Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  Those once mischievous, twinkling nut-brown eyes were now like burned-out stars in a collapsing universe, and the grin he remembered, the confident grin as if the world was all one big joke, was now a thin, sad smile.

  ‘Ross? Ross? It is you, isn’t it! Oh, Ross!’ he said in a voice that still retained some of its old ebullient energy. He held out a frail, bony hand and Ross shook it gently. His uncle peered at him closely. ‘Please come in – I’m afraid it’s not the presidential suite at the Four Seasons.’

  Ross looked at the Prior, who beamed, beatifically. ‘I will leave you together.’

  As his uncle closed the door, Ross found himself in a narrow, tiled hallway, at the end of which, ten metres away, sat a painted statuette of the Virgin Mary on a piece of tree trunk. A framed icon hung on a wall at the far end, bathed in light from a window.

  ‘I’ve not resided in many other monasteries but apparently I’m very lucky, Ross,’ his uncle said. ‘They built this place to accommodate two hundred monks and there are only twenty-three of us here. I have two whole floors, a nice workshop and a garden all to myself. It’s like my own house – and with no noisy neighbours to worry about! Come on in.’

  It was only a short, stone staircase, but Ross could see how sick his uncle was from the length of time it took him to climb the steps, frequently stopping for breath.

  At the top was a spartan room with bare floorboards. The only furniture was a desk and chair, on which sat an anglepoise lamp, a few books including a Bible, and a calendar. There was an unlit wood-burning stove and a recess with a crucifix on the wall that looked, to Ross, like a prayer area. Through an open doorway he could see a turquoise hot-water bottle hanging from a hook, and a narrow, recessed bed.

  ‘I’ve brought you a gift, Uncle Angus,’ he said, and handed him the carrier bag.

  ‘A gift?’ The monk held the bag with a faraway smile. As if a distant memory had been triggered. Setting the bag down on the floor, its weight seeming too much for him, his uncle looked close to tears. ‘I don’t remember – the last time – I received a gift. This is kind. Very kind.’

  Ross was so touched by his genuine astonishment, he felt tears welling in his own eyes. ‘I thought – I didn’t know if you were permitted –?’

  The monk removed the four bottles of claret, one at a time, holding them up to the light and inspecting them with an expression of sheer joy that shed years from his countenance. ‘Red wine? French? It is years – years – since I drank anything other than communion wine!’ He delved further into the bag and removed an item, holding it up. ‘A corkscrew! You are so thoughtful, bless you!’

  Ross stood, awkwardly, unsure how to react to the old man’s pure happiness. He now wished he had brought him more bottles.

  Then he opened his rucksack and removed the carefully wrapped wooden cup, back in its wooden container, and a small glass vial, containing a few drops of opaque fluid and sealed with a white plastic cap. He placed them on his uncle’s desk.

  Looking at the items with curiosity, Angus said, ‘Please sit down, Ross. I’m afraid I don’t have much furniture – we don’t do much entertaining in our cells!’ He smiled. ‘You are actually the only guest I have ever had.’

  Ross grinned. ‘I’m fine standing.’

  ‘You know, I always liked you, Ross. I was certain you would amount to something in life. We have so many years to catch up on! We should drink, I think.’

  ‘No, please, keep these for yourself – to enjoy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if my medication – or my vows – permit. But perhaps the Lord will forgive an old, sick man for a small indulgence.’ He looked at the bottles again. ‘This is such temptation! You are so kind.’ He opened the wooden container and peered inside. ‘And you provide me with a wine glass, too.’

  ‘Actually, Uncle Angus,’ Ross said, his tone serious now, ‘that cup is not for you to drink from. And the vial does not contain something to get you high on.’

  ‘You remember! The old days, yes, when I had my group? Satan’s Creed? We toured as the warm-up band for Black Sabbath.’

  ‘I do, my dad told me all about it. I was very proud of you – you were my cool uncle!’

