There
are ghosts out in the rain tonight, high up in those ancient trees
And
I have given up without a fight, another blind fool on her knees.
And
all the gods that I’ve abandoned begin to speak in simple tongues
And
suddenly I’ve come to know that there are no roads left to run.
So
here I am, your ragged disbeliever, Old Doubting Thomas drowns in tears,
As
I watch your church sink through the earth like a heart worn down through
fear.
She
is reaching out her arms tonight and yes, my poverty is real
I
pray roses shall rain down again from Guadalupe on her hill
And
who am I to doubt these mysteries,
cured in centuries of blood and candle smoke,
I
am the least of all your pilgrims here, but I am most in need of hope.
Excerpt from “Guadalupe”, by Tom Russell.
|
Other
than sighing “Heaven!” over a hot fudge sundae or a truly great orgasm, I don’t
think most ordinary folk talk about paradise much. But everyone’s heard a million definitions of
hell. So yeah, I thought I couldn’t be
surprised by one more. But that day,
once every hour or so, I wanted to cry out, “All those other definitions are
crap, because this is Hell. It’s here
and now. Hell is what we are living.”
I wasn’t so far gone as not to know that I was
restricting my definition to earthly hell – maybe because I didn’t want to think
about the fate of all those poor souls who had lost their lives. It was bad enough just watching the faces of
the friends, the families who seemed to arrive en masse only seconds after the
explosion. It couldn’t have been seconds
of course, but time was behaving very oddly. There were moments when it slowed
right down, like during a car crash.
Then the next instant, it was an out of control film, where everything
is whizzing by, so it seems like it’s all happening at once.
One
segment of my brain told me what it was – Trauma Time – and also reminded me
that I’d experienced it often enough to be better at dealing with it than I
seemed to be right now. The truth is
that I wasn’t coping at all. I couldn’t
get my head round the sheer bloody awfulness of it. The fact that we’d failed – I had failed – to
stop the Mysterons’ latest act of wilful destruction wasn’t the worst of
it. It was the target. The Basilica de Nuestra
Senora de Guadalupe; Our Lady of Guadalupe Shrine, right in the heart of
Mexico City. And not just the place, the
time. December 12th, Our
Lady’s Feast Day. That period in the run
up to Christmas when thousands flock to visit the shrine in the hope that the
icon of Latin America’s Virgin Mary will beatifically bless their humdrum lives. If that sounds somewhat cynical, then I am
guilty as charged – I don’t think I have much faith left in anything these
days.
But if we’re talking cynicism, the Mysterons
have me beat. We always know it’s them by the type of attacks they make. Unlike your average bunch of crazed
psychopaths, there are no deranged rituals or deliberate sadism. But just as there are no indications of
cruelty, there are no signs of decency, either. No concern or remorse for their
victims. It’s all so impersonal. The Mysterons don’t have a cause, or a set of
twisted ideals they wish to impose on a disbelieving world. It’s not even as if
they want to invade us, show how powerful they are by beating Earth into
submission. It’s just slow annihilation,
bit by agonizing bit. That’s the sick
part – there’s no getting it over and done with quickly, which would, in a
weird kind of way, show that they have some respect for humanity. They have brains, but no hearts, especially
that thing with the colossal nerve to call himself Captain Black, as if he were
just a slightly more irritating parody of the original. I had no doubt that he
was instrumental in this attack and that the date had been deliberately chosen
to maximize the number of innocent lives lost.
We
hadn’t even been in the race this time.
We were still getting our heads round the fact that the Mysterons were
back and just to up the ante, they were no longer giving us clues as to where
they would strike next. Spectrum was
working on finding reliable intelligence sources to at least keep us in the
game, but if this was anything to go by, we clearly had a lot of work to do.
Most
of the bodies were gone now. The emergency services had done amazing work. The steady rainfall hadn’t hampered the
rescue operation and hundreds had worked around the clock, digging and if need
be, scrabbling in the rubble to find and release what turned out to be
tragically few survivors. For the most
part, the best that could be done was to enable families to identify and claim
the bodies of their loved ones; those that were in a state to be identified, of
course.
We
had had a tip off, but it hadn’t come soon enough. Probably Black’s little
joke, I thought. Get us there just in
time for us to witness our failure, long enough for the message to hit home
that no matter what we did, it was looking pretty ineffectual against the force
of a superior race of beings.
There
were just a handful of us left on site now, tying up loose ends. All that
remained was dealing with the few distraught families still milling around, and
talking to the media. Neither of the two
were jobs anyone volunteered for, particularly in circumstances like this,
where there was no good news to be had.
The
Angels had all departed, except for Destiny, who was stumbling around the
ruins, looking like the Mad Woman of Chaillot. Her face was splodged
with dirt and her hair looked like she’d gone grey overnight. It took a second
to realise that she was covered in ash.
Eventually, as if her legs would no longer keep her upright, she
collapsed against a fallen pillar a few feet in front of me. She sprawled on
the ground, legs splayed out in front of her, as if she, the Pilates Queen, couldn’t summon up the energy to move, let
alone haul herself up.
“How
could they do this?” she said in a whisper.
“How could they? All those
people.....there were children, babies.....”
She looked up at me and I saw that tears were streaming down her face. “How could he do this?”
As
her voice rose from a whimper to a screech, two thoughts occurred simultaneously;
one, the only other time I had seen Destiny cry was at Black’s funeral and two,
judging by the rivulets of black water coursing down her cheeks, she had yet to
discover the benefits of L’Oreal’s ‘Midnight Miracle’ mascara. But here’s the weird bit - not only did I
understand exactly where she was coming from, I actually felt sorry for
her. This came as something of a shock
to me; I don’t mean to sound uncaring, but to my mind, Destiny’s range of responses
has never quite approached Normalville, even before
her former squeeze was killed and reincarnated to bat for the other side. Today, though, I found myself conceding that
if I had been through what she has, I’d be a basket case, too.
I
tried to say something to her, but it was as if my vocal chords had been
severed because no noise emerged. Then,
out of the corner of my eye, I saw TV cameras moving towards us, so I stepped
forward, resorting to gesticulation to convey the words, “Move, get out of here.” I figured the last thing Colonel White
needed was for the world to witness his most senior fighter pilot going into
major meltdown live on CNN Primetime.
I
don’t think she understood, but it didn’t matter, because Scarlet suddenly
appeared round the corner and clocked the situation immediately. He crouched down next to her, making sure he
was shielding her from the cameras. “Go home, Destiny,” he said.
“Home?”
She repeated the word in that uncomprehending way people do when a foreign
language is being spoken.
“Back
to Skybase. Take off, there’s nothing
more you can do here. Probably not much
any of us can do now.”
Her
face took on that stubborn look she gets just before arguing the toss, but he
got there first, because he said, “That wasn’t a request, by the way.” So she simply glared at him, wiped her face
with her sleeve and muttered “S.I.G.”
Then she got to her feet and stomped away from him towards her
Falcon. He sighed heavily and gazed
down at his boots for a long moment and I realised he knew she would chow him
out later for pulling rank on her. What
puzzled me was that I got the feeling it mattered to him all of a sudden and I
wasn’t sure why.
I
mean, if we’re talking rank, it could matter to me, too. Strictly speaking, the senior colour-coded
personnel don’t outrank the Angels. But
we have an unwritten rule that the person in charge of the mission is usually
the person whose field of expertise is paramount to the situation we’re dealing
with. In this case, that was me. The way it works is like this; we have a
bomb, I defuse it. No-one else can do
exactly what I do, so I call the shots, which is usually something like, “get
the fuck out of my way and let me get on with it.” Only in this case, we had a bomb and I
couldn’t defuse it. Two hundred people
died. And now Scarlet was doing what he
always does, taking charge of the operation. I would normally have been
irritated, but at this point I didn’t have the energy. In fairness, I suppose
all he’d done was send her packing, which is what I should have had the
foresight to do at least an hour ago.
