Sourcebook

ISBN Heaven

Thu, 23 Nov 2006 10:19:07 GMT

Well - Its still in preparation, but things are moving forward nicely. My publisher lady has put up a website with synopsis and biog details. Take a look at http://sun-rising-poetry.com/alpha.htm

Best thing of all is to see its got a proper ISBN number, so presumably in due course will be accessible to the masses via Amazon etc.

Can't wait for Spring 2007!

Post post postscript

Mon, 25 Sep 2006 13:58:40 GMT

Any friends still out there will be as surprised as I was when I received a query from a US publisher expressing an interest in The Alpha Lab (about 3 years after I made enquiries). Needless to say I'm in the process of snatching their hands off. Sun Rising Books is the perp, seemingly interested in all manner of New Age mumbo-jumbo. Have received the contract already and in due course will receive 100 author imprints for signing and distributing to anyone who's interested. Please form an orderly queue!

7655 words so far - 700 off target. Clouseau rides again

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 20:02:39 GMT

The office of Don Vicente de Galicia is in one of the smallest and oldest buildings in the University. Jorge has opted to let me go alone, as he has some explaining to do to his superiors about the continued absence of Richard Speirs’s body. Don Vicente is the epitome of an aged academic. He could be Father Digby’s twin, except for a permanent scowl which he seems to think a mark of distinction and gravitas.

- You learnt Spanish in Andalucia, Mr Davis?
- I learnt Spanish at University in England, Don Vicente, though I spent a year in Seville as an undergraduate.
- It was not you who telephoned me for an appointment, I think.
- You spoke to my colleague, Jorge Suarez. Unfortunately he could not come along.
- And how do you think I can help you in the matter of this unfortunate young man?
- My understanding is that you were his local research supervisor.
- That was certainly the intention.
- But it didn’t happen for some reason.
- I certainly met with him once or twice, when he first arrived. I gave him a letter of introduction to both the National Library and the Archive, so that he could pursue his studies there.
- But he didn’t keep in touch with you after that?
- I did ask him to keep me informed, as his subject was one of particular interest to me. But for his own reasons he chose to keep his findings to himself.
- You think he made some significant discovery?
- It is merely an assumption. He seemed to have a clear idea about what he was looking for, but he was less than forthcoming in sharing his thoughts.
- What was the general area of his research?
- He was mainly interested in the phenomenon of the Alumbrados of Seville and their history. That is also one of my specialisations. I was surprised and disappointed that he didn’t make better use of my knowledge.
- Who were the Alumbrados?
- They were a sect who flourished at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Essentially they had their roots in gnosticism. They believed that they had been given a special grace from God, the “beneficio de Dios”, which rendered them impeccable. Unable to sin, that is, whatever their actions. They preyed on feeble-minded patrons in Seville, especially women.
- And what was their aim?
- To convert the world, of course, as with any sect. But their short-term aspirations were more down-to-earth. They indulged in promiscuous sexuality, as they didn’t believe that they would be held accountable for their activities.
- Do you have any reason to think that research into these topics could have any repercussions today?
- None at all. The sect was fairly short-lived, thanks to the intervention of the Holy Office.
- The Inquisition?
- Exactly. Those who didn’t recant publicly were tortured. And most of the leaders either fled or were burnt to death. They posed a serious danger to the faithful for no more than perhaps five years.
- So your assumption is that the topic of his research had no bearing on Mr Speirs’s death?
- I am completely certain of it, and I am astonished that you should be wasting your time in this way.
- Do you have any alternative suggestions?
- As I said, the boy was rather secretive. Have you inquired into how he spent his evenings? There are many ways to get oneself into trouble in Madrid these days. Have you considered whether he may have run foul of a drugs dealer or pimp?
- Do you have any reason to suspect that possibility?
- He was a young man, Mr Davis, what more can I say? Is there anything else I can help you with?
- I’d be very grateful if you could supply me with similar letters of introduction to the libraries.
- How would that help you?
- The victim communicated certain reference numbers to a contact in England before his death. I feel it would be sensible to check them out, even if I’m not really qualified to understand the material.
- Maybe I can help you, if you let me have the references.
- I appreciate that, but I should really take a look independently. I’m sure you understand.
- Very well. Give me a few moments and I will prepare them. But please remember to call on me should you need any help whatsoever.

Jorge is in the office when I return.

- How did it go with Don Vicente?
- Well enough. He didn’t give the impression of caring a jot for the victim. In fact, he seemed more irritated with him than anything else. But he gave me an introduction to the libraries.
- I think that could have been arranged without his help. This is a murder investigation, you recall.
- Well, there’s no harm in going through their normal routine if it creates less of a disturbance. Did you find out anything new?
- Not about the body. But the boy’s hostel has been in touch. While his bed was being made this morning, they came across an exercise book under the mattress. It has some of his notes. Would you like to take a look?

Don Vicente’s letters are like a magic wand. I am issued with a researcher’s card within minutes of presenting them. It is almost as if I was expected. Armed with the postcards, I start ordering the books. While I wait for them to be retrieved, I start to peruse Richard’s notebook. It is laid out more like a diary, with the story of each day of his stay. If his account is to be believed, then we can rule out Don Vicente’s suspicions about the student’s nocturnal activities. He seems to have done nothing more exciting in the evenings than to ring up his girlfriend for a chat before filling in his diary and going to bed. Scattered among the pages are references to the documents and books he consulted. I check them against the postcards. There is only one discrepancy. The last entry in his diary includes a National Archive document which didn’t feature in the postcards. Perhaps he came across it after he sent the others. Below the reference is a small drawing, which looks like an altar or decorative marble table. I get the impression that this is a copy of part of the contents of the final document. Don Vicente is mentioned only once. Richard says “I saw Don V today. He seems suspicious. I think he knows about the Beneficio de Dios”. This makes no sense to me at all. Of course Don Vicente knows about it. He was quite happy to explain it to me this morning.

The first item to be brought to me is a substantial ledger, a copybook of all correspondence between the local inquisitor in Seville and the General Inquisitor in Madrid, between 1592 and 1595. I immediately realise that I’m in way over my head. The script is tiny and full of unfamiliar abbreviations. And although the letters are arranged logically enough in date order, I have no idea what I’m looking for. I scan the pages blankly until the second document is retrieved. This is a hardback printed book, a guidebook to heresies. Not quite contemporary with the Inquisition letters, this book dates from 1650. I look through to find the entry for Alumbrados, which turns out to tell me little more than I learnt from Don Vicente. If it wasn’t that I would feel very foolish I would return the books right now and head up to the Archive. But, so as to make it appear that I’ve properly scrutinised the documents in front of me, I decide to wait half an hour, filling in the time by re-reading the postcards. The first is the only card with a date on. And even then he got it wrong. 15/06/94. Either his zeroes look very like nines or he’s about ten years out of date.

Eventually I return the documents and take a taxi to the Northern suburb where the national Archive is located. Here again I have no problem establishing my credentials and am soon unbundling the sheafs of papers from the same time period. The last decade of the sixteenth century, which is when I assume the Alumbrados were thriving. At last I have something in front of me that can understand. The letter on top of the first bundle appears to be an original, rather than a copy, of a letter form the Sevillian Inquisitor, Alonso de Hoces, to his superior in Madrid, asking for guidance. I check whether I can make photocopies of documents, but am told that their extreme age prohibits such an idea. So I start to copy it out longhand, trying to understand it as I go. Alonso seems to be saying that the Beneficio de Dios is causing grievous losses to the income of the church and that this, as well as the immorality he has already written about, is another reason why the sect of the alumbrados should be prohibited and its leaders imprisoned. He is waiting impatiently for a response which will allow him to take suitably vigorous action in respect of this threat. Some little niggle at the back of my mind is pushing itself to the fore. My eyes settle on the date of the inquisitor’s letter. It reads “13 junio 1594”. Why does this ring a bell? With a groan I pull the first postcard across the desk again. 15/06/94 refers to fifteenth of June 1594, of course. Why was I so blind? I scan quickly through the bundles of letters in front of me. The letter I’m looking for isn’t there. So it exists only in the copybook which I left behind in the National Library. Dated two days later than this one, and obviously of great significance. If I hurry I can still get back there in time. I pass back the bundles to the attendant, saying that I have something urgent to attend to, but would he be so kind as to keep these to one side, as I’ll need them again tomorrow. A taxi again to the centre of town, with just fifteen minutes to spare before the Library closes.

- I’m afraid it’s not there.
- What do you mean, it isn’t there? I was looking at it only two hours ago.
- I’m very sorry, sir, but the document is not in its normal location. There is nothing I can do.
- Maybe some other researcher has requested to look at it?
- It is also possible that it has been mislaid for the moment. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow…?

A sudden dread feeling grabs the pit of my stomach. This may be worse than I thought. Now I really am sweating, which has nothing to do with the temperature on the streets or in the taxi, as I dash back to secure the documents which I just surrendered back to the attendant in the Archive. By the time I get there, the doors are closed and there is no sign of life. I have a horrible suspicion that the Archive documents too will have mysteriously disappeared by the time I return in the morning. I literally slap my palm against my head at my stupidity. I was the only one who knew about Richard Speirs’s references until I obligingly came along and recreated the trail for whoever wished to follow it. Of course, my suspicions fly straight to Don Vicente, but it scarcely matters to me now who has the documents. The crashing realisation is that I’ve screwed it all up and have lost what could have been the crucial edge in this investigation. How am I going to explain this to Jorge?

nano part 4 - 5,600 words

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 22:03:59 GMT

As usual, I am ridiculously early for our meeting, but I don’t care. I buy a copy of El Pais, an horchata and a packet of Ducados and sit at the avenue café, between the two lanes of evening traffic, trying to look Spanish. The Ducados bring a tear to my eye. Were they always this strong? But the horchata is deliciously cool and floury in consistency. The milk of crushed tiger-nuts. Why have I never been able to find this in England? The newspaper is just for show, so that I can look over the top of it at the parade of people passing by. The girls with their tartan skirts and sweaters draped over their shoulders. The businessmen without jackets, clutching their oversized purses. Most of the women have a solid earthiness about them that I have always found attractive. Blue jeans and boots seem to be de rigueur. But when I spot Laura I remember why I kept in touch. She is wearing a floaty wrapover dress which drapes alluringly over her slender figure. I feel a visceral tug towards her even before I have properly recognised her.

- Hi monkey-mouth. Great to see you again.
- Martin. I see you’ve lost none of your charm. Have you been here long?
- Not at all. You said you worked nearby?
- My office is round the corner, but I’ve been out of town today.
- You came in specially? I’m very flattered.
- You really haven’t changed a bit.
- Well, it’s only been a couple of years. You look even more like an international jet-setter now. How is the job going?
- I love it. I could never imagine doing anything else at the moment. What happened to you. I thought you had joined the police.
- I did. That’s why I’m over here now. On a case.
- I’m impressed.
- You’re meant to be.
- So you must be very important.
- Not really – they couldn’t spare anybody else. Or else I was the only Spanish speaker they had.
- What are you here for? I mean what is the case you’re working on?
- An English boy was killed a few days ago.
- The one who was found by the roadside? I heard about it.
- Did you also hear that his body disappeared from the hospital mortuary last night.
- Really? Tell me more. But I have to remind you Martin to be careful what you tell me. Remember that I’m a journalist. And friendly confidences can’t stand in the way of a good story.

I am too eager to keep Ros happy to act with even the minimum of professional discretion. In no time at all I bring her up to speed and even drag out the postcards, which are now starting to look a little dog-eared from travelling around in my pockets.

- Martin, seriously speaking now, this is very interesting to me. Would you mind if I call my editor and see whether I can take this on as an assignment?
- Oh, I’m not sure about that Ros. I don’t think the Madrid police were keen on the lost body being advertised.
- It wouldn’t be that sort of article, Martin. I don’t work for a daily paper, so we would only publish after the dust has settled. I was thinking of a more in-depth piece. Looking into the background of the boy and his contacts here.
- Let me consult with my counterpart here. We can always meet up again tomorrow night if we both get the go-ahead.
- Great.
- To be honest, I was thinking of this more as a social opportunity. I was sure you would whisk me off dancing somewhere.
- Be honest, Martin. You just thought you had to turn up here and I would be tumbling into bed with you.
- I don’t believe you. Why would you ever think that?
- Because you’ve always thought that you were irresistible. Am I right?
- No way. Wrong guy. I’m a champion of modesty and a model of restraint these days. So why did you agree to meet, if you felt that way about me.
- Because I don’t hold it against you. Your clumsiness can be quite endearing. I hope that doesn’t sound patronising.
- No. Just you go ahead, wrecking all of the notions I hold most dear, along with any self-esteem I was still clinging onto.
- And you still talk like an old man, which makes me laugh. Who are you working with at the City Police.
- Detective Suarez. Jorge Suarez.
- I think I know him. He worked on a very famous murder case, involving a gypsy feud. His picture was in all of the papers at the time. I think that will help.
- What do you mean?
- Well. He has enjoyed the spotlight before. He is less likely to have a problem with my tracking your investigation.
- We didn’t say anything about tracking.
- What’s your mobile number?
- I didn’t think to bring a phone. I assumed it wouldn’t work here.
- You will need a phone if we’re going to keep in touch. I have a spare one back at home you can borrow for a few days.
- Is that a sneaky move to get me back to your apartment?
- I was thinking more of giving it you tomorrow night when we meet. Shall we say the same time and place?
- So aren’t we doing anything tonight?
- I’m sorry, Martin, I already had dinner arranged. I thought you just wanted to meet up for coffee. And I need to catch my editor before he leaves. We can do something tomorrow night if you like.
- OK. Not a problem. See you then.

Nano Part 3 - 4684 words - never mind the quality, feel the wordcount

Wed, 03 Nov 2004 21:42:58 GMT

There must be some standard measurement of the adult human frame from pelvis to knee which is used in the design of aircraft seats. Some measurement which I exceed by at least two inches. By way of anaesthetic I make rather too liberal use of the complimentary drinks. But then, I wasn’t expecting to be met at the airport. Strolling out from baggage reclaim in a pleasant haze, it is sheer good luck that I spot the sign being held up for me. “Detective Martin Davis”

- Hello. I am Martin Davis. I didn’t know there would be anybody here to meet me.
- Mister Davis. My name is Jorge. Jorge Suarez from the Homicide Division. We have a car waiting outside. We can drop your cases at your hotel before going to the station.
- That’s fine. Are we going to the Incident Room.
- We are going to my desk. There has been a problem which I need to discuss with you.
- What sort of problem?
- It would be better if we wait until we get there.

Jorge Suarez looks more like an international playboy than a politician. Immaculately groomed, in a suit that looks like it cost more than my entire wardrobe, and a permatan on top of his already olive skin. I saw him glance once at my scuffed shoes. Not judgmental. Just curious and maybe a tad amused.

