The evening had passed very pleasantly; the others in the squat were Dec, the Irishman who'd walked in as Brother Zebediah had been washing my feet; Boz, a most sizable and lustrously black Jamaican man with a fabulously deep, slow voice; Scarpa, his interestingly pale south London girlfriend; and Wince, a smaller version of Boz but, confusingly, with an Irish accent.

They had been a little wary of me at first, but things had gradually become more convivial, first over the meal of vegetable curry, sweet potatoes and chicken (the last of which I couldn't eat, of course, and was glad to see Brother Zebediah passed on as well) and later while watching a videotaped film in the squat's living room, which was bare but functional and - in terms of new-looking electrical entertainment equipment - surprisingly well-equipped.  I was, especially initially, distinctly uncomfortable sitting in the presence of all this cluttering technology, but felt that it was my duty to be sociable; I was, after all, the ambassador for my Faith amongst these people, as well as owing them the normal courtesies a guest owes hosts.

Partly, no doubt, the feeling of relaxation I experienced was due to the effects of the Litening Stryke as well as the 'blow' drug cigarettes they smoked, but partly too it was thanks to my somewhat playing the holy fool, regaling them with tales of our life at High Easter Offerance, our history, Revealed truths, commandments and rituals.

They all appeared to find this most entertaining, and there was much laughter and giggling.  Dec wiped tears from his eyes at one point and asked me, 'Jayzus, Is, what are you on?'

'A mission,' I informed him, to further hilarity.

I think Zeb was a little embarrassed in places, but I counted it no disgrace for our Order to be the cause of such enjoyment in others, and it is anyway the case that what one initially laughs at and finds quite ridiculous can often, on more sober reflection, come to seem quite sensible and latterly even wise.  There are more ways than one in which to spread the good word!

I had managed to have a quiet word with Zeb at one point, helping him to do the dishes after the meal.  I briefly explained the nature of my mission and told him I expected his full cooperation in the search for our cousin Morag, which would start promptly on the morrow.

'Well, I.  Never heard.  Her.  Being.  Internationally famous,' Zeb muttered towards the suds.

'Well, she is, Brother Zeb,' I told him. 'Are you in the habit of attending classical concerts or mixing in that sort of circle?'

'No.  But.'

'Well, then,' I said, emphatically.

Brother Zebediah looked as though he was going to argue about this, but I looked sternly at him, and he smiled meekly and looked down, nodding.

We were watching one of the videotaped films - it appeared to consist largely of cars chasing each other, lots of large colourful explosions and American men becoming angry and sweeping coffee tables, mantelpieces and so on clear of breakables - when I realised I was getting overly intoxicated.  I stood and made my goodnights, requesting only a pint glass of water to take to my hammock-side.  I tried to read a few passages from the Orthography by candlelight but confess that my vision, even with one eye determinedly closed, was not really up to the task.  I closed the word of the Creator and vowed to read twice as much the following evening; I disrobed to my underwear and climbed into the hammock with a practised ease that even my sobriety-compromised state could not endanger.

It occurred to me, as I lay there, swinging in my hammock and trying to ignore the pressure in my bladder, that we were all abbreviated:  I from Isis to Is, Zebediah to Zeb, Declan to Dec, Winston to Wince… I wasn't sure about Boz or Scarpa but one certainly sounded contracted, though both could have been nicknames.

I got up to relieve myself, donning my jacket for modesty.  As I left the toilet, I heard somebody say something like, '-got the bucket!' and Brother Zebediah barged out of his and Roadkill's room wearing only his trousers and an amulet, dashed past me holding his mouth and was sick in the still-flushing toilet.  I hesitated, looking from the toilet to the wooden ladder which led to the loft, uncertain whether to offer to help my half-brother or not.

Zeb came out of the toilet a few moments later, sighing and smiling.

'Are you all right, Brother Zebediah?' I asked.

'Yeah,' he said, and smiled broadly. 'Yeah,' he nodded, and took me by the shoulders and then hugged me. 'You're beautiful, Is,' he said, and sighed again, then walked off, smiling, back to his room.

I climbed back to my hammock in the loft, somewhat bemused, but thankful that Zeb seemed able to shrug off minor maladies with such alacrity.

CHAPTER EIGHT

'What about kangaroos?'

'Kangaroos ?' I said, wondering what Brother Zebediah was talking about.

'Kangaroos,' he confirmed as we boarded the Underground train at Kilburn Park.  There were seats free and I thought I detected Zeb making to head for one and sit, despite the fact he did not have his Sitting Board with him.  He coughed and made a show of walking past the first free seat to look at a newspaper lying on a more distant seat, then came back to where I was standing near the doors, which closed.  The train moved off.

'Kangaroos?' I reminded him.

'Oh.  Yeah,' he said.  He shrugged in a quizzical manner. 'Eat them?'

'I see,' I said, and thought.  The train charged through the dark tunnel, shaking and rattling.

It was mid-morning.  It had taken an unconscionably long time to rouse my half-brother from his slumbers but I had been loathe to embark upon such a crucial part of my mission alone.  I had been happy with my navigation through London the previous day; considering that I had not visited the British state's capital before, and while admitting the relative failure of my Back Bussing ploy, I thought I had done reasonably well in coping with a city of such - in my own experience - unprecedented size.  Nevertheless, I did not imagine myself to be 'streetwise' and - suspecting that today's expedition would be more complicated in nature - I believed that I would therefore benefit from having Zeb's considerable local knowledge, built up over a number of years of capital living and the subject of obvious if quiet pride in his all-too-occasional letters home.

Extracting Zeb from his room or even his bed at a decent hour mat morning had proved to be the most demanding and frustrating task of my mission so far; my gentle cajolings, offered cups of coffee, eulogies on the beauty of the day, waitings of toast under the nose, admittedly jocular threats of excommunication, and even an invigorating reading from a particularly stimulating passage of the Orthography all failed to elicit more than low groans from the narrow crease in the covers that was all I could see of my brother in faith. (Zeb was alone in bed at this point, Roadkill having already left.)

Finally, it took a graduated series of containers - a thimble, an egg cup, a tea cup, a pint glass and a bucket - to convince him that I was serious and that he was getting no more sleep that day, no matter how much he was 'hurting'.  People usually give in after having the thimble of water poured over them but Zeb held out until the tea cup, which indicated either a remarkably violent hang-over or admirably steely determination.  I knew which one I'd have put my money on (if we were allowed to do such things).

He certainly didn't look well, and seemed to have developed a cold overnight; he spent so long in the toilet I suspected he was trying to indulge in some more sleep, though when I banged on the door he sounded already awake.  He did eventually succeed in what he colourfully described as 'getting his shit together' and we finally left the house at the disgracefully late hour of ten o'clock.