What I Tell You In the Dark

by John Samuel

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just a funny turn of phrase. Carry on.’

  He tells me that more and more medical professionals are operating like this, en collectivité. They want to market the business themselves, he says, using social media. He’s been reading up about it: what, he wants to know, should he be doing to improve his Klout score? Whatever that might be.

  ‘But perhaps this is not what you do,’ he says after I’ve been silent for a while.

  ‘No, no it is – sort of – but really you need a specialist to help you with this kind of detail. Digital isn’t my area.’

  ‘I understand – a bit like with me and your back?’

  ‘A bit – except you did manage to help me there.’

  ‘And how is it now, your back?’

  ‘It’s sore, but nothing like before, not going down my leg or anything. It’s more like an ache – a strong ache.’

  ‘That’s normal. It will be calmer in a couple of days.’

  A distinct agricultural smell has begun to drift up from the vicinity of Paco, who is sounding a little less content than he was.

  Luc gathers him up. ‘Time to change I think.’

  While he’s off doing that I find myself looking at what he’d been about to show me on his computer. It’s the YouTube channel for this collective of his, and he’s right, there are a lot of different disciplines under one roof, a dozen at least, each of them uploading their own video blog (vlog, I think I heard him call it, although I may have imagined that). I’m surprised to see that there are already several hundred subscribers. He made it sound like they were just getting up and running.

  ‘This is impressive,’ I tell him when he comes back in. ‘I hadn’t realised you already had such a following.’

  ‘It just takes a little effort,’ he says, ‘but it’s possible. You don’t have to be an expert …’ he looks at me apologetically ‘… for this stuff, I mean – for the simple stuff. It’s so easy to talk to people these days, en directe. Everyone is online.’

  ‘Wait!’ I touch his hand, which is poised over the mouse pad, about to move us on from this discussion. ‘What did you say just then? Say that last part again.’

  ‘I … Which part?’

  ‘You said something about talking to people directly.’

  ‘Just that, you know, you can communicate so much more effectively with people through all of this.’ He tilts his head towards the computer. The deep ocean of life into which each of these little machines ultimately flows. The millions of people, watching, waiting, connected by a living plexus of tributaries and streams to the lambent pool of this screen. That is what he means.

  ‘Luc!’ I say, too suddenly. It gives Paco a fright. ‘Luc!’ I know I’m still raising my voice, and I’m sorry for that, I really am, but I simply can’t believe that I … ‘How? How did I not see this before?’

  Luc is clutching the child to his chest, saying something to me, something I can’t hear. I can barely hear my own voice. A torrent of blood is thundering through my head.

  ‘It’s so simple,’ I’m telling us both, I think I am anyway, from way down beneath the noise of the blood and the baby and the choking tightness in my throat. ‘It’s so perfectly simple.’

  I grab his arm. ‘Don’t you see? I need to talk to people, Luc – en directe, just like you said.’

  ‘Get off me.’ He stands up. ‘You’re scaring Paco.’

  He looks scared too but I don’t have time for any of that now. No time for smoothing feathers, no time to be here in this room even, let alone hidden away in this house, watching the days drip out of me until some doctor nets me or Abaddon’s lot find me and shut me down forever. I need to get my message out there – me – I need to do it – from me to them. What a fool I was to think that Natalie could do my talking for me, when all the time the tools I needed were right there under my nose. Luc is right, it’s easy. It couldn’t be simpler, in fact. What I have to say is so virulent, so deeply contagious that all I need to do is inject it into the network and let the people do the rest. They will spread it for me. Not even Abaddon can contain the rampant circuitry of the internet.

  ‘All I have to do is get myself noticed.’ I say this in a quieter voice. I stop my pacing – I’ve been unable to stand still during all of this. Even now I am fidgeting, my feet scraping restlessly on the lino. Paco is no longer screaming and is now hiccupping into Luc’s shoulder. ‘I just need to find my miracle.’

  It’s just an expression – I don’t mean an old-school ta-daaa kind of miracle. There’s no room for those moves anymore, that ship sailed long ago. It’s no longer a requirement of modern life to be able to explain what you see. No, what I’m talking about is a statement, a gesture really – one powerful gesture that cuts to the heart of the matter. That’s all it takes. It’s all it took the last time, too – my so-called miracle in Capernaum, the one that got the whole show started, that was nothing but a piece of opportunistic grandstanding. It certainly wasn’t planned, and it certainly wasn’t a miracle per se (not like my later stunts, anyway). Capernaum was just supposed to be a quiet backwater for me, somewhere I could take my time and get a feel for things fresh off the jump-in. It was the last place you’d expect it to kick off. I really loved it there, the cleansing blue of the Sea of Galilee working through the dust, and the fetid heaviness of the marshes behind it, deepening the air even up in the streets away from the shore. It was my first taste of earth, and it was beautiful. My plan was to take it slow, to get acclimatised, but I quickly discovered that life has a habit of getting in the way of such plans. I’d only been there a day or two and I was working a small crowd in the temple, just getting my eye in really with some light preaching in what I’d thought was a pretty inconspicuous corner, when some frothing lunatic decided to start shouting at us. I mentioned before how crazies are always first to get the whiff of us, and this one got himself properly worked up, ranting away about how I’d come to destroy them all. It was really distracting, and my little flock, try as they might, were finding it hard to block it out. Some of them were even starting to give me sceptical looks. I had to do something – if you don’t snuff out these hecklers immediately it just emboldens them – so I stopped what I was saying and put the stare on him, one right from me, from behind the eyes if you see what I mean. It stilled him like a child, he just stood there gawping at me, then I barked at him: Poq! Get out! It just came to me on the spot – pure grandstanding, of course. Aramaic is the perfect language for that sort of thing, the word bursting from my lips and bouncing off the stone walls. The effect was instantaneous. He set about himself in a seizure, pulling at handfuls of his hair and gnashing and howling; then he was quiet as a lamb. That’s what I called him when I went to crouch by him (as soon as I was sure it was safe): my lamb.

