Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  "Your Beatitude: may I present Father Georghios from the Paphos diocese?"

  "Your Beatitude, thank you for receiving me."

  "Good morning, Father. Thank you for visiting us. What can we do for you?"

  Nikolaos did not feel gracious. Yet he sounded it, almost to the point of conveying warmth, though he could not stand this snivelling do-gooder whom he'd had to congratulate on at least one previous TV-sponsored occasion.

  "Your Beatitude, I come with the blessings of my parish which is unhappy."

  "In what way?"

  "They are uncomfortable with your new building project. They don't see why it is necessary nor why our Blessed Church has to spend so much when you already possessed a magnificent Palace as the headquarters of our Church."

  If Nikos blanched at such bluntness, however respectful, the face of Nikolaos darkened in an instant. Nikos speculated on what would follow. He feared for Father Georghios.

  To his amazement, the words from Nikolaos were as honey compared to the dressing down which Nikos expected.

  "Father Georghios, have you been to where the Palace was?"

  "I have, Your Beatitude. There is a muddy hole, a big one."

  "Precisely. The Palace is no longer. What should I do? Stop and leave the hole, to become a God-sent swimming pool for the pupils of the august Pancyprian Gymnasium opposite? Or pay to fill it in? You don't understand. The Church's credibility is at stake."

  However mild Nikolaos's words were, they distilled sarcasm. Father Georghios felt his stomach clench. Arrogance was endemic in the senior levels of his beloved faith. Once promoted beyond being humble priests or monks, too many acquired self-importance and, all too often, greed. He wanted to scream at his Archbishop, that what he did betrayed his parishioners, all parishioners. The waste was obscene and absurd.

  Yet Father Georghios was a realist. If his idealism was what his parishioners loved about their adored priest and his wife, he knew when self-sacrifice bought nothing. Today wasn't the time to resist. He would have to wait for a more auspicious occasion, when the battlefield was not of His Beatitude's choosing.

  "I'm sorry, Your Beatitude. I'll waste no more of your day. My flock bade me communicate what I've reported. As you say, something must fill that hole. I..."

  The Archbishop cut him short.

  "Father Nikos: Father Georghios has understood the error of his ways. Please escort him to some refreshments. We will work on other problems."

  Nikolaos Constantinou blessed Father Georghios from behind his desk. He didn't stand. With ostentation he slid a bulky and much-fingered file towards himself. He attended to its contents.

  Only Nikos knew this file contained blank pages. It was the prop for the faithful to acknowledge the Archbishop was a busy man. Other clerics might have preferred a Bible or prayer book. Not Nikolaos Constantinou. A well-stocked bank deposit book would have been his first choice. Even he considered that too obvious.

  Chapter Two

  Statos (Cyprus)

  After eating fruit and cereals for breakfast, Kjersti reviewed her notes for Day 2. Next she packed her running backpack and filled its water container. From Statos, where they had washed their meagre running kit, eaten and slept, to Platres involved rising another 400 metres, less than half of what they'd conquered yesterday.

  Costas had warned her. Part of the time would involve running in mountains and sometimes on rough tracks rather than on roads. She knew there would be stretches downhill which would then need recovering by climbing again. The distance was shorter, at 35 kilometres. She estimated it could take up to another five hours and with little opportunity to talk or think. In contrast to yesterday's roads, they would have to concentrate on their feet so as not to fall.

  Silence would not disappoint Kjersti. She needed time to chew over her future. Long distance running was the best time for this. Reflection was the reason she'd capitulated to Costas's implored insistence she run the Trek with him.

  She reminded herself: mountainous roads with unexpected winds demand concentration. It was too easy, if she let her mind wander, to find her feet doing likewise. She'd suffered nasty injuries in the past by failing to be circumspect. She didn't want this here. Who knew what Cypriot emergency attention was like? It probably would not be anywhere as good as in Norway.

  Costas appeared. They set off, with only a pause to query each other where Iphi and Aris were.

  Day 3 was cold. At over 1000 metres above sea level, there was no warmth from the sea now far to the south. Nor was there any from the hot plain which extends across Cyprus from west to east beyond the Troodos Mountains. Today they needed to cross the watershed before they descended the mountains onto the Mesaoria.

