God's Bet

Cynthia was showering, when she struck her ankle bone against a tiled corner.
“Jes-SUSS Christ almighty! That hurts” she yelped.
Up in heaven, God mused.
“She’s the one,” he decided. “She doesn’t believe, so no-one will realise I am behind this. She can save the world.”
In doing so, she would have to eradicate religion, he thought, so there will be no cause for further dissension.
“But sir,” queried an underling. “Isn’t that what You were trying to achieve? Isn’t this Your plan? Should they not be made aware of this eventually?”
“I’m trying a new ploy. You see, if their lives are good, and they choose voluntarily to become good people, then they will be eligible for my heavenly rewards.”
“But what if they persist in badness? What then? Won’t He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named get them?”
“I will lose a few, it’s true. Some souls will not be saved. It will take humans a long time to see the rewards of a good life on earth. Many may pass below where HWM-NBN will rejoice. His armies will grow stronger and more confident.”
“Then this will not work,” the underling shrieked. “We may be invaded, overtaken, destroyed by the multitude of demons!”
“And you do not think I am more than a match for him and his kind? Remind me, why are you here, if your faith is this flimsy?”
The underling shuddered, peering up like a troubled homunculus. He was unsure which of the answers which sprang to mind would gain him more milk and honey.
“I think it’s a great plan,” he ventured. “Let’s see what happens.”

She loved singing in the shower. Under the tumbling spray she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound echoing from the tiled walls.
“I-i-i-i know a place that’s safe and warm from the crowds – into your arms o-wo-oh into your arms I will GO-O-O.”
Suddenly she had one of those warm and personal moments when you feel at one with the world. She felt hugely powerful, omnipotent almost, as if she could solve any problem if she put her mind to it.
“I should install a web cam in here and broadcast to the nation,” she announced to the pot-plants and lounging cat. “I’ll say I am the woman they need – to solve the planet’s problems. If they would all renounce God and all that nonsense, I could show them how to have perfect happiness in the here-and-now.”
While she towelled herself dry, the thought lingered. Over coffee and a jammy croissant, she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining what might be. Before she could change her mind, she rang the computer engineer at MBiT Computers and asked if he would pop in and install a webcam. There was a small matter of the nudity involved, but it might work in her favour that folks would think they’d catch a glimpse of bare behind. It would be the ‘tease factor’ to hook ‘em in, and then they’d listen to what she had to say, and maybe soon fans would set up a website, there would be an open-air concert where bands and artistes would support her views, a small clique of followers might establish a school to study her comments, and books would come out yearly dedicated to the cause.

After her first live webcam, where she had to get to grips with the logistics of voice projection, avoiding ‘shower curtain crackle’ and atmospheric distortion from the bathroom environment, whilst simultaneously concentrating her views into catchy sound bites; she found she improved with each performance. It was sometimes a struggle keeping goose-pimpled flesh to the minimum - hits for the blog on Google dropped if the web filtering detected high ratios of pink skin and labelled her as Porn. The reality TV show broadcast from her front lawn was an initial shock, as was the honorary doctorate from the University of Colorado, presented by George Clooney, live by satellite from his villa on Lake Como. But as the weeks lengthened into months, she settled into a kind of routine. Up at 6am for a real shower, with the heater on and no make-up, then her breakfast radio slot broadcast from the kitchen, with authentic crunching and slurping. Her first webcam was around 11am, generally something ground-breaking – Women CAN read Maps was a good one, and the infamous Make Cake Not War, which had increased her following in the Middle East, United Korea, patisserie-orientated France and Japan particularly. Then afterwards she’d fit in some shopping – maybe opening a new QuickieMart if it meant she got an hour’s uninterrupted browse down the aisles, and she could plan the week’s meals – she was often cooking for dinner parties now at the weekend, for 12 or 13 friends. Afternoons were generally spent in preparation for the evening’s peak viewing webcam, having her hair crimped and skin airbrushed with fake tan, reading her notes and humming a lot. The humming helped to keep her ‘centred’. She’d tried a mantra but that smacked of religion which was a slippery downhill slope. After the performance, she relaxed with friends, ate good food, watered the garden, took select phone-calls and trawled the internet to catch up with the worldwide reaction.

When the summer peak hit, she found herself craving some privacy and time to think. She’d covered all the basics now – schools were content to preach her first ten podcasts as the New Commandments, followed by age-appropriate interpretations of the Saturday Night Specials in which she’d first dispensed with the Big Faker. They’d moved on to Cyn and Forgiveness (the one that became a car bumper sticker) and Singular Cake – A Way to Enlightenment (the World Health Organisation’s first recommended DVD; sales of which finally eradicated World Hunger.) Now she really needed to recharge her batteries before the Autumn Season Network programming meeting.

