The Book of Strange New Things(142)
He sat at the Shoot and prayed for strength. He knew that if he didn’t reply now, and keep it short, he was liable to pitch forwards and go unconscious right there.
His clumsy fingers were poised to type the words of Psalm 14:1: The fool has said in his heart, there is no God. But then God entered Peter’s heart and cautioned him that this would be stupid. Whatever had happened to Bea, she didn’t need criticism.
Maybe there had been another natural disaster? Some horrific event in a foreign country that had swamped Bea’s head with the pain of useless empathy? Or maybe it had happened closer to home, in Britain? A catastrophe that had left thousands of people homeless, devastated, bereaved?
Psalms to the rescue again: Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
But what if . . . what if it had come nigh to Bea? What if she’d been hit by an earthquake or a flood? What if, right at this moment, she was stranded and dazed, camped in the ruins of their house? But no, no, be logical, their house must be intact, or else she wouldn’t be able to write to him. USIC had given them a Shoot and it was set up in the study upstairs, connected to a mainframe the size of a filing cabinet. The existence of Bea’s message proved she was safe. Except that a person alienated from God could never be safe.
As dihydromorphine, chloroprocaine and exhaustion dragged him more and more insistently towards sleep, he began to panic. He must write, and yet he couldn’t. He must say something, break the silence, and yet if he chose the wrong words he would regret it for ever.
Finally, he let go of any notion of quoting Bible verses or giving advice. He was her husband, she was his wife: that was the only thing he could be sure of.
Bea, I don’t know what’s brought you to this point but I love you and I want to help you if I can. Please tell me what’s wrong and please forgive me if it’s something I should have already known. I’ve just come out of surgery. A few stitches, nothing serious. I got bitten in the field. Explain later. Will crash for a bit now but please, I’m worried about you, I love you, I know this sounds absurd but I’m there for you, I really am.
He sent this flying and collapsed into bed.
A little while later, without speaking, Grainger came and lay next to him. She rested her head on his naked chest, and her shoulder was in such a position that it would have been unnatural not to cup it in his hand. So he cupped it in his hand. She moved closer against him, let him feel the warmth of her flesh. Her small fingers stroked his abdomen, her palm traced the hollow where the ribs began. Then she took hold of his penis, which was already erect. Before he could speak, Bea was there with them, reassuring him with her eyes that it was all right. Grainger lifted her tunic. Her pale breasts were freckled. He kissed one while Bea finished undressing and crawled onto the bed. Grainger held his penis upright, allowing Bea to lower herself onto it. He ejaculated the instant he was inside.
As soon as he awoke, he smelled the odour of betrayal. He had committed adultery in his heart, and – worse – dragged his wife into his disloyal fantasy, making her an accomplice. He and Bea had always been faithful to each other; he never took advantage of the vulnerable females who passed through his ministry. He was a one-woman man and Bea was his woman. Wasn’t she?
He lay still for a while, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with his good arm. A hangover-style headache throbbed in his temples. His tongue and lips had dried out. His injured arm felt OK – well, numb – but his shin hurt like a burn. He had no idea how long he’d slept: fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. A memory of the dream lingered, tempting him with its phantasm of love, its enchanted mirage in which all grief and hurt and estrangement was smoothed over by desire.
Thirst pushed him to his feet. He drank greedily straight from the tap, noisy as a dog, until his stomach sloshed. The doctor had told him to go ahead and take showers, get soap and water on his wounds, but not scratch at the stitches if they got itchy; they would dissolve by themselves when their work was done. Peter unfastened and unrolled the bandages, unveiling the mended flesh. The soft white cotton was hardly stained at all, the injuries neat. He showered, towelled himself dry, carefully reapplied the bandages. He put on jeans and a faded orange T-shirt emblazoned OUTREACH TASKFORCE BASILDON. Both garments felt too big. He rummaged inside his knapsack for some socks, pulled out a small plastic bag with squishy, semi-liquid contents he couldn’t identify at first. It was the remains of a meal he’d been given by the ????? a long time ago, before he’d grown accustomed to their food: a slab of suety stuff that tasted of vinegar. Loath to offend them, he’d claimed he wasn’t hungry and would eat it later. The bag was a clammy weight in his palm, like an animal organ removed from a carcass. He looked around for somewhere conspicuous to put it so that he wouldn’t forget it again.
On the table next to the fridge, he spotted something unfamiliar. A plastic medication bottle and a handwritten note. TAKE 2 EVERY 4 HOURS IF NEEDED. G.
Had Grainger been here while he slept? Or had she brought these with her when she wheeled him back from the surgery? He couldn’t remember her doing anything in his room besides embracing him. But maybe she’d already dropped off the medication earlier, while he was being seen by Doctor Adkins. Forward thinking.