by Peter James
‘What a bastard. I hate it when people rob kids of their fantasies.’
She nodded. ‘Totally. So, would that include hard-core atheists like Dawkins?’
‘You know, even when I was having my most atheist leanings, in my agnostic phase, there was stuff about the reductionist scientists that bothered me. There’s a really big paradox for scientists.’ He drank another sip of wine.
‘Which is?’
‘OK, you have scientists stating categorically how the world began, the Big Bang theory, right?’
‘Yes. My uncle is right up there with that one.’
‘So, here’s the paradox: a tenet of science is that any experiment should be repeatable in a laboratory. It’s one of their big arguments against ghosts, mediums, telepathy and anything else paranormal. Do you know the term “methodological naturalism”?’
She frowned. ‘No.’
‘It’s what your uncle and a number of other scientists follow: it’s the term for scientifically studying the world, totally excluding any possible supernatural causes. It is the absolute assumption that God should have no part in scientific phenomena.’
‘And the paradox is?’
‘Methodological naturalism requires scientists to seek explanations in the world around us that are based on what we can observe, test and replicate. They might try to replicate the Big Bang in a particle accelerator but –’ he expanded his arms – ‘are they going to replicate this universe? This restaurant? You and me sitting here? This bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé?’
‘So, the paradox is that cosmologists don’t tick the boxes required by science? Don’t you think some of them might be a bit peeved to be told their work does not qualify as science?’
‘I think it’s time the arrogance of some militant atheists did get lanced. When they can replicate the world, exactly, and whatever state of evolution everything is at, at this moment in time, then I’ll accept them unconditionally. Until then they need to cut other possible explanations – including God – some slack.’
‘Provided they can replicate these West Mersea oysters, too?’
‘Of course!’
‘What about the Higgs boson?’ she asked.
‘The God particle, which they discovered at CERN? Does it actually prove anything? There’s still the question of who made it.’
Sally took another oyster.
Ross took one, also.
Staring at him with twinkling eyes, she said, ‘You know these are meant to be aphrodisiacs?’
He smiled back. ‘Yep. They also used to be peasant food. Staple diet for monks, because they were cheap protein.’
‘Are you deliberately trying to kill a romantic moment?’ she tested.
‘I’m a married man.’
‘And I would never, ever attempt to lead you astray.’
‘And I believe that.’
There was a moment of comfortable silence between them.
They clinked glasses again.
‘Another bottle, sir?’
He looked up at the waitress. Had they really downed an entire bottle already? Maybe, he wondered, if Sally had a little more to drink she might let something slip.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Would be rude not to.’
Sally Hughes agreed.
Ross stood up and excused himself for a moment. ‘Just going to have a pee, I’ll be right back.’
As he walked out of the room, Sally was startled by a ping from his phone. A text.
She saw Ross disappear down the stairs and quickly, out of curiosity, turned the phone round. It was a text from a travel agent called Travel Counsellors, confirming a flight she was holding to Los Angeles. She turned the phone back round and sat waiting for his return.
She said nothing as he sat back down.
99
Thursday, 16 March
Imogen pulled up outside their house shortly after 3 p.m. She wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sad that Ross’s car wasn’t in the drive. As she went in, Monty padded excitedly towards her and she knelt down and stroked him.
‘I’ve missed you, my lovely!’
After some moments of doggie worship, she went upstairs to their bedroom to grab some more clothes that she needed. As she entered the room, the front doorbell rang. She hurried back down, across the hallway and opened the door.
A tall, equine-1ooking man in a business suit stood there. He wore rather arty red-framed glasses, a modern hairstyle that was twenty years too young for him and had a patch of sticking plaster on his cheek.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said. ‘Would Mr Ross Hunter be in, by chance?’
‘No, but I’m Mrs Hunter – by chance.’
He gave an awkward smile.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Er –’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should come back?’
‘Can I give my husband a message?’
‘Well, yes.’ He handed her a business card. ‘My name is Julius Helmsley, I’m the Chief Operating Officer of a company called Kerr Kluge.’
She tilted her head. ‘A company called Kerr Kluge. Do you think I’ve never heard of you, or something?’
‘Well – I – I imagine we are a bit of a household name.’
‘You could say that.’ She smiled. ‘So, are you here to sell me toothpaste? Soap? Sleeping pills?’ She looked at the card.
‘No – actually – it’s a financial matter.’
‘Is Kerr Kluge a very sexist company, Mr Hamley?’
‘Helmsley,’ he corrected. ‘Not at all – not remotely. Far from it, we are one of the pioneers of sexual equality in the workplace, Mrs Hunter. All our female workers earn the same as their male counterparts.’
‘Good. In that case you can tell me anything that you were planning to tell my husband. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?’
‘Well, if it’s no trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
100
Thursday, 16 March
Sally could sure drink – and hold it – and Ross liked that, as well as her gusto for food. She seemed to have gusto for life itself, and it was infectious.