  I’ll be honest – I was amazed at how it went over with the others. They were so impressed they were practically wetting themselves. And that was when it hit me – they were ready. I mean they were ready – they were crying out for a messiah, the real deal, not just another shouty prophet. It was my moment – right time, right place. You could just feel it in the room: this thing was going to be massive. All I had to do was rise to my feet looking all drained and exhausted from my saintly exertions, mumble a couple of words about unclean spirits then make my way slowly towards the exit. For the briefest moment I stood framed in the doorway. My robes, I dare say, billowed about me in the blazing sunlight like golden raiments.

  And there it was: job done. After that there was no turning back.

  I take one last look at Luc. ‘Thank you,’ and I really do mean it. ‘Thank you for this. You’ve made it all so clear: I just need to find my day in the temple,’ I tell him, ‘my way of making myself heard above all the …’ I look at his laptop ‘… all the chatter. A modern miracle, Luc – that’s what I need. I need to find a modern miracle.’

  As I climb the stairs I see that it has started to rain. Thick sheets of water run across the panes of the win
dow making the daylight tremble as it enters the house. I look everywhere for my work clothes. I’m not exactly sure yet what needs to be done but I do know that, whatever it is, it will require me to look the part. I eventually find my suit in its dry cleaner’s cellophane hanging on the door of Will’s parents’ bedroom. There are socks in the drawer and a blue and white checked shirt hanging in the wardrobe. His father’s shoes are a little too tight but I take those anyway – my own are nowhere in sight. At one point I hear a phone ringing and I follow the sound to the room at the top of the house where Izzy and Luc are staying, now with both of their children also squeezed into the small space. Izzy’s phone is there, charging. Luc is trying to call her. I unplug the phone and slip it into my jacket pocket. Sorry, Izzy, but my need is greater than yours.

  Downstairs I ignore everything that Luc says to me as I hunt around for the keys to one of the cars parked in the driveway. I empty the contents of a china bowl on to the floor. There – I pick up the key and aim it through the window and press. The white Ford blinks its lights in reply. I was brought here in the other car, this one must be his father’s.

  ‘Is there anything I can say to stop you?’ Paco is asleep on his shoulder, his fat little lips parted in oblivion.

  I shake my head. ‘Just tell Dad I’m sorry about borrowing the car.’

  ‘Maybe you should tell him yourself.’ He is looking past me, through the window. At the end of the lane is the bedraggled outline of Will’s family, the adults huddling in the shelter of a single umbrella, Maia skipping ahead.

  I run outside and dive into the car. I check my pockets. I have Will’s wallet but the keys to his flat must still be somewhere inside. It doesn’t matter, I won’t be going back there anyway. I turn the key in the ignition. Above the sound of the engine I hear my name being called but I do not look. I rest back into Will’s body and let his memory do what needs to be done. His foot presses down on the clutch, his hand slips the car into gear and slowly, smoothly he steers us out on to the lane, turning away from where his sister is running through the rain towards the car, waving her arms, and where his parents are standing, further back in the greyness, holding tightly on to their grandchild as they watch me slip away.

  15

  Driving is a lot easier than I thought it was going to be – the secret is not to concentrate too hard. If I just let myself zone out and let Will do the work, everything goes smoothly. The only problems occur when I try to focus my own attention on the task – that’s when the foot on the accelerator becomes uncertain and the car begins to lurch or when the hands that are steering start to drift and send the wheels rattling across the hard shoulder. But by and large, the journey unfolds without a hitch. I decide to leave behind the train station and the village and the fields and allow myself instead to be pulled into the broad artery of motorway that runs to the heart of London. Signs tell me that there are less than a hundred miles left to travel. Trucks and cars hiss past me sending their spray across my windows. The wipers swish peevishly, never a second’s rest from it. The sound is hypnotic, creak-creak, creak-creak, creak-creak…

  The sky above me is blue and cloudless, the sunlight is on my face, the rigging of Peter’s boat creaks with the rise of each wave …

  The blare of a horn brings me kaleidoscoping back. My eyes snap open, my hands wrench the car back into line. My heart pounds, and what little is in my stomach threatens to rise. Up ahead I see the lights of a service station. With trembling hands I guide myself off the road and to a juddering stop in one of the parking bays. I rest my head on the steering wheel.

