Doubting Thomas

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by Adam Grinter


  The memories of my police days and Robert’s parting comment overwhelmed me, I replied instinctively, “will do.”

  William hung up. I was on my own in a strange country chasing a lead for a purpose I’d yet to discover.

  I looked at the time, it was seven AM local time which meant it was about lunch time in the UK. However, my body thought it was four AM a week next Thursday. The travel and the sleep had played havoc with my body clock. A shower and good breakfast might get me back on the right track.

  #

  I was feeling more human, more in the moment when Maria found me eating a croissant and nursing a large mug of coffee an hour later. She was dead on time but, unusually for me, I was running late. Maria sat down in the empty seat opposite me.

  “Morning Thomath.”

  “Morning Maria.” I replied between mouthfuls.

  “Is a long drive today. You will need bag. We will not get back tonight.” Maria stated simply.

  The five-hour drive to Cararapa had always been something intangible. I hadn’t thought about it practically or logistically. Now I was here the time had come to move forwards again.

  “Can I finish my breakfast?” I asked reasonably.

  “Of course, I wait.” Maria got up from the table and helped herself to a cup of coffee, she brought it back and sat back down. We sat in amiable silence for a couple of minutes as I finished my mouthful of food and took a last swig from my mug.

  “Be right back.” I said as I got up from the table and headed to my room for my bag.

  Maria nodded acknowledgement but said nothing, instead enjoying the strong aroma from the large cup she cradled in both hands.

  I returned downstairs with all my stuff in my bag. Maria insisted I check out as she didn’t know how many nights we would be away. It sounded reasonable and frugal to me.

  #

  We hit the road and started our way East out of the city. Fighting our way through the morning traffic I let Maria focus on the road. We sat in silence, broken only by Maria’s cursing at other ‘mierda’ drivers, until we hit the highway outside of the Capital. Maria began to tell me her story as we churned through the miles.

  Maria Silva had been the youngest of two children born to Luis and Gabriela Silva. Luis had been a police officer and Gabriela had stayed at home bringing up the children.

  Her brother Phillipe was five years older than her. She had idolised him and tagged along with him everywhere he went. At first, he didn’t mind but as he entered his teenage years his eight year old sister was not part of the cool image he was trying to exude.

  It was around her tenth birthday she noticed her mother was not as energetic as she had once been. Where she had been the driving force behind the family and she always kept a spotless home she started to let standards slip. Maria helped where she could but with school and homework it was hard. Her mother tried but was always tired, Maria took it on herself to cook for the family and did the best she knew how to, but at ten she didn’t know much. By the time her eleventh birthday came round Gabriela spent all her time in bed and Maria cared for her in between school, looking after the family, and still trying to be a normal girl.

  It was a relief to the family when Gabriela passed away six months later. Maria didn’t know what illness her mother had succumbed to and she stated categorically she didn’t want to know either. I could sense the resentment towards her mother for leaving her as she recounted this part. I felt for the eleven year old Maria it would have been almost too much to bear but also one less responsibility on her young shoulders.

  Phillipe was sixteen when his mother died and started to pull away from the family. Maria knew he was running with the wrong crowd and if he wasn’t careful he could end up in serious trouble. He believed he knew best, he had the invincibility of youth on his side. However, bravado and indifference will only take you so far. When he hadn’t come home on his seventeenth birthday Maria had thought little of it, he didn’t want to spend time with his family under normal circumstances let alone when he should be out celebrating.

  Three days later his body washed ashore, bloated and battered. According to the friends, who hadn’t scattered to the winds like cockroaches when the light came on, he’d been drinking and gone off with a girl who no-one had seen before. That was the last time anyone had seen him alive. His death was ruled an accident and nobody was ever blamed or charged over it. Within twelve months she had lost her mother and her brother, her life had changed forever.

  With Phillipe’s death Luis withdrew into his work, he volunteered for overtime. He stayed late at the station. He found excuses not to come home. Maria was now twelve and was effectively looking after herself. She vowed she would not let these tragedies drag her down so she threw herself into her education. She graduated with good grades and she followed her father’s path into the police force. Whether she was subconsciously trying to put right the wrongs that had befallen her she couldn’t say but she loved the regimented nature, the chain of command, the routine. She moved quickly up the ranks and ended up a detective in the drug squad. Her tenacious desire to save people meant her arrest rate was the highest for a female officer. Until, after twenty years on the force she’d had enough and she quit. She had nothing to go to, she had nothing to fall back on, she just up and left.

  Luis had died the year before but as he had drifted out of her life his death had barely registered. She’d looked after everyone else but now for the first time she wanted to take care of herself. The first year had been brilliant she told me. She went where she’d always wanted to, did what she’d always dreamed of doing. But there was a hole in her life, like me she needed a purpose.

  She’d first been approached by the local priest when one of her neighbours had contacted him stating how worried he was about her. She lived in an apartment complex with very thin walls. Unbeknown to Maria she was a very noisy sleeper and the noise had carried. Her occasional screams had pushed him to encourage the priest to try to help her.

