‘That’s one way of putting it!’ Michelle said.
‘You then decided that your grandson’s presence here might be discovered, that the police would make a fuss and so the newspapers would get on to the story and create another stir. To prevent this happening you phoned the Reverend Ruscombe of St James’s, told him the whole story, and asked for his help. He suggested that he come for your grandson and take him to the vicarage where he would be more comfortable and be safe from police or press inquiries until he was recovered and able to cope.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘In order to allow time for this to happen, Miss Ebley suggested she meet me and act as a decoy—’
‘I didn’t say decoy!’
‘No, but that’s what it amounted to.’
‘Well, but—’
‘And she and her friends kept me away until she was sure your grandson had been removed.’
‘You make him sound like a piece of furniture,’ Michelle said.
Tom ignored her. ‘And that’s where he is now.’
‘He is.’
Tom thought for a moment before asking with an attempt at off-handedness, ‘What happened to his glasses, sir?’
Arthur Green smiled wryly. ‘They got knocked off when we were cutting him loose. I didn’t notice and stood on them. Broke the lenses. Didn’t think they’d be much use after that so I chucked them over the pile of tyres to get shot of them. I was surprised when you found them. Even more surprised you traced him from them.’
‘Just routine,’ Tom said.
‘Oh aye? Pat on the back, though, for you, eh? The lot who came first didn’t find them.’
Tom shrugged. ‘Lucky break.’
Michelle gave a scoffing laugh. ‘My, my!’ she said. ‘He’s never witty as well as handy!’
Arthur Green sent her a look that said: Mind yourself.
They fell silent, avoiding each other’s eyes. Doubt hung between them like the fine motes of dust making smoky the light from the naked bulb above their heads.
Outside, the eight-twenty local connection from London rattled down the valley, across the viaduct on the other side of the canal, and braked to a greaseless stop at the station.
Inside, the only sound was the tattoo of Tom’s fingers drumming on his thigh.
Michelle’s patience snapped first. ‘Is that it, then? We can go home, can we?’
Her irritation seemed to make up Tom’s mind. He braced, stood up, and pushed his chair under the table, as if rising from a polite meal that’s gone on too long, saying: ‘Not yet. I’ll have to report back.’
‘Aw, come on!’ Michelle sprang to her feet and confronted him across the table. ‘What for? We’ve told you everything. Nobody else was involved. Nik’s okay. What more d’you want? Nobody’s done nothing illegal.’
‘Oh no?’ Tom’s own patience was crumbling too. ‘Removing evidence from the scene of a possible crime. Concealing a wanted man. Misleading and obstructing an officer in the course of his duty. Try those for starters.’
‘Refusing an officer the pleasure of a bit on the side during the course of his duty. Does that count as well?’
Tom’s face flushed. ‘Look, I’ve had enough of you!’ he said, pointing his finger at Michelle, who, flaunting herself, sneered: ‘You haven’t had me at all yet, you big dick!’
Arthur Green rose between them. ‘All right, all right, that’ll do, the pair of you!’ he said with unbrookable firmness. He gathered himself, a tired old man giving in to consequences he has known all day must eventually be faced. ‘Now, let’s try again before there’s more harm done. Listen, young man, I know you’ve got your job to do, and I’m not trying to stop you. All we’ve been doing is trying to keep my grandson from any more trouble. But all right, maybe I’ve overstepped the mark here and there and was wrong. I’m sorry about that. But nobody’s been harmed. And there’s nothing that can’t be cleared up.’
Tom, fighting his temper still, replied with strained calm. ‘I’ll have to report. My governor isn’t happy about this one. I reckon he’ll want to see your grandson and you two and question you himself. Anyway, I can’t let you go till I’ve new instructions.’
Arthur Green nodded. ‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘What?’
‘Report to your boss. If he wants to look into it personal, arrange for us all to meet at St James’s vicarage. It’ll be easier there. I don’t think your boss’ll want any more hoohah than I do, do you?’
Tom considered before reluctantly nodding agreement.
†
NIK’S NOTEBOOK: But being stranded on the cross turned out to be what Grandma Green used to call a blessing in disguise.
The blessing was that it gave me a clue for cracking the code of the indecipherable.
To start with, though, all it gave me was a nasty shock.*
One thing about a nasty shock, it does bring you to your senses. Grandma Green was right about that too. What caused the shock, of course, was pain. Some people don’t seem to mind pain. Athletes, for instance, are always talking about going through the pain barrier like other people talk about (or usually don’t talk about) going to the lavatory: as if it is one of those normal, everyday chores you have to do if you want to stay alive. Personally, I find any kind of pain anything but normal and everyday, and always abnormal and unique. I could happily live without it.
In my opinion, anybody who says pain is a Go(o)d Thing is crazy, anybody who recommends it to others is evil, and anybody who goes looking for it is sick.
But I know I am pretty much alone in this, judging from the way most people go on.
One of the reasons why the pain of the cross was such a shock—apart from the actual, physical pain itself, I mean—was that it brought me back to my senses with a jolt and I thought:
What am I doing here?
