Doubting Thomas

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘Go away,’ she said, closing her eyes.

  Thomas wondered for a second if she was ill. He decided she wasn’t. Just very unfriendly.

  ‘Please,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s really important. I need to find out about the doubters.’

  Now she looked at him. Sharply and suspiciously.

  ‘Je voudrais,’ read Holly, ‘les informations…’

  ‘I speak English,’ said the woman, looking away again.

  ‘We’ve come from Australia,’ said Thomas. ‘To see you.’

  The woman blew out an exasperated breath of air. She kept her arms folded.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘An old article in a dead magazine finds its way to Australia. And now you are wanting to know about les doubters.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Thomas.

  He was feeling weak and dizzy, and he didn’t know if it was because he was jetlagged or sick or just because he’d finally found Vera Poulet.

  ‘Doubters are children,’ said Vera Poulet. She spoke in the dull voice of someone who’d said it all heaps of times before. ‘Children whose bodies speak to them about lies. Children with itchy wrists. Trembling legs. Painful hearts. Hot noses. Children whose bodies are… how do you say?’

  ‘Lie-detectors,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera Poulet, looking at him in surprise.

  ‘That’s what they are exactly.’

  ‘We need to know,’ said Holly. ‘Why do doubters die young?’

  Vera Poulet stared at the walls of bones all around them.

  For a crazy, dizzy moment Thomas thought she was going to say that these millions of bones were all the remains of doubters.

  No, that was silly.

  ‘The more lies the young bodies of doubters absorb,’ said Vera Poulet, ‘the more their immune systems are damaged. The more easily they become sick. In centuries past there were no antibiotics. Sick children always died.’

  Thomas crouched down, suddenly giddy. The noise in his head was getting louder. And now he knew it wasn’t jetlag.

  ‘You were a doubter,’ said Holly urgently to Vera Poulet. ‘You didn’t die. How come?’

  Thomas looked up at Vera Poulet and saw a flicker of something in her eyes.

  Confusion.

  Fear.

  Both those things and more.

  ‘If the lies stop,’ she said, ‘the lies of families and communities, sometimes the health of the doubters can recover.’

  ‘And that’s how you survived?’ said Thomas.

  Vera Poulet nodded.

  ‘My powers faded when I was twelve,’ she said. ‘But I am always at risk. The powers, and the sickness, they could return.’

  ‘But they haven’t,’ said Holly. ‘Have they?’

  Thomas was shocked by the anger that suddenly flashed across Vera Poulet’s face.

  ‘The sickness could come back at any time,’ she snapped.

  Then, as her voice echoed down the tunnel of bones, she hunched her shoulders again and looked away.

  ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to know more.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Kevin. ‘We need to know everything. And you might as well tell us the truth, cause we’ve got nipples here that’ll dob you.’

  ‘He means nipples that’ll tell us if you’re lying,’ said Holly.

  Vera Poulet’s eyes widened.

  She stared at all three of them.

  For the first time, Thomas saw, she unfolded her arms.

  ‘Which one of you…?’ she whispered.

  ‘Me,’ said Thomas.

  18

  Vera Poulet was a fast walker.

  Thomas struggled to keep up as they turned a corner into yet another street. He could see Holly and Kevin were panting too.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Holly.

  Thomas didn’t feel good, but he felt better than before.

  His head was still noisy, but he wasn’t as dizzy.

  Hopeful thoughts were keeping him going, along with the jelly snakes Kevin had just ducked into a shop and bought.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Thomas said to Holly.

  He ignored the nipple itch he got when he said that. The important thing was getting to Vera Poulet’s place.

  ‘I wonder why she wants us to go to her home?’ said Holly.

  ‘Der,’ said Kevin. ‘To help Thomas, of course. She’s probably got medicine there. Or bulk spinach juice for a special doubters’ diet.’

  ‘Der yourself,’ said Holly. ‘She already explained that the cure hasn’t got anything to do with medicine or diets. What cures a doubter is when they don’t have to listen to any more lies. Perhaps you should remember that, Kevin Abbot.’

