by John Watt
‘I think I have a reasonably clear picture. That is the place. Now what is happening? Is anybody else there?’
‘No, there’s just me, the channel, and the water. I have no feeling of moving through the water. And there’s no feeling that the water is flowing past me either. But then I notice something peculiar. I look at the high sides and I realise that I’m moving along the channel with the water—floating along without any sense of movement. It’s completely silent too. But I’ve got a feeling that it’s unstoppable.’
‘Is there more? Do you have any sense of where the water is drifting you to?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything ahead that’s different from where I am now. There’s just this slow flow. I’m just drifting along, wondering how I can get out, but the sides are high and steep, and I can’t see a hand-hold or foothold anywhere.’
‘And how do you feel about being in this situation? Are you afraid? Do you feel relaxed about it? What is your main sensation?’
Thomas considers the questions as he looks down at his hands, noticing faint scars, a reminder of his recent ordeal.
‘I don’t think I feel afraid. But I’m not really comfortable about it either. It’s hard to explain—there’s just this feeling that the water is in control, not me.’ He looks up at Macpherson, sees that his eyes are closed, his head thrown back. And wonders what the doctor is making of this: what he can be thinking.
‘Is it possible—are you able to explain what this dream means? Do you think that it might have some connection with the gap in my memories?’
The doctor’s eyes open and he lowers his gaze to focus on Thomas. He pauses for a moment before answering.
‘A connection with the gap in your memories—it is possible, not unlikely, I suppose. But I must spend a moment explaining something to you. I can’t simply tell you what a dream means. Neither can anyone else. The meaning of a dream is the meaning it has for the dreamer—for you personally. I might be able to suggest ideas, but you must see the meaning yourself, perhaps with a few minor prompts from me. And it is likely to take a little time. I strongly suspect that this dream will turn out to have a meaning for you that’s broader—more far-reaching than this problem of the missing memories.’
He looks at his watch. ‘Ah, well. We will get back to the task next week. Another day, another saint, possibly another dream. In the meantime I would like you to spend a little time thinking about this dream. Ask yourself whether this image of yourself drifting along a channel with an imperceptible current is telling you something. You are being carried in a direction that you have no control over. Does this picture say something to you about your real life? Something important? Dreams are not usually about trivial things.’
Thomas, moving through the unkempt garden and out onto the street, turns Macpherson’s last few words over in his mind. Drifting along with a current—how can this make sense in his waking life? The consultation has left him with a tight sensation in his belly, a feeling of uncertainty, insecurity, as if he has embarked on a long journey to an uncertain destination. The old proverb comes to his mind. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. He has a sense that he has taken that single step. But where is the step taking him?
The question is abruptly swept aside. The images from the disaster, the shattered dismembered bodies, the surging flames, flood back into his mind, and with them the horror. He sits on the hard slatted bus stop seat and tries to relax his suddenly tense muscles, reaching for that sense of distance from the looming, threatening shapes and sounds.
6
The Word of God
Thomas slips into a pew near the confessionals. The congregation is beginning to trickle in for the second Sunday-morning Mass. He smiles, remembering Father Kevin’s lengthy complaints last week.
‘I don’t know, m’boy. Why in God’s name do they have to wait for the nine o’clock? If they all came to the seven o’clock it might be a bit of a squeeze, but we could get them out of the way in one hit. And I could get my breakfast at a reasonable time. I tell you, there’s nothing much worse than waiting till half past ten to eat a couple of eggs that one of the nuns fried hard at half past eight and then left to go cold and greasy for a couple of hours. Like white and yellow rubber. You know, I reckon they do it on purpose. Pray God when you get a parish of your own it’ll be one with a housekeeper, not nuns. Mind you, the average parish housekeeper is not a pleasant sight, in my experience. But the food is a hell of a lot better, even with the worst of them.’
