The Final Retreat

by Stephen Hough

  Now I was completely mortified, and really scared. He didn’t have to make explicit the potential for damage that this recording had.

  ‘So,’ all amusement was now absent from his hardened voice, ‘I want cash, Father. Like tonight.’

  It didn’t take me long in my state of panic to respond. ‘I’ll come over later this evening. What time are you free?’ My voice was dull and expressionless.

  ‘Anytime after nine is good... three hundred pounds, OK?’

  ‘I’ll see you later, William.’

  I felt as if my whole life had melted in front of me, like I was a snowman watching himself being reduced to a pool of water, seeping away into the muddy undergrowth. I was angry at him and at myself. The potential for blackmail from this was limitless; it would be my perpetual shadow. I knew I couldn’t keep the cash flowing but I needed to buy some time.

  Later that evening I arrived at his flat, he buzzed me in, and I walked slowly up the staircase. There he was at the front door, smiling, wild-eyed, flushed. I handed over the money and turned away to leave but he said, ‘Father, do you not want to see the film? It’s really cool.’ I wanted this film to be swallowed up in a black hole somewhere, and the thought of watching it, especially with him next to me, was repulsive beyond words. But there was a scintilla of curiosity, and moreover a desire to know just how incriminating it was. Could the images be mistaken for someone else? Perhaps it was blurred and patchy? I looked at him long and cold and then stepped silently inside the door, closing it behind me. We walked into the bedroom; his laptop was already open.

  The picture was amazingly clear, and at first I just watched, numb and speechless. But then, such is the unpredictable lunacy of human beings, I began to feel vanity, a regret at how unattractive I looked on the screen. My fat, white legs spread, feet twisted and calloused, everything loose and frumpy and flabby and... old. Did I really look that old? The footage only showed flashes of his back but the contrast was cruel. His athletic torso, with its tattoo between arched shoulder blades, lean, taut and glistening with sweat, was thrusting itself against me with tremendous energy, whilst my face, blotchy and greasy with its soft mouth, was spouting the idiotic words of rough sex I’d learned from watching porno videos. I thought this pathetic lingo would turn him on, that it was expected of me. And every time I said ‘Fuck, yeah’ and he replied with ‘Fuck, yeah’, a tennis match was in progress, verbal balls across the net in a game which would have been risible but for the power of the brain’s dopamine fix. I turned away burning with shame and walked out of the flat without saying a word.

  His demands for money continued. ‘Can’t you take something from the collection plate, Father?’ Good suggestion. It was all I could do as my savings account was getting low. No holiday this year. Then eventually I realized that things could not continue like this. I was exhausted through lack of sleep and was feeling completely desperate. I decided with a kind of reckless courage to phone Bishop Bernard’s office and request an urgent meeting with him. He had had a cancellation the following week and so I went to see him. I started by explaining that I was being blackmailed and that the instigator had material which was genuine and which was grossly incriminating and... then I just told him the whole story. I was in such a state of despair that I didn’t care anymore. He listened quietly, attentively, and when I had finished he completely took my breath away.

  ‘Father Joseph, this is a terrible situation. You don’t need me to tell you that. But before we talk any more about it... ’ He came around from behind his desk and sat next to me in a vacant chair. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully: ‘I know this is going to seem completely mad in your present state of distress, but I think this is a special moment of grace for you. You have reached the very bottom of the pit. There’s nowhere to escape. You’re totally trapped. And Christ, who faced suffering and disgrace and death, is waiting there for you. “Neither do I condemn you,” he said to the woman who had been caught in the act of adultery. Her situation was pretty similar to yours if you think about it. You’ve been caught in the act, on film even, and our Lord is offering you his hand of support and friendship and forgiveness. He is with you. And I am with you as your bishop, every step of the way. He will not abandon you and neither will I.’