- We have no body for you to see.
- I don’t really need to see the body. Just the forensic reports.
- I’m sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. There is no body. The body has gone missing.
- I’m sorry. I thought the body was in the morgue at the hospital?
- It was. I saw it there myself two days ago. But when the boy’s parents turned up this morning to formally identify him, the body could not be found.
- What happened to it? Has there been some administrative mistake?
- Our hospitals are not as incompetent as you seem to believe. I wish there was a simple explanation like that. What seems to have happened is that the mortuary attendant who was due to go on duty last night was called by someone claiming to be from the hospital office. He was told that there had been a confusion over the rota and that he was not needed but would still be paid. The hospital denies any such call came from them. As far as the hospital knows, the mortuary was unattended as a result of this man not turning up.
- What about CCTV or other staff in the area?
- We are continuing to investigate, but so far nothing. Now this is where we need your help, Detective Davis.
- You can call me Martin. How can I help you?
- We need to know more about this boy. What was he doing here that was so important?
- As far as I know he was just researching Church History for a dissertation.
- So tell me what you know about him. What kind of person was he? What is his background?
- Well, he’s a student.
- You already said that. What else?
- I’m not really sure. I have the name of his local research supervisor, who we can talk to. I spoke to his girlfriend before I came over here, but she didn’t really tell me much about him.
- What did you ask her?
- Not very much about him, come to think about it. She had received some postcards from him that she wanted to show me.
- You talked to her about postcards?

Suddenly, under his withering gaze, I feel naked and woefully unprepared. I could drag out the postcards, show him the codes and triumphantly proclaim their meaning. But I doubt whether he would be too impressed. Probably they would be self-explanatory to him as well. Also, something in his tone is calling forth some inner obstinacy within me, making me less inclined to share what little information I do have.

- At least I didn’t lose the body. How did you explain that to the parents?
- It is not his parents who are causing the problem. For some reason, the Ministry of the Interior has been calling every hour to ask for a progress report. I think that this boy was better connected than you have let me know so far, detective.
- There are lots of things I don’t understand about this case, Mister Suarez. For example, I have heard nothing about this boy’s studies that sounds at all relevant or interesting save to a handful of scholars. Yet I have reason to believe that the subject of his research was implicated in his death.
- Maybe you would be so good as to share your reasons for that belief.
- But here is the most puzzling thing to my mind. After the boy was killed, I heard that his body was simply dumped by the roadside?
- That is correct.
- So the killers really didn’t care about it being found.
- Apparently not.
- So what has changed since then? Why is the body now so important that they must construct an elaborate plan to get it back? If he had simply gone missing then I would not have been here now. But for him to turn up as a murder victim and then be snatched back from the mortuary. That guarantees a huge amount of attention. Why would someone want that?
- I’m not sure that our killers care how much attention they draw to themselves. That is what both the original dumping and the later disappearance say to me.
- What do you mean?
- That we are dealing with people who are confident of avoiding the consequences of their actions, whatever happens.
- Important people?
- People who are even better connected than this unfortunate young man. Why do you think that his research was significant.

Gratifyingly, the codes on the postcards are as opaque to him as they were to me. I don’t waste the opportunity to lead him through their meaning in much the same way as Father Digby did with me, somehow neglecting to mention the good priest’s role in their unravelling. Am I mistaken in thinking that he is starting to treat me with a shade more respect.

- Then we must certainly speak to his supervisor. I do not know the name, but I will arrange for us to meet with him tomorrow. Now, I can see that you are tired from your journey. I can arrange for you to be taken back to your hotel.
- There is no need. I have made plans for the evening.
- Really? You know people in Madrid?
- I have a friend here. A contact, rather, who may be able to help in this case.
- Should I come with you?
- No. She… er.. has asked that her involvement be kept confidential.
- Ah, a young lady? I understand. Well, then. Have a fruitful evening with your… contact. Might I suggest that we meet here tomorrow morning at around nine.

I am not completely sure why I came up with this particular fabrication. It was going so well up to that point. Now he has drawn entirely the right conclusions for entirely the wrong reasons.

One area where I have been easily able to emulate and even surpass all of the television detectives is in having a personal life that resembles a particularly messy train crash. This seems to come so naturally that it is astonishing to me that the rest of the job can be so tough. Rosalba was one of the early witnesses to my romantic traumas, when I dated her room-mate for one tempestuous month during my stay in Seville. While really fancying Rosalba rather more. Who was at it like knives with an Argentinian tango instructor. For some reason, Rosalba was the one friend from those days who responded to emails and kept in touch.

second tranche - on target at 3334 words - * dross alert *

Tue, 02 Nov 2004 21:12:00 GMT

- Martin, thanks for coming so promptly. I was afraid you might have been out on an assignment.
- No, just catching up on some paperwork.
- Is Sergeant Clarke around? I need to check whether he can spare you for a few days. Something interesting has come in that I feel you might be best suited to deal with.
- The sergeant is out on a case at the moment. But I’m not busy with anything major.
- Hmm. We’ve been contacted by the Spanish police, who are looking for assistance. I’m right in thinking that you’ve spent some time in Spain?
- I was there for a year as part of my degree course. Why? What has happened?
- There’s been a death of a young British student, which they are treating as suspicious. They want us to send someone over to help. Normally we might deal with them over the phone, but it seems as though this chap was quite well-connected.
- Who was he?
- Well, it’s not so much him. His girlfriend is the daughter of a Cabinet Minister. She has been creating a stir, saying that he was in some kind of trouble. I think it might be necessary to interview her before you go, to find out what she is talking about.
- You’re planning to send me? Who with?
- I don’t think we can spare more than one person for this job. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days. I know you’re still fairly new to detective work, but you can always call Sergeant Clarke for advice. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help.

Of course Sergeant Clarke is delighted to find that the first foreign trip in years is going to the least experienced person on his team. He bends over backwards to make sure that all of the logistics are sorted as smoothly as could be. In other words, I have to book my own flight, with the cheapest possible airline, and arrange accommodation over the internet from my own flat. I couldn’t care less. For three glorious days I will be out from under his baleful glare, posing as an international detective shipped in to work on a high-profile case. It takes me a matter of only hours to make sure that all of my friends and nodding acquaintances are aware of this news. Then I buy the fattest guidebook to Madrid I can find, in case I get the chance to check out the sights. Despite the occasional niggle of doubt that I’m not taking this quite seriously enough, I email Rosalba, the only one of my Spanish friends to have moved up to Madrid, to arrange to meet on the night of my arrival. With my social plans coming along nicely, I set up an interview in London with Laura Edgworth, the victim’s girlfriend.

- Mister Davis, thank you for coming to see me. I was starting to worry that no-one was taking Martin’s death seriously except for me.
- We’re doing everything we can to establish what happened to your boyfriend. In fact, I’m heading out there in a few days time to work with the Spanish police.
- Great. Can I come out with you?
- I really don’t think that will be possible. But I’ll be happy to keep you informed of our progress. Can you tell me what made you think your boyfriend was in trouble even before his body was found?
- Well, we spoke every day by telephone and he didn’t say anything about any problems. But now I think that he was just being cautious about talking over the phone.
- Why do you think that?
- He mentioned a couple of times that his research was going well. But when I asked him about it, he just clammed up and seemed to change the subject. He said “I’ve sent you some postcards, which I think you’ll enjoy”
- And did the postcards arrive?
- Yes, there were six of them. They were all posted on the same day, but he wrote different times on them, as though to show me their order.
- What else did he write on them?
- I’ve got them here. You see that the main message is just a bland greeting in every case. But on the edges of each one, there’s some kind of code written.
- His writing is a nightmare – can you read what it says?
- The first two start with the letters BNM and then a series of numbers. The other four all start with AHN Inq Leg and more different numbers.
- Have you any idea what the codes might refer to?
- Not at all. I was hoping you might be able to help.
- Nothing springs to mind. Would you mind if I took the postcards with me?
- Can’t you just take notes. I don’t want to lose them.
- I’ll be very careful and I’ll make sure they are returned to you. It’s just that they might contain some other clue that isn’t clear to us now.
- Of course, if you think they’ll help. How are you going to find out what it all means?
- Well, the Spanish police might be able to offer some ideas. But there’s someone I know in London, from way back, who might be able to shed some light. You said on the phone that your boyfriend was researching church history on this visit? I know someone who is something of an expert on that score. He might be able to decipher the codes, if they are connected with Richard’s research. Who was his contact in Madrid?
- He was sponsored by a Don Vicente something. De Galicia, I think it was. He works in the Theology Department of the University of Madrid. To be honest, I don’t think my boyfriend got on very well with him after they met in person.
- What makes you think that?
- It was just a throwaway line. I asked one day whether he would be seeing Don Vicente again and he said “not if I can help it”. You don’t think a Theology professor could be involved in his death, do you? I hadn’t given it a thought until now.
- I certainly think I should talk to this man, if the Madrid police haven’t already interviewed him. Thanks very much for your time and for the information. I’ll take good care of the postcards.
- And don’t keep me in the dark. I’d like to hear how it’s going.

Not so much of a spoilt brat as I had been led to believe. She refrained from mentioning her father even once. But I suppose it wasn’t necessary once she had secured our attention. This detective work is tough though, especially having to maintain a confident and perceptive demeanour while your brain has turned to porridge and all sorts of unethical and downright distracting thoughts are swimming around in your mind. How long will her period of mourning last? Will she ever love again? Could she possibly go for someone like me? Does she always answer the door dressed like that, when she knows exactly what time her visitor is arriving? Come to think of it, did she seem at all distressed by the death of her boyfriend, or just mildly irritated that it should have happened to her of all people? Far from clarifying matters for me, the visit to the young madam has just layered clouds on top of my mental fog. The only redeeming grace is that I have a lead of sorts, a set of clues that I can exercise my crossword expertise on, worrying them like a terrier with a rat until they yield up their secret. Or I could take them to someone who will know better than I do what the hell it is all about.

There’s still time as I board the tube. Still time for inspiration to strike me, all the way out to the far end of the line, where I follow the old, familiar route to the place I spent my formative years. There’s a new wing, I notice, in garish white stone, which will take centuries to blend properly with the original frontage. But some things about this place, I am confident, will never change.

- Father Cuthbertson. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me at such short notice. Well, without any notice at all really.
- Good afternoon, Martin. If you had come merely as a former pupil I might well have had you wait a while. However, I understand that you are here in an official capacity, am I correct?
- I am here on official business. But I only mentioned that because I thought you might not remember me.
- I remember you well enough. What shall I call you now? Is it Detective Davis?
- Martin is fine with me. May I call you Digby?
- Father Cuthbertson is fine with me. How can I help you?
- I have to fly out to Madrid on Wednesday to help with a murder enquiry. The victim was researching Spanish Church History and left some clues as to what he was looking at before he was killed.
- You have some reason to suppose that his death was connected with his research.
- Very slender links, at the moment. These are some postcards that he sent to his girlfriend from Madrid. She noticed these inscriptions on the edges but has no idea what they refer to. To be frank, neither have I.
- What exactly persuaded you that you might be equipped for the role of a detective, Martin?
- Why do you ask? Are these codes so obvious?
- Where was the victim conducting his research?
- In the National Library, I believe. You know the large building off the…
- I know the National Library. I thought you had some knowledge of Spanish, Martin.
- I can get by. That’s why they have chosen me to go out there. What are you getting at?
- The National Library in Madrid. Have you ever heard that referred to as the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid?
- You mean…?
- Abbreviated to BNM in academic references.
- And the numbers?
- I’m not intimately familiar with their cataloguing system, but, let’s see… BNM 12645.867 might be either a classification or a shelf location. Either way, I am fairly confident that were you to present this reference in the library, the staff there would retrieve some specific manuscript or printed volume.
- That’s astonishing. I knew you would be able to help me. What about the longer references. Are they from the National Library too.
- Highly unlikely. AHN, if my memory serves me correctly, would refer to the National Historical Archive, the Archivo Historico Nacional, housed somewhere in the North of Madrid. I’ve never actually been there, but I gather it’s an impressive collection of documents.
- And the other words? It says AHN Inq Leg.
- Yes. Maybe not quite so self-evident. I wouldn’t necessarily expect you to know that there are four major record collections in the Archive. But what word might Inq stand for?
- Inquire? Inquisition?
- Exactly, all of the records of the Holy Inquisition have been collected into that location. Even four hundred years on, they haven’t all been properly sorted and catalogued. Just assembled into loosely related bundles.
- I should know the word for bundle I suppose.
- I’m not sure it’s in common usage, but the word they use is legajo. So again, this thoughtful but unfortunate boy has provided a complete set of references to the documents he thought significant.
- That’s incredibly helpful, Father Dig… er.. Cuthbertson.
- Are you sure? I find it hard to believe that someone could become a murder victim just for unearthing a secret, however fascinating, from the Inquisition archives. What do you intend to do when you go to Madrid.
- Well, I’m trying to keep a flexible approach.
- So, no real plan?
- I have to interview his research supervisor, for a start. You don’t know someone called Don Vicente de Galicia by any chance?
- In the Universidad Complutense? Department of Theology?
- That’s right.
- Never heard of him. Relax, Martin, you were always a joy to tease. I know of him, of course, but our paths never crossed. At the time I was researching the Alumbrados, there were two main camps in Hispanic Studies. Don Vicente was part of the old guard, which had its origins in Franco’s regime. The rest of the global Hispanic academics tended to leave them to their own devices. Don’t look so surprised. All academic communities are riven with feuds to some extent. Intellectual vanity is a very seductive route to damnation, as I’m sure you’re aware.
- Is that a dig at me, Father? For choosing the academic life rather than the priesthood?
- Not at all, Martin. Forgive my amusement. I had forgotten your propensity to rewrite history.
- Meaning what?
- That you now believe yourself to have rejected the priesthood, rather than the other way around.

How could I have forgotten? How every conversation with Father Digby of any duration at all leads to this sort of shock to the system, the bucket of cold water waking up some sleeping part of your psyche. He knows exactly the effect he is having. He calculates the impact and timing of every bombshell. My mind rewinds to the time of our last encounter and finds that he is, of course, correct. I have just insulated myself from this truth with my own more palatable legend.

- I’ve just realised what I’m missing. This place was always full of noise. Are the boys on vacation?
- The junior seminary is closed now. We took the belated decision that it was better not to seduce the little ones with our sports facilities and swimming pool at the age of eleven.
- Like me, you mean.
- We were losing too many along the way for it to be worth the investment. Better to wait for them to grow up a bit, decide what they really want out of life and then let them make an informed choice once they are properly of age.
- At twenty-one?
- At thirty-five if I had my way.
- Didn’t the Jesuits favour getting hold of the child as early as possible.
- The Jesuits favoured many things of dubious merit, but I think their founder was often misquoted on the subject of seven-year-olds.

Nano Part 1 - 877 words

Tue, 02 Nov 2004 11:49:04 GMT

If Richard Speirs had died in his sleep, nobody would have been very much surprised. A hole-in-the-heart baby, who had been in and out of hospital for most of his life, it was a surprise to those who knew him that he had survived to the age of twenty-one. A delicate child, with an intellectual bent, this research trip to Madrid was one of his first ventures abroad, which had filled Richard himself with nervous excitement and those who loved him with a substantial amount of trepidation. Fully justified on both counts, as it turned out.

If the cleaner in his modest hostel had come into his room, assuming him to be out for the day, only to find he had passed away in his sleep, then she might well have fainted or screamed. But when the news got back to England no-one could have been totally surprised. Grief-stricken, yes. Bitterly sad that such a gentle soul had been lost to them. But not surprised. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the way things happened at all.

His body was found dumped about one hundred kilometres north-west of Madrid, beside a main highway, with no attempt at hiding it or removing his passport or other belongings from his person. Although the cause of death was quickly established as heart failure, the coroner noted that his arms and legs showed signs of severe restraint, such as by ropes or metal shackles. Suspecting foulplay, the local police enlisted the aid of the Madrid police, because of the victim being a foreigner. The Madrid police contacted Scotland Yard. And Scotland Yard searched their national police database to find an officer with some knowledge of Spanish who they could dispatch to Madrid to help the Spanish police with their enquiries.

