Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  ‘Some religions would have an explanation for that.’

  ‘All religions have some kind of lame explanation for suffering. But look at all these different monotheistic religions – and the divisions within each of them – Anglican, Catholic, Sunni, Shi’ite, Sephardic, Hassidic – and when you drill right down, what’s the difference between them all? What are all their arguments about? I’ll tell you. They’re about whose imaginary friend is the best.’

  Ross smiled. ‘I guess of all the faiths that believe in a single God, I understand Christianity the best. With a few exceptions in Bible-belt areas in the States, it has morphed over the centuries from something very tyrannical – think about the Inquisition, where if you weren’t the right kind of Catholic you could be put to death – into more of a benign social structure.’

  They watched one of the four players ahead of them, whose ball had landed barely fifty yards in front of the tee. The doddery octogenarian stood, lining up his next shot, for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Christianity, the absolute tenet of which is belief in the Resurrection,’ Hodge replied. ‘Two thousand years of belief based on a conjuring trick with bones.’ He took a puff of his cigar. ‘Or did your Harry Cook have anything better to offer? It must be great to believe in God. You can hand over all responsibility – and blame him for any crap that happens. Come on, Ross, you’re a smart reporter. Get real!’

  ‘Can you explain why we are here, Hodge? How we came to exist? Did you read Stephen Hawking and claim to understand what he wrote? Can you explain human existence?’

  ‘Do I need to, in order to enjoy my life? In order to love my wife? To enjoy my game of golf here on this beautiful morning? What’s God got to do with any of it?’

  ‘Apart from maybe creating all this?’

  ‘OK, so who created God? Can you answer that? Should I be worshipping him in the fairy-tale hope that he’ll give me a seat at a decent dinner table in the afterlife? Does God have some machine that monitors each of our lives and gives us a credit every time we pat a dog or drop a coin in a busker’s hat or a homeless person’s hand?’

  ‘Don’t you ever question existence, Hodge? Isn’t that what we should be doing with our so-called intelligence? Didn’t Socrates have a point when he wrote, “The unexamined life is not worth living”?’

  ‘Are you saying if I don’t challenge existence my life is not worth living?’

  ‘No, not at all. What I’m saying – I guess – is that . . .’ He fell silent.

  ‘Go on.’

  Ross remained silent for some moments. Just what did Harry Cook have in mind? Was his death part of a bigger picture? Was this journey he had embarked on going to give him anything beyond a few column inches in one of the papers?

  ‘OK, Hodge, let me ask you a question. What would it take for you, as an atheist, to be convinced of God? Or, at least, the existence of a Creator of the Universe – an Intelligent Designer?’

  Hodge pulled his driver out of his bag and walked up onto the raised tee. ‘That’s a pretty big ask for a Sunday morning.’

  ‘I need to know, I value your opinion. What would it take?’

  ‘I guess I’d need to see something for which I couldn’t give you any explanation. Something I couldn’t explain myself. Something that could not be dismissed as a conjuring trick.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the tide not going out when it should – although that could be connected to an eclipse or something.’

  ‘So, if the sun rose from the west, you’d then believe in God?’

  ‘I’m not sure. My first reaction would be that the physicists – or astronomers – had screwed up on their calculations. That maybe it’s something that happens every few millennia.’ He shrugged.

  ‘So, go on, what would it take?’

  ‘I guess something in the realm of physics that we know to be impossible. Maybe then.’

  ‘And if that happened?’

  He bent down and planted his tee. ‘Ross, my friend, get real. It isn’t going to happen.’

  He struck the ball, which shanked off right, landing in a dense thicket.

  ‘See?’ Ross said. ‘God didn’t like that!’

  27

  It isn’t going to happen.

  The expression had become a mantra for Pete Stellos. He had said it to his mother when she asked him when he was going to meet a nice girl and settle down – and produce grandchildren for her. He wasn’t interested in girls, or boys, and he had none of the sexual desires that he’d read he was supposed to have.

