The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  She folded her hands on the table. ‘I really can’t remember that far back. We were just little children.’

  Crest looked at her, heavy-lidded. ‘Okay.’ He turned a little in his chair, facing Oscar. ‘May I speak candidly here?’

  ‘Of course,’ Oscar replied. ‘It’s difficult for her to remember, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, but I think it’s important that we’re all on the same page.’ Crest twisted back to Iris. He wiped his hands on his napkin, finger by finger. ‘This is a delicate situation with your brother, and I’ve got to say before we go any further, my stance going into this thing is that he isn’t blessed with any kind of special powers, however much you might believe in him. In fact, I think the whole idea of healing—spiritual, alternative, whatever you want to call it—is totally preposterous.’ Casually, he scooped up some beans with his fork and left it hanging over his plate. His words were frank, but his expression was kindly. ‘That being said, I’ve seen a lot of dimestore healers over these past few months, believe me, and what intrigues me about your brother is that he doesn’t fit the typical mould. He doesn’t seem to be in it for the money, at least. Maybe for him it’s about the adulation of his family, the prestige, or maybe he likes to be able to prove how smart he is to his friends. I don’t know. But as a psychologist, I find him a very compelling subject, and that’s the only reason I’m here today. I’d like to get to know him further. Don’t get me wrong, I have a GPM tumour in my skull—I’d be very happy if he could rid me of my problems—but I think we all know that’s beyond him. Right?’

  Iris just tilted her head. She was about to say something, but Crest wasn’t done.

  ‘I don’t know how much Oscar’s told you about my new book. I’ve been writing a lot about hope. My theory is that hope is a form of madness. A benevolent one, sure, but madness all the same. Like an irrational superstition—broken mirrors and so forth—hope’s not based on any kind of logic, it’s just unfettered optimism, grounded in nothing but faith in things beyond our control.’

  She smiled politely.

  ‘I know you think your brother healed you. The way you were striding around the place just now, I could tell. Hell, you’re probably even a little proud of the guy, right? That’s to be expected. But you’re gonna have to get this into your head from the beginning, honey—I’m not here to prove anybody right or wrong; I’m just here to see what I can learn about your brother, and hopefully I can help him. Okay?’

  It surprised Oscar to see how relaxed she was about the situation. She leaned forward, placing her fists beneath her chin. ‘That’s perfectly alright, Dr Crest. I can understand why you’d think that,’ she said. ‘I used to think exactly the same way. You have a very modern mindset.’

  ‘Please, call me Herbert.’

  ‘Okay. Herbert then.’ She grinned at him. ‘It is—it’s a very modern mindset. Instead of a blind faith in God or spirituality, like we had back in ancient times, now we have this devotion to the logic of science. In facts, in what’s provable. And that’s fair enough, I suppose. But our modern faith in science has become just as blind as our old-fashioned faith in God.’

  ‘No, honey, I think you’ll find it’s called evolution. We’ve come a long way since the olden days.’ Crest looked for support from Oscar, but he kept quiet, not wanting to be disloyal to either of them. ‘Science deals only in facts. And facts, as you point out, are provable. They’re tangible things we can quantify and assess. So, for that very reason alone, they’re worthy of our faith. Religious faith, on the other hand, relies on storytelling—and that’s not a trustworthy foundation for anything.’

  ‘Right. I believe in science,’ Iris said. ‘I’m not saying we shouldn’t trust science more, I’m just saying we shouldn’t close the door on everything else entirely because of it.’

  ‘Okay, I can sort of see your point there, but—’

  ‘Look, Herbert, it’s a matter of open-mindedness, that’s all.’ She cut him off, and Crest looked rather taken aback. He laughed, reaching for his coffee cup. ‘We have to keep the door open—just a crack—to ideas we think are preposterous. We can’t completely decry faith in God just because we can’t prove God exists. That’s illogical in itself. There are things we can prove with science today that we couldn’t prove a hundred years ago—quantum physics, let’s say. Einstein could’ve pioneered advances in quantum theory but he didn’t because his faith in God limited him. He couldn’t extend his line of thought that little bit further because he was blinded by what he believed in—the harmony of what exists, or whatever. But the same is true of people now, of people who believe so rigidly in science that it stops them following up on ideas, different modes of thought that could lead to breakthroughs. It works both ways. People need a faith in science and a faith that science doesn’t have the answers to everything. Even scientists need to be open to miracles.’