At least I guess that is what happened. The first I knew of Richard Speirs was when the Chief Inspector sent a message for me to drop whatever I was doing (drinking coffee, doing the Guardian crossword) and skip along sharpish to his office.

Inspector Morse has a lot to answer for. For one thing, he and his ilk (rugged unconventional tv detectives who always got their man) distracted me from my undergraduate studies to the extent that I barely scraped a 2:2 in Spanish and Law, effectively scuppering my plan to continue the student life with a post-graduate degree. But worse, they collectively convinced me that a reflective, analytical disposition should not automatically debar a person from service with Her Majesty’s constabulary. True, the graduate entry literature did make it clear that however splendid a detective you were destined to be, your first year would be spent on the beat, getting a feel for “real” police work. But, somehow I just assumed that this couldn’t apply across the board, that there would be some waiver or get-out for those who showed exceptional promise during the selection process. Surely there were crimes out there just begging to be solved. What was the point of putting a skinny weakling like me in a line of officers restraining a football crowd or on pub patrol at throwing-out time? Eleven months of mind-numbing foot-slogging later, I had almost forgotten my reasons for joining when I got the details of my transfer to CID in this North London station. The elation was short-lived. How come Morse and his colleagues never seem to have to fill out a single piece of paperwork. They just breeze around, sipping tea in drawing-rooms, downing pints by way of recreation and somehow puzzle out their mysteries while barely setting foot in the police station. There are plenty of US shows where the hero is told “I want a full written report on my desk by tomorrow morning”. But I’d always assumed that to be a punishment. Of course it’s quite possible that the paperwork I get landed with is a punishment of sorts. The other thing that the graduate recruitment officers didn’t mention is the amount of resentment among the regular officers towards those on the Accelerated Promotion Scheme for Graduates. MY CID sergeant spent twenty years getting to where he is (one rung above me) and wastes no opportunity to remind me of this fact. He can keep me busy for days writing up a twenty-minute interview with a burglary victim. If anything remotely interesting happens, he and his pals will take the trip themselves. Thankfully, while they are away, I can furtively pull out the Guardian from my case and have a quick glance and maybe tackle a bit of the crossword.

There is absolutely no truth in the rumour, propagated by graffiti and crude cartoons in the station lavatories, that Inspector Deare and I are enjoying carnal relations. He’s just not my type. For one thing, he’s quite a bit older than me. And for another, he has those dangly bits between his legs that always get in the way of me fancying a person. However, he seems to have taken quite a shine to me, which I put down to tokenism. I am the station’s token intellectual, allowing him to believe in his own PR script about the diversity of opportunities in today’s force. If I was black or disabled, or preferably both, he might like me even better.

End of Story

Mon, 24 May 2004 19:47:59 GMT

So - a word of explanation is in order. The good people at Zokutou, that august spinoff from nanowrimo, alerted me to a BBC competition where the requirement was to write the ending of a short story which had been started by a famous literary figure. Someone, maybe rainsinger, even said that she thought the Alexei Sayle story, Imitating Katherine Walker, might be right up my street (did she mean that deception was my speciality?). Anyway it has to be submitted this week, so in true nanowrimo style I've stopped procrastinating (I can do that tomorrow) and cranked it out. Anyone who is still working towards his or her entry is advised not to look behind the cut, especially if they are doing the Alexei one too. Hope you like it.

No amount of head-scratching over the next few days could show Rory a way out of his predicament. Lord knows, he had tried to deflect Byron, by saying that Katherine wasn’t keen on meeting new people, that she worked irregular hours and was hard to pin down and so on. All objections were swept aside in Byron’s inimitable way, so that Rory found himself having committed to a soiree the following week, with Katherine Walker an obligatory attendee.

He looked in vain to his partner for sympathy. Jenny just laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You got yourself into this, darling. I can’t wait to see how you’re going to dig yourself out”.
“I don’t know how you can be so callous. It was you who wanted them to leave in the first place.”

One thing was clear. There was no way in which the simple truth was going to serve his purpose. To tell his lifelong friend that they simply hadn’t wanted him around was more than Rory’s delicate makeup would allow. No. Only an even bigger lie would do. But which one? To say that Katherine had moved out would be an invitation to Rory and Danuta to move back in.

Jenny finally came to the rescue over the weekend, with a suggestion so outrageous that Rory recoiled in horror. Of course she only meant it as a joke, delivered in that sly, sarcastic way of hers. But the more Rory thought about it, the less he could see any alternative. The Big Lie started to take shape in his mind and he spent a few sleepless nights, kept awake with sparks of inspiration as to the detailed logistics of how to execute his plan.

The soiree was set for Wednesday. Rory had to act before then. Byron was planning to stop by on Tuesday morning to pick up some books. Well, then. Tuesday it had to be. On Tuesday morning, after Jenny had left for work, Rory called in sick and began his preparations.

When Byron walked into the hall, he surprised Rory emerging from the bathroom, hastily pulling closed a large towelling robe. Below the robe Rory’s legs were clad in what looked for all the world like black silk stockings.

“Sorry, mate. I didn’t disturb you did I?”
“No, erm, not at all. I’d forgotten you were coming around, that’s all”
“Are you feeling ok? You look a bit strange, if you don’t mind me saying. And what’s that on your lip?”
“Oh, nothing, I just ..er..cut myself shaving”. Rory used the back of his hand to wipe the bright scarlet lipstick from his mouth, but only succeeded in spreading a lurid smear across his cheek.
“Well, don’t mind me. I’ll be in and out in no time.” said Byron, in a tone of rising alarm.
“I’ll get your case out. It’s just that the room’s a bit messy”

But Byron was already at the door, staring open-mouthed at the vast array of women’s clothes, shoes and lingerie spread out across the bed. With Rory tugging feebly at his shoulder, Byron walked further into the room and picked up one of the polaroids scattered around among the clothes.
“Is this Katherine?” A pause while the penny dropped. “Hang on a minute, this is you, isn’t it?”
A feeble nod from Rory, whose chin was sinking down to his chest.
“So what’s the story, mate, do you get your kicks by trying on Katherine’s clothes?”
“I don’t even know how to tell you this, Byron. You see, I am Katherine Walker”.

Then it all came out in a blurted rush. The lifelong, scrupulously-concealed obsession with women’s clothes. The fetish clubs and experimentation, leading to the development of this complete alternative persona. The tantrums and arguments with Jenny when she found out. And her gradual acceptance of this side of his personality. And finally his inability to express himself via this safe outlet while Byron and Danuta were occupying his sanctuary in the spare room.
“So you see, that’s why I needed you to move out. I just couldn’t suppress it any longer. And in a way, I told you the truth. Katherine Walker did need your room.”
“I don’t know, mate. It’s a lot to take in all at once. I still can’t decide whether you’re just winding me up or not.”
This was Rory’s cue for the coup de grace. He took a few steps backwards, then let his robe fall open to reveal himself in his full glory. Byron’s goggling eyes scanned slowly upwards, taking in the thigh-high black stockings, the lace-trimmed suspenders and belt, the skimpy satin briefs and the rococo red-and-black basque, purchased especially for the occasion. Byron gulped, blinked, made his excuses and left.

“Your friend has been around today” said Jenny on Wednesday evening. “It looks like he picked up all of his cases. He left the spare keys behind. And there’s a note for you on the table. Seems like we might not be entertaining tonight after all”.

Byron’s note was brief and to the point. Of course Byron himself was a broad-minded man of the world and didn’t take the slightest exception to the previous day’s revelations. It was just that Danuta had suddenly decided that she had seen enough of London and wanted to get back to Croatia for a while. So thanks for all the help and of course he would continue to keep in touch.

“I feel humiliated and dirty” said Rory at last.
“So it’s not all bad, then?” said Jenny.
“To think that I’ve probably lost my best pal just because I couldn’t be honest with him.”
“Look on the bright side. We’ve still got all of the booze and nibbles that we laid in. And we’ve got something to celebrate.”
“I suppose they aren’t going to come back to us in a hurry.”
“It’s more than that. You’ve managed to connect with your feminine side. And I want to see you in that basque.”
“You have to be kidding. I’m going to burn the thing.”
“Come on, honey, just for me…”

The Hostage - Last Bit

Wed, 28 Jan 2004 23:34:59 GMT

- Father Michael, how nice to see you again. Thank you for coming over so promptly.
- Delighted to have a reason to visit the place again. Message did sound rather urgent.
- Ah, yes. There is quite a pressing matter we need to talk about. But before I begin, I need your absolute assurance that you will not interrupt me while I am speaking, either to confirm or deny what I am saying And especially not to give me any confirmation. Do you understand? Not so much as a nod of the head.
- I think I understand. But wh…. Sorry, I’ll just listen.
- Good. There will be time afterwards for you to say your piece, but only once we take certain…ah…precautions.

- Fine.
- Now I asked you here to discuss the removal of the Blessed Sacrament from St Edmunds a few days ago, which action I attribute to you. I am looking away from you deliberately at the moment. Please compose your face so as to disguise any alarm or fear before I continue. The reasons for my deduction are fairly flimsy and circumstantial, but would certainly be enough for Bishop Cahill to hang you out to dry. Unless you would like to spend the rest of your priestly days as an airport chaplain, I suggest you just continue to listen and entrust yourself to my intervention. The clue you gave in your message was the clipped speech pattern, which I remembered from your time here. You didn’t trust yourself to write a kidnap note because of your distinctive florid handwriting style. But that note was pasted together from sections of your local free advertiser paper. I was able to replicate it from last week’s edition. And all stuck on with thick white school glue. I remembered hearing glowing reports of the work you’ve been doing with the children at St John’s Primary School. All of which would have counted for nothing, had it not been that I could clearly remember your stance with regard to the Reserved Sacrament. You were one of only six students in the past forty years to react with outrage to the very concept. And you were the only one in all of that time to ask about the doctrinal and practical consequences that would ensue in a hostage situation, such as we have at the moment. Now I can sense that you’re bursting to tell me things. For your own protection, let us get onto a more formal footing. Please repeat after me, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned….”
- Bless me Father, for I have sinned…
- It has been … how long since your last confession?

* * *

- Father Digby.
- Ambrose. How nice to see you again. Two visitations in a week. My standing with the other members of staff will be riding high.
- I’m here to tell you what you already know. That the hosts have been returned to St Edmunds. They were found in a little stack behind the Tabernacle this morning.
- And Father Norbert is sure they weren’t there all along? You know how forgetful we old people can get.
- Father Norbert is adamant on the point. And has evidence to back it up.
- Really?
- Yes. It seems that although the correct number of hosts seems to have been returned, four of them are not from the batch that was taken.
- How does he know that?
- It seems that the wafers he uses incorporate a simple pattern, a slightly raised cross. Four of the returned hosts were completely plain. For all we know they may be unconsecrated and four of the original hosts may still be at large.
- Ambrose, I think I can set your mind at rest on these points without betraying any confidences. As I suspected, the thief was intent on making a doctrinal point rather than merely causing embarrassment to the Church. From the day on which he took the hosts he consumed one of their number each day, with all due reverence. That left a shortfall of four wafers, which he was keen to see restored, once I had convinced him of the desirability of their restitution to St Edmunds.
- What did you have him do.
- I assisted him in a practical manner. As I say a daily mass for the nuns attached to the seminary, I merely consecrated an extra four wafers, which I gave to him to make up the numbers. I was unaware of any difference in pattern and he doesn’t seem to have noticed it either.
- Digby, you realise that you’re going to have to tell me this person’s name.
- We have an agreement, Ambrose, which I couldn’t break even should I wish to.
- But you know that under canon law you owe a duty of obedience to your Bishop. What if I should simply command that you divulge the priest’s name, for the greater good of the Church, irrespective of any agreement we had.
- Then I would have to tell you that my obligation to you under canon law is overridden by an even greater and more compelling obligation on me as a priest.
- Meaning what?
- The confidentiality of the sacrament of confession.
- Where does confession come into it, Digby?
- Every word of admission and explanation given to me on this matter was given under the disciplines of the sacrament of penance. Even were you to have recourse to the rack and flame of the Holy Inquisition, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you a word of what passed between us.
- Digby, I know what you’ve done. You took his admissions under the guise of confession precisely so that I could not force you to divulge anything.
- Ambrose, sometimes you are so astute I think you may yet make Cardinal.

The Hostage - Pt 2

Tue, 13 Jan 2004 00:04:04 GMT

Bishop Ambrose Cahill is not in the best of humours. On the way to the seminary he is sorting through budget submissions in the back of his official car, in preparation for a long meeting back in the palace this afternoon. He is vexed to find that he has left behind the briefing document prepared by his assistant. It must be sitting on his desk, where by rights he should be sitting now himself, instead of chasing round the country like this. In the absence of the summary, he is trying to get to grips with the detailed submissions, which are making his head spin. He has never had a great grasp of figures, his forte being more in the field of social engineering, the cut and thrust of church politics and diplomacy. Now, having achieved most of his life’s ambitions, he feels he should be entitled to sit back and relax somewhat. But the work of the church grinds on and he is finding himself with an ever-increasing load of frankly unpalatable tasks, many of which he is unable to delegate.
- Did you want something, your Grace?
- No, nothing, I’m fine.
He has been caught out by the driver while craning his neck to catch a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror, for lack of any other reflective surface to use. He is quietly content at the way the hair on the side of his head is turning to silvery grey. Distinguished, he repeats to himself, as though imagining a compliment being paid to him by some admirer.

The worst aspect of his current aggravation is that he knows he must suppress any trace of it if he is to secure the assistance he needs.

