The High Flyer (46 page)

V

“Lewis!” I got the order cancelled by accusing him of intolerable bossiness and saying one pussyfoot was more than enough for anyone, but he was unabashed.

“Think of me as what I believe is called a Personal Trainer, keen to keep you fit!” he said brightly. “No, don’t waste your breath on further protests! Aren’t you anxious to know what your next question’s going to be?”

“If I say yes, you’ll smirk and boast: ‘I knew you’d never be able to resist your feminine curiosity!’ And then I’ll feel obliged to slap your face and storm out.”

“Goodness me, how exciting! But as I’m wearing my clerical collar let me avoid goading you into acting out this charming fantasy and tell you instead about your next question. You’re going to ask—”

“I know what my next question’s going to be, thanks very much, and the one after that—and even the one after that. I’m going to ask: why did I have to go through this hell? What’s it all been for? And how do I make it all come right?”

Lewis promptly launched himself into his reply.

VI

“The first thing to realise,” said Lewis firmly, “is that God never wills suffering but tries always to redeem it. Suffering’s the dark side of the creative process, as I said earlier, but the true artist can never stand it and can’t rest till the mess is fixed. Sometimes suffering is brought on us by our wrong actions—as I pointed out when I mentioned the people who dabble with Ouija boards—but even then suffering can be quite disproportionate to the sin, so priests should always think hard before they surge into the pulpit and thunder out: ‘We reap what we sow!’ Indeed suffering is often random and not the result of any wrong action at all.

“Let me say next that I think you did the right thing when you tried to work out why you married Kim—what part your upbringing, lifestyle and world-view played in making you Mrs. Betz. By putting yourself under the microscope in this way, you’ve learned something you didn’t know before—and that’s definitely a step forward on the spiritual journey where our first task is to know ourselves as well as we can in order to grasp what we can potentially become.

“So there you have one positive result, one redeeming feature, of this negative experience. And there’ll be others if you now align yourself with God by rebuilding your life in the best possible way. The rebuilding will give meaning to the tragedy, the meaning which will transform it and, in the end, redeem it. It’s meaningless suffering which destroys people, but if you can find meaning in this suffering you’ve endured you’ll be on course for a healing which will enable you to forgive Kim, forgive yourself and move on to live and love again.

“All right (I hear you thinking), that’s a choice little piece of clerical optimism, but what’s the old boy really getting at? I’ll tell you. You have to use your new knowledge, so painfully acquired, to help you realise your true self and embark on your correct destiny. Realising your true self (the one God designed) and fulfilling your correct destiny (the one best suited to the design) is the road to true happiness, of course. Happiness doesn’t lie, I assure you, in being what other people think you should be in order to satisfy the fashionable whims of a transient society.

“Please note that I’m not—repeat,
not
—suggesting that you’re now inevitably obliged to give away all your money and go to India to work for Mother Teresa. It may be that you’re still required to go on as a highflying lawyer and continue to earn—what’s that nasty word?— megabucks. Money is neutral; it’s what you do with it that counts. The big question you have to answer is: is this the real me or would I be more myself if I became a different kind of lawyer—or if I worked in a different field altogether? If so, earning megabucks may not necessarily be a priority in your new life.

“Take Eric Tucker, for example. He’d love to earn good money as a writer, of course, and I hope he will some day. But the important thing is that he’s doing what God’s clearly designed him to do and he’s doing it in a way which allows him to keep his integrity. How pitiful to be a mere story-teller, some people might say, but we can be called to all manner of work, even to jobs which the majority (but not God) would consider trivial. I read once about a man who loved his job as a lavatory attendant so much that his lavatories were a wonder of cleanliness and beauty—no, I’m not joking! I’m saying that man was called to be a lavatory attendant, and God was no doubt delighted by his splendid response. Even lavatory attendants have their part to play in God’s amazingly varied creation.

