by Peter James
‘Wouldn’t the genuine return of Jesus Christ provide an incontrovertible answer?’
‘When you and I first met, you told me you had been a nonbeliever, but after the death of your twin brother, you said your mind had been opened – a little. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you are prepared to accept that Jesus existed?’
‘Possibly,’ Ross replied. ‘Whether he was genuinely the Son of God or just an ordinary human being is something my personal jury is still out on.’
‘He was put to death when he came, over two thousand years ago. Do you think it would be any different today?’
‘Harry Cook does.’
‘The return of Jesus today would need to be accompanied by something extraordinary, Ross, both a miracle and a sign of some kind – something universal, that united everyone.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. Something that no one has ever seen or perhaps even been able to imagine. But I don’t know what.’ The Bishop smiled again. Once more that same, unreadable smile.
21
Thursday, 23 February
Pastor Wesley Wenceslas made a point of spending two nights of every week at home in his private wing at Gethsemane Park. He helped Marina bath and put to bed their three children, Matthew, Mark and Ruth, aged eight, six and four respectively, and he would read them each a short passage from the New Testament. Then he would kneel and say prayers with them, asking God to help them be good, follow in the Lord’s ways and to bless them abundantly.
Afterwards he would dine with his wife on food prepared by his chef-in-residence and served by his butler. They would start with a glass of Krug, followed by fine white or red wine from his extensive cellar, depending on whether they were eating fish or meat. Afterwards he would retire to his study to check the daily Excel reports showing the takings at each church, the sales of his books and merchandise, his online and telephone dial-a-prayer services, and all his other revenue streams.
When he was away from home, on the other five nights of the week, either at one of his churches in the UK or in the US, he carried out the same scrutiny of the day’s takings.
He was terrified of ever being poor again.
His mum, abandoned when pregnant by his dad whom he had never met, worked nights cleaning offices to put food on the table and fund her bingo which she played obsessively in the daytime. She was deeply religious and would take him to a High Anglican church twice most Sundays, being dismissive of the happy-clappy evangelicals – although they looked more fun, to the small boy. She refused to have a television in the house and the only books she would allow were the Bible and Bible commentaries. Left home alone most nights when he was old enough to read, he read through the Bible several times. The stories intrigued him – and appalled him.
What he mostly took away from the Good Book was just how ruthless the Old Testament God was. He seemed to the small boy like a power-crazed egomaniac. You worshipped Him or you died; or saw someone you loved sacrificed; or had some other hardship dumped on you – or, in Job’s case, you had the whole lot dumped on you.
Well OK, he thought, if God created the world then He was entitled to do what He wanted – and to get angry if He didn’t feel appreciated.
He had no way of knowing, back then, that his intimate knowledge of the Holy Bible would serve him well one day.
The only things that interested him as a child, aside from the Bible, were cars and music – especially reggae. And the band that he connected with most was Bob Marley and the Wailers. But with no radio at home, the only opportunity he had to hear them was on a friend’s Walkman at school.
Cars were easier to access. They lived in a first-floor flat at the Southwick end of one of the main roads into Brighton, Old Shoreham Road. The flat was crammed with religious artefacts and an Angelus bell, which struck three times during the day, at 6 a.m., 12 p.m. and 6 p.m. He would stare out of the window at the passing vehicles and dream. Dream of the time that he would be driving a Porsche, Lamborghini, Ferrari or an Aston Martin.
He knew how much each of them cost, what their 0–60 mph time was, their top speed, the size of their engines and their power output.
When he was fourteen his mother had a big win at bingo – a very big win. She’d arrived home with her eyes glazed, pulling five-pound notes from her handbag and throwing them around the living room like confetti.
God had told her in a dream how to win it because, she said, He wanted her to give her special boy a special treat, to make up for all the lousy Christmases he’d had because she couldn’t afford nice presents. God had told her in that same dream to use the winnings to take her boy to Disney World. At first she had been unsure, as Disney World went against all her beliefs, but in two further dreams God had been adamant she should give the boy this special treat because he was a good child.
At the end of the summer school term, they flew to Orlando. After take-off they were showing movies on screens, but his mother wouldn’t let him watch any of those. Instead she gave him a Bible to read, out of respect for the Lord’s gift. And the Holy Virgin on whose wings they flew. He tried to read, but his attention wandered. He was excited about the trip. Even more than the Disney World rides, he was looking forward to seeing lots of American cars. And he was also distracted by the movie on the screen in front of the man sitting to his right, in the aisle seat. The man was wearing headphones, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying on the screen, but he was mesmerized by a woman with enormous breasts who kept appearing, sometimes in underwear or a bikini. Watching her was making him feel increasingly aroused. He knew it was disrespectful, but he was grateful to the Bible on his lap for concealing the bulge.
