Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  ‘Perhaps, Father Abbot, it is our destiny that our monastery is their rightful place?’

  The old man gave a sad smile. ‘Please, explain to me what these items are and then I will make my decision.’

  Hesitantly, Brother Pete told him.

  103

  Thursday, 16 March

  As Ross sat in the rear of the bouncy, uncomfortable people carrier, on his way home from Zack Boxx, the taxi driver drove recklessly fast, arguing with someone on his phone, which he held to his ear, seemingly oblivious to the law.

  A text pinged in from Imogen.

  Hi stranger! How’s your day going? Why don’t we meet this evening – come over and join us? XX

  He stared at it, feeling guilty about Sally. Standing on the street outside English’s being kissed by her. His wife expecting their child.

  ‘So the Seagulls doing well, yes!’ the foreign driver shouted at him, unexpectedly, over his shoulder, still holding his phone in one hand.

  ‘Yep, great, they are!’

  He looked down at the text.

  Seconds later it was followed by one from Sally.

  Think I was a bit smashed after our lunch and never thanked you properly. Hope your meeting went OK? ☺

  He frowned, trying to recall the details of their lunchtime conversation and what he had told her about Zack Boxx, hoping he hadn’t given away too much. From the disparaging things she had said about her uncle, Julius Helmsley, she didn’t sound like she was about to run to him and tell him anything. But he couldn’t be sure.

  He replied to Imogen.

  Thanks but can’t. Have spoken to the decorators and they are coming over to give an estimate – and let me know when they could start. X

  Then he looked at Sally Hughes’s text and replied.

  Managed to stay awake, though not sure how coherent I was. But lunch was great! Definitely again, soon! XXXX

  Another text pinged in from Imogen.

  Glad to hear lunch was great. So who was it with that deserved four Xs?

  He felt a cold flush of dread. Shit, shit, shit.

  How did that happen?

  He looked at the thread. And sure enough, he’d sent the reply to Imogen in error.

  A reply came in from Sally.

  Ermmm? Decorators?

  He cursed his stupidity again, his brain racing. Very carefully he tapped out a reply to Imogen.

  My editor! XX

  Seconds later another reply back from her.

  Oh right. Didn’t realize you had to shag her to get your commissions.

  104

  Thursday, 16 March

  ‘So?’ Wesley Wenceslas asked.

  ‘So?’ Pope replied.

  ‘Tell me. Give me an answer,’ the pastor said into the microphone of his headset, looking out uncomfortably at the rain sliding down the helicopter’s window and at the darkness beyond.

  ‘That would depend on the question,’ Pope said. ‘If you want to know the capital of Peru, it’s Lima. Or the meaning of life, according to Douglas Adams? In which case, it’s the number forty-two.’ He looked back down at the crib sheet for the pastor’s address to his faithful, tonight, in Leicester.

  ‘This is not the moment to be frivolous,’ Wenceslas said.

  The helicopter bumped and yawed in turbulence, on its descent to East Midlands Airport. The pastor clenched his eyes shut, his hands clasped in front of him.

  ‘Oh? You never read Kurt Vonnegut?’ said Pope.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tut tut.’

  ‘Kurt who?’

  ‘A great American writer. He got it, he understood. He came up with some of the wisest words ever written: “Listen, we are put on this earth to fart around, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”’

  Wenceslas looked at him. ‘Did it ever occur to you that one day you might be a bit too irreverent for your own good?’ He shook his head. ‘What did I do wrong to deserve you?’

  ‘God chose me for you, remember? Put it down to His sense of humour.’

  There were landing lights now, directly below them. The helicopter was hovering just a few feet above a marked area and Wenceslas relaxed, finally. He shot a glance at Pope. ‘All I can say is, if God chose you for me, He must have been having an off day.’

  As the machine settled on the ground, both men pulled off their headsets. ‘So, let’s be serious, Smilealot, where are we with this Ross Hunter? It’s worrying me a lot, I keep—’

  He was interrupted by a ting-ting. Pope glanced down at his phone, then studied a message. ‘From our electrician.’

