Doubting Thomas

by Adam Grinter

  Jason was on her door-step the following morning, he was genuinely interested in her story of the previous night. When she’d finished her retelling he gave her twenty pounds. Having survived for weeks on a couple of quid this was a fortune. She went out that day and treated herself to some make-up and a Gregg’s sausage roll. She’d felt rich, she wanted more.

  Over the following months Jason came over more and more and asked for more and more favours. To her it was a means to an end.

  Weeks turned to months and months turned to a year, she was earning some money and she had all her life in front of her. Jason looked out for her, he took an interest in her, she was wanted. For the first time that she could remember she thought she was genuinely happy.

  Then one Monday in June she arrived home late having had one of her ‘dates’, her mother was sober and waiting for her. For the first time in sixteen and a half years her mother decided to be a parent rather than a dependent.

  “Where have you been till this time?” Mother asked angrily.

  “Out.” She answered in typical belligerent teenager style.

  “You’ve been with that Jason.” Mother stated.

  She was unsure how her mother knew anything about Jason, whenever he had visited she’d been out of it.

  “So what if I have.” Again, teenage anger but mixed with slight confusion.

  “My friend Raheem told me you’d been hanging around him.”

  Her friend Raheem was her dealer.

  “He’s trouble.” Mother went on, sounding almost concerned, oblivious to the hypocrisy of the trouble Raheem caused.

  “He cares about me.” Her teenage attitude answered for her. “You never did.”

  “Well if he cares about you that much, go and live with him.”

  “I will.” She shouted back.

  She turned up at Jason’s front door twenty minutes later with all her worldly possessions in a canvas bag carried at her side. Jason ushered her in and gave her a cup of tea while he made a phone-call in the other room. She’d only half drunk the brew as Jason forced her out. He told her he’d found somewhere for her to live. She knew Jason would help her.

  Her new home was a room in a house Jason owned. There were ten rooms in total, one was the toilet and bathroom the rest were occupied by other girls Jason was helping. Once she was in the house her number of ‘dates’ increased. She hoped to save some money but, her rent for the room ate up most of the money she earned.

  When she realised she’d missed her period she worried how she was going to tell Jason. She’d done everything she had been told, she was on the pill, they had all worn protection. Yet somehow she was late with her monthly cycle.

  She naively waited for it to arrive, she’d never been late before so this was just an anomaly. Then she missed for a second month and she started to worry. She had a few pounds in her purse and a free morning so she went and got an instant testing kit from Boots.

  Locking the bathroom door behind her she peed on the stick and waited, hoping it was negative.

  Not for the first time in her life, her hopes were denied.

  She knew Jason would be alright with it, he’d always helped her before, he cared about her.

  “You stupid bitch.” He spat in her face as she told him. “The fuck you done. After everything I done for you this is how you repay me.”

  He grabbed her by the throat and picked her up from her chair. Tears immediately ran down her cheeks, how could Jason do this to her. They were friends, he was good to her.

  “But … but … but.” Nothing but confusion filled her mind and a coherent response to his outburst wouldn’t form.

  “You’re done.” The anger from him was disturbing. “I want you out of my house. You can go back to your druggie mother.”

  She cried all the time she cleared her room. Jason stood over her while she picked up her dirty washing from the floor. She’d treated herself to a little porcelain elephant early in her life in the room. It was her company, it was her friend, it made her smile every morning when she woke and saw it. She reached for it to put it in her bag.

  “That’s mine now, bitch. Get your clothes and fuck off.”

  She was too stunned to argue, so she left it.

  Six and a half months had passed since that day.

  Six and a half long months finding shelter where she could. The streets were tough, the streets were cold, the streets were no place for a naive pregnant girl. But she’d survived, she was where she was. She waddled on down the street thinking, praying.

  She made a decision.

  She needed help.

  She needed her mother.

  She looked around herself to find out where she was, not far from her old estate. Three roads away, ten minutes and she’d be home.

  Innocently she thought her mother might actually be happy to see her. Her mother would take her back like a normal mother should.

  She stepped off the kerb and took two steps into the road, her mind was preoccupied with the reunion to come. She didn’t see or hear the car that hit her. Her right hip took the full impact of the Ford Focus that barely slowed before it struck her. Her feet whipped up and her head slammed down as she pivoted around the vehicle’s bonnet. The side of her head hit the windscreen which shattered under the impact. She flipped again and hit the roof as the Focus eventually slowed to a stop.

  She was dead before her body skidded off the roof and slid down the boot to crumple on the cold, wet street.

  Chapter Seven

  I stared at the envelope, picking it up with trembling fingers. I couldn’t explain my trepidation, but it was definitely there. I forced myself to breathe normally and sat in my chair. I could tell there was more than a piece of paper in the envelope. The weight shifted as I moved the paper pouch in my hand.

  I ripped open the envelope and allowed the object to fall to the desk. The key made a metallic thud as it landed. There was a sheet of paper left inside. I pulled it out and put the now empty container on the edge of the desk out of the way. My movements were deliberate, delicate even. There was a reverence to my actions that the mundanity of the objects in front of me, under normal circumstances, didn’t warrant.