Why did I do this to myself?
I must be sick!
Idiot! You got yourself stuck up here, now get yourself down!
And I started wriggling about, trying to pull my arms out of their bindings. But I couldn’t. The bindings were too wide to allow me to bend my arms and slip my hands out. I felt like an insect pinned to a collector’s tray.
I heard myself say out loud: This is ridiculous! I can’t get myself free! Somebody’s got to help me!
And trying to shout: Help! . . . Hello? . . . Anybody . . . Help!
STOCKSHOT : The mystery of the Cross of Christ lies in a contradiction, for it is both a free will offering and a punishment which he endured in spite of himself. If we only saw in it an offering, we might wish for a like fate. But we are unable to wish for a punishment endured in spite of ourselves.
Panic. But I remembered my research. (Facts are useful sometimes.) By tying the victim’s arms to the cross the Romans could prolong his death for up to three days. And that was when his wrists and feet had been nailed as well. I was only tied, not nailed. So there was a pretty good chance of staying alive till somebody found me—three hours at most, never mind three days.
This thought calmed me down.
But then the strain on my muscles. And the sweats coming in fierce waves. And the dryness in my mouth and the taste of salt on my lips. And the strangling of my breath unless I pulled up and back with my arms. Which increased the pain in my muscles unbearably. And the sensation of my body being stretched by its own weight and tearing itself in half at the waist. And nothing to push up on with my feet. And my legs twisting at the knees, writhing against the pain.
The waves of pain.
And my eyes, as if they would pop.
Wave-pop.
Black blur and white dazzle.
And wave-pop.
And my breath breaking the sound barrier as my eyes splinter against the wall of light, the black sun blazing and flickering between here and there now and then as I turn on the axis of my heart pounding in my ears.
The ring of singularity.
Until I spin
S
ucking my mind
Dazzled into another where
And there was only now.
And the zing of words
In other worlds
Stars exploding
In clusters
galaxies
universes.
Cross words.
STOCKSHOT: Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past. (As, it might be added, all past plunges to the future through the now and here to which you hold. For everything is in the neck of the hour glass: the kiss of two cones.)
JULIE: It is the hidden that I look for.
‘Where is he, vicar?’ Tom demands.
NIK: Now for the life of the eyes?
‘Nobody else!’ Tom’s superintendent says. ‘Nobody at all? Are you sure? What’s he think he’s doing?’
‘Performing an experiment, he says, sir.’
‘Experiment? What kind of experiment?’
‘Making pictures, he says, sir.’
‘Making pictures! What does he mean?’
‘I asked him that. He said: Those who have eyes to see let them see.’
‘. . . Is that all?’
‘Refused to say anything else, sir.’
‘Is he off his head?’
‘His grandfather thinks he’s still in a dodgy state after the bomb. Miss Ebley says he’s in love with the girl who was involved in the explosion, and that he’s upset because she’s jilted him, but I don’t think she’s a reliable witness, sir. The vicar believes he’s suffering some kind of religious experience which has gone a little too far.’
‘And you?’
‘I think he’s a weirdo desperate for attention. He’s the sort who gives me the creeps, to be honest, sir.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘No no! Bit of a wimp, if you ask me. But maybe you should have a word, sir?’
‘I’ll have more than a word. A fine dance he’s led us. And all for nothing.’
INTERCUT: Old Vic raises up before his eyes the round ice-cream wafer and says in his vicarious voice: ‘This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ He breaks the wafer in half and places the two pieces as one into his mouth.
‘Get him away from here, Mr Green,’ the superintendent orders, ‘get him out of the road. And now. At once. I don’t know which of you is right about why this has happened. And that’s not my concern. But we can’t have this affair getting into the media. It wouldn’t just be bad for your grandson, it would be awkward for us all. Have you relatives he could stay with?’
‘None he’d want to go to.’
‘Well, you’d best think of somewhere, because either you get him away from here or I’ll have to make some charges. Against you in particular, Mr Green.’
‘What about the monastery?’ Old Vic suggests. ‘I’m sure they’d have him, and they’d understand.’
‘He might go there. He liked it before. And they seemed to know how to handle him. He’s got beyond me these days.’
‘Admirable!’ the superintendent says. ‘If he’s still shook up from the bomb, a spell of monastic quiet will do him good. If hankering after that girl is the trouble, then the best thing is for them to be kept apart till he’s over it. If it’s religious fever he’s suffering from then a stretch in a monastery is just the place for him to sweat it out—and they ought to be professionals at that.’
‘I’ll go and ask him.’
‘Do that, Mr Green. And let’s pack him off tonight. I want this matter cleared up. Young Thrupp will drive him so we’re sure he gets there . . . er . . . safe and sound.’
JULIE: It’s like the leaves on the branches of the tree outside my window, and the branches in the tree, and the flecks of sunlight flashing on the ripples on the pond. All around me everywhere I’m struck by how the many make one. And by the one hidden in the many. It fascinates me. Catches my attention and holds it.
