cataracts? Glaucoma?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘her eyes are fine. I think it’s her, um, imagination that’s a bit wanting in places. I don’t think her disbelief suspends very well. After all, this is Wolverhampton. There haven’t been any gods in these parts for, oh, I don’t know how long. There’s certainly never been any gods on the Orchard Mead Housing Estate.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Osiris said, shaken. ‘I mean to say, surely everybody is capable of believing in gods. We built you that way, for pity’s sake.’
‘I’m afraid you’re a bit out of touch, Mr Osiris.’
‘Strewth.’ Osiris leaned back in his chair and thought about it. It wasn’t a concept he found easy to get hold of. People could dislike gods, sure enough. Despise them, certainly; hate them, even. But not believe in them at all - that was like people not believing in rain just because they didn’t like getting wet.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ Osiris sighed. ‘You’re quite right, I am out of touch. No wonder I’ve felt all weak since I got here. There’s much of it about, is there, this not believing?’
‘Lots and lots.’
‘What do people believe in, then, if they don’t believe in gods?’
‘Hard to say.’ Sandra rubbed her nose pensively. ‘The telly, of course. And family life. And Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club, which only goes to show what you can do if you really set your mind to it.’
Osiris shook his head slowly. Belief is to gods what atmosphere is to other, rather more temporary life-forms; they live in it, and it shapes them, in the way that millions of tons of water overhead shape the curiously designed fish that live at the very bottom of the sea. This can, of course, have its unfortunate side. When, for example, the Quizquacs of central Peru had finally had enough of their god Tlatelolco’s obsession with human sacrifice à la nouvelle cuisine (one small human heart, garnished with fine herbs and served with the blood under the meat) they exacted a terrible revenge, not by ceasing to believe in him, but by believing in him with a fervour never before encountered even in such a pathologically devout race as the Quizquacs. They also chose to believe in him in his aspect as an excessively timid field vole inhabiting an enclosed kitchen full of hungry cats.
‘I’ve definitely got to get out of here,’ Osiris said. ‘Look, don’t let me put you to any more trouble. Just call me a taxi and I’ll go and find a hotel somewhere.’
‘A hotel?’ Sandra laughed. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘No chance.’
‘What makes you say that?’
By way of reply, Sandra reached for her handbag and produced a mirror. Osiris took it from her, automatically smoothed his hair, and had a look . . .
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh I see.’
‘Exactly. Now perhaps you understand why Mum doesn’t choose to be able to see you very well. It’s just as well she’s got such a limited imagination, or she’d be halfway up the wall yelling for the Social Services by now.’
The face Osiris had seen in the mirror was, beyond question, his own. That was, of course, the problem. The plain fact of the matter is, gods are radiant. They shine; and no amount of face powder and foundation was ever going to have any effect on the dazzling glow that was pouring out of him. You could have got a healthy tan just by briefly catching his eye.
‘It hasn’t done that for ages,’ he said weakly. ‘Why’s it doing it now?’
‘They’ve got some sort of infra-red thing back at the Home,’ Sandra replied. ‘Suppresses it, or filters it out, something like that. Out here, of course . . .’
‘Gosh.’
‘I’m used to it,’ Sandra went on, ‘and besides, all of us nurses are given these special contact lenses, otherwise we’d spend all day wandering about bumping into things. It’s a dead giveaway, I’m afraid.’
Osiris handed back the mirror,
Sandra shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘her eyes are fine. I think it’s her, um, imagination that’s a bit wanting in places. I don’t think her disbelief suspends very well. After all, this is Wolverhampton. There haven’t been any gods in these parts for, oh, I don’t know how long. There’s certainly never been any gods on the Orchard Mead Housing Estate.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Osiris said, shaken. ‘I mean to say, surely everybody is capable of believing in gods. We built you that way, for pity’s sake.’
‘I’m afraid you’re a bit out of touch, Mr Osiris.’
‘Strewth.’ Osiris leaned back in his chair and thought about it. It wasn’t a concept he found easy to get hold of. People could dislike gods, sure enough. Despise them, certainly; hate them, even. But not believe in them at all - that was like people not believing in rain just because they didn’t like getting wet.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ Osiris sighed. ‘You’re quite right, I am out of touch. No wonder I’ve felt all weak since I got here. There’s much of it about, is there, this not believing?’
‘Lots and lots.’
‘What do people believe in, then, if they don’t believe in gods?’
‘Hard to say.’ Sandra rubbed her nose pensively. ‘The telly, of course. And family life. And Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club, which only goes to show what you can do if you really set your mind to it.’
Osiris shook his head slowly. Belief is to gods what atmosphere is to other, rather more temporary life-forms; they live in it, and it shapes them, in the way that millions of tons of water overhead shape the curiously designed fish that live at the very bottom of the sea. This can, of course, have its unfortunate side. When, for example, the Quizquacs of central Peru had finally had enough of their god Tlatelolco’s obsession with human sacrifice à la nouvelle cuisine (one small human heart, garnished with fine herbs and served with the blood under the meat) they exacted a terrible revenge, not by ceasing to believe in him, but by believing in him with a fervour never before encountered even in such a pathologically devout race as the Quizquacs. They also chose to believe in him in his aspect as an excessively timid field vole inhabiting an enclosed kitchen full of hungry cats.
‘I’ve definitely got to get out of here,’ Osiris said. ‘Look, don’t let me put you to any more trouble. Just call me a taxi and I’ll go and find a hotel somewhere.’
‘A hotel?’ Sandra laughed. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘No chance.’
‘What makes you say that?’
By way of reply, Sandra reached for her handbag and produced a mirror. Osiris took it from her, automatically smoothed his hair, and had a look . . .
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh I see.’
‘Exactly. Now perhaps you understand why Mum doesn’t choose to be able to see you very well. It’s just as well she’s got such a limited imagination, or she’d be halfway up the wall yelling for the Social Services by now.’
The face Osiris had seen in the mirror was, beyond question, his own. That was, of course, the problem. The plain fact of the matter is, gods are radiant. They shine; and no amount of face powder and foundation was ever going to have any effect on the dazzling glow that was pouring out of him. You could have got a healthy tan just by briefly catching his eye.
‘It hasn’t done that for ages,’ he said weakly. ‘Why’s it doing it now?’
‘They’ve got some sort of infra-red thing back at the Home,’ Sandra replied. ‘Suppresses it, or filters it out, something like that. Out here, of course . . .’
‘Gosh.’
‘I’m used to it,’ Sandra went on, ‘and besides, all of us nurses are given these special contact lenses, otherwise we’d spend all day wandering about bumping into things. It’s a dead giveaway, I’m afraid.’
Osiris handed back the mirror,
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