by David Mathew
‘The time is?’
‘Yeah. We’re in a place called Gadshin, which if you say it after a couple of hypothetical whiskies, comes out exactly as what it is: God’s Chin. You have to picture – don’t matter if you believe it or not – you have to picture God lying down in the sea, most of the body underwater.’
‘Speaking of whiskies,’ said Massimo, a note of hope in his voice.
‘You already reek of booze.’ Connors withdrew and slid back to his seat.
‘So would you if you’d known what was about to happen.’
‘Fair enough. What did you do? Go to the pub first?’
‘We had some wine in the kitchen,’ Bernadette answered.
‘And I went to the pub first,’ Massimo added.
Connors sat down. ‘Well, you gotta get your priorities right, I suppose. But where’s me manners?’ He shouted something in a foreign tongue. ‘I can’t promise you a perfect single malt, but it’s a local preparation at’ll get you good and pissed for bedtime.’
One of the women who had helped dress Bernadette and Massimo entered the room. She did so, not by opening a physical door, but by leaking in through the compacted ice like a mist and reforming in front of their eyes. Fully materialised a few seconds later, she awaited her orders like a servant.
Connors spoke to her in her mother tongue. To aid what might have been a problematic pronunciation, he held up three bare fingers on his left hand.
The waitress stepped backwards towards the wall. It claimed her, and she reverted to mist once again, bowing gently as she disappeared and left the room.
‘I can’t believe I saw that,’ said Massimo.
‘A day or two in this place,’ Connors replied, ‘and you won’t believe you ever thought it amazing.’
Bernadette shook the image from her head. In the past, in the course of duty, she had witnessed the remarkable – the dead man’s feet dancing a full two hours after his heart had stopped beating; the baby on the operating table, barely five months old, who had clearly said Try not to hurt me too much – and she had learned not to question sensual evidence. And of course she owned The Object, which defied its own explanation.
‘Why would telling the time be blasphemous, even on God’s chin?’ she wanted to know.
‘Do you hear them winds?’ was the answer. ‘They’re said to be His breath… Cold as arseholes, right, but that’s what they believe. Some say He’s snoring.’
Bernadette waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, she added: ‘But what’s that got to do with blasphemy?’
Connors shrugged. ‘God’s breath should be timeless, right? But who knows? Who knows what goes on in the mind of Johnny Foreigner? Ah! Here she comes! Come in, girl!’
The local woman entered by a door in the ice. Although she did not need the door, the steaming clay mugs that she carried most certainly did: the mugs would not vanish into the air.
Wind spat snow into the room – a violent flurry – and the local woman handed out the mugs, filled as they were with what looked like forest mud raised to boiling point. Bubbles popped on the surface.
‘Tastes better than it looks,’ Connors promised.
2.
‘You travelled north up God’s body.’
‘That’s right. Go on – ask.’
‘…It’s hard to put into words.’
‘No it ain’t, Mass. You’re dying to ask, so ask. One of the things I respected about you from the first was your directness and candour.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah that’s right.’
‘All right then. Ready?’
‘When you are, mate.’
‘What…’
‘…Yes?’
‘What was it like in God’s bollocks?’
3.
Bernadette stomped out into the snow. It was morning. Or it was morning by her body clock, at any rate. She had even managed to sleep – six hours by the watch on her wrist, if that meant anything at all. A long shift at the hospital had been enough – plenty! – to ensure that as soon as she and Massimo had been led to their sleeping quarters, irrespective of any residual anxiety, her eyes had clicked shut on her second heartbeat.
If the concept of morning meant anything – if the pale sky was anything to go by, given that it had looked the same when they went to bed – then a beautiful morning was where she’d landed. Undeniably beautiful, but cold and blustery: the sort of climate that Chris would have described understatedly as ‘a bit nippy’ – or as ‘fresh’ – when what he meant was an entire half-degree above authentic physical system collapse. When what he meant was bloody freezing.
Thinking now of Chris back at home, Bernadette followed an icy, snow-covered path down a gentle descent. The direction was unimportant: she appreciated the burn in her lungs, the sense of freedom; every stride shook a kink from the muscles in her shoulders and lower back. She’d been tenser than she’d thought. However, continuing to imagine Chris in the house brought back some of this tension. He’d had a game last night (Bernadette had forgotten where), so unless he had done spectacularly well or badly he would have arrived home late. He would have seen the made bed and would have figured that she’d been required to extend her shift. An accident on the motorway, perhaps. Either heavy-of-heart or amiably resigned (depending on how the game had gone), Chris would have crashed on their bed, knowing that these things happened in a nurse’s day. But perhaps he would have tried her phone first…
The idea of owning a phone made Bernadette twitch. It made her reach for where she knew it wasn’t: in the handbag that she wore on her left shoulder when she was out (as she was now); but the spasm of hope faded as quickly as it had sprung into life. The phone was in her handbag all right, but her handbag she’d left at home when she’d popped back to fetch the torch.
