Just as he was settling into his favourite armchair with the tray on his lap and remote control at the ready, the phone rang. The now familiar voice of the female carer at his father’s nursing home suggested he come at once. It had been six months since his father had moved into the home and he knew his health was declining rapidly. Just recently he had begun wondering whether it had been the right decision. Should he perhaps have taken his father into his own home to look after him full time? Being an only child and with his mother now gone, he was all the old man had left, and yet he had turned him away - put him into a home so he could enjoy uninterrupted evenings in front of the television with a take-away. Although he could easily enough rationalise this decision, he was aware of a desperate feeling of shame rising within him, clawing away at his insides like the cancer that had taken his mother only two years before.
On arriving at his father’s bedside, he realised immediately that he was looking at a dying man. The face was pale and contorted with pain. The breathing, shallow and erratic, rattled with each laboured breath. The smell of illness and incontinence filled the small room. Roger sat down and held his father’s hand wondering if the old man was even aware of his presence. He tried to see the man he remembered from childhood; strong, tall and confident, always smiling and laughing, a man loved by everyone. But the thing stretched out before him was not that man. It was like a wizened old tree trunk rotting on the ground, a mere shadow of the mighty oak that had once towered above the forest floor. Roger lowered his head and wept. “Oh Lord God! Please help!” he prayed to himself and then, without even thinking, heard himself utter the words, “It’s okay Dad, I’m here now. You can let go.”
At once, all the pain and torment washed from his father’s face, and the corners of his mouth rose to reveal a distant smile. Gradually his breathing slowed and then with a final sigh, stopped altogether.
***
Peter listened to the story in polite silence. Roger paused for a moment, took a large white handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose loudly. His eyes had gone misty, and he had to clear his throat several times before continuing. “The whole thing probably only lasted a few seconds, but from the moment I spoke those words, there was a presence in that room which somehow I just knew to be God. It was as if He had spoken through me, easing my father’s journey to the next world and at the same time, setting me off on a journey of my own. That’s when I knew I would devote the rest of my life to His service.”
Peter didn’t know what to say. It was certainly a moving story. In other circumstances he might have reacted more cynically, arguing that it didn’t prove anything. The curate’s father had merely been clinging to life in anticipation of his son’s arrival, and on hearing his voice had simply let go. But as he thought it over, he could almost sense the presence to which Roger had referred, and it reminded him of something he had felt once before.
As though reading Peter’s mind, Roger added, “Searching for God is rather like walking around in a darkened room. You have to feel your way around. Nobody can show Him to you and although the experience I’ve just recounted gave me all the evidence I needed, I wouldn’t expect it to be enough for you. Just be open to the possibility and sooner or later you’ll experience Him as I did.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your parents, Roger, I really am, and I can almost understand how such an experience could leave you wanting to believe in some kind of higher power, but I still don't understand what would make you ascribe that feeling to the Christian God of the Bible and not something else – even a construction of your own mind?”
Roger leant forward and whispered quietly. “To be perfectly honest with you Peter, I don’t... but the feeling I had - that sense of presence - was exactly the same as the feeling I have reading parts of the Bible. Arguments about its historical accuracy aside, the Bible contains some of the most beautiful and insightful passages I have ever read, and for me, that's good enough. I’ve also found that parts of the Qur'an and other religious texts have similar effects, and I believe this is because they’re all inspired by the same God. I’m not arrogant enough to think that the religion, into which I happen to have been born, is the only true one. I believe that all the monotheistic religions tap into core truths about the universe in which we live. For me, Christianity contains enough of what I hold to be true to allow me to serve God within that framework.”
“Hmm, I wasn’t expecting that.” Peter said, finally. “I certainly admire your honesty.”
“Well, while you're sitting there in admiration, why don't I get you another pint? Same again?”
Peter normally restricted his drinking to two pints in an evening, but he had barely noticed the second one slip down. It was a local ale he’d not tried before and it was as smooth as silk. “Yes I think I will. It’s not like I have to drive home is it? Thanks.”
When Roger returned with the drinks, his face was tired and sad. “I’m truly sorry about Martin, Peter. I can’t help wondering if I could have done more to help him. He came to me a few weeks ago, after one of my services, wanting to talk. I was in a bit of a rush, but tried to accommodate him as best I could. He asked me what I knew about heaven. He seemed to think that when we stood on a mountain to admire a view or listened to a beautiful passage of music, that we were somehow experiencing heaven. I told him that the feeling of awe one might experience in such circumstances was undoubtedly of a spiritual origin, but that heaven was almost certainly something different - something we couldn’t know until we passed on. He then seemed to become very frustrated and started to ramble a bit. I’m afraid I wasn’t really listening and had to cut him short, so as not to be late for a meeting with the youth group. Unfortunately, that was the last time we spoke.”
They sat silently for several minutes. Finally Peter said, “I don’t think you could have helped him, you know.”
“Perhaps not, but I’ll never know for sure. At least not until my own time comes. At that point, everything will become known.”