Atop a deserted mountain in Cantabria, she had her second Golden Glow moment. The air rushing up from the cooling valley below was heady with thyme, pine and rosemary. Not a human sound disturbed the silence, only the cawing of Bonelli Eagles now nesting on the southern face, and the muted bellows of herds of goats. It was a sensation like that of a spiritual revelation, but the thought that permeated her whole being was barely containable in words. It was more of an aroma of life. Something that hinted at a global cup of nectar for all humankind. She pondered the moment, all the while scratching at midge bites on her neck. To be honest, she’d had quite enough of this fame malarkey. Did the world really need her as spokesperson? Wasn’t that half the problem with the God business? Maybe this golden moment had to be experienced like a personal affirmation, and all the folk on the planet would feel it themselves once they were at one with the created environment? If so, she could drop out of the picture quite happily now. Her work was done.

On high, God examined her thoughts, and tskked.
“Think she’s gonna blow it,” he murmured. Several underlings looked up from their hair plaiting and ambrosia stirring. One ventured closer to His Right Hand and tugged His gown.
“Maybe you should intervene? Do a shiny light doo-dah, and give her some guidance?” He smiled a winning smile.
“This is all her doing. I cannot intervene now. If this works I will not have to intervene again. There will be harmony on the planet of humankind, such as never has been witnessed before. And only you and I will know I am responsible. The idea of God will vanish and I will have created the perfect world – self-sufficient souls that ascend voluntarily to heaven. Ahhh. I may even take a holiday to experience this beautiful dew-spangled world. But she must not give in to that most human of failings – the spoilt voice of free will. ”
The ascended soul nodded knowingly. “There’ve been no rumblings from below for sometime. Perhaps this plan is working and HWM-NBN has no army left with which to taunt us.”

At this judicious point, God spun round to glimpse a naked hairy demon extending his reach into heaven.
“Foul creature! What messenger is this!”
“Not so much an ‘email of evil’ – more of a one-line text, really. Master wishes to shake your hand. The souls of foulness passing his way have increased both in quantity and quality. He anticipates a showdown in the near future, when he has catalogued and welcomed the plethora of newcomers. Adios, O Whitewasher-of-Wills, O Pious Prig of Pompous…YELP.”

God brushed the remains of the creature from his foot. His face registered no displeasure; more a thoughtful rising of eyebrows, as if a solution had presented itself from an unexpected source. Nearby, the crowd of onlookers were dismissed, with an imperceptible flutter of his fingers.

Perhaps the problem was simply that she needed a holiday romance. She’d been single for too long, and had started to view life like a SIM game – wind up the characters and watch what happened. The people hanging on her every word never contradicted her, nor offered contrary thoughts nor demurred. That was surely not good for a person. Not that great guys simply dropped from the skies when you wished for them…
Having said that, the guy opposite her, picking tapas from his teeth, was what you would consider handsome. Table manners aside and assuming he had no idea who she was, perhaps she could strike up a conversation.
“Is the tapas generally good here?” she tried; gesturing to his empty plate.
“Not much of a line, but it will do,” he replied, dragging his chair over to her table, and seating himself disturbingly close for a first encounter. “The name’s Jeff. Jeff, er.. Conway. Yours?”

He was an artist, and a technophobe. With no computer, and often no electrical connection in his studio, he simply painted, ate, read and occasionally sang in the shower. She felt they had an aural connection, then. Cyn began to explain her disturbing rise to fame, which he dismissed with an imperceptible flutter of his fingers, and they found other topics more fruitful to discuss – sunsets, wine, food eaten with gusto, trails worth hiking. Her holiday became a longer sabbatical in which she found time to unwind, and get back to something like her normal self. He was an amiable guy to be around, uninterested in worldly glory but fascinated with the minutiae of life on earth. She put it down to his profession that he enjoyed studying the patterns of ostrich ferns in the forest, or the colours reflected in the early morning dew.

One morning, dismissing the insistent chirrup of her mobile phone, she stood on the wooden porch of his studio watching as he made clay models of a man and a woman entwined. He couldn’t have been happier if he was God himself creating the first couple. All it needed was to keep the Devil preoccupied with some interminable task, and the world would have reached some ultimate harmony.
Perhaps, she mused, the world needed a quantity of badness in it. While the Devil was busy with those irredeemable souls, the rest of us could enjoy smelling the roses. Switching off the mobile, she took a deep lungful of mountain air, and sighed contentedly.