A Sacred Storm

by Dominic C. James

  “Are you okay?” asked Tariq.

  Jenna stubbed out her cigarette, gulped some wine, then lit another. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m confused. I don’t know what’s going on. My head just can’t cope with it all.”

  “I didn’t think you were particularly religious.”

  “I’m not,” she scowled. “I left all that shit behind me years ago, when I left school.”

  “What do you mean, left it behind?”

  “We had fucking religion shoved down our throats every bloody day. Fucking priests and nuns telling us how to live good, honest lives. Making us pray and sing to some imaginary all-seeing being. Every day there was some bloody guilt trip or other. Telling me I was no good, that I’d go to hell if I didn’t change my ways. I wasn’t even one of the bad kids.” Hands shaking, she took long draw on her cigarette. “And then there was the hypocrisy of the whole thing. These priests telling us what and what not to do, and the whole time they’re abusing their power and touching up our classmates. There were a couple of lads in my form – really good kids – who I don’t think will ever get over what was done to them. It’s going to stay with them for life.”

  Tariq hung his head, not really knowing what to say.

  Jenna sensed his awkwardness. “Sorry sweetie,” she said. “It’s not your fault. It just makes me mad thinking about it all.” She sat back down and gave him a hug.

  “I read about it in the local paper a few years ago,” said Tariq. “It made me feel awful. The priest in question had been doing it for years.”

  “Yeah,” said Jenna, wiping a small tear from her eye. “The thing was, we never really knew anything about it at the time – if we had, maybe we could have done something.” She looked away and began sobbing. “I guess we knew though, deep down, that something was up. Maybe we were just too scared to say anything.”

  Tariq put an arm around her. “It’s not your fault. The priest was in the wrong, not you.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t stop me feeling guilty.”

  They sat quietly for a while, Tariq holding her gently to him. He’d never seen her like this before. Throughout their time together she had never once broken down about anything. It was one of the things he loved about her, the fact that she could face the world and its trials without overreacting. And this made the moment all the more poignant. Whereas previously he may have been slightly in awe of her, now, in the midst of her trauma, he felt suddenly protective. It was as if one illusion had been shattered, only to be replaced by something even more wondrous. A layer of beautiful vulnerability, an imperfection that somehow completed her flawlessness.

  After a while Jenna pulled away and kissed Tariq softly on the lips. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry to go off on one.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’d have to be inhuman not to be affected by something like that.”

  Jenna reached for her wine. “Yeah, I guess so. But sometimes I don’t want to be human.”

  Left briefly alone to his thoughts, Tariq began to try and make sense of what was happening. He’d expected the Mahdi to make himself known, but the appearance of this Catholic Messiah had taken him completely by surprise. He wanted to believe that they were both genuine, or at least the Mahdi, but a voice inside told him that something was not quite right.

  Jenna echoed his thoughts. “It seems very strange,” she said. “I mean, apart from the whole thing being surreal. It’s weird that the Muslim’s produced their redeemer hours after the Catholic’s had announced the ‘second coming’. It’s almost as if they were doing it in retaliation.”

  “What are you suggesting?” said Tariq.

  “Nothing…I don’t know. It’s all too confusing.”

  “Listen,” said Tariq. “If you think the Mahdi’s just a made-up reaction, then you’re wrong. I’ve got a bit of a confession to make – I already knew about the Mahdi before they announced him.”

  “What? But how?”

  “We were called to a meeting in the mosque the other day. The Imam told us that the Mahdi had surfaced in Mecca. He told us that he was the real thing, that he was a great healer. The Imam has been crippled nearly all of his adult life and I witnessed him dancing about like a little child.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Jenna asked. “I mean, didn’t you think the appearance of a miracle worker was interesting or important enough to bother me with?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. We were sworn to secrecy. We were not permitted to talk about it until he had proclaimed himself to the world. It was the will of Allah – I couldn’t go against it.”

  “Fine,” said Jenna, lighting yet another cigarette.

  “Listen,” said Tariq. “I wasn’t even sure what to make of it myself. Yes, I saw the Imam leaping about, but it could have been a trick. How could I tell you about something that may not even have been true? And besides, I’m a man of my word – I made a promise not to say anything and I didn’t. It would be the same if you told me something in confidence – not even the Mahdi would get it out of me.”

  Jenna paused and then smiled. “I know. I shouldn’t have questioned you. You’re a man of integrity, and I love you for it.” She stubbed out her half-finished cigarette. “Come on,” she said, getting off the sofa and holding out her hand. “My brain’s exploding. I need you to make love to me.”

  Chapter 38

  Kandinsky drove vigilantly through the night, constantly alert to the threat of repercussions. They had taken a great risk, and had gotten away with it so far, but he knew that the sheik was not a man to give up lightly. He was also a man with any amount of money and power at his disposal. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him being able to instigate an air search, or sending the Yemeni army out after them. The road to the harbour was possibly fraught with more danger than their escape from the palace.