Parenthetically wondering if Massimo carried a phone, and if so, what the reception was like, Bernadette strolled on down a track about three metres wide, which was lined with purple bushes that gave off breaths of warmth, and house after house made of snow. Outside a few of these houses, the inhabitants worked at splitting wood or hanging furs on a line. Beasts resembling mules tugged at their tethers; ate from buckets of orange mush that were fixed into the sides of the houses.
A few women said something like ‘Hello’ – closer to Hulloo – and most of the men that she encountered nodded politely. Probably wondering where I’m going, thought Bernadette.
Good point. Where was she going? Down, down, down was the direction; but the destination could only be a guess. The foot of this hill? Of a mountain? It was impossible to predict: if the sun-on-snow was not sufficient to dazzle and disorient, the wind knew how to play with the freshest fall. Scooping flakes up by the kilogram, the wind tossed it around like a drunk with confetti at a favoured niece’s wedding. The snow danced in front of Bernadette’s eyes, part-dervish, part-waltz, part-tarantella.
Bernadette thought back to what Connors had said about God’s breath. The notion was temporarily intoxicating: that she, a nurse from the Home Counties, could be breathing the holiest of holy carbon dioxides! It was enough to quicken her pace.
However, the extension of her stride brought a problem – immediately. Her right heel skidded on a well-worn patch of ice, her legs spread, and it was all she could do to remain upright by whirling her arms. Equilibrium restored, she could not help but notice the twanging pain that she’d caused herself in her groin. She winced. Bloody snow, she breathed. A least no one had seen her…
Wrong.
A child had seen her: a boy of twelve or thirteen, dressed snuggled up in the protective cattle by-products of his people… and bent at the waist laughing. Bent at the waist laughing at her. And just so that there was no doubt about the source of merriment, he even pointed Bernadette’s way.
Bernadette failed to see the funny side. Quick to h
er lips were a couple of nasty conditional clauses; after all, slips, trips and the common variety of household accident were what she had to deal with at work on a daily basis. She could’ve this, she could’ve that… But it was hard to stay riled with the kid for long: his laughter was too infectious.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked at length, his accent heavy, his tone hormonally deep. (He made Bernadette think of someone speaking Russian.)
‘I don’t know. Just walking.’
‘You shouldn’t go much further. It’ll be difficult to come back… if you intend to come back.’
‘I do. Why would it be difficult to come back?’
‘It gets steeper,’ the boy said; ‘you need equipment, a guide – some proper clothing, resources…’
Bernadette held up her fur-mittened hands. ‘I’m not running away. I only just got here.’
‘I know.’
‘But what’s down there?’
‘Bears.’
‘Oh my!’
‘…Do you want to see the lizards hatch?’
‘Not… Yes, I would. Thank you.’
‘Take my arm, Bernadette.’
‘You know my name. I will.’
‘It’s a village,’ the boy explained the name-awareness.
‘So what’s yours?’
‘Atchoo.’
‘Bless you.’
‘I haven’t heard that before,’ the boy answered, a trifle bitterly. ‘Maybe I should change it to Simon.’
4.
‘So what do you intend to do now?’ Massimo asked.
‘I intend to finish my breakfast,’ Connors answered. ‘Funny. I never had much of an appetite in the real world. Here I eat like a piglet.’
‘So I see.’ While Massimo had dithered over his own bowl of red-berry potage, Connors had tucked into his third, which he had all-but completed.
‘The mountain air helps.’
‘I didn’t mean now as in after you’ve stuffed your face, I mean now as in the general future.’
‘Oh that now,’ Connors answered. ‘Well, I keep moving north, don’t I? The rumours are, if you get to God’s eyes you see through them – you see everything ever existed, multi-dimensional.’ He spooned in another portion of blood clot; Massimo winced. ‘Wanna come?’
‘Sure. I’ll fetch me coat.’
‘Are you not enjoy your brekkie, by the way?’
‘It’s all right, I suppose. I’m a bit hungover. And not only because of the drink.’
‘I know the feeling. It’s the weirdest jetlag you’ve ever had.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Well, think yourself lucky you didn’t land on a ship. We were arse-over-tit for two weeks on the ocean wave!’
Massimo nodded. ‘I accept that me and Bernie have had it better.’
Connors smiled. ‘She’s Bernie to you now, is she?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘Forgive me asking, Mass, but are you banging her?’
‘No.’
Connors nodded. ‘Good-looking bird... man gets lonesome. You wouldn’t mind if I tried, would you?’
‘Fill your boots, mate. I’m queer.’
‘Ah! But I thought you said – when we was in your house, I think you said to Dorman to be careful where he pointed Percy – because your missus is a devil for cleanliness and hygiene in the bathroom.’
Massimo laughed. ‘I probably did say that,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll tell you something else for the record, now that it don’t seem to mean much, one way or another. That weren’t my house.’
‘Eh?’
‘My other half’s an estate agent. House I called mine was one of the places on his books.’
‘It was fully furnished.’
‘That’s how he sells em. Well, some of em, anyway: fully furnished for rich fucks with no time to waste on painting and decorating. Year-long leases. That game.’
Connors laughed. ‘You fooled me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You fooled us.’
‘Yeah. Poor Dorman.’
‘…We have work to do,’ Connors announced, laying down his spoon.
‘What sort of work?’