  Kjersti expected this to be their toughest day. They would start with a harsh initial 15 kilometres, winding their way up almost 800 vertical metres to the top of Mount Olympos, the highest point in Cyprus at a shade under 2000 metres. Those 15 kilometres would be one drawn out uphill agony. After that, it would be downhill to Kakopetria. If everything went to plan, they would add 40 kilometres, almost a marathon equivalent, to their total.

  Her deeper worry concerned Costas. The previous evening, he'd lacked bounce. She hoped it would reappear after a night's sleep. She herself had slept like a lamb. If he had as well, they should own the strength to break the back of the mountain stages, with only one other major climb, to Kantara Castle far to the east, to come the following week.

  Costas rounded the corner of their hostel. He looked stronger, a good sign. They offered each other a reserved thumbs-up and set out, Costas leading. In the peace following him, Kjersti reflected on one positive: exhaustion suppressed any fear Costas might re-try his luck with her. The past two nights, both were in bed by eight, too tired to talk much, nevermind entertain or fend off desires for supplementary exercise.

  Seven drawn out hours later, they'd made it to Kakopetria. It was a delightful, old village. But survived was the operative description. Neither had the energy to appreciate their surroundings.

  Costas had found the road climb up to Mount Olympos tough. As he became more sluggish, he'd encouraged her to go on ahead and rest at the summit until he caught up. She'd refused point-blank and, with painful slowness, he had staggered the final 4 kilometres to the top. There, it had taken him almost half an hour to recover, with Aris and Iphi as witnesses to his distress. It was just as well the winds had been light. Shelter was minimal and their running clothes were inappropriate for a mountain top.

  The following 20-plus kilometres to Kakopetria were downhill. After the desperation of their ascent, the descent was gentle. The road assisted: it was wide and with little traffic. For extended periods they'd loped alongside each other and chatted, or rather she'd encouraged Costas.

  Once checked into their bed and breakfast, Costas was weaker, though claiming to be in decent spirits. They washed their gear and ate a large Cypriot dinner. Costas ate for humanity, a task made easy by the absurd generosity of their hosts who were distant relatives of his mother's. In Cyprus, to Kjersti, everybody connected somehow to everybody else.

  It helped that Iphi and Aris had made it to Mount Olympos on Iphi's motorbike and joined them for dinner. To hear Aris moan, one would think the gods had looked unkindly on him. In Iphi's telling he'd obliged her to drive her motorbike at a snail's pace if only to inhibit his constant complaints. Their banter cheered Costas.

  When he headed for bed, Costas looked stronger than before. At least tomorrow they could look forward to an extended, gentle descent before the prolonged entry into Nicosia. This was to be their longest run. In her plan Kjersti had thought to split it over two days. Costas had insisted they should cover the 60 kilometres to Nicosia in one day so as they might enjoy a whole extra rest day. By then they would have covered 155 kilometres and be almost half way.

  The first 25 kilometres were straightforward, if you ignored the distraction of Iphi and Aris buzzing around taking photographs. While the pair, still on Iphi's mot
orbike, often disappeared, they always returned. This became an unexpected blessing.

  Costas was behind her when an elderly man, unaccustomed to any form of foot traffic, had reversed out from his blind corner gate. The car clipped Costas's trailing heel. Sprawled along the road, though with nothing obvious broken, Costas was in shock. He had major scrapes down his left leg, arm and face and dirt all over his body.

  By good fortune Iphi and Aris had been catching them up after one of their disappearances. They saw all. While Iphi consoled the distraught driver, Aris summoned an ambulance. Within thirty minutes Costas was on his way to hospital with Aris alongside. Their promptness impressed Kjersti. Cyprus was more like Norway than expected.

  As she waited she asked herself if she should abandon the Trek. Costas insisted, before they carted him off, she continue, though only if she wanted to. Meanwhile he would see her in Nicosia. He hoped to be ready to persevere on the scheduled fourth day hence. Kjersti doubted it, unless his wounds looked far worse than they were.

