The Book of Strange New Things(168)

‘Four years as a pharmacist,’ Grainger ranted on, ‘handing out drugs to those creepy little freaks: what’s that worth, BG? Worth a ride on a ship?’

BG grimaced. Crises of confidence were not what he was accustomed to dealing with. ‘Chill out, Grainger, is my advice to you,’ he said pensively. ‘The cost ain’t an issue. I been back, Severin went back a couple times, a few other guys took a break too. Nobody slapped them with a bill. If you need to go, you need to go. No big deal.’

‘You really think so?’ Her voice was tremulous, the voice of a farm girl from Illinois who was deeply ashamed to waste millions of dollars of someone else’s money to indulge her own pain.

‘Money don’t mean shit,’ said BG. ‘We play this little game: ten bucks for a bar of chocolate, fifty bucks for a bottle of Pepsi, deducted from your salary, blah blah blah. It’s just a Friday-night card game, Grainger, it’s Monopoly, it’s Go Fish, it’s kids gambling for peanuts. The salary’s a game too. Where we gonna spend this cash? We ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

‘But you did go home,’ said Grainger. ‘Not that long ago. Why?’

BG’s mouth set hard. He clearly didn’t want to discuss it. ‘Unfinished business.’

‘Family?’

BG shook his head. ‘Call it . . . loose ends. A guy in my line of work needs his mind clear. So I did some stuff and cleared it. Came back to the job a new man.’

This silenced Grainger for a few seconds. Then she was anxious again. ‘But that’s it, that’s the whole point – you came back, you didn’t quit. I’ve got to quit, you understand? I’ve got to leave and never come back. No way, never.’

BG jutted out his chin. ‘Never say never, Grainger. Never say never. That’s in the Bible somewhere, ain’t that right, Peter?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Peter mumbled. He knew perfectly well that the Bible said nothing of the sort.

‘It’s gotta be right there in Chapter One,’ affirmed BG. ‘God’s advice to Moses and the whole crew: Seize the day! Get on top of it, people!’

Peter watched BG’s right hand rise up from the steering wheel and form a triumphal fist in the air. Long ago, in a previous life, BG had no doubt stood among other dark-skinned creatures in his Nation of Islam brotherhood, all raising their fists likewise. Now, their slogans had mingled in BG’s mind with a thousand windblown leaves from the Qur’an, the Bible, assorted self-help books, magazines and TV programmes, combining into a mulch. A mulch from which his self-esteem grew healthy and strong.

The Bible stored inside Peter was pure and unadulterated, not a word of it confused with anything else. And yet, for the first time, he was ashamed of it. The holy book he’d spent so much of his life preaching from had one cruel flaw: it was not very good at offering encouragement or hope to those who weren’t religious. With God, nothing shall be impossible, proclaimed Luke, and that message, which Peter had always thought was the most joyously positive reassurance you could wish for, now turned itself over like a dying insect, and became Without God, everything shall be impossible. What use was that to Grainger? What use was that to Bea? The way things had turned out, they might need to manage without a saviour; they might need to forage and scrabble for whatever future they could get on their own. And the thing about the Bible was, once you asked for a future without faith, the Scriptures washed their hands of you. Vanity, all is vanity.

‘What was it like, BG?’ said Grainger. ‘Come on, tell me, what’s happening back home?’

‘This is my home now,’ BG cautioned her, tapping his chest with his fingers. Maybe, rather than referring to Oasis, the home he meant was his own body, wherever in space it might be located.

‘OK, fine, fine,’ said Grainger, barely controlling her annoyance, ‘but tell me anyway, damn it. It’s been so long since I left. There must have been big changes. Don’t spare me, BG, skip the pep talks, give it to me straight. What’s it like?’

BG hesitated, weighing up the wisdom of responding. ‘Same as always,’ he said.

‘That’s not true!’ yelled Grainger, instantly hysterical. ‘Don’t lie to me! Don’t patronise me! I know everything’s falling apart!’

Why not ask me? Peter thought. She was treating him as if he didn’t exist.

‘Everything’s always been falling apart,’ BG stated calmly. There was no defensiveness in his tone: the facts were too self-evident for dispute. ‘Planet Earth got f*cked up a loooong time ago, excuse my French.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ whined Grainger. ‘I mean . . . What about your old neighbourhood, where you grew up, your relatives, your house . . . ’

BG squinted through the windscreen at the expanses of nothingness, then glanced down at the navigation gadget on his dashboard.

‘Grainger, I got another wise old saying for you. Listen up: You can’t go home again.’

Thomas Wolfe, circa 1940, thought Peter helplessly.

‘Yeah? Well, just watch me,’ said Grainger, belligerent in her fear. ‘Just f*cking watch me.’

BG was silent, obviously judging that Grainger was on too delicate a hair-trigger for more discussion. But the silence provoked her just as much. ‘You know what you are?’ she wheezed, her voice ugly as if soaked in alcohol. ‘You’re just a little boy. Running away from home. Big tough guy, but you can’t face reality. All you can do is pretend it’s not happening.’