Thomas pulls his thoughts back to the moment. These memories are too frivolous for this place. He looks up at the wall. One of the Stations of the Cross is above him: the image of Christ being stripped of his garments. The holy face has eyes turned up towards the heavens in deep shame at his body being exposed to the stares and taunts of the jeering bystanders. The holy head is crowned with thorns, and there are runnels of blood streaking the forehead and cheeks.
The image is instantly replaced by one from his memory: the area between the two sections of the wreckage of the plane. Runnels and splashes of blood on faces and bodies, torn-off limbs, blood pooling on the ground. The horror.
He tries to relax, to find again some separation from the threatening thoughts, to focus on the reality around him. Luckily, distractions arrive. An elderly man with grey thinning hair limps painfully down the side aisle and edges into the pew in front of Thomas, lifting his trailing leg in with both hands and arranging that foot beside the other on the kneeler. He has hardly managed to position his difficult limbs comfort ably when Mrs Regan arrives down the same side aisle, leading a long procession of Regans of various sizes. She smiles deferentially at Thomas as she picks her way into the same pew, stumbling over her predecessor’s feet. The man winces and tries to arrange his stiff legs more safely. The rest of the family follow, and he winces anew as each Regan squeezes and stumbles past him.
This must be the husband, with the bloated belly and the nose like a reddish potato. The girl with the glasses and the earnest expression must be Mary, destined for the convent, according to her mother. She looks the part already. More children straggle and stumble into the pew. Can these all be Regans? How many are there supposed to be? Father Kevin didn’t seem entirely sure. A literary fragment pops up in Thomas’s memory. ‘ What? Will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? ’ Shakespeare, without a doubt. Which play, though? He should remember.
Mrs Regan eases herself down onto her knees, gropes in a bulky black handbag, and produces an unusually large set of rosary beads. She sets out on the familiar repetitive circuit of prayers in a loud, hoarse mutter: ‘ Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be …’ Her beads generate a surprisingly loud rattle. How can rosary beads make so much noise? Thomas tries glaring at the back of her head. The mutter becomes even hoarser and louder. ‘ Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour …’ Then it fades back to its original level. Thomas sighs, resigns himself.
Father Kevin sweeps out into the sanctuary of the church, preceded by a small boy in red cassock and white surplice. The boy looks familiar. Of course; it’s the Regan boy, Michael, the youngest altar boy in the parish, looking pinch-faced and worried. Behind him the small man is impressive, robed in splendid vestments embellished with gold. He seems to stand straighter in them. He even seems to have expanded his chest and shoulders to fill them. He is transformed.
Then, as the priest genuflects and mounts the two steps to the level of the altar, Thomas’s attention is caught by the black bottoms of trouser legs and the thick-soled black shoes showing below the gorgeous robes. A pity, they take something away from the effect. What should priests wear on their legs and feet when they are robed for the altar? Certainly not black trousers and heavy black shoes. Bare ankles and sandals might look better. Though perhaps not in Father Kevin’s case.
The priest stands, back to the congregation, facing the altar and behind it the grey back wall of the church, with its four narrow w
indows filled alternately with grubby plain glass and salvaged plywood. He intones the opening words: ‘ Introibo ad altare Dei.’ Thomas follows the familiar ritual, translating without effort: ‘ I will go in to the altar of God. ’ And the ritual response comes, in the piping voice of the smallest altar boy: ‘To God who gives joy to my youth.’ Michael is certainly youthful, but he doesn’t look particularly joyful. Perhaps that anxious expression just runs in the family.
Mrs Regan’s beads rattle, and her hoarse whisper rises for a moment above the liturgical Latin: ‘ … full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among …’ Then it fades down again to a background mutter.
Other sounds are competing for Thomas’s attention. A series of low rumblings, snorts, wheezes. Somewhere close, ahead, off to the right a little. Mr Regan’s head is wobbling, sagging sideways, jerking upright, starting again to wobble and sag.
