Doubting Thomas

by Adam Grinter

  DOUBTING THOMAS

  By Adam Grinter

  Prologue

  The red brick building stood proud against its green grassed surroundings. Although it had been built three hundred years previously there were no obvious signs of its age. The care that was taken with the building was noticeable in its bright brickwork, its glossy black tiles and its spotless multi-coloured windows. As the focal point of the small village the church was almost as revered as the God that the villagers worshipped inside.

  On this hot, August, Sunday the villagers streamed along the cobbled streets. Accompanied, almost marking time for their feet, by a monotonous, metallic, clanging emanating from the church’s steeple.

  In front of the imposing double entrance doors Father Hernandez dabbed the moisture from his face. He had lived in the village most of his adult-life. Even now though, he could not get used to the stifling heat. It seemed to invade every nook and cranny of this unchanging landscape.

  His faith was still strong, but it was on days like today that he often imagined that the heat was coming from the fiery depths below, rather than the shining beacon above.

  This thought occurred to him again now and it brought a grimace to his lips. Had the villagers seen his involuntary shudder they may have thought he was shivering from the cold; not melting under his cassock.

  At the age of fifty-seven, Father Hernandez realized his chance to progress through the ranks of the Catholic Church had passed. As a fresh convert he had harboured hopes that he could become the Holiest of Holies, the Pope. As the years passed, his dreams receded and his sights lowered, first to Cardinal then to Archbishop until, seven years ago, he resigned himself to spending the rest of his years in this village he had called home for the last twenty-six years.

  When he had been sent to this outpost, Father Miguel Hernandez had been a naïve, fresh-faced thirty-one-year-old. Coming from one side of Venezuela to another had been difficult for his parents. Losing their son to God was one thing but losing him to geography was something else entirely. Miguel however had jumped at the opportunity. He saw it as the first step on the ladder that would take him to the most important job in the world.

  Being the new Father, he was initially treated with caution. Being young in his first posting he had won round his congregation through his faith. Never wavering in the face of doubt, giving his time, his enthusiasm and most of all his belief to those that needed it.

  In the space of eighteen months, he had tripled the congregation, from a low of thirty-one at his fourth service. With a village population of one-hundred and five, the fresh-faced Father thought there was nothing he couldn’t do.

  The fact that he was an attractive, single man did not go unnoticed among the female parishioners. The attention of the women was something he found hard to come to terms with. Many of his congregation would make it obvious they liked him, but true to his beliefs he took every relationship only so far. His faith and his relationship with God were more important than anything that a woman could offer. If there was someone out there who could make him change his priorities, he had yet to meet her.

  He stood in the early morning sun, and thought that maybe he should have tried harder to find that special one. He had presided over many weddings and had seen the look of joy in the bride and groom’s eyes. As he remembered these images, he closed his eyes as if that would block them out. His only experience of joy had been through the Lord, he wondered if that had been enough.

  He blinked back to reality as a middle-aged lady approached. Father Hernandez smiled benignly at the woman; he had seen her almost every day for all his time in the village. She liked to claim how she was the most devout Catholic in the village, Father Hernandez however, would claim she was the loneliest.

  When she was younger, Carmelita Velazquez had been a beauty with no equal in the village and its surroundings. Her long black hair had hung between her shoulder blades and caught the light almost unnaturally so that it seemed to glow from within. Her wide eyes, flawless sun-bronzed skin and her inner confidence were a step apart and above the other girls. In most men’s minds, she was the equal of the many Hollywood beauties that were projected onto the schoolhouse wall during the infrequent travelling movie shows.

  The young men in the village tried and failed to make an impression on her. Word of her looks spread, as gossip does in rural communities. Young men arrived in the village convinced that they were the one who could win her. One by one they eventually left rejected by their unattainable prize.

  Carmelita was not going to be distracted by the boys that arrived unbidden at her door as if on a conveyor belt, she had her sights on a real man. Father Hernandez had been thirty-four and Carmelita saw him as the ideal match for her. He was polite, presentable, and most important of all, devout. Her potential suitors had failed to realise she was never going to be won over by the external; the good looks, the baubles she was presented with or the smooth words they used to woo her. It was what was within that she valued more than anything else. Faith played a dominant role in the village, but for Carmelita, it was her life.

  Having decided Father Hernandez was the one, she single-mindedly pursued him. She had never played the role of the suitor. She found that she struggled and nothing came naturally to her. Their conversations would always start well and then peter out into nothing. Their ‘dates’, such as they were, would always become awkward and stilted very quickly. Eventually, their relationship ended with neither of them knowing what they did wrong or knowing how they could have put things right.

  Father Hernandez leaned forward and kissed both of Carmelita’s cheeks in greeting. There was a pause and a familiar moment passed between them that hung heavily in the stifling heat. Their history made them uncomfortable around each other, but their roles in the village forced them to overcome such trivialities.