Imogen had been like that too in their early days, he thought ruefully.
They’d finished the second bottle of wine and then, not wanting the dialogue to end, he’d ordered a cognac and she’d had a Cointreau on the rocks. As they left the restaurant with their coats on, just after 3.30 p.m., the last people in there, and negotiated their way past the outside tables, he was feeling a little unsteady on his feet. And he still hadn’t worked her out yet.
They stopped and stared at each other. Sally was giving him a warm come-on smile.
‘That was fun!’ he said.
‘We should do it again.’
‘We should.’
There was an awkward moment.
‘I think –’ he said, and hesitated.
‘You think?’
Ross gave her a quizzical look. ‘I do think sometimes, yes!’
She leaned forward, spontaneously, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she turned away, waved a hand in the air, called out, ‘See you!’ and walked off, her elegantly tailored white coat clinging to her body, her tight jeans tucked into her leather, high-heeled boots.
He stood there, feeling a tad giddy.
He had drunk far too much to drive. He would take a taxi up to Zack Boxx and then return tomorrow to the car park beneath the Waterfront Hotel.
He headed along towards the East Street taxi rank. As he walked he was trying to focus his mind on what he had to ask Boxx about. But he was a little distracted by the scents of Sally’s perfume and her hair.
Warning bells ringing in his head.
His phone pinging in his pocket.
He pulled it out and looked at it.
It was a text from Sally.
Now that’s what I call a lunch! Next one is on me. X
All his instincts told him not to respond until he was sober. But, a few moments after he had climbed into a taxi
and given the driver Zack Boxx’s address, he texted back.
Make it soon. ☺
101
Thursday, 16 March
Zack Boxx hadn’t changed. He still lived in the same, dark, chaotic pad that he had been in a decade back as a student, which he shared with the same hostile Siamese cat. It was the basement of a terraced Victorian house, close to Brighton’s racecourse, and the blinds were permanently drawn. The place smelled stale, slightly rank, badly in need of daylight and fresh air, and there was a faint hint of weed.
Boxx was wearing a faded Gandalf T-shirt, unfashionable jeans and a pair of slippers he might have inherited from a dead grandfather. His lank hair was in the same shapeless style, but starting to thin and grey, Ross noticed. The bumfluff on his face from a decade ago had matured into an apology for designer stubble and it looked odd on his slightly pudgy, baby face. He had the complexion of a ghost.
As Ross stepped through a maze of computer monitors, keyboards and server towers that covered almost all of the living-room floor, as well as empty mugs and takeaway cartons, Boxx pointed him towards a semi-collapsed sofa against the far wall. The only things obviously new from his last visit that Ross observed were two vast television screens, one switched off, the other almost the entire width of a wall, on which a video of the galaxy was playing.
‘So, you weren’t joking about Mars, Zack?’
‘It’s a direct feed from the British observatory on Mauna Kea, in Hawaii. And it is actually still night-time there – since you asked,’ he added sarcastically, reaching out to stroke the cat, which arched his back and slunk away from him. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to move to before it’s too late. Just got a few technical issues to sort out, like finding somewhere else that supports carbon-based life forms – and a way of getting there.’
The geek, who could speak seven languages fluently, still had the same hostile attitude; just like his cat. And the same distinct lack of social graces. It was as if the whole world was against him and everyone had better keep their distance.
Ross reached the sofa and sat down on it, feeling a busted spring beneath him. Boxx totally ignored him for several minutes, kneeling on the floor, logging on to first one, then another computer and studying what were, to Ross, totally meaningless rows of algebraic figures on both, all the while muttering, ‘Idiot . . . I can’t believe this . . . what have you done there? You cretins! Honestly! . . . What – what is this?’
After a while he turned to his visitor. ‘Be with you in a minute. Got to help GCHQ out with a problem and the CIA have some issue in Iraq.’
‘It’s OK, you go ahead and save the world.’
‘Honestly, you’d think sometimes – you know – these guys – they –’ He fell silent, tapping at the keyboard and peering intently. ‘I mean, like – you know? Ridiculous.’
Ross was still feeling a little drunk. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
‘Kitchen. Help yourself. There’s a kettle or Nespresso machine. By the way, you smell like a pub.’
Ross went through into a kitchen that looked like it had recently been hit by a tornado. After rummaging around, he found what looked like the only clean mug in any of the cupboards and a small stack of coffee capsules next to the coffee machine.
He made himself a tripple espresso and carried it back into the living room. As he sat back down, Boxx turned to him.
‘So?’
‘How’s life?’ Ross asked.
‘A bit shit. Working on my evacuation plan. We’ve all got to get out of here, pdq.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree with you.’
‘I’m telling you. Armageddon. Find a planet, for real. This isn’t a social visit, is it?’
‘No, I wondered if you can help me. I need some databases hacked.’
‘Uh-huh?’
