‘I’m flattered.’
‘I still have my photograph at home. My father said it was blasphemous.’
‘He wasn’t alone. We had to move it inside the gallery to protect it from vandals. Still, the publicity attracted the crowds.’ He took her hand, less to guide her over the crumbling path than to express support. They reached the bonfire, which Brian and the hostel staff had built during the afternoon. Its ferocious blaze – wood crackling and sparks flying – filled Clement with a sense of both annihilation and new life. Spotting Newsom on his own, Clement excused himself to Christine and walked over to him.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Newsom asked.
‘Bonfire nights at Beckley?’
‘Right! We had some good times, didn’t we?’
‘Too many to count.’
‘Thank you for what you said this afternoon.’
‘I meant it.’
‘I’d like to think we could see each other in London. Once in a blue moon,’ he added quickly.
‘You mean we shouldn’t leave it another twelve years?’ Clement asked, to his immediate regret.
‘No,’ Newsom said softly. ‘We shouldn’t do that.’
Mike came up to join them and, a moment later, Brian asked everyone to hold hands and form a ring around the fire, leaving Clement with a gratifying sense of bringing his own life full circle. He stood between Mike and Newsom as Brian led them in a chant of ‘I surrender to love’. Mike’s palpable discomfort made it hard to surrender to anything, but as he gazed across the fire, first at Tim and then at Christine, both of whom had taken the injunction literally, Clement appreciated the virtue of detachment. Brian invited them all to throw an object on the fire that symbolised the behaviour patterns they wished to change. Clement moved forward and, with the flames snapping dangerously close to his skin, threw on a blurred photograph of himself and Mark ‘so I can see more clearly.’ He was followed by Mike, who threw a handful of husks ‘so the seed can fertilise more freely,’ and by Newsom, who threw a broken pot, ‘to release space for ones that are whole.’
With an ear-splitting bang on his drum, Brian faced each point of the compass in turn and enjoined the group to invoke the fire spirit. ‘Connect to the spirit of fire in your heart. Let your consciousness expand and imagine you become the fire. Feel the warmth of its flames radiate through you. Be aware that you are loved. Love is everywhere around you and inside you. You are in harmony with the spirit and you know that you are infinite, immortal and universal.’
‘You are my fire spirit; my energy, my light,’ Clement whispered to Mike, who returned his gaze with tears in his eyes.
‘May the fire that flows through you bring blessings to you all and to this place,’ Brian entreated.
‘Amen,’ Clement instinctively replied.
7
The taxi drew up outside Taylor House and Rafik indicated James Shortt, waiting for them on the pavement. Clement was struck by the discrepancy between his orotund voice and angular features. After a strained greeting, they made their way into the building and up to the second floor, where they found themselves in a vast semi-circular vestibule. Men and women in their Sunday best milled around like an evangelical congregation without a pastor. Children sat sombrely in the play area, as if forewarned of their fate. Leaving Shortt to scan the noticeboard, Clement and Rafik headed for the lavatory, standing self-consciously at opposite ends of the stalls. A stark notice about controlling germs hinted at a greater contagion. Clement duly scrubbed his hands, while Rafik displayed a touching faith in the virtue of neatly combed hair. They rejoined Shortt who, announcing that the case was to be heard in Court 23, led the way down a winding passage clustered with anxious people. Even the lawyers were black, and Clement allowed himself a guilty hope that Shortt’s white skin would work in Rafik’s favour.
‘I suppose prayer must be a comfort,’ he said to Shortt, as they passed the chapel for people of all faiths.
‘I prefer a glass of claret.’
They entered the court, where Shortt chatted to his opposite number and Clement and Rafik sat quietly at the back, until an Asian clerk summoned Rafik forward with a smile that Clement read by turn as sympathetic, smug and indifferent. However inscrutable her expression, there was no mistaking the fact of her race. Shortt and the Home Office lawyer moved to their designated tables as Appellant and Respondent and Rafik to that of Witness. The judge entered discreetly and took his seat on a small dais in front of Rafik, ignoring his deep bow. After busying himself with his papers, he turned to Shortt to ask ‘Does he speak English?’, a question that set the tone for proceedings in which Rafik’s position was peripheral to legal niceties. During the long intervals when the judge read the documents, Clement allowed his attention to drift around the room. With its low ceiling, whitewood furniture and boldly patterned carpet all designed to create an air of informality, he hankered for the archaic splendour of the Old Bailey. The majesty of the law instilled hope as well as terror, whereas the judge’s complacent remarks and ill-concealed boredom felt less as if he were ruling on Rafik’s freedom than vetting his application to a golf club.
