Heartbreaker (64 page)

As I nervously mull over these reports of the healing service, I know I’ll feel a lot less jittery if I can make up my mind who I want my healer to be. I don’t have to choose Val. I don’t even have to choose Lewis’s deaconess. I—

“YOW!” I shout, punching the air with a clenched fist as the image of the ideal person smashes into my mind. Why didn’t I think of her before? My IQ must be even more off than I thought it was, but on the other hand no one’s put her name forward for consideration. Can’t think why not, though. She’s the obvious choice.

“
You
do it,” I say firmly to Carta.

She’s shattered. Stunned. Obviously this idea’s never occurred to her just as it’s never occurred to anyone else. More weird still she now behaves like a preschooler invited to sit A-level physics.

“Oh, but I’m not up to it,” she gabbles in panic. “I’m just an administrator, not spiritually gifted at all. I’m just a beginner Christian.”

I stare at her, and seeing my astonishment she gabbles on, trying to sound rational but only seeming more nutso than ever. “I want you to have the best person for the job,” she says, cheeks now a luscious creamy pink, “and that can’t be me, couldn’t be. You need someone really special.”

“I can think of no one more special in this context than you. Can’t you see? This is where the road’s going! We’re looking at journey’s end!”

She starts to get it. “You mean—”

“The Bloke’s designed it and we’ve got to help him by rising to the occasion. It’s meant to be a grand finale for winners, not a shiver-fest for a couple of wimps!”

Suddenly Carta’s eyes fill with tears. She whispers: “I’m so frightened of failing you.”

But I know all about fear of failure. I know how it can tear you up inside and maim your true self and stop you functioning at your best. Lewis says all spiritual problems are generated by fear of some kind. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of loneliness, fear of dying . . .

But no fear’s stronger than love. That’s why I hug Carta tightly before releasing her and saying: “Okay, tell me: what’s the story?”

Of course she’s only got an inferiority complex, but that’s not the point. The point is it’s a roadblock and has to go. How can you be your whole self when there’s a part of your mind telling you that in one area at least you’re no good, you’re hopeless, you’re rubbish? And this has nothing to do with humility. Lewis says genuine humility means being totally realistic about your strengths and limitations. An inferiority complex is about being unrealistic, about having a distorted view of yourself. It’s not the same thing at all.

Golden Girl tries to outline her problem. She’s always relied on her intelligence, she says. It’s been the only thing that’s never let her down. People you trust let you down, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of that father of hers, the compulsive gambler?). People behave like absolute shits, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of husband number one, that swine Betz?). People try to stab you in the back, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of every woman-hating male in the City who’s tried to wreck her past career as a high flyer?). But so long as you’ve got brains, she says, you can work out how to survive.

That was her philosophy until 1990 when her brains failed to save her and her world crashed. Then she found out that a load of the most important things in life such as truth, beauty and goodness—and of course love—the whole spiritual package—aren’t always accessible through intellectual reasoning and streetwise brainpower. In fact although Christianity can be very intellectually high-powered indeed, spiritual stuff can never be fully sorted by the human intellect. It’s too mysterious, and this makes intellect-dependent Carta baffled. How does she cope with this weird new world she’s uncovered and make the most of her new raised consciousness? Answer: she doesn’t. She’s too nervous of failing. She’s always equated survival with intellectual success, and she can’t imagine surviving in a dimension where there are no exams to pass and you’re required to function as the whole you and not just as a brain on legs.

Yes, she did manage to summon the nerve to work for St. Benet’s, she says, but she could only do the work because it was non-spiritual. She doesn’t seem to realise that the deepest spirituality, as I’ve found out from observing Lewis, is essentially practical and thoroughly engaged with normal everyday life. In contrast Carta seems to think there’s a little box in her head marked “spiritual” which never gets opened unless she’s trying to pray—and she’s no good at prayer anyway, she says. She’s very sorry, but she’s sure God understands.

Instantly I picture God staring aggrieved at this flaky little fleck of paint which keeps wilting on the canvas and marring the pattern he’s planned for this micro-area. “You bet God understands!” I snap. “He’s probably saying: ‘What a load of bullshit!’ and tearing his long white beard!”