  ‘Electrician?’

  ‘He gave the man fixing the CCTV cameras at Ross Hunter’s home a bung. Five years’ earnings for him. Probably could have got him cheaper, but hey, we don’t do cheap, do we, Pastor?’

  ‘Easy for you to say when you’re spending my money.’

  ‘Our money.’

  ‘You’re a crook.’

  ‘Oh, right, pardon me. When was the last time you actually prayed over a handkerchief, which you charged twenty-five pounds for?’

  ‘It’s symbolic.’

  ‘Of course it is! Is that what you will explain to God on Judgement Day? Assuming He happens to be in when you arrive up there at the Pearly Gates.’

  ‘He will understand that I was truly a man of the people, who brought millions of human beings closer to Him through filling them with the Holy Spirit.’

  Pope looked at him. ‘That’s a big part of your problem, isn’t it? That you really believe your own press release.’

  ‘And a big part of your problem, Mr Pope, is that if you continue being frivolous, that little creep of a journalist, Ross Hunter, could seriously disrupt your pension plan.’

  ‘And yours.’

  ‘So, you gave Hunter’s electrician a bung?’

  ‘To allow our electrician to help him. We now have control of his external CCTV cameras, and a tap on his landline phone. As soon as he arrives home this evening, from a lunch in central Brighton followed by a meeting near Brighton racecourse, we should be able to remotely monitor his mobile phone communications, too. That is, if he is dumb enough to leave his Bluetooth on.’

  ‘And if he isn’t?’

  Smilealot lived up to his nickname with a big smile. ‘Then we’ll switch it on for him.’

  Wesley Wenceslas wagged a finger. ‘You’re a very naughty snooper!’

  ‘Isn’t that just what your God does?’ Pope retorted. ‘Snoop on all of us?’

  The pastor looked at him. ‘You need to be careful about saying things like that. You are verging on blasphemy. Did it ever occur to you that you could end up in Hell?’

  ‘Should I worry about that? You keep assuring everyone that the afterlife is so much better than here. I’m thinking Hell must be, too. Bring it on, I say!’

  ‘Smilealot, sometimes I despair of you – and I pray for your soul.’

  ‘Which makes me unique.’

  ‘Unique? In what way?’

  ‘I get your prayers as a freebie!’

  105

  Thursday, 16 March

  The house was in darkness when Ross arrived home. He paid the taxi, got a receipt and walked up to the front door, as ever looking around, carefully. From inside he heard a desultory bark.

  As he entered, Monty bounding up to him, his phone rang. The display showed the number was withheld.

  ‘Ross Hunter,’ he answered.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hunter, I apologize for the intrusion. I am wondering if you had any thoughts following our conversation last night?’

  It was Giuseppe Silvestri.

  ‘No further thoughts at all,’ he replied.

  ‘I would really like to meet up with you again and put a proposition to you. I am authorized by my superiors to make you an unconditional offer.’

  Jamming the phone against his ear, Ross knelt and stroked the dog. ‘For what, exactly?’

  ‘For the chalice and for the tooth that we believe you have in yo
ur possession.’

  ‘An unconditional offer – how much exactly are you talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘How would three million euros, paid to a bank account of your choice anywhere in the world, sound to you?’

  Ross was silent for some moments, somewhat astonished. Three million euros was close to three million pounds at current exchange rates. Serious money. More than he could ever hope to get, even with multiple spin-offs, from his eventual article. Even after tax, it would clear their mortgage and give them a massive cash surplus. And remove all the threats. And yet . . .

  He tried to think clearly. Then he said, ‘Mr Silvestri, yesterday you were questioning the provenance of what I have – or might have. Now you are not?’

  ‘Can we meet and discuss this further, Mr Hunter? I could come to your house now, if convenient?’

  ‘You need to understand this is not about money. I appreciate this is an enormous sum you are offering. I am not going to reject it out of hand, but I need time to think. I have your contact details. I’d like time to consider it.’