  A lined sheet of A4 paper had been folded to fit inside. I unfolded it delicately to read.

  It had two words on it in the same handwriting that had written my name.

  Find him.

  I read it and re-read it hoping it would reveal who he was. But the empty lines refused to offer any answers.

  I put the cryptic note down and picked up the gold key. It wasn’t a door key as it was too small. I turned it over in my hands and pondered its purpose. The realisation of what it was came quickly. It was a filing cabinet key.

  I fumbled the key into the lock, it stuck slightly but with a little force it turned. I pulled open the bottom drawer, empty.

  The top drawer, however, contained a single file. I took it out and placed it on the desk. I opened the file and inside was a solitary newspaper article paper-clipped to the top. The clipping looked old but was in good condition. The date on the scrap of newspaper was twenty-five years ago. My instincts told me it had been in the cabinet for most of that time.

  I carefully picked the clip off the folder and placed both the now empty file and the paper clip reverentially on top of the empty envelope. I took the article and started to read it, or I tried.

  Amado sacerdote sufre derrame cerebral entregando sermon

  The article was written in Spanish. My language skills were limited so I had no hope of understanding this without some help.

  Google translate allowed me to understand the article even with my lack of linguistic knowledge.

  I have found doing this sort of thing in smaller chunks means you get a better sense of the sentence. Piece by piece I translated and transferred long hand to a pad I always carried with me. A relic from my police days.

  It took a while, but I barely noticed the time passing. I was busy, I was being produ
ctive, I had a purpose.

  I finished the translation and tried to understand what I’d written. Also, what it had to do with me and my role in the church.

  Beloved Priest suffers stroke during sermon

  Sunday August 3rd respected village priest Father Miguel Hernandez suffered a near fatal stroke while delivering his sermon. He was saved by the quick actions of his parishioners who called the emergency services and transported him to Hospital Jose Elias Landines where he is being treated by local doctors.

  “It was frightening.” One church-goer told us. “He had just started his sermon when he began to babble incoherently.”

  “He is the rock in our village and we were all scared for him.” Another said.

  “We are all praying that he gets well and comes back to us soon.” A third added.

  Father Hernandez has been the priest in Cararapa for over thirty years and his advice and wisdom have been respected in the area for all of that time.

  He was widely tipped for a larger role in the Catholic Church but rumours of infidelity to his vows dogged him and held his progress back.

  “We are monitoring his condition but expect him to make a full and speedy recovery.” A hospital spokesman said.

  I read and re-read the article hoping to spot something I had missed on the first read through.

  Nothing leapt off the page at me.

  A disgraced priest has a stroke and is nursed back to health by medical science.

  It made no sense. There was no miracle here this was not in my remit.

  I lounged back in my chair to ponder the mystery. I sat like that for too long, no answers were forthcoming just more questions.

  Why had this been passed to me?

  Who was this priest and why was he important enough for someone to have kept a tiny newspaper article about him falling ill for twenty-five years?

  Why did I need to find him?

  I looked at my watch, five-thirty, I needed to leave or risk being locked in. My work ethic had returned with the mystery.

  #

  My night was spent thinking about the mysterious priest. I knew the when, it was the who, what and why I couldn’t work out.

  I slept fitfully but awoke happy the mystery was back in my life.

  At eight-thirty that morning I sat in my office eager to solve the conundrum I’d been presented with.

  The same questions remained unanswered, yet again I needed more information. I picked up the clipping from where I’d left it overnight and turned it over in my hand. On the reverse was part of an advert for some product I couldn’t quite make out. In the one blank corner was a tiny spidery hand-written line. I squinted my eyes and strained to read it.

  Not a stroke

  That was all it said.

  It lead to more questions that I had no chance of answering. I agreed with the note I needed to find this man.

  The rest of my day was spent on my laptop making notes, planning.

  Googling Father Hernandez led me to a couple of links to the article I had already translated.

  Cararapa, was a village in the North of Venezuela, it had a small population, was off the usual tourist routes but was meant to be lovely at this time of year. I was going to find out.

  I hadn’t been abroad since I’d been with Joanne. We’d visited Paris, Amsterdam, Prague and Barcelona. I’d never taken a flight on my own, it was a small thing, but it felt like a huge step. It was a business trip, but it was exciting. My stomach churned at the thought of being alone in a foreign country.

  I’d been told I had carte-blanche so I booked a flight to Caracas and a hotel and went home nervously to pack.

  #

  One airport looks almost identical to another, they are built for functionality not frivolity. Twenty-four hours after I made the decision to follow the note, I was sat in an air-conditioned lounge, using Heathrow’s Wi-Fi to notify William I was going to Venezuela.

  My assumption was that William had placed the envelope on my desk. So, I wasn’t surprised when his usual reply, which pinged into my inbox before I boarded the flight, was amended to read “OK, good. Thanks.”