  There was something about people, generally, that he just did not connect with – or even like, really – which had caused him difficulties in his past. It was why he’d spent the first part of his working life doing solitary, lonely jobs. First, working the night shift in a McDonald’s in Des Moines, Iowa. Then, after feeling he should see more of the world – or at least his own country – he got his licence and became a long-distance truck driver, hauling auto spares one way across America and grain the other.

  As a child, he had been brought up in the Greek Orthodox tradition, although subsequently he’d had no interest at all in religion. But at a funeral – of a great-aunt – he’d met for the first time a cousin, Angus, who told him he was a monk and had, for some years, lived a monastic life on Mount Athos, in Greece. The conversation re-ignited Pete’s interest in the Greek Orthodox religion. Angus felt Mount Athos was a place that might be of interest. But, he cautioned him, it wasn’t a simple case of turning up. There was a lengthy application process. And a lonely existence if he was admitted.

  Pete asked him to tell him more.

  28

  Sunday, 26 February

  In the weeks following his premature departure from Blatchington Mill School, six months shy of his sixteenth birthday, Thomas Smith, in his urgent quest to make money, ignored all of his former headmaster’s advice. He became a runner for the drug dealer who had supplied him with the cannabis, Ecstasy and other assorted drugs that he had been distributing at school.

  For the following six months, he made good and easy money, delivering heroin, mostly, to users around the city of Brighton and Hove. Until he got arrested with three thousand pounds’ worth, street value, in his pockets.

  He spent two years in a Young Offender Institution. He found it helpful in there, building up a great network of future dealers for the drugs empire he had begun planning. By the age of nineteen he had a cool apartment on the seafront, with a view over the Channel. With the steep monthly rent he had to find, he had not yet amassed enough money for the car he currently hankered after, but he had stashed fifty thousand pounds towards it – in what he jokingly called his ‘Ferrari Fund’. In the meantime, he drove around in a nice black ten-year-old Porsche with a personalized plate.

  Then, a few days before his twentieth birthday, at 5 a.m., his front door caved in, and with it his world. Six coppers yelling ‘POLICE! POLICE!’ piled into his flat.

  They found twenty thousand pounds’ worth of crack cocaine, heroin and other bits and pieces. He was pretty sure he’d been informed on by a rival dealer. He got a harsh eight-year sentence and, almost as bad, the Porsche and his cash were all seized under a confiscation order.

  It was God who saved him. He found God in prison – or rather, as Thomas liked to tell people, God found him. His reading of the Bible as a child, and then as a teenager, served him well. He could remember large tracts of it and he found he had a natural ability to preach – and quote at length – from the Good Book.

  Thanks to the support of the enlightened governor of High-down Prison, where he was sent to spend the majority of the four years he would serve, he was allowed to hold his own ‘church’ every Sunday in the recreation area. Within a year he had over one hundred regular worshippers. By the end of the second year he had over two hundred. He was so popular, he began holding daily Revival Meetings after breakfast in the prison dining room.

  Then one night
in his cell, God spoke to him directly. God told him to mend his ways, to forget drugs when he came out. To take a new path, His path. And to take a new name, a name that had charisma, for a new beginning. And a whole new identity.

  One of the inmates who had become a dedicated follower had a friend who was a clergyman in Tooting Bec, who had an unused church hall.

  Within three months of his release, Pastor Wesley Wenceslas began preaching the Word of the Lord in what was little more than a large, rusting, corrugated-iron shed, filled with rickety folding wooden chairs.

  The rest, as he was proud to tell anyone who asked him, was – Praise the Lord! – history.

  The helicopter lurched then dropped sharply for a moment. Then it jolted, several times.

  Wenceslas felt a moment of fear. He closed his eyes and prayed, silently.

  Oh Lord, make us safe.

  He opened his eyes again and looked out of the window. The helipad was looming. He could see the markings, clearly.

