The God Hunter by Tim Lees Read Free Book Online Page A

knowing when to pause, when to tease and when to flatter. Knowing all the right buttons to push.
    Ironic, then, what he was saying now. In somber tones.
    â€œThere is a term come into public use. And I abhor this term. I abhor it on—­oh, moral grounds, ethical grounds. But mostly for one simple, scientific reason: it’s inaccurate.”
    He looked around the auditorium, as if awaiting prompts. But he didn’t want prompts. In a deep voice, he announced, “That term—­and I’ve no wish to hear this, ever again—­is gods .”
    Ah, I thought. So here we go.
    â€œYou should be aware—­I have the deepest, most profound respect for genuine religious faith. Make no mistake. I believe that seeking spiritual enlightenment, in whatever form, is the highest calling that a man can have. And it just muddies the waters describing what we do, this energy resource we can provide, with a term that falsely, fraudulently, credits it with a religious quality. I can’t stress this enough. What we mine—­what we harvest, if you like—­is the fruit of years, centuries of human interaction. Human feeling, human emotion, embedded now like coal or oil or gas within the very fabric of our land. A renewable energy source. Churches, true, are places where such feelings well up to the surface. But there are others, too. Last week, in an English railway station . . .”
    I am impatient, as I say, with the palaver that surrounds the job. There is what I call work, and there is what I call farting around: the bumf, the conferences, social niceties, staff get-­togethers and the like. And Shailer doing his PR thing. The company might need it—­might, indeed, need him.
    I, for one, did not.

 
    CHAPTER 8
    THE WAIT
    T he venue had a well-­stocked bar, much overpriced, much used by persons with expense accounts who didn’t give a damn how much their port-­and-­lemon or their fizzy water cost them. For once, though, I was in their ranks. I settled down, found one of Shailer’s aides, and passed the message through that I was waiting for him. I then decided I would work my way along the shelf of strangely flavored vodkas that the barman had so generously shown me. All around, ­people were saying things like “Well, I read about this years ago,” and “I’ve studied the projections for it all. They’re very interesting,” and “You must know Charlie Wheeler, don’t you? Everyone knows Charlie!”
    Of course, a lot of them weren’t speaking English. But the English seemed to blare out with an irritating timbre, as if they thought the words were extra-­specially important. I hit the raspberry-­chocolate vodka, thinking what a stupid drink it was, in such a stupid place, on a stupid job. I wore my Pollins-­Read ID badge so that anyone not in the swim would be oblivious to my real affiliations. Consequently, no one spoke to me. I saw a few look over, read the badge, and draw a blank. Fine by me.
    I was trying to decide between the spearmint and the improbable avocado flavor when I spotted Shailer’s aide again. I grabbed his sleeve as he went by.
    The man was young—­younger than Shailer, even—­wearing an expensive suit and hundred-­dollar haircut, and he smiled and paused a second, as if shuffling through some mental Rolodex.
    Eventually he matched me up. “There’s a lot of interest from his speech. He’ll be with you soon as humanly possible—­”
    â€œOnly humanly? Well, I was sent here by our lords and masters to meet up with him. I understand that he requested it. Horribly important, you know? So”—­I looked along the row of bottles—­“you better tell him that I’ll give him to the walnut and Stilton. See that? Right there? After which, I’m gone.”
    Actually, I didn’t think I’d make it that far. I could feel the