The Book of Strange New Things(120)

‘I’m making booklets,’ he explained, motioning to the stack of papers. He fetched up a finished one and splayed it open against his chest, showing her the woollen binding sewn through the folded middle.

She blinked in bemusement. ‘We could have given you a stapler,’ she said.

‘I tried that,’ he said. ‘And discovered that the Oasans are worried about pricking themselves on staples. “Needle-needle hiding from finger”, as they put it.’

‘Glue?’

‘Glue would just dissolve in the watery atmosphere.’

She continued to stare. He guessed she was thinking there were too many colours, too much wool, for the purpose.

‘This way, each Jesus Lover can have their own personal copy of Scripture,’ he said. ‘The different coloured thread makes each one unique. That, and my . . . er . . . haphazard sewing technique.’

Grainger raked a hand through her hair, in a this-is-all-too-weird gesture.

Peter tossed the booklet onto the wool-pile, and hastened to remove the stack of Scripture printouts from the chair. He motioned to Grainger to sit. She sat. She rested her elbows on her knees, clasped her hands, stared at the floor. Thirty seconds of silence followed, which, in the circumstances, felt quite long. When she finally spoke, it was in a dull, uninflected tone, as if she were musing to herself.

‘I’m sorry Austin showed you that dead body. I didn’t know he was going to do that.’

‘I’ve seen bodies before,’ he said gently.

‘It’s horrible the way they still look like the person but the person is gone.’

‘The person is never gone,’ he said. ‘But yes, it’s sad.’

Grainger raised a hand to her mouth and, with abrupt vehemence, like a cat, chewed at the nail of her pinkie. Just as abruptly, she desisted. ‘Where did you get the wool from?’

‘One of the USIC personnel gave it to me.’

‘Springer?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gay as pink ink, that guy.’

‘That’s not a problem here, surely?’

Grainger sighed and let her head sag low. ‘Nothing is a problem here. Haven’t you noticed?’

He gave her another half a minute, but it was as though she was mesmerised by the carpet. Her bosom rose and fell. She was wearing a white cotton top with sleeves not quite long enough to cover the scars on her forearms. Each time she breathed in, her breasts swelled against the thin fabric of her top.

‘You’ve been crying,’ he said.

‘I haven’t.’

‘You’ve been crying.’

She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. ‘OK,’ she said.

‘What’s causing you this pain?’

She managed a smirk. ‘You tell me, doctor.’

He knelt at her feet and got himself comfortable. ‘Grainger, I’m no good at this cat and mouse stuff. You came here to talk to me. I’m ready. Your heart is grieving. Please tell me why.’

‘I guess it’s what you’d call . . . family problems.’ She fiddled with her fingertips. He realised she’d once been a smoker and was hankering for the comfort of a cigarette – which made him realise, furthermore, how strange it was that none of the other USIC personnel exhibited those mannerisms, despite the high likelihood that some of them had been heavy smokers in their earlier lives.

‘People keep telling me that nobody here has any family to speak of,’ he said. ‘La Légion étrangère, as Tuska puts it. But yes, I haven’t forgotten. I pray for Charlie Grainger every day. How is he?’

Grainger snorted and, because she’d just been crying, sprayed some snot onto her lips. With a grunt of irritation, she wiped her face on her sleeve. ‘God doesn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Tell you if the people you’re praying for are OK.’

‘God isn’t . . . my employee,’ said Peter. ‘He’s not obliged to send me progress reports. Also, He’s well aware that I don’t actually know your dad. Let’s be honest: Charlie Grainger is just a name to me, until you tell me more.’

‘Are you saying God needs more data before he can . . .?’

‘No, no, I mean that God doesn’t need me to tell Him who Charlie Grainger is. God knows and understands your father, right down to . . . to the molecules in his eyelashes. The purpose of my prayer is not to bring your dad to His attention. It’s to express . . . ’ Peter groped for the right word, even though he’d had this same conversation, more or less, with many people in the past. Each time felt unique. ‘It’s to convey to God my love for another person. It’s my opportunity to solemnly voice my concern for the people I care about.’

‘But you just said my dad is just a name to you.’

‘I meant you. I care about you.’

Grainger sat rigid, jaw clenched and eyes unblinking. Tears welled up, glimmered, and fell. For a few seconds it looked as if she might start sobbing outright, then she pulled herself together – and got annoyed. Annoyance, Peter realised, was her defence mechanism, a prickliness that protected her soft underbelly like porcupine spines.

‘If prayer is just a way of voicing concern,’ she said, ‘what’s the point of it? It’s like politicians expressing their “concern” about wars and human rights abuses and all that other bad stuff they’re gonna sit back and let happen anyway. It’s just empty words, it doesn’t change a damn thing.’