The Book of Strange New Things (46 page)

‘Take it from me,’ said Austin. ‘She failed her ESST. Was Ella Reinman there at the interviews? Small, thin woman with very short grey hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘She does the ESSTs. That’s what her questions are all about. Your wife got analysed on the spot and disqualified, take it from me. The amazing thing is that you didn’t. You must’ve given very different responses.’

Peter felt himself blush. His clothing was suddenly plenty warm enough. ‘Bea and I do everything together. Everything. We’re a team.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Austin. ‘I mean, I’m sorry she didn’t get to come with you.’ He stood up. Flores and Grainger stood up, too. It was time to leave the mortuary.

After that, there was nowhere to go but his quarters, and his quarters depressed him. He was not, by nature, a depressive person. Self-destructive, yes; he’d been that at times. But not gloomy. There was something about his room in the USIC base that sapped his energy and made him feel boxed in. Maybe it was simple claustrophobia, although he’d never been claustrophobic before, and had once even bedded down inside an industrial garbage skip with the lid closed over him – and was grateful to have the shelter. He could still remember his sense of wonder when, at some point during the night, the mound of garbage on which he lay started heating up, enveloping his half-frozen body with warmth. This unlikely, unexpected generosity from a non-human agency was an early foretaste of how he would feel in the bosom of Christ.

But his quarters at USIC gave him no such feeling. The room might be spacious and clean, yet it seemed to him dismal and tawdry – even when the shutters were lifted and the sunlight made the walls and furnishings almost too bright to behold. How was it possible for a place to be sunlit and yet dismal?

He couldn’t get the temperature right, either. He’d killed the air conditioning, as it literally gave him the shivers, but ever since then, he’d been too warm. It was no good having the heat of Oasis without the compensatory caress of the air currents. The Lord knew what He was doing when He made this world, just as surely as He knew what He was doing when He made all the others. The climate was an exquisitely clever system, perfect and self-adjusting. Fighting it was foolish. More than once, Peter had stood at the window of his quarters, his palms pressed against the glass, fantasising about pushing so hard that the glass shattered and a wave of sweet, balmy air poured in through the hole.

The window-blind allowed him to simulate a few hours of nighttime whenever he needed it, which was not possible in the settlement, where the sun shone in on him for seventy-odd hours straight. In theory, this should mean he slept better at USIC base, but no, he slept worse. On waking, he would have a hangover-style headache and feel irritable for an hour or more. Pushing back the doldrums, he would work on his Scripture translations and assemble booklets for the Jesus Lovers, but found that he had less stamina than when he was in the settlement. There, he could push through the exhaustion barrier and remain productive for eighteen, nineteen, even twenty hours, but in his room at USIC he was ready to drop after twelve or thirteen. Nor did he find it easy to fall asleep. He would lie on his firm, well-sprung mattress and stare up at the featureless grey ceiling above him, counting the pock-marks, and each time he began to drift into unconsciousness he would be nudged back into wakefulness by a flash of confusion: Why was the ceiling blank? Where had the beautiful paintings gone?

The only thing the USIC base was essential for was the opportunity to read Bea’s messages. Even if he wasn’t answering them as often as he should, he still wanted to receive them. As for his laxness, well, that was partly down to how depressed he felt in his quarters. It was obvious he should be writing to Bea in the field, where the action was. How many times had he wished he could send her a quick message immediately after some significant experience with the Oasans, when it was fresh in his thoughts? Dozens! Maybe hundreds! And yet, he had a suspicion that USIC had deliberately fixed things so he couldn’t make contact with her anywhere but here. But why? There must be a way to install some sort of electrical generator or relay apparatus in the Oasan settlement! These people could build rain centrifuges, for goodness’ sake – they should be able to solve a modest challenge like this. He’d have to discuss the practicalities with Grainger. She kept saying she was there to help. Well, she should help.

