Maybe there’s some use in religion after all, even if it’s just that you get a good time once a year as a kid. Well, and Christmas Day as well. And Easter, come to think of it—they used to have nice times then too, like rolling hard-boiled eggs down hillsides, which sounds wild. And, my grandad says, they always had off the patron saint’s day of their local church, and Whit week. I’ll make sure us Thorians have lots of pi-holidays. (Hey, I’ve just realized that ‘holiday’ comes from ‘holy-day’: a day off for a religious reason. Yes, I know, I’m thick.)
My last bit of research:
8th May: you were born under the sign of Taurus, the bull. You are therefore supposed to be EARTHY, MELANCHOLY, and STRONG-WILLED. I should have known after the CND demo. That day you were certainly earthy (covered in it, in fact), melancholy (very fed up, if you ask me), and strong-willed (stubborn is the word I’d use). But you don’t look like a bull, I’ll grant you that. Quite nice, actually, in an un-bullish way. Just shows how appearances can deceive.
Taurus and Thor, the thunderbolt and threes and nines and footwashings and ascensions into the sky!
When added up, what does this mean?
Answer: I am invited to accompany a wilful, moody, sensual but religious female, whose life is dominated that day by the power of one (the self: one is one and ever more shall be so), three times repeated (a triangle, strongest of all shapes and signs), adding up to 999 (an alarm call with spiritual/magical properties), on a birthday pilgrimage (something I don’t believe in) to a place where an old woman who died over six hundred years ago (a herstory) saw what she thought were visions of God (but which I think must have been hallucinations because I don’t believe in visions).
This trip is to be made in an ancient chariot, and we are to spend a night together in uncertain circumstances, before a day when the female’s God ordered that we love one another and on which s/he/it rose up into Paradise, but which is also the day of the hammering thunderbolt wielded by a rival God, champion of the peasants, he of the epi-temper.
If I had any sense I’d stay at home. There’s bound to be trouble.
You might say all this is just superstition. 1 might say all religion is just superstition.
I’ll bring my sleeping bag, I mean the inanimate one, and some guzzle and some grub. Where and when do we meet? Nik.
Dear Nik: What rubbish. I’ve never had such a long ridiculous answer to a simple invitation. Have you noticed that it is always the atheists, doubters, disparagers, and faithless who are the ones who are most superstitious and put their trust in silly omens?
I’ll pick you up at your house, 9.00 p.m., Wednesday. Can’t manage before because I’m on late surgery that day. Julie.
PS: Here’s my own precious copy of Dame Julian for you to read. Homework for our trip. You’ll learn more from it than from all that so-called research. I’d like it back, please, on Wed. J.
†
Disgruntled that his hunch hadn’t paid off, Tom left the telephone box, crossed the station car park and went into the Imperial Hotel. He reappeared a few minutes later, half a pint of bitter in his hand, selected an empty one from among the clutter of white-metal, umbrella-shaded tables squashed between the front of the pub and the station car park, and sat down to ruminate in the sun.
He recognized none of the few people sitting around him, mostly junior office types having their lunch, and they paid his scruffy presence no heed. Just as well; he was not in the mood for company.
Nor for patience. He’d never been one for letting events take their course. He liked to be in with a chance, busy with the action. Even when he was little his mother used to complain that he was never still, would never give up. ‘There’s something wrong with you,’ she’d say, ‘you’re not normal, you’ve got St Vitus’s dance or a hyperactive thyroid or something worse, you always have had, even before you were born you started wriggling about, kicking the life out of me weeks before you were due, and you’ve been kicking somebody ever since, I don’t know where you get it from because your dad’s not like that and I’m certainly not.’
Which was right enough, Tom thought, smiling into his beer; she was thirteen stone if she was an ounce and never got out of her chair till she was forced to.