  He stood up and walked back behind his desk. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to handle this, Father, but... ’ He paused, looking down at his hands, then he looked up at me: ‘Father, I want you to go on a retreat. An eight-day silent retreat at Craigbourne. There’s one starting this coming Monday and I want you to go. I’ll sort out a replacement priest for your parish. I know it seems impossible but just try to forget this whole business for the week. Push it to the back of your mind. Then come and see me when you get home again. There’s been nothing criminal here, no one raped or underage, and the money you took from the collection we’ll treat as borrowing and I’ll pay it back from my own bank account. Breathe freely in the presence of God whose compassion is infinite and unconditional.’

  I couldn’t speak as the tears were welling up in my eyes and my throat was tight. Of course I had to go on the retreat. I went home to make some practical preparations and although I would have liked more time to think things through I could see that it was better to do it immediately. The following evening the phone rang and it was William again. I felt much less dread now and I told him quietly, kindly, that these phone calls had to stop.

  ‘It’s no use threatening me now, William. I’ve been to see my bishop and he knows everything. I will not give you any more money and I suggest you delete that film and that we just forget this whole business.’ I put down the phone with a light heart.

  57 Ointment

  ______________________

  ‘Today I want you to focus on repentance, on the transforming love which changes a cold, hardened sinner into a man on fire for God and souls.’ The week is drawing to a close. I’ve become used to Father Neville’s visits. I’m no longer repelled by his priggishness. His platitudes pass me by. ‘The woman with the alabaster jar, from St Luke’s Gospel. A sinner who, in an act of contrite devotion, anoints the feet of the Holy One with expensive ointment, filling the house with its perfume. This is our vocation as priests: to turn from sin, to give everything to God, then to spread the fragrance of His love to those in our care. Read the story over many times, Father, and let it speak to you, inspire you.’ He got up to leave. There had hardly been a moment for me to say anything, if I’d had anything to say. I think by this point he’s given up on me.

  After a few mind-wandering minutes I opened my Bible to Luke. I’d read this passage hundreds of times but I settled down to do so again with just a little more concentration than usual. Yes, this intriguing woman, known in the village as a sinner. Who was she? She is shown here as a prostitute but one who kisses the feet of Jesus, her hair tumbling all over them. At that time and in that place, when women routinely kept their heads covered, this was almost the equivalent of going topless. Then there’s more. She pours luxurious lotion on to his feet, wiping off the sticky oil with her hair, a dribbling mess everywhere. Did Luke fully grasp the scene he was creating, its sensual charge, its scandalous implications? The disciples object, but at the waste of money, not at the impropriety. Christ and the reflexologist. Were his feet sensitive like mine? Did he give in to a shiver of delight as his toes were tickled?

  The story appears almost identically in the gospels of Matthew and Mark. I read through each of these, trying to recreate the scene in my mind, trying to put myself in the place of this woman. But then in John’s Gospel something new. The story is similar but now the woman is identified as Mary from Bethany, sister of Martha and Lazarus, and no longer a prostitute but a close friend of Jesus. Could it really be the same woman, the same story? And now only one of the disciples is objecting — Judas Iscariot. ‘Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?’ he asks. John comments that Judas didn’t care about the poor but instead would line his o
wn pockets from the common purse. But perhaps he did care for the poor. Perhaps John just didn’t realize where the money was going and was making an unfair presumption. ‘Let not your left hand know what your right hand is doing,’ said Christ. In a heart troubled with doubts and shattered dreams perhaps trying to alleviate the suffering of the destitute was all Judas had left. ‘Sell all you own, give to the poor, and follow me,’ Christ had taught them. Why was he now permitting this woman to be so wasteful? Why was he allowing such extravagance, such an ego trip? Judas’ resentment increased. He felt outside the group, these uneducated oafs, these religious nutters, these gullible sycophants. But what hurt him most was that Jesus, whom he loved, seemed to be so much more affectionate to them than to him. After this episode with the profligate woman and her perfume perhaps now was the time for Judas to leave the group. Or to force Jesus’ hand...

  58 Iscariot

  ______________________

  ‘So how much is it worth to you?’ Judas asks. ‘I should be able to catch him in an unguarded moment. Fifty silver pieces? The priests mutter amongst themselves and finally bargain Judas down to thirty and he goes off shining with energy, jangling the coins in his pocket, waiting for the right moment.