  Without a word, Carmelita disengaged from the priest and scurried into the church. Father Hernandez looked after her as she went, filled with regret for the opportunity that he had missed, the life that could have been. For the first time, this regret was about the choice he had made and the waste it had become. A young man with the highest ambition had become an old man whose dreams had passed him by.

  Just as he was about to mentally chastise himself for having such dark thoughts, more parishioners approached him. So, dutifully he put on his game face, smiled a beatific smile he no longer felt and set about making the villager’s lives fuller by being the priest they expected him to be.

  Eventually the last of the villagers were seated in the old building. As was his habit, Father Hernandez closed the doors noisily and strode down the centre aisle of the building. He had done this for every service he presided over. He thought it added a touch of the dramatic to the words he was about to say. It also helped him count how many were in the building so he could see who was missing. Many was the time he had spent half a sermon on auto-pilot as his mouth spouted the words, but his brain was engaged in trying to put a name to a missing face. After the services, he would always make a note of the names and ensure that he visited to make sure everything was all right.

  The villagers knew if they missed a service they could expect a visit from the kindly priest. There was never pressure to attend in future, there was only concern for their well-being; were they sick, in trouble, whatever the problem Father Hernandez would listen and never judge. He would offer a few kind words and then be on his way. Always within a few days there would be a solution to their problems; a doctor’s visit, family rallying around, whatever was needed. In this way, Father Hernandez had united his village and brought them to the church.

  He reached the front pews and finished his count. Eighty-five. Two short from the usual attendance.

&nbs
p; He approached his pulpit, his mind was already trying to figure out the two.

  He turned to face his congregation and automatically raised his right hand and gestured for quiet. The murmurs abated, and he turned his head and nodded approval to his organist. The elderly man reciprocated the gesture and launched into the first notes of a familiar hymn. Where Father Hernandez had called for quiet there was now sonorous noise. The organ music filled the space and touched all inside, except one. Father Hernandez was mentally elsewhere trying to work out the missing. The likeliest candidates had been ruled out; they were all accounted for. It seemed odd to him that for the first time in several years he could not immediately recall the faces or the names. He pondered the puzzle throughout the hymn but as it concluded he forced his mind to return to the church, and the service he needed to give.

  He gestured with his right hand once more and the congregation duly sat.

  The service progressed as they had done for the previous twenty years – a hymn, a reading by the deacon, followed by a second hymn. Father Hernandez was pre-occupied throughout but however hard he tried the names would not come.

  It was only as he stood to give his sermon that he realised where he physically was. He looked across the sea of expectant faces and opened his mouth to speak.

  Nothing. Silence.

  Father Hernandez closed his mouth and tried to pull himself together. He needed to stop thinking of the missing and focus on those present.

  With a shake of his head to clear the superfluous thoughts, he opened his mouth and tried to start again.

  Nothing. Silence again.

  Some of his congregation craned forward expectantly, knowing his penchant for the dramatic. Thinking this was all part of the performance.

  Beads of sweat broke out on the Father’s forehead again. Not from the heat but from the stress of trying to form the words. Like the names he could not come up with, he also seemed to have lost the power of speech.

  Father Hernandez screwed up his face and tried again.

  A croak and a groan escaped his mouth.

  Well, that was better than before, he thought.

  Summoning all his strength, he straightened his back and lifted his head to the heavens.

  Rose and Herminio Costanza. The two names popped into his head. Of course, how could he have forgotten them, they were the missing two. Relief filled him and he involuntarily relaxed. His mouth opened, words tumbled out without pause, they repeated and repeated as if the needle were stuck in the groove on the record in his mind.

  As the words fell out of his mouth, his mind was elsewhere again, but this time it was focused on his predicament. Seeing himself from outside his body. He floated above the pulpit, above the congregation. Looking down at the scene unfolding.

  What am I saying, he thought calmly, disconnected from the reality of it. What does it mean? Why am I saying it? And most importantly; why can’t I stop saying it?

  His congregation looked toward their spiritual leader and for the first time in his tenure as their priest his sermon was met with confusion. The usual words of solace, encouragement and love replaced by gibberish. They had gone from expectation to bewilderment in the space of thirty seconds.

  Father Hernandez tried to stop speaking, but was unable to control his voice.

  If I move things might change, he thought.

  Nothing. Paralysis.

  The only part of him that could move was his mouth. The three words still cascaded through his lips relentlessly.

  On and on he droned, the same words repeating. Just when Father Hernandez thought there would be no end to his torment all went black and he collapsed to the floor as if a puppeteer had cut his strings.

  His congregation were slow to react to their priest’s collapse. Their minds taking a moment to switch from the confusion of what they had seen and heard to concern for their spiritual leader. Those at the front eventually went to the fallen Father.

  The rest of the crowd turned to the one person amongst them who might be able to make sense of what had just happened.

  Jorge Baros had been the headmaster of the local school and was considered to be the wisest head in the village. At seventy-six years old he had seen everything in his time as an educator. This, though, caught even him by surprise.