On, on, don’t hang about. The ideal detective, according to the super, should be well nigh invisible till the time came for making an impression—as when bagging a villain. Then he should act with memorably forceful visibility. ‘Memorably forceful visibility’ was the super’s own memorable phrase. Tom was eager for his first forcefully visible moment. Impatient for it, in fact, as he was impatient for everything he wanted. Bagging the crucifiers could provide the chance.
He swilled the last of his beer, took possession of himself, and made an exit with professional unobtrusiveness.
Unthinking of why, he allowed his instinct to lead him, like a sniffer dog, back to the scene-of-crime, this time walking there by way of the canal towpath, which, hedge-lined, hid him from the workshops he’d have to pass if he used the road to the dump. He wanted not to be spied by curious eyes.
As it was he was overtaken by a party of three flab-jigging middle-aged joggers, puffing heavily and grinning a lot at each other to prove they were enjoying themselves. Sauntering the other way was a teenage girl in gripping top and jeans who was shapely enough to make him turn as she passed so that he could assess her bum, a sight that reminded him he had not had it up for a week, a deprivation he must do something about soonest.
Are you still alive down there? he silently asked. As the sight of the girl’s backside made it necessary for him to adjust himself, he had no doubt of the reply.
At the dump he poked about among the garbage, beginning where the cross lay and working round in widening circles, unhurried. The cross, he noted, was hardly a cross at all but more a T shape. As he went, he pushed and delved with his toes, flipped and lifted and nudged with his hands. But wary of disturbing anything in case he spoiled evidence. Now and then he paused, straightened up, glanced at the manager’s hut and the adjacent workshops for sign of life. But nothing showed, and no one came to inquire. Which struck him as odd even then. Surely there was someone around in the middle of a working day?
Thirty-five minutes passed. Tom had spread the circle as wide as he felt was worth it so he started back towards the middle, but tracking counter, viewing things contrarily.
A pyramid of used tyres lay on the edge of his circle. First time, he had skirted it, paying only a cursory glance, not fancying a climb on its treacherous rubbery mess. This time, he gave it more attention, decided a close inspection was necessary, and began goat-stepping his way up, prying only with his eyes into the jumbled cavities.
As he climbed he felt himself tensing with excitement. He was warmer, he was sure, as in a game of hide-and-seek. His blood pulsed. There was something here, he knew it.
But he reached the top without success. Began to doubt himself, his hunches, his rozzer’s instincts.
Then saw.
A glint, a miniature of the flashing window.
On a side of the pyramid from that facing the scene-of-crime, two steps below him, clinging to the rim of a tyre by a bent arm, its one remaining but cracked lens catching the light, hung a pair of granny specs.
He almost let out a whoop.
ASSAULT
NIK’S NOTEBOOK: Four days after.
They say I’m still shocked. Shouldn’t I be?
They say I should rest. Not think about it.
How can I not think about it, with the press and photographers still sniffing round all the time and interviewers trying to talk to me, and people pretending to be friendly when all they really are is curious, and the police asking questions?
Anyway, I WANT to think about it, damn them. But my own way. Not their way. And how can I with them all rabbiting on and confusing me?
Treat it as research. Hold it away so I can look at it, get it in focus, think about it.
It might be the most i
mportant thing of all.
IS.
But couldn’t hold it away from me without my wp. Hands keep having spasms when they shake uncontrollably. And my legs, when I stand, will suddenly give way, as if all the bones had melted. But can prop myself up in my chair and tap away without too much trouble, watching the green fingertip write words, words that glow like green jewels quarried from the depths of the VDU.
Words on the VDU are different from words you write on paper. Not so much your own. Not anyone’s. Removed. So less dangerous, less upsetting.
Anyway, whatever they say, I’m going to think about it, and the only way I can think about it without breaking into a sweat and having my hands shake or my legs melt, or even, dammit, bursting into tears, is to record it, look at it in words held away from me, not mine, but themselves—OTHER.
Words words words. I like words. Begin to like words more than people. Not like: LOVE.
