Nod by Adrian Barnes

group, a woman in filthy jeans scratched her crotch vigorously, like she was grating cheese. Too dizzy to make a run for it, I started to slowly back away, praying that the circle would break and let me pass. One step, two. Then I bumped into someone standing behind me, blocking my retreat. I turned and saw him.
    Charles.
    He was dressed all in blue. Sky blue shirt, baby blue slacks, medieval Catholic blue shoes, fresh from some plundered boutique—all the while exuding his customary raw red welcome. I couldn’t take my eyes of the sharp cuffs of his sleeves and his crisp shirt collar. Possessions no longer existed in the old way. As in the case of any catastrophe, things were now just lying around waiting to be picked up. But how to keep them? That would be the new problem that would now replace the old one of acquisition.
    Charles pulled a greasy, thumb-damp wad of paper from his back pocket and held it in front of my face. It was the printout of
Nod
Tanya and I had taken to breakfast five long mornings ago. And then, too late to do me any good, it all clicked into place: motive, opportunity, and madness. Of course.
    ‘Welcome to Nod, Paul,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the dream you’ve brought us.’ And then louder, to the group, ‘Welcome home to your own people, teacher.’
    ‘What’s going on?’ I hissed.
    He smiled and kept talking.
    ‘Can you hear the humility?’ He turned and addressed the crowd. ‘Didn’t I tell you he’d be humble? That when he came he’d be humble for us? Blemmyes and banshees, no fear! Oh, the devil is out there, roaming between the tipping skyscrapers, dressed as a monk and looking for souls, but no fear! This man can spot the devil from a mile away! Evil Rat and his army are out there, but this man will conjure them away!’
    Several people began to dart frightened looks around. Others sneered, but nervously, if you can imagine that. This was a crowd on the verge of some big decision with heavy implications for both Charles and me.
    ‘Tell us the plan,’ the crotch-grating woman demanded. Less than a week ago she’d been a high-end soccer mom: her blondeness was still relatively intact, and her voice still sounded accustomed to being heard.
    Charles grabbed my arm and began to lead me toward the school. The urgency of his tugging told me what I already suspected: he wasn’t the master of this group, only its provisional leader. Eyes glowered as we began to move away.
    ‘Soon! I need to show Paul the temple first. Then he’ll speak to you! Just wait here!’
    And they stayed put, though their blood surged toward us.
    ‘What’s happening, Charles?’ I whispered as we entered the school.
    The foyer was dim, though the pocked linoleum glared in black, refracted sunlight.
    He was giggling. ‘It’s all coming true, Paul. All of it. Just like you wrote.’
    ‘Like I wrote?’
    He started playing sly. ‘You know. All the old words are waking up and rubbing their eyes! The Church Invisible is becoming the Church Visible. Now that sleep is finally over.’ He was quoting my own words back at me, distorted through the funhouse mirror of his mind.
    ‘You think that I…? That’s—’ I was going to say ‘crazy’ but reconsidered.
    ‘The businessman! While the businessman guzzles his martini, Paul—I really shouldn’t have to be telling you this—while he guzzles, he tells his friends in the bar that it’s all a game. The way he makes his money, I mean. He tells them that while the poor parade on by, outside in the freezing cold. The windows are steamed, Paul, and he can’t see outside and they can’t see in. It’s Christmas, and he makes us all swallow the contradiction, forces it down our throats. He tells his friends that trading stocks and making money is all a game. But is it? To him? Does he even know what a game is? And what about a little boy being forced to eat broccoli that’s been boiled so long he can strain it through his teeth? Is that a game? Does he