I realised I was crossing my arms and holding
them tight against my ribs in an effort to hold myself together. I must have
looked as defeated as I felt, because he came towards me and laid his hand on
my shoulder. He said, “It would have taken hours to defuse that thing. There was nothing you could have done, El.”
“I
know,” I replied, although what came out were not so much words as a weird froggy sound, because I was so choked up. “So why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”
I knew I sounded whiny, despite my best
efforts at grace under pressure, something to show him that I wasn’t going to
give in and howl like a dying animal. I’m not sure what I expected him to do;
hug me, perhaps? But he just shook his
head and walked away. I guess providing
comfort wasn’t popping up on anyone’s to-do list right now.
“Captain
Ochre?” I recognised the voice
immediately and felt my heart sink even lower, something I had not thought
possible. I knew that as soon as I turned round, CNN’S chief news anchor would
have a camera jammed so close to my face that if I opened my mouth, an unedifying view of my tonsils would be beamed across the
world.
Roger
McCauley was a blobby man who looked like he’d been put together by a
balloon-twister at a kids birthday party.
No matter what the situation was, the corners of his mouth perpetually
turned up as if he couldn’t stop smiling.
I sometimes wondered if he’d had a stroke early in life because his
personality wasn’t at all sunny. Not
morose, just bland. If he were
ice-cream, he wouldn’t even be vanilla.
That’s not to say he wasn’t good at his job, however. He was a firm
believer in responsible journalism, which meant that he usually gave Spectrum a
fair crack of the whip. When it came to dealing with the media, we tended to
prefer Roger to some other hacks I could name.
So
I turned round and tried to mimic the upturned mouth thing, although I daresay
it fell short of an actual smile.
“Roger. Good to see you again,” I
said, as graciously as I could manage.
He nodded back, although it was clear he wasn’t going to waste too much
time on pleasantries.
“Can
you tell us who is responsible for this?” he asked, cutting to the chase even
faster than I’d expected.
“I’m
afraid it’s a little early for that,” I replied in my most reassuring, ‘don’t
worry, Spectrum will soon get to the bottom of this’ voice.
“But,
Captain – a disaster of this magnitude – you must have some idea who the
perpetrators are? Surely you don’t
expect us to believe Spectrum received no warning?”
“On
this occasion, I’m afraid our intelligence was insufficient to enable us to
avert this tragedy,” I replied, my teeth already beginning to clench with the
effort of remaining polite. “Naturally, Spectrum’s immediate priority will be
to find those responsible so they can be brought to justice. However, as always, internal enquiries will
be ongoing to see if there are any lessons to be learned here.”
He
nodded in a conspiratorial sort of way, still with the super-smiley face. “Of course, of course. Are you at least able to tell us where your
intelligence came from?”
“Are
you nuts?” I snapped back, without thinking.
I realised immediately that if he were watching this, my retort would
not at all have been to Colonel White’s liking. ‘Improve charm and diplomacy skills’ was
probably already being added to my performance development objectives. I knew I needed to keep my temper in
check. So I said, throwing him what I
hoped was a winsome smile, “Roger, you know that Spectrum can’t reveal its
sources.”
“I
understand that, Captain. Naturally, I
was not expecting you to give up names.
However, I asked the question because it seems to me that Spectrum may
have developed a problem in this area.
As you will be aware, there have been two major terrorist attacks in the
last few weeks, both of which your organisation has apparently been powerless
to prevent. I’m talking, of course, about the massacre of the Chinese trade
delegation in New York and the tragic assassination of Ambassador Galdani of the UN.
Now, as far as I am aware, no one has taken responsibility for those
events, nor has Spectrum given any hint that it is close to apprehending the perps. It seems to
me that either your intelligence is not as reliable as it once was, or that
there is a new enemy at work, one that is currently outsmarting even Spectrum.
Would you care to comment on that?”
I
tried to look impassive – I couldn’t let him see how dismayed I was. Although I didn’t for one moment think that
Roger, even with his superior powers of investigative journalism, was anywhere
close to discovering the Mysterons, his line of reasoning hovered dangerously
near the truth. We needed successes to
show we were back in the game, that recent events were just a temporary dip in
our league table. We couldn’t afford to
have the world lose confidence in us. Up
to now, we’d had the unequivocal backing of the UN in the fight against the
Mysterons. We’d given them results to
back up our belief that we are Earth’s best defence. But it’s dog-eat-dog out there and if they
decided we’re losing our edge, they might start to remember that it was
Spectrum who got us into this war in the first place. They wouldn’t hesitate to slash our funding
in favour of anyone who could do better.
We needed to show that we’re still the best, but I’d be the first to
admit that, right now, it didn’t look good for us.
“I
really can’t give you much more than I already have, Roger,” I said as sweetly
as I could, manfully resisting the impulse to ram his microphone down his
blobby little throat. “It goes without
saying that we’re all devastated at what has happened here today and our hearts
go out to the victims and their families.
Spectrum will, as always, do everything in its power in the continuing
war against terror. Our enemies know
better than to underestimate us and I don’t believe anything has changed
there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need
to have a word with Padre Miguel.”
I
turned and walked away from him before he had a chance to say anything more. It was a lie, of course – I didn’t
particularly need to have a word with anyone.
We had already covered all bases with our usual military precision. Scarlet dealt with the emergency services,
Grey handled the police, Indigo and Magenta did the families and other
interested parties and Blue and I divided up the media between us. As far as I was concerned, we’d done as much
as we could. All that remained now was
for someone to give the signal to go home.
I
knew I should want to leave. Twilight was turning into darkness, making the
ruins of the Basilica even more dangerous than they had been when you could
actually see where you were putting your feet.
The rain was falling ever more steadily, to the point where, highlighted
in the harsh glare of the emergency arc lamps, the sky looked like it was
showering needles.
There
was something more, though. I realised
that what I had said to Roger McCauley hadn’t actually been a lie. I did want
to speak with Padre Miguel, the priest who had lost not only his church, but
many of his congregation, as well as the wider flock of worshipping tourists
who had been here for the day. I had no
idea what I would say to him, but my heart informed me that there was an
acknowledgement of some kind to be made.
I
wasn’t sure if he was still here, of course.
I knew Magenta had talked to him earlier in the day. For such a deluded, shallow self-obsessive,
Mario is surprisingly good at these things.
He not only knows exactly what people need to hear, he manages to inject
just the right amount of sincerity into his delivery. Not too much, not too
little. He’s impressive, he really is.
If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d believe he was genuine.
Anyway,
from what I saw, Padre Miguel looked like he’d taken on board whatever drivel
Mario had spouted at him, which would no doubt be something along the lines of
“go home and pray for strength, as your people will need you more in the days
to come”, or whatever. So he was
probably back at home toasting his tootsies in front of a nice warm fire and
working on his ‘aftermath of a disaster’ sermon for NBC’s
‘The World On Sunday’.
Except
he wasn’t doing that at all, as I discovered when I walked down the road
towards the ancient basilica, which, although only a few yards away from its
more modern replacement, seemed undamaged by the bomb. What he was
doing was directing what appeared to be a rather covert operation to load a
very large picture-like object into the back of a Ute. The size of the thing required at least eight
burly Mexicans to strain their muscle-bound bodies to the limit in order to
ensure its soft landing in the truck.