  ‘Mr Hunter, this situation is too important to wait for very long, and the danger of these items falling into the wrong hands is increasing all the time.’

  The man’s tone verged on belligerent.

  ‘Really? I’m not prepared to be bullied by anyone, I think you should know that. I’ve been attacked, threatened and my home has been trashed. Let me tell you something, I don’t do threats. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Let me make something clear to you, please, Mr Hunter. I have direct authority to talk to you from His Holiness, the Pope, the Vicar of Christ, the Bishop of Rome, the Holy See. Our Pope is the symbolic descendant of the apostle Peter. Head of the Catholic Church.’

  ‘I appreciate your credentials, Mr Silvestri. But you are talking about the Catholic Church, which is just one of many – like the Anglican Church – and what about the Jehovah’s Witnesses? Or the Presbyterians? What about the Eastern Orthodox Church? The Baptists? Lutherans? Quakers? Plymouth Brethren? Methodists? The Pentecostal Church?’

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ Silvestri said, calm and polite as ever. ‘Let us not get bogged down in semantics. If what you truly possess is the Holy Grail and a tooth from our Lord Jesus Christ Himself, their rightful home is in Rome, in the seat of Christianity.’

  ‘That is your opinion.’

  ‘Mr Hunter, what I am telling you is fact.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Silvestri, that these items are in safe hands. I respect them, and I have taken steps to protect them. If and when I decide you would be the right custodian, I will tell you. I will consider your offer. All right?’

  ‘You may believe you have protected these items, but perhaps you do not realize there are people with, permit me to say, fewer morals than His Holiness. They are determined to get their hands on them at all cost – even if that cost is your life, Mr Hunter. You have many enemies out there. We will try to protect you until you have passed them to us. Of course, you do understand that when you have done that, you and your family will be safe.’

  ‘You are threatening me, Mr Silvestri?’

  ‘Please do not misinterpret me.’

  ‘How should I interpret you?’

  ‘Regard me as a friend.’

  ‘OK, my friend. I’m hanging up now, and I’ll call you if and when I’m ready to talk more.’

  Ross ended the call and stared around at the stark messages on the walls. Then he took Monty out and walked him through the darkness. Deep in thought. And completely sober now.

  When he reached the park and let the dog off the lead he looked again at the text from Imogen.

  Oh right. Didn’t realize you had to shag her to get your commissions.

  He texted a reply.

  Charming. Actually, it doesn’t work that way. X

  Then he texted the radio presenter.

  Meeting afterwards was not as fun as our lunch. X

  Almost instantly a text came back from Sally.

  Decided to stay in Brighton tonight. Out at dinner. If u fancy a drink later let me know. XX PS I’m a dab hand at decorating.

  He grinned, and stared at it. Then, making a decision to rein it in, he replied:

  I wish I could join u. Have fun! X

  He wasn’t hungry but knew he needed to eat something. Rummaging in the freezer when he got back, he found a mushroom risotto and pulled it out. He would put it in the microwave later. Then he went up and checked his social media. There was an Instagram post of Imogen and Virginia sharing a sofa with the children, happy families style.

  He went back down into the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He opened the window, removed a pack of Silk Cut and a lighter from a kitchen drawer and lit a cigarette. As he smoked he was thinking about Sally. Then about three million pounds. He tapped the end of the cigarette against the ashtray that lived on the windowsill.

  Last year he’d written a piece on the Russian oligarchs. One of them, Boris Berezovsky, had decided he could not make ends meet on one and a half billion pounds, and one theory had it that he topped himself.

  Three million seemed pretty small beer compared to that.

  Compared to, potentially, the greatest newspaper story of all time.

  Although it would get rid of their mortgage and give them a very nice cushion going forward.

  Accept it?

  Pass the buck to Silvestri, take the money and run? Maybe negotiate the price up a bit?

  Or risk, as Benedict Carmichael had warned, being killed.

