Between the Bridge and the River (39 page)

Also, he hardly carried coal anymore. There was too much competition from road and rail haulage. It seemed that the world was burning fewer fossils. He took any cargo the agency could get for him.

On this day, he was carrying a huge consignment of new, extra-comfortable mattresses to a luxury spa that was being built on the coast. Most times, they would be carried by road, but thankfully, the truck drivers were on strike again and the trains were overstretched.

The resort was set to open in three weeks and they still had no beds. The mattresses were in the open hold but were hermetically sealed in plastic sheeting to avoid picking up any moisture.

George hit them at approximately fifty miles per hour, and no matter how comfortable the mattresses were, the thump was pretty bone jarring. But not as jarring as the surprise he felt. He looked up just in time to see Claudette smiling down at him.

“It’s not time yet,” she yelled.

Something else had happened.

The pain in his back was gone.

The following day, after Yves had pulled into the quay and angrily thrown George off his boat, and Claudette had immediately ran to him, and after they had gone home and made love, George went to see Alain Pantelic, who reluctantly agreed to retest him.

The French doctor found that George was cancer free. He could not explain it.

This is what happened.

There were two large tumors on George’s lungs and an additional smaller malignant growth attached to his lymph nodes when he hit the extra-comfortable mattresses. The violence of the impact had
knocked all three aliens into George’s bloodstream, where they had floated, confused and angry, until they found themselves in his liver, being hit with all manner of poisons.

They tried splitting, multiplying, diversifying, all the tricks of their loathsome breed, but they were thwarted at every turn. George’s immune system had become as tough and fearless as a combat-trained Glaswegian soldier. Everywhere they tried to go there was another wall of fierce white corpuscles herding them like sheep. From his liver they were transported and shunted roughly back along his intestinal tract and at about two o’clock that morning, when George left Claudette sleeping in the big warm bed, padded across the wooden floor, and sat down sleepily on the toilet, they were thrown rudely into a white porcelain hell with a partially digested lobster thermidore and what was left of some very expensive Chablis.

Hallelujah.

This, of course, is impossible.

Just like when Fraser’s invitation was delivered on a Sunday, or when the moon shines underground, or when an ugly woman turns into a cat, or when an all-powerful ancient regime topples, or when a holyman is brutalized and horribly murdered by a mob of thugs but comes back from the dead three days later to tell everyone they should be nice to each other. Or when a bumblebee flies.

THE SECURITY GUARDS
from the Holy United Church of America had driven Fraser out of town in the back of Leon’s town car. They hadn’t been rough with him; they were big, good-natured American white boys, they didn’t really want to be mean to anybody except leftists, atheists, and al-Qaeda.

They left Fraser by the roadside in the middle of some farmland miles from anywhere. They gave him a bottle of water and some Oreo cookies and wished him luck. He thanked them for their kindness and waved in what he hoped was the direction of the departing car.

Fraser thought that walking would be a bit dangerous, given that he had no idea where he was. His feet were still bare, so he moved a little till he felt grass rather than tarmac under his feet and then he sat down. He drank some water, ate some cookies, and lay back to have a little think.

A week earlier he had been a (somewhat) respected famous TV preacher in his home country. Now he was an outcast and a bum in a foreign land, he had nothing—no woman to fuss over him and have sex with, no money, no stuff, no job, no clothes, no shoes, no sight.

What a relief, he thought.

He drifted off and Carl appeared next to him. No one is blind in their dreams.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” said Fraser.

Carl smiled. “Well, I thought about it and I surmised that perhaps I am just a figment of your imagination, and if I am, then it’s not really up to me, is it?”

Fraser laughed. “You’re a weird guy, Carl,” he said.

“Takes one to know one,” chuckled the great, dead psychologist.

THANKS TO

John Naismith, Philip McGrade, and Alan Darby for patience and hilarity and friendship and valued counsel.

Brinsley Sheridan for the laughs and the lesson about time.

Andi O’Reilly for faith and encouragement.

Andrea Brandt, Sascha Ferguson, Lisa Gallant, Melanie Greene, David Harte,

Judy Johnson, Peter and Alice Lassally, Cheryl Maisel, Peter Morris, Richard Murphy, Michael Naidus, Catherine Olim, Mimi Rogers, Sarah Stitt, Megan Wallace-Cunningham, Amy Yasbeck, and everyone else who read early unedited drafts and made the right noises.

Heather Taekman for pushing me uphill.

BJ Robbins for commitment and belief.

Jay Schaefer and Micaela Heekin for being so damn smart.

David Leventhal and Haydee Campos for making sure I didn’t blow everything on candy.

The waiters in Les Deux Magots for the time to think.

The Fergusons and Ingrams of Glasgow for love and childhood.

Bill Wilson and Robert Smith and all of their friends.

Adam McLachlan for the past.

Milo Ferguson for the present and the future.