  Kevin stared at Holly, outraged, his mouth open.

  Thomas looked away so he wouldn’t have to see the half-chewed jelly snakes.

  ‘I don’t tell lies to Thomas,’ said Kevin. ‘Only to other people.’

  Thomas sighed wearily.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Stop arguing. Vera Poulet reckons she’s got something at her place that’ll help me and that’s all I care about. It probably isn’t far.’

  ‘Four kilometres,’ said Vera Poulet.

  Thomas was shocked. Vera Poulet was several steps ahead of them. He hadn’t realised her hearing was that good.

  ‘Why don’t we catch the metro?’ said Kevin.

  ‘No metro,’ said Vera Poulet, striding on. ‘Too risky. Too full of people telling lies. My sickness could come back.’

  Suddenly she veered off the footpath and hurried across the street.

  Thomas realised why.

  She wanted to get away from the electrical shop on this side. It had a TV out the front, showing a news report. The leader of China or India or somewhere was saying that the uranium they’d just bought would never be used for bombs or fighting or anything.

  Thomas and the others crossed over too.

  After a bit, as they approached a restaurant with tables out on the footpath, Vera Poulet strode back across the street.

  ‘Bad restaurant,’ she said to Thomas and the others as they followed.

  ‘Why?’ said Kevin. ‘Don’t they do chips?’

  ‘They are famous for their Chilean sea bass,’ said Vera Poulet with a snort of disgust. ‘There is no such fish as Chilean sea bass. The real name of this fish is Patagonian tooth fish.’

  Thomas felt dread sapping his energy.

  Is this what his future would be like if he managed to stay alive? A whole lifetime of running and hiding from lies?

  Vera Poulet’s place was a dusty old apartment full of books and saggy furniture.

  Thomas stood in the living room with Holly and Kevin, watching while Vera Poulet spoke in French to an elderly man slumped in an armchair.

  The man stared grumpily at Thomas.

  He said something in French, and Vera Poulet snorted at him like he was a Chilean sea bass.

  Then she stepped over to Thomas.

  ‘I should have explained to you,’ she said. ‘My husband was a vet. Now he is a liar.’

  Thomas wasn’t sure what to say.

  He could see Holly and Kevin were surprised, too.

  If Monsieur Poulet was a vet, you’d expect him to be tall and kind and gentle and well-groomed like the vets on telly. Not short and unshaven and cross in a droopy jumper that looked suspiciously to Thomas like it was made from animal hair.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Monsieur Poulet snapped at Thomas and the others. ‘Ca va?’

  ‘English,’ said Vera Poulet impatiently. ‘Speak English to them.’

  Monsieur Poulet gave a grumpy growl.

  ‘I retire since twelveteen years,’ he said crossly. ‘Not since twelveteen years do I speak English. Or animal.’

  ‘Well you can start again now,’ said Vera Poulet to him, just as crossly.

  Monsieur Poulet muttered something under his breath in French. Thomas was having trouble concentrating because of the noise in his head, but he was pretty sure it was a swear word.


  ‘English,’ said Vera Poulet.

  ‘Bottom plops,’ said Monsieur Poulet. He glared at his wife. ‘It is the only English swearing word I know.’

  ‘There’s lots more,’ said Kevin. ‘I can write some down for you if you like.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Madame Poulet,’ said Holly. ‘You said you have something to help Thomas?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera Poulet, with another glare at her husband. ‘I’ll get it.’

  As soon as she was out of the room, Monsieur Poulet stood up and came over to Thomas.

  Suddenly his face seemed gentler.

  ‘So, young man,’ he said. ‘You are a doubter.’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘Incroyable,’ said Monsieur Poulet. ‘Thank God. At last.’

  Monsieur Poulet was looking so emotional that Thomas felt he should say something himself.

  ‘Mrs Poulet is very kind,’ he said. ‘She’s helping me.’

  Monsieur Poulet thought about this. He gave a snort very much like his wife’s.

  Only sadder.

