What Whispies Believe

James waved his hand around vaguely.

“I am very pleased to report that there are now groups of Whispies in every major university. We are trying to put right everything that is wrong.”

“How?” I asked.

He regarded me coldly.

“I’m coming to that.” He flourished his hand once again. “This house, here in the centre of Southampton, is only the tip of the iceberg. There are similar houses – linked, yet independent – in Portsmouth, Reading, Guildford and several places I can’t quite remember.”

“What do they do?” I asked.

Zoe jerked my sleeve sharply.

“Don’t interrupt him,” she hissed. “It spoils his flow and if you hold him up, we’ll be here for hours.”

James waited for her to finish, then continued as if nothing had happened.

“We are philanthropists, pointing out to a foolhardy world the sheer futility of everything.” He fixed me with his eye. “What was it that John Maynard Keynes said?”

I blanched and tried to think of what I had heard.

“Something about money, I expect.”

“No,” he intoned. “He said: in the long run, we’re all dead. And, oh, how true he was. What peace there would be if we all realised that.”

I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t resist.

“In that case,” I said, “what’s the point of doing anything at all?”

For a moment, James’ stern face creased into a smile.

“Exactly!” He turned to Zoe. “Your friend’s not quite as stupid as he looks.”

“His name is David Taylor,” she said, “and he isn’t my friend, he’s my pastor – I mean, he was my pastor when I lived in Wembley.”

James fixed me with his eye again.

“You could be very useful to us as people, for some reason, listen to you.”

I shrugged.

“I used to think that too, James, until I did some research and found that it’s not true.”

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~ by Christopher Jealous on November 8, 2008.