Although I was momentarily distracted by so much sweat and testosterone,
I couldn’t help wondering why the removal of an objet d’art would be of such importance on a day like this.
As
I approached, activity slowed down. All
eyes were on me, expressions wary. I
almost expected them to say, “Who goes there?
Friend or foe?” Of course, if
they did, it would be in Spanish, so there’s a good chance I wouldn’t be any
the wiser. Mexican Spanish isn’t my
strong suit.
Then
the light fell on my uniform and I saw their shoulders relax, as if the
expected threat of blows from a blunt instrument had been suddenly vanquished.
Padre Miguel stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Captain
Ochre?” His voice was pleasant,
well-modulated with only a hint of a Latin-American accent. He was a tall,
thin, ascetic-looking man, possibly in his
mid to late forties. Even in the
relatively poor artificial light, I could see his dark eyes shining.
“My
name is Miguel,” he said, unnecessarily. “Please, won’t you join us in our
endeavours?”
Endeavours? He made it sound as if they were about to
embark on a high-class picnic – substitute endeavours for hors d’oeuvres. I felt
hysteria rising in my throat; if someone had suddenly popped up with a bottle
of Pimms, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
“What’s
going on here?” I asked, hoping it sounded like I was merely showing a casual
interest. I didn’t want them to think I
was suggesting that this man of God and his cohorts could possibly be up to no
good.
“Captain
Ochre, we have witnessed a miracle today,” Miguel said earnestly. Alongside him, several dark heads nodded
enthusiastically. I looked around me. Where had these people been? Clearly not on the same planet as the rest of
us.
“A
miracle?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice reasonably normal. After all, the man had suffered a
catastrophic blow – if the shock had pushed him over the edge, maybe it was to
be expected. What was going on with the
rest of them, though, was way beyond what my imagination could conjure up.
Fortunately,
Miguel was not going to keep me waiting long for enlightenment. “Do you know
what this is?” he asked, waving his arm expansively towards the back of the
truck.
I
assumed he wasn’t expecting me to say “An F-Series Dodge that’s seen better
days”, so I peered through the gloom to get a better look at what the vehicle
contained. I recognised it at once, as
any Catholic, however lapsed, would do.
“Our
Lady? This is Guadalupe, the icon?” If I sounded amazed, it’s because I was. I swung back to Miguel. “Padre, how on earth is this still here? How did it..?”
“How
did it survive the explosion?” His face
was a shining beacon of happiness. “That
is our miracle, Captain Ochre. The Basilica has been almost completely
destroyed. There is nothing left of the
altar – except this, the image of Our Lady.
And she is untouched; there is no mark on her. She has been protected by God.”
“Jesus,”
I muttered in disbelief. Then I was suddenly ashamed to be taking the Lord’s
name in vain, although I couldn’t recall having had that particular sensation
since I was fourteen and had said something similar during Holy Communion when
Bernadette Kelly, who was sitting in the pew in front of me, had unexpectedly
started her period. I say unexpectedly,
because I assume she hadn’t thought it a possibility. Even Bernadette, who was
universally acknowledged as being a bit dim, understood that there could be
nothing in the world more mortifying than the combination of menstrual blood
and white lawn cotton, so if in doubt, precautions were needed. To my teenage
sensibilities, it wasn’t an unfortunate accident; it was a social disaster of
gigantic proportions. Poor, inadequate
Bernie, who I felt sure would never get a husband and whose life would be
forever blighted by ridicule, had deserved my sympathy, not my scorn. Yet with a cruelty that astounds me now, I
had turned to Siobhan Connolly on my left and said in a loud voice, “Christ
Almighty, would you just look at that!”
Siobhan
looked, as did everyone else within earshot and I watched as Bernie’s cheeks
turned the same colour as the unfortunate streaks on the bottom of her dress.
Her face crumpled and tears began welling up in her vacuous eyes. Just when I
was starting to experience the faintest hints of shame, my mother’s hand
slapped my face with a force I hadn’t felt since I was ten. “Elaine Mary,” she hissed in my ear, “you
stop that right now! You are in the
House of the Lord; you do not ever take His name in vain!
The
fact that it was the profanity of which she disapproved, rather than her
daughter’s betrayal of a so-called friend, was typical, I suppose. My mother, Barbara McGee, aka
Saint Babs of Belfast, went to Mass every morning
where she probably prayed that the Lamb of God would strike her family down
rather than have any ecclesiastical disgrace heaped upon it. Back then, she did needlepoint most
afternoons, in between watching the TV soaps; she was about eight years into
her masterpiece, a gigantic ‘The Marys at the
Sepulchre’ throw pillow.
You’ll have gathered from this that she’s not
emotionally savvy. I’m not saying she doesn’t feel love for her husband and
children, but the idea of life outside the box upsets her equilibrium. She has
to live by rules, because otherwise she’d need MapQuest
to find her way around. I don’t know if
our branch of Clan McGee has its own crest, but if it does, “Think for
Yourself” would not be its motto.
“Captain
Ochre? Are you all right?” Padre Miguel’s concerned voice dragged me
back to the present with a jolt. I
glanced round and saw at least ten brown eyes gazing at me in puzzlement. Their
confusion mirrored my own. What was
going on with me? I wasn’t in the habit
of taking trips down memory lane, certainly not on occasions such as this. And why Bernadette Kelly? She hadn’t even crossed my mind in at least
fifteen years, although of course, the same could not be said for my
mother. Perhaps it’s the first sign of madness, I thought. Maybe I was on my way to becoming another
statistic, one more member of the military who goes way beyond being
de-sensitised and finally loses sanity altogether because it’s preferable to
living with what’s in your head.
The
idea of being permanently incarcerated in a room covered with gigantic bubble
wrap was sufficient to catapult me back to reality, however. “Padre, I’m so sorry,” I said earnestly. “The
J word – it just came out. I didn’t mean
any offence.”
“None
taken,” he replied with a smile. His
eyes were kind, but shrewd. I had the
discomforting sensation he could see right into me – not just bones and tissue,
but thoughts and feelings, even those I couldn’t articulate. Having this guy take confession would be some
experience, I thought. Forget the
bits you normally leave out – with Miguel it would be like plugging a jack into
your brain and downloading everything, so there would be no point in
subterfuge.
“What
do you plan to do with the icon?” I asked, more in an attempt to regain my
authority than with any real desire to know.
“We
are bringing her back to her home, the original basilica,” he said seriously,
his gaze firmly fixed on the men offloading the Ute. “She will be safe there until we can
rebuild.”
“Rebuild?”
I knew I sounded slow on the uptake – I was expecting him to snarl, “What’s
with the repeating thing?” any second now. Instead, he just looked straight
ahead with a gaze which, in light of the day’s events, seemed unnaturally calm.
“We
will build another basilica, just as we did with this one,” he said evenly.
“This has been one more dreadful episode in Mexico’s history, Captain. The things human beings are prepared to do to
one another do not seem to change over the course of centuries. But we will not be defeated. We will carry on.”
“Human
beings weren’t responsible for this,” I replied tersely, before I could stop
myself.
Fortunately, he misunderstood. “No,” he acknowledged, with a sad shake of
his head. “This was indeed the work of
the Devil. But that is not new, Captain
Ochre. We have always been battling the
forces of darkness.” He looked directly
at me. “You are a soldier. You must know this.”
“Yes,”
I admitted. Poor Padre Miguel. He had no idea how much I wanted to scream
and cry, fling myself at his feet and beg forgiveness for failing in my
soldierly duties in such spectacular fashion.