  She wasn't convinced. Which left her with the problem: should she run on or hitch a ride with Iphi?

  Yuste (Spain)

  The next morning, after another restless night, Inma twisted the iron key in her secret chapel's lock. It depressed her to find it damp and dust-ridden.

  As a place for worship it wasn't fancy – a stark, white room no more than five metres long and three wide open to the rafters above. An uncarved stone altar stood at its eastern end with an unornamented metre-high wooden cross on top. Above that was a single round window. Set into the south facing roof was a second window, long and rectangular, to admit natural light and fresh air.

  At the foot of the cross lay two Bibles. The first was a valuable eighteenth-century one rescued from her late father's rarely-used library; the other was a modern Nova Vulgata. Between these lay a tiny Book of Hours. This she had unearthed in Salamanca and had restored, at no small cost. She picked it up, blew off the dust and opened it at random. She indulged in its rich hand-crafted lettering and illustrations.

  Two pews faced the altar. Beside sat a severe wooden arm chair. The latter jarred. Armchairs, excepting ornate thrones for bishops, archbishops and their like, were uncommon in churches, never mind personal chapels.

  A bookcase with glass doors dominated the west wall. It contained religious meditations. In pride of place was her collection of first editions of the works of Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer y Albás, the founder of Opus Dei and for so many years the light of her existence.

  She absorbed the alien, dirty yet familiar feel of her secret place. She'd shown it to only one other person, Miriam. To her regret the glow she recalled from that past was missing. Her shame at its sad state was to blame.

  She scurried out to find the dedicated cupboard. From it she took a vacuum, mop, brush and pan and dusting cloths.

  Several sweat-sodden hours later Inma inspected her efforts. The chapel gleamed. It was a new place. Not a speck of dust dared reveal itself. Three times she'd gone around mopping, wiping, polishing and vacuuming. Twice remnants of disturbed dust had resettled as if to demand their removal. No doubt it would be dusty again in the morning. Nevertheless, Inma congratulated herself on her diligence.

  Her efforts activated satisfaction. They restored comfort and familiarity. This wasn't a surprise. Only she could clean her chapel. It was a personal penance, required to prepare for the deeper contemplation which justified the chair. Early on she'd conceded she couldn't always be on her knees. Once her formal prayers were complete, or when she'd wished to reflect on the greatness of God's creation, she'd sit to contemplate or read.

  She glowed at a memory. In a fit of righteous guilt she'd once attended confession to seek forgiveness for the pleasures of meditation while sitting in that armchair. In those days she felt she was committing a mortal sin, akin to envy or fornication or taking advantage of the poor.

  Her confessor had cackled outright, the only occasion she'd ever heard such an outburst. He'd apologised, then dismissed her supposed sin. He drew a parallel with himself and all other priests closed off in a confessional. They sat and sat and read their daily offices to pass the time while they awaited the next penitent.

  Never again did she confess this sin though her delight at the contemplation of the Almighty was often sufficient to breed guilt for the intense satisfaction she obtained.

  It was late. She was too tired to start any serious introspection today. Instead she opted to up the ante and complete one of her punishing exercise routines.

  She followed this with a luxurious shower and the further penance of relighting the wood-burning stove. She'd forgotten to feed it. She donned a sweater. This evening was cooler. It would take a while for the stove to heat downstairs.

  Later, she would be glad of the stove's warmth. One trick she and her architect had concocted was to run its metal chimney up through her bedroom above. That disseminated warmth. Though the house possessed oil central heating she tried every trick not to use it. Her alternative bedroom heating was her favourite energy cheat.

  Tomorrow she would confront herself. She would not permit herself any latitude. She had to plumb whatever depths were causing her discomfort.

  From Kakopetria to Nicosia (Cyprus)

  The ambulance had driven away, with Costas and Aris inside. Practical matters now assailed Kjersti, until Iphi resolved conflicting doubts by volunteering to meet her on the outskirts of Nicosia. She offered a bed for the night and convinced Kjersti to stay by explaining how her flatmate was away, their apartment was in Agios Georghios on this side of Nicosia and they were close to the checkpoint where she and Costas planned to cross the UN-supervised Green Line which separated Greek and Turkish Cypriots.