- Father Digby. It has been far too long.
- Ambrose. I’m not so hard to find, surely.
- I was always sorry that we couldn’t persuade you to take a more active role in diocesan management. You know that you have the respect of the clergy throughout the area.
- Which might have dissipated had I become their overseer.
- It seems such a waste of your talents for you still to be stuck in this place, with a brain like yours.
- I think we have had similar discussions several times before. I’m afraid that I simply don’t have any ambition that you would recognise as such. Maybe you were given my quota. What brings you here, Ambrose? I’m sure that it can’t be anything trivial.
- Do you remember the desecration that took place ten years ago at St Patrick’s Church?
- I remember. The Sacrament was stolen for use in a Black Mass. The details were posted on the Internet for all to see and the diocese received a well-deserved reprimand from the Holy See for mishandling the situation.
- We did what we thought best at the time. You may not be aware that I was the one advising Bishop Thomas on how best to proceed.
- Yes, I think I was aware of that.
- Digby, a similar incident occurred two days ago in St Edmunds.
- Father Norbert’s parish.
- Exactly. Didn’t the two of you attend the English College together?
- We were contemporaries, certainly. What exactly happened.
- Well, I’m sure you know that Father Norbert’s views on liturgy and canon law show a certain…inertia with regard to change. His is the last parish in the diocese still to have traditional Benediction every week, latin hymns and all. He was the last priest to turn the altar to face the congregation and has fought a rearguard action against receiving Communion in the hand. He even tried to resist the introduction of the sign of peace. Said he didn’t think people shaking hands in church showed appropriate reverence for the Sacrament.
- You didn’t come here to give me a litany of complaints against Father Norbert.
- It’s background, Father. And it may be a factor in why his church was targeted.
- You think he was singled out?
- This is not a normal desecration, as far as I can tell. It smacks more of someone trying to make a point. And if you were aiming to criticise the backwardness of certain aspects of the church, what better person could you target than the most backward-looking priest in the whole diocese?
- Let me ask you again. What exactly happened?
- Father Norbert seems to have ignored many of the changes which have been introduced in recent years in respect of the Reserved Sacrament. At any given point in time, it appears, he is accustomed to leaving a ciborium containing anything up to forty or fifty consecrated hosts in the Tabernacle on the side altar of St Edmunds.
- Outside of the Easter Triduum?
- Yes. Just as a matter of normal routine. He has been keeping a stock waiting ready for sick communion or in case of running short at Sunday Mass.
- I thought that this question had been resolved years ago.
- So did we all. Father Norbert decided that he knew better than the Council of Bishops on this matter. That is a disciplinary matter which will be addressed separately.
- So someone broke into the Tabernacle and removed the hosts.
- It gets worse. There was no need for anyone to break into the church or the Tabernacle. The church was open, but unattended, during a time set aside for veneration of the Sacrament for several hours before the weekly Benediction service. The Tabernacle was unlocked. One host was on display in the Monstrance. That was taken, as were an estimated thirty more hosts from the ciborium in the Tabernacle.
- I’m sorry. Are you saying that the altarware was left behind?
- Yes. None of the gold was touched. Only the hosts.
- So you suspect Satanism again?
- That would have been my first thought. But we’ve had to rule that out.
- Because?
- Because of a note left behind in the Tabernacle.
- What did it say?
- I’ve brought it to show you. It would be comical if the situation wasn’t so serious. It looks like a ransom note from a B movie. Look, you can see each word has been cut out of a newspaper and pasted on.
- Would you read it out loud for me please?
- You can read it clearly enough yourself
- Please just humour me.
- Shouldn’t Keep God In A Box. Will Be In Touch.
- Thank you.
- Why was that necessary?
- Why do you think that newspaper cuttings were used?
- Some melodramatic impulse?
- Any other possibilities?
- So it would be deniable once the person was caught.
- Or?
- Digby, this isn’t a schoolroom. If you have a better suggestion, please let me hear it.
- I was thinking more that the person might do it to avoid detection. That he or she might have sufficiently distinctive handwriting to give the game away.
- And no access to a typewriter.
- Fair point. And I asked you to read it out loud so that I could catch something of the cadence of the speech. There’s something peculiar about the diction.
- Enlighten me.
- Loss of the pronouns. Surely most people would say “You shouldn’t keep God in a box” and “I” or “We” will be in touch?
- Perhaps. Do you think you can help me Digby?
- I thought that was what I was doing.
- I mean can you take this on? Track down who did it?
- Have you a clear idea why you want to identify the thief? Do you know what to do once you find him or her?
- I think you can stop saying she and her all the time Digby. I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with a male. Specifically, I think we are dealing with a headstrong young priest or trainee, possibly even one of your students. Someone who wants to cause severe embarrassment to the church hierarchy.
- Which of your many assumptions do you want me to start dismantling first?
- I’m open to correction. But I do want this matter to be cleared up quickly. I dread to think what might happen next.
- I think your dread may be mainly of suffering that embarrassment you mentioned. What about the Sacrament itself. God held hostage. What are your feelings about that?
- It’s an absolutely abhorrent thought. I would hate to see a headline like that in the tabloid press.
- Again, Ambrose, I have to question your priorities in this matter. The important thing surely is what happens to the Blessed Sacrament rather than who knows about the situation.
- Absolutely. I didn’t mean to imply anything different. Let’s just say it’s best in every respect if this matter is cleared up without delay.
- And how exactly do you think I can help?
- By doing what you do best. Thinking. Considering the little evidence we have available and pondering on who might have done such a thing. All you need is to give me a name. I can take it from there. And it doesn’t have to be a case that would stand up in court. The balance of probability, as assessed by Father Digby Cuthbertson, is quite good enough for me.
- I assume you haven’t involved the police?
- There’s no surer way of tipping off the press. No. I would rather not inform the police at all. What would we tell them? From their perspective, someone walked into an open church and stole some scraps of bread while ignoring altarware worth thousands of pounds. I doubt that they would take it terribly seriously.
- What would you see as a good outcome?
- In the best of all possible worlds? If I could, I would roll back time so that this had never happened. I can’t see a good outcome from where we are now.
- So return of the hosts to Saint Edmunds would be an acceptable solution?
- Do you think they may still be intact?
- I think that it’s highly likely that our perpetrator holds the Blessed Sacrament in even greater reverence than Father Norbert.
- Digby, if you know something or suspect someone already, it is your absolute duty to inform me now.
- I know nothing more than you have told me and shown me, Ambrose. But I will only give the matter any further consideration provided you release me from any obligation to give you a name.
- That can’t happen, Digby. Something like this cannot go unpunished.
- I thought you wanted to roll back time.
- What do you mean?
- If the hosts are restored to their proper home, and the public is unaware of their temporary disappearance, then time has effectively been rolled back and there is nothing to punish. Saving the small disciplinary matter of bringing Father Norbert’s practices in line with the rest of his priestly brethren.
- Digby, you’re going to drive me to distraction.
- Thank you, Ambrose. I take that as your full agreement to my conditions.

The Hostage - part 1, all comments gratefully received

Thu, 08 Jan 2004 21:21:32 GMT

Father Digby Cuthbertson is relishing his role as a curmudgeonly old man. He has been preparing for this position all his life. His body, mind and spirit are now finally, in his seventies, perfectly matched to each other. He has blotted out the memory of his infancy and childhood entirely, so that he finds it as difficult as his students to imagine that he ever ran around in short trousers or climbed trees. If he ever talks of his youth, what he means is his intellectual formation at the seminary in Cork, followed by those blissful years at the English College in Rome, with no responsibilities other than the acquisition of knowledge. Now he is so much a part of the furniture at the De La Salle Seminary that, at the beginning of each academic year, the seminary’s course directors automatically construct their timetable around Digby’s sessions of Dogmatic Theology and Church History. These have been fixed in their current timeslots for so long that it is unthinkable that they could ever be moved. If the priests in this Diocese have one thing in common with each other, it is the memory of Dogmatic Theology with Father Cuthbertson on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

One might think that after forty years of teaching the same subject, Father Digby might be prone to running through his lessons on autopilot. Not so. It never fails to astonish and petrify his students that he engages afresh with every class that is entrusted to him, not only memorising all of their names but also seemingly committing to his awesome memory every one of their utterances, whether trivial or profound.
- Mr Stephens suggests that for an Atheist to maintain the non-existence of God, in the absence of proof of God’s existence or non-existence, is a matter of Faith rather than of reason. Now those of you who were paying attention three weeks ago may remember this same Mr Stephens suggesting that it was perfectly rational for us to deduce that the Loch Ness monster does not exist because of the lack of reliable evidence to the contrary. Would anyone like to help Mr Stephens to square this particular circle? Would Mr Stephens like to retract either of his assertions?

It is, feels Father Digby, rather a good life. In between his scant teaching hours, he fills a part-time role as the warden of the Old Library, to which few staff and even fewer students ever venture. There he can follow the threads of the questions which have exercised his mind for years. Were the Gnostic, Illuminist and Alumbrado movements completely separate heresies or did they have the connective tissue of a shared philosophical approach? And, because he makes the rules in the library, he can roll himself a cigarette, with infinite patience and precision, to smoke while he is ruminating on the results of his quest.

- Father Digby, I’m so pleased I’ve found you.
- Where else would I be at this time of the day?
- We tried your room first.
- We?
- Father Tim and I have been looking for you. Tim took a call from the Palace. Apparently the Bishop needs to see you urgently.
- Really? Then the call was to advise us of his imminent visit? How kind.
- Erm. I think the idea was to get you to visit His Grace.
- Nonsense. I’m sure that Ambrose would suggest no such thing. If there is a matter of great urgency to be addressed, which cannot be dealt with entirely by telephone, I’m sure he will make use of his chauffered car service to come here in person, rather than expect a man of my years to find his way to the city. You did say it was urgent?
- That’s what Father Tim was told.
- Then I’m sure we can expect His Grace’s imminent arrival.

Done Deal - 50,333 words

Sun, 30 Nov 2003 00:08:27 GMT

Had to use the winners icon at least once.

Finally embraced the nano spirit and churned out garbage when inspiration deserted. Still all too close to the truth for comfort, can someone please tell me how to write fiction?

Not that 50,333 words gets me far anyway. Just had a publisher respond to me saying "we don't publish short stories" when I'd sent a manuscript of 81,000 words! They said it was "far too short" and they only look at stuff over 90,000. This is the same crew who said 80,000 when I was at 60,000. They'll rue the day, you mark my words.

Finale

Sat, 29 Nov 2003 23:36:47 GMT

Dear Marty,

Now that’s more like it!

Love,

Karen XXX

Epiphany

Sat, 29 Nov 2003 23:33:59 GMT

Dear Karen (again)

I could have kicked myself when I woke up this morning and remembered what I wrote to you yesterday. From what I remember, it was exactly what you must have come to expect from me, self-obsessed and completely focussed on my own needs and desires, without any consideration of you and your perspective. That wasn’t what I meant to write at all and I’m sorry it turned out that way. Let me try again.

Dear Karen,

Thank you for being such a wonderful mother to our children, bringing them up largely unaided to be a joy to both our hearts, with strong ethical values, caring natures and sunny dispositions. Thank you for being the one who attended parents evenings, helped out at coffee mornings, sat through endless governors meetings and built relationships with their teachers. More than that, thank you for being their first teacher, giving them a love of books and learning from way before they started school, to ensure that they both had the best possible start in life.

Thank you for being such a supportive wife to me, for listening patiently to all of my problems, for never complaining when I was sent abroad or genuinely had to work long hours. Thank you for enduring the daily grind of making sure I was fed and had clean, ironed shirts to wear, suits pressed and a clean handkerchief in the pocket. Thank you for giving up your own thoughts of a career to support mine.
Thank you for putting up with my wayward antics, for being so forgiving on so many occasions and for allowing me so many fresh starts and extra chances.

Thank you for maintaining your integrity, for being your own person, unafraid to let me know where you stood on moral issues, for being the one steady, consistent point of reference in a vague and uncertain world. Thank you for staying true to your faith when I attacked it and ridiculed it and blamed it for all the ills of the world in general and my life in particular. Thank you for holding fast to what you knew to be true until I could no longer put it down to pious posturing or childhood conditioning, but had to recognise the true depth of your belief, even though I failed to share it.

I’m sorry to have disappointed you on so many occasions and in so many ways. I’m sorry for hiding the truth from you until you found it out by chance or were told of it by someone else. I’m sorry for keeping secrets from you, from omitting to tell you things you needed to know and for deliberately lying when it suited me to do so. I’m sorry for the gambling, the infidelity, the financial recklessness and the obsessions which have ruled my mind and weakened our bond. I’m sorry to have taken your sense of responsibility for granted and taken advantage of it to escape all responsibility. I’m sorry for having cast you in the role of monitor of my behaviour and for carrying on like a naught schoolboy, just because I could. I’m sorry for making you shoulder all of the burdens of adulthood without my support.

In short, Karen, I am sincerely sorry for all of the wrongs I have done to you, even those which I haven’t remembered and catalogued above. And I am so grateful for all of the ways you have loved, helped and supported me throughout our life together, even if I have not acknowledged more than a fraction of those ways above.

I want you to know that the scales have fallen away from my eyes and I can see clearly, for the first time, just how much you have done for me, and how poorly I have repaid your love. I also want you to know that, even if I could, I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. I appreciate, value and love you just the way you are, even if I never see you again.

I truly hope that I do see you again.

Love

Marty XXX
</lj-cu>

Dear Karen

Sat, 29 Nov 2003 22:34:36 GMT

Dear Karen,

It’s Sunday today and guess what? I went to church. I know it’s ironic that for all of these years I have been reluctant to go with you and the first weekend after you’ve left, I decide to go unasked. I can’t even explain why I did it. I just felt some attraction to that familiar structure and a need to pray in a formal way, rather than just comfortably at home. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Maybe I’m still not immune from trying to win brownie points from you. I know that you won’t be unduly impressed. In fact I doubt you’ll be terribly impressed by anything I have to say. As you’ve already explained, it’s too little too late. Nonetheless, I feel an urge to write, so here goes. It may end up in the rubbish bin, in which case you won’t be troubled by my ramblings. The truth is that last night, despite having had a fairly positive day, I found that I was grinding my teeth in my sleep again. When I woke up, I knew that I was burdened with the weight of things unsaid. And I knew it was you I needed to say them to.

First of all, about the house. You were quite right that mine was a knee-jerk reaction and a desire for a quick fix to a stressful situation. You were also right, though less than kind, to point out that this is a normal reaction pattern for me. Probably, by the time it came to sorting out the practicalities of speaking to estate agents and so on, I would have realised the folly of this move, but there are never any guarantees when it comes to my displaying common sense. In any case, you played the trump card when you pointed out that the house is in your name and I don’t actually have any right to put it up for sale in any case..

The fact remains that we both need a place to live. You can’t stay at your sister’s forever. And I am reluctant to move out without a place to go to. Even with things the way they are between us, I’m sure you don’t want to see me on the streets. Why don’t we live in this house together? I’m already set up in the spare room and I can arrange my comings and goings so that I get in your way as little as possible. I intend to look for work starting tomorrow, and as soon as I am established in a new job, I can look for other accommodation, but my presence here doesn’t mean that you have to stay away. I think we’ll be able to get along fine on a business level, even if our relationship is beyond repair.

And this is the nub of why I am writing this now and another reason why I want to get us back under the same roof. I don’t really accept that our marriage is beyond repair. The reason, other than my natural optimism, is that you gave me a slight glimmer of hope when you said that if the old Martin showed up again, you might be interested. I think I’m closer now to being that loving, faithful young boy that you married than I have been for many years. I didn’t have time before you left to tell you of the insights that the therapist helped me to achieve, before I ran out of funding for the sessions. But the ones that I had were definitely helping me to see how destructive my double life has become. You know that I’ve been deceiving you, about gambling, womanising and finances. You knew it in your heart even when I was flat out denying it. But I was so locked into those deceitful habits that I couldn’t stop myself even when I was gaining no pleasure or advantage from them. I’ve seen days when I’ve told you I was working late, when actually I was helping a male friend move furniture, or something equally innocuous. I just kept the different parts of my life separate by brute force, because of being accustomed to acting that way. The practice of so much lying eroded my conscience almost completely, until I truly believe that I had none.

So what has changed? I wish I could hail a miracle cure. But all I’ve got to offer is a greater awareness on my part of what my actions have done to you and us. And a decision, taken only this morning, that I only want one life, rather than a double life. Even life without you, but with integrity as a person, is preferable to me than continuing the double life I had. But my preference by far would be for a renewed partnership with you where there was no corner of my life where you weren’t welcome. In a sense, I am sick of sin. My therapist called me a failed philanderer, which was pretty accurate. I feel nauseous whenever I think of the amount of money I have wasted on gambling. I gambled until there was no more money in my account and the fifth overdraft was all spent up. You may say that circumstances have driven me to choose virtue as a last resort, and it would be a fair comment. But there’s a deeper truth that I only got to when all of my distractions and obsessions were stripped away. That truth is that I love you and there’s a hole in my heart when you’re not around. I’m pretty sure at this stage that I can cope without you. I had a few logistical problems with washing and ironing, but I know that on a practical level, I’m not really dependent on you any more. But I don’t want to cope without you. I want to cope with you, tackling life as a joint project, the way we have in the past.