  The first leg of the journey took me to Madrid. I had a two hour wait for my connecting flight. The indentikit hallways blurred as I shuffled around looking for something edible. I ended up at some chain restaurant that disappointed as much as it over-charged. I sat at the gate waiting to be called and updated William on my progress.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  It was a ten-hour flight to Caracas, so I stretched my legs while I still had the freedom. I wasn’t looking forward to being cramped in a metal tube for so long but at last I felt I was moving forwards.

  I slept for most of the flight. When I wasn’t sleeping I paced the aircraft. My scar ached constantly and irritatingly. The long period of cramped sitting were not good for anyone’s posture. I may have been moving forwards but at this moment I was stuck, at the mercy of physics and the speed of international air travel.

  My note pad was in my hand luggage and I fished it out and re-read the translation for what seemed like the hundredth time. I could recite it from memory. It was all I had to go on, I was travelling half-way round the world chasing down a twenty-five year old page filler story from a local newspaper. When I put it like that it sounded ridiculous, and yet here I was.

  I arrived in Caracas and waited for my small bag at the luggage carousel. I always travelled light, a couple of shirts, underwear, socks and an extra pair of trousers. If I needed more, I could get it locally. I was tired and stiff from the flight even though I had slept through a lot of it. My bag chuntered along the contraption and I picked it up as it passed. All I wanted now was my hotel room for a shower and proper sleep. I would take the next step tomorrow.

  Airport concourses are light and airy and this one was no different, my eyes adjusted to the change in lighting and I started to look around for where I could get a taxi. I scanned the concourse looking for a signpost. The private hire drivers with their signs blocked my way. I headed towards them aiming for the exit door on their other side.

  The brain has a way of noticing things the eye ignores on the first pass. My brain told my eyes to look left and they duly complied. At the edge of the group stood a middle-aged woman with jet black hair, tanned skin, blue eyes and a frown on her face. She was waiting to drive someone somewhere. She had their name on the sign she was holding. I glanced at it and wondered how it was possible.

  She was waiting for me.

  Chapter Eight

  I wandered over to the woman and said, “I’m Thomas Benson.”

  Her frown disappeared and her whole face lit up as she smiled.

  “Wonderful to meet you.” She gushed in accented English. She held the sign awkwardly in her left hand, not knowing what to do with it now it had served its purpose. She offered her right hand and I shook it slowly, slightly unsure what was happening. I knew no-one in Venezuela and no-one knew I was here. Then it dawned on me, William knew I was coming. He must have arranged this for me. Even though I hadn’t seen him for six months and had no idea where he was, the strings were being pulled for me from half a world away.

  “So, you are booked in to the Hotel El Limon?” The woman asked.

  I wasn’t sure if I had told William this but I had found somewhere that looked fairly central and wasn’t too expensive. Although I was on expenses my needs were not grand and it looked ideal for me.

  “Yes.” I confirmed.

  “Come then, I will take you.”

  I followed her out to her car, a large Toyota. She blipped it with the fob and climbed in behind the driver’s seat. I opened the passenger door, threw my bag in and clambered in after it. The engine roared into life. As we pulled out of the parking space she announced, “I’m Maria. Hold on.”

  We left the airport car park and hit the main road into Caracas. She tossed the large car between lanes, overtaking other drivers at breakneck speed, diving into gaps that felt too small for the lump
of metal propelling us. In less than an hour we had reached my destination. I was slightly shaken from the journey we’d just taken, so exited the car grateful I was still alive; even if my legs wobbled very slightly from the shock.

  I walked round to the driver’s side window to say my farewells to my lunatic driver.

  “Thank-you Maria.”

  “No problem, Thomas.” She had the Spanish intonation and the ‘s’ at the end of my name became ‘th’. I had to admit I quite liked it. “So I collect you in morning and we go where you need. Yes?” She asked.

  I knew I needed to find the priest but my first problem had always been getting to Venezuela and once here I could worry about the local transport. Cararapa was about five hours drive from Caracas and I hadn’t planned any further ahead than that. This was a very handy development, William had procured me local transport.

  “That would be great.” I replied.

  “I be here for you at eight. OK, Thomas.” There was ‘th’ again.

  “No problem.” I agreed.

  I stepped onto the pavement and Maria immediately roared away into the city’s maze of streets and jam of traffic.

  I checked in to my hotel room planning on showering and possibly seeing some of the city before I settled down for the night. My body had other ideas. I saw the bed as I entered the room and I crawled onto it, exhaustion now pulling me down. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  #

  I woke to a call on my mobile. I fumbled for it and reached it before the ringing stopped. Unknown number. I answered.

  “Hello.” I slurred in my semi-conscious state.

  “Thomas, great to hear your voice.” I knew that I knew this caller. I was struggling to place him in my blurry state.

  “It’s William.” I was awake now.

  “Hi, William.” I replied.

  “I hear you’ve met Maria.” He stated.

  “Um huh.” My phone conversations always seemed to be one way.

  “She’s led a very interesting life, you should get her to tell you one day.” William continued. “So, you got my note and you’ve followed it to Venezuela. You have one more step to take and then you’ll have got as far as I did. Keep me in the loop.”