Which reminds me. Philip Ruscombe visited me the other day and celebrated the Eucharist at my bedside. Afterwards I asked him what he thought prayer was. He said the best description he had ever come across was this: Prayer is complete attention.
I liked that. It sounded right. Giving your whole attention till you are part of the whole, yet are still yourself.
That decided me. I knew what I had to discover more about. How to give my whole attention. What to give it to. What to do with it. And I don’t want to find that out in some special way, like the old-fashioned monks and nuns did—not by cutting myself off from other people and living in purpose-built prayer houses. I want to do it hidden among ordinary people in an ordinary everyday place while I do ordinary everyday work.
There is nothing special about me. I’m just another leaf on the branch, another branch in the tree, one of the flecks of light flickering in the ripples on the pond. One among many. Yet also myself, alone.
If God is God, then that is God and that is where God is. Ordinary people must find God among themselves or they won’t find her at all. It isn’t to one of the many that I want to give all my attention—you, dear Nik, or anyone. But to being one among the many.
What I’m asking is: How do I remain myself, truly and without being crushed or diminished, while being one of the many, no more special and no more privileged, no more noticeable, and yet be wholly of God?
That’s the question I have to give all my attention to. And at first I have to try and answer it alone.
Perhaps I’ll manage, with a little help from my friends.
Hello, friend!
[Pause.]
And you’ll say: But how do you know?
And I’ll say: Because I believe it.
And you’ll say: But what is belief?
[Pause. Laughs.]
Well, I’ve given that question some attention lately!
And I’ve tried to find an answer by playing your game.
Belief. Philip Ruscombe looked the word up in a dictionary, and then both of you gave up attending to the word itself! So I went on playing the game.
BE . . . LIEF
Be, my dictionary says, means: To have presence in the realm of perceived reality; exist; live. Which being translated means, I suppose: To live in the world you accept is truly THERE.
Lief, my dictionary says, means: Gladly, willingly. And adds that the word is related to the Old English word for love.
So Belief means: that you will to give all your attention to Living with loving gladness in the world you think really does exist.
Perhaps what you wanted to know was all there in the word itself and you didn’t need to look anywhere else. I wonder if that’s why St John’s Gospel begins: In the beginning was the Word!
Anyway, I do think it is true that if God is to be found by belief, she is to be found by living gladly and with attentive love in the world where we are. Because God is here and now and is all of us and everything.
I don’t know how to say it simpler than that.
The kiss of two cones.
‘All right, settle down,’ the Director shouted. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that. You’ll have to ask him yourselves when you see him again. His grandad says he’ll be back for Christmas. Now, Michelle has a message from him. I don’t know what it is, she wouldn’t tell me. You’d better read it out, Michelle.’
‘He sent us this letter,’ Michelle said, unfolding a page of computer printout. She cleared her throat and shuffled and brushed her hair from her eyes and cleared her throat and read aloud:
To the film group. This is my last piece of research for you. It contains my conclusions.
From everything I’ve learned, it seems to me that if Christ returned today:
1. He would be a woman.
Reasons:
i. The universe is a binary system:
Black holes / White holes; in / out;
male / female; etc.
Last time God appeared as male;
next time as female. The system demands it.
ii. The time of the do
mineering male is over;
the time of the female has come.
iii. Now the fish is returning to the water.
2. You wouldn’t recognize her though, because she is not one but all.
Therefore, to make a film about Christ coming now you should:
1. Set up a camera on any street, in any house, and anywhere else you like, and let it film whatever people do there for as long as you can.
2. Edit the film into any sequence of shots that make a pattern you enjoy.
3. Add clips from any other films that help make your film more interesting, and which improve the pattern of your own film.
4. Print the result and show it.
One more thing:
Sack the Director. All he wants to be is God. His kind of God doesn’t exist any more. You don’t need him. Do it yourselves. Together. When you can, Christ has returned.
Cheers.
See you.
Nik
As soon as Michelle finished reading everybody started talking at once.
An hour later the meeting broke up in uproar.
STOCKSHOT SOURCES
The Narrator gratefully acknowledges:
4 ‘The best in this kind . . . imagination amend them.’
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
Vi 210–211, CUP ‘New Shakespeare’ edition.
24 ‘Jesus of Nazareth . . . living faith.’
Donald M. McFarlan, Bible Readers’ Reference Book, p. 89, Blackie.
30 ‘And as the mole . . . I shall be.’
James Joyce, Ulysses, The Corrected Text, p. 159, Bodley Head.
42 ‘Canst thou . . . canst thou know?’
The Book of Job 11 7, 8.
51 ‘Who is there? . . . the Thou and the I.’
Paul Valery quoted in W. H. Auden, The Dyer’s Hand, p.109, Faber.
73 ‘. . . by history . . . are perfected . . .’
Hugh of Rouen.
110 ‘There is only one definition . . . freedoms to exist.’
John Fowles, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, p. 99, Cape.