“So what I’m saying, Carter, is this: if you can rebuild your life to chime with God’s purpose for you, you’ll find the Powers don’t have the last word—you’ll find crucifixion really is followed by resurrection. You’ll find too that not only Kim’s death will be redeemed but also the work of the Powers which engulfed him, because your new life—which will benefit not just you but those you meet—will be shaped by your new knowledge, the knowledge which has arisen directly out of the suffering you’ve had to endure. All things can be worked by God into his creative purpose, that’s the unvarnished truth of it, and there’s no darkness so dark that in the end it can’t be penetrated and subsumed by the light . . . But remember:
you must act
! You can’t sit back and wait for redemption to drop into your lap! As Eric quoted to me the other day: ‘All that’s required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing!’ Dear me, I suppose that should be ‘good
people
’ nowadays, shouldn’t it? I fancy I can almost hear Edmund Burke revolving in his grave . . .”

VII

There was a prolonged pause. Gradually I became aware again of my surroundings: the plush furniture, the thick carpet, the drone of conversation, the waiters flitting hither and thither, silent as moths, and, far away in the River Room, the golden evening sunlight glowing beyond the long windows which faced the gardens of the Embankment. Finally I said: “How do I rebuild my life?”

“Don’t panic! God hasn’t demanded a thirty-page business plan and given you a twenty-four-hour deadline! At present your major task is simply to improve your physical health, which is why I’ve been nurturing you with a pussyfoot instead of those disgusting vodka martinis.”

“But you said I had to act!”

“Improving your health
is
an act. While this improvement is in process, take one day at a time and concentrate on the people you meet. Listen to them very carefully and give them your full attention.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to know what God has in mind for you, and he often communicates with us through other people. So does the Devil too, which is why you’ll need help as you struggle to work out what’s going on.”

I said in despair: “I’m no good at connecting with other people at the moment.”

“All you’re required to do is listen! No deep connection’s required!”

“That’s just as well, since I can’t imagine ever wanting a deep connection with anyone again.”

“That doesn’t mean it’ll never happen. It simply means your imagination’s in bad shape.” Before signalling the waiter for the bill he added: “Sure you don’t want another pussyfoot?”

“All I really want is to get drunk.”

“Quite so, but the danger of sinking regularly into an alcoholic stupor (quite apart from liver damage) is that you might miss an important communication from God. You didn’t drink at the office, did you?”

“Never.”

“Well, this is much more important than the office. If you’re in an alcoholic haze, how likely are you to recognise the person whom God uses to lead you into the light?”

“I can’t imagine being led anywhere by anyone.”

“I led you here to the Savoy, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I thought I was going to get a vodka martini! How am I ever going to trust you again?”

He laughed before saying firmly: “When you wake up tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep and realise how pleasant it is not to be hung over.”

That seemed to conclude the conversation. He paid the bill and we returned to his four-wheeled heap of German scrap-metal for the ride home.

VIII

“There’s something I haven’t mentioned,” I said as he parked the Volkswagen in the Rectory forecourt, “and it’s really bothering me. When am I going to stop seeing ghosts? I’m terrified I’ll see Kim.”

This time Lewis neither laughed nor made a quick retort. He merely said: “Let’s have some coffee,” and led the way into the Rectory’s main kitchen. On my way through the hall I noticed that Nicholas was working late again in his study when he might have been enjoying some interesting moments alone with Alice. I did make a great effort not to dwell on his unforgivable lack of enterprise, but as usual when contemplating Nicholas’s private life I felt myself starting to seethe with irritation.

Meanwhile Lewis was saying as he made the coffee: “I can’t promise you that you won’t see Kim. But if there’s no unhealthy guilt about his death and no strong desire to communicate with him, I doubt if he’ll return to you as Sophie did when you saw her on the night of her death.”

“But mightn’t he still haunt the flat as a place-ghost?”

“If you permit us to perform our long-delayed blessing and spiritual cleansing of the flat, the odds against him appearing there as a place-ghost would be substantial.” He placed the two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down opposite me.