I don’t say it nearly enough, but I love you, Karen. I have treated you abominably even in the recent past, and I won’t try to deny it. I take absolute responsibility for my mistakes and my behaviour, past, present and future. And I understand that you will want to see some evidence of change before you consider this plea. But I would love you to keep open the possibility of coming back so that we could give our marriage another chance. What I would like most in the world right now is for you to be sitting in front of me so I could start to tell you what you mean to me. I feel as though I would need a couple of days to do a proper job of it.

Ultimately, what matters is not how I feel, but how you feel about the way ahead. I feel inclined to stop writing now, even though I feel as though I have hardly got into it. I will try to accept with good grace whatever response you make to this letter, even if it is total silence or reiteration of what you have already said about leaving.

I sincerely look forward to hearing your thoughts on the over-long ramble above, but I entirely understand if you would rather not respond at this time.

Take good care of yourself,

With much love

your husband Marty XXX

SWOT

Sat, 29 Nov 2003 21:38:38 GMT

Day four is a Saturday. I lie in bed until around nine o’clock, then get up and exercise. Today I manage fifteen sit-ups, eight press-ups and a few yoga stretches. I cook bacon and eggs and then consider my project for the day. I’ve used this exercise on so many meaningless topics in my business life. It will be interesting to apply it to something that actually matters. My relaunch as a human being. I take four A4 sheets of paper and scribble headings on them. Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. It’s time to take stock.

Strengths

Optimism. Despite a tendency to wallow in self-pity given half a chance, I do bounce back fairly quickly from disappointments. I have this unshakable belief that life can get better, whatever my situation. That has to count as a positive. This is the reason why my thoughts have never turned to suicide. Homicide, yes, as I am more apt to project blame outwards than in. But in my heart of hearts I have always felt…redeemable would be a good word.

Experience. Despite the lethargy of the past few years, I have clocked up some valuable experience in the financial services industry. The CV looks solid, if an employer can be persuaded to overlook the fact of my recent dismissal (or doesn’t find out). That has to be worth something. Outside of the work arena, the experience of being a father, even if not a very good one at times, has rounded me out in some ways, given me some understanding of responsibility towards others. Likewise, twenty years of married life, alternately viewed during that time with pride and despair, has given me some credentials in the realm of commitment and dogged persistence (or maybe that’s just inertia). Whatever the case, it still counts as experience.

Analytical Ability. Though this skill is too often used only for brooding introspection, on a good day I can marshal all available information and synthesise a coherent summary or extract trends and patterns. On an exceptional day I can do this verbally and under pressure, which may stand me in good stead in an interview situation

Sympathy. Hard to see how this will benefit me in working life, unless I decide to be a counsellor or some sort, but I can generally empathise with other people’s difficulties (when I’m not too preoccupied with my own) and lend them comfort and support. Of course, in the wider sphere of building new relationships, now that my old ones have all fallen away, this may turn out to be a key strength.
Technical Skills. Almost by osmosis, certainly through no conscious effort, I have soaked up a thorough familiarity with end-user technology and now know all of the shortcuts for getting a picture from a screen into a Powerpoint presentation, or a recorded voice into an mp3 file. Not skilled enough to seek work as a technologist, I can still impress and bamboozle the majority of people likely to be my boss.

Ability to Laugh at Myself. Admittedly, this has mainly been a pre-emptive strategy. I get the jibes in quickly at my own expense, before someone else does. But it still indicates that there is an internal editor at work, ensuring that I don’t always take myself too seriously

Weaknesses

Obsession. Yes, this is the biggie. That tendency to take one aspect of life and magnify it out of all proportion. It can be a good thing, such as a new hobby I have fastened on, or a bad thing, such as hatred of the boss. But either way, it grows and grows until it fills my every waking hour. Money-making schemes, convoluted revenge scenarios, inappropriate infatuations. They all find fertile ground in my mind once I have started to entertain them.

Laziness. That clear preference for doing nothing over doing something. Or rather, doing nothing constructive. Surfing the Internet for a few hours just to track down some obscure reference, to no tangible benefit. It has filched away time from my work, from my relationships, from my personal development. And it is self-reinforcing. A wasted morning means that I’m more likely to throw in the towel on the entire day. A wasted day or two and I’ll write off the week.

Self-Pity. That same tendency to blame other people which safeguards me from suicidal thoughts also enfolds me too often in a paralysing sense of injustice, the belief that life isn’t fair. At my age I should be ready to take responsibility for who I am and what I have. I’m only beginning to glimpse this truth.

Dependence. Karen put her finger on it. I’m always looking for the quick fix that will get me out of trouble, or the rescuer who will make everything all right. Somehow I have made it into my forties without ever really standing on my own feet or taking real responsibility for my life. Karen, of course, has been my main crutch, the person I have run back to when my ill-considered adventures have gone sour. I have only started to realise this since that crutch was withdrawn (along with the supplementary crutches of Neelam, Sophie and work).

Opportunities

- I could speak to an employment lawyer and see whether I had grounds for action against Durante Brothers (and get stuck in a vendetta, in the same way as I have obsessed about earlier injustices)
- I could call up some favours from recruitment agents and get back into another firm, maybe a smaller one which would be favourably impressed by my length of service at the Brothers
- I could go to Spain and busk or give private classes in English to nubile young Spaniards (and get in the same embarrassing fix of being a middle-aged man chasing young women)
- I could retrain as a counsellor or some sort of therapist to help other people through similarly tough times (but would probably not be mentally robust enough to be effective, and anyway do I really want to go back to the bottom rung of an entirely different ladder)
- I could trust to the Universe to provide for my daily needs (and run the risk of ending up on the streets, homeless and hopeless)

Threats

- Any of the bracketed pitfalls under the Opportunities heading could occur. I know I shouldn’t be editing possibilities as I go, but some of them really are too daft for serious consideration.
- I could die friendless and alone, unless I work out how to build meaningful relationships with people which aren’t based purely on my need for their acceptance or approval (but why is dying friendless and alone worse than just dying?)
- I could die before I feel as though I’ve achieved what I want to achieve in life (but what is that. Come to think of it, I haven’t really got an aim in life)
- I could die. Full Stop. Maybe that’s the real nagging fear behind all of the rest of my anxieties. Time’s winged chariot at my back, fear of oblivion or the unknown.
- More prosaically, I could fail to find a job before the food in the house runs out, obliging me into embarrassing, cap-in-hand approaches to my wife or the bank manager.
- Most scary of all, I could find some way to continue living in exactly the same way as has brought me to this state, a walking amalgam of obsessions, compulsions and disordered thoughts.

I set the papers aside for a while and make a cup of coffee. When I come back to them, I cannot think of anything else to add, but am impressed by the first glimmers of insight into how I have been acting and why. After awareness, I hope to start gaining some understanding and once I understand my erratic behaviour, maybe I can take action to correct it. Giving up things has such a negative connotation. Maybe if I can rephrase that impulse it will have more chance of germinating and growing. Instead of giving up the old patterns, which have proven so harmful, perhaps I can aim to embrace a new model, stress the positive, think about what I am moving towards rather than what I am leaving behind.

Then I realise the glaring omission in the schedules I have prepared, which is all the more surprising given my recent conversation with Frederick Penton. There’s a total absence of any spiritual dimension under any of the categories I have been exploring. It is as though I had never started to read the Course in Miracles and never accepted any of its lessons. Why is that? Probably because I haven’t yet got off the tramlines of seeing everything from a purely physical and tangible perspective. Even where I have acknowledge emotional weaknesses, their sole importance to me has been in the self-destructive behaviour they engender. All right, then, Frederick Penton, what would you say about one of my recurring problems, for instance my enduring attraction to women young enough to be my daughter. I quickly find the answer in his crib sheet. We are Spirit, not a body – Lust has no meaning. And that’s all it is really, lust. Even if the root of the problem is lost in the mists of time, in my girlfriendless schooldays and feeling of total unattractiveness. Do I still need to be compensating for those worries, when we’re all going to end up as dust in a coffin and a freed spirit? I set my over-elaborate schedules aside, and spend the rest of the day re-reading Frederick’s notes and dipping into the main manual more or less at random.

Dead Man Talking

Wed, 26 Nov 2003 20:39:06 GMT

Today is my third jobless day, and I wake up at eight in the morning feeling surprisingly cheerful. The nicotine must be out of my system by now, as I don’t feel that customary lethargy, the feeling that sludge is oozing through my veins. After a breakfast of instant custard, I even feel inclined to do some exercise. All right, so all I can manage at the moment is ten sit-ups and five press-ups, but I have to start somewhere. And I’m still digesting my discussion with Frederick, not all of which yet makes sense at a rational level, but which in its general thrust makes me feel supported and encouraged. Most impressive of all is the sense he gave me of total acceptance, that I could have told him any sort of transgression and he would have reacted with the same equanimity. I need to get some of that calm spirit.

I am starting to feel free. Free of the obsessions and distractions which have held me in their grip for so long. Bemused by the power they have had over me and delighted to find that their strength seems to be finally on the wane. The longest lasting of which, my obsession with my former boss, still has the ability to puzzle me profoundly. With the fresh breeze of clarity blowing through my skull, it seems to me that only one person can help me fully to understand that episode and lay the ghost (or lack of ghost) finally to rest.

- When you came back out of the hospital, you were all over the place. In hindsight it would have been better if you had taken more time off, not started work again so soon. But as it was, we were all walking around you on eggshells, frightened at any moment of triggering a relapse. None of us knew exactly what you had been through, but that not knowing made it all seem very scary.
- How do you mean, I was all over the place?
- Your moods were fluctuating wildly. One day you would seem very hyper, laughing at nothing or writing reports and memos like a demon. Other days you would sit staring blankly at your screen all day and no-one could get any sense out of you at all. We were at a loss as to what to do for the best, but for better or worse we decided to let you get better at your own pace, coming and going as you wished. When you did do work, it was generally of acceptable quality, but we didn’t feel inclined to put you in front of auditees, because you were so unpredictable. That’s when you started picking up all of those internal projects and development tasks that you made your own.
- How did all of this affect you? I seemed to remember that you got quite depressed yourself.
- I think you might be misremembering. I had a lot on my plate, trying to backfill your work without being able to recruit a replacement. And I was being approached to apply for other jobs, which was a very tempting prospect at the time. But by the time I took the job here, I just felt like I was getting stale at Durante Brothers. It had nothing to do with you. There was one thing that spooked me out. You seemed to be watching my every movement, every day. I got used to it in the end, just put it down to what you had been through, but it did rattle me at first.
- Did you get into any sort of trouble because of my breakdown?
- Not directly because of that. I did have an uncomfortable time earlier in the year, after you’d blown the whistle on my extracurricular activities. Every aspect of that was turned upside down and inside out and for a while I thought that I might be booted out. But the concern was really overblown. I had been doing a favour for a friend, without getting any financial benefit myself, and when they got to the bottom of everything, they realised that there weren’t really any grounds for dismissal. It was the sort of thing that I could have explained to you in five minutes if we’d had a better relationship.
- I think, since you’re being so frank, I should admit that I just had it in for you at the time and I saw the whistle-blowing as a way to get rid of you.
- That is something I never did understand. Why did you hate me to that extent? I know we had different management styles and our attitudes to work were not the same, but even so…
- I think it all goes back to the outward bound course the Firm sent us on.
- Over in Wales? What happened there?
- We were being taught to scuba dive and at one stage, you remember, we were all sitting on the bottom of the pool, under twelve feet of water, being shown how to share an oxygen mask. We were told the order in which we each had to use the mask. I was after you. When it came to your turn, you kept it for twice as long as anyone else, then panicked and passed it to your left. The other people got confused, so that by the time I got it, my lungs were bursting. For some reason, I thought you had done it deliberately. I had it in for you from that moment on.
- So that’s it? I couldn’t even remember that incident happening. If you don’t mind my saying so, it shows that even then you had a disproportionate reaction to problems.
- I accept that. I’m just saying, I think that’s where it all stemmed from.
- It would have been better all round if you had left after we started putting pressure on you. I know that you had offers. And some of them were from good companies.
- How do you know that I had offers?
- Because I arranged them. You’re not the only one with tame recruitment consultants. You would have found your feet quickly at another firm and might have avoided the trip into hospital.
- I felt like I was in the right and that sooner or later everyone would acknowledge it.
- We all make mistakes. I often wished I hadn’t been so harsh on you. We were seriously considering terminating you at one point, but you still had children at home and we didn’t quite have the nerve to do it. We didn’t quite know how badly you felt the pressure. I didn’t really know until I read the story you wrote. That was a gruesome piece of work.
- Did I show it to you at the time?
- No. I just read it this morning. Peter sent it over to me.
- Peter? Have you been talking to him?
- I rang him up this morning, when I heard you were on your way in. He said that you were probably harmless, but still a bit confused. Why did you think I had died?
- Probably because of the story getting mixed up in my mind with your sudden disappearance. You’ve no idea how I’ve agonised through these past five years, thinking I was responsible for your death.
- Well, I didn’t make a big fuss about leaving, because by that stage I just wanted to be out of there. Maybe if I had come round and said goodbye you wouldn’t have had all this trouble.
- Well, it’s been very good of you to take the time to see me at such short notice.
- I could hardly leave you downstairs, staking out Reception.
- It’s helped me to get things straight in my mind, which is a blessing. I owe you one, Matthias.
- Don’t mention it, Martin. I’m pleased to be able to talk openly with you at last. You’re a lot less confused than you were last time I saw you, or even than how Peter described you.
- I’ve been getting some good advice and support.
- Well, take care, Martin. Good luck in finding another job.
- Goodbye Matthias. Thanks again.

Homework

Wed, 26 Nov 2003 14:59:58 GMT

For lack of anyone else to take out my irritation on, I take it out on myself. After replaying Karen’s messages twice and finding no crumb of comfort there, I scour the cupboards for alcohol, finding only an ancient can of cider, left behind by one of the children and a half-bottle of lemon liqueur. I set to work determinedly, finishing off both, while smoking my five remaining cigarettes one after the other. In the lounge, rather than the garage, because I just don’t care any more. Nothing interesting is on offer on the television and I am feeling sickly because of the lemon liqueur, so I head off to bed at eight pm. So day one of my new, independent life dawns to find me with a splitting headache, a hangover and greatly worsened cold symptoms. I do a quick inventory of what is in the house and what is in my wallet. I haven’t even got enough cash to restock on cigarettes, but the milk is still being delivered and there’s enough food in the house to last for weeks, if I can be bothered to cook it. I have pot noodles for breakfast and drag the banjo downstairs to play. I haven’t touched it for maybe a year. At some stage in the past I have arranged most of my favourite Neil Young and Leonard Cohen songs for banjo accompaniment. I work my way through them, revelling in the way the minor keys sound even more maudlin when played on the most upbeat of instruments. But the spirit of the banjo wins through in the end and I find myself slipping unwittingly into Foggy Mountain Breakdowns, Duelling Banjos and the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies. As this poses a serious threat of raising my spirits, I have to set the banjo aside and bring out the guitar.