  ‘My wife, what she needs is someone helping her,’ he said. ‘She needs the understanding that she is OK. That the lies cannot hurt her now. That she does not have to hide away under the ground with the bones. That she is not the doubter any more.’

  Thomas didn’t know what to say.

  His nipples stayed silent too.

  Monsieur Poulet was telling the truth.

  ‘I try to speak her myself,’ continued Monsieur Poulet. ‘I am medical expert. I have done the research. Only the children can be doubters. When the sickness fades, it never comes back. She is safe. But since fifty years she doesn’t believe this.’

  Thomas was shocked to see that Monsieur Poulet was almost in tears.

  Then Vera Poulet’s voice rang out.

  ‘He’s lying, isn’t he Thomas?’

  Thomas turned. Vera Poulet was standing in the doorway, holding a battered cardboard folder, looking at her husband. Her face was sadder than any face Thomas had ever seen.

  With a jolt, Thomas realised why she’d brought him here. It wasn’t just so she could help him. It was so he could also help her.

  ‘My husband is lying, isn’t he?’ Vera Poulet repeated.

  ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘He’s telling the truth.’

  For a few seconds Vera Poulet’s face relaxed. But only for a few seconds.

  ‘Pah,’ she snorted again. ‘This is the problem. He thinks he is telling the truth, but he’s not.’

  ‘I am telling the truth,’ said Monsieur Poulet to Thomas. ‘But she’s right, I do lie to her. She doesn’t know, but each day I tell her a little lie. I read her from the newspaper and change one little fact each day. To prove that her sickness will never come back.’

  He waved his arms in the air.

  ‘No, non, nada, niet,’ he said. ‘How many languages does she want me to say it? Since fifty years she is only a doubter dans la tête.’

  ‘In the head,’ said Holly, reading from her laptop.

  ‘Fifty years,’ said Kevin. ‘That is mega sad.’

  Thomas looked at Vera Poulet. She was trembling, holding on to the door frame.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said to Thomas, her voice trembling too. ‘Is he lying now?’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas.

  Vera Poulet stared at her husband for a long time. Then she took a few uncertain steps across the room and sat down on the couch, head bowed.

  Monsieur Poulet sat down next to her and put his arms around her. She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  Thomas saw the tears on both their faces.

  Holly and Kevin were watching, close to tears themselves. Thomas knew how they felt. Even though his head was killing him.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered to them. ‘We should go.’

  ‘What about the folder?’ whispered Holly.

  ‘Create a diversion,’ whispered Kevin. ‘I’ll nick it.’

  But he didn’t have to.

  Vera Poulet stood up and brought it over to Thomas.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at him with bright watery eyes. She pushed the folder into his hands. ‘In here is research about the sickness. Everything we have. History, geography, medical, everything.’

  She paused and put her hand on Thomas’s forehead.

  Her hand felt cool and Thomas realised how hot his head was.

  ‘The cure is very simple,’ said Vera Poulet. ‘The people close to you who are telling the lies, they must stop.’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  It’s what he had feared she would say.

  19

  ‘How much longer do we have to keep these blindfolds on?’ said Dad, fiddling with the airline sleeping-mask over his eyes.

  ‘Be patient,’ said Mum, adjusting her own sleeping-mask. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said Thomas, trying to sound cheerful.

  It wasn’t easy. After a night of bad sleep and scary dreams he felt even more exhausted and weary than yesterday in the catacombs. Plus the noise in his head was louder than ever, even after two headache tablets.

  ‘Deux minutes,’ said the taxi driver.

  ‘Two minutes,’ said Holly, reading from her laptop screen.

  Thomas hugged the picnic basket he’d borrowed from the hotel and peered through the taxi window at the sky. It was still grey, but at least the rain had stopped.

  Come on sun, begged Thomas silently. Please. I need your help. Mum and Dad are going to have some nasty surprises in a minute, and a bit of sunshine might help them cope better.

  Thomas glanced at the taxi meter. Eleven euros. He hoped the taxi driver was right about almost being there. Thomas only had fourteen euros of his holiday money left after buying the picnic food.

  ‘I wonder where we’re going,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m wondering that too,’ said Dad.