“Do
you know about the legend of Guadalupe, Captain?” he asked.
“You
mean how her image was supposed to appear to Juan Diego, the Aztec
peasant? I’m no longer a practising
Catholic, Padre, but I know the basic story.”
He
nodded. “It’s fascinating, even for
those who do not believe. I would like
to tell you a little more about it, because it says much about the spirit of
Mexicans. It is a spirit that cannot be
crushed by tragedy. But first, I would
like to know your name – I do not want to go on calling you El Capitano.”
I was completely incapable of explaining to
him that the identities of Spectrum personnel were not for public
consumption. I had the strange, but
certain conviction that this man knew me inside out within the space of ten
minutes and that to hide anything from him would not only be pointless, but
foolish. So I said simply, “It’s
Elaine.”
“Elena. That is a beautiful name.” He pronounced it El-en-a, rather than El-ayn-a. “So, Elena,
to continue with my story. You know that
the Virgin Mary appeared to Juan Diego in December 1531, on Tepeyac,
the hill over there? Do you know what
she wanted of him?”
“She
asked him to build a church for her at the base of the hill.”
“Correct. But Juan Diego was not a rich or a
well-educated man and was also known to be somewhat fanciful. So, as you might imagine, he had trouble
getting the local Bishop to believe his story.
He had to ask the Virgin for proof of some kind. She complied by covering the hillside with
roses. That was seen as a miracle,
because not only was it December and very cold, but back then, the hill was not
a hospitable place for flowers or shrubs of any kind. Juan Diego cut several of the roses and
placed them in his tilma,
which was a sort of cloak used in protection against the elements. He was instructed by the Virgin that he must
only disclose what he was carrying to the Bishop himself and that this would be
seen as a sign that she was for real.”
“And
was it? Did the Bishop believe him?”
“Eventually,
yes he did. So, the first church on this
site was built. Of course the Old
Basilica where we are standing now was not completed until 1709, many, many
years after Juan Diego’s death.”
His
brown eyes regarded me intently. “But it was more than just the flowers,
Elena. The legend would not have
survived all these centuries on the basis of roses in December. The most important part was that Guadalupe
left an imprint of her image on Juan Diego’s tilma. That cloth is what goes to
make up the icon. That was the second
miracle, you see. The tilma was made of poor quality cactus cloth;
it should have disintegrated relatively quickly. Yet, here we are, over five hundred years
later and it is intact, no signs of decay.”
“Right,”
I answered with a knowing smile, as if the fact that this piece of religious
hokum was being imparted by a high-ranking member of the Catholic Church made
all the difference to its believability.
Not for the first time, I wondered why faith could make idiots of
seemingly intelligent people.
“And
now, today, Guadalupe has shown us her third miracle,” he continued. “The forces of evil cannot destroy her and
they cannot destroy our faith. She will
be safe in her original home until a new Basilica can be built.” He grinned
broadly. “Let us hope that next time a better architect may be found. The inside of the modern basilica was truly
beautiful, but there are many who will not mourn the destruction of the
exterior. It was – how do you say? A carbuncle?”
I
smiled at him. Despite his whimsical
strangeness, Miguel was an immensely likeable man. I suspected that his sense of humour could
hold its own in the roughest of Belfast drinking establishments.
“Why
was the modern Basilica built in the first place?” I asked. “The old building is beautiful. What was wrong with it?”
“It
was sinking,” he replied seriously. “Its
foundations were not strong. Now it is
shored up by extensive repair work and modern engineering. But there was a time when it was deemed to be
in imminent danger of collapse, so in the nineteen seventies, the decision was
taken to build a new church nearby. This
old building is still in use, but not so many people worship here now. Most want to spend time with Guadalupe, so
they visit the modern Basilica.”
“Looks
like they’ll be coming back here, then,” I said. “At least for a while.”
“Yes,”
he said with a faint smile. “It is as I explained earlier, Elena. We trust in Our Lady. Ultimately, she will not let us down. People will still come to worship and pray
for a better world. Guadalupe will
provide.”
How
wonderful it must be, I thought, to endure such tragedy and still have faith
and hope that one day, everything will be all right. I wondered when I had lost the ability to do
so – probably long before the advent of the Mysterons. In that moment, instead of arrogant
condescension, I felt only envy.
“Would
you mind if I had a look around the old church, Padre?” I asked
impulsively. “I’d like to make sure
everything is secure and in order. We
wouldn’t want anything to happen to this one, now would we?”
“Of
course not,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “Take as much time as you
need.” He touched my arm lightly before
walking away and I realised he wasn’t fooled by my morphing back into ‘Captain
Ochre of Spectrum, here to save the world’ mode. He knew that inside, I was a puddle.
I
wandered inside the old Basilica. It
seemed to have been restored to something approaching its original
magnificence, although I wasn’t sure how many people actually worshipped here
now. I could see that Guadalupe had been
carefully removed from the Ute and positioned with due reverence on an altar
surrounded by candles. Just underneath
her was a bowl of silk roses and a bright yellow child’s bicycle. It all looked a little bizarre, given the
circumstances, but maybe it was the best anyone could do. I was beyond giving serious consideration to
the strangeness of a bike in a church.
The
place felt damp and chill in the darkness.
The second week in December, but no-one seemed to have considered
heating. Nor had any lamps been switched
on – the only source of light was candles, randomly grouped in their
dozens. Perhaps religious fervour wasn’t
always conducive to paying the utility bills.
The
place was empty, apart from a woman sitting alone on a pew at the front. From a
rear view she looked to be tall and very snappily dressed in a dark
business-like suit. She was muttering
something to herself – prayers, I assumed.
I didn’t want to disturb her privacy, but by the same token, it didn’t
seem right to just turn tail and walk back out.
After swift deliberation, I slid as noiselessly as I could into a seat a
few feet behind her. I wondered if I
too, would find it possible to pray and quickly discovered that no, I would
not. Despite my upbringing, I could no
longer be a party to hypocrisy. So, I just sat quietly and waited for a
sufficiently decent interval to elapse whereby I could leave.
She
must have sensed my presence though, because she turned around and stared at
me. She was probably only in her early fifties, although at that moment, she
looked about eighty. She had abundant hair in a shade of blonde that would
never occur naturally on a person of Hispanic origin and a cosmetically
enhanced face that was covered in so much make-up it must have been laid on
with a trowel. I guess she would normally be considered very attractive by
middle-aged men with impaired eyesight, but right now, she was a mess. The hair
was escaping in demonic fashion from the slides intended to keep it out of her
eyes and the face was puffy from crying. Her whole body seemed shrivelled up
with grief and exhaustion.
My
uniform seemed to mean something to her because she treated me to an outpouring
of rapid Spanish, in which the word “Spectrum” was heavily featured. The
‘understanding a language other than English’ section of my brain seemed to
have given up the ghost, so in the end, I said, “I’m not really following
you. Could you talk more slowly,
please?”
“Ah.
Eeengleesh,” she said, with a nod of
enlightenment. I was tempted to say,
“Well, Irish, actually,” but I decided it wasn’t a good idea to be pedantic
over this distinction when I was showing such a lamentable lack of knowledge of
her own native tongue.
I
thought she understood me, but she didn’t say anything more, just thrust a
photograph into my hand, jabbing a shaking finger at both me and the picture in
turn. “Look,” she cried at last. “Look.
You see!”
I
did see. The photo was of a young boy in
a school uniform beaming proudly out at the camera. He looked to be about five or six.