  ‘Bumpy!’ Pope said. ‘Bumpy ride we’re having.’

  Wenceslas stared at him. ‘God takes care of us, remember?’

  The ground came up towards them, swiftly. At the last moment, the helicopter hovered on a cushion of air.

  Then Wenceslas felt, beneath him, the reassurance of terra firma.

  Above him the rotors continued their flacker-flacker-flacker sound.

  He removed his headset, and Pope did the same, then tidied his hair with his fingertips and checked his small white Hublot. ‘On time!’ he announced.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ said his boss.

  29

  Sunday, 26 February

  When Ross arrived home from golf, shortly after 2 p.m., Imogen’s car was gone. There was a note from her saying that she had taken Monty out for a walk with a girlfriend and her dog, and would be back at three – and reminding him that it was his turn to do the Sunday roast.

  He wondered which girlfriend it was. But it suited him well that she was out. He’d done most of the preparations for the meal yesterday afternoon. He switched on the oven, put the chicken and potatoes in, set the timer on his watch, then hurried upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, showered and changed, he went to his office, logged on and opened Google Earth. Then he entered the compass coordinates Cook had given him. The position where he had stood on Tuesday afternoon.

  51°08'40"N 2°41'55"W

  The place where Cook was convinced the Holy Grail was buried.

  In the middle of a lawn – although back then, two thousand years ago, it would have been an open field.

  I don’t want to tell you over the phone, it’s too dangerous – and it’s too important. We need to meet. Please, I’m imploring you, give me the chance to do that. If you hear me out, what I’ve calculated . . .

  What was it the old man wanted to tell him – but was scared to do so over the phone?

  The meaning of those numbers that followed the coordinates?

  He pulled the piece of paper he had found in Harry Cook’s waste bin, unfolded it and looked at the strange hockey-stick shape and the numbers written neatly beside it.

  14 9 14 5 13 5 20 18 5 19 19 20 12

  Was the shape connected to these numbers? Were they some kind of code? Computer code?

  He typed them into an email and sent them to his IT guru, Chris Diplock, asking him if he could shed any light on them. As usual, even though it was a Sunday afternoon, a reply pinged back from the man almost instantly.

  These look like some kind of code, Ross. No idea what, I’m afraid. I’m guessing the gaps between are significant, and the repetition of some is also significant. There are a stack of code-breaking websites and forums on the net. Attaching some that might be of interest.

  Diplock had put a long list of links underneath.

  Ross toyed with the idea of posting messages on Twitter and Facebook asking if anyone knew what these numbers might mean. But then decided against it as he didn’t know who might answer and what questions they’d start to ask back. Instead, he had another idea. Some years ago, he’d written a story on computer hackers and had met an oddball character in the Computer Science Department at Brighton University whom he had found engaging, if unpredictable. His name was Zack Boxx.

  A nocturnal creature, with few social graces, Zack’s sole interests appeared to be computers and craft beers. Ross had spent two hours with the geek one evening at the university, during which Boxx had shown him how to hack into a whole range of top-secret government departments, not only in the UK but the US and other countries, and military installations as well, including a US drone operation in Iran, whilst leaving, he assured Ross, untraceable footprints. They’d spent the following day getting totally wrecked at a craft beer festival in a hall in Horsham.

  To Ross’s amazement, Zack had never been arrested, and now worked freelance, advising companies on cyber security. Ross had kept in touch and because Zack always had stories to tell, had joined him at the occasional beer festival around the county, partly because he liked the guy and the beers, and partly because, after a few pints, Zack was likely to let slip the occasional nugget.

  Knowing that the geek would probably still be asleep at this hour, he emailed him, asking if he had any idea what these numbers might mean. And suggesting it was time for a catch-up over a beer somewhere.