  Grady had moved into the passenger seat. He was exhausted, but the buzz of the rescue was keeping him from sleep. He felt alive like he hadn’t done for a good while. Although his years in intelligence had provided him with many delicate, life-threatening situations, it had been a long time since he’d been shot at with such ferocity. In fact, the last incident he remembered was back in his days with the Marines. There was no other feeling like it though. The rush of adrenaline that accompanied dodging a frenzy of fire couldn’t be matched. Forget bungee jumping and sky diving, this was life at the extreme. An inch, maybe only a millimetre, between living and dying.

  Jennings sat on the backseat with Stella’s head in his lap. He stroked her hair lightly and watched her sleep. Like Grady he was tired but unable to switch off. The joy of seeing Stella again was overwhelming. Weeks of heartache and worry were suddenly washed away by the mere fact that she was alive and near him once more. She looked so beautiful in the muted light that it brought a tear to his eye. He took a deep breath of her distinctive scent and let it inhabit his being. Closing his eyes he held it there, and finally drifted into a warm sleep

  Despite Kandinsky’s fears they reached the harbour without attack. He guessed that the sheik must have been rendered unconscious all night by the powerful tranquilizer, and therefore unable to issue a strike-force.

  Once on board the submarine they took Stella straight to Dr Vashista who gave her a thorough examination. “I cannot be one hundred per cent certain,” he said. “But she is not showing any signs of internal injury. She appears to be just very badly bruised. She is going to hurt for the next few days though.”

  “Excuse me,” Stella chirped from the examination table. “I am here you know.” The morphine had all but worn off and she was starting to feel the effects of her accident.

  “How could we forget,” said Grady.

  Jennings took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  Vashista gave her another quick check, and then fed her some codeine tablets for the pain. He produced a wheelchair from under the table and Jennings pushed her to her quarters. After fluffing her pillows he helped her up onto
the bed.

  “Are you going to be alright?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” she said. “Once these painkillers kick in properly I should be okay. I’d rather have had some morphine though.”

  “I bet you would. But you heard Dr Vashista – he didn’t think it was a good idea. You don’t want to get hooked on the stuff do you?”

  “I don’t know – I can think of worse things.” She braved a smile. “I haven’t thanked you yet have I?”

  “What for?”

  “For coming to rescue me. If you guys hadn’t turned up I could have been stuck there forever.”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted,” Jennings grinned. “You didn’t seem very keen on leaving when we turned up. You were all for staying there and becoming a princess.”

  “Did I say that?” she frowned. “I suppose I did. It was the morphine. Dr Vashista’s probably right – I really shouldn’t have any more of it. Although being a princess wouldn’t be too bad – as long as you’ve got the right prince.” She looked at him briefly then turned away.

  “I’m sure you’ll find one,” he said. “You won’t be short of offers.”

  Stella switched on the television screen and flicked through the music files, choosing Radiohead’s – The Bends to soothe her battered mind. “Where’s Stratton then?” she asked. “Is he still alive?”

  Jennings thought for a moment trying to find a suitable explanation.

  “Well?” Stella pressed.

  “Yes, he’s still alive. He’s gone to Rome to help out Pat Cronin. It’s all kicked off since you were captured.” He paused. “But anyway, I’ll tell you all about it later when you’ve rested a bit.”

  “I’m already rested,” she said obstinately. “I want to know what’s going on. I want to know why Stratton didn’t come to get me.”

  Jennings sat down on the edge of the bed and touched her hand lightly. Stella whipped it away and said, “Just tell me.”

  “He thought that it was more important that he went to Rome. Like I said, a lot has happened in the last few weeks. Basically it’s like this – both the Muslims and the Catholics have access to the symbols, and they’re both about to unleash a Messiah into the world. Each one will have miraculous healing powers, and each one will be considered real. And you know what’s going to happen don’t you? Each religion will try and debunk the other until it’s all out war. Stratton’s the only one with the same knowledge as these fake redeemers, so he’s got to be out there helping to calm the whole situation.”

  Stella chewed on it for a while. “How long did it take you to rescue me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jennings shrugged. “Maybe about eighteen hours all told.”

  “Well then. Would eighteen hours have really made that much difference to him? He could have made sure I was alright before he went off trying to save the fucking world.”

  “Listen Stella, he was in a difficult situation. He couldn’t delay any longer. There was no need for him to come with us to get you, and he had the utmost faith in our ability to get the job done. He had to look at the bigger picture and make a decision…Of course, if you’re really that bothered we can take you back there and get Stratton to rescue you single-handed.” He got off the bed and went to the drinks cabinet for some whisky.

  “I’m sorry,” said Stella after a brief silence. “I wasn’t having a go at you. I was just being silly and selfish. Of course Stratton had to look at the bigger picture. And I’m really grateful that you came for me.”