  Izzy’s phone, which has rung several times already, is ringing again now. I take it out of my pocket, the name Mum & Dad is on the screen. When it rings off I scroll through the other missed calls – all the same number. I would have answered if I could have been sure it was Izzy, I want to speak to her, tell her not to worry, that it’s for the best like this. Something tells me she would understand. But I can’t risk a conversation with one of Will’s parents. There’s no knowing where that would end. They would almost certainly get the police involved, if they haven’t already, and that would be unnecessary interference with … whatever this is that I’m doing.

  I decide the best thing to do is to send Izzy a quick email. In the end, though, there’s nothing quick about it. It’s not the logging in to Will’s account that slows things down (those details, like so many others from his life, just seem to be there in my mind now), it’s the fact that I keep losing the thread of what I want to say. Sitting in the cramped, cold seat of a car with rain thudding down on the roof is not the perfect setting for composing a farewell letter to someone you barely know and yet for whom you feel a deep stirring of love and loyalty. Also, it doesn’t help that there is a whole host of unread emails to distract me. Chief among these is a burst of three messages sent last night and earlier today from Natalie, urging me to call her as soon as I can. At first I’m reluctant – part of me sees Abaddon behind it, perhaps wanting to get a fix on my location somehow – but curiosity soon gets the better of me. Besides, I seriously doubt Abaddon is still wasting his time with Natalie. For him, that loose end will be well and truly tied off.

  I squint out into the murk. It’s only three o’clock but already the dusk is preparing to come. Except for my car and a few other empty vehicles, the place seems deserted.

  I dial Natalie’s number. When she answers I ask her right away if she is alone. It’s an odd question but it’s the first thing that comes into my mind.

  ‘Will? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  I don’t like the sound of that. ‘Why? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sounds tired. ‘I just didn’t recognise the number. And I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I lost my phone – remember?’

  She’s breathing heavily. ‘Well, thanks for calling. I just wanted to talk to you. I thought perhaps we could meet up and –’

  ‘No. I mean, thanks but I won’t be able to do that, Natalie. I’m sorry. I need to try to keep a low profile for a while.’

  ‘I understand.’ There’s a long pause. ‘I can’t tell you how awful I feel. I just didn’t want to leave it like …’

  Is she crying?

  ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No.’

  Er yes, yes she is.

  ‘Look, Will, I need to tell you something. David is really going after you, he’s contacted your boss and they’re going to try to –’

  ‘Hang on a second. Who?’

  ‘David. Our head of legal, David Saint-Clair.’

  Oh, you mean Abaddon. ‘Okay,’ I tell her, ‘with you now. Sorry – carry on.’

  ‘He’s really got the bit between his teeth,’ she says, and the way she says it tells me all I need to know about how he will have chewed her up and spat her aside. ‘He’s going after you, Will, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m really so sorry.’

  This time there’s no pretence about the not crying.

  ‘It’s okay. Listen, I mean it – it’s not your fault.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say that but it is my fault, Will. You were my source and I’ve let you down.’

  ‘No you haven’t. I knew what I was getting myself into.’ A lie, but then even if I had known, would I have done it any differently? Of course not. I’ve always been heading here, to this moment. ‘Look Natalie,’ I tell her, suddenly invigorated. ‘He’s just a nasty piece of work. Forget about him. I can take care of myself.’

  This seems to decide her on something.

  ‘Listen,’ she tells me, quickly and quietly, which makes me wonder again if she may not be alone. She never answered my question. ‘Don’t ask me how I know this but he’s meeting the people from your work tomorrow morning, he’s going to hang you out to dry. But maybe if you got in there first, maybe if you came clean with them and explained your reasons, perhaps you’d still have a cha
nce at … I don’t know, a chance anyway.’

  The final lines are being drawn, right before my eyes. What was just a compulsion, to run, to act, is now taking its shape. She is giving me my chance to make a miracle.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Some hotel in Marylebone, The Drum I think it’s called.’

  Again, I push from my mind the thought that she may not be alone, that this may be some kind of trap. Paranoia is a rot, I remind myself. You must cut it out before it spreads. I trust her. I choose to trust her. ‘Thank you, Natalie. You have no idea how much this helps me.’

  Even so, the moment the conversation is over I dismantle Izzy’s phone and I walk through the rain scattering its parts in the sodden bushes. The wafer of the SIM card I place on my tongue. Drops of rain fall from heaven into my mouth.

  ‘This is my body now.’ I swallow it down into my gut, where it will be scoured of all memory.

  Everything must be left behind me. They’ll be looking for the car too.

  At the lorry park on the other side of the service station a man is walking back towards his truck.

  ‘Excuse me, mate.’

  He looks at me once and carries on walking.

  ‘Please,’ I call after him. ‘I’ve been on my stag do.’

  He stops and halfway turns back.

  ‘They drove off without me. I haven’t got a phone, car, nothing. It isn’t funny.’