“Grandson,”
she said proudly. “My grandson. This picture – his first day at school, you
know? His clothes, his – how you say? His uniform, yes. His uniform was too big, but my daughter, she
say don’t worry, he soon grow. But now,
he will not. He is lost to me, as is my daughter. Lost under the rubble.” Her tears began to spill over once more, as
her voice rose to a raging howl of despair.
I
had no words of comfort to give, so I simply put my arms around her and gave
her what was admittedly an awkward hug; awkward in that she was at least six
feet tall, so my five six meant that my arms were stretched round her middle
and my face was resting dangerously close to two skin-stretching, volley ball
sized objects that her plastic surgeon had probably told her was the bosom
everyone was asking for these days. If she was the clingy type, I might well
suffocate.
Fortunately,
she pulled away and patted her skirt in what seemed to be a blind search for
something. This turned out to be a white
lace handkerchief, which she unfolded and pressed against her eyes with both
palms. I noted with interest that her
eyes were just red, rather than smudgy black, a clear sign that her mascara was
holding up better than Destiny’s. I
fought down the urge to ask her what brand she used. Even though the world had become surreal, to
the point where the floor occasionally changed places with the ceiling, I still
had enough of a grip on reality to know that such a superficial question would
be in exceedingly bad taste.
The problem was, I couldn’t seem to get beyond
superficial. My brain was refusing to
deal with the concept of anything deeper than the properties of waterproof
mascara. That was a bit of a worry. What if it was another sign that my mind and
I were parting company and that my future consisted of nothing more creative
than macramé and papier mache
baskets?
Mexican
Granny – I should have asked her name – had finished dabbing her eyes by now
and had grabbed my hand. She was pulling
me forward towards the altar, where the bike was still lolling awkwardly next
to the silk flowers.
“See?”
she asked again, giving me a push in the small of my back. She was clearly no
slouch in the fitness stakes - the force was such that I stumbled, almost
falling over the handlebars.
“This
is yours?” I asked, rubbing my bruised elbow. I realised at once how ludicrous
the question was. This was just a kid’s
bike. It still had stabilisers attached. No way would a six foot, fifty-odd year old
woman be riding around the streets of Mexico City on it, not unless her entire
body was double-jointed. I didn’t think even the most ambitious plastic surgeon
would run to that.
“It
is present,” she replied sadly.
“Christmas present for José. It is the thing he most wanted, but he
will never use it now. I wanted to bring
it here, to Our Lady. She will bless it
and through this, she will keep safe my little José.”
I
was stunned by her naivety; not just her simple-minded devotion to a centuries
old religious symbol, but at the fact she didn’t seem to realise that the
chances of the bike still being here tomorrow morning were slim to none. I had no doubts that the local delinquents
would misappropriate it in double quick time, even if the church were locked
overnight, which seemed unlikely.
“Look,
Ms....” I began gently.
“Rosa,”
she said. “My name is Rosa.”
“Okay,
Rosa. You really shouldn’t leave the
bike here, you know. It isn’t safe. Someone might steal it.”
She
looked at me as if I had committed the ultimate blasphemy. “Steal it?” she
echoed. “From Our Lady? No, no.
Not possible. Guadalupe will
protect it. It must stay here to receive
her blessing.”
I
shrugged. “Well, it’s up to you, I guess.
But you’ll need to come back tomorrow and collect it. I don’t think you’ll be allowed to leave it
here indefinitely.”
She
nodded and began to cry once more. “Every day,” she whispered. “I will be here every day from now. There is nothing else for me. Just praying to Our Lady for José and Maria.”
And
for all the others, I thought, as a wave of utter despair engulfed me. Her sorrow was unbearable. I wanted to fall down on my knees and scream
until I had no voice left.
“Rosa, I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I’m so
sorry for your loss.” It probably
sounded trite, but I could think of nothing else to say to her.
She
smiled at me through a sheen of tears. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she laid a hand on my arm. “You have a good heart, I think. God will go with you, caro.” Then, after a final dab at her eyes, she
tucked away her hanky, picked up her handbag and hurried out of the basilica.
My
legs felt like they were turning to jelly, so I slumped down into the pew she
had vacated and tried to take deep breaths to fend off the waves of
nausea. Unfortunately, all the
hyperventilating did nothing more than increase my dizziness, so I stopped
breathing so much and kept my head still and my eyes fixed on the marble slabs
of the altar. And I thought about pain.
You
don’t remember pain, do you? Physical pain, I mean. You remember that you felt
it, but not what it was actually like at
the time. When I was twenty and fairly
new to the army, I was accidentally shot in the shoulder by a guy from my own
regiment who had misaligned his M-340.
The pain was indescribable. I can recall thinking, as they stretchered me off to the helicopter: I will not live
through this flight because the pain will kill me. I truly cannot take it. I displayed no stiff upper
lip qualities whatsoever. I just kept
shrieking, “I want a priest!” Me, whose
last confession pretty much coincided with my first communion. The point is, the pain was terrible, but I
can’t remember the actual degree of terrible.
You
don’t remember emotional pain, either.
When Danny McNulty, the most gorgeous boy ever to grace a sixth form
biology class had unexpectedly dumped me for Bridie
Cooper, a four foot eleven midget with acne and pudgy
ankles, I was in no doubt that I would die.
The only way to escape the agony in my soul was to embrace the Holy
Trinity of youth: sex, drugs and rock and roll. Boy, did I embrace. I was a true believer. I screwed, drank and drugged with the best of
them. I didn’t die, of course, I just
got chucked out of university. By the
time I joined the army and had done a couple of tours of Afghanistan, I
couldn’t even remember what Danny McNulty looked like.
So
you know that this pain and more, occurred.
You remember the instances with sadness; you might even cringe. But you don’t remember the pain itself. And the fact you don’t remember is part of
getting over things. But this was different. As I sat alone in that dark church, I
realised that Rosa, with her sad little gift to Guadalupe, and Destiny, in her
tears of anguish, understood something that until this moment, I had not. There is
pain that will be remembered, pain from which it is impossible to recover. There would be no getting over this.
But
then, the strangest thing happened. As I
gazed at the altar with unseeing eyes, something appeared to float to the floor
from above. It looked for all the world
like a scattering of pale pink rose petals.
The silk flower arrangement was obviously falling apart faster than it
was meant to, I thought. I bent down and
picked them up. If the most I could
accomplish today was to leave the place tidy, so be it. But the petals were not silk. They were real and what was more, they gave
off that indisputable rose scent that no artificial flowers can ever possess. I
looked around, puzzled. There were no flowers of any kind in the basilica,
other than the aforementioned silk arrangement.
Where on earth had these come from?
I
caressed their velvety softness gently with my fingertips and watched,
trancelike, as they slowly disintegrated and slipped to the floor once
more. Soon, there was nothing left but
dust and a lingering aroma of roses on my hands. I smelled like I had been doused in a bottle
of Jean Patou’s ‘Joy’. Come on
now, Elaine, get a grip, I thought hysterically. This is just some high-falutin’ air
freshener they’re piping through.
I
glanced up at Guadalupe. “Sure know how to spin heads, don’t you?” I said
sardonically. “You’ve even got me
thinking I’m going nuts. What do you do
for your party trick?”
She
just smiled. She did, I swear to
God. Her expression changed and she
smiled at me. And as I gazed at her in
disbelief, I saw myself reflected in her eyes. It was just like a mirror, me
standing gazing up with rose dust between my fingers. I stood, rooted to the spot and watched as
the picture changed. It was like
watching a movie on a tiny, tiny screen.