“But do I really need to be present when you conduct this ritual?” I blurted out before I could stop myself, although I added at once: “I’m sorry to be wimpish but I’m so afraid of seeing him. It’s why I still can’t bring myself to go back there.”

“There’s no question of you being wimpish! Facing that flat again after all that’s happened would be an ordeal even for someone who’d won the George medal, but it would be better if you were present when we did the cleansing. Give yourself a little more time. The strength will come, but it’s no good forcing it.”

“Do you think the house at Oakshott also needs to be—”

“Oh yes, I think so. I think Sophie needs help in letting go of her home.”

I saw the chance to unravel another conundrum which had been baffling me. “When I saw her at Oakshott,” I said slowly, “was it—” but I could not work out how to complete the sentence.

“It was certainly a different kind of ghost from the one you saw at Harvey Tower, but it’s not entirely certain what kind of ghost this was. When you saw her, she seemed to be a place-ghost, performing the familiar routine of walking through the hall of her home. Yet when Eric saw her seconds later as she emerged from the house, she was more than just a place-ghost—more than a figure in something resembling a video replay—because she actively communicated with him by gesturing that he should go in search of you, and active communication with the living is the mark of an ‘unquiet dead’ ghost. This was Eric’s second sighting, as you’ll remember. On the first occasion, when he saw her go into the house, there was no communication and she could have been a place-ghost.”

“So what’s the solution to the mystery?”

“Paranormal mysteries don’t always have clear-cut solutions. I suppose the neatest one is to say she was actually an ‘unquiet dead’ ghost in all three sightings, even though she only chose to communicate once. But . . . this could be wrong.”

“Well, let me tell you what I think,” I said, drinking some coffee and wishing it was vodka. “I think these paranormal explanations are all nutterguff and that every single paranormal event in this case was the result of either human intervention or ESP.”

Lewis sighed and looked as if he were sharing my longing for an infusion of alcohol.

IX

“And what, may I ask, is ESP if it’s not a paranormal phenomenon?” he demanded, finally succumbing to the urge to light a cigarette.

“Scientists believe in it. So it’s a respectable theory.”

“You mean some scientists believe in it. But why should your belief in ESP depend on whether scientists believe in it or not? Scientists can believe in all kinds of theories which are later proved to be nonsense— they’re not infallible!”

“Yes, but—”

“All right, I’ll allow you a blind faith in scientists since it seems to be such a popular cultural fad at present, but please note that no faith should be blind. Now tell me how you explain away all the paranormal phenomena in this case.”

“Well, the incidents at Harvey Tower were clearly the work of either Kim or Mrs. Mayfield—apart from the first incident which was caused by the vibrations in the building—”

“What about the final incident?”

“Mrs. Mayfield let herself into the flat with the copy she’d made of Kim’s key, continued the trashing and then waited for me to return from Oakshott. When I did, she was responsible for the violent opening and closing of the bedroom door—there was enough room for her to stand behind it. As for the ghost, it was a hallucination—it was kind of Nicholas to call it a sighting of a psychic reality, but I’d rather call a spade a spade.”

“There are, of course, different types of spade . . . But do go on. How do you explain the curtains which moved even though the balcony door was closed?”

“Oh, they do that sometimes. It’s very windy at the top of those towers, and air can be forced under the sliding door.”

“And the flickering lights?”

“An electrical blip, like the TV coming on earlier when it should have been on standby.”

“I see . . . But to return to Mrs. Mayfield: if she had her own key, why did she turn up the next morning with a locksmith?”

“Isn’t that obvious? She wasn’t going to admit to anyone that she’d entered my flat and caused criminal damage in pursuit of her vendetta against me. She wasn’t engaged merely in discrediting Sophie by that time—she wanted to break up Kim’s marriage by driving me mad.”

“All right, let’s move on from Harvey Tower to Oakshott. Are you saying you hallucinated again when you saw Sophie in the hall?”