After four pints of the local ale, which he’d subsequently discovered was almost twice as strong as the average bitter, Peter had bidden Roger good night and staggered home, surprisingly inebriated. Back at The Fields, he took off his shoes and tiptoed up the stairs to avoid waking Isabelle. He then collapsed fully clothed onto his bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep. At around two thirty in the morning he awoke, bursting for the toilet and feeling decidedly worse for wear. After slipping into his pyjamas and performing a perfunctory brush of the teeth, he got back into bed and tried to sleep. Lying there in the darkness of the spare room, images of Martin and echoes of his conversation with Roger crept tirelessly into his thoughts. He imagined Martin sitting at his desk composing the weird audio files and getting carried away with the curious hypnosis they seemed to induce. Could this have been what had led Martin to end his life? It seemed far-fetched. Admittedly the files were interesting, but they hardly seemed life threatening. Perhaps there were others, of which the effects were stronger. He’d have a look in the morning. But the harder he sought sleep, the further it retreated. Eventually after a good three quarters of an hour tossing and turning, he got up, put on a sweater and descended to the kitchen. There, he made a weak cup of Earl Grey and made his way into the den.
As the computer was booting, the hoot of an owl broke the silence of the night. Peter switched off the light to see better and gazed wistfully through the window. A few clouds floated dreamily in front of the moon, causing its light to fade on and off like some celestial beacon. In the absence of urban light pollution, this threw the countryside into alternate illumination and total darkness. A bat flew from behind the pergola, darting erratically in pursuit of some flying insect.
Peter logged onto the computer and searched the disk for audio files, wondering if there were perhaps some he may have missed. No, all the audio files appeared to be in the same directory he had discovered earlier. There were thirteen in total which he sorted by date. He withdrew a
paper and pencil from the top drawer, donned the headphones and played the first. Once again, he felt the weightless rising sensation. It was like being pulled upwards from a point deep within his chest. He opened his eyes to confirm he was, in fact, still in his chair, and the feeling vanished. He played it again, this time keeping his eyes shut. He tried to empty his mind and submit to the experience. Feelings of warmth, safety and general well-being washed over him, while goose bumps broke out across his whole body. The file came to an end, but he remained still, with his eyes closed, savouring the moment. Taking the pencil and paper, he started to record everything he could remember from the experience. Methodically, he then listened to each file in turn, noting down its length and scoring it by intensity of effect. It soon became clear that Martin had, with each iteration of the file, been trying to strengthen the experience. When he got to the thirteenth, Peter realised it was, in fact, one he had not tried before. It was almost twice the size of the others and therefore presumably twice the duration. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and clicked play. As before, he felt himself rising into that blissful state of euphoria, when a small point of light appeared. It was the colour of daylight and as he focused, it started to grow larger. At first it grew slowly, but then seemed to be rushing towards him – no - it was more like he was rushing towards it. The same levitating force was now accelerating him towards the light, and as he approached, random thoughts began to race through his head. He tried to make sense of them, but they were too many and they came too fast. Then silence.
“Wow!” he exclaimed out loud, removing the headphones.
“Wow!” he said again. He felt at once relaxed and yet intellectually aroused. He replaced the headphones and ran it again and again. The effect was more or less the same each time; first the rising sensation, then euphoria, then the rush towards the light, with the accompanying clutter of seemingly random thoughts and images. But there was something else – something he couldn’t identify - both familiar and comforting, almost like coming home. He took off the headphones and picked up the pencil and paper trying to think of words to convey some of the complex mix of thought and emotion assailing him. It was impossible. Peter felt incredibly relaxed. He measured his pulse at thirty-six beats a minute and shut his eyes, trying to run through the experience again in his mind. It somehow seemed unfinished, as though, if it had lasted just a moment longer, there might be some kind of resolution. He opened up the audio file on the computer screen, selected the entire waveform and copied it to the end of the file, so the whole sequence would repeat once. Again, he was hurtling towards the light as his mind seemed to go into overdrive. The sensation continued a little longer, but then started to weaken as conscious awareness broke through. He tried again and again, each time attempting to empty his mind and focus on the experience, but the more he struggled to focus, the less effect it seemed to have. After a while, even the original file seemed somehow lessened in intensity. Suddenly, he began to feel very tired. Shutting down the computer, he gazed once more at the moonlit sky, and then headed back upstairs with an air of frustration.
CHAPTER 6
Doug sat on the cold stone steps of the ornamental garden in square three, the walls of the surrounding buildings seeming to close in on him like the sides of a colossal concrete bunker. Hoping a cocktail of caffeine and nicotine would banish the throbbing ache that had exploded in his skull during the lecture on 'Functions of a Complex Variable: Contour Integration', he sipped the cappuccino, took one last drag from his cigarette and tossed the butt over his shoulder. His phone started to buzz silently in his jacket pocket.
“Doug... It’s Cindy”
He took the mobile from his ear and checked the display. It was an unknown number.
“Hello, are you there?...Doug?”
“Yes. I'm here. Where the hell have you been, it’s been four days... and what was with the lake? What the hell's going on?”
“Listen, I’m at the bottom of your tower. Are you in?