LOVE: that which cannot be done without; wish always to be with, be part of, belong to, know intimately inside and out, entirely, WHOLE-LY, for ever and ever amen.
Shining bright words in amazing patterns of endless variety. Drawings of the inside of my head.
Selah bloody selah.
STOCKSHOT: People like you must look at everything and think about it and communicate with the heaven that dwells deep within them and listen for a word to come.
Chapter One THE JOURNEY
We drove via Cirencester ring road, through Bibury to Burford, on along the Witney bypass, left at north Oxford for Bicester and Buckingham, then Stoney Stratford and the Newport Pagnell bypass to slow and awkward, in-the-way Bedford. After that St Neot’s and the flat, straight A45 towards Cambridge. Outside of which she stopped just off the main road on the edge of a parcel of trees.
Driving the way she drove in her ancient car and mostly in the dark with me navigating, using a flashlight to see her A A map and never having been further east than Witney and nearly losing us in rotten Bedford because I missed one of the signs, took three hours and ten minutes.
She said: We can make Norwich in an hour or so tomorrow and here’s as good a place as any to bed down.
I said: Why not push on?
Because I’m too tired, she said. I’ve been working since seven this morning, unlike you coddled school kids. Besides, I thought you might like to see a bit of Cambridge tomorrow. It’s supposed to be beautiful, and you ought to give it the once over as you’re the sort who’ll end up at university there.
She laughed. Me too, but from surprise, not humour. Never considered it. Would I want to?
And what sort end up there? I asked.
The clever, curious and uncommitted, she said, and laughed again.
Chapter Two SURPRISE
Julie said: There’s a small tent. One of us can use that, the other can sleep in the car. I don’t mind.
I said: You choose.
She said: You take the tent. You’ll be able to stretch out. I’ve dossed down in the car before and it doesn’t bother me.
When we’d prepared for the night, we sat outside the tent drinking coffee from a flask I’d brought. Half eleven by then. A still night. I remember: An owl hooting over the fields. The warm air. A clear sky like a vast V D U with bright full stops scattered over it—the hundreds of trillions of millions of stars and galaxies, sucking black holes and popping white holes, and quasars with their red shifts and pulsars bleeping their radio call signs, and how many other unknown universes beyond? And smaller than all, bigger than all, a beaming moon. And us here on earth, a speck of sand floating in the unthinkable ocean of endless space.
This seemed the right romantic moment to spring her birthday surprise. I reached into the tent and produced the parcel like a magician from under my sleeping bag, and laid it in her lap.
What’s this? she said, lighting the Gaz lamp to see.
I said happy birthday.
A present! she said. And reached over and kissed me. On the lips. Not passionately. But not just sisterly either. Which I misread.
Selah.
She delicately undressed the parcel.
A book, she said, fingering the cover. You shouldn’t have!
People always say that, I said, full of witlessness at the sight of her glowing.
Well you shouldn’t, she said. A Humourment, she said, misreading the title the same as I did when I first saw it.
A Hum-U-ment, I said.
By Tom Phillips, she said. Never heard of him before.
She began flipping pages, making surprised noises of pleasure at what she found.
Strange, she said. Unusual. Pictures with words in them. What’s it about? How’s it done?
I said: He explains at the end. One of my favourite books. A sort of vision but a bit different from old Dame Juliana’s.
Thanks, Nik, she said. I’ll read it properly when I get back home. It’s a lovely gift.
And she reached over and gave me another unsisterly kiss and a hug as well this time. Which I misread even worse than before.
Chapter Three COUNTRY MATTERS
I said: If you want, we could, I mean . . . if you like, we could . . . you could sleep with . . . in the tent . . .
She smiled and at once looked down to hide her face.
I laughed, not exactly voluntarily. More a spasm of nerves. She said: Another birthday present?
I said: Well, no, well I mean, if you like . . . well yes, I wouldn’t mind . . . Or put that another way—I would mind, I’d like it a lot, to be honest.