“Of course! I was mad with stress and terror. Sophie was wearing the outfit I saw when I discovered her corpse, and that flat basket plus the straw hat were items I’d seen on the kitchen table that evening. Obviously what happened, when I had this second hallucination, was that my mind regurgitated those recent memories.”

“A plausible theory! But how did Eric pick up this image?”

“By ESP.”

“Good heavens, are you saying you transmitted the image to Eric and he received it long before you sent it? That really would be an unprecedented example of extra-sensory perception!”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” I said coldly, “that Tucker saw Sophie go into the house soon after I disappeared from the living-room to follow Kim upstairs; I hadn’t forgotten Tucker saw her considerably earlier than I did. But my theory is this: long before I escaped from Kim and saw Sophie in the hall below, I’d been thinking about her. She’d been very present in my mind as soon as I entered that house, and she was even more present when I was locked up in her bedroom. I believe I transmitted this Sophie-image to Tucker before I actually saw her, and because he was so anxious about me he converted it into an apparently real person whose presence on the scene gave him the confidence to wait. However, his anxiety increased, and finally the image came again, this time in the form of someone who was encouraging him to enter the house. After all, he too was suffering from acute stress. I think we can allow him a couple of benign hallucinations based on the image I’d transmitted to him.”

“That’s most ingenious,” said Lewis with what appeared to be sincere admiration.

A pause developed.

“Well?” I demanded annoyed. “Aren’t you going to argue with me?”

“No, I think you should be allowed your own interpretation of these mysterious events, particularly since neither of us can provide a knockdown argument which proves the matter beyond all reasonable doubt.”

“But—”

“I respect your interpretation,” pursued Lewis, “because you’ve obviously thought hard before coming up with this theory which satisfies you. I’d say this was a positive step towards assimilating some of the more disturbing angles of this case.”

“But supposing my theory’s not true? Doesn’t truth matter?”

“Of course it does, but since we see through a glass darkly there are inevitably going to be times when we’re obliged to live with uncertainty. Only the narrow-minded think they know the truth about everything, and their certainty is usually a response born of fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Fear of disorder.”

I busied myself by drinking my coffee. Eventually Lewis murmured mildly: “Talking of disorder . . . did you have any further thoughts about how your telescope managed to survive the chaos, particularly if Mrs. Mayfield was pursuing a vendetta against you?”

I swirled the coffee around in the mug. “What further thoughts are there to have? Wrecking the telescope was just something she didn’t do. Why make a mystery out of it?”

“Well, even if it is a mystery,” said Lewis comfortably, “not all mysteries have to be solved, particularly a low-grade mystery which has little significance. That sort of mystery can just be accepted and filed away.”

“Right.” I thought carefully before adding in my most neutral voice: “It’s good to file away clutter. And one can always go back to the filing cabinet later in the unlikely event that one might want to give the clutter another look . . . some day . . . for some reason or other.”

“A very sound attitude,” said Lewis approvingly. “Very balanced and sensible.”

Wanting to close our meeting on this harmonious note, I thanked him for the outing to the Savoy and rose to my feet, but I found I was unable to resist giving him a verbal biff for dragging up the subject of the telescope again. “You certainly sounded as if you ‘knew the truth about everything’ when you talked about God earlier,” I remarked. “Does that mean you too are narrow-minded with a fear of disorder?”

“My dear,” said Lewis, “I know very little about God. I was merely summarising for you part of a long tradition of wisdom. The best minds of Europe have been beating their brains out for nearly two thousand years to shape this tradition, and if you were to study it I doubt if you’d find it intellectually wanting.”

Unable to drum up a smart reply I fell back on a mindless response. “Oh, stop addressing me as if we had an intimate relationship!” I snapped. “How would you like it if
I
called
you
‘my dear’?”

“I’d be charmed and feel at least ten years younger. Why don’t you give it a try?”

I sighed, told him he was a feminist’s nightmare and left him beaming as if I had delivered the most lavish of compliments.