There was Captain Black, then he was gone. There too, was the Mysteron City before it
also vanished in a prism of colour. I
have never actually seen the Mysteron city, but I knew without doubt that this
was what I was looking at. Then I saw
Scarlet and Blue and Colonel White raising champagne glasses in
celebration. Destiny was there too,
dressed not in her Angel uniform, but in civvies. Two small children, a boy and girl, were
happily playing at her feet, while in a corner, apparently unobserved, a coffee
and cream coloured baby crawled with dogged determination towards one of Skybase’s elevators.
The
picture changed again. Back to me this
time, although my uniform looked a little different and I was wearing the
epaulettes and insignia of a colonel. I
was seated at Colonel White’s desk in Central Control. Occupying Lieutenant Green’s place was
someone I didn’t know. I looked older,
but nothing to complain about. In one
small corner of my mind, I was oddly cheered. If this was meant to be a vision
of the future, then not only was I still alive, I didn’t look to be in urgent
need of a facelift. I’m ashamed to admit
I was more pleased by my lack of wrinkles than I was by the fact that, against
all odds, I’d actually made colonel.
But then I started to feel really frightened. What was happening to me? Hallucinations had never before been part of
Trauma Time. It wasn’t the fact that I
was watching a show that wasn’t listed in the TV guide that scared me; in an
odd way, the visions were comforting. It
was the fact I was having them in the first place.
Keep calm, I told myself sternly. This is all in your head, Elaine. It’s not real. I sat back down, closed my eyes and counted
to ten. When I opened them again, there
was no evidence of rose petals and Guadalupe’s face bore her previously
sanguine expression. There was nothing
reflected in her eyes.
When
I got back to base, I decided, I would behave like a sane person. I would do the responsible thing and book in
an appointment with the fair Alex, our resident psych. Unlike some of my colleagues, I’m a firm
believer in nipping these things in the bud.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s all part of the job. In the same way you don’t ignore routine
physical stuff, you need to pay attention to the mind things, too. The Angels complain that altitude and
G-forces wreak havoc on their systems; for us, it’s usually more mental stress
overload. Of course, you could point
this out to some of my male colleagues until the cows come home and they would
simply scoff at it. But that’s men for
you.
A
noise at the back of the church made me turn.
I saw the outline of a Spectrum cap and felt my heart sink. Someone had come to look for me. I crossed my fingers that it would not be
Blue, with his gung-ho cheeriness, or, God help me, Magenta, whose internal
radar could pick up female distress signals at a thousand paces. He would immediately morph into his Mr
Sensitive persona, here to dispense comfort as required. Maybe I was being a little harsh on him, but
I wasn’t entirely convinced that he was above turning a comradely cuddle into
an excuse to cop a feel. I didn’t even
want it to be Scarlet; his concern would be genuine, but then he would just be
so damned nice to me that I would start blubbing and
once that happened, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be able to stop.
Maybe
I need to explain something, here. We –
the senior personnel – all have nicknames.
Most of the time, it’s self-explanatory.
For instance, Magenta is Romeo, Blue is Tex and Scarlet is The
Alien. He wasn’t too happy about that at
first, but once he understood that we only said it to his face because we
wouldn’t have him any other way, he seemed okay with it. We didn’t bother
nicknaming the Angels – I think we felt that they had enough to cope with being
musical cherubs. Mario does call Destiny
The Snow Queen, but fortunately, for his sake, I think she’s completely unaware
of it.
As for me, I’m The Girl. Obvious, really. I’m the only female senior colour – coded
captain. I don’t have a problem with it. No-one can say it’s not accurate, except that
at the age of thirty-one, the word “girl” might be a misnomer. Still, it could be worse. The difficulty is, because I am The Girl, I can’t be the girl, if you catch my drift. Which is why I didn’t particularly want to be
caught in my present emotional state. It
was way too girly for my liking, but equally, I didn’t feel up to masking it
with the usual defence mechanisms.
So
I was mightily relieved to hear a Scottish bass voice boom, “So this is where
you’ve been hiding out, lass.”
Captain Grey.
I felt my shoulders relax immediately.
The good thing about Iain is that you can be
yourself with him without fearing disapproval or censure of any kind. At least, I can. I’m not sure why I find him so easy to be
around – I know it’s not a view shared by everyone. There are those who find him dour, to say the
least. He thinks it’s because we share a
Celtic connection which has filtered down through the centuries. Maybe he’s right. There is a sympathy between us which often
transcends the need for explanations.
That can be so restful.
He
took one look at me and plonked himself down at my side, stretching out his
long legs as far as the pew in front of us would allow. “Here,” he said,
without preamble, holding out a plastic cup of what looked like extremely hot
liquid.
I
sniffed it. My nose didn’t receive any
positive vibes. “What is it?” I asked
suspiciously.
He
could have said, “rat poison,” and it wouldn’t have mattered. What he did say was, “The Red Cross has set
up some kind of refreshments stall. I
can’t remember if I asked for tea or coffee, but the important thing is that
it’s hot and sweet.”
I
gazed down at it and knew that if I took even one small sip, I would be
sick. “No,” I said. “I can’t.”
He
picked my hand off its resting post on the pew in front of me and placed it
round the container. “Come on, El,” he
said. “I shouldn’t have to tell you
this. Golden rule of Trauma Time – you don’t let your blood sugar drop so low
that you wind up in La- La Land. Drink
up.”
I
knew he was right. And with that
knowledge came the realisation that maybe I wasn’t losing my marbles after
all. Padre Miguel, Rosa, the weird stuff
with Guadalupe, it was all just temporary.
I was so weak with relief that I decided giving the tea/coffee a try was
worth the risk of throwing up over Iain’s admittedly
less than immaculate boots.
It
didn’t taste any better than it looked, but it was indeed hot. “This is vile,” I declared,
ungraciously. “You could at least have got
me a Mars Bar.”
“They’re
running a soup kitchen, not a ruddy sweet shop,” he protested mildly.
“That’s
no excuse,” I said, as I slid my arm through his and felt him lean into me with
companionable warmth. We sat in silence
for a while, as I sipped the liquid and concentrated on the burning issue of
whether it was tea or coffee. It
actually tasted like hot water mixed with sugar and gravy granules. By the time I had triumphantly concluded that
it was Bovril which had been mistaken for tea and sweetened in error, the world
was reverting to some semblance of normality.
“I
feel like such a wimp, Iain,” I announced at
last. “For some reason, this one has
really got to me. I don’t know why.”
“That
can happen,” he replied thoughtfully.
“Some things hit home more than others. Personally, I think it all boils
down to ethics. Or the lack of them.”
He looked at me. “You know what I
mean, hen? Most people, even terrorists,
usually have some kind of moral code, which limits the depths to which they’ll
sink. Even in war, we’ve come to expect
standards of some kind. But with the
Mysterons, there are no standards. They
don’t have any no-go areas and you’re angry at that. You’re outraged at their lack of ethics.”
“But
I’m not angry,” I said slowly. “Not
really. Oh, I should be – I should be
filled with rage, because that I could handle.
But instead, I just feel heartbroken.
See that?” I pointed towards the
altar, where the bike still leaned perilously close to a cluster of candles.
“That was going to be a little boy’s Christmas present. But now he’s dead, along with his mother, so
his grandmother brought the present here to give it to Guadalupe.”
I
could tell by Grey’s bemused expression that he thought I was still suffering
the effects of low blood sugar. But then
he said, “I was rather wondering about the bike...” in such a manner that I
realised he was all too familiar with the peculiarities of post-traumatic
stress.
“He
was only five,” I continued. “He’d just
started school. And now he’ll never see his
presents or learn how to ride his bike.
