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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

There was no God. How could there be?

How could any God that loved man concoct such a perversion? His mouth was stretched open in a scream, he knew that. But there was no sound coming from it. But then a scream would have been a cry of alarm, a cry for help, an expression of fear with purpose. None of these applied at that moment to James Henderson. He was numb, the scream silenced in his rigid body by the knowledge that he would die and there would be no God to greet him. His body would merely disintegrate and there would be nothing. No consciousness, no love, no purpose. This thing was the truth, not the words written in his bible, because if this thing lived and breathed and killed and tortured, then all else was lies.

No. No God could let this abomination be.

The black, stinking bile was solid now. Within that strange dream-like state of being beyond terror, Henderson knew that the grotesque Kinchuinick totems he had seen, the wooden nightmares of gaping jaws and rolling hate-filled eyes, were sculptures, not fantasy. Here was their model. The ice was forming it. And the rock, and the ice and the crawling viscous membrane of scum that held the component parts together, combined in one giant creature that now stood on great taloned hind legs and regarded him hungrily, with a pornographic stare.

And no one to pray to. An empty universe, deaf to man’s triumphs and failures, where neither good nor bad was rewarded or punished, where life could begin and be extinguished without purpose.

When the talon of ice shot out and pierced Henderson’s chest, his scream was as much for that glimpse of Godless chaos and bottomless dismay, as for the agony that seared him and scythed him writhing to the ground.

54

This wasn’t what he had in mind. The Victoria function room in the Rocky Mountain Chateau was clattering with the chatter from the celebrity ski participants as they filled their fat faces with pastries and wine. But there was no TV crew.

Some dickpiece from the ski company was wandering around the crowd taking a video, but what did that count for? Jack shit, that’s what.

Del Parkinson tried to look threatening from the safety of his window-seat as yet another big-haired woman waddled over to him, her hand extended to shake his. It didn’t work. The idiot classes never knew when they weren’t wanted. That’s what made them idiots.

‘Del Parkinson in Silver. You know Vera and I can hardly believe it!’

He looked at her with resignation, knowing that Vera would not be far behind. ‘Me neither.’

She laughed, although not at his joke. She didn’t understand it, he could tell. Del noted the dark lettuce stuck between two of her bottom teeth and felt queasy. She adopted a look of pride.