‘Have you ever wished you were dead, Jesus Lover Five?’ He knew her real name now, and could even make a fair stab at pronouncing it, but she’d let him know that she preferred him to call her by her Christian honorific. ‘I have,’ he went on, hoping for a breakthrough in rapport. ‘At various bad times in my life. Sometimes the pain is so great, we feel it would be better not to be alive.’
She was silent for a long while. ‘Beรี่er be alive,’ she said at last, staring down at one of her gloved hands as if it contained a profound secret. ‘Dead no good. Alive good.’
Getting to grips with the language brought him no closer to understanding the origins of สีฐฉั civilisation. The สีฐฉั never alluded to what had happened in their collective past and appeared to have no concept of ancient history — their own or anyone else’s. For example, they either didn’t grasp, or considered irrelevant, the fact that Jesus walked the earth several thousand years ago; it might as well have been last week.
In this, they were, of course, excellent Christians.
‘Tell me about Kurtzberg,’ he asked them.
‘Kurรี่สีberg gone.’
‘Some of the workers at USIC say cruel things about that. I think they’re not serious, but I can’t be sure. They say you killed him.’
‘Kill him?’
‘Made him dead. Like the Romans made Jesus dead.’
‘Jeสีuสี no dead. Jeสีuสี alive.’
‘Yes, but he was killed. The Romans beat him and nailed him to the cross and he died.’
‘God iสี miracle. Jeสีuสี no longer dead.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Peter. ‘God is miracle. Jesus no longer dead. But what happened to Kurtzberg? Is he alive too?’
‘Kurรี่สีberg alive.’ A dainty gloved hand gestured at the empty landscape. ‘Walking. Walking, walking, walking.’
Another voice said: ‘He leave uสี in need of him.’
Another voice said: ‘You no leave uสี.’
‘I will have to go home eventually,’ he said. ‘You understand that.’
‘Home here.’
‘My wife is waiting for me,’ he said.
‘Your wife Bea.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Your wife Bea: one. We are many.’
‘A very John Stuart Mill observation.’ At this, they twitched their shoulders in fretful incomprehension. He should have known better than to say it. The สีฐฉั did not ‘do’ witticism or irony. So why had he bothered?
Maybe he was saying it to Bea, as if she were here to hear.
Solemn truth: If Bea hadn’t been OK, he wouldn’t have come. He would have postponed his visit, stayed at the base. The disappointment his flock would have felt was a far less serious thing than the distress of the woman he loved. But, to his enormous relief, she had listened to his pleas and prayed.
And, of course, God had come through.
I went to bed frightened and angry and lonely, I must confess, she’d written to him. I was expecting to wake up in a state of suppressed panic, as usual, my arms folded around my face to ward off whatever nasty surprise the day had in store for me. But next morning, the whole world was different.
Yes, that’s what God could do. Bea had always known that, but she’d forgotten it, and now she knew it again.
I may have mentioned (but probably not), her morning-after-prayer letter went on, that the central heating has been gurgling/thumping/stuttering all day & night for weeks, and suddenly the house was quiet. I figured the boiler must have given up the ghost, but no, it was fine. Everything working smoothly. As if God just laid a finger on it and said ‘Behave yourself’. Joshua seemed more at ease, stroking himself against my shins the way he used to. I made a cup of tea and realised I had no morning sickness. Then there was a knock on the door. I thought it was the postman, until I remembered that deliveries have been coming in the afternoon if they’ve come at all. But it was four fresh-faced young men, maybe mid-20s, very macho. For a moment I was scared they might rape me and rob me. A lot of that’s been going on lately. But guess what? They wanted to remove the piles of stinking garbage! They had a four-wheel drive and a trailer. Their accents were Eastern European, I think. They’ve been driving all over the area doing this.
‘The system is gone to hell!’ one of them said, big grin on his face. ‘We are the new system!’
I asked them how much they’re charging. I expected them to say 200 quid or something.
‘Give us 20 pounds!’
‘And a bottle of some kind of nice drink!’
I told them I didn’t have any alcohol in the house.
‘Then give us… 30 pounds!’
‘And think in your mind that we are good strong amazing guys!’
They cleared the lot in two minutes flat. They were showing off, tossing heavy bags into the trailer with one hand, doing leapfrog on the wheelie bins, stuff like that. It was bitter weather, I was shivering in a parka, and these guys were in thin sweatshirts, skintight so that their muscles were well displayed.
‘We come to your rescue, yeah?’
‘Every day you think, When is somebody gonna come, and today… we come!’
‘Don’t trust the government, it is bullshit. They say, You want the mess cleaned up but it’s too much problem. Bullshit! It’s not problem! Five minutes work! Good strong guys! Finished!’ He was beaming, sweating, he seemed perfectly warm.
I gave them a 50 pound note. They gave me 20 change, then drove off with the garbage, waving bye-bye. The street looked and smelled civilised for the first time in weeks.
I wanted to tell someone what had just happened, so I phoned Claire. I almost didn’t — I’ve hardly used the phone for ages, there’s been this hideous crackling on the line, you can barely hear the other person. But this time it was totally noise-free. Again, I thought it must be dead, but it was just working as it should. Claire was not surprised by my news; she’s heard about these guys. They make a fortune, she says, because they visit maybe forty homes every day at £20 a pop. Funny how a service you’re accustomed to paying a few pence for (in tax) suddenly seems cheap at a hundred times the price.
Anyway, the story gets better. Claire said she’d had a strong mental picture of me ever since she went to bed last night — ‘as if someone beamed it into my head’, she said. She and Keith are moving to Scotland (they got a third of what they originally paid for their house and feel lucky to have sold it) to a much smaller, scummier (Claire’s word) place because at least they have a support network there. Anyway, they packed up their possessions and Claire decided she no longer needs half the clothes she’s accumulated over the years. So, rather than putting them into a charity bin, which is risky nowadays because people use them for garbage, she brought over three huge bin-bags full. ‘Take what you want for yourself, Bee Bee; the rest can go to the church,’ she said. When I opened the bags I almost cried. Claire is exactly the same size as me, if you recall (you probably don’t) and I’ve always loved her taste in clothes. I’m not a covetous person but there were things in those bags that I used to lust after when I’d see Claire wearing them. Well, I’m wearing one of them right now! — a lilac cashmere pullover that’s so soft you keep touching it to make sure it’s real. It must have cost 10 x more than anything I’ve ever had on my body apart from my wedding dress. And there are fancy leggings as well — beautifully embroidered, works of art. If you were here I would give you a little fashion parade. Can you even remember what I look like? No, don’t answer that.
I start back at work tomorrow. Rebecca tells me that Goodman has gone on holiday! Is that good news or what! And my hand has healed up very nicely. There was still some tingling in the nerves before but that’s completely gone now.