The Book of Strange New Things(85)

Even so, ‘Freaktown’ was a problem, and needed fixing.

‘Tell me,’ he said, when the settlement was within sight. ‘If you had to give this place a new name, what would you call it?’

She turned towards him, still wearing her dark shades. ‘What’s wrong with C-2?’

‘It sounds like something you’d see on a canister of poison gas.’

‘Sounds neutral to me.’

‘Well, maybe something less neutral would be an improvement.’

‘Like . . . let me guess . . . New Jerusalem?’

‘That would be disrespectful to the ones who aren’t Christians,’ he said. ‘And anyway, they have a lot of trouble pronouncing “s” sounds.’

Grainger thought for a minute. ‘Maybe this is a job for Coretta. You know, the girl from Oskaloosa . . . ’

‘I remember her. She’s in my prayers.’ Anticipating that Grainger might have trouble with this, he immediately lightened his tone. ‘Although, maybe this isn’t a job for Coretta. I mean, look at “Oasis” – it has two “s”s in it. Maybe she’s really hooked on “s”s. Maybe she’d suggest “Oskaloosa”.’

The joke fell flat and Grainger remained silent. It seemed his mention of prayer had been a mistake.

Abruptly the wilderness ended and they were driving into the town’s perimeter. Grainger steered the vehicle towards the same building as before. The word WELCOME, in man-sized letters, had been painted afresh on the wall, although this time it read WEL WEL COME as if to add emphasis.

‘Just drive straight to the church,’ said Peter.

‘The church?’

He doubted she could have failed to notice the construction site last time she picked him up, but, OK, fine, she needed to play this game and he would indulge her. He pointed towards the horizon, where the large, vaguely Gothic structure, still lacking a roof or a spire, was silhouetted against the afternoon sky. ‘That building there,’ he said. ‘It’s not finished, but I’ll be camping out in it.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I still have to do my drug delivery.’ And she jerked her head towards the paint-daubed building they’d just left behind.

Glancing backwards, he noted all the vacant space in the rear of the vehicle, and the box of medicines in the middle of it. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Would you like some moral support?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I really don’t mind staying with you for as long as it takes. I should have remembered.’

‘Not your job.’

She was already steering the car across the scrubland towards the church. There was no point trying to persuade her to turn back and get her drug delivery over with first, even though he was convinced she’d be less stressed if she had company, less spooked if someone of her own kind was at her side. But he couldn’t push. Grainger was a touchy character – and getting touchier the longer he knew her.

They slowed to a standstill, alongside the western wall of the church. Even without the roof on, the building was big enough to cast shade all over and around them.

‘OK, then,’ said Grainger, removing her sunglasses. ‘Have a good time.’

‘I’m sure it will be interesting,’ said Peter. ‘Thanks again for driving me here.’

‘All the way to . . . Peterville,’ she quipped, as he unsealed the car door.

He laughed. ‘Out of the question. They have trouble pronouncing “t” sounds too.’

The humid atmosphere, kept at bay for so long, swirled gleefully into the cabin, licking their faces, clouding the window, slipping into their sleeves, stirring the locks of their hair. Grainger’s face, small and pale inside her swaddle of headscarf, was balmed over with perspiration within a couple of seconds. She frowned irritably, and sweat twinkled in the lush brown hairs where her eyebrows almost met.

‘Are you really praying for her?’ she said abruptly, just as he was about to climb out of his seat.

‘You mean Coretta?’

‘Yes.’

‘Every day.’

‘But you don’t know her at all.’

‘God knows her.’

She winced. ‘Can you pray for one more person?’

‘Of course. Who?’

‘Charlie.’ She hesitated. ‘Charlie Grainger.’

‘Your father?’ It was a guess, an intuition. Brother was a possibility; son he didn’t think was likely.

‘Yes,’ she said, her cheeks blossoming red.

‘What’s the main concern in his life?’

‘He’s going to die soon.’

‘Are you close?’

‘No. Not at all. But . . . ’ She pulled her scarf down off her head, shook her bared head like an animal. ‘I don’t want him to suffer.’

‘Understood,’ said Peter. ‘Thanks. See you next week.’ And he left her in peace, and walked through the door of his church.

The Oasans had made him a pulpit. God bless them, they’d made him a pulpit, carved and moulded from the same amber material as the bricks. It stood proudly inside the four walls as if it had sprung up from the soil, a tree in the shape of a pulpit, growing in the open air. Just before his departure, Peter had hinted that the roof should be put on as soon as possible, but there was no roof. Nor had any progress been made on the windows, which were still just holes in the walls.