The relentless trade of formal argument at least served to reduce the tension. The Home Office lawyer made much of Rafik’s entry to the country on a forged identity card and his failure to claim immediate asylum, declaring that ignorance was not only no excuse but not an option. Shortt in turn outlined Rafik’s sustained efforts to find work, explaining that he was now employed as a studio assistant to the painter Clement Granville, who was present in court. Clement smiled sweetly at the judge, trusting that he would respond to the picture of middle-class respectability (always granting artistic license for the hair), only to feel snubbed when, after a cursory glance in his direction, the judge sniffed and turned back to his papers.
Shortt addressed the key issue of Rafik’s safety should he be repatriated, citing a recent Amnesty International report to the effect that, while homosexuality in Algeria carried an official jail sentence of three years, the reality was far harsher. Thousands of men had been murdered by either the government or the Islamist militias. Rafik, with no influential friends and having been disowned by his family, could expect a similar fate. Having fled military service, he would be arrested as a deserter and thrown into prison, where he would be systematically raped by both officers and inmates, the very Islamists whose threats had forced him to flee.
Having listened to the statement and flicked through the report, the judge asked Shortt whether he had any evidence to back up his claim.
‘What more evidence do you need?’ Shortt asked.
‘It is not for you to ask questions of me,’ the judge replied with an affronted dignity worthy of the Woolsack. Shortt apologised so abjectly that Clement suspected him of mockery, although the judge appeared to accept it as his due. Announcing that he would publish his decision within two weeks, he adjourned the case. As he left the court, Rafik was once again the only one to stand.
Clement, who had made Rafik’s body his particular study, discerned the anguish in the curve of his neck and the strain in the stretch of his shoulders. Shortt, more professionally detached, shook his client’s hand before exchanging pleasantries with his opposite number, which Clement was thankful he was too far away to catch. He was not naïve. He no more expected lawyers to sustain their hostilities at the end of a hearing than actors at the end of a play, but this was less a matter of Richard II and Bolingbroke joining hands at the curtain call than of their declaring a ceasefire halfway through Act Three. The kindest explanation was that their love of the law outweighed their concern for justice, the way that his father’s love of the Church overrode his doubts about God. Stifling the diffidence intrinsic to a courtroom, he walked up to Rafik who stood stock-still, staring at the judge’s chair. They were joined by Shortt, who inexplicably claimed that proceedings had gone as well as could be expected.
‘So you think he must let Rafik stay?’ Rafik asked eagerly.
‘It could go either way,’ Shortt replied. ‘But don’t worry, if we lose this one, there’s still the Reconsideration.’ Then he patted Rafik’s arm, shook Clement’s hand, and ambled out.
‘Always one thing else,’ Rafik said. ‘When they push me on to plane, he will say: “Don’t worry, there is still chance it must crash.”’
They left the court, passing two middle-aged Chinese men with the earnest faces of exiles from Tiananmen Square. Once on the street, Clement extracted Rafik’s promise to eat something, insisting – only half in jest – that he would have no use for a skinny Saint Sebastian, before flagging a taxi to take him to Dartmouth Park. He had a three o’clock appointment with the Dean who, deaf to all requests that he wait another week, was coming to inspect their progress. Aware that a committed client was the key to a successful commission, Clement had nevertheless been reluctant to sanction the visit, arguing that the work was at a highly delicate stage, with the panes cut out and painted but not yet assembled. The Dean, however, had forced his hand with the news that, far from admitting defeat, Major Deedes had stepped up his campaign against the window and that he would be in a much stronger position to fight back once he had seen it for himself.