  The old man smiled, happiness creasing his face. ‘So tell me, why has God brought you here to see an old man who once embarrassed your family, and who is now not long for this world?’

  Ross pointed at the two items on the desk. ‘Uncle Angus, I need you to keep these safe for me, as a favour. To hide them. Put them somewhere very safe.’

  ‘They are important to you?’

  ‘Not me, they are important to the world. To mankind. I don’t want them falling into the wrong hands. There are a lot of people who want these very badly.’

  Brother Angus frowned. ‘How much do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Perhaps I should leave it for God to tell you.’

  His uncle led him across to the window by the desk and pointed through it. Down below was a walled garden. Beyond was a long, rectangular graveyard, with neat rows of plain wooden crosses planted in well-tended grass, bounded by the cloisters.

  ‘Soon, I will have one of those crosses, Ross. I don’t know how long the Lord will spare me. I have a cancer that is, unfortunately, rather an adventurous one, so the doctor told me. It has managed to travel to just about every part of my body. I’ve named it Marco Polo.’

  Ross smiled again. ‘Are you having any treatment?’

  ‘No, it is beyond that. But it’s OK, I’ve had my life. I have a mission still to complete, and I believe our Lord will allow me to complete it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Uncle.’

  ‘Don’t be. But what I’m saying is that if you need something important to be protected, I’m probably not the best person.’

  ‘You are. If you could do me this one favour – as I’m not sure how much longer I have to live either. I’m sure you will know where to keep these items safe and hidden.’

  ‘You are ill, Ross? You don’t look sick to me.’

  ‘Not ill – but in danger. Very big danger.’

  ‘Oh? Tell me?’

  Ross pointed at the cup and the vial. ‘I don’t want to put you in danger, too, on top of what you are already going through.’

  ‘What can harm a dying man?’ The old monk fell silent for some moments. Then he put the corkscrew and one bottle on the desk, went out of the room and came back with two mismatched glasses. ‘It’s a long, long while – many years – since I drank with anyone other than at communion. I feel this is the moment. God will forgive us both.’

  ‘But I do have to drive to Birmingham, unfortunately.’

  Brother Angus replied, ‘What was that expression we used to have – so many years ago – one for the road?’

  A few minutes later they clinked glasses. ‘God bless you,’ his uncle said.

  Before he left, Ross told his uncle the whole story. He felt he needed to know what he had to safeguard. His uncle told him he had an idea.

  70

  Tuesday, 14 March

  Two hours later Ross pulled into a motorway service station to refuel. The satnav told him he had a further one hour and twenty minutes to his destination. The effect of the small glass of red wine had worn off a long while ago and he was badly in need of a pee, a caffeine hit and something to eat. He drove from the pumps into a parking bay and entered the garish, rammed interior of the service station.

  Since leaving the monastery he had been feeling a strange mix of emotions about his uncle. It had been hard to reconcile the frail, lonely man in his stark, surprisingly spacious, accommodation with the former wild rocker. Yet his uncle’s clear faith touched him deeply. As had the sheer glee on the old man’s face at seeing the bottles of wine.

  How could a hedonist like Uncle Angus closet himself away from the world and live a solitary life of constant prayer, with rejection and denial of all pleasures? Could anyone, if they were buoyed up by their faith? If it was strong enough?

&nbs
p; His uncle was no fool. He was like countless intelligent people around the world who had faith – a belief that remained intact no matter what happened to them. In some ways, they were lucky.

  He thought back to Harry Cook. Two sets of compass coordinates. Taking him to a cup in a well in Glastonbury and a tooth in a cave in Egypt. An attempt on his life. His wife threatened.

  The warnings of Benedict Carmichael.

  The message from his dead brother.

  This planet that he was stuck to like glue, by gravity. One of a hundred billion trillion perhaps – and counting – in the universe. This beautiful planet. This dog-eat-dog, polluted, miraculous place, torn apart daily by hatred born so often from different religious beliefs. Different factions of the same belief.