  Crest wagged his finger. There was a little more colour in his face now, and Oscar wondered whether all this debating was doing him good. ‘Ah, but quantum theory was always potentially provable. God can’t ever be proven to exist. He can’t ever be proven not to exist either.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong about that. I read your book about Jennifer Doe. You weren’t completely convinced she was deluded.’

  ‘Oh, I’d say I was ninety-nine point nine per cent.’

  ‘Right. That’s our margin of probability. Point one of a measly per cent. It’s a tiny little margin, but it’s there all the same, and we shouldn’t ignore it. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

  Crest downed his coffee. It was clear that he wasn’t used to being interrupted by anybody, and he was trying not to let it affect him. He signalled to the waitress. The skin on his cheeks was blotched red now, and his neck seemed bloated, too big for his collar. ‘You’ve got a fine young woman on your hands here, Oscar. Beautiful and smart. I think I’m a little afraid of her.’ Crest leaned back. ‘She’s the kind of girl that makes me glad to be queer—and I mean that in the nicest possible sense. There’s just no way I’d be able to keep up with you, honey.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Herbert,’ she beamed. ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘Tell me, though. Why do you think your brother agreed to meet me today?’

  Iris took a long time to respond, setting her knife and fork down neatly on her plate, in the half-past six position, as if to show off the good manners her parents had instilled in her. The restaurant was now empty and sunrays were beginning to whiten the windows. ‘I think he wants to help you. I think he knows that if he can heal you—someone who’d never believe such a thing could be possible—then it might shake up the world a little bit, make people believe in things again. Believe in God, the soul, whatever. Or maybe he just wants the world to know how remarkable he is. He’s convinced me of it …’ She breathed in a jolt of air. ‘Why do you think he agreed to meet you, Herbert?’

  Crest rubbed at his clean-shaven face. ‘Because, deep down, he knows his delusions are spiralling out of control, and he’s reaching out for my help. I’ve seen it time and time again.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding disenchanted by his answer. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll just have to ask Eden, won’t you?’

  ‘I will.’

  She gave a fey little nod of her head. ‘My brother’s enormously intelligent, Herbert. You’ll see that for yourself. He’s not the kind of person who does things without thinking them through.’

  Crest shrugged his eyebrows. ‘Great minds are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.’ He waited to see if Iris recognised the quote, but she didn’t. ‘John Dryden … The smarter they come, the more sophisticated their delusions are. I knew a classics professor once who said he was Socrates reincarnate. He was pretty convincing, too. Had the knowledge and the intellect to back himself; knew all about the times, the history, the artefacts of the period. You just couldn’t trip that guy up on anything.’

  ‘Well, maybe he was Socrates. Who knows?�
��

  ‘No, honey, he was just an ordinary man from Denver. He just loved history so much he tried to make it his reality. And that’s what we’re really talking about here. No matter how much I love reading about Socrates and admire the man’s ideas, I’m not going to go around pretending I’m him. Your brother’s read too much Descartes and too much of this Johann Mattheson. Their ideas are great, but so outmoded. The world’s moved on since then. And it sounds to me like your brother’s trying to make them come alive again the best way he can.’ Crest paused, seeing the change in Iris’s body language—she’d folded her arms at him, one slow movement at a time. ‘Look, who knows? I haven’t met the guy yet. Maybe I’m wrong. But if you want my opinion, he’s probably just another kid who’s too intelligent for his own good. Way smarter than anyone else in his peer group. Probably even smarter than his parents. And because of that, he has trouble with intimacy. He thinks nobody else is on his level, nobody else is smart enough to understand him, so he doesn’t let anyone get close to him. The only intimacy he gets is through books he reads, music he plays, written by people he considers to be intellectual equals—your Matthesons and your Descartes—both of whom were child prodigies themselves, by the way, and that’s no coincidence.’ Crest padded his lips with his napkin. ‘In case you’re wondering where we all factor into this, I’m afraid we’re just spokes in the wheel. Spokes in the wheel of one giant coping mechanism your brother’s created for himself.’