  The priest had visited her and acted as her counsellor for about a month, Maria shared her story. The priest had listened with interest. As I was being interviewed in the UK, Maria was being offered the same role in Venezuela.

  #

  We had been on the road for about three hours and the atmosphere in the car was heavy with the weight of the personal story Maria had shared. She pulled off the main road, we found a local cafe. We needed to stretch our legs, recharge our batteries and I could come to terms with what I had been told.

  We had a pleasant lunch and I purposefully kept the conversation light. I knew that my turn to tell my life story was coming up on the next leg of the journey.

  I asked a question that had fermented in my mind since Maria had finished her story.

  “Do you know if there are any more of us debunking miracles?”

  Maria thought about it briefly and then answered.

  “I haven’t met any. I don’t see why there wouldn’t be more of us.”

  I couldn’t argue with her logic. I sat and ruminated on the thought; I was no longer alone.

  I could have sat in the hot midday shade of a roadside cafe in Northern Venezuela for as long as my already reddening skin could stand. The questions forming would remain unanswered as, yet again, I didn’t have enough information to come to a conclusion.

  What was special about the priest?

  Were there more of us?

  If there were more of us why was I being sent to Venezuela?

  What was William’s role in all this?

  Maria interrupted my reverie by bringing me back to reality and injecting the practical into the day.

  “We should be getting to hotel for tonight.”

  “OK.” I replied, not sure what else to say. She was in charge, I was in her territory and was happy to defer to her local knowledge. I clambered back into the car and we headed off, towards the mysterious priest.

  We ate up the miles. I felt I should share my story in a strange
quid-pro-quo way. So, for the second time in six months I recounted my history and my journey to this foreign land. It was a cathartic experience telling a stranger the landmarks of my life and I relaxed as I talked. Happy at the sound of my voice as an accompaniment to the rumble of the South American roads.

  Maria kept quiet as I recounted the path that had led me here. Once I was finished she pondered for what seemed like an age. I stared out of the window and waited for an inevitable question. When it came it was not what I expected.

  “Thomas, do you think you’ll find a miracle?”

  Now it was my turn to stop and think. I hadn’t thought about the practicalities of the job. I was just doing it without a thought for the consequences of being successful.

  “No, I don’t think I will.” I replied honestly with a slight tinge of disappointment. For all my non-belief I now realised there was a part of me hoping I would find something supernatural. Something bigger than myself.

  Chapter Nine

  Our hotel for the night was an hour and a half away from Cararapa. Maria told me this was the closest hotel to the village. We were travelling into desert with sparse population and even sparser facilities.

  Our rooms were next to each other, so we separated as we entered. I took stock of my surroundings. I had arranged to meet Maria for our evening meal. I had the rest of the afternoon to myself.

  I dropped my case and sat on the bed. Hotel rooms the world over are fundamentally the same and this was no different. Bed, chair, TV, wardrobe, and adjoining bathroom. What more could the weary traveller need?

  I turned the TV on and flicked through the twenty-or-so available Spanish language channels. I turned it off. I had travelled halfway round the world. I was in a country I had never dreamed of visiting before but was comforted by the realisation there was still nothing worth watching on the telly.

  I debated with myself what to do with the couple of hours I had free. I looked out of the window and the heat haze from the road put me off going outside. Although I had slathered myself in sun cream, being a pasty Englishman in this sun was not going well. I could feel the burning, especially in my arms and face. So I decided whatever I did would be inside.

  That meant the hotel. They had a pool and a gym. After the hours cramped in the car I should have been up for physical exercise but I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic. I persuaded myself it would encourage my old injury to hurt even more. It was a poor excuse but one I had made on many lazy days previously. I told myself I also didn’t have the clothing for either activity. That argument convinced me a couple of hours sleep was the best course of action.

  #

  I woke in good time. A shower refreshed me and allowed me to feel clean for the first time since we had left Caracas. The dust and sweat from the journey had felt like a constant companion, but I was happy to be rid of them now.

  I met Maria and decided I needed to know what her role was in this journey. I hoped her answers would be revealing and fill in some of the gaps in the information I needed.

  “What do you know about what’s going on?” I asked once we had ordered, feeling bluntness was the best policy.

  “Probably, less than you.” Maria answered.

  My silence was meant to convey surprise and also encourage her to expand.

  “I got a phone call from Christopher.” She continued.

  I looked at her quizzically, not knowing who Christopher was.

  “Father Christopher.” Maria clarified.

  I nodded, understanding. Father Christopher was her version of William. He was her handler, boss; now I thought briefly about it, I couldn’t decide which description was better.

  “He tell me Father William would phone with instruction. And I need to follow.”

  William pulling the strings yet again.

  “William give me your name and flight number. Name of Father Hernandez and location. Tell me we need to talk to him. That is what I know.”

