Modern Gods

by Nick Laird

  You managed to?

  Yeah.

  Stephen leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees, knitted his hands. The slight smirk on his face rearranged itself to sternness.

  It’s like this. It shouldn’t have happened. But it was necessary, you know. It was necessary to show the IRA that they couldn’t just kill innocent Protestants. I wish none of the atrocities had happened.

  Necessary?

  I’d say so, yes.

  Do you know the names of the people you killed?

  Sorry?

  I’m just wondering again if you knew the names of the dead.

  I . . .

  I’m sorry—

  No, it’s all right. I don’t dwell on that stuff.

  And what about the families?

  How do you mean?

  Well, do you think they dwell on that?

  David sat back a little in the chair and stared at Stephen then looked away.

  I suppose they do, yes. It’s terrible to lose anyone.

  Why do you say it like that?

  Like what? Stephen asked.

  It’s terrible to lose anyone. It’s terrible to lose someone, someone specifically. It wasn’t just a random event.

  Well, no, of course—

  It wasn’t an avalanche.

  Sorry?

  It wasn’t an accident. Or a natural disaster. It wasn’t a tsunami.

  David’s voice had gotten louder.

  I just mean—Stephen’s tone was slow and soft, but Alison knew he was close to losing his temper—losing anyone is terrible.

  David stared hard at his notepad and with the point of the Biro traced along one of the lines.

  I’m not sure where this is going—

  You know what I don’t get, said David, digging into that line, working it over and over. You see them sometimes on the TV, don’t you? People who’ve lost someone who was close to them? A daughter or husband or whatever, and they say stuff like they don’t feel any bitterness towards the killer. They forgive them, they hope they have made peace with it, all that.

  Are you from the University of Ulster? Stephen asked, his voice furled and tight.

  I thought when I saw you I’d feel sorry for you even. Feel like it made something better.

  Are you a—a relative of someone?

  Oh, everyone’s a relative of someone, Stephen. Don’t you know that? We live in a small world here. A small corner of a very small island.

  Oh God—

  After a long pause, Alison heard one of the armchairs being pushed back along the laminated floor. Stephen had stood up. Now she heard the other one move.

  Wait.

  What?

  You say, ‘Oh God.’ You should be keeping that word out of your mouth. But ‘sorry’ wouldn’t help me either. What use is that? What force does it have in the world? What does it do? I don’t know how people do it. Your man who lost his daughter at Enniskillen. He was full of mercy. Full of forgiveness. I don’t feel like that, not at all. I’m full to the brim with bitterness and hate.

  I didn’t know . . . You should leave. My wife will be home soon—

  Don’t talk to me about your wife.

  What’s your name?

  Don’t you worry about it. You don’t keep those names around. You don’t want to dwell on that.

  There was one called Creighton. There was one called Downey—

  McFadden. Janine. And her mother. Moira Sheehy. Janine was having a baby. And she had a wee boy, Bobby, five years old then. Moira and Janine. Two ordinary people. Ordinary people have rights like everybody else. But they don’t get them. They don’t fucking get them.

  I don’t think we should go on with this. This isn’t what I thought it was going to be.

  Sit down, Andrew.

  I’m Stephen now.

  Alison set her purse on the table. What was happening?

  I understand you’ve found God now.

  Who are you?

  Just talk to me as we were talking. It was going well.

  She heard the coffee table being pushed away.

  My wife will be back in a minute with the kids.

  Alison moved to the living room door and pushed it open; both men started at the movement. David sat on the sofa and Stephen sat in the armchair by the fire.

  I’m back already.

  Stephen stood up. He tried to push her back out through the door.

  Alison, take the children and get out of here.

  She ignored him and sat down on the arm of the sofa. David’s eyes looked uninhabited; he stared at Alison like someone sleepwalking. He nodded at her.

  David McFadden.

  Your name’s David McFadden?

  The man nodded again. He began weeping and through a tremulous sigh murmured: Sure, you took my whole world from me.

  —

  The thing Alison knew she wouldn’t forget was the man, David, speaking of the child, the little boy:

  I wasn’t much good at consoling him, really. I had my own grief. I wasn’t much use to him. But that was the way it was. I was so shocked I couldn’t cry. I had no feelings. I couldn’t love and I couldn’t hate. I was like a zombie. Imagine you’ve no feelings about you. It wrecks you.

  They were almost at the front door at that point, and he was crying again, and Alison started sobbing properly, big shuddering spasms. Then she was hugging McFadden. And all the time Stephen sat on the lowest stair in the hallway, waiting, motionless, staring straight ahead into the future.

  McFadden was gone. Alison came in and went straight upstairs past Stephen. She knew she should embrace her husband, but she had no feelings left.

  CHAPTER 33

  They woke at first light, all the fires burnt out. Liz’s head was on Paolo’s thigh, her hand gripping his knee. There was dew on her hair, on her eyelashes. She shivered, she coughed, but her head felt remarkably fine. When she climbed to her feet, Paolo stood too and put his arms out, and she let herself be hugged for a long time by him. A few feet away, Margo lay in the shelter of a log, wrapped in some sacking from the floor of the church. Liz saw her watching them embrace with something close to amusement.

