Do not be afraid, we are not angry with you.
It is the gum chewers who have angered us.
Of all the acts we see, theirs cannot be forgiven.
It symbolizes the frenzy consuming the planet.
They aren't satisfied collecting more and more goods.
Instead they work their jaws in a gross parody of consumption.
They disgust us.
'Yes,' Tom agreed, relieved not to be the focus of their wrath. 'And what do they do with the lumps?' he dared to ask. 'They spit them on to the streets, ruining the world.'
He said that he hated all gum chewers, too. Thinking of the youngsters who had driven him from his preaching, he looked towards the window and told the Masters that he wished they could all be destroyed. The chorus of approval stopped, and a wheedling voice asked if he was sincere.
'Yes,' he whispered, meaning it with all his heart.
So they told him how to fulfil his destiny. By following their instructions to the letter, the Golden Age would be allowed to dawn.
The next day he looked out of his French windows, across the garden at the smouldering remains of his armchair. On it sat the television, its screen blackened and cracked from the smoke and heat, the plastic casing melted along the bottom.
The sofa had burned itself out earlier. The telephone, answer machine, hi-fi system, computer, keyboard, food blender, DVD player, coffee percolator, alarm-clock radio, camcorder, video, toaster, personal stereo, cameras and golf clubs, forming a charred sculpture that had partially sunk into the exposed frame and springs. Next to the remains was a pile of ash that had once been his jackets, coats, jeans, T-shirts and most of his trainers. Only a few items of clothing remained in his wardrobe upstairs.
He had faithfully followed their commands and rid himself of his worldly possessions in preparation for his mission. Now they spoke to him again. Tom listened calmly to the words, nodding in understanding.
He went to his garage and assembled the Cooper's Barrow, pinning the X-treme panel banners to its frame, bolts of lightning striking the lemons and infusing them with electricity.
Next he found the box with all the entry forms for the competition to win a year's supply of X-treme gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia. He opened it up and surveyed the form. The whole competition was really a data-capturing exercise for the chewing gum manufacturer; a way of collecting demographical information about the type of people who purchased their gum.
Examining the glossy front of the form, Tom saw questions asking for the person's name, address, home phone number, mobile phone number, email address, age, marital status and, finally, a convenient time to call to inform them if they were the lucky winner. The wording was carefully couched so the person would think it was necessary to complete all the boxes in order to stand a chance of winning. Tom looked at the pile of boxes. It appeared that he had enough packets of gum to hand out to half the population of Manchester.
George tried the number again but the line was now dead. He'd been ringing Tom's house quite a lot over the last few weeks but Charlotte never answered. Listening to Tom's tortured breathing made him feel good. But the fact she was never there presented a problem. He needed to know where she lived if he was to carry out his plans for her.
He tried the number again but there was still no tone. Strange, he thought, wondering if it had anything to do with the fire he could see burning in the back garden the other evening.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that her pilates class was in an hour. He set off towards the health centre so he could watch from across the road as she arrived. This time he'd keep track of her all night, right the way back to her front door.
She emerged from the health centre at ten past eight and walked up to Albert Square, where she met another man. They went into some trendy-looking cafe bar and George sat on the benches in front of the town hall for another two hours. Finally they emerged and walked down to Deansgate. A few hundred yards on they disappeared into a place called The Living Room.
George approached the doors but the bouncer waved him on before he could get near. 'Not tonight mate; we're full.'
He crossed the road, stood in a dark side street and waited. A group of glamorous people arrived minutes later and walked straight in. Charlotte finally appeared at two o'clock in the morning, arms around the man she had arrived with. She seemed full of energy, laughing raucously and grabbing at the man's buttocks. George's eyes widened in alarm as they flagged down a passing cab. He was on the wrong side of the road. As they jumped in he emerged into the light, furiously waving at a cab as it approached on his side of the road. The driver pulled over and he jumped in the back. 'Turn around! Follow that taxi over there!'
'You what, mate?' said the driver, twisting round in his seat to look at his passenger.
George was staring out the back window as Charlotte's cab turned up a side street and disappeared from view. 'Do a U-turn, you imbecile! Hurry up!' The driver turned the keys and the diesel engine rattled to a halt. 'Get out, you fat prick.'
George roared with frustration.
Chapter 25
October 2002
Carefully Tom raised the nail scissors to his face. As he started cutting away clumps of beard, he felt better and better. Now he had accepted that he was merely an instrument of the Masters, courage and confidence flooded through him. His life had purpose once again.
When the stubble was short enough, he filled the sink with water, then shaved off the remains with a razor that had lain unused for over a month. In his bedroom he kicked aside the pile of musty-smelling clothes that he had been wearing for weeks. He turned to the X-treme branded tracksuit and baseball cap laid out on the bed and put them on.
In his garage he stocked the cart with boxes of gum and competition entry forms. The minivan he'd hired was parked on the drive and he wheeled the cart up the ramps and into the rear of the vehicle.
Next he drove into Manchester, parking by the Student Union on Oxford Road. He hung about on the flight of steps leading up to the main entrance, waiting for a group of three students. Soon he spotted two lads and a girl. He walked over to them and asked if they'd each like to earn thirty pounds cash for an hour's work. Within seconds all three were in the van and he was heading towards the city centre.
En route he explained to them that, because of a mix-up, he hadn't received a permit to distribute goods. If any officials approached them, he said, be prepared to pack up fast.
By 2.50 p. m. he had wheeled the cart on to the end of the concourse leading up to Piccadilly station. Two of the students — now wearing the ice-blue tracksuits with bags full of gum packets over their shoulders — positioned themselves on the pavement. The girl manned the cart to supervise the filling-in of the competition entry forms. Tom watched as clusters of shoppers approached from the city centre, hauling their purchases towards the trains, heading back to houses already crowded with junk.
He watched them ambling closer, many idly chewing gum, arms pulled straight by the weight of the bags hanging from their hands. Boots, River Island, Next, Sainsbury's, JJB Sports, Primark, HMV, Tesco.
The Masters' voices pointed out how similar they were to cows, chewing the cud and plodding back to their sheds, shopping bags swaying like swollen udders. And looking at them Tom realized the voices were right: they were nothing more than beasts.
'Hello there,' he said brightly as two women approached the cart. 'I see you like gum. Care for a free promotional pack?'
'Citrus flavour? Sounds interesting,' one said, plucking the gum from her mouth and dropping it on the pavement.
Tom's stomach turned over. Swallowing hard, he said, 'How about the chance for a luxury holiday to Malaysia? Just fill out this form — it only takes two seconds.'