  For a few moments Kjersti had tried, with scant energy, to explain. Costas expected her to stay with him and his family. Iphi would have none of it, for tonight at least. Costas might have to remain in hospital.

  Three hours later, Kjersti was enjoying herself. Without Costas, she could run at her preferred speed. In practice this was faster than Costas, though he was 20 cm taller and had longer legs.

  Able to relax into her own rhythm and on the relative flat of the Mesoaria, she soon dropped into her long-distance runner's flow. In a state of semi-suspension she opened her mind. This, though she'd never admitted it to Costas, was why she was here. The flow offered space and time to digest all that had happened to her in the past months.

  She bounded forward, pace after pace after pace after pace. Running in the flow was as natural to her as water gushing downhill. It was her nirvana, a state which she could only enjoy alone.

  Without conscious thought, and for the sheer pleasure, she lengthened her stride. She floated on a sea of endorphins, so much so she didn't appreciate how her legs ate up the distance to Nicosia. This was bliss.

  Interruption came when Iphi drew alongside, to scream at Kjersti over the traffic noise. Kjersti had passed Iphi without noticing. She was inside the outskirts of Nicosia.

  Kjersti mentally slapped herself. She'd been dumb. Here the traffic was dense. It would have been so easy to repeat Costas's misfortune.

  Instead, she followed Iphi's motorbike. Soon Iphi waved her into a driveway. She parked the motorbike and led Kjersti into a bright but somewhat dilapidated apartment. Iphi refreshed Kjersti's bottle of water, produced a fresh towel and pointed to the bathroom. She demanded Kjersti hand over her running clothes for the washing machine. Kjersti obeyed, too weary to object.

  The shower was bliss. Better still were the creams, lotions and potions. She helped herself as she twinged with guilt. The pleasure was enormous until an uncomfortable realisation descended. Her normal clothes were at the Costas family house.

  Unsure what to do, she left the bathroom enveloped in a bath towel to find Iphi ahead of her, holding up a dress. It wasn't what she would have chosen for herself. She didn't 'do' dresses, and not like this one. But anything was better than a damp towel over her one pair of emergency
briefs. A bra didn't matter with her lack of bust: running to extremes had shrunk this to where minimal support was necessary and only when she wanted to project curves. Being bra-less wasn't uncomfortable, unless she was exercising.

  She accepted, and unwrapped the bathrobe. She pulled the dress over her head. A quick shake and it dropped around her.

  "Nice legs," observed Iphi. "My jeans wouldn't do you justice. Far too large for you. Not surprising given my Cypriot rear."

  Kjersti regarded Iphi. She hadn't taken stock before, when her focus was on the Trek. Iphi possessed a pretty face, well-shaped hair and richly curved upper torso. This she counterbalanced with a hefty ass mounted on solid thighs above decent calves and slim ankles. Clad in tight jeans topped by a simple blouse, she looked good. Kjersti said so. Iphi accepted the compliment with an easy inborn grace.

  "What would you like to do this evening? Eat out or in? If I remember, you don't run for another three days. That is if you continue. The choice is yours, though I should warn you, Aris may drop by. He doesn't want me to obtain a scoop."

  Kjersti laughed. The absurdity hit her funny bone with an ironic wallop. Nothing could be more ridiculous. She, a scoop? She laughed again. Iphi took offence.

  "I looked you up before you started in Paphos, after Costas told us you were an exercise freak and travel writer. I found lots about runs in Norway, the Scottish Highlands, the Pyrenees and other places."

  Iphi paused. Kjersti signalled for her to continue. Iphi radiated reluctance.

  "It was something Aris said yesterday; that there was more to you than Costas implied. On the Internet I found various articles about corruption and three recent ones on some olive fly plague in Spain. There was also a sort-of-literary piece about an unexpected side effect of the Spanish Civil War. I read them. They're good, each in a distinctive way. You have talent. I loved the 'Virginity Despoiled' title which made me realise I'd read it before. I hadn't clicked you were 'that' Kjersti! You make my output look feeble."