  Stan led them all back to the village and the stunned, trembly silence gave way—as the sun rose higher—to the swapping of stories. Paolo said he’d filmed all night, and at one point saw a three-headed demon rise from the fire. Then his camera and the tripod and his battery packs turned into robots—robots with distinct ages and genders and personalities—and started insulting him. When he tried to tell them to stop they just laughed their weird metallic laughs.

  —

  Margo unlocked the storeroom and they lay down on their cot beds and made grunts of appreciation. A banging woke them.

  “Hello?” Margo said.

  “Hi, it’s the Werners. Could you open up?”

  “We’re just taking a nap.” Margo’s voice was sharp.

  “It’s important that we talk now.”

  “OK.”

  Josh and Jess stood outside holding hands. Sarah stood a few feet away, holding Nipper in her arms.

  “Where’s Liz? This concerns both of you, I’m afraid,” Josh said.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Liz appeared in the doorway.

  “We had a visit from Usai this morning and we’re just, we’re just really shocked at what’s been going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Margo zipped up her fleece.

  “We heard about the carnage last night. Liz burnt their money. I mean do you know how hard they work to make anything here? The salaries are like nothing. Whatever they have is—”

  “They were doing it themselves. We just watched. Liz might have held the torch for them, but they asked—”

  “They t
hink she’s going to open the road to cargo for them, that she’s a representative of Queen Elizabeth, that she’s the one they’ve been waiting for. There’s a whole load of confused ideas out there and you’ve exploited them to make an idiotic TV show—”

  “Now hold on a minute.”

  Margo reached in and lifted her glasses from the shelf. She put them on with one hand, assuming her prosecutorial air, and held the other hand up to silence Josh.

  “We saved Usai from a beating, and maybe more than that. I don’t know who sent him to spy on the Story, but if we’re talking about blame here, I think you need to go and take a look in the mirror.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Liz spoke. “We didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

  “Well, you did. You’ll need to move your stuff out now. You can go back to the guesthouse. You’ve made a mockery of our trust and kindness. Those ceremonies you took part in are heathen witchcraft. We’ve done a lot of work to eradicate the immoral dancing and licentiousness and the taking of drugs in this town—”

  “You’ve done a lot of work to eradicate many of the local traditions,” Margo countered.

  “OK, that’s it.” Josh moved towards Margo and his wife pulled him back. “Pack up. Ship out. Your time’s up here. I won’t be taken for a fool. Lord knows I tried with you people.” Josh put his hand out. “Keys.”

  Margo handed them over.

  “We’ll need ten minutes. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  From behind her mother, Sarah looked at Liz with anger, not embarrassment.

  —

  Liz and Margo gathered up their stuff in silence—though when they were rolling up their sleeping bags they made eye contact and each pulled a face of mock horror to stave off the real pain. No one liked being shouted at. They needed to get out of here and down the hill to Paolo and Stan.

  They were explaining to Paolo what had happened when the plane whined into earshot. It looked like Cannick Hastings’s little red and white Cessna.

  The delegation trooped past them as they sat outside the rest house eating manioc and rice. Raula, the deputy administrator, walked past, in conversation with Josh. Behind them walked another administrator in a beige suit, and three stern policemen in navy shorts and sky-blue shirts; two carried semi-automatic rifles on straps across their chests, and all three had long knives in black leather sheaths hanging from their belts, along with truncheons. The one without a gun carried a spade against his shoulder.

  About thirty feet behind came Cannick Hastings. He stopped beside the rest house, out of breath, and slid his mirrored sunglasses up onto his head.

  “They mean business.”

  “What’s going on?” Margo asked.

  “Werner’s worked Raula up. He got the chief of the New Truth in Texas to put a call in to Raula’s boss, and the mission has threatened to cut grants to all schools and development funds if the administration doesn’t put a stop to Belef and the Story.”

  —

  Belef sat in her usual throne, on the log outside the door, and Raula stood before her, waving a letter in her face. Belef wore her Paul Smith multicolored dressing gown and her yachting cap and her glasses without glass.

  “Witness. Witness the paper, Belef. Signed by the police chief and the head administrator. The body must be moved today or we can take you into jail.”

  Belef didn’t respond. Finally she reached up and scratched her ear, then resumed her middle-distance stare. She called to Napasio.

  “Me liklik samting.”

  Raula turned to the policemen. One of them stepped forward and poked the muzzle of the gun at Belef’s arm. She merely turned her gaze towards him and he retreated.

  Napasio came out from the house and handed her some betel nut and lime from the gourd. She whispered something to Belef, but Belef didn’t respond. She moved in slow motion or like she was underwater; even the way she chewed was dreamy and measured and removed.

  Raula came forward again.

  “Belef, we can knock this down, make your house level, and we can lock you up in jail in Wapini. Is that what you want?”

  “Do what you think is right.”

  “What I think is right is what the administrator has ordered. And what the chief of police has countersigned. Under twenty-nine C of the 1996 Health and Hygiene Provisions, any corpse is to be buried in an officially designated space set aside for such a purpose, and your garden is not such a space.”