Every half hour or so there is the addictive niggle saying “time for a cigarette”, which has to be pushed firmly away. At another level of mind, I am continuing to cycle round my usual posse of rescuers and distractions to find one where my welcome hasn’t been exhausted. Karen, work, gambling, Neelam, smoking, Sophie, drinking, Karen. No dice. I am alone, friendless and penniless in a hostile world. It is while preparing a cup-a-soup for lunch that I remember another name, so recently acquired that it hasn’t yet entered my long-term list. Frederick Penton. Admittedly, my knowledge of him is very slight. He’s just the annotator of my copy of the Course in Miracles. I have spoken to him once on the train. I wonder what he will make of my plight. Obviously I’ll have to couch it in terms of a query about the Course.

I find his number in the phone book. He lives only a few streets away. Only as his wife answers the phone do I remember that he’s probably at work right now.

- Martin O’Neill? Yes I think Frederick mentioned you. Don’t you have his copy of the Course in Miracles?
- Yes, I’ll let him have it back as soon as I’ve finished.
- It’s all right. It was my fault it ended up in the sale. He was very lucky to come across it again. Shall I tell him you called?
- If you wouldn’t mind. I just had some queries. Erm, practical queries about how the Course might apply to real-life situations.
- I’ll let him know. He should be home about six. Bye now.

Having started down this route, I feel as though I should have a plausible set of questions to ask Frederick when he rings back. I flick through the book at random and find a whole page of notes inside the back cover which I haven’t noticed before. It seems to be a summary or digest of the whole content of the Course. This would have been useful for me to find from the beginning. It is set out in short paragraphs. At the top of the page is a repeat of the phrase that opens the book.

Nothing real can be threatened
Nothing unreal exists

Everything else appears to be in Frederick’s own words.

We are one with each other, therefore
- Attack has no meaning
- Judgement has no meaning
- Pride has no meaning
- Ambition has no meaning

We are one with each other,
- We go to God together
- No-one is excluded

We are one with each other,
- Forgiving and forgiven
- Accepting and accepted
- Loving and Beloved

We are one with our Father, therefore
- Defence has no meaning
- Guilt has no meaning
- Sin has no meaning
- Fear has no meaning

We are Spirit, not a Body, therefore
- Lust has no meaning
- Pain has no meaning
- Greed has no meaning
- Time has no meaning
- Distance has no meaning
- Illness has no meaning
- Death has no meaning

We are channels of Infinite Love
We are channels of God’s Forgiveness
We are channels of Healing Love

I spend the next two hours unpacking each of the statements in turn, wrestling with the perversely satisfying logic, which seems to make no sense to my rational mind, yet resonates profoundly in my emotions. I am so engrossed that the telephone makes me jump.

- Hello, is that Martin?
- Yes. Hi, Frederick. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.
- That’s all right. My wife said you sounded a bit confused.
- I’m feeling better now. I found your crib sheet at the back of the book. I’ve just been working through it.
- What was the problem you were having.
- Nothing to do with the Course, really. I just wanted your perspective on how the Course lessons would apply to some real-life issues I’m facing.
- I’ll be happy to help if I’m able. What’s going on?
- It’s hard to know where to start, really. Maybe if I just list my problems. My wife has just walked out on me after twenty years of marriage. I’ve got a bad gambling habit, which I’m only not pursuing today because I’ve run out of money. I lost my job the day before yesterday and I don’t know how I’m going to find another. And someone who I thought died years ago, whose death I blamed on myself, turned up alive and well.
- That, at least, sounds like a good thing.
- It’s a confusing thing. I don’t know how many more of my memories are pure imagination. My brain feels scrambled and my life feels like it is unravelling before my eyes. I wondered whether the Course has anything to say about practical problems like these.
- Not specifically, in the sense that I can’t point you to the pages where you can read about your precise problems. But the general concepts can surely be applied in any situation.
- I think I need your help to see how.
- Well, to take the simplest case, why do you think you gamble?
- To end up with more money than I have now.
- Does it work?
- Not normally.
- Supposing it did work. What would you end up with?
- More money?
- More money that you don’t have a proper use for. You would probably use it up again trying to earn even more. Can you remember the phrase “Greed has no meaning”? That’s surely relevant here. You forego the use of the money you’ve got for the chance to win even more. Sounds like greed to me. And because your essential nature is Spirit, nothing material can ever fully satisfy it, so you may stay on that treadmill of chasing bigger and bigger winnings, without ever being satisfied, because the need that is in you can’t be quenched in that way. There’s another way of looking at it, also drawn from the Course. To strive to get something is to perceive yourself as lacking in some way. The Course teaches that spiritual beings do not lack for anything, so it is to misconstrue your nature to look to add to your material possessions.
- Beyond what you need to keep body and soul together, presumably?
- Meeting your true physical needs is not the question – you’ve been looking for something way beyond that.
- What you say matches my experience of gambling. When I’m behind, I’m desperate to make up my losses, but when I win I think I’m going to carry on winning for ever. Neither outcome makes me feel inclined to stop.
- I don’t know the reasons behind your wife deciding to leave.
- It’s a long, long story.
- And I can understand your ego feeling bruised and fragile. But my question is, what harm has she done to your essential spiritual nature by leaving?
- Depends whether emotions are a part of the spirit or not.
- Do emotions change from day to day?
- Yes. I suppose that answers my question, if the Spirit is unchanging and invulnerable.
- The secret of forgiving your wife and ceasing to feel sorry for yourself…
- It’s that obvious?
- Is to recognise that she has done nothing that touches your real nature or could ever harm you at the level of Spirit.
- I see.
- There’s another important aspect to that same argument. Whatever reasons she has put forward for leaving you, you should know that you haven’t harmed her in any essential way either, even if until now you have both agreed on your guilt.
- I haven’t fully acknowledged it to her, but I have felt to blame nonetheless. And of course she thinks I’m entirely to blame.
- Blame doesn’t need to be apportioned where no harm has been done. As well as forgiving your wife by recognising that she hasn’t harmed you, you should accept forgiveness in the form of the knowledge that you haven’t and couldn’t harm her Spirit.
- That’s not the way that she would see it.
- We can only work on adjusting our own perspective, not that of other people. I’m helping you to see things this way because you have asked me. I wouldn’t dream of forcing these views on you.
- No. I can see the sense in them. Please carry on.
- The story you mentioned of the man who came back from the dead could have been lifted straight out of the Course. The manual teaches that every attack on another person, even as slight as an insult, is a way of wishing them dead, of denying their reality. In your case you seem to have taken that to the extreme of believing this man really had died. Maybe his reappearance is a sign that you’re ready to let go of that level of hatred and overlook whatever harm you once thought he had done to you.
- I think maybe I am. I’ve been stuck with an obsession about him for far too long.
- What else did you mention? Oh, yes. Work. There I’m going to ignore the Course and tell you from a common-sense point of view that I think you’re over-dramatising your situation.
- Why do you say that?
- Well, I see young Spaniards and Italians fresh off the plane flipping burgers in the fast food bars every day. Somehow they manage to get by, even living in London. I can’t believe that with so many years as a professional you can’t get gainful employment, if you lower your sights sufficiently. If you can’t see how, why not start off by flipping burgers and work your way up from there? All that you have to lose is your pride, and what do we know about pride?
- Pride has no meaning?
- Exactly.
- Thanks so much Frederick. It’s going to take a while to digest, but I’m sure everything you say will make perfect sense. And I’ve got plenty of time to mull it over.
- If you find it hard to be stuck on your own in the house, you’re welcome to come and stay with us for a while.
- But you hardly know me.
- Of course I know you. We’re the same, aren’t we?
- Only at the spiritual level, is my guess.
- And what else matters?

Clutching at Straws

Tue, 25 Nov 2003 19:45:34 GMT

- Hello Martin, have you been smoking?
- Yes. It’s what I do when I’m stressed out.
- You know I don’t like it when you smoke.
- I’m sorry. I should have remembered.
- So what were you telling me about your wife?
- She decided she’s had enough of me. She’s gone to stay with her sister.
- For how long?
- She sort of indicated that she’s not coming back.
- What brought that on?
- Nothing in particular. We didn’t have a big row or anything. She just decided she’s had enough. She says she’s been thinking about it for a long time.
- It’s not surprising, really. The way you treat her…
- What do you know about the way I treat her?
- Well, I see the way you act when you’re on your own.
- I’m very different at home. Very caring. I don’t know what’s got into her. Maybe it’s her time of life.
- That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it Martin? To blame everything on your wife’s menopause.
- I didn’t come here to argue with you, Neelam. I just felt in need of some support.
- I hope you’re serious about wanting to come to church, Martin. Not just using it to get into my good books.

She has, of course, hit the nail on the head, but fortunately we’re at the church by now, so I don’t feel I need to answer. She greets a number of happy-looking people, whispers a few choice words in their ears and leads me to a pew near the front, right in front of the musicians. Piano, guitar and maracas, plus an overhead projector with someone dedicated to switching slides every two minutes to let us know the words. Not that this is entirely necessary, as the words seem to cycle around in ever-diminishing circles, like an opera libretto. “Our God is great” “Let us praise Him” “Let us praise His name” “Great is our God”. Altogether much more singing than talking or praising. The sermon, when it does come, has me clearing my throat and sniffing. It is based on Saint Paul’s letter on Love from Corinthians. “If I speak with the tongue of men or of angels, but have not Love, I am nothing”. Why does it have particular resonance for me? Karen and I chose it together for the reading at our wedding. “Faith, Hope and Love abide. These three. But the greatest of these is Love”. What I miss most of all in these evangelical services is time to kneel down and ponder, to pray silently and feel the sacred weight of whatever I have just heard. That’s what I want to do most of all now, get down onto my knees. But no, it’s time for another song. And it’s another tearjerker. “Make me a channel of your peace” from the prayer of Saint Francis. Something is going on with my hormones to make me so fragile and close to breaking down all the time.

And so, when the time comes, it’s almost inevitable that I go to the front of the church, when the minister and his helpers invite anyone who wants them to pray over him or her. I don’t even look sideways at Neelam. I just go. I know that she will approve. When I reach the front and the helper asks my name, I am momentarily dazed. Who am I? Do I really want to be up here, confessing my vulnerabilities to a stranger? It feels like those lucid dreams where you find yourself naked at the station in front of your fellow commuters.

- My name is Martin. I’d like you to pray for me. My wife has left me and I’ve just lost my job and erm… I’ve got some money worries and a bad cold.
- Lord, thank you for giving Martin the strength to step forward today. I just ask that you would look down on your son Martin and give him peace in his heart. Help him to see your face among all of his present troubles and to hear your voice calling him to a better life in your service…

The rest of his prayer is lost to my hearing as I scrabble for a handkerchief to discreetly mop up eyes and nose. My cold must really be kicking in now. I walk back to my seat, eyes to the floor, feeling mortally embarrassed and hoping that this display of sincerity has at least earned me some credits with Neelam.

- I’m pleased you came along, Martin. Do you feel any better for it?
- I feel washed out, actually. I can’t remember when I last wept that much.
- Sometimes the Lord has to break us down before he starts to build us up again.
- Well, I certainly feel broken. Where do you want to go for coffee?
- Oh, I’m sorry Martin, I won’t be able to join you for a coffee, after all. I forgot that I had an arrangement to meet someone for lunch at one-thirty. I hope you’re not too disappointed.
- No, that’s fine. Going to the meeting was the important part.
- Are you sure you’ll be all right?
- I’m sure I’ll be fine.
- And remember that you can ring me any time you want to talk things over.

For lack of anything else to do, or money with which to do it, I head back home. There’s a strident response on the answerphone from my former nearest and dearest.

Martin. I got your message. I absolutely will not hear of the house being put up for sale. It’s in my name, remember. All of the equity from my old flat went into it. You’ve paid the mortgage through the years, but it’s still in my name. And don’t you dare say that I’m being unfair. I have never taken anything from family funds for myself. I’ve just been content to see the family fed and the mortgage paid off. Meanwhile you’ve taken more than your fair share of the family income through the years to fund all of your passions and obsessions, whether or not it meant me counting pennies in the supermarket. I’m sorry if you’ve lost your job, but you should get out and find another, instead of looking for the easy way out as always…

At this point the message hits its time limit. There’s one further, more succinct message.

No, Martin. The house is not going up for sale. You can carry on living there while you find another job, but that’s it. If you’ve got a problem with that, you’d better find a damned good lawyer.

Deeper and Down

Tue, 25 Nov 2003 10:29:08 GMT

And now to cap it all, I’ve got a stinking cold. I wake up with the room suspiciously bright, panic for a moment that I’ve overslept and will be late for work, then remember that I’ve got no work to go to any more. Then I register the ache in the limbs, the head that feels wrapped in cotton wool and the sore throat and streaming nose that signal the onset of a bout of cold or flu. All of which have just sprung up overnight. It’s just a few days since, on a whim, I looked up the Internet entries for psychoneuroimmunology, and discovered how scientists now believe that the mind can control the nervous and immune systems. Well, here’s my practical example. My mind has given up the ghost, with the result that my body has hoovered up whatever bugs it can find and surrendered control to them. Karen has always said that I have a tendency to dramatise my illnesses, to feel overly sorry for myself. Well, today I can wallow in self-pity on any number of counts. I’ve lost my job, my marriage is in a mess and I’ve turned into a walking pestilence. For lack of anyone else to sympathise with me, I’ve got to do it all myself. I’m a hopeless case.

I try to ring Karen’s sister’s home, but get through to the answerphone.

Hi. This is a message for Karen. I take on board all that you said in your letter and I’m not going to try to talk you out of leaving me. But my circumstances have changed now. I lost my job yesterday and I’ve got no immediate prospect of getting another one. As my funds are already low, I’m going to have to think about selling the house to release the equity. Please contact me as soon as possible to discuss arrangements.

A hopeless case. This phrase reverberates round in my brain until I remember someone who has always seen me as casework and maybe can be enlisted to help me in my hour of need.

- Hello, Neelam?
- Hello, is that Martin?
- Yes, Hi. Neelam, isn’t today the day you go to your gospel meeting at the City church?
- Yes, it’s on every Wednesday.
- Would you mind if I come along with you today?
- Not at all. Are you all right Martin? You sound very strange.
- I’ve got a cold, but that’s the least of my troubles.
- What’s going on?
- Oh, I’ve been sacked and my wife’s left me. I’ll tell you all about it when I meet you.
- Oh, I’m sorry, Martin. Sounds like you’re having a really bad time.
- What time should I meet you?
- I can meet you outside my office at twelve-thirty to go to the meeting. Maybe we could have a coffee afterwards and you can tell me all about it.
- OK. See you then. Thanks a lot, Neelam.
- You’re welcome, Martin. See you later.

Now all I have to do is take some cold remedy, have a leisurely breakfast and catch the train into town before lunchtime. Surely I can manage that. Yet my mind is still in a state of swirling confusion and it’s some time before I can focus in on the source of that confusion. Matthias Bruckner. Alive. Surely there must be some mistake. I log onto the Internet and search for Smith Cohen. Matthias is listed as one of their directors. By now he is the Chief Operating Officer and even has his picture in their latest annual report. There is no mistaking that tufty blonde hair and vacant, wooden expression. I ring their main switchboard and ask to be put through to Matthias Bruckner, hanging up when a secretary’s voice answers “Hello. Matt Bruckner’s office”. Now I sit down to unravel the last five years, what has really happened and what has taken place in my imagination. I should never have written that story. It has screwed up my mind, so that I can’t tell fact from fiction any more. There’s probably only one person who can help me to understand what’s going on.