Mrs Regan’s hoarse muttering stops suddenly in mid-prayer. ‘ Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for—–’ Her elbow darts out to dig sharply into her husband’s ribs: ‘Brendan! Wake up, Brendan. People will see you.’ The voice is suddenly a sharp hiss, as sharp as the elbow. Mr Regan shakes his head and takes in a sudden, shuddering snorting breath. Then the muttering picks up precisely where it stopped: ‘… us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is …’
Father Kevin descends the two steps from the level of the altar. He turns, embroidered robes swinging around the black-trousered legs, genuflects, and strides purposefully across to the pulpit, disappearing momentarily behind it. Among the congregation there is a collective relaxing and shuffling of feet and settling back on the hard seats of the pews. Mrs Regan stops her muttered prayers and turns to check on her husband. He is still apparently conscious, as far as can be seen from behind.
Father Kevin’s head and upper body reappear as he mounts the pulpit steps and emerges above his flock. There is an outburst of deep, throaty coughing from the back of the church. He sets the priestly biretta level on his head, surveying the congregation, waiting for silence. The coughing, shuffling, muttering, all die down. It is odd how tall the short man seems to stand in the pulpit. Is it possible that he has something there to reinforce his authority: a small box perhaps, or a couple of telephone directories? Thomas imagines himself dressed in gorgeous robes, standing high above a congregation, waiting calmly for an attentive silence.
The priest begins: ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’ There is a faint mumble of response from the congregation. He taps the microphone standing on the pulpit rail. There seems to be no reaction, and he pushes the instrument aside. Not a bad thing, Thomas thinks. When it generates any sound at all it is mostly squeaks and squeals.
Father Kevin surveys the congregation again, glances down at his notes on the lectern, and declaims the text for his sermon:
‘Go ye also into the vineyard, and I will give you what is just.’ He pauses, sweeps his flock with his gaze, and repeats the text: ‘Go ye also into the vineyard, and I will give you what is just. These words, my dear brethren, are taken from …’ He hesitates, pauses, glances down at the lectern, peers, picks up the sheet of paper for a closer look. ‘Taken from the Gospel of Saint Matthew, chapter twenty, verse four.
‘My own words today are addressed first and foremost to the men among you: the workers, the husbands and fathers, the breadwinners, the householders. Yours is a noble calling. On your honest labour in the vineyard of life your families depend for food and clothing and shelter, and all the other necessities of life.’
He pauses, looking genially around at the men of the congregation. Thomas follows his gaze. The men are not very numerous, heavily outnumbered by the women. It always seems to be like that. Why would that be?
Father Kevin continues.
‘You expect a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. And you are right to expect it. More than that, you are right to demand it. Otherwise how can your good wives and the little ones depend on you for a roof over their heads and clothes on their backs and food on the table?’ He beams benevolently around at the good wives and their children.
From a couple of rows towards the back a piercing howl begins. Thomas takes a quick look around. A young, flustered mother is trying unconvincingly to pacify a small boy who has evidently reached the end of his tolerance for sermons, and is not only voicing his objections, but drumming his heels on the pew.
Father Kevin’s genial beam disappears. The smooth rounded phrasing is replaced by sharp annoyance.
‘Young woman, if you can’t control that child I must ask you to remove him. The rest of the congregation came to hear the word of God.’
Thomas ponders. The word of God. He’s not sure that the congregation has heard much of it up to this point. He looks around again. The mother is retreating towards the door, trying to make herself inconspicuous while dragging her little boy by one arm, still protesting and struggling.
As the disturbance recedes Father Kevin returns to the task. The benevolent glow lights up again on the narrow face under the priestly biretta.
‘I was pointing out that you, the men of the parish, the breadwinners, are worthy of your hire. The late Holy Father of happy memory (his voice here takes on a reverential tone) made the Church’s teaching on this aspect of social justice abundantly clear. That great Encyclical Rerum Novarum is a shining light for the whole world.’
He pauses, looks down at his notes again, and proceeds at a faster pace.