  ‘Is it I... is it I?’ The disciples at the supper table ask like silly children who the betrayer will be, as if Fate had already made the decision. Jesus dips a piece of bread into the sauce and hands it, dripping, to Judas. ‘What you’re going to do, do quickly.’

  Oh? Not a plea to change my mind? I might be wavering, Lord. A doubt is hovering around me like a bird about to perch on a branch. I thought you might say to me, ‘Judas, you don’t need to do this. We can still be friends. I know the mistakes you’ve made, but they are forgiven, forgotten.’ But no, you tell me to go ahead and do it. Quickly even.

  Judas scrambles away from the table, still munching on the morsel, hiding tears of shame and anger. Loneliness overwhelms him, a loneliness which doesn’t depend on the presence or absence of companions. Com-pan-ions: the dipped bread from supper which he has just swallowed leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

  ‘This way. I know where he will be.’Judas is leading the soldiers along. The clank of weapons. The ribald jokes. The cold night. They arrive at the garden and Judas approaches Jesus, trying to avoid his eyes. Closer. Moving rightwards, pretending to look into the distance, and then an awkward, hasty turn to the left to place his pursed lips against the prickle of beard.

  ‘My friend, do what you are here for,’Jesus says in a quiet voice, heavy but kind.

  Judas wants to ask, ‘Is it too late to embrace you, never to depart from you again? I remember our joyous times together, the long carefree journeys, the discomforts which never seemed to matter.’ But the soldiers are close behind, impatient, breath steaming into the night, tipsy from cheap wine. Everything is set on its course.

  ‘Whom do you seek?’ asks Jesus in a firmer, louder voice, looking past Judas. Why is he so calm, so regal, so commanding? He seems to combine the authority of Caesar with the disarming simplicity of a child. The soldiers stammer, suddenly drained of courage: ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ They feel inexplicably out of their depth, foolish, fearful, confused.

  ‘I am he,’ is his reply, words as powerful, as elemental as ‘Let there be light.’ The soldiers crumple to the ground and Judas is suddenly terrified. This has all gone horribly wrong. It has moved from the domestic to the universal and there is no going back. His heart breaks open with despair and self-loathing, a dry vessel which crumbled easily.

  The soldiers scramble to their feet again, angry at having shown weakness, impatient now to finish the business at hand and get back indoors to the warmth and the wine. They grab hold of Jesus, pushing aside Judas who stumbles then sprints away from Gethsemane, straight to the chief priests and elders.

  ‘I have betrayed innocent blood’ he cries as he bursts through the door, reaching into his pocket to pull out the shoal of silver coins and flinging them across the room. They ricochet on the stone-cold floor, their flickering flight coming to rest in every corner: pearls before swine, stars in a bleak, blank sky.

  ‘What is that to us?’ the priests say. A door is closed by man as well as by God. Judas leaves and loiters along the hidden streets until the fresh light of dawn begins to clarify everything except the turmoil in his heart.

  Done. I have betrayed innocent blood but I have returned the blood money. What now? As the day brightens his mind snaps back into focus and he starts feverishly on the road to Calvary. He is late. Time hurtles forward as the memories flood back. He is in the middle of the moment which will divide the centuries: bc/ad, the crossroads, the fault line, the meridian of history. He has seized destiny by the throat and his whole being suddenly wants to sing for joy. And maybe he can still stop the murder itself. He continues to race, lungs surging, blood pumping: ‘Perhaps it’s not too late.’ Stones fly sharply to the side of the road in his haste. Hope erupts inside him, an ocean of hope thrashing him from side to side in its surf.

  The memories. The miracles. That woman bent double who stood up erect. Bartimeus’ yelp of joy when he could see for the first time. The five thousand fed. The leper’s pustules blanched to smooth skin. And the voice into the face of that terrible storm, boat lurching, water swamping, everyone seasick: ‘Be still.’ And it was still. The deepest calm. The moon a circular slick of off-white paint floating on the flat, black lake. He had smiled at Judas that time.