With no time for lunch, Carla led Clement straight out to the workshop where the top portion of the window was propped up on an easel. Even though he had warned the Dean to expect no more than a crude impression, he had often found that it was before the fragments of colour had been framed in black that a window was at its purest. He walked round the easel, examining every aspect, before leaning against the wall to gauge the full effect. He nodded to Carla, who carefully removed the lightly glued panel and replaced it with the next one. They repeated the process down to the base, at which point he professed himself delighted, not least with her use of fused glass for the bishop’s cope. He told her to go ahead with the leading which, for all his scruples, was one task he was glad to be spared. The soldering iron and horseshoe nails might have changed little since the Middle Ages, but the romance soon palled in the face of work that was tedious, tiring, and messy.
A prolonged ring on the doorbell punctured their euphoria, but the deflation was only temporary for, having studied the window section by section, the Dean showered it with praise. ‘Splendid. Quite splendid. It will make a real contribution to the life and worship of the cathedral. There’s just one point. It’s so niggling I hesitate to raise it. Nevertheless, these three figures who are guarding Adam in Hell: did I see them on the original designs?’
‘Yes, although remember they were sketches. Impossible to include every detail.’
‘Quite. However, the detail may be significant. A bishop, a cardinal and some kind of nonconformist. I’m all for ecumenism, but in Hell…?’
‘It’s a Hell of their own creation, to which they’ve confined Adam and, by extension, everyone else.’
‘A fascinating argument but not without flaws. True, the Bible makes little mention of Hell, but then the Bible makes little mention of much that is central to the Church’s teaching. And I worry about handing another weapon to the dreaded Deedes.’
‘Don’t forget, you’re standing on top of the glass,’ Carla interjected. ‘The figures won’t be so clear from a distance.’
While grateful for Carla’s support, Clement bridled at any suggestion that the window would be little more than local colour. Like his medieval counterparts, he was aiming to make a theological as well as an artistic statement, which he proceeded to explain to the Dean. ‘I find the very idea of Hell anathema, even though in many churches I’d be anathematised for saying so. No loving God could condemn us to an eternity without Him; no loving God could condemn Himself to an eternity without us. For, in abandoning the least one of us, He is diminished: His love is diminished.’ The Dean, who had shown more concern for posterity than for eternity, looked anxious, but Clement was determined not to be deterred. ‘The concept of Hell was devised by men to excuse their cruelty. “We’re burning your body to save your soul.” No, you’re burning my body to preserve your power. The greater the punishments they could ascribe to God, the greater the justification they could find for their own. And it worked. Even I, who grew up in the most liberal of church households, feel uneasy about tackling the subject. The most significant human invention may be the wheel, but the most enduring one has been Hell.’
‘That is why we should trust in Christ,’ the Dean replied. ‘Our sins may be great, but His love is greater. And why we should trust in the Church, which is the living body of Christ.’ Clement recalled that, for all his worldliness, the Dean was a priest and intent on asserting his authority. ‘Your window is a timely reminder that Christ burst open the gates of Hell – on whatever level you wish to take the metaphor – and set us free. Wouldn’t you agree, Ms…?’
‘I don’t have any opinion. I’m a Buddhist.’
‘Really? May I ask why?’
‘You might just as well ask “why not?”’
‘I’m sorry. I assume – perhaps wrongly – that you weren’t born one.’
‘No, you’re right. My husband introduced me to the Dharma when we first met. It’s what kept me together when he died. And it has done ever since. It’s the faith, religion, value system (call it what you will) that suits me best.’
‘Isn’t it for you to suit your faith, rather than the other way round?’
‘That’s a little strong,’ Clement said, impelled to stand up for Carla, despite his sympathies lying with the Dean. Ever since Mark’s first retreat, he had regarded Buddhism as a soft option; even the names of its saints and sites and practices ended in vowels, in contrast to the consonant-constrained West. The surer he grew that there were many different roads to God and that Christianity was simply the one on which by culture and circumstance he had found himself, the weaker he considered the argument for turning off and turning East.