In the taxi from the airport his eyes were out on stalks, watching all the shiny American cars and trucks. He especially looked out for the muscle cars, new and old, Camaros, Corvettes, Mustangs and Firebirds, as well as the massive trucks, particularly the Macks. It was the first time he’d ever seen a Mack truck for real, and he loved looking at the adornments the drivers had added, like the huge horns and the mascots.
When they arrived at their hotel he stood by his mother at the reception desk, waiting patiently whilst she handed over her passport, then signed her name, Marigold Smith, and his, Thomas Smith – which was his real name back then. He watched a uniformed bellhop push an ornate, gleaming brass luggage cart, stacked with suitcases, across the lobby. He hoped a bellhop would come and take their luggage on a cart like that, too.
But instead his mother told the man at the check-in desk they did not need a hand with their luggage, thank you, and whispered to Thomas, as they traipsed across to the concierge desk, towing their wheeled bags, ‘We’d have had to give a tip.’
She made the word tip sound like it was a bribe to Satan himself.
Now they were here and he had seen some cars, he was excited to get to the theme park tomorrow and to go on the rides some of his schoolmates had told him about. But his mother had other plans. Church had to come first, where they would ask for forgiveness for visiting the pleasure park.
‘Can you tell us appropriate places to worship? Are there any convenient High Anglican churches?’ she questioned the man at the concierge desk.
‘Well,’ said the tall, beaming man in a dark suit, ‘you’ve arrived at a very good time if you’d like something really special. Tomorrow in the Orlando Stadium we are blessed to be visited by Pastor Drew Duane!’
‘Drew Duane?’ His mother frowned.
‘He’s pretty special, I’ll tell you, oh yes. If you’ve not seen him, you shouldn’t miss this chance.’
‘He’s High Anglican?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am, but he’s special. He’s the best preacher I ever heard. He’ll be preaching to an eighteen thousand sell-out capacity. But I may be lucky and get you some tickets – know what I’m saying?’
His mother hesitated, not entirely sure. ‘Well, I guess we are on holiday.’ She turned to her son. ‘What d
o you say? Try something American while we’re here?’
The boy nodded, dubiously.
‘I suppose the Lord will forgive us for trying a different kind of church – as a one-off holiday experience.’
‘He will indeed! You won’t regret it. I’ll be there myself.’
She opened her purse and pushed across the counter a ten-dollar bill. ‘Praise the Lord!’ she said.
‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’ He slipped the note into his pocket. ‘I’ll send a confirmation up to your room. Praise the Lord indeed!’
The following day they did actually get to go on some rides, after lengthy queues, and Thomas got to talk to Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse and Pluto as they walked around. Then at 2 p.m., after a hamburger lunch, they left in a taxi for the stadium. Pastor Drew Duane was not due there until 6 p.m., but as his mother said, it was important to get there early to ensure they got close to the great evangelist. Otherwise he might not see them, and if he did not see them, then surely God would not either.
Their seats were ten rows from the front. But it wasn’t until near 7 p.m. that Pastor Drew Duane finally arrived at the venue. Thomas Smith watched one of the huge screens to the side of the stadium in awe as a white Rolls-Royce pulled up, greeted by fifty batonswinging cheerleaders singing the hymn, ‘Tell Me the Old, Old Story!’
But it was the car that young Thomas noticed the most. He watched the evangelist climb out of the rear door, and heard the screams of adulation from the vast crowd.
Want that car, he thought. Want it so bad.
22
Thursday, 23 February
Ross had a gruelling drive home from Benedict Carmichael’s residence, the last two hours of it battling through rush-hour traffic in pelting rain and darkness. The journey had given him plenty of time to reflect on his meeting with the bishop, and although he was tired, his brain was buzzing with thoughts.
Imogen was lying on a sofa in front of the television, digging a spoon into a large tub of butterscotch ice cream – her current craving; Monty sat beside her, tongue out, looking at her expectantly and salivating. He barely gave his master a glance.
Ross kissed her. ‘How was your day?’
She grabbed the remote and pressed the pause button, then screwed up her face. ‘A bit sort of – meh! After you left this morning, I felt too sick to go into the office, so I’ve been working from home. Feeling better now. So how did it go?’
‘Really interesting!’
‘Lucky you. As I’ve been at home I’ve cooked some dinner – do you want to eat soon?’
‘Can you give me half an hour? I just need to look something up whilst it’s still fresh in my mind, then I’ll tell you all about it.’ He peered at the frozen television screen. ‘What are you watching?’
‘An old episode of Frasier. There’s quite a funny bit with his brother.’
He went through to the kitchen, made himself a quick espresso and carried it upstairs.
There were the usual dozens and dozens of emails. He ran his eyes down them, but saw nothing that couldn’t wait. He sipped his coffee and thought back to earlier today, to what the Bishop had said.
I’d want more than three sets of compass coordinates . . . Something that defies the laws of physics of the universe. In other words, a miracle.
OK, fair play.