  He’s still running, breathless, dry-throated... but then different memories return. Older ones. The good times before he met Christ. The profitable marketplace. The rich, spicy food. The sophistication of his friends with their easy banter into the night. His flirtatious words and the women’s subsequent slither of assent as they accompanied him coyly into the shadows, his hands fumbling through garments to the hot breasts underneath.

  His mood shifts. He’s panting. A wince of pain in his winded chest. His steps slow. His thumping heart gradually settles back to its normal rate. His blood becomes heavier in his veins. Then he stops. Ruddy. Sweaty. He can’t continue. His hopes are a game. Mind’s hopscotch. Holiday’s holiday from homework. The Christ episode these past three years... an impetuous fantasy which already seems like it happened to someone else.

  He crouches down at the side of the road to rest and think for a while. Lack of sleep and purpose curdle his former zeal. He looks down at the sandy ground, his mind a blank, his eyes unfocused. He begins to trace abstract patterns in the dust with a finger, grit gathering under his nails. Finally he stands up again, wearily, hopelessly, with an emptiness deeper than the core of the earth and a desolation he can taste like heartburn. He turns around and retraces his steps, now walking soberly, bashful as he notices along the way the smudged tracks of his earlier jejune enthusiasm. He feels like he has aged ten years in the last ten minutes. He puts his hands in his pockets... what’s this? A coin. He takes it out and it glints in the sun. He must have flung only twenty-nine at the feet of the priests. One silver piece. Enough for some good meals, some good fucks, maybe even a new life away from all this religious insanity.

  ‘Consider the birds of the air’ — around him wheel vultures, sharp-beaked, merciless.

  ‘Your Heavenly Father feeds them’ — what, on carcasses pecked through to the intestine?

  ‘Consider the lilies of the field’ — around him mere tufts of scrub, dust-dry thistles poking out of the pale ground as if randomly stuck there rather than rooted.

  He continues walking alone along the road, until he finally finds himself at Hakeldama and the safety of its caves. As he approaches he notices a tree, gnarled and hideous, next to one of the barren rocks. He feels for the rope around his waist. It is too late. The wedding banquet has begun, the Bridegroom has gone inside and the door has been locked. He is not on the guest list. He walks towards the tree.

  ‘Father forgive me for I know what I am doing.’ A tiny brown bird alights on one of the branches, perches for a few second
s, looks around brightly, then flies carelessly away.

  ‘My God, my God, why have I forsaken thee?’ He is disconsolate, empty. ‘What you’re going to do, do quickly.’Jesus’ words to him last night. Would he say it to him now?

  He stands under the tree and flings off his fear like a cloak. He unties the rope from around his waist and quickly climbs the four or five ledges of the rock face, dislodging weeds and loose soil. Looping the rope around the strongest branch he ties a firm knot and from there puts his neck through the noose.

  It is finished. Life has a limited span and sometimes it needs to be made just that bit shorter by our own hand. He tries to recall some comforting words of Jesus before his slump to oblivion. Nothing comes to mind except that cold, dismissive phrase: ‘What you’re going to do, do quickly.’

  But then words fade and a nebulous image begins to form in his mind. Eyes. Those eyes he had avoided catching when kissing Jesus in betrayal now return in memory. Judas suddenly finds his own eyes moist, brimming with tears — not of remorse or repentance, nor of hope, but of... mirth! In a flash he realizes that even now this need not be the end. Nothing is lost. The door is not closed or locked after all. There is no guest list. The bridesmaids are all brides, eagerly sought by their Bridegroom. The hungry one to be fed is Judas!

  Astonishment overwhelms him and he grasps the coarse rope, fumbling frantically with the knot he had tied so tightly, but before he can loosen it... crack. A massive earthquake shakes the ground. It is the ninth hour. Over in Jerusalem the curtain in the Temple is being torn from top to bottom and there is suddenly a terrible darkness over the land. The gnarled tree splits in two and Judas lurches forward, falling on his stomach on to one of the sharper edges of the rock. The rope is stretched to choking-point and Judas gasps for breath. Soon ants begin to swarm through the gaping hole where his guts are spilling out into the sombre afternoon.