CULT

1

225–233

We don’t have to say go.

Or jump.

Or count down from three.

We just know.

For we are The People of Choice, the ones now with courage.

And we choose not to fear.

You know us. We’ve stocked your supermarket shelves. We’ve poured you coffee. We water your plants and feed your cat while you are on holiday.

We couldn’t possibly be in that group. That crazy cult. No way. Our boys play football together. We are your neighbour. We are your nephew. We are your daughter. We recommended that film you liked so much.

We are everywhere.

And we leave our homes and workplaces from the various dots across the capital and congregate on Chelsea Bridge as arranged, none of us offering a formal introduction, nobody speaking at all. Our paths have crossed on numerous occasions – nothing worth noting; nothing to dwell on.

We are just nine lives.

Nine personalities.

Nine problems.

Nine decisions.

We each received our calling this morning, the verification of our membership. A letter that confirmed our importance, our place in history; the continuation of this legacy. We all read that it was our time and knew immediately where we should meet and when. We knew what to bring and how we should use it.

We are one solution.

This is not the beginning.

We are but nine more.

Four of us approach the self-anchored suspension bridge from the south, Battersea and beyond. Five from north of the river come via Chelsea and Pimlico. For some, this is not the closest bridge to their house, but this was the agreement.

It must be here.

We know what to do.

Those from the south arrive at intervals, each wearing the same expression, each with a choice, each passing a bearded man with a video camera aimed in the wrong direction, ready to capture nothing important to the west. Missing an opportunity.

One becomes two and two become four until all nine of us are sitting, motionless, gazing to the east, waiting for the moment. We don’t count down; we don’t speak.

We don’t have to.

We just know.

And we stay seated for a while, perched on the great steel box that runs the length of the bridge on both sides of the road, overlooking the path ahead and the river beyond. This is our time for final contemplation.

This is our moment of selection.

We sat behind you in class. We washed your car while you went shopping. We employed you. We are your father. We gave you that recipe for shortbread. We stitched your daughter back together when she came off her bike.