‘A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. That fair day’s pay my dear brethren, must do more than keep you alive, you and your families, in modest comfort. It must allow you, must it not, to maintain and even improve the tools of your trade. The carpenter must have the wherewithal,’ he pauses, and repeats the splendid word with what sounds like justified satisfaction, ‘the wherewithal to maintain a sharp saw and a serviceable hammer. The plumber needs his …’ Father Kevin pauses, hesitates, his right hand reaching out and grasping at the air.
Thomas feels for him, scans his own memory for an image of a plumber at work with his tools of trade. What on earth do plumbers use? Nothing comes to mind, and nothing, apparently, to the small priest’s mind either. He goes on rather lamely, ‘the implements of his calling.’
Mrs Regan is rattling her rosary beads again. Her mouth moves steadily. The words are audible from time to time in her hoarse whisper. ‘… us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is …’
Her husband’s head is drooping again. As far as can be seen from where Thomas sits his eyes are shut. His breathing is slow and steady, and emits a gentle rumble from time to time. Then for twelve or fifteen seconds it stops altogether, and restarts with a sudden loud snort. Mrs Regan’s sharp elbow jabs hard into his ribs. He jerks suddenly upright with an even louder snort and looks around with a puzzled expression in his watery eyes. His wife’s muttering continues uninterrupted. ‘… art thou among women and blessed is the fruit …’
Father Kevin pauses to glare at the snorter. The pause stretches out almost unendurably. The priest looks searchingly around the congregation with a sterner expression, appearing to be standing even taller above them.
‘However,’ he says. There is something arresting about his tone. Thomas sits up straighter on the hard pew. There is a sound of vague stirring among the parishioners, then silence. Mrs Regan’s muttered prayers also fall silent. Mr Regan shakes his head vigorously.
‘However, that is only one side of the issue. You have rights, but you also have duties. Grave duties. And the first and gravest of your duties is to God. To God and to the Church of God. Our holy mother, the Church, lays on you the obligation, as well as the privilege, to contribute to the support of your pastors and the dedicated nuns and brothers who devote their whole lives to God’s work. And the Church speaks with the voice of God. I warn you my dear brethren, you are not hearing or heeding the voice of God.’ Fath
er Kevin glares challengingly around the congregation, eyes flashing, small chin thrust forward.
‘And you ignore the voice of God at the peril of your immortal souls.’ His voice reverberates off the walls and the ceiling.
Mr Regan is certainly awake now. He turns his head a little; there are very small beads of sweat on the side of his forehead.
Mrs Regan’s muttering begins again at a distinctly faster rate: ‘for us sinners now and at the hour of …’
The small priest moves on to more detailed material.
‘The parish debt stands at seven thousand eight hundred and forty-six pounds five shillings and seven pence. As at last Friday morning. I must tell you that this is a little more than it was three months ago. And that figure was a little more than it had been six months ago. It is not merely that we are making no progress towards paying these buildings off. It is plain that the parish is sinking inexorably further into debt. Inexorably.’ The word comes off his tongue impressively.
‘And the reason for this is equally plain. The funds coming in to support the work of God from the Sunday morning Mass offerings are not growing as they should in a healthy parish. They are shrinking, slowly but surely. Is this what you owe to our Blessed Saviour, who gave every drop of his blood for your sake?’
For ten seconds or so he glowers at the congregation.
‘No! You owe him a great deal more than this. And remember, the same Saviour is also the Judge who will return on the Last Day to call you to account. Think of that, my dear brethren, and think of being cast into the darkness outside where, as the Word of God tells us, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. And the fires of Hell.’
He pauses for a few moments. There is silence among the congregation apart from a momentary stifled cough from the rear of the church.
‘I have not set out the full extent of our financial problems. The parish car is near the end of its long life. It is no longer reliable. We urgently need a replacement. I ask you, my dear brethren, to consider the heavy burden of guilt you would bear if a loved one of yours died without the last rites of our Holy Church because the old Austin failed to start in the middle of some winter night, and I was unable to answer the call. The difference between salvation and damnation for an immortal soul can rest on what happens in a situation of that sort.