  The taxi turned a corner and suddenly Thomas could see it above them, bigger than he’d ever imagined, the most famous tower in the world.

  The Eiffel Tower.

  It wasn’t what Thomas had expected at all.

  He’d imagined something like a castle tower, with flowers growing over it and perhaps a fountain on top. Something romantic. This one looked like it was built of metal girders.

  ‘Wow,’ gasped Kevin. ‘It’s huge. And it’s built of metal girders.’

  Thomas glared at him.

  Holly slapped her hand over Kevin’s mouth.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ she hissed at him.

  Thomas wished they had a spare sleeping-mask to use as a gag.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Kevin.

  ‘Voilà,’ said the taxi driver, pulling in to the kerb.

  Holly wasn’t able to translate because she still had her computer hand over Kevin’s mouth, but Thomas was pretty sure it was French for Great spot for a surprise picnic. Your parents are going to love it. They probably won’t even get upset when they find out why you’ve brought them here.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Thomas as he paid the taxi driver. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘OK,’ said Thomas. ‘Three, two, one, blindfolds off.’

  He held his breath and also the tablecloth, which was flapping a bit in the wind. Holly removed Mum’s sleeping-mask, and after a bit of fiddling Kevin got Dad’s off.

  Thomas watched as Mum and Dad looked around, and then up.

  Their mouths fell open.

  They looked at Thomas, then at each other, then at the picnic food laid out on the tablecloth, then around again at the four massive pillars supporting the tower, then up again at the dizzying lattice of girders disappearing into the clouds.

  ‘Surprise,’ said Kevin, unnecessarily in Thomas’s opinion.

  Mum and Dad couldn’t be more surprised. Their mouths were still wide open.

  ‘Oh, love,’ said Mum to Thomas. ‘You remembered what I said on the plane. Thank y
ou. You’re amazing.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ grinned Dad. ‘One in a million.’

  Thomas felt a bit less tense. Except for his head, which was still full of fuzzy noise.

  While Mum and Dad gave him a hug, Thomas had a thought. If today didn’t work, if he still ended up dying young, at least Mum and Dad would have happy picnic memories to help them feel not quite so sad.

  OK, the setting wasn’t as beautiful as Thomas had wanted. The ground under the tower wasn’t the grass with daisies and buttercups he’d hoped for, it was concrete with puddles. Also the wind was blowing great gobs of water off the upper part of the tower and they were plummeting onto the picnic food. And lots of the tourists queuing for the lifts were staring in a not very beautiful way.

  But it wasn’t all bad. Mum and Dad were sitting on a very nice wooden bench bolted into the concrete so they didn’t get their bottoms wet. And the hotel shower-curtain tablecloth was completely waterproof. Plus, Holly and Kevin were making it windproof by sitting on the corners.

  Right, thought Thomas.

  Food first.

  He’d discussed this with Holly and Kevin, and they’d agreed that people probably cope better with nasty surprises when they’re enjoying the finest food a country or region can offer.

  ‘Snail?’ said Thomas, holding a paper plate out to Mum and Dad.

  Mum and Dad stared at the pile of oily snails in their garlic-flecked shells.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Kevin. ‘They’re cooked.’

  ‘Kevin,’ said Holly. ‘Mr and Mrs Gulliver know they’re cooked. As the man in the deli explained to us this morning, escargots are one of the greatest delicacies in France, but only an idiot would eat them raw.’

  ‘Um,’ said Dad. ‘Yes. Fantastic. Thank you.’

  ‘This is a lovely surprise,’ said Mum. ‘Thank you, all three of you. No wonder you were gone so long yesterday.’

  Mum and Dad took a snail each.

  Dad took a deep breath, put his snail to his lips, sucked hard and swallowed as fast as he could.

  Mum sniffed hers, poked her tongue a little way inside the shell, pulled it out again and did lots of nodding and lip-smacking.

  ‘Delicious,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yum,’ said Mum.

  Thomas’s nipples went garlic prawn.

  Or should that be garlic snail, he thought miserably.