She manages to laugh. “I’m nuts, aren’t I?”

“Welcome to the club. But we can get healed.”

“I suppose if I were to research healing thoroughly—study the techniques—equip myself with the right special knowledge—”

“You’re wandering into the wrong religion! This isn’t about special knowledge, as the Gnostics thought, so you can give the high IQ a rest before you blow a fuse. All you and I have to do here is love one another and trust The Bloke.”

She gazes at me as if I’m talking Sanskrit. Funny how people can learn a lot about Christianity and yet be unable to apply it to their daily lives. “I’m not talking about love as airy-fairy guff or sentimental goo,” I say. “I’m talking about love as creative dynamite, a force which can make a difference to everyday life and open up all kinds of opportunities which wouldn’t otherwise be there. Healing opportunities, for instance.”

“Sure,” she says earnestly, but I know she’s still at sea so I decide I have to hit the brain on legs with a flying tackle.

“What’s your problem about love?” I demand. “Why do you feel it has to be kept safe in your head in a little box marked ‘spiritual’?”

“What on earth do you mean?” she hits back hotly, but she’s pulling down all the defences in double-quick time. “I love Eric. I love you. I love my St. Benet’s friends. I even love my family when they’re not driving me nuts. I don’t have a problem about love, just about being spiritual.”

“But love’s the most spiritual thing there is!”

“Yes, but . . .” Her eyes fill with tears again. I wait. She looks away. I wait some more, but finally she whispers: “Love hurts when it goes out of control. It got so I couldn’t stand the pain.”

I see it all.

“You’re talking about Kim, aren’t you?” I say.

“Yes, but I’ve got over him. I’ve integrated the good and bad memories. I’m happily married to someone else and my marriage to Kim is no longer unfinished business. I’m fine now.”

That’s the way it ought to be, of course. And that’s the rational response, the one Carta the Lawyer has drafted with the aid of her intellect and can spew out word-perfect on cue. But how far does this response connect with reality? Well, I know what I think, but I know too that I can’t say it. She’d just deny she’s still damaged, low on trust, high on suspicion, emotionally tight-arsed, struggling all the time to control love, only letting it out of that multiple-locked little box in her head when she’s absolutely sure she won’t get wasted.

Well, I’m sympathetic. Of course I am. I know all about loving and being trashed. But I also know, thanks to Susanne and Lewis and The Bloke, that trashing doesn’t have to have the last word. You must never knuckle under to being trashed. That represents a failure to respect the worth of your true self, and it converts the trashing into a roadblock in no time flat.

Meanwhile Carta’s insisting as she wipes away the tears: “I’m fine. I just get emotional sometimes at the thought of Kim, that’s all.” She scrunches up the Kleenex and gets herself together. “What were we talking about before we nose-dived?”

“The healing service. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

“Do what?” The brain on legs must be still punch-drunk from all the spiritual chitchat.

“The laying on of hands, dum-dum!”

“Oh God, I’d quite forgotten—”

“Think of the journey!” I urge, egging her on. “You’re not going to fall by the wayside now, are you?”

“Certainly not!” she says, recovering fast.

“Then friend, I’m begging you: help me out here. If you really love me—”

“I’ll do it,” she says, and the die’s cast.

She’s going to be in that church with me, and there’s now no way I’m going to back off in a fit of panic. I need her to be there for me and
she
needs me to be there for her
and I’m never going to let her down, never.

So off we go hand in hand at last into the final stretch of the finishing strait of our epic journey, but as I well know from my harrowing swim to shore through the shark-infested waters, there’s still no guarantee of survival. It may be grand finale time, but it could also be the time I get blasted.

I’m terrified.

I wear a black tracksuit with a white trim. I never wear an ordinary suit nowadays or designer clothes. Susanne’s chosen the tracksuit for me at an East End discount store. For the healing service I also make her buy me some glasses, fake ones which have plain lenses. Sunglasses in winter would look too mafioso yet I must have something to hide behind as I venture out into the world to take my place among a crowd. I’ve grown my hair longer for extra camouflage, and in the mirror I see this thin, bespectacled nerd in cheapo gear complete with scuffed trainers. No gay on the make would give me a second glance.

