The Lost Prophecies (50 page)

Shiva closed the door again and stood thinking. Somehow he had to disable the guards without shooting them, for the sound would bring people running. Then he would fire the gun at the detonator of one of the torpedoes. The whole lot would go up, and so would the missiles on the submarine. This corner of South Island would probably be devastated, but there were few people here and he hoped that the gigantic natural funnel of Milford Sound would absorb much of the energy. And the whole world would not go up in a nuclear war that devastated, shrunken humanity could surely not survive. And if God meant that he should fail, at least he would have tried, and if he found himself at some seat of judgment and an angry God thundered at him and asked if he believed that his morality was greater than God’s, Shiva would answer ‘yes’ and go proudly down to hell.

He opened the door again, just a crack. The guards looked bored and listless. Shiva slipped the gun into his belt behind him, then opened the door and stood in full view. He raised his hands above his head and started walking slowly towards them.

They looked at him in astonishment. The one with the rifle raised it and pointed it at Shiva. He was in his fifties, fit-looking. The other guard was just a boy. He reminded Shiva of Michael at the church in Dunedin. He felt sorry for what he must do.

‘Stop right there!’ the older guard called. Shiva slowed his pace further, to a shuffle, but still walked on. ‘I want to confess everything,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the light.’

He was still too far away for the guards to hear properly. ‘What?’ the older one asked.

‘I have to tell you. God himself has visited me. See, my bonds are gone. See the stigmata, the blood running on my wrists.’ He made his voice tremble with emotion. The guards looked at each other. Shiva knew he sounded convincing; he had always been able to sound convincing. Even his clothes, ragged and dirty and torn now, added to the image. It was enough to throw the guards off balance. He came to a halt, perhaps twenty yards from the tarpaulin. He had walked at a slight angle, taking him near the water. He stopped and the two guards came slowly up to him.

‘How’d he get out?’ the young guard said. He sounded afraid. They both stepped right up to him. Shiva was in great pain, but he turned quickly and threw all his weight against the older man. He gave a shout and toppled into the water with his rifle, hitting it with a loud splash. Shiva pulled the gun from his waistband and pointed it at the young guard. ‘On your knees,’ he said. ‘Hands on your head.’

The boy obeyed. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready. I’m not prepared yet. This isn’t the time.’

Shiva swiped him across the side of the head with the gun and he went down with a groan. Shiva rolled him over and over until he too fell into the water. He could hear splashes and gurgling cries from the other guard, but there was no way for him to climb up again.

Shiva walked over to the tarpaulin and pulled it away. The pyramid of ugly, snub-nosed bombs lay there. Shiva picked one up and laid it on end as he had seen the technician do earlier. He had a momentary fear that he would not be able to unscrew the top, but it was surprisingly easy. He looked at the complex mechanism. The guard in the water was shouting now, loudly, his voice carrying far in the clear night. Shiva heard the singing stop. It must be now. He hesitated, then out of the blue remembered the two children fishing in the lake at Birmingham and felt a sudden overwhelming love for poor, fractured, weak, helpless humanity. God help them all, God
should
help them all if He existed.

He stood right above the bomb, aimed downwards and fired.

He saw a red light and then a blinding white light and in the middle of the white light the figure of Shiva, dancing in his circle of fire to keep the world in being, his face impassive.

  
1
Now Preston Street

  
2
7 July 1325

  
3
The robbery was April/May 1303

  
4
Monday 17 June 1348