‘Planning. I was absolutely serious about moving on north.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘And about you coming with me.’
‘…I wanna go home.’
‘We’ve discussed this, Mass. No point in being petulant about it.’
‘I’m not being petulant, Chris. I’m homesick.’
‘You haven’t been here a day!’
‘Don’t matter. Things I gotta do.’
‘He won’t’ve missed you yet, probably. You’ve only been gone five minutes, your time, or whatever. What’s his name, by the way?’
‘Charlie.’
‘Well, Charlie can uncork his own wine for a couple of nights. He won’t starve.’
But Jess and Nero might, Massimo thought. No one knew that they were in the Eggington house. What if Charlie forgot to feed them, as he sometimes did? It was worse than having pets.
Connors summarised his position. ‘I’m going north to God’s eyes, to see the whole of Creation, living and dead. Can you imagine? Only a handful of mystics have come back alive.’
‘Did they bring chocolates?’
‘Their brains were fried. They were made imbeciles by the experience.’
Massimo shook his head. ‘Put it that way, Chris, where the fuck do I sign up?’
‘Well, I can’t get anyone here interested in accompanying me.’
‘Fancy that.’
‘But with you and Bernadette…’
‘What makes you think she’ll go?’
‘She’s a nurse.’
‘…So?’
‘Honour-bound to help the medically needy.’
‘In a hospital. I doubt her contract includes mountain ranges or hippie religious clauses.’
Connors shrugged, resuming his breakfast. ‘Won’t hurt to ask, will it?’ he said. ‘Where is she, talk of the Devil?’
‘Went out for a breath of fresh air.’
‘Mmm. It don’t come any fresher.’
‘I suppose not.’
5.
Massimo filled two wooden buckets with snow and used them as weights to work out. After a few reps, while experiencing the familiar bicep burn, he let his mind trot away to pastures new. God’s eyes? What about God’s brain? Why limit themselves to seeing everything, when a trip to the Big Man’s noodle would allow them to think everything, remember everything? God’s first steps as a toddler in the cosmos. Playing bricks with entire constellations. Swatting alien spaceships down like flies…
The thought developed. How did deities reproduce? What was the godlike equivalent of a one-night stand? Imagine the Cunt fucking! There He is, in some intergalactic nightclub somewhere the size of Venus… and – hello hello! – who’s this Goddess? Bonjour, darling. All things being equal in the Heavens, she clicks over on Milky Way-sized high-heels and asks Him to dance. ‘Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’ by The Carpenters is in a mash-up with Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’. The DJ’s augmented bass is causes tidal waves in Honalulu… They go back to His place: a black hole south of Neptune (the universe-cab costs a fortune at this time of Existence; the driver is not keen on going south of the time stream). Using a frozen planet as an ice cube for Her glass, He pours Her a drink...
A century later, both of Them climax. ‘Did the Earth move for you?’ They quip in unison… but Massimo could not picture Their celestial congress, try as he might, as he flexed his biceps. God’s dick was simply beyond his comprehension.
He put the buckets down in the snow; the workout was over, and he felt peculiar. Not sick exactly. The hangover had
passed uneventfully enough; no ghosts of pain haunted his muscles, synapses, or clogged up the back of his throat. It was more like jetlag, as Connors had suggested. Or more like one of those dreams where you could see that the bus on which you were travelling was about to hit a pedestrian. The inevitable hung in the atmosphere – like a restless calm before a storm. And he did not see Bernadette until she was three metres away, approaching him from behind.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi there. Nice walk?’
‘Apart from slipping everywhere,’ Bernadette answered. ‘I went to see some lizards.’
‘Was it fun?’ asked Massimo.
‘It was a distraction, I suppose. A small boy introduced us – they were hatching.’
‘Have you eaten anything?’
‘Yeah, the kid gave me some bread and jam. You?’
‘You did better than I did. I had slop… What’s the plan for the day, do you think?’
Bernadette shrugged. ‘The boy seems to think we’re travelling north. Connors has been thinking about it for a couple of weeks at least, apparently – the news is on the psychic front page. I asked him why he didn’t seem surprised to see us and he said they’ve been waiting. For us. Or for some people like us, anyway. Apparently the… the prophecy is, three people – two men and a woman – travel north to become part of God’s brain.’
‘Christ. Just been thinking about that.’
‘Yes, I felt you thinking about that,’ said Bernadette, ‘as unlikely as that sounds.’
Massimo exhaled. ‘I don’t think anything sounds unlikely anymore,’ he admitted. ‘So we’re going then – it’s decided.’
Sidestepping the question, Bernadette started walking; Massimo followed. ‘I’ve got to keep moving,’ she explained, ‘or I get frozen toes.’
‘That’s fine. Let’s stroll.’
Neither of them said anything for a minute. Aimlessly they strolled in the snow, each of them scarcely daring to believe that this was the same place that had hosted the violent wind storms of the night before. The air was Alpine crisp; the winds were boisterous, but no more so than they would be at the top of any mountain.
Massimo longed for conversation. ‘I didn’t know lizards could stand the cold,’ he said. ‘Always picture them on a Brazilian tavern or something. Diplomats in white suits sipping cocktails.’