  He stared up at the clear night sky. At the stars above. The heavens. The firmament.

  All of this from two bits of dust that collided and set off the Big Bang?

  If that was truly the case, the whole reason for all existence, then did any of this matter a hill of beans? Was all of human life just a random, insignificant happening?

  One day, the collection of cells inside Imogen would be a walking, talking human being. Their child. That child would sit on his knee and look into his eyes and ask him questions. The same kind of questions he used to ask his mum and dad.

  Where did I come from?

  What happened before I was born?

  What will happen after I die?

  Why do I exist?

  Was he going to be able to look his son in the eye and say to him, ‘I might have been able to give you the answer, but instead I took the cash’?

  106

  Thursday, 16 March

  ‘I was rubbish tonight, wasn’t I?’ Wenceslas said, freezing the playback of the recording of his service earlier this evening at his Leicester church. He lounged back on a sofa in the vast hotel suite and stared across the coffee table at Lancelot Pope.

  ‘They loved you! They always love you, Pastor. Even when your performance is – how should I put it – as I often remind you, perhaps more about profit than any Biblical prophet?’

  ‘Don’t screw with my head, Smilealot.’

  ‘I leave that to God.’

  After some moments, Wenceslas said, ‘And the correct church term, Smilealot, is not profit, it is collection plate.’

  ‘Pardon me.’ Pope focused back on his own laptop. ‘Good comments on Twitter – nothing but good ones. Listen to this:

  O how I pray peeps wld understand the true power of the #HolySpirit (God) wow! Powerful preaching @PastorWenceslas. Amen

  And this:

  Wow. So intense. Thank you @PastorWenceslas

  And I like this one:

  Sir I am having a wonderful time taking in all the Holy Spirit is impacting in me through you. #Godbless

  ‘How deeply touching,’ Pope said, rolling his eyes. ‘You should be pleased.’

  ‘What about Facebook?’

  ‘I’ve just been checking, more of the same. They love you. Adore you!’

  ‘I’m just a humble conduit, Smilealot. Always have been. They love me because the spirit of our Lord flows into their hearts through me.’

  ‘Long may our Lord keep topp
ing you up.’

  Wenceslas gave him a friendly glare.

  ‘Just on something more mundane for a moment, boss. I’ve ordered room service to bring your breakfast at 6 a.m. – the forecast is not looking good for flying so I’ve arranged the car to be on standby – as we’ve a board meeting at Gethsemane at 9 a.m. You OK with that?’

  ‘Do I have an option?’

  The bell rang. Lancelot Pope closed the lid of his laptop, jumped up from his sofa and went over to the door.

  A nervous-looking room-service waiter wheeled in a rattling trolley. It was accompanied by the aroma of French fries. Two round metal covers sat on the white linen cloth, along with a bread basket, a bottle of mineral water and two glasses.

  ‘Gentlemen, would you like me to set this out next door in the dining room?’

  ‘No, just here is fine,’ Wenceslas said.

  The waiter flipped down both ends of the trolley, converting it into a table. He lifted one metal cover to show the steak and chips Wenceslas had ordered, and the other to reveal Pope’s quinoa salad.

  Wenceslas stood up, closing his eyes and raising his hands towards heaven, and prayed with the voice that was usually reserved for preaching. ‘Thank you, good Lord, for this food, and also for your anointing tonight that confirms to me, your most humble and faithful servant, that you have chosen to raise me above other men. Amen.’

  Amen seemed to act like a wake-up call to Pope. He leaped up from his seat and asked, ‘Where’s the champagne?’

  ‘Champagne?’ The waiter looked puzzled.

  ‘I ordered it at the same time I ordered the food.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I will see what has happened and fetch it right away!’ Then he turned to Wenceslas. ‘Sir, I would have been worshipping with you tonight, but my boss would not give me the time off.’

  ‘What is your name?’ the pastor asked him.

  ‘Melvin,’ he replied.

  ‘Melvin, would you kneel in front of me.’