If he could communicate with Bea in the field, he’d have the best of both worlds. Out in the field, his mind was clearer, he was more relaxed. Plus, on a practical level, he’d be making better use of the available time. On his mission, there were regular intervals when he must concede that his day was over (regardless of how brilliantly the sun was shining) and he must sit in his bed behind the pulpit, reviewing recent progress and preparing for sleep. Sometimes he’d sit idle for hours, when his mind refused to shut down but his body was weary and the Oasans had all gone home. Those would be the ideal times for writing to Bea. If he could have a Shoot installed in his church, next to his bed, he could write to her at length, each day – each twenty-four hour period, that is. Or even oftener. Their communion would be more like conversation and less like . . . like whatever it threatened to become.

Dear Peter,

It was such an enormous relief and pleasure to receive your letter. I’ve been missing you so much. Even more so because I’m realising how incredibly rare it is – yet how incredibly NECESSARY – to be in touch with at least one person in this life who we can love and trust. Oh sure, we discuss stuff with colleagues at work and we do things for people in need and we have conversations with strangers and shopkeepers and ‘friends’ we’ve known for years but don’t feel close to at all. It’s all fine as far as it goes but sometimes I feel as if half my soul is missing.

Please don’t obsess about what you SHOULD write – just WRITE. Don’t hold back! Every time you decide against mentioning an incident, it stays invisible and I’m kept in the dark. Every little detail you describe lights up a precious glimpse of you.

It all sounds fascinating and exciting. And puzzling. Can the Oasans really be as benign as you suggest? No dark side at all? I would imagine they’re keen to make a good impression on you, but who knows what will emerge when they relax and ‘let it all hang out’. I’m sure you’ll find that they’re more individual and eccentric than they appear. Every creature is. Even cats who are from the same breed and look totally identical reveal all sorts of quirks when you get to know them.

Speaking of which . . . Joshua is becoming VERY neurotic. The period when the bathroom window was broken and all the doors were slamming in the wind really didn’t do him any good. He jerks at any unfamiliar noise and has taken to sleeping under the bed. I hear him snoring, rustling about amongst the shoes and tissues and defunct alarm clocks and whatever else is under there. I’ve tried to drag him out but he just crawls straight back. He’s jumpy when he eats, too, glancing behind him every few mouthfuls. I’ve got him on my lap as I type this and I really need to pee but I don’t want to dislodge him in case he disappears for the rest of the night. Yesterday I was in the kitchen and I sat down to read an incomprehensible letter from the gas people, and Joshua jumped on my lap. I stayed put for ages with nothing to do and my feet turning to ice. Then an ambulance passed by the house with siren wailing and he jumped off. Should I take him to a cat psychiatrist, I wonder? Right now he’s purring. I wish you could hear him. I wish HE could hear YOU and understand that you haven’t left forever.

More about your letter . . .I will try not to talk so much about the awful things that are going on in the world right now. I understand that you’re in a very different headspace up there, and it must be hard to absorb all the details and implications of what’s happening here. As long as you realise that it’s not easy for me to absorb this stuff either. It’s equally overwhelming and mind-boggling for me. And terrifying.

But today is a good day. My hand is feeling better, healing up nicely. I’m hoping to be back at work next week. The house has just about dried out and the bathroom is back to normal. And I got a letter from the insurance company which, if I interpret the arcane language correctly, suggests that they will cover the damage. Which is a big surprise, I must admit – thank the Lord! The tabloids have been running a campaign of ‘naming and shaming’ the insurance companies that are reneging on claims – lots of picture stories about decent, obese working-class people paying premiums all their lives and being badly let down when their house gets trashed by vandals or whatever. EPIDEMIC OF BETRAYAL, it says here. Such big words for a Daily Express headline! I wonder if this is the first time they’ve had a headline with two trisyllabic words in it. What’s the world coming to! (Sorry, I promised I’d go easy on that topic, didn’t I?)

As you know, I don’t usually read the tabloids but the Daily Express promised a free Bounty bar for every reader and it’s too long since I’ve had one of those. Chocolate (or the lack of it) looms large in my life right now and I’ve become an expert in where to get my fix. Biscuit-based bars like Twix and Kit Kats are relatively easy to procure, and there are plenty of Snickers knock-offs that have Arabic writing all over them. But there’s something about the insides of a Bounty bar – that almost camphorous aftertaste that goes right up your sinuses – that nothing else can supply. At least not if you’re pregnant. But it turned out that the ‘for every reader’ offer was a bit of a scam. It was a voucher that you had to redeem at particular shops that don’t exist around here.