Proof is the enemy of faith.
It wasn’t a new expression. He’d heard that said before, and this was something that bugged him, because he could not understand the logic. Sure, that was probably a good argument for all churches, of whatever denomination, to use on doubters: Believe in me, o ye of little faith. But little faith was precisely why, according to Cook, God had communicated to him. It was the reason why he had sent him so-called proof.
He googled the words ‘proof is the enemy of faith’.
The first thing that came up was a quote from Thomas Jefferson that lost him. Next was a quote from Anaïs Nin: ‘When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.’
He tried another search and found an eighteenth-century quote from Henry Adams: ‘Even theologians – even the great theologians of the thirteenth century – even Saint Thomas Aquinas himself – did not trust to faith alone, or assume the existence of God.’
Thomas Aquinas was a theologian and philosopher who died in 1274. He wrote: ‘To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.’
Ross was familiar with Aquinas, and had come across his teachings in the months following his brother’s death, when he desperately sought explanations for what had happened that morning in the gym.
Aquinas argued that everything – sensory organs, the food chain, what we know today as the nitrogen cycle and so on – works towards an end. He argued that the order of the universe cannot be explained by chance but only by design and purpose. That design and purpose is a product of intelligence. Therefore, nature is directed by a Divine Intelligence or a Great Designer.
Ross was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. He looked at the display and it was a number – from another mobile – he didn’t recognize. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was a sales call, then answered.
‘Ross Hunter.’
‘Hi, Ross, it’s Sally – BBC Bristol?’
‘Hey!’ he said, instantly cheered by her voice. ‘Good to hear from you – how are you doing? I really enjoyed meeting you.’ In truth, he was surprised to hear from her, assuming she had probably forgotten all about him after doing another twenty or so interviews since.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘How was Glastonbury? You got there OK?’
‘Yes, it was interesting.’
‘I said I’d speak to my uncle – the one who’s the trustee of Chalice Well? Julius Helmsley?’
‘Yes – you did?’
‘I asked him about your friend – Dr Harry Cook.’
‘Thank you, that’s really kind of you.’
She sounded hesitant as she replied. ‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t have particularly good news for you. My uncle knows all about this man and says he’s a nutter. Apparently he was found in the middle of the night some weeks ago, at Chalice Well, digging with a garden spade – and sent packing by the police. Then, somehow, he’s got hold of my uncle’s – and all the other trustees’ – home phone numbers and he calls them up in the middle of the night, shouting abuse at them, telling them they should be helping him to save the world – not putting obstacles in his way. Apparently about a week ago he actually told my uncle Julius he was the Antichrist!’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, I’m not. He’s seriously deranged. I don’t think the elevator goes to the top floor, if you understand.’
‘I understand.’ Ross was feeling deflated.
‘If I were you, I’d really forget about him. I think he’s just trouble.’
Ross thanked her and ended the call, after promising to let her know next time he was going to be in the Bristol area.
Imogen called out that supper was ready.
He did not hear her.
He stared at the manuscript on his desk, beside his keyboard. On the top was Harry F. Cook’s address and phone number.
‘Ross!’ Imogen called out again. ‘Supper’s ready, come on, I’m starving!’
‘Give me two minutes, Imo,’ he said. Then he picked up his phone and dialled Cook’s number.
After several rings he heard the old man’s voice.
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘You didn’t tell me you’d been digging at Chalice Well, Dr Cook. And that you’d nearly been arrested. And that you’d been abusive to several of the trustees,’ he said.
‘Well,’ Cook said, sounding deeply apologetic. ‘It was very foolish. I – I was desperate to find some evidence, so I thought I would do a dig – but I never got very far. Just one spadeful before I was found and stopped.’
‘Just one? You didn’t dig more?’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
Ross was thinking about the four-foot trench that someone had clearly dug, recently.
‘I am telling you the truth. I accept I was stupid – I lost my temper. These people, for whatever reason, just don’t seem to accept, or perhaps don’t want to know, what they are sitting on. Please believe me, I’m not the nutcase they’d have you think. You must believe me, Mr Hunter. They want to block me for some reason.’
‘Dr Cook, I was just at Chalice Well. Someone has been digging in exactly the spot your compass coordinates took me to.’
‘What?’ He sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Digging – in what way exactly?’
‘It looked like a trench – the kind archaeologists dig. It had been dug and then filled in again.’
‘This is terrible news.’
‘If it wasn’t you who was digging there, who else did you give the coordinates to?’
‘You must believe me, Mr Hunter. No one. Absolutely no one. You are the only person in the entire world.’
‘It’s not possible other people have been given the same message?’
Cook was silent for some moments. ‘I think I would have been told, if that was the case.’
‘Well, clearly someone else knows,’ Ross said. ‘Any ideas?’
‘I’ve never revealed the coordinates to another living soul, you have my word, Mr Hunter.’ He sounded sincere.