‘Forgive me,’ the Dean said to Carla. ‘I’m not casting doubt on your sincerity. But, having seen so many Westerners turn to Eastern religion, I’ve begun to wonder if they look faraway because it’s easier than looking into themselves.’
‘I meditate twice a day precisely in order to look into myself. Though, of course, the paradox is that I’m aiming to reach a deeper consciousness where I’ll see that the self is an illusion.’
‘I am an illusion?’ the Dean asked incredulously.
‘The consciousness that divides you from the rest of the universe is an illusion. We have to learn that all things are one.’
‘I’m indebted to you. You’ve given me a feast for the eyes.’ The Dean gestured graciously to the glass. ‘And food for thought.’ Then, with a smile honed on generations of pew-polishers and flower-arrangers, he apologised for the inconvenience and asked to have a private word with Clement. Looking piqued, Carla returned to the house. Clement, who was expecting a mention of money or transport or some other matter which the Dean deemed to be unsuitable for mixed company, was astounded to hear that Deedes’ latest move had been to make a formal complaint about the window to the Cathedral Council, another group of local worthies for whom the Dean had little time. The Council, unable to reach a decision, had referred the matter to the Bishop in his capacity as Cathedral Visitor, and he in turn had referred it to his Chancellor sitting in the consistory court.
‘You have to admire the man’s tactics,’ the Dean conceded. ‘He knows better than to complain about the installation of the window, since the FAC’s approval means it falls outside the Chancellor’s jurisdiction. So instead he accuses me – along with the Chapter – of Conduct Unbecoming for accepting a design that contravenes Anglican doctrine.’
‘Might he have a case?’ Clement asked, feeling nauseous.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ the Dean said blithely. ‘It’s remarkably hard to prove that anything contravenes Anglican doctrine when Anglican doctrine is itself so nebulous.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence.’
‘My fear is more that he might
try to mobilise public opinion. He’s very well-connected.’
‘Even so, it’ll be a nine days’ wonder. I’ve been there before with both my Two Marys and my Pier Palace Christ.’ Clement sought to reassure the Dean, whose desire to create a stir stopped short of causing a scandal.
‘There is another matter. I should stress that it’s of no concern to me personally, none whatsoever. But it’s incumbent on me to speak…’ Clement wondered what could be so disturbing that it was causing the Dean to twist both his syntax and his handkerchief. ‘He alleges you have AIDS.’ Clement was aghast. He felt as if a red light were flashing above his head. His immediate instinct was to deny it, as in all conscience he could, but, scorning to be saved by a technicality, he explained that what he had was HIV and asked how the Major had discovered something he had kept secret from his closest friends.
‘I’m not certain, but I understand it’s from a woman you met… in Wales, was it? Her mother’s some connection of the Major’s wife.’
‘Christine… it can’t be. It must be.’
‘Small world.’
‘No, just small-minded.’
‘We’ll fight and we’ll win. Of that I have no doubt. But I thought it only fair to warn you.’
The forewarned, forearmed axiom was disproved the following Sunday when Clement was woken by a reporter from the Daily Mail, asking him to comment on the revelations in the News of the World. While Mike, who picked up – and slammed down – the phone, ran out to buy the paper, Clement sat transfixed by the answer-machine which registered three more such calls. He remembered his father, faced with a media onslaught after Spirit of the Age, informing his besieged family that ‘in ancient Rome, editors were the men in charge of entertainments at the Colosseum. And they’re still throwing Christians to the lions!’ The memory steeled him to take a call from the Daily Express offering £10,000 for sole rights to his story.
‘There is no story,’ he yelled down the phone, only to find his words refuted when Mike rushed in and flung two copies of the paper on the kitchen table. Clement grabbed one and flicked through it, his confidence growing with every unsullied page, until a glance at the centrespread sent him reeling. Under the headline, Bishop’s Sick Son in Nude Christ Scandal, was a photograph of himself so grainy that he looked about to expire. Next to it was a report which, while stating the facts with tolerable accuracy, reeked of innuendo, suggesting that he was in league with his parents, aka the Atheist Bishop and Feminist Guru, to destroy everything the nation held dear.
The Enemy of the Good Page 8