I’ll be okay in church, I’m sure of it, but Susanne’s going to be in the congregation with me in case anything goes wrong. I did ask her if she’d mind coming to the service but she just said: “Why should I?” and looked aggressive, as if I was implying she wasn’t good enough to attend.

I take some tranx because I can’t risk freaking out before the service can even begin. Am I showing a lack of faith in The Bloke’s power to heal? No, I’m just blocking off the chance that I’ll go nuts before he arrives. I’m lacking faith in
me,
that’s the problem. I’ve come a long way but I’m not healed yet and I’m only human. Of course I’m going to be stressed.

Susanne drives us to St. Benet’s and pops the car in the space we’ve been promised on the Rectory forecourt. She then fetches Alice, who’s volunteered to be my other female bodyguard, making sure no man sits next to me. More role reversal! Tough women everywhere and a single terrified wuss who needs cocooning. My God, once I get through all this breakdown crap I’m going to open a bar for the macho and call it the Testosterone Club.

We sneak into the church well ahead of the main crowd and sit in the front so that no one has to push past us to get to the central aisle. Val arrives to say she’ll be standing within reach when I receive the healing, but I’m not made to feel more of a wuss than ever because I know it’s standard practice to have insiders nearby to help catch anyone who passes out. I’m not anticipating passing out. If I go nuts in a big way I’ll be fully conscious—why waste the chance for a good primal scream?

When I’m seated I close my eyes, take deep breaths and listen to Mozart in my head. The famous lady’s singing the
Laudate Dominum
and once more I’m sailing down the Solent towards the Needles.

“Dad?” I say in my head, but as always, there’s no reply.

Susanne grabs my hand and I realise I’m trembling. I get a grip on myself as the organ starts to play, and when I glance at Alice she smiles back encouragingly. I can feel the warmth of her personality soothing me and helping me keep my breathing even.

There are plenty of people present. No shortage of people during the working week in the Square Mile of London’s financial district when the City’s population of a few thousand swells to over a quarter of a million daily. Conversations are humming behind me but at last everything starts. The healers appear. There’s no procession, no drama. They just walk on. Carta’s wearing a blue suit with a white blouse and looks paler than usual.

Needless to say, she’s gone the whole intellectual hog. She’s read the classic books on healing, she’s made notes, she’s memorised outstanding passages, she’s drafted prayers which she’s submitted to Lewis for approval, and she’s even drafted alternative prayers in case she decides the first ones aren’t appropriate after all. How do I know about this whirl of dedicated activity? Because she’s told me on the phone, and I’ve thanked her for going to so much trouble. I’m sincere too, I’m not laughing at her. That’s because the real message here is that she cares. For her it’s the intellectual machinations that are important, but for me the important thing is the love that drives them.

I think of how Carta was there in the beginning when Richard had his coronary, and now she’s with me at the end when I either get healed and found the Testosterone Club or get certified and submit to neuron reassignment. Lewis and I talked again yesterday about the journey, and he pointed out how beneficial it had been not just for me but for her. He said: “She was compelled to undertake the painful but necessary task of reassessing her relationship with Eric which, when you entered her life, was going nowhere. She succeeded in raising the money for St. Benet’s even though fundraising’s not her true métier. She saw Mrs. Mayfield sentenced, an experience which enabled her to move out of the shadow of the past and marry again. And now she’s taking a healer’s role in this service—a very big step for her, and one which she would never have considered a short time ago. If she hadn’t met you, how much of all that would have happened?”

I think now, after recalling this conversation, of all Carta’s done for me. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t met her. She was my bridge to St. Benet’s, a bridge thrown together by The Bloke in a brilliant move which converted my routine sexual harassment into the kind of life-giving, life-saving relationship which I could never, in my dumb ignorance, have imagined. All I need to do now to kickstart the new life that’s been opened up for me is to get reconciled with Dad and healed of my phobia, and instead of saying to myself in panic: “How do Carta and I bear it if this trip today’s a bust?” I should be fixing my eyes on the way ahead in the belief that the last two of my roadblocks are about to be blown aside.