Keeping back some details, Ross told him what he wanted.
Zack Boxx tapped out notes on a keyboard in front of him as Ross talked. When he had finished, he said, ‘OK. Right. Standard DNA, mitochondrial DNA and Y-STR, Los Angeles – or rather, Southern California. You want me to look into their databases?’
‘Yes.’
‘Break the law?’
‘Whatever you need to do. I’m guessing you know how to cover your tracks.’
‘I don’t do this shit for fun any more, Ross, or because I can. It’s business now, my livelihood. Know what I’m saying?’
‘I understand.’
‘I really do want to get out of here. I’m saving.’
‘Out of this flat?’
Boxx looked at him as if he was mental. ‘This fucked planet. If you’ve got any sense you’ll come with me.’
‘I’m trying to save it.’
‘Good luck with that one.’ He tapped some more keys and his screen changed. ‘OK, what I’ll do is try to get into each of these three databases, and leave something there that will look for a match or notify me if a match pops up in the future.’
‘How long in the future?’ Ross asked.
‘As long as you want.’
‘How quickly can you get a result?’
‘It depends what’s there, and I’ve got some stuff to do for my employers – quite a big program to write. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow.’
‘OK.’
‘And before I start – no offence but I’d need payment upfront.’
‘How much are you charging?’
Boxx smiled for the first time. ‘Mates’ rates? Two thousand for the searches. One thousand bonus for each hit I get – maximum bonus three thousand. All right?’
‘Do you take credit cards?’
‘Ha ha.’
102
Thursday, 16 March
The Abbot sat behind his desk, a frail man with bottle-lens glasses and an unruly crescent of a white beard. Behind him was a narrow window, open to the elements. Its edges were uneven, hacked out of the wall by a craftsman back around 1366 AD, when this monastery was built on the escarpment then known as Simon’s Rock, perched high above the Aegean Sea.
Brother Pete stood in front of him, hands behind his back. Both men were attired identically, in their heavy black habits and their Eastern Orthodox headdress, the kalymafki – a round black hat with a veil falling from either side of the face and down the shoulders. The only distinguishing feature the Abbot had was the heirloom ancient gold cross hanging down almost to his midriff from a chain round his neck.
It was the same cross that had been worn by another, now long dead, Abbot, in the framed black-and-white group photograph on the wall opposite the window. It showed three rows of monks, the rear two rows standing, the front seated, in the courtyard of the monastery. They were all heavily bearded, only the top part of their faces visible, a few wearing glasses. Their ages ranged from early twenties into their nineties and all of them looked solemn and dutiful.
Brother Pete had seen the photograph before; it had been taken over fifty years ago. All the monks today looked exactly the same, as did the courtyard. It would have been pretty much the same image if it had been taken five hundred years ago. And it would look the same in five hundred years’ time, if –
If everything stayed the same. If time here remained standing still.
If the funding continued to come, through God’s guidance.
If the world –
The Abbot was nodding at him, as if reading his thoughts and agreeing with him. After a long silence he said, ‘Brother Pete, if I do give you permission to go, how will I know for sure you will return?’
‘Why would I not, Father Abbot? I don’t have anywhere else I want to go or be. This is my home, here, it always will be, blessed by the Virgin Mary until I am called to a higher place by the Lord.’
The Abbot looked pensive. ‘So, tell me, why exactly do you wish to make this journey?’
‘My cousin Angus is dying. You will remember Brother Angus, he was the reason I came here.’
‘I remember him well. I gave him permission to go and visit his mother,
who was sick, and he never returned.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘He did not need to visit her; his journey was not necessary. His prayers from here would have been as effective, I’m certain. Why do you wish to trouble yourself with travelling – why don’t you just pray for your cousin?’
‘I think this will be the last time I see him, Father Abbot. He does not have long to live.’
‘The last time you see him?’ There was a strange twinkle in the old man’s eyes. The hint of a smile. ‘Surely not. Surely just the last time here, Brother Pete? Until the day you are both reunited in the glory of God’s sight?’
‘My cousin has something he needs to give me for safekeeping. That telephone call I had from him two days ago, which you kindly permitted me to take. That is what he was asking. A dying wish. He has been entrusted with the protection of two items, which he tells me are of the greatest imaginable significance to the Christian faith. He is worried what will happen to them after he dies.’
‘Do you know what they are? Are they genuine?’
‘He believes so.’
‘You need to be careful, Brother Pete. The history of our faith has been mired with fake relics, forgeries of all kinds, and hoaxes. Some are the work of the Antichrist. Some are just the work of opportunists and chancers – people trying to make money from those who are gullible.’
‘Brother Angus believes we will see the evidence of how real these are very soon.’
‘Should we wait for that evidence before you go? Should we test it?’
‘I’m afraid that if he dies, Father Abbot, these items may be lost forever.’
The Abbot nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Do you not think, if they are truly from God, they will find their rightful place through Him without intervention?’