Doug glanced at his watch. He had another lecture in forty-five minutes. “No, but I’ll be there in two - don’t go anywhere!”
When he reached the tower, Cindy was waiting nervously at the entrance dressed in a light grey hoody and dark glasses. She gave him a half hug and led him inside. In the elevator, she removed the sunglasses to reveal a large bruise over her left eye and part of the temple.
“What the ... who did that to you?”
“Just leave it. It’s nothing.”
“Come on, what bastard did that? Do you want me to sort him out?”
She looked at him and smiled. “That’s very sweet of you, but no, it’s nothing really, just some plonker in a bar.”
“If I'd been there I would have had him.”
“It looks worse than it is. Let’s just drop it... please!” She forced another smile and hugged him. Doug pulled her body closer and gently kissed the top of her head as it nuzzled into his shoulder. She squeezed him tighter.
Once in Doug’s room, she flew into his arms and started to smother him in kisses. Again, it briefly occurred to Doug how little he knew about this girl, but again the thought vanished as quickly as it had come. She was here, in his room, and right now, that was enough.
“You know, I still want an explanation for that disappearing act ... and the lake.”
“Mmm,” she murmured hypnotically, kissing him some more. “Are you sure you want to talk right now?”
A silent, irrepressible energy flowed between them - an energy that bound them, removing all need for words. For a moment, nothing else in the world existed but the essence of their writhing bodies rapt in that exquisite cocktail of urgency, frustration and pleasure which is unbridled lust. They tore, clumsily at each others’ clothes, stumbling breathless onto the bed. There was neither foreplay nor gentleness. Animal instincts overwhelmed sensitivity. Gone was the compassionate lover Doug usually thought himself to be. Right now he just wanted to copulate. He wanted power over this girl, who had been stealing his thoughts for almost a week, and he understood that she now granted him that power.
Whether it lasted thirty seconds or thirty minutes, Doug had no idea. It was, without exception, the most powerful experience he had ever had. For several minutes they just lay panting side by side on the narrow bed.
“Fuck me!” he finally exclaimed, staring at the ceiling.
“Again?”
They looked at each other for a second, and then burst out laughing, all the worry, confusion and sadness of the past draining away. After a while, he could no longer tell whether they were laughing or crying, but either way it felt good. They embraced again, taking in each others’ pheromones, tasting the very molecules of sexual attraction with every pore of their bodies.
“I suppose I should offer you some coffee or something,” he said finally.
“Yes you should,” said Cindy with a frown. She then looked over at Doug’s computer.
“Hey, do you mind if I check my email, while you’re in the kitchen?”
“Sure. No problem.” He quickly logged in, started the browser and made for the door.
“Any chance of some toast or something while you’re out there?” she called after him, “I’m famished.”
“Yeah okay, Marmite or jam?”
“Marmite please.”
Doug put the kettle on and rummaged around in the cupboards for some bread. Pulling out a half bag of sliced white, he peered inside and gave the contents a sniff. Not too bad. There were a few blooms of mould on the edges, but nothing the toaster and a little scraping wouldn't take care of. He could hear the bass of some heavy rock reverberating down the corridor. It sounded like something from Brian's collection. Doug was tempted to go and knock on his door, but then thought better of it. Although a good friend, it irked him to think of Brian having got to Cindy first.
As he made the coffee and started applying a liberal coating of Marmite to the now slightly burnt, stale toast, he thought about their first meeting on the morn
ing of Kal's death. She had been standing right here in Brian's rugby shirt making coffee. He could still vividly picture the way the baggy jersey had hung against her body, and the sexy way she'd moved within it. Most of the girls Doug had known tended to play hard-to-get, always forcing him to take the initiative in any relationship, but in this case, the roles had been completely reversed. It was almost as if she had set him in her sights and hunted him down from the start. The word “predatory” came to mind. In fact, now he thought about, hadn't Brian said she had actually asked for him at the party? He took the plate of toast and coffee back to his room.
“Hey, Cindy. How come you were looking for me the other night at the party?”
Cindy quickly closed down some windows on the computer and spun round.
“Sorry, what?”
“At the party - the night before we met - Brian said you'd actually approached him asking for me. How did you know my name, and why were you looking for me?”
“What is this, the Spanish inquisition?”
“No... I'm just curious as to who told you about me. Surely my reputation isn't that good.”
Cindy turned towards the computer for a moment, hesitated and then walked over to him. Her eyes glanced up to the ceiling over his right shoulder and then she whispered in his ear, “You'd be surprised!”
Kissing him gently on the neck and sending an army of goose bumps marching down his spine, she whispered. “You see, I was complaining to this girl about the lack of fit men at the party when she told me about this one big muscular guy called Doug.”
She gently squeezed his biceps and gave his behind a playful slap.
“No way!” chuckled Doug. He knew she was lying, but it no longer seemed to matter. She had a way about her which caused him to forget about such things. He pushed her onto the bed and started kissing her neck.
“Hey there stud! Let me get to my breakfast,” she said, giggling. “We'll have plenty of time for this later.”
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