'Jules,' she called over to the receptionist. 'Could you book me in for your pilates class?'
'Sure, which one?'
'Oh, at seven o'clock on Thursday nights, please.'
George scrawled the information down on the back of his brochure.
*
Tom heard nothing for three days. In that time he struggled with his newfound understanding. Rather than freeing him, the knowledge he now possessed was crushing him. He was unable to raise himself to his feet. Keeping the headphones on at all times, he dragged himself around the house, the powder his only source of comfort.
He was lying at the bottom of the stairs when they began to say his name again. Immediately he reached his hands up, assuming the headphones had slipped off, only to find they were in place. One by one, they took turns to speak.
Do not deny your destiny.
You are the one.
We have chosen you.
Chosen you to spread our word.
It is time to be strong.
Time for the Golden Age to dawn.
Stand up, Tom.
The enormous power in their voices couldn't be denied. The Masters had selected him. Tentatively he tried to get up. He found that he could stand without problem, so he removed the headphones and climbed the stairs two at a time.
Poking through the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor, he located a top and trousers that didn't seem too dirty. Downstairs he pulled on his coat and a pair of shoes. Pausing in the doorway to the dining room, he decided to leave the gun in its drawer. Instead he packed a spare pair of trainers and a towel into a small rucksack, then set off into Manchester.
Walking along Portland Street he looked again at the message on the tower:'Bruntwood welcomes all 72 Commonwealth Nations'. He was certain that the Games had finished a few months before, and he couldn't understand why the message was still there.
The city's few days of glory were long gone, and unemployment had crept back up as the hundreds of jobs created by the event had vanished with the end of the closing ceremony. The fountain in Piccadilly Gardens had been turned off several weeks ago for routine maintenance and had still not started working again. Tom walked slowly through the bare trees dotted around the gardens, carefully placing his steps until he made it on to the grass. He walked quickly across it, slowing down at the gum-marred pavement on the other side. The stuff had multiplied, like bacteria in a petri dish, spreading slowly across the stones, becoming ever more concentrated. With trepidation, he made his way to the top of Market Street, looking at the mass of humans crowding the area ahead. He told himself he was there to help them.
He pulled the towel out of his rucksack and spread it out across the pavement so he didn't risk treading on any gum. Then he took the speech he'd prepared earlier and surveyed the shoppers passing by.
He held up the piece of paper, but his hand was trembling so much he couldn't actually read the words. His mouth was dry and his legs felt weak as he watched the flow of people pass by, bags of shopping hanging from curled fingers. He lowered the sheet of paper and was accepting the fact that he could not address the crowd, when the voices took it in turns to speak to him again.
Be strong!
You must spread our message!
Speak!
Wildly he looked about, but everyone was carrying on as they had before and he realized that only he, The Chosen One, could hear their words.
'People of Manchester,' he tried to announce, but his voice came out as a croak. He looked up to the sky, prayed for strength and felt better that, somewhere above the clouds, the Masters were watching him. He walked to the edge of his towel, looked directly at the shoppers who stared curiously at him, and said, 'People of Manchester! You must end the errors of your ways. You must discard the bags that weigh you down, shake off the shackles of your consumerist ways. Only then will the Golden Age dawn and our happiness be ensured.'
He paused to check his words were being registered. Numerous half-smiles and whispered comments told him that they were. The beginnings of the crowd were causing more people to stop.
'I come to you with a message from the Masters. Through me they have chosen to speak; through me can their message be heard. You must change the way you live. No longer can we allow their sacred teachings to go unheeded.'
'Shut up you weirdy-beard!' shouted a teenager, instantly ducking behind his giggling mates. Tom paused to look around him, taking in the expressions of mild amusement and smirking interest. 'Today we must show that we are ready for the Masters to return,' he continued, holding up his hands to the sky. 'Cast aside your purchases.' He reached out towards a young woman who, with a squeal of fright, shrank away. 'Can you not see how this desire to accumulate possessions is corrupting you? Rid yourselves of the baggage you carry so the Masters may return!'
'That's a novel way for someone to get some free shopping,' a man with a Debenhams bag said, addressing the crowd more than Tom. Laughter broke out and heads were shaking at him. Women held fingers up to their temples and whirled them round in circular motions.
'Do not walk away. You must hear my message. I have been chosen!'
But more backs were turning. The crowd began to disperse, some tutting sadly.
Soon only the group of teenagers remained. 'Who the fuck are you, anyway?' demanded the lad who had spoken earlier.
'I am the Chosen One,' repeated Tom. 'Through me the Masters, who have circled in the sky since time immemorial, have chosen to act. You,' he pointed to a girl, 'do not allow the temptations of this materialistic world to sway you from your sacred ability.'
'What ability? Shoplifting?' said another lad.
'Shut up,' she said, pretending to be outraged at the accusation. 'I never nicked anything. It was you who went into Boots and-'
Tom's voice rose above her. 'I mean your ability to reproduce. That which you were placed on Earth for.'
'You what, you dirty bastard?' she said, aggressively placing her hands on her hips.
'To be a mother is to fulfil the most sacred of roles. Do not reject that blessing.'
'Is he wanting to shag you?' said another in the group, looking at her with a grin.
The girl balled up the gum in her mouth and spat it towards Tom. It rolled across the paving stones, stopping abruptly when it came into contact with the edge of his towel. Immediately he retched loudly. He heard laughter.
'What was that about?' said a voice. 'Hey, weirdy-beardy, what was that about?' But Tom was staring with horror at the wet lump.
Another plucked the gum from his mouth and threw it in Tom's direction. He started backing away towards the other end of the towel. Another lump flew. Turning round, he ran, hopping from paving stone to paving stone, laughter ringing in his ears.
He was afraid after he fled the city centre, afraid the Masters would be angry with him for failing to spread their message. He stayed in his house and awaited their judgement.
He heard nothing for five days and was beginning to imagine that they had chosen someone else. Someone more able than him. One evening he was watching television with the sound turned down low. He sat through a news bulletin about climate change — the hurricanes ravaging the American Midwest with increasing frequency, the floods hitting Europe throughout the year. Switching channels, he looked at a documentary detailing the plight of Indonesia's Orang-utans, explaining how their habitat was being felled to meet the West's insatiable demands for timber. Turning over again, he watched a scientist standing on a rocky shoreline that, a few years before, was covered by a glacier.
Tom! Tom! Tom!
He fell to the floor and crawled under the coffee table whispering,' I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
Once again, they took it in turns to speak.