- Hello, Sophie?
- Hello Martin.
- I wonder if we could bring our next session forward to tonight or tomorrow? Quite a lot has been happening.
- I was meaning to ring you Martin. Your insurers have been in touch to say that they can’t guarantee any further payments for therapy, as you’re no longer eligible for their benefits.
- They were quick off the mark. I only lost my job yesterday.
- I’m happy to continue working with you, but it would be on a private, pay-as-you-go basis.
- I see. I’m a bit strapped for cash just now. Would it be possible to have a few weeks on account.
- I don’t think that would be wise, Martin. I don’t want to add to your financial pressures when you’ve just lost your job.
- But something very significant has turned up. I found that Matthias, my old boss, that’s Peter from the story, is actually still alive. I’ve been tormenting myself needlessly all this time.
- This probably isn’t sensible, Martin. I don’t do telephone consultations, so I’d rather you didn’t continue. I’ll be happy to arrange another appointment when your circumstances change. All right? I’ll speak to you later.

The Morning After

Mon, 24 Nov 2003 20:15:28 GMT

I am too numb to cope with Karen’s letter immediately. Most infuriatingly, I can’t find any point on which I can fairly contradict her, so I have to fight to the back of my mind, by force of will, the growing suspicion that she’s right and I’m wrong. So instead of writing further letters, attempting to phone her, or dealing in any way with the real issues, I try to cope with the logistical consequences of her disappearance. In themselves, these are colossal. I am exasperated and hurt to see that she has left without providing a week’s worth of ironed shirts and underpants, as she normally would when going to her sister’s. I check the freezer and find there are no plated-up meals ready to stick in the microwave. This seems hugely vindictive. But, on this occasion, sulking is not going to bring me any satisfaction, since Karen isn’t here to see it. Instead I have to grit my teeth and try to find a freshly-washed shirt to wear tomorrow. I’m determined to provide for myself just one day ahead of time, as she could return any day. There’s a pile of white washing waiting to be done, so I throw it all in the machine, pour in some powder and set it going. So far so good. Now there’s the dishwasher to empty, which I’ll have to do, since there don’t seem to be any clean mugs around. Now I search until I find a single crumpled blue shirt, which I thought never to wear again and set up the ironing table. It takes all my resolve to abstain from ringing up Karen to ask where she has hidden the iron, but I finally find it in its normal cupboard. My sense of injustice starts to abate slightly while I am ironing the shirt, which must take me almost half an hour. Karen has done this five times a week for me for as long as I can remember. And for what? So that I would look nicely turned out while running around town behind her back. I feel a pang of sympathy for her cause, quickly choked back in exasperation as I negotiate the cuffs. The underpants, I reason, can stay unpressed, as no-one but me is likely to see them. If I get run over by a car, I don’t think I’ll be worrying about the state of my smalls on the way to hospital.

Throughout the night I have the same dream, recurring with slight variations. I am running through a Blade-Runner style metropolis, chasing after something or someone. I quiz every person I meet about its whereabouts, but then can’t describe what it is I’m looking for, or even put a name to it.

I have moved back into the marital bed for old times sake, but wake up forlorn at finding myself alone and unloved.

* * *

Reading the Course on the way to work, I wonder at how often the word Love appears in it. The most surprising aspect is that I never noticed this before. I was treating it as a philosophical system and evaluating its arguments in that light, yet now it is completely clear to me that its whole premise and foundation is the existence of Love, and the true existence of almost nothing else. I will have to re-read it from the start now that the scales have fallen from my eyes. Miracles are what happen when the Love that we have received from its Divine source gets extended to those around us. We extend Love by forgiveness of what we believe has been done to us. But the nature of forgiveness is strangely defined here. It is not the action of a superior being, overlooking real offences because of his exalted state of grace relative to his brother. Rather, it is the acknowledgement that nothing truly harmful has been done or could be done from one creature to another, because of our essentially invulnerable spiritual nature.

- Excuse me.
- Sorry?
- Excuse me, I wonder if you would mind my asking where you got that book?
- Not at all. Have you read it?
- I have. I think I’ve read that specific copy before, actually.
- Oh, I just bought it at a church bazaar last week.
- I see. Would you mind if I took a look inside?
- Not at all.
- You see all of these notes? I wrote all of these while I was reading it.
- Wow. I wondered who had done all of that. They have been very helpful to me. A lot of it is way over my head.
- It takes a while to get into it.
- So why did you send it off for the bazaar, if it meant so much to you?
- I think it got packed off by mistake. I think because I haven’t read it in a while, my wife thought it could go out. Either that or it just went in by mistake.
- I’m sorry, would you like it back?
- Only when you’ve finished with it, if you don’t mind. I’d hate to interrupt you if you’re getting something out of it. I’ll be happy to refund whatever you paid for it.
- It was only twenty pence. What a strange coincidence that you should spot me reading it.
- It’s kind of hard to miss, what with the size of it and the state of the cover. Anyway, we don’t really believe in coincidences, do we?
- If you give me your details I’ll be sure to let you have it back.
- I’ll probably see you again. I’m generally on this train.
- Would you mind if I ask you questions about it? You seem to grasp it better than I do at the moment.
- Not at all. I can’t guarantee to have all of the answers, but two heads are better than one.
- What’s your name, by the way?
- Frederick. Frederick Penton.
- Marty. Martin O’ Neill.

* * *

When I open the Inbox on my desktop I find an appointment scheduled with Peter for eleven am this morning. So, this is it, I think. Time to get my thoughts in order and plan my counterattack. However, my brain has turned to porridge with fear of the outcome. When my thoughts escape from this dread sense of foreboding, it is only to worry about the home situation. Every fifteen minutes I escape down to the plaza outside the building for a smoke, despite already wearing a nicotine patch. My heart is pounding furiously as I pick up a blank pad and pen at the appointed hour and walk along to Peter’s office.

* * *

- Martin. Thank you for being prompt. I think you know Mr Donnolly from HR. He’s here to act as a formal witness to the proceedings.
- Do I need representation?
- In what way?
- Is this the sort of meeting where I need my lawyer present, or a work colleague?
- You started out in the Civil Service, didn’t you Martin?
- Yes.
- That may have coloured your expectations about how termination procedures are carried out.
- So that’s what this is, a termination meeting?
- I’m not going to beat around the bush, Martin. I’ve been concerned for some time about your performance.
- So why is this the first time that you’ve seen fit to mention it to me?
- Every employee is entitled to an annual performance appraisal. Your performance problem has only really come to light in the eleven months since your last appraisal. It would have been raised in a month’s time, in any case, but there are good reasons to bring that process forward.
- To avoid having to pay me any bonus.
- More compelling reasons even than that.
- Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve got on me that makes you feel you can bypass the normal process?
- We intend to follow a strictly legal procedure.
- Will it stand up to an industrial tribunal?
- There’s a good reason why we pay our employment lawyers so handsomely. They repay their salaries over and over in the way they squash tribunal cases. When was the last time you heard of Durante Brothers suffering an adverse ruling?
- So, as I said, what have you got?
- You’ve given us a wide variety of transgressions to pick from. If we were feeling magnanimous, we could easily make the case that the Firm has had a tough year and Audit needs to slim down and your job is the one that has to go.
- A redundancy, in other words?
- Superficially attractive, but it’s expensive for the Firm because of the length of time you’ve been here and it ties my hands as far as hiring a replacement goes, if I’ve just said that your role is redundant.
- So you’re not going for that one?
- Next we could go the performance route. Since you really haven’t produced any tangible deliverables during all of this year, we could make the case that you aren’t pulling your weight and should be got rid of on performance grounds.
- You probably can’t be bothered with the paperwork.
- Exactly right. To do it properly we would have to go through the whole raft of verbal and written warnings, give you every chance to improve, and so on. It also tends to shine a light on the fact that we haven’t managed your underperformance very well in the past.
- So you won’t go for that option?
- Correct.
- Leaving only the compromise agreement.
- Compromise agreements have their uses. Principally when someone is really in a position to dish the dirt, or rather where there is a mismatch between their ability to discredit the Firm and the Firm’s ability to discredit them. In your case, we feel that the mismatch is in our favour, so we don’t feel inclined to offer a compromise.
- Which leaves you with what?
- One month’s notice, pure and simple, effective immediately, with one month’s salary paid in lieu of the notice period.
- On what grounds?
- Gross misconduct.
- What are you referring to specifically?
- Good point, Martin, there are such a lot of examples we could cite. So let’s be more specific. Let’s start with violating the Use of Technology Policy by using anonymiser portals to access online gambling services. Then there’s the violation of Data Protection legislation involved in your accessing my private files the day before you went to Madrid. The same story with regard to JC’s files. Taking part in prohibited online chat services. Attempting to destroy the Firm’s audit trail of system accesses. Fraudulently persuading an IT security officer to give you administrative privileges. I think you get the picture.
- You seem to be taking this all very personally, Peter.
- And with good reason, Martin. I saved the best until last. While we were investigating your other breaches, when you were in Madrid, we came across this little gem.
- What’s that?
- A little story, last updated just a few days previously. About your boss Peter, how he persecutes you and how you plan and carry out his murder.
- No. That isn’t about you at all.
- How many other bosses do you have called Peter?
- That’s just coincidence. I tidied it up the other week, because I was sending it to my therapist. But I wrote the thing five years ago. If you must know, it was about your predecessor. I just changed the name and some of the details when I was writing the story.
- Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you’re not homicidal about bosses in general, just your previous one.
- And don’t run away with the idea that it’s a confession, either. I wrote it a full six months before Matthias’s suicide.
- Before what?
- Well, before his death, whether it was suicide, accident or whatever. And whatever it was, I wasn’t responsible.
- What are you babbling on about? Matthias Bruckner is as alive as you or me.
- He died five years ago. That’s why you took over.
- I took over when he moved to Smith Cohen. He’s still there. I had lunch with him just last week. You were one of the main topics we discussed.
- What?
- Don’t look so shocked. I don’t know what stunt you’re trying to pull Martin, but Matthias did warn me about your tendency to play the stress card when you’re in a fix.
- I’m not myself today. My wife just left me.
- Martin, I can’t really believe anything you say any more. I’m sorry if you have troubles at home, but that’s not really relevant to why we’re here today. Now unless Mr Donnolly has something to add, the gentleman outside will escort you back to your desk to clear out your personal belongings.
- No, I think you’ve covered it all Mr Franklin. I’ve heard quite enough.
- So, Martin, I would ask you not to try to access the Firm’s systems. Your user details have been suspended and you will be asked to hand in your security card at the exit. Please, for your own sake, don’t talk to your colleagues about the reasons for your dismissal. I will give them all the explanation they need.
- Don’t I need to hand over?
- Ha! What’s to hand over, Martin? You haven’t done anything for the past year.
- Don’t black bag me, Peter. I’ve been with the Firm ten years.
- You know the routine, Martin. I’m sorry it’s come to this.

Humiliated beyond bearing, my face flushed bright crimson and tears prickling the corners of my eyes, I follow the security guard, who is clutching a pair of black bin liners, back to my desk. This is the most ignominious end anyone in this industry can suffer, short of being hauled off the trading floor in handcuffs. And it has been widely trailed. Whereas normally at least half of the department would be out of the office visiting auditees, today everyone is at their desk pretending to work, as I get led in and made to empty my personal belongings into the bin bags. My desk is full of nothing else but personal stuff, so all of my gambling systems and horse-racing statistics go in the bags. A tiny pile of work-relevant material is left which, after a moment’s thought, I throw in the bin under the desk, leaving my office looking as though I had never set foot in it, let alone spent the past ten years there. Still refusing to spare my feelings, the guard leads me out of the main entrance of Durante Brothers. Here he relieves me of my security card and leaves me standing there with my two huge bin bags, surrounded by gawping imbeciles, most of whom know the precise depth of my misery and are breathing secret sighs of relief that it’s not happening to them. I head towards the taxi rank, then remember with a dead feeling inside that I no longer have cash in my pocket or ready access to cash, courtesy of my roulette binge yesterday. So the Central Line it has to be, wedged among the Christmas shoppers on their way to Oxford Street, feeling more than a little antipathy towards the encroaching season of goodwill to all men.

Response

Mon, 24 Nov 2003 01:40:06 GMT

Dear Marty,

Thanks very much for writing your note. I agree that sometimes it’s easier to communicate in writing. For one thing, it’s impossible to get drawn into an argument and you’re guaranteed a chance to make all of the points you want to make. Not that I’m planning to try to score points. I’m a bit weary of that whole way of interacting. I just want to tell you where I’ve gone and why, since I’ll have left by the time you get home.

Where I’ve gone is no secret. I’ve gone to stay with my sister for a while in Bournemouth. Before you ring to ask me to come home, I’d be pleased if you read the rest of this letter.

There’s a big difference between the letters you wrote me at college and the one you left this morning. Take a look at one of the old letters if you don’t believe me. I keep them in the drawer by my bedside. What’s the difference? Your old letters are full to the brim with love. You talk about your love for me all of the time and the focus is constantly on what I am like, what I might want out of life and how I am spending my every waking moment. I feel whenever I read them that your entire being was focussed on me. I’m not saying that was entirely healthy, it may even have been a tad obsessive, but I did feel loved and I did feel valued and supported during all the time we spent apart. Your letter today mentions that I’m valued once, but I don’t think you use the word love even once. And if you look at the focus, it’s all around your needs and wants. You could use some support, you say. Twice you say you need my support. I hate to seem selfish, Marty, but what’s in it for me? Nothing as far as your letter goes, just more continuing support of you as you go through your latest fad, which looks to be therapy and personal development. I’ve been with you through so many of these phases, where you fasten on something which was going to change your life, make you a better person. Remember NLP? Remember the Writing School? Obsessions of an intensity that other people would find hard to believe. Yet where are those interests now? Same place that therapy and your Course in Miracles will be in six months time.

You’ve taken the opportunity of my announcement to slip in a few confessions. I suppose you think that at this stage things can’t get any worse between us, so you might as well get these things out in the open. I disagree. I have been asking you for months whether you have restarted gambling and you have flatly denied it. I haven’t believed you, but your denials have tied my hands and stopped me from helping you. Likewise, I have suspected for a while that you’ve been up to your old tricks of going out with girls under cover of late-night working. I’m not entirely stupid, and when you come home smelling of drink and smoke, telling me you’ve been on a conference call to New York for hours, I could go for a big confrontation. But lately I’ve been thinking why bother? Do I really want someone who treats me in this way? I’m fed up of being the dragon back home who you’re too afraid of to tell the truth to. And I don’t think I should be the mother-figure correcting you like a naughty schoolboy. You know what? You’re over forty now. If you want to carry on behaving like a teenager, go ahead. You won’t be the first middle-aged man to make a fool of himself over younger women and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Just don’t be surprised if you get manipulated, laughed at and abused. You’re virtually begging for it.

But don’t think your belated honesty gets you any credits with me. Honesty at the right time might have made a difference, but now it’s neither here nor there. So screw you and your honesty. It’s too little, too late and I don’t want you to sleep better at night or to feel your conscience eased in the slightest by that worthless token of virtue.

So, until you’ve got a better story to tell me, one that indicates some genuine appreciation for the gulf that lies between us and what you have to do to bridge it, please don’t bother ringing me at my sister’s. I’m very angry, as you can probably tell by now, and I would have difficulty being even this civil to you on the phone. Somehow I’ve lost the ability to take your bullshit any more. If the old Martin, who I know and love, puts in an appearance, I’ll be pleased to see him again, but don’t bother me with anything less, because I just won’t accept it.