  “What did he say?”

  “What language was that?”

  “What does it mean?”

  These questions and more bounced around the church’s interior as people struggled to make sense of what they had just witnessed. The questions were asked to their companions in the pews, friends, and strangers alike, but they were all indirectly asked to Jorge.

  Jorge paused before responding. Almost as if was extending the tension of the situation. Revelling in his moment of power, again.

  Expectation filled the faces of those around him.

  “He was speaking English.” Jorge said eventually.

  “What did it mean?” Seventy voices said almost in unison.

  All eyes were on him, even those tending to Father Hernandez turned and looked to him for answers.

  “He is risen. He is risen. He is risen.”

  25 Years Later

  Boredom and monotony drew me to the advert. It intrigued me at a time in my life when very little else did.

  I’d been medically retired for almost a year and to say that I was climbing the walls would be a monumental understatement. Most people claim they would love to be paid for doing nothing but when it happens there are only so many hours of TV that can be watched until you run out of interesting programming. There are only so many shops to visit until you run out of knick-knacks to look at. There are only so many posts on the internet to read before you realise the rabbit-holes you are burrowing into are not healthy. Ultimately a police pension only stretches so far before you have too much month left at the end of your money.

  On a whim I decided to look for a job. I held out little hope of finding anything that would match my level of health, my skill set and would interest me. I needed to get out of the house. Get out of my head. I needed a purpose.

  I posted my CV on job sites and received several phone calls. Most I ignored, some I followed up on but they led nowhere I felt would hold my attention long-term.

  I left school at eighteen and stumbled into the police force. Worked my way up to Detective Constable and there I stayed for ten years.

  Then at the age of thirty-nine my life changed. Something I’d like to forget, but my scar won’t let me. A routine burglary arrest. A momentary lapse of concentration. A stabbing. I barely saw it. Luckily nothing vital was hit. However, the damage was done.

  Medically retired before the age of forty.

  Eleven months after I retired I was surfing the job-sites in the forlorn hope something new would leap off the screen and give my life focus again.

  Private Investigator, Security Guard, the job titles blurred. All the things retired police officers were expected to fill their days with. I knew endless stake-outs of cheating spouses and night-shifts patrolling shopping centres were not for me. If I was bored doing nothing, I felt sure monotony would be the end of me.

  After an hour of clicking random job pages and finding nothing, I was starting to lose hope. My eyes were barely focusing and the words were blending into a collage of industry lingo. I decided today was not the day where my future began, but I would give it five more minutes before shutting down the laptop.

  I followed a link I was sure I’d clicked before but the page that opened was definitely new to me. It was slow to load but when it did the screen was filled by an even, black border surrounding a yellow rectangle taking up the centre of the page. The writing in the rectangle was in bold red and stood out from the background in the most garish way. The page filled the screen but there was nothing below it to scroll to. I hadn’t visited this page before.

  Being a new advert, I leant forward to focus a bit more on the words. It was simple, to the point and piqued my interest m
ore than any posting I’d stumbled on in the three months of searching. I knew I was going to apply before I reached the third and final line.

  Are you a Sceptic?

  Do you enjoy solving mysteries?

  Apply here.

  The word ‘here’ was a hyperlink that opened my email server, the address was generic and gave nothing away about the company. job@sceptic.org.uk.

  I attached my CV, wrote the usual blurb about myself in the body of the email, pressed send, and closed the laptop. Finally feeling good realising I hadn’t wasted another morning of my life, looking for something I was increasingly starting to believe didn’t actually exist.

  My excitement at the application dissipated as I wandered into the kitchen. It would be a while before I heard anything and so I tried to contain my hopes for the time being. I made sure there was enough water in the kettle for a cup of coffee. I put it on and searched for a clean mug. I pottered while I waited for the kettle to boil. In truth I was killing time. Twenty-four hours is a long time to do nothing. I finished the washing up and wiped the side. I felt productive.

  My mobile trilled from the living-room. I knew it would be about a job as it never rang for anything personal any more. I let it ring and prioritised coffee over a potential soul draining corporate future. I poured water onto the brown and white granules and stirred them well. The phone stopped ringing. I walked to the fridge and retrieved the milk, topped up my beverage, and put the bottle back. I stirred my drink longer than necessary and realised I was procrastinating. I would return to the other room and check my phone. There would be the inevitable, generic message claiming they’d found my CV on-line and had the perfect opportunity for someone like me.

  I entered the living-room, my phone jangled again. Two phone calls in quick succession were not unheard of, but it was certainly unusual. I looked at the screen and it announced an unknown number. I ignored it again, my job search was being conducted on my terms, to my criteria. I would phone them back at my convenience. It was a small act of control, but it made me feel better. Silence returned to the room and the screen faded to black. I waited for the recognisable ping of a voicemail asking me to phone back but it never came. I looked at the screen and realised there was no message informing me of any voicemail to listen to at all.