, and she needed Jurgen Thor.

Rosalie
picked her way across the prostrate bodies stranded on the floor.

‘Excuse
me… I’m awfully sorry… Oh, my God! Did I just tread on your thing?
Sorry,’ she mumbled to the sleeping forms as she made her way to the bed.

‘Jurgen,’
she said, gently shaking the great man’s shoulder. ‘Jurgen?’

She got
no further because at that moment her attention was distracted somewhat. She
was standing beside the bed and the girl who had been concentrating on Jurgen’s
loins had reached out a hand, and was now using it to massage the inside of
Rosalie’s leg.

‘Would
you not do that, please?’ Rosalie said to the spaced-out girl.

‘Hey,
come on,’ the girl replied, looking up from the parts that she had been
nibbling. ‘Jurgen’s rules, right? Everybody has to party. So get naked, lady,
no spectators allowed.’ With that, the girl moved her hand up to the top of
Rosalie’s inner leg, with the clear intention of unzipping her trousers.

‘I said
would you not do that, please,’ said Rosalie, and pointed her gun into the
girl’s face.

‘Wow!
Are you the cops?’ the girl asked, quickly removing her hand. But Rosalie had
no wish to converse with this rampant space cadet any further. She shook Jurgen
by the shoulder and loudly demanded that he wake up. He did so with a scream
that briefly roused the room.

‘She’s
falling!’ he shouted, before coming slowly round and focusing on Rosalie.
‘Welcome to ancient Rome, yes, baby. My name is Caligula and the world is
coming to an end. You have been designated my latest concubine.’ He made a
lunge at Rosalie but she backed away.

‘Let’s
get out of here, Jurgen, I have to talk to you.’

But
Jurgen had already drifted back into fitful unconsciousness and Rosalie was
forced to try and rouse him further.

‘Jurgen,
it’s urgent! It’s Mother Earth business!’ she said, shaking him again. ‘You
have to get out of bed and talk to me.’

‘If you
haven’t come to party, don’t bother knocking on my door.’ Jurgen giggled and
again made a grab at Rosalie. This time he found his mark and roughly took hold
of one of her breasts. She hit him in the face, hard, and with a clenched fist.
His hand dropped away but apart from that he scarcely seemed to notice. He
certainly registered no pain, his eyes just rolled a little and he laughed
again.

Rosalie
could see that no sense would be got out of Jurgen for a few hours yet, and
that she would have to wait. She retreated to the kitchen, which was mercifully
empty of naked bodies, and made herself a cup of coffee. Jurgen’s condition had
shocked her deeply. True, she had long since jettisoned the adolescent
hero-worship that she had felt for him as a girl, and, of course, recently his
image had been further tarnished in her eyes by the revelations of who paid for
his house and all the luxuries that he enjoyed so much. But he was still Jurgen
Thor, the most important and inspirational green activist there was. The Green
God, the last sane man on Earth. To see him like this, a debauched and giggling
wretch, was a hard sight indeed for Rosalie, particularly coming as it did on
top of all the other shocking truths that she had had to accept of late.

She did
not feel angry with Jurgen Thor, she felt sorry for him. Clearly the colossal
burdens that he had carried for so long had finally got the better of him. The
mighty and inspirational ideologue who had become an embittered pragmatist had
finally taken refuge in the hollow pleasures of the dilettante. Jurgen Thor had
given up, and who could blame him? Rosalie had given up herself only a few days
earlier. In fact, thinking about it, drinking her coffee in that silent house,
Rosalie realised that Jurgen’s orgies were no more desperate or irresponsible
than her own decision to hide away with Max in his Claustrosphere. She too had
been planning to fiddle while Rome burned. Planning to luxuriate in the pleasures
of the senses whilst the doomed world died. It had only been the knowledge of
Plastic Tolstoy’s marketing strategy that had galvanised her to return to the
real world and take up arms again. Rosalie believed that the same thing would
happen with Jurgen. He too would see that all was not lost, that once Tolstoy’s
taped confession was placed before the public, a new age of protest would dawn,
and that Jurgen Thor would lead it.

All
that would have to wait, though. For the time being, Rosalie would have to
leave Jurgen to sleep it off amongst his concubines. But how strange he had
looked. The mighty Thor turned into an insensitive, groping drunk. He had
certainly surprised her. He was going to surprise her a great deal more before
the night was over.

Another
penny drops.

Before setting out to
enlist Jurgen Thor, Rosalie had left Judy, Roger and Max in the care of her
grandparents at their little cottage in Western Ireland. On that first evening
after Rosalie had left and with Max lying in bed under sedation, Judy explained
to Ruth and Sean (and indeed Roger, who was still very much catching up with
things) the sequence of events that had brought them all to the current
position.

‘You’re
trying to tell us, young man, that environmental protest is basically an arm
of Claustrosphere’s marketing policy,’ said Ruth as she produced a delicious-
looking batter pudding, which she served up with a thick vegetable casserole.