He’ll never grow up, get married or make his granny a
great-grandmother. That’s what I can’t
bear, Iain.
There’ll be no more Christmases for any of these people.”
He
was silent and I glanced up at him. His face
was impassive in the shadows of the candles.
Then I remembered. He had lost
his small daughter in tragic circumstances before she even reached school age. Okay, it hadn’t happened at Christmas, but
even so, I knew this time of year was difficult for him. I reached for his hand and entwined my
fingers in his.
“Sorry,”
I muttered. “Didn’t mean....” my voice
trailed off. I didn’t really know what
it was I didn’t mean.
He
squeezed my fingers briefly in understanding.
“I know,” he said. “It’s fine, hen. But as for no more Christmases.... well,
that’s not true, you know. Yes, a lot of
people died and many more have had their lives ruined. But they’ll go on to recover what they can,
because in the end, that’s all any of us can do.”
His
eyes, as storm-cloud grey as his tunic, gazed intently at me. “We may have lost the battle today, lassie,
but we’re not dead in the water yet.
There’s still a world out there.
There are millions of kids who are blissfully unaware of what’s happened
here because they’re so caught up in the excitement of wondering just what
Santa Claus is going to bring them. And
that’s exactly as it should be. Our job
is to find better ways of making sure that that they’ll have plenty more
Christmases to look forward to.”
The
lump in my throat was threatening to choke me unless I could manage to unclog
it by drowning it in tears. But, Iain being Iain, he had already
worked that out for himself. So he got
to his feet and gently touched my shoulder.
“Would
you like me to give the signal to pack up now?” he asked. I nodded, grateful that, in asking the
question, he had deferred to my judgement, even if he probably believed that
right now, I wasn’t capable of exercising any.
“Thanks,
I’d appreciate that,” I managed to say.
I caught hold of his sleeve as he moved away from me. “Iain? Would you just give me a couple of minutes on
my own? I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
“No
problem,” he said. “We’re not in a
hurry.” He sauntered back out of the
church in a manner which was no doubt designed to convey the erroneous
impression that indeed, we had all the time in the world before we needed to
get back to Skybase and officially account for our failings.
But
the spectre of a de-briefing session wasn’t really uppermost in my mind at this
point. I was too busy trying to stem the
tide of wetness flowing down my face.
Water was dripping from my chin onto my tunic. Damn it, I thought irritably. I needed to have a word with the people who
supply our uniforms. It’s bad enough
finding anywhere to store Tampax, never mind a
convenient pocket to deposit tissues.
I
must have been casting about my person rather desperately, because a voice I
had come to recognise suddenly said politely, “Allow me,” as a square of clean
white linen was pressed into my hand.
Padre Miguel. He was so
soft-footed I hadn’t heard him approach.
He took Grey’s place next to me in the pew and bent his head in silent
prayer as I rather noisily blew my nose into his beautifully laundered
handkerchief.
When
I had composed myself somewhat, I turned towards him. He was still away on his prayer trip,
muttering to himself in Latin. It was
probably tactless of me to interrupt, but in the end, I couldn’t stop myself.
“How
do you do it, Padre?” I asked. “How do
you live with all the rottenness in the world and still believe? Surely no-one in their right minds would ever
believe this could be God’s will. So why
do you?”
He
sighed, almost inaudibly. “My child,” he
began, as if he was not aware of the fact that there could certainly be no more
than fifteen years difference in our ages, “God cannot prevent the wickedness
we inflict on ourselves. He cannot wave
a magic wand and take away all the tragedy and suffering in the world. The fact that He cannot do these things does
not mean we should cast Him aside. What
God gives us is the strength to deal with whatever fate hands us, be it good or
bad. I have gained from that strength
all my life and nothing that has taken place today changes anything.”
“But
if you believe in God, then you believe He will protect us from harm,
surely? Otherwise, you wouldn’t think
that a centuries old bit of cloth has some magical power to heal and watch over
us. That’s what I don’t understand,
Padre. How can you believe in something
so patently untrue? The only thing
Guadalupe protected today was herself.”
I
was quite surprised at the bitterness in my voice, but Miguel didn’t seem
perturbed. I expect he’s used to people
like me, the black sheep who resolutely refuse to return to the fold. He said quietly, “I understand your loss of
faith, Elena. You do a difficult job in
circumstances where sometimes, the presence of God is not evident. All I can tell you is that you should not
give up hope. The Lord will continue to
walk with you, even if you do not wish to acknowledge Him.”
I
decided I’d had enough religion for one day. “Thank you for your advice,
Padre,” I said, giving him my best effort at a grateful smile. “I’ll try to bear it in mind. Now I really must go. My people will be waiting for me.”
I
gave him back his soggy handkerchief and got to my feet. Oddly, he did not rise with me. He was examining the cloth with a strange
expression on his face. Then, to my
amazement, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. I stared at him, appalled. The Catholic Church has always had its odd
practices and shameful secrets, but never before had I come across a snot
fetish. And in such a fastidious man;
who would have guessed?
“Roses,”
he murmured. “It smells of roses.” Then
he looked at me with wonder in his eyes. “Did something happen here,
Elena? Did Guadalupe appear to
you?” His voice was urgent, tinged with
awe.
I
just stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say. His hand shot out and closed round my arm in
a grip that was probably more forceful than he intended. “Please,” he said. “You must tell me. This is important.”
I
had no idea why my hallucinatory trip through the light fantastic should be
important, or why he didn’t recognise the smell of the fabric softener his
housekeeper had used on his hanky. I
decided to indulge him anyway. After all, we were unlikely ever to meet
again. What harm could there be in
co-operating in his little fantasies? So
I explained the rose petals and the movie of the week I had seen in Guadalupe’s
eyes.
When
I had finished, he simply clasped my hands in his own and beamed at me. “My child,” he said reverently. “Another
miracle! Guadalupe has revealed herself
to you. You are blessed indeed!”
“Oh,
come on, Miguel,” I said with a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous. Look, there
are no roses and whatever I thought I saw on Guadalupe’s face was just my
imagination playing tricks on me. It’s a
bit embarrassing to admit, but I was seeing stuff that wasn’t there, that’s
all. It’s just been a tough day for
everyone.”
He
shook his head, still holding tight to my hands. “Please,” he said. “Sit down again. There are things I need to tell you.”
“Okay,”
I replied, resigned to the fact that I was not going to escape any time
soon. I slammed my rear end back down on
the hard wood and thought that the next time our uniforms were redesigned, I
would suggest the incorporation of a little padding in the posterior. If I ended up looking like Marilyn Monroe’s
darker, fatter, Irish sister, it would be a small price to pay for comfort.
“What
do you want to tell me, Padre?” I asked.
“When
I related the story of Guadalupe, I did not explain everything,” he began
earnestly. “There is more to the legend
than the flowers and the cloak. Over the
centuries, several people have seen images reflected in Guadalupe’s eyes. Sometimes it is of themselves, sometimes of
events around them, or of things to come.
Photographs have been taken of these images and even now, scientists
cannot agree on a rational explanation.”
“What
do you mean, ‘a rational explanation’?”
“No-one
knows how it happens,” he said seriously.
“No-one can indisputably say it is not real, despite the most detailed
forensic analysis. All I know is that
every now and again, Guadalupe reveals herself in this manner. I have never experienced it myself, but I
have heard stories that I believe to be true.”
He looked at me intently. “You
say that what you saw could be interpreted as visions of the future. Were they hopeful scenes?”
“Well,
yes, I guess maybe they were,” I agreed reluctantly. “I mean, it looked like maybe we were winning
the fight against the Mys...... against terror. I’m not sure what it meant, really.”