  There was a protracted silence. Oscar found himself wishing Jane could be there to smooth out the awkwardness of the moment with some bad pun or endearing quip. He knew that everything Crest had said about Eden was right—it had to be—but he wasn’t going to admit this in front of Iris. Soon, the waitress came to clear the table and Crest insisted on charging the meal to his room. ‘Listen, I’m feeling a little weary. I was thinking I’d take a nap before we go. You don’t mind, do you, Oscar?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll walk you.’

  Out in the lobby, the old man kissed Iris goodbye—a short peck on each cheek which she accepted rather grudgingly—and she went off down the escalator, heading for her morning lecture with her X-rays under her arm. Oscar took Crest up in the lift and helped him along the too-bright corridor to his room. Crest swiped his card in the lock but the light wouldn’t turn green. He tried it a few more times before his nurse pulled back the door and said: ‘You’re not doing it right, Herbert. Come inside.’

  ‘I’ll never get the hang of these things.’ Crest headed into the room. ‘Later, kid. Thanks for chaperoning.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘Hang on,’ the nurse said. She lowered Crest onto the bed, covered him over with a blanket the way Oscar had done a thousand times at Cedarbrook. ‘I’m going out for a smoke,’ she told the old man. ‘I’ll be back to give you your tablets when you wake up.’

  She rode down in the lift with Oscar and they got to talking. She told him her name was Andrea and that she was originally from St Kitts, but moved to London with her family when she was thirteen. He told her that he was a nurse, too, and she said: ‘Cool. Where did you do your training?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just a care assistant.’

  ‘Just a care assistant? Don’t be doing yourself down now.’

  ‘I mean I’m not qualified.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you take your qualification? It’s not so hard.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ve never really wanted to.’

  ‘Prob’ly a reason for that.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s what I want to do long term, that’s all.’

  Under the hotel carport, he waited while Andrea lit up a cigarette and drew on it thirstily. ‘You think I wanted to be a nurse when I was your age? No way in heaven!’ Her voice had that perfect Caribbean lilt. ‘I wanted to be a drummer like Carlton Barrett. But I’m happy with how things turned out. I like my job. And when you have nice patients, it makes things easier. Like old Herbert up there—he’s such a kind old man. I feel so sorry for him.’

  ‘He seems to be battling through.’

  ‘At the moment, he’s not too bad. But you know he’s off the chemo now.’

  ‘I thought that meant he was getting better.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It means he’s past the point of rescue.’

  Andrea told him what she knew about Crest’s illness. She said he had a glioblastoma multiforme tumour. ‘That’s a grade four. The worst kind. It means it grows these tentacles—fingers they call them—that are so tiny that the surgeons can’t even see them. So although they can cut out the bulk of it, there’s always tumour cells left behind.’ She said he’d already had three surgeries and the doctors refused to do any more, because it would only worsen his quality of life. ‘Compared to other tumour patients I’ve seen, he’s a lucky man. They gave him no more than two years to live and almost three have gone by. He started writing the book about a year ago and I think it’s really helped him. Sometimes he’s too tired to write, but I sort of think it’s keeping him alive, that project of his—having something to focus on, you know? He writes a lot at night, when he can’t sleep. I try to keep his spirits up as much as I can. I tell him his hair’s growing back since the chemo finished. He seems to like that.’ She wet her fingertips and pinched out her cigarette; it fizzed like electricity. ‘Anyway, I better go back and make sure he’s sleeping. Promise me you’ll look after him today, wherever it is you two are going.’ She brushed the ash from her uniform.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Oscar said. ‘I’ll take good care of him.’