‘That’s
right,’ said Judy. ‘Neat, isn’t it?’

‘And
they actually create disasters to fit in with their adverts?’

‘It’s
unbelievable,’ said Roger. ‘Just so crisp and light.’

‘What?’
said Judy.

‘This
batter pudding, it’s the best I’ve ever seen.’

‘Roger,’
Judy said, ‘we’re talking about Claustrosphere.’

‘Well,
I don’t know why you’re so surprised. The world’s run on dirty tricks, isn’t
it? Nothing shocks me. I think the rot set in for America when the FBI killed
Kennedy.’

‘The
FBI did
not
kill Kennedy!’ Judy said firmly.

‘Oh,
you are so naive, Judy,’ said Roger. ‘But please, let’s not discuss it, I could
not
bear
another Kennedy discussion.’

One of
the more surprising facts about social intercourse as the twenty-first century
plodded its weary course was the fact that the number of people discussing how
JFK had died was actually increasing. Elvis had peaked long before, but the
Kennedys went from strength to strength.

‘I’ll
tell you what is unbelievable,’ said Roger, sticking to his preferred subject.
‘This ratatouille, Ruth, is quite simply gastronomically orgasmic, and let me
tell you, I know. Oral orgasm is my speciality.’

There
was a slightly uncomfortable pause.

‘Roger’s
a chef,’ said Judy, feeling some sort of explanation was necessary.

‘Well,
I thought he must be,’ said Ruth disingenuously.

‘You
know what surprises me?’ Sean said, looking up from his pipe. ‘That you’re
still alive, Judy, after accusing Rosalie of spreading that toxic waste all
over Brussels. I’m surprised she didn’t kill you there and then.’

‘I
think she wanted to, but we had to run away from all the poison. I still can’t
figure out how I got that so wrong. I was so sure, you see. It all fitted.’

‘Well,
we can’t be a genius the whole time, can we?’ said Roger. ‘This is called a
Yorkshire pudding, isn’t it, Ruth? We use batter in the States, but it’s
usually much heavier. How in heaven do you get it so fluffy?’

‘The
most important element is the fat, dear. The fat has got to be absolutely
smoking hot. Also, the mix has to stand for at least an hour.’

‘Well,
it’s yummy,’ Roger assured Ruth. ‘Would you like me to do this for you sometimes,
Judy? … Judy, please don’t daydream at the table, we’re guests here.’

But
Judy was not daydreaming. He was thinking very hard. Yet again rehearsing in
his mind the circumstances which had led him to the conclusion that Mother
Earth were provoking their own disasters.

‘Natura
were always there, you see. It was as if they knew where and when the disasters
would occur. That’s why I thought Mother Earth were causing them and tipping
Natura off.’

‘Yes,
you’ve
said
that, dear! But they weren’t, were they?’ Roger reiterated
wearily. ‘You were wrong. Plastic Tolstoy was doing it, which is why we’ve had
to flee America like criminals.’

‘But
that doesn’t change the fact that Natura are always there! Somehow they get
sent into areas where the disasters occur. If Mother Earth isn’t pointing them
in the right direction, then it must be Tolstoy. He’s causing the disasters and
he’s the one who profits most from Natura protest. He’s giving the orders.’

‘But
Tolstoy isn’t the leader of Natura,’ said Sean.

‘No,’
Judy replied, and he was suddenly very afraid. ‘Jurgen Thor is.’

There
was a pause. Sean wondered if Judy could truly be hinting at what he seemed to
be hinting at.

‘What
about Brussels?’ Sean said hurriedly. ‘We know why Natura were there on that
occasion, to cover the Mother Earth protest, not because they were expecting a
disaster.’

‘That’s
right,’ said Judy. ‘But the disaster occurred anyway. Tolstoy had sabotaged the
tankers, which means .

‘That
he knew the action was going to take place,’ said Ruth.

‘So Natura
get told to go where Tolstoy’s sinking boats, and Tolstoy gets told where
Mother Earth are creating opportunities for high profile sabotage. It seems to
me that there is a rather unhealthy level of co-operation here,’ Roger
observed.

‘Who
authorises Mother Earth actions?’ said Judy.

‘The
Number One Equal Person, of course,’ Ruth replied.

‘And
the Number One Equal Person is —?‘ asked Judy, but of course he already knew
the answer.

‘Jurgen
Thor,’ said Sean.

‘They’re
partners,’ Judy said quietly, as if trying to diminish the enormity of his
suspicion.
‘Tolstoy and Thor are partners.’
He leapt to his feet.
‘Rosalie is in terrible danger. She’s only been gone a couple of hours, it may
not be too late. Is there anyone you can call who has access to a helicopter?
One of Rosalie’s colleagues, for instance? One we can trust.’