  And he felt in need of a beer right now. Despite his relaxing time this morning, and Hodge’s company, which he always enjoyed, the events of Friday were still hitting him hard. He went down into the kitchen, pulled a Peroni out of the fridge, fumbled around in a drawer for the bottle opener, popped the cap off, then carried the cold bottle back upstairs, swigging some as he went. Sitting back at his desk, he stared at his computer screen, his mind elsewhere.

  On the image of Harry Cook, bound, in his chair.

  Shit.

  If Harry Cook’s torture and murder was connected with all of this, should he let it go? Walk away?

  Imogen was scared by what he had told her. Was he out of his depth as Benedict Carmichael had suggested? Was anything worth risking their lives for? He tried to recall Cook’s words as he had relayed the message for Ross received via the medium.

  This man said he had someone with him who had a message for you. He said he had your brother, Ricky . . . Ricky said he wanted you to trust me. He said two names, I think it was Bubble and Squeak.

  How could Cook possibly have known about his brother? By reading about the accident in the papers, perhaps – but that was years ago. The internet? But no way could he have known about the gerbils.

  Just what had Cook’s killers been after? The manuscript? The coordinates they thought it contained? Or was that all a total red herring and they were just chancers after an old man’s hidden money?

  What was it Cook reckoned he had calculated, that he had been so excited about on the phone?

  The only obvious item that had been taken was Cook’s laptop. His wife’s wedding ring was on the floor in its original box, one of the detectives had told him. There was also two thousand pounds in cash in one of the opened drawers in the bedroom. The fact that so much cash and so many valuables had been left untouched pointed to something else that Cook had, which his assailant – or assailants – were after. Information on someone – or something?

  Ross came back to the manuscript again.

  Whatever the truth, he didn’t like the idea of keeping it in the house. Tomorrow, as he had told Imogen, he would take it to his solicitor. Or maybe it would be better to take it to a storage depot near Shoreham Harbour, where he and Imogen had once rented a unit for some of their furniture between moving from the flat to their current house.

  He googled Glastonbury Tor. According to the details that came up, a wooden church had been built on the top in the tenth century and destroyed sometime later. The current structure, the ruin of the Church of St Michael, was built in the 1200s. If Joseph of Arimathea had come to England, bringing with him the Holy Grail, that would have been nearly one thousa
nd years before the first church had been built.

  He did some further internet searching. The only thing that would have been there, for certain, when Joseph visited, was the well itself.

  If I had wanted to hide the chalice, he thought further, would I have dug a hole halfway up the hill – or used a more convenient hiding place?

  Yet the compass coordinates indicated halfway up the hill.

  What were the other coordinates that Cook had kept to himself? Gone. For good?

  He couldn’t get out of his mind the thought that Harry Cook’s death might have been some kind of bizarre modern version of a crucifixion. Or some hideous take on it.

  He tried a different train of thought. OK, I’m God, and I want to reveal to Cook where the chalice is. Do I give him the exact coordinates or ones close? I would know where it is, wouldn’t I?

  Apparently, the wily, often bolshy Old Testament God set people tasks and challenges. He never made anything easy, from what he remembered of his scant reading of the scriptures as a child. Might God have set Cook a challenge, too?

  Was that what Cook had wanted to tell him?

  After the glorious start to the day, the sky was dark and droplets of rain were running down the window. He thought about the thick sheaf of papers of the manuscript, held untidily in place by two elastic bands, and suddenly felt afraid.

  Should he just burn the damned thing?

  And lose his story?

  He had already, Holy Grail or no Holy Grail, the bones of a sensational article. One of the tabloids would buy it for sure. But there was one more piece he needed to put in place. A very big piece. It could be everything – or nothing.

  An email appeared. It was from Zack Boxx.

  He opened it.

  There’s a beer festival at Yapton, near Bognor, next Saturday. Might go along. Some good Sussex versions of German weissbeers there. 14 9 14 5 13 5 20 18 5 19 19 20 12. Could be a numerical letter code. Each represents a letter of the alphabet. It spells out, Nine Metres S (south?) T (turn?) L (left?) Helpful?