“Guadalupe
wants to show you that there is still hope left, Elena. Hope for us all. If you believe nothing else about her, then
at least believe that.”
I
stared at the icon on the altar. She
refused to do anything other than stare back at me in her usual inanimate
fashion. But then, it was as if she
reached into me and turned a key. A door
opened in my heart, leading to a room I hadn’t known was there. I didn’t know what it contained, but I knew
that there was nothing to fear. I
suddenly felt lighter and freer than I had in a long time. Well,
okay, I thought, exhaling silently. Perhaps
Iain is right, we’re not defeated yet. Maybe we
can beat them. I
acknowledged the possibility that old Guadalupe knew a thing or two after all.
I
stood up again. “I have to go,” I said
once more. Impulsively, I reached out
and gave Miguel a quick hug. “God be
with you, Padre.”
“He
usually is, I believe,” he replied calmly, although his cheeks had gone a
little pink. “I don’t expect Him to drop
out now. You should remember, Elena. When you’re running out of options, God will
still be running with you, even if He’s so far in front you can’t see Him. But He will wait for you to catch up if you
want Him to.”
I
couldn’t take any more allegorical references.
I needed to be out of there. “See
you around, Padre,” I called, giving him a cheerful wave of my hand as I strode
towards the door. “Take good care of
Guadalupe for me. Who knows, I may be
back to have another chat with her in the future.”
“Both
she and I will look forward to that,” he answered with a smile.
When
I got outside, the place was pretty deserted.
Spectrum had departed in a big way, although Captain Grey was still
there, leaning against a nearby tree. I
was touched by the fact that he had waited for me, although since I was the one
in possession of the lockdown protocol for our Hummingbird, he didn’t have a
lot of choice. Still, I was pleased that
he hadn’t decided to abandon me and cadge a lift from someone else.
“Ready
to go?” he asked. As I nodded my assent,
he slung his arm around my shoulders.
“When we get back to base, let’s all have dinner together in the
Starlight,” he said. “I’m paying, it’s
my treat.”
I
blinked in surprise. This was a grand
gesture indeed. The Starlight Room was Skybase’s most exclusive and expensive restaurant. Most of us could only afford to eat there on
special occasions. And, while I wouldn’t
describe Iain as mean, he certainly is an
enthusiastic exponent of the old maxim, ‘look after the pennies and the pounds
will look after themselves.’ Pushing the
boat out on fine dining isn’t exactly his style and yet here he was, offering
to fork out for a meal for all of us that could cost him a week’s pay. I was so touched by his kindness, I wanted to
blub all over again.
You’ll be glad to know that I didn’t.
All of a sudden, though, I wished he were
offering me sex rather than food. Don’t
get me wrong, I’ve never particularly had the hots
for Iain, nor, as far as I’m aware, has he for
me. It’s always been more of a chummy, matey thing with us.
But as I leaned into his large, solid shoulder, I began to imagine what
it would be like to have his body wrapped around mine, to be enveloped in its
warm strength. I closed my eyes,
thinking of his hands moving all over me, his fingers teasing me towards those
hot, sweaty, blissful moments of release when, for however brief a time, I
would forget today.
Then
I opened my eyes and gave myself a mental shake. This was another of the dangers of Trauma
Time. If you weren’t careful, you could
end up in the wrong situation with the wrong person for all the wrong
reasons. I’ve been around the block
enough times to know that seeking solace in a good shag is rarely worth the
risk of fallout. Besides, not only is Iain ‘romantically involved’ with another member of Skybase’s personnel, he’s that rare breed, the steadfast,
faithful type. He doesn’t need to use
variety as a means of boosting his self-esteem.
If he intended to share his bed with anyone tonight, that person would
not be me.
So I moved out of his embrace and said, “I
haven’t got much of an appetite, I’m afraid.”
“It
doesn’t mean you don’t eat,” he replied.
“Life goes on, Elaine, whether you like the way it goes or not. If the best we can do sometimes is just pay
attention to our ethics and eat a decent meal, then the food should be damn
good.”
I sighed.
Truth be told, I wasn’t interested in food as a pick-me-up, whether it
was haute cuisine or a burger from
McDonalds. If I wasn’t going to console
myself with sinus-clearing sex, then I needed to consider a different type of
tranquilliser. I cast my mind around the contents of my bathroom cabinet and
came up with an unopened bottle of (legally prescribed) Xanax. Yes!
What a find! All I wanted now
was to be home, showered and medicated into oblivion.
But of course, after his splendid offer, that
wasn’t really something I could explain to Iain. So I took a deep breath and resolutely
straightened my shoulders. “Okay,” I
said, flashing him my brightest smile.
“The Starlight it is, then. I
don’t know about you, but I’m having a big fish supper with salt and vinegar
and loads of ketchup. Oh, and a double
helping of mushy peas. Washed down with
at least three pints of Heineken. Do you
think the chef will be able to cope with that?”
“Probably,”
he said dryly. “I wouldn’t like to speak for your digestion. But, if lager and greasy chips are what it’s
going to take to sort you out, then what the hell.” He linked his arm through mine. “Come on, hen. Let’s go home.”
So
that’s what we did. For the record, the
chips were fantastic and so was the lager.
After I had downed the fifth pint, the proof of our superb team work was
demonstrated by simultaneous decision-making.
I decided it was the perfect moment to instruct Blue in the finer points
of Strip Poker and Scarlet decided it was the perfect moment for me to
leave. So he did the gentlemanly thing
and carried me back to my quarters. I
left him little choice but to deposit me in unceremonious fashion on the
bathroom floor, but at least he didn’t hang around long enough to watch me
throw up. I didn’t make it to the
medicine cabinet to locate the Xanax, but there
wasn’t really any need. I slept like a
baby and didn’t dream of Guadalupe at all.
And in the morning, I breezily reported to Grey that my digestion had
held up just fine.
The
End.
Author’s Notes
As you might guess from the
quote at the beginning, the inspiration for this story came from Tom Russell’s
song ‘Guadalupe’ and the gorgeous rendition of it by Gretchen Peters and Tom on
their collaborative album, ‘One to the Heart, One to the Head’.
The story of Guadalupe and Juan
Diego is well-documented and although I knew very little about it prior to
hearing the song, I was fascinated by what I discovered. The icon resides in the modern basilica to
this day and is visited by millions of tourists each year. Masses are held every hour throughout the day
and confessions are also ongoing from early morning to late evening. Saint Juan Diego was canonized by Pope John
Paul II in 2002.
I am not Catholic, so any
inaccuracies in terminology or description arise purely from profound
ignorance. I hope that Captain Ochre’s
views on religion do not offend any readers who may not share them.
Thanks, as always, to Hazel Köhler,
friend, editor and most excellent drinking companion, for her usual superb
beta-reading services. Any mistakes in
the text are mine and mine alone. I am
grateful, not only to Chris Bishop for providing such a great platform to
indulge my love for New Captain Scarlet, but to all my friends in the Scarletinis.
Your companionship, support and inspiration are deeply appreciated.
At this point in time, I am not
sure who owns the rights to New Captain Scarlet, but I do know that unfortunately, it’s not
me. I would, however, like to assure
those who do own it, that I have no profit-making motive in mind. I am simply grateful to Gerry Anderson and
the scriptwriters for dreaming up such wonderful characters for me to play
with.
I hope you all have a very
happy Christmas. 2011 promises to be a
great year, what with the tenth anniversary of SHQ and lots more fan fiction to
look forward to!
Skybase Girl
20th November 2010
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