  Mill Road cemetery was basking in a wide spray of sunlight when they arrived. ‘I guess this is his idea of a joke,’ Crest said, settling down on a wide wooden bench. ‘Meeting a dying man in a cemetery. Don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

  For a graveyard, everything seemed wild and alive: the holly bushes overgrown, the grass left to sprout in long tufts around headstones, the branches of trees entwined with creeping ivy. Elaborate tombstones were sunken into the soil, slanting out like bad teeth from the gums of the ground. Crest studied their surroundings with tired eyes. He was dressed for a Siberian winter—a parka, sheepskin gloves, and a brown fur Cossack hat—and still he complained of the cold. His skin was as pale as the late February sky, heavy with sweat, and it had that candle-wax translucence again, like it had back in The Orchard. He was still gathering his breath after the short walk from the roadside, where he’d climbed from the taxi and taken the bend of Oscar’s arm. Those fifty yards or so, following the tracks of mourners in the trampled grass, were enough to remind Oscar just how ill Herbert Crest was, and just how galling it must have been for him to lower himself to this kind of desperation.

  ‘Well, punctuality doesn’t seem to concern the kid,’ Crest said, checking his watch. ‘I guess that shouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Iris is late for everything too.’

  ‘Runs in the family, huh?’

  ‘Yeah. I think it’s a boarding school thing. He’ll be here, though.’

  ‘I might freeze to death before he shows up. Then we’ll both be screwed.’

  They sat for a good while in the peaceful cemetery, waiting for Eden to arrive. Crest soon become restless. He pointed to the great marble tombstone in front of them—a white cross, raised up high on a granite plinth. ‘Look at that. How’s that for an epitaph, huh?’ The top line of the inscription read: DAVID PALMER 1825–862. CHERISHED FATHER, BROTHER, UNCLE. FOREVER IN PEACE. The bottom line read: MARY PALMER. WIFE OF THE ABOVE. ‘Boy, what a kick in the guts. Her entire life reduced to four little words.’ Crest rubbed his gloved hands together and blew on them. ‘Just FYI, I’d like my headstone to say: “Here lies Herbert Crest. Now fuck off and leave him alone.” ’ He crowed at his own joke, then stopped when he saw Oscar wasn’t joining in. ‘Lighten up, huh?’

  Oscar couldn’t help feeling it was discourteous to laugh in a graveyard. But he knew Crest’s glibness was just his own kind of coping m
echanism. Didn’t dying men have the right to laugh in the face of what was coming to them, after all? The lighter death was made, the easier it was to bear.

  Crest was still snickering when Eden appeared from behind the bushes, strolling towards them. He gave a genteel wave of his hand. The sun was behind him and it presented his thin shadow over the ground, shortening with every step he took in their direction. It seemed he’d made an extra effort with his clothes: aviator sunglasses, a yellow cotton polo shirt with a white jumper tied around his shoulders, and navy slacks. His hair was gelled back, parted at the side. All of this gave him the air of some old-time movie star, out for a stroll along the boulevard, though his body still had the ungainly profile of a folded-up parasol. He walked right up to the bench and stood in front of them, levering his sunglasses to rest in his hair. ‘Hello again, Oscar. Isn’t it a wonderful morning?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think this is bad taste. Didn’t consider the irony of it ’til after we spoke.’ He gestured to the jury of headstones that stood all around him. ‘You aren’t offended are you, Dr Crest?’

  ‘It’d take more than a bad joke to offend me, kid.’ With considerable effort, Crest got up to greet him. They shook hands tentatively.

  ‘What should I call you?’ Eden said.

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘I think I’ll stick to Dr Crest.’

  ‘Fine by me. Shall I call you Eden?’

  ‘That’s the only name I’ve got.’

  ‘Alright then.’

  Oscar watched the two of them. They were examining each other the way chess players do across the board, the way presidential candidates do from their podia—presenting their nervousness as amusement. Thin smirks drew across both of their faces. There was quiet again, until Eden said: ‘You look rather cold.’

  ‘I’m alright. Just a little tired of waiting.’