At last I said, “And you, Gregory. What would you do?”
He stared at us, one by one. “When I die, which I think won’t be long in happening, then I’ll remain out there among the stars, doing whatever the Kéthani want me to do.”
A few days later I received a package of books through the post. They were the Returnee trilogy, by Gregory Merrall, sent courtesy of his publisher in London.
That week at the pub I found that every one of us in the group had received the trilogy.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Stuart said, “but they’re good.”
“More than good,” said Elisabeth, who was the literary pundit amongst us. “I’d say they were excellent, profoundly moving.”
Dan nodded. “I’d second that. I’m more of a non-fiction man myself, but I found Gregory’s books compelling stuff.”
Gregory was away that Tuesday—visiting his publisher—so we didn’t have the opportunity to thank him. That week I devoured the books, and like Stuart and Elisabeth and Dan found them a heady experience.
He had the ability to write about ideas and the human experience in such a way that the one complemented the other. His characters were real, fully fleshed human beings, about whom the reader cared with a passion. At the same time, he wrote about their experiences in a series of philosophical debates that were at once—for a literary dunce like myself—understandable and page turning.
I canvassed Stuart’s opinion on the following Tuesday. I wondered if he, as an intellectual, had been as impressed by Gregory’s books as I had. He had, and for an hour that evening before the man himself turned up, all of us discussed the Returnee trilogy with passion and something like awe that we knew its author.
At one point Stuart said, “But what did you all think about the finale, and what did it mean? Gregory seemed to be saying that life on Earth was over, that only humankind’s journey among the stars was what mattered.”
Ben nodded. “As if Earth were a rock pool, which we had to leave in order to evolve.”
At that point Gregory came in with a fanfare of wind and a swirl of snowflakes. We fought to buy him a drink and heaped praise on his novels.
I think he found all the fuss embarrassing. “I hope you didn’t think it a tad arrogant, my having the books sent.”
We assured him otherwise.
“It was just,” he said, “that I wanted you to know my position.” He smiled. “And it saved me giving a lecture.”
Elisabeth asked, “What are you working on now, Gregory?”
He hesitated, pint in hand. “Ah… Well, I make it a rule never to talk about work in progress. Superstition. Perhaps I fear that gabbing about the book will expend the energy I’d use writing it.”
She gave a winning smile. “But on this occasion…”
Gregory laughed. “On this occasion, seeing as I’m among friends, and I’ve almost finished the book anyway…”
And he proceeded to tell us about his next novel, entitled The Suicide Club.
It was about a group of friends who, dissatisfied with their routine existence on Earth, stage a farewell party at which they take their own lives, are resurrected, and then go among the stars as ambassadors of the Kéthani.
Over the course of the next few weeks we became a reading group devoted to the works of Gregory Merrall.
We read every novel he’d written, some fifteen in all. We were enthralled, captivated. We must have presented a strange picture to outsiders: a group of middle-class professionals continually carrying around the same books and discussing them passionately amongst themselves. We even arranged another night to meet and discuss the books, to spare Gregory the embarrassment, though we didn’t forgo our usual Tuesday outings.
Only Andy Souter absented himself from the reading group. He was busy most nights with his brass band, and he’d admitted to me on the phone that he’d found the novels impenetrable.
One Saturday evening I arrived early and Stuart was already propping up the bar. “Khalid. Just the man. I’ve been thinking…” He hesitated, as if unsure as to how to proceed.
“Should think that’s expected of you, in your profession,” I quipped.
“You’d never make a stand-up comedian, Azzam,” he said. “No, it struck me… Look, have you noticed something about the group?”
“Only that we’ve become a devoted Gregory Merrall fan club—oh, and as a result we drink a hell of a lot more.” I raised my pint in cheers. “Which I’m not complaining about.”
He looked at me. “Haven’t you noticed how we’re looking ahead more? I mean, at one point we seemed content, as a group, to look no further than the village, our jobs. It was as if the Kéthani didn’t exist.”
“And now we’re considering the wider picture?” I shrugged. “Isn’t that to be expected? We’ve just read a dozen books about them and the consequences of their arrival. Damn it, I’ve never read so much in my life before now!”
He was staring into his pint, miles away.
“What?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Reading Gregory’s books, thinking about the Kéthani, what it all might mean… It brings back to me how I felt immediately after my resurrection. The lure of the stars. The dissatisfaction with life on Earth. I think, ever since my return, I’ve been trying to push to the back of my mind that… that niggling annoyance, the thought that I was treading water before the next stage of existence.” He looked up at me. “You said as much the other week.”
I nodded. After Zara left me, and I killed myself and returned to Earth, I withdrew into myself—or rather into my safe circle of friends—and paid little heed to the world, or for that matter to the universe, outside.
The door opened, admitting a blast of icy air and the rest of the group.
For the next hour we discussed an early Gregory Merrall novel, The Coming of the Kéthani.
Around ten o’clock a familiar figure strode into the main bar. We looked up, a little shocked and, I think, not a little embarrassed, like schoolkids caught smoking behind the bike shed.
A couple of us tried to hide our copies of Gregory’s novel, but too late. He smiled as he joined us.
“So this is what you get up to when my back’s turned?” he laughed.
Elisabeth said, “You knew?”
“How could you keep it a secret in a village the size of Oxenworth?” he asked.
Only then did I notice the bundle under his arm.
Gregory saw the direction of my gaze. He deposited the package on the table and went to the bar.
We exchanged glances. Sam even tried to peek into the brown paper parcel, but hastily withdrew her hand, as if burned, as Gregory returned with his pint.
Maddeningly, for the rest of the evening he made no reference to the package; he stowed it beneath the table and stoked the flagging conversation.
At one point, Stuart asked, “We were discussing your novel.” He indicated The Coming of the Kéthani. “And we wondered how you could be so confident of the, ah… altruism of the Kéthani, back then? You never doubted their motives?”
Gregory considered his words, then said, “Perhaps it was less good prophecy than a need to hope. I took them on trust, because I saw no other hope for humankind. They were our salvation. I thought it then, and I think so still.”
We talked all night of our alien benefactors, and how life on Earth had changed since their arrival and the bestowal of immortality on the undeserving human race.
Well after last orders, Gregory at last lifted the package from beneath the table and opened it.
“I hope you don’t mind my presumption,” he said, “but I would very much like your opinion of my latest book.”
He passed us each a closely printed typescript of The Suicide Club.