Take care,

Karen

Big Catch-Up Miscellany

Mon, 24 Nov 2003 01:38:50 GMT

I wake up to a different world. I feel like a detached observer of my morning routine. Detached but not immune from pain. The chewing of breakfast cereal seems intolerably loud to me, every crunch reverberating through my skull. I keep checking myself to see whether I have other flu-like symptoms which would explain this fragility, but then remember, no it’s just that Karen is going to leave. I have risen earlier than usual, earlier than I need to rise to prepare for work. In part it’s because my brain was racing and I couldn’t sleep any more. In part, I know that I must write something down, try to persuade Karen to change her mind.

For a while now, every morning I seem to feel spider’s webs across my face as I walk about the house. At first I thought they were real, but now I realise that they must be at least partly my imagination. This morning I am brushing these filaments away from my face every few seconds, like a nervous twitch.

Dear Karen

I am writing to you not only because you’re still asleep and I don’t want to disturb you, but also because I find it easier to express my feelings in an honest manner in writing rather than speech. You know that has always been the case and you have always lamented the fact that I was never so romantic when we were together as I was in my letters to you, the few times that we were apart.

What you told me last night came as a great shock to me, but really shouldn’t have. If I think at all seriously about our last few years, it’s impossible for me to fault your decision to leave. As has happened before in our marriage, I have built a solid wall around me, to prevent you getting close. This time you haven’t been able to break it down despite your best efforts and I’ve had no interest in letting you in because of shame at what you would find inside.

For although you have had no proof to support your feeling that I was moving away from you and our marriage in my daily actions, your intuition has been correct as always, and your safeguarding of your own feelings has been completely justified. For I’ve worked against our marriage in ways that you’re all too familiar with as well as a few ways that you would never guess at. You’ve seen the signs of my resumed smoking and drinking. What you won’t be aware of is my return to gambling, and I have to confess to having lost a large sum of money in the past few months, taken from my deposit account. I have also returned to flirting with young women in the office and elsewhere, I don’t quite know why. I have been content to tell myself that your sense of abandonment was no worse than my sense of rejection after we stopped making love, but I have to say that there is more going on here than just my trying to take a petty revenge. Although I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about it, I feel as though I had something of a breakthrough with my therapist the other night and am a step closer to understanding why I behave the way I do. But I feel as though I need your support if I’m ever going to get back onto an even keel.

I’m not sure how to finish this. I’m not sure it can be finished. It’s just an attempt to restart dialogue. I’m not trying to talk you out of going. Or maybe I am but I’m resigned to whatever you decide to do. Just wanted you to know that I do value you and I could use your support right now at what is looking like a very tough few weeks coming my way.

Your Marty

* * *

We are Spirit not a body, Death has no meaning. My predecessor’s marginal note doesn’t seem to relate directly to the page it resides on, which is decrying the importance of power, fame, money and physical pleasure. I am somewhat self-consciously reading the Miracles book on the train to work, finding it too hard to manipulate discreetly. It’s huge size and tattered green cover draw attention to it. I notice some people glancing over at it and start to feel hot and sticky. I brush the cobwebs away from my face and try to concentrate. Obviously if the physical world and the body are just a passing illusion of separateness from God, then Death of the body doesn’t matter a jot, since it is just the end of the illusion and the Spirit can rejoin its source. Does this give a different way of viewing disasters round the world, I wonder to myself? Can the plague-ridden refugee camps be seen as places where a benign figure of Death roams abroad, harvesting souls from the bodies so neglected by their fellow man, taking them off to a better place? Weighty thoughts for a frosty November morning. I try to sleep, the hefty volume uncomfortably heavy on my lap.

* * *

- It doesn’t pay to take time off sick, you know.
- Hi Rod. What do you mean? It’s my first sick day, this year.
- Even so. You don’t want to give them any more ammo than they’ve already got.
- What happened this time?
- I was having lunch with Sally from HR.
- The cute one who works for Donnolly?
- That’s the one. Anyway, she asked me what sort of trouble you were in. Not whether you were in trouble, mind you, but what sort. Turns out that Peter asked for your personnel file yesterday morning, while you were out sick, and spent two hours with Donnolly in the afternoon. Nothing marked in his schedule, so it must have been a spur of the moment thing.
- They were trying to work out how to double my bonus without giving anything to you guys.
- Oh, yes, that must have been it. I’m pleased to see you’re not worried. I’d be bricking it.
- I am worried, actually. Very worried. But what am I supposed to do. I’ve got to wait for them to make a move before I can react. Meanwhile I’ve just got to try to stay calm
- What’s this?
- Just a book I’m reading.
- Course in Miracles? Are you getting religion, Marty?
- Well, I’ve tried everything else.
- Just wait until I tell everyone.
- I’d rather you didn’t spread the word, to be honest Rod.
- Come on, Marty, put yourself in my position. You would, wouldn’t you?
- I suppose in the past I probably would…
- Radio Marty, they used to call you. No-one liked a bit of gossip better than you.
- I could take my comeuppance better if I didn’t think you were enjoying it so much.
- That’s what friends are for, Marty.
- Let me ask you a serious question, Rod. Do you ever think about dying?
- Is that a veiled threat, same as “do you like hospital food”?
- No, I’ve just been pondering Life, the Universe and Everything after reading that book.
- Don’t drag me into your strange world, if you don’t mind. I’ve got no interest in going the mental sickness route out of here. Retiring on my share options in ten years time will suit me fine. You’ll have to ask one of your more spiritual friends.

* * *

I’m sufficiently worried by what Rod has told me to head straight down to the bookies at lunchtime. My reasoning, insofar as I have any, is “I’ll show them that I don’t need their job. If I can make two hundred pounds a day on the machines, I can tell them where to shove it”. The owners have thoughtfully installed a cash machine on the premises, right alongside my favourite roulette machine, so that I can insert my cashcard, pull out money, feed it into the roulette machine, press some buttons, then repeat the process from the top. It is so easy to enter a depressive/optimistic trance, where your sinking heart acknowledges the direness of your losses, but a silver ray of hope makes you try again. This system of mine seems to work wonderfully well on this make of machine whenever I watch over people’s shoulders. Wait for the same number to turn up twice, then bet on it heavily for a third appearance. It’s only a matter of time before it pays handsomely. It’s a matter of determination and perseverance. If they are such valued characteristics in other walks of life, why are they held in such low esteem where gambling is concerned. Addicts, they say. Heroes, say I, as my chain-smoking peers invest the rent money in the purchase of a dream. My head is spinning, by now. I have been through an unfeasible number of spins, using the turbo button to avoid the animation of the spinning wheel and just get to the result quicker. And yet the win which will retrieve it all and more, paying odds of thirty-five to one, is proving elusive. I go back for a tenth cash withdrawal only to be refused with the message “Available credit insufficient for this transaction” – I lower my requested withdrawal to the minimum – still no dice. I switch cards and put in my Corporate Amex, but then remember that I never did get the PIN code for that. Thwarted on every front, I reluctantly give up my place to the next person queuing for the machine. I don’t even want to think of how much cash I have just lost, but the figure of four hundred pounds keeps beating like a pulse in my brain.

* * *

I don’t have any spiritual friends, except possibly Neelam, who is always trying to get me along to the Alpha Course or to prayer meetings. I recall not parting on very good terms last time, but still, it’s Neelam I must call.

- Hi, Neelam.
- Is that Martin?
- Yes. How are things?
- Fine. Listen, Martin, I’m very busy at the moment. Can I revert to you later?
- Not a problem, Neelam. I had a spritual issue I wanted to discuss with you.
- Seriously?
- Yes, honestly, it will only take up five minutes of your time and we can do it over the phone. We don’t need to meet.
- OK. I’ll call you back shortly.

* * *

- Martin?
- Yes?
- It’s Neelam, I can talk now. Sorry I was busy earlier.
- That’s all right.
- And sorry if I seemed a bit suspicious. I was just startled that you said you wanted to ask a spiritual question. I thought it was a new ploy to get my attention. I’m sorry if I was wrong.
- I can understand why you might think that. It’s the sort of thing I could easily have tried at one point. But this was a real question.
- Fire away.
- Or rather two questions that arose from my reading and elsewhere. You’re the only person I know that I could ask about these matters.
- I’m listening.
- The first is why do you think God is allowing all of these natural disasters to happen? I just read in a kid’s book on disasters that fifteen thousand people a year die in earthquakes. A lot of them are people who are already poor, who have been dumped on by the world at large, villagers in remote communities and so on. Why does God let earthquakes take these innocent lives? He seems to take more innocent lives than the worst terrorist organisations, the most oppressive dicators and the staunchest defenders of democracy all added together. Have you heard about Lake Nios?
- Lake Nios? No. Where is that?
- Somewhere in Africa. Actually it was in the crater of a volcano that everyone thought was extinct. There were poor villagers scraping a living on its shores. One night there was a fissure opened below the lake and carbon monoxide came out, suffocating all of the villagers, seven hundred of them, in their sleep. Even all the insects in the area were killed.
- Martin, are you all right, you seem a bit hyper?
- I’m fine, thanks for asking. Can you think of an answer?
- I really don’t have any insight into God’s purpose in letting Natural disasters occur. I know what He expects of me in day-to-day life and that really is all I need to know. But have you considered that it’s only the World that sees death of the body as the ultimate tragedy.
- That’s exactly what I was getting at.
- In the perspective of eternity, life and death here, however unpleasant, may take on a different aspect. Just as pain is associated with birth, yet that doesn’t make us reject life. Maybe death is the process of being born into the hereafter. And worth whatever discomfort or pain goes with it.
- Interesting. Thanks very much for that. My other question is simpler, if you have time.
- If it’s brief.
- It’s to ask what the Christian view is on gambling.
- I’m not sure that there is an official Christian view on it. Biblically it seems quite acceptable. The soldiers drew lots for Jesus’ clothes.
- And the Catholic Church has never had a problem with raffles and race nights.
- I can give you my view if you want?
- Sure.
- I think that to gamble what you have in order to win more is to turn your back on God in two ways. One is that you have been given the money for a purpose, and you will be held accountable for your stewardship of that money. If you have lost it on a horse race, you won’t be able to give a very good account of your stewardship.
- And the other reason?
- It’s very much the same. To strive after something is to say that you lack that something. To say that you lack money is to show a failure of trust in God to supply your daily needs. To give up money for the chance to win more money just seems plain greedy on the one hand and plain stupid on the other. But they aren’t my thoughts as a Christian. They are just my thoughts as a person with a shred of common sense. Does that help?
- Enormously, thanks. I won’t take up any more of your time, as I did say it would only take five minutes. I’m sorry if you thought this was all a joke of some sort. It was perfectly serious and your answers have been very helpful.
- Marty, you know that if you’re ready to think seriously about your life, I’ll be more than willing to help out.
- I know you will, Neelam, and I’m grateful, but you’ve done enough for the moment, so thanks very much.
- You’re welcome, Marty. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?
- I’ll be fine now. Bye, Neelam. Take care.

* * *

Don't it always seem to go...

Fri, 21 Nov 2003 20:08:47 GMT

For years I have been imagining this conversation, playing it through over and over in my mind. And now that it is finally happening, it is astonishing how close to my mental script it is sticking.

- I just don’t think we have anything in common any more. You do your things and I do mine. We don’t communicate more than at a polite level. I don’t know what’s going on in your head and you certainly haven’t a clue what’s going on in mine.
- Why does that mean that we need to split up? There must be thousands of couples just like us.
- Well, I’ve reached the end of my tether. I feel like there has to be more to life than this, even at our age. We’re not even sleeping together these days.
- I know that we’ve got some serious issues, but why can’t we try to work them out?
- I think the time is past when that would work. I’m sorry.
- I can’t help being shocked. It’s all very sudden.
- Well, I’ve been thinking it over for a long time, even if it’s a new idea to you.
- What about the children?
- I knew you would bring the children into it. I think the children will understand. They know what you’re like to live with, after all, from when they were at home. I’m sure they won’t complain at seeing us separate, if they can see that at least one of us is happier and more fulfilled. And I know they wouldn’t want to see us sticking grimly with each other to the grave, just for their sake. I don’t know how much plainer I can say it to you. I want out.

In almost every respect the dialogue is as I imagined it. But there is one crucial difference. It is Karen, not me, who initiates the discussion and it is me who is reacting with shock and horror and feeling as though a black chasm has just opened up below my feet. Having a pleasant fantasy about one day leaving her has entertained me for years. Hearing her announce an imminent intention to abandon me leaves me pole-axed.

Sickie

Fri, 21 Nov 2003 10:29:57 GMT

It has been a while since I threw a sickie. I’m out of the habit. I can’t be bothered with the normal routine of ringing the office straight after waking up, so that my voice is authentically croaky. I have a leisurely breakfast, then call in.

- Hi, Sally. It’s Martin here. Could you tell Peter that I won’t be in today. I’m taking a sick day.
- OK, I’ll do that. What’s wrong?
- I don’t think I need to tell him that. Actually, you can tell him it’s stress-related if you like.
- Are you sure?
- Only if you don’t mind.
- That’s fine. I’m just worried about you, Martin. You haven’t been yourself lately. Have you been to see the doctor?
- I saw someone yesterday. That’s one of the reasons I feel so rough today.
- Where can Peter reach you, if he needs to?
- I’ll be at home all day. I expect to be back in tomorrow.
- OK. Take care, Martin.
- Bye.

Sally is a wonderful, motherly figure, who can be relied upon to be discreet, though to be honest I don’t care at the moment if she shouts my plight from the rooftops. My jangling nerves are only just calming down after the session with Sophie last night and more troubled dreams overnight. It’s been a while since I moved out of the marital bed and into the spare room, but Karen still says that it sounded like I was restless overnight. Karen herself is going to be at the tennis club in the morning, then has a Spanish class followed by badminton in the afternoon. She anxiously asks whether I would like to go with her to tennis and looks relieved when I say that I’ll stay home.

After less than an hour I am bored with surfing the Internet. Even the online casinos have lost their appeal today. I pick up the Course In Miracles and quickly put it down again. It’s written in unfamiliar language, manipulating concepts like atonement, revelation and sacrifice which have no clear associations for me. It seems vaguely Catholic in tone, but I find it dense, repetitive and almost unreadable in parts. I make another coffee, then go back to the book, focussing this time on the bits of text that its previous owner has highlighted as well as the neat little pencilled notes scattered throughout the margins. Gradually I build up a picture of what he or she has got out of the Course, the essence that they have distilled from all of its verbosity.

We are one with each other. This seems puzzling, until I read the paragraph it stands beside, where the reality of the body and the external world is dismissed and the only reality acknowledged is that of people’s spiritual nature. I don’t accept this idea, but at least I now understand what it is saying. We are one with each other at some hidden level, just as the water table below our feet can support wells in many different locations.

Attack has no meaning. Again I have to read the context. It suggests that because we are one with each other, when we try to attack someone it is the same as attempting to harm ourselves. And it is viewed as a futile attempt, because all that can be attacked is the external form, which is not ultimately real. This reminds me of the short quotation that starts the book, and I flip back to review it.

What is real cannot be threatened
Nothing unreal exists

I am highly resistant to the concepts, but start getting sucked into the internal logic of the system, which is taking shape inexorably before my eyes. As my head is spinning by now, I go back to bed, where I get a few hours of much-needed sleep, blissfully dreamless, or with no dreams that I can later recall.