  William did seem to like his air of mystery. A Catholic Church version of the Wizard of Oz.

  I nodded again and pulled out my notebook. I removed the folded-up news cutting and handed it reverentially to her. She read it, re-read it and handed it back to me. I took out the note William had sent me with the two-word instruction ‘find him’ written on it.

  She looked at me quizzically and said, “OK.”

  I put the cutting back on the table between us, turned it over and pointed to the three words written on the reverse. Maria half rose from her seat to peer at the writing. She squinted her eyes to see clearer.

  “Not a stroke.” She recited.

  “You now know as much as I do.” I told her.

  Maria sat back down, I retrieved the paper, folded it carefully and placed it delicately back in my notebook.

  Maria thought for a moment, then asked the question I knew was inevitable. The question that had plagued me since I had translated the article.

  “So, what is this about then?”

  The question I had no answers for.

  “I wish I knew.” I replied forlornly.

  #

  The following morning we met for breakfast. I was sat at a table with a half-eaten bowl of fruit salad in front of me. I’d tried to be healthy. My good intentions had run out by the third mouthful. I was now eating it out of British politeness, so as not to waste it.

  Maria pulled out the seat opposite me and placed her cup of coffee on the table with a thud.

  “I was thinking.” She said with no preamble.

  I was pleased of the interruption. I pushed the bowl to the side and pulled my coffee closer to me.

  “Morning, Maria.” I said pointedly.

  “We need to go to hospital.” She expanded, ignoring my morning greeting. “It’s on way and we maybe see if someone remembers him.”

  I’d always known we would need to visit the hospital to see if we could find his records. We needed to go back to thinking like detectives. Information and evidence were the tools we used then. We needed as much of both so we could draw conclusions now.

  “Sounds like a plan.” I agreed as I finished my drink and rose from the table.

  Thirty minutes later we were in the car and driving with purpose further into the South American unknown.

  Hospital Jose Elias Landines had probably not changed much since the day it was built. It was easy to picture Father Hernandez being wheeled in having suffered his suspected stroke. The front was red brick, bleached to a dark pink due to the unrelenting sunlight. The path to the front door was bordered by lawns on both sides. The grass could have used a cut and at the edges clumps of weeds grew, looking dry and yellow. The tired look of the building contrasted with the energetic comings and goings taking place at every entrance. We could see an ambulance bay where patients were transferred via gurneys to the sanctuary of the facility. One was currently off-loading while another was waiting behind with its lights flashing impatiently.

  We ignored the commotion outside and walked through the large front doors. We were besieged by what seemed like chaos inside. Nurses and doctors were hurrying from one place to another. People sat slumped in plastic chairs waiting for nurses to tend to them. Some were in obvious discomfort, with home-made bandages covering wounds I didn’t want to speculate on. Others just looked depressed at their situation and surroundings whilst they clutched injured body parts; arms, stomachs and heads mainly and moaned softly to no-one in particular.

  Maria was looking up at the ceiling rather than at the human drama playing out in front of her. “Come on.” She instructed, having located where we needed to go. She pointed to the sign as we rushed past it ‘informacion’ even with my rudimentary Spanish I could understand that.

  We arrived at a desk. It had a well-worn surface, with the sharp edges of the wood now curved where numerous arms had rubbed them away over the years. Maria helped the erosion by resting her forearms on the smooth surface. She pressed the conveniently placed bell to summon help.

&n
bsp; I hung back not knowing what to do. The conversations about to happen would take place in Spanish and not knowing the language made me feel like a spare part.

  A harried nurse scurried over and a brief exchange took place between her and Maria. Maria finished with ‘gracias’. The nurse hurried off, hopefully to tend to one of the poor souls currently occupying the plastic seats.

  “I ask her for record room.” Maria said to me as I followed her down a corridor. I nodded and tagged along behind her. We dodged the human missiles that flew past us on all sides, in a hurry to get to their vital destinations.

  The record room reminded me of my office in Westminster Cathedral. Sparse and windowless. Again, there was a bell on the desk to attract attention, its chime was muted as it was relayed into a back room. An elderly man opened a door behind the desk within seconds of the sound dying. As if he had been waiting immediately behind it. Waiting for us to make our presence known.

  Another conversation took place, due to the smaller space I couldn’t step too far away, so could overhear what was said. Maria was gentle but probing in her tone. I couldn’t understand the words but understood the techniques she was using. She withdrew her purse and took out a couple of notes and handed them to the man. He took them, nodded and wandered out of the room.

  “He tells me they have records going back to when the hospital open. The one we need will be here, no problem.” Maria explained. “He cannot let us look for it, as we not work at the hospital. I tell him we work for Church and need to see file. He has gone on break now, and forgot to lock door.”

  Money and religion unlock a lot of doors in Venezuela I presumed.

  We walked round the desk and entered the back room. It was much larger than I’d anticipated. Boxes were stacked on shelving in rows. They seemed to disappear into the distance. It looked like it was going to be a long arduous search.

 

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