  Belef said nothing but looked up at him and smiled. Raula turned to Josh Werner, who stood between the police, his baseball cap low on his head.

  “Belef,” he said, “you have to do what Raula says.”

  “What you say,” Belef responded.

  “Dig up the body,” Raula said with a note of finality. The decision was made.

  Belef got to her feet. Calmly, she said, “Do not touch her.”

  Werner stepped forward, brandishing a Bible in his hands.

  “Belef, you were told—we told you that you couldn’t bury Kaykay in your garden. It’s not an example that we can let stand. And all this nonsense about cargo, burning money, talking to the dead. I mean what did you think would happen? You can’t go against God like this.”

  Belef looked at Josh and said, “When the law breaks open and Kaykay comes back she will find you.”

  “We were only ever trying to help you, Belef. But you can’t challenge the Lord. He has only so much patience.”

  “Dig it up,” Raula repeated.

  “My children will stop you. My sons.”

  The policemen started forward, but Belef stood up and the men halted. She walked around to the patch where Kaykay was buried, where the little carved aeroplanes marked out the plot, and held up her hands.

  “Get out of my garden. I will do it. I will do it. Let me go in for a minute.”

  Raula nodded at the policemen.

  Belef turned and entered into her house and there was silence. No one met each other’s eyes. Napasio came out and began muttering at Raula. She had her broom in her hands and pointed the twig end at him.

  “You are a rubbishman, malas. A bikhet. You think you bigman but you nothing.”

  Inside the house Belef was talking in Koriam. A man’s voice answered, then another’s.

  “Who is in there?” Raula shouted. “Come out, come out.”

  “It’s her children,” Liz said. Raula looked across at her and noticed that Paolo was filming.

  “Stop that, stop that camera.”

  Paolo took a step back but didn’t lower the camera.

  Raula turned to the policemen.

  “Get them to come out. Bring them out.”

  “They’re not real. The children.”

  The short policeman pushed his gun onto his back and shoved Napasio out of the way. He entered the house and there was a minute or so of silence. Belef came out with the same blank expression as before. The policeman walked behind her, the nose of his semi-automatic pressed in her back.

  “Oh, Belef, I’m so sorry. May the Lord keep you and bless you.”

  Liz turned. It was Jess, who’d appeared with Sarah and Usai. Quite a crowd was forming behind the policemen. Leftie was there, and Namor, and the boys who’d been playing at the river. Her neighbors had come out to see what was happening.

  The policeman with the spade came forward, but Belef held her hands up and he halted, looking back at Raula. The deputy administrator pulled out a folded sheet of blue tarpaulin from his briefcase and threw it into the garden.

  The policeman who’d come out of the hut behind Belef continued to press the nose of his gun into her back. She looked around at the assembled crowd of thirty, forty people, and said, “I will do it. I will dig up the body of my child. As they put the gun on me. Under the eye of the waitskins.”

 
; She sank to her knees by the grave and began to pull out the wooden aeroplanes. She laid them in a pile by the side of the hut. Margo spoke to Raula, “Surely there’s no need for this. It’s not like she’s a danger—”

  “She is. She is a danger,” Raula said. “And stop that filming. This is not for BBC.”

  Paolo lowered the camera from his shoulder and then walked round behind Raula and the policemen and lifted it back up.

  Belef collected the shells and pebbles off the grave and set them into piles. Napasio knelt down and began to help her.

  Jess was crying now. She was hugging Sarah and soon Sarah was crying too. Josh stood apart from them, holding his Bible, watching intently.

  Belef and Napasio began to dig with their hands, like dogs. Leftie appeared from around the side of the hut and got down on his knees too. He carried a digging stick and began churning the earth with it.

  Usai stepped forward, and placed one hand on his mother’s shoulder. She stopped scrabbling in the soil and looked up at him. He helped her up and they stood with their hands held for a long while. Belef said, “My son” and they hugged. He led Belef to her log seat and she sat down and looked at her hands, covered in soil. Usai took her place at the grave, scraping away the dirt. Belef took off her cap and set it on the grass at her feet. Her face was sweating and she would not look towards the administrator or the police, but she stared at Liz with a look of pure puzzlement, as if Liz had brought this whole situation about, as if Liz was the one to fix it now.

  The digging went on. The children ran around the hut. Napasio sat back on her heels after a while, and Namor’s mother came forward and tapped her shoulder and took over. When Leftie stopped for a few seconds and straightened up, Alan took his place. More villagers had arrived and it was hard to tell who was a follower of the Story and who wasn’t. A crowd of sixty or seventy had now gathered round the hut in silence. One policeman stayed with his gun trained on those by the grave, and the other had climbed to a knoll behind the house, the better to see the whole crowd.

  Alan hit wood with the digging stick.

  A gap-toothed moonfaced woman that Liz recognized from last night—she’d been one of those squeezing the isa through the muslin parcels—took over from Namor’s mother, and when she in turn wearied, and stopped for a moment, Liz found herself stepping forward and touching her shoulder.