  Such minuscule differences between so many of the religions; semantics between some others. All of them ultimately believing in a supreme God.

  Sunni. Shi’ite. Roman Catholics. Anglo-Catholics. Free churches. Charismatic and conservative Evangelicals. Salvation Army. Exclusive Brethren. Quakers. Jews. Hindus. Sikhs. The list was endless. Would they be divided until the end of time? Until every different faith on this amazing planet was consumed by nuclear dust?

  Or did Harry F. Cook truly have something that could change our world, as he had suggested?

  He thought of the words of the astronaut, Frank Borman, on Apollo 8: ‘When you’re finally up at the moon looking back on earth, all those differences and nationalistic traits are pretty well going to blend, and you’re going to get a concept that maybe this really is one world, and why the hell can’t we learn to live together like decent people?’

  That was how Ross felt, looking around at the signs inside the service station. Burger King. WHSmith. Costa. And at all the other travellers coming in and walking out, many of them looking fatigued by whatever journey they were on. Someone bumped into him, hurrying on without apologizing. A couple walked past him, pushing a baby in a buggy. That would be himself and Imogen in a few months’ time. What world would their son be born into, he wondered, as he entered the main restaurant area, wrinkling his nose at the ingrained smell of fried food?

  A world that might not last unless something changed, dramatically. A change that, however improbably, he might be the person to unlock. He owed it to his unborn son to see through this strange mission. He knew, deep in his heart, that if he walked away from it he would never be able to look his son in the eye as he grew up.

  Taking a tray, he wandered along the line of counters, passing the salads and the other healthy options. He was in need of something warm and filling, something to give him energy. He asked the server for fish and chips and mushy peas, and then, further along, he requested a large coffee and helped himself to a bottle of mineral water.

  He paid, then went over to another counter, took a knife and fork, poured some milk into his coffee, took several sachets of ketchup, vinegar, salt and pepper, and carried his meal over to a table by the window. Outside, through the window, he saw two women standing, smoking in the falling drizzle. He set everything down and put the tray into a rack close by, then sat and picked up a ketchup sachet.

  As he was about to tear it open, a slim man in his forties, with short, neat, dark hair, wearing a trench coat over a suit and holding a cardboard cup with a lid on, slipped purposefully into the empty chair beside him.

  Annoyed at the invasion of privacy, when there were plenty of empty tables all around, he glared at the man. But the man merely smiled back at him as if in recognition. He had a strong face with a serious expression, and Ross noticed he wore a signet ring on his wedding finger.

  Not interested in engaging in conversation with a bored fellow traveller, Ross was about to stand up and move to a vacant table nearby when the man spoke, in a silky, assured voice.

  ‘Ross Hunter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  The stranger shot a glance around him before speaking, and lowered his voice. ‘Stuart Ivens, from the Ministry of Defence.’ He discreetly flipped open his wallet, displaying an ID card in a plastic window inside. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch,’ he said, politely. ‘Would you mind if we had a quick chat?’

  ‘What about?’ Ross stared at the ID, reading the small but clear ‘MI5’.

  A few years ago he’d written a piece about the mysterious death of a man suspected of being an MI5 agent who had been found dead in a London flat, zipped into a holdall bag, dressed head to toe in latex and wearing a gimp mask. All his attempts at establishing the facts from the security agency had been stonewalled. He had never managed to establish whether the man had died as a result of a bondage game gone wrong or whether he had been murdered. But this could not be related to that piece, surely not after all this time? He had a pretty shrewd idea what the man was going to talk to him about and he was right.

  ‘I believe you were acquainted with the late Dr Harry Cook,’ Stuart Ivens said, pleasantly.

  ‘What do you know about him?’ Ross asked, suspiciously.

  ‘Probably not as much as you do, Mr Hunter,’ he said, removing the lid of his carton to reveal steaming coffee. ‘But enough for us to be very concerned for national security – and for your own safety.’