  Jennings poured some whisky into a glass tumbler and sat back down next to her. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have made that last comment. I understand why you’re upset. But I don’t think his decision had anything to do with the way he feels about you. He was just trying to do the right thing. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”

  Stella sipped at a glass of water. “I know,” she said. “It would have just been nice to see him, that’s all. But you know what? I’m really glad that you’re alright. The last time I saw you, you were lifeless, hanging upside-down from a tree – it made me sick. In fact I didn’t know what had happened to anybody. For all I knew you were all dead. And where does Grady fit into all this? He was hanging next to you. Where did he suddenly appear from?”

  She listened intently as Jennings related all that had happened since they split up in the jungle. When he’d finished she was beginning to feel sleepy once more.

  “Well,” she yawned. “You’ve certainly been busy. I feel like I’ve had it easy.”

  “Not at all,” said Jennings. “I’d rather have been in my situation than yours. At least I haven’t been held captive. You can’t put a price on freedom.”

  Stella lay her head down and closed her eyes. “Still, you’ve been through a lot. I’m just pleased you’re still alive. When I thought you might be dead…” Her sentence trailed off as she drifted into sleep.

  Jennings watched her while he finished his whisky. Then he kissed her on the forehead and returned to his cabin for a much-needed rest.

  Chapter 39

  Jenna carefully pulled back the duvet and slipped out of bed. She reached for her cigarettes in the dim filtered street-light and tip-toed across the room. As she opened the door Tariq’s head stirred slightly in the hall light, and then settled back down into a peaceful slumber. She looked at him briefly and smiled, and then closed the door and went to the living room.

  She had been trying to get to sleep for what seemed like an eternity, but every time she neared dropping off another thought would enter her mind and start a new train. At first it was merely annoying, but now her head was throbbing, her eyes were stinging, and her throat was sticky and dry.

  She lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa. There was still a half-full glass of chardonnay on the table and she took a couple of swigs from it. The room felt cold and ominous. She shivered and huddled up, stretching her nightshirt tight over her legs.

  The reality of the day’s events had crept up on her subtly. At first she hadn’t really known what to make of it, and then it had all been too much. Making love to Tariq had calmed her for a while, but once he had fallen asleep the voices in her head began to clamour once more. Years of dammed emotions had been released; at first a steady trickle, and then a spurt, a gush, and finally a shattering burst. The resulting torrent eddied inside her head, her disparate thoughts flashing in the foam like irretrievable flotsam and jetsam; the pressure stabbing like keen knives in her temple. She began to cry.

  The tears flowed and felt good, releasing the build-up of emotion. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightshirt and smoked the rest of her cigarette.

  After clearing herself up with a Kleenex she went to the front window and looked out over the orange glow of the town. It was 3.00am, around the time that the clubs would be starting to empty. She wondered whether there was anybody out tonight, or whether the earth-shattering news had prompted people to stay in and think about their lives and where they were headed. In her heart she knew that nothing would stop the die-hards from their Saturday night revelry. There would be many a drunken conversation about God and religion, but it would all be a garbled mass of slurred words and alcohol-fuelled ideals. Inevitably it would end up in physical violence, maybe escalating to a full-blown riot. She imagined the scene down the high street, with police attempting to control hundreds of incensed piss-heads who were so smashed and wound up they’d forgotten what they were angry about in the first place. Then she glanced across at the glass on the table and thought about the damage it was doing to her own logic.

  Tariq walked into the room in his boxer shorts. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Go back to bed, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “I’m up now,” he yawned. “You don’t look so good. You look like you’ve been crying.”

  Jenna shrugged. “Just a little,” she said. “It’s nothing major, just me being silly. I’m overtired and emo
tional. I’ll be okay once I get some sleep.”

  “Do you want me to get you a cup of tea or anything?” he asked.

  She smiled. “That’d be great. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. I’ll just go and put a T-shirt on, it’s a bit cold in here.”

  Jenna closed the curtains and turned up the thermostat, then sat back down. Although she hadn’t wanted to wake Tariq she was pleased he was up. The living room was large and lonely in the dead of night, and her thoughts seemed to echo in the silence. Left on her own she would probably drive herself to distraction.

  A few minutes later Tariq appeared with two cups of tea. He set them on the table before sitting down and giving her a hug. “So tell me,” he said. “What’s going on? Are you still thinking about the news?”

  “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I can’t stop thinking about it. I managed to cut it out and doze off for a while, but then I started dreaming and woke up.”

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  “I don’t know really, I can’t remember it that well. It was more like images than anything specific. Whatever it was though, it wasn’t good.”

  Jenna leant forward and picked up her tea. She blew on it and took a couple of sips. “That’s perfect,” she said. “Just what I need. You’re the best.” She lit a cigarette. “It’s just so weird. I feel like I’m in some sort of parallel universe where the rules no longer apply. When I woke up this morning I knew exactly who I was, what I thought, and where I was going. Now it’s all been turned upside-down. I don’t feel I know who I am anymore. Or even what I am. Suddenly I’m in this world where God or Allah or whatever he is actually exists. What if I’m living my life totally wrongly? What if the priests and nuns at school were right about everything?”

  “We don’t even know if these people are genuine yet,” said Tariq. “And even if they are – do you really think that God would condone priests abusing young boys? It wouldn’t make sense.”