But, Bounty bars aside, I’m pretty happy with the food situation today. I’ve just had a gluttonous fry-up of eggs, tinned mushrooms and bacon. The eggs and bacon came from a street stall, a sort of farmers market that was set up in the car park of where the Tesco used to be. The eggs aren’t stamped or dated or anything, they’re different sizes with feathers and chicken crap stuck to them. They’re fresh and delicious and I doubt very much if these farmers are legally allowed to sell them direct to the public. And the bacon was just wrapped in paper and sliced quite crudely – sliced by the farmer’s very own hand, with a knife! Again, probably against regulations. The market was doing brisk business even though it wasn’t advertised. The farmers were restocking their trestle tables from out of the backs of their vans, and there wasn’t much left in there. Good luck to them, I say. Maybe the collapse of big corporations won’t be as disastrous as everybody’s been saying. Maybe ordinary people will just trade and sell things locally – the way we SHOULD have been doing all along. I always thought that buying bacon that’s been transported all the way from Denmark was crazy anyway.

I shouldn’t be eating bacon at all, I suppose. Billy gave me a lecture about meat-eating when we were on our way to the cat show. He’s a vegetarian. So was Rachel, but she relapsed. That was the word Billy used. He and his sister are quarrelling a lot – maybe that’s one of the reasons Billy is so depressed. Sheila says he lives on baked beans, toast and bananas, because he’s not actually that keen on vegetables. A very English vegetarian, then! But he’s right about the suffering of factory-farmed animals.

It’s so complicated, isn’t it? Animals suffer, but Jesus ate meat, and he hung around with fishermen. I’ve been craving fish lately – I must need the vitamin D – and I don’t feel any guilt when I squash a bunch of sardines onto a piece of toast, even if I can see their little eyes staring up at me. They’re feeding our baby, that’s how I rationalise it.

You haven’t talked much about the personnel at USIC. Are you still ministering to them as well, or are you focusing solely on the Oasans? Remember that the unwilling and uninterested are just as precious as those who’ve already given their hearts to Christ. I imagine there must be serious problems among the USIC community, working so far from home in what I suppose are very challenging conditions. Is there a lot of alcohol abuse? Drug abuse? Gambling? Sexual harassment? I imagine there must be.

I phoned up Rebecca to discuss when I’ll be going back to work, and she mentioned she’s mostly been in A&E and there’s been a shocking increase in alcohol-related violence and injury. Sorry, does that count as me telling you about calamities befalling the world? It’s hardly on the scale of earthquakes or large corporations going bust. But it’s very noticeable on the streets of our town when I go out for a walk in the mornings. I’m certain there never used to be vomit on EVERY corner. I wish children and old people didn’t have to see that. I’ve seriously considered hauling a bucket and mop all around the neighbourhood myself. Yesterday I even filled a bucket with soapy water, but when I tried to lift it, I realised it was a bad idea. So I just mopped the vomit off our front porch. Every man must bear his own burdens before bearing another’s, as Galatians says, or something to that effect. You would know the verbatim verse, no doubt.

He sat at the Shoot and flexed his fingers. He’d switched on the air conditioning again and the room was cool. He was dressed in his dishdasha, socks and a pullover, feeling reasonably comfortable if somewhat ridiculous. He had prayed. God had confirmed that there was nothing more urgent or important right now than making contact with his wife. The mission was going well; it could go better still if he devoted himself to it every minute of every day, but God did not expect such superhuman dedication. In another place, far away from this one, God had joined together a man and a woman, and the man had allowed himself to neglect his wife. It was time to make amends.

Dear Bea, he wrote.

I’ve written too little and too late. I’m sorry. I love you very much. I wish you were here with me. Today I found out that Ella Reinman – that skinny woman at the USIC meetings who looked like a meerkat – was some sort of psychologist who was assessing you, and that she disqualified you from coming here. This news upset me enormously. I felt so outraged on your behalf. Who is she to judge your suitability for a mission like this on the basis of a few snatches of conversation? She only saw you a couple of times and you’d come straight from work and your head was still full of that. You’d had no time to unwind. I can still see that Reinman woman so clearly – her weird head sticking out of her cashmere polo-neck. Judging you.