  Ross stared at him.

  ‘Look, let’s cut straight to the chase. Following your encounter with Dr Cook, you now have in your possession some items you believe might relate to proof of God. Correct?’

  ‘How do you know what I have?’

  ‘In these days of heightened security, it is our business to know – call it national security, a watching brief,’ he said calmly, maintaining his courteous tone. ‘You think you have a potential story, but it has far-reaching consequences that you may not realize. And it poses a very real threat to your own life.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Are you?’ Stuart Ivens gave him a quizzical stare. ‘If what you have is indeed genuine, do you really understand the ramifications? Even if it’s not authentic, but you produce a plausible story, the potential consequences are a nightmare scenario of civil unrest in our country – and beyond.’

  Ross looked at him. ‘What is it you think I have – or might have?’

  ‘Some things that might prove God’s existence, Mr Hunter.’

  He was making Ross feel very deeply uncomfortable. ‘I don’t have proof, not yet, I’m still a long way from it – if it’s real at all, or even possible to prove. And even if I could prove it, would the world believe me? I may be on a wild goose chase. Are you planning to arrest me or something? Lock me up and torture me?’

  Ivens smiled thinly. ‘Not at all. Nor am I here to threaten you in any way. You’re a respected journalist, you know as well as anyone just what a sensitive topic religion is in our country today – and throughout many parts of the world.’

  ‘So, you want me to forget it?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m here to ask you. I would just like you to think about the responsibility you have. To consider the consequences of anything you may go public with. Would you be willing to run your story by us before publishing?’

  Ross looked at the man. This whole thing felt surreal. ‘I’d have to think about that and talk to my editor. I can’t make any promises.’

  Ivens blew calmly on his coffee, then sipped it.

  Was this for real? Was he in a motorway cafeteria, talking to a spy?

  ‘You’re a very intelligent man, Mr Hunter. How many places can you name where they have faith in God? And where that very faith is ripping them apart and has been doing so for years – decades? Belfast, Yemen, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Nigeria? How far back in history do you need to go?’ Ivens sipped more of his coffee. ‘Did Dr Cook tell you exactly whose God it was that he was going to give you proof of?’

  After some moments Ross replied, ‘No.’ He was feeling an uncomfortable reality check going on inside him.

  ‘Exactly. Every division of every faith has its own interpretation.’ Ivens pulled out a business card and slipped it to Ross. ‘
You’re an influential journalist and the UK press will publish much of what you write. You’ve covered many important topics in your career, including embarrassing the government over equipment for the military in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Which they fully deserved.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment on that.’ Ivens gave him a strange smile.

  ‘Really? Do I take that as a positive?’

  Ivens smiled again. ‘Let’s not go there, other than to say I respect your guts. We are dealing now with something very different. Just consider this. Maybe – and I don’t want to cast any aspersions on your integrity or intelligence – you don’t completely comprehend quite how far out of your depth you might be here. The world of religious faith is not a rational one, and never has been. There are religious divisions in this country and around the world on a scale that is unprecedented. As you must be well aware, our national security is under severe threat from these divisions. You may be under the impression that proving the existence of God could restore balance in the world. Consider if it had the reverse effect. That’s all I’m saying to you. If you want to discuss anything with me, you have my contact details on this card. You can reach me twenty-four-seven.’

  Ivens handed him his card, stood, picked up his cup and gave Ross a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted your lunch.’ He began to walk off, then stopped and turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, a word of advice. Never a good idea to leave rucksacks lying around in cafes. Especially not these days.’

  71

  Tuesday, 14 March

  For some time after his nephew had departed, Brother Angus felt sad, knowing it was unlikely he would live long enough to ever see him again. He also felt an immense weight of responsibility as he stared at the wooden cup and the glass vial with the small amount of fluid it contained.

  He carried them into his cubicle, closed his eyes and knelt, asking for strength from God to protect them, as he had been bidden by Ross, and he prayed for Ross, too.