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Christ sat on top of the tank. He was listening with disciplic
attention to the elderly man standing beneath him, spending words as
only those short of time truly can.

"Fooling yourself mate. Fifty years ago, we went to church, gave us
stability, someweer to hide, summat to do on Sunday. But we didn't
believe in you. Nobody said so, you couldn't. We just kept our heads
down, pretended, took the quiet life. If somebody got up and said they
were an atheist, bloody hell, they were up for the nut house. We was
frightened of 'em. Looking back, I suppose I admired them, at least
they believed in summat, even if it was nothing that they believed in.
Teks some doing. Only difference now is nobody expects you to believe
in anything, people can't even be bothered to be atheists, 'cos not
believing's too much bloody trouble. No anti-believers, just
apathetics, mate. They don't know why they don't believe in you, they
don't even think about it. They've forgot about you, like they forgot
Woodbines and powdered egg, you'm just summat from the past that gets
mentioned on the telly sometimes. A relic mate, that's what you
are."

"What should I do? Advertise?"

"Problem theer sunshine. You'm selling belief. We don't buy that no
more. Or only little bits - we believe in a tin opener, baked beans. We
don't believe in much that's bigger than that. Too much trouble, too
dangerous. And you want to sell people summat that don't exist? You
want to sell 'em faith? Good luck pal."

Christ reached into the brown paper bag at his side, took out a
beautiful lead crystal glass and took a long pull on the crystal clear
white wine within. The old man looked at him quizzically.

"I'm a little anemic at the moment," Christ answered.

A man of indeterminate length in his early 30s had joined the pair
during this final exchange.

"He's right. Advertising's no good. Find a casino, walk up to the main
table, stick your whole life on black. That'll do it."

He shuffled off, tending to the bonfire, the shallow man who only spoke
in the deep end.

Crackle of dry paper filled the air, burning books, torched words,
surrendered ideas given their last articulation before the boots
stubbed them out.

"Mmm, a bloody great gesture might do it. You'd need publicity though,
couldn't just go in theer and do it without the telly cameras and
stuff. What about Oprah?"

"Can't sing - didn't you see Jesus Christ Superstar?"

"No you pillock. Oprah. Jerry Springer. Chat shows. Get on one of them
sofas and you've got half the bloody world watching. That's half the
trouble."

"But publicity destroys everything. The whole point of faith is the act
of believing in something that you can't prove exists. If I go on TV
and show the world that I'm here, where's the faith? My power is in
withholding it. They'll all flock to me -"

"Or throw you in the nut house."

"They'll all flock to me," Christ continued with just the merest hint
of celestial irritation, "but what's the point in that? They might as
well follow a packet of biscuits."