Pause.
Are you, she said, making a pass at me?
Pause for controlling of breath.
Yes.
Silence, her head up, eye-balling.
Julie: Did you think I expected something like this?
I shrugged, not knowing then what I’d expected, but knowing now that I’d hoped for it.
She looked down, hiding her face again. The longest pause so far.
Then, almost whispered: I’m sorry.
I spluttered: Hey, look, it’s okay, it’s all right, I . . .
No no!, she cut in. I don’t mean, I’m sorry I don’t want to sleep with you. I mean, I’m sorry, I should have known, I should have thought . . . inviting you, you know, like this, you’d expect . . . it’s only natural . . .
She looked up, her expression pained. The first time I’d seen her unsure of herself in the face of me. Vulnerable is the word. She had seemed so utterly strong till then, so unshakeable and knowing.
I couldn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. Confused about myself and her and what I’d just done, which already, then, seemed twittish, and now seems worse than grubby and makes me cringe. How could I be so crass?
But instead of letting it go, trying to apologize and forget, I sat there, staring at her, even letting myself feel angry, as if she had done something wrong to me.
She said, shaking her head: I’m stupid, I’m really stupid!
I shook my head, meaning: No you’re not.
I don’t know, she said, perhaps . . .
What? I said, wanting to know, but the word came out like a rebuke.
Just . . . !
Her turn to stammer and fluff. She looked away, a blank stare into the night blackened by the glare of the fizzing lamp.
. . . Perhaps I wanted you to try.
I said, cloddishly puzzled: Wanted me to try?
A sort of test, she said.
A test, I said, and now the anger took hold: Great! Well, I failed. Asked too soon, did I?
She laughed, which didn’t help, misreading her again.
Just like a man! she said.
Not surprisingly, I said.
Thinking you’re the only one who can fail. I can fail too, you know.
You’re the one who set the test, I said.
Look, she said, you’ve got it wrong. What I mean is, I think perhaps . . . She sighed . . . Perhaps I asked you to come with me hoping you’d try something, but not admitting it to myself.
&
nbsp; Why would you do that?
So as to test myself. To find out if I’d let you . . . If I’d sleep with you.
But you haven’t. Not yet!
No.
So you haven’t failed yet.
Not with you, she said, glaring at me. But with myself.
Selah.
Moths were buffeting the lamp, burning themselves, fluttering away in maddened circles, but coming back for more. Julie turned it off, plunging us into star-pricked night again.
What she was telling me didn’t sink in. I still felt I’d been rejected, and was at fault for even trying. But I was thinking, why shouldn’t I? I was only letting her know what I wanted, how I felt about her. What was wrong with that? And I really did think she had given me a hint, that her birthday-present kisses were more than thank-yous.
I couldn’t help asking: Is it that you don’t fancy me?
No no! she said, sounding now as irritated as I felt. Just the opposite if you must know!
Then why? Is it religion? Sex before marriage, all that stuff?
Yes! . . . No!. . . Yes, of course it’s got something to do with religion. How could it not? My religion is about all of my life, not just about the bits of it that don’t matter. But no, it hasn’t got anything to do with sex before marriage and what you call all that stuff. It isn’t like that any more—God, I mean, religion, Christianity. Not for me. It’s only like that for you because you haven’t thought about it enough, haven’t lived it, but only assumed things . . .
There was anger between us now.
Selah.
Rows are stupid. That’s why they seem so funny afterwards. Not always. But often. We laughed about this one next morning, while we were driving into Cambridge.
But the real joke about rows is that they’re futile. I’m no expert on girls or how to deal with them, and I’m no expert on sex. But I am expert on rows, thanks to years of training by my row-loving parents.
When 1 felt anger bubbling up between us I thought: This is just the way it used to be at home! The thing would boil up, like a kettle full of water, until it boiled over and we’d all get scalded.