Fifty-Minute Hour (45 page)

‘But I need to pack, and find things. I haven't got …'

‘I've packed.'

‘But not for me.'

‘
Yes
, for you, as well. Just bring a coat, a warm one.'

I haven't got a coat. I used to wear my fur-trimmed gaberdine to go and see John-Paul, so it had to be thrown out. I grab my last old sweater, suddenly decisive. I can see this is a mission, something meant, and crucial, so I've no right to oppose it. Seton's scorching up the stairs, sprinting to his car, his whole body galvanised, his eyes burning and intent. It's not his car – it's Zack's – though no sign of Zack himself, thank God. The cases look like Zack's as well: cream leather with a lot of fancy straps, but labelled ‘CUSACK, Seton'. I scramble after him, passport found, and ready in my hand, slam the door my side.

‘Okay?' he shouts.

‘Okay!'

The car revs from nought to seventy in seconds. My excitement does the same, as we hurtle through deserted streets, past a thousand Christmas dinners, surfeiting and sating all those protesting greasy stomachs. My own stomach's clear and clean – like the freshly vacuumed sky – no trace of rain at all now, no smuts of dirty cloud, just greedy sun sucking the stiff scum from the tops of sleety puddles, licking icing-frost from twigs. Everything is shining – gutters, roofs and raindrops; Christmas decorations hung in all the houses to greet us as we pass, flickering and dazzling, glowing gold and silver.

‘
Faster
!' I rasp out.

Seton slams his foot down, rockets round a corner. I start to laugh, hoarsely but triumphantly. ‘Wait, John-Paul!' I shout, with the last remnants of my voice. ‘We're on our way. We're coming!'

Full in the panting heart of Rome,
Beneath the apostle's crowning dome,
From pilgrims' lips that kiss the ground
Breathes in all tongues one only sound:
God bless our Pope, God bless our …

Bryan forced his eyes to open. The lids felt nailed together, his whole body weighted down. What was that strange singing and where
was
he, for God's sake? Certainly not at home. He could see billowing blue curtains drawn around his bed. He must have landed up in hospital, following the plane crash – or landed up in heaven – which would explain the triumphant hymn.

He tried to peer around him, could still see only blue. Could what he'd taken as curtains be sky, the firmament? No. There wasn't any heaven. Science had destroyed it, reduced it to a myth. Or maybe science was quite wrong, and all those books he'd tussled with were myths and lies themselves. He tried to struggle up, rouse his torpid brain. The hymn had died away now, but he could hear people banging about beyond the curtains, dropping things, conversing. The voices were all male.

‘Mother?' he said softly, fighting sudden panic. He'd had the Parcel Dream again (mixed in with searing nightmares of falling, burning, crashing); wrapped Lena in stout cardboard and posted her to Bagabag (an island off New Guinea), but when she'd thudded back again, struggling from her wrappings, she'd seemed someone else entirely; a stranger and an interloper. She'd been dressed in shocking pink, with showy dangly earrings, and her face had changed as well as just her clothes; a face old and lined, but hideously painted, enticing him, and winking, like some raddled desperate whore.

‘Mother!' he cried desperately, clutching at the bedclothes, as if they were her skirts. ‘Come back, come back! Come back the way you were.'

‘Are you all right in there, Bryan?'

He froze. How did total strangers know his name – cheery voices hailing him as if they'd known him all his life.

‘Happy Christmas, Bryan!'

‘Wakey wakey, Bryan, old man.'

‘Don't worry, Bryan. We're here.'

He pulled the thin grey blanket round his chin, was tempted to duck under it as someone popped a head between the curtains.

‘Feeling better, mate?'

He was unsure what to answer. Had he broken bones, lost pints of blood – or limbs? He jiggled both his legs, panicked for a moment when he couldn't find his hands; eventually located them inside his green pyjama sleeves, which were far too big and belonged to someone else. He did a quick check on his fingers – all present and correct – groped between his legs in sudden fear. No, everything
in situ
.

The head between the curtains had now become a body, a stocky blue-jeaned body with a shock of ginger hair on top. It moved towards the bed. ‘Hi, Bryan! I'm Colin Parfitt. We met last night, in fact, but I don't suppose you remember.'

Bryan muttered a vague syllable which could be ‘yes' or ‘no'. If he'd ever had a memory, he'd certainly mislaid it – along with his possessions. Where were all his clothes, his own blue-striped pyjamas, his precious snake, his notebooks?

Colin plumped down on the bed, let out a sudden guffaw. ‘Gosh! You really scared us witless, leaping up like that and yelling that the plane was going to crash. I've never said my prayers with such conviction.'

‘But … But it did crash, didn't it?'

‘You
are
a joker, aren't you, Bryan? How d'you think we got here, if the plane crashed?'

Bryan tried to peer through the gap between the curtains, glimpsed a row of narrow beds, all identical to his own, a stretch of plain white wall. ‘Where's … er … “here”?' he asked.

‘We're in Rome, mate.'

Bryan subsided on his pillow, smoothed his tousled hair. ‘Ah, yes, I see. Of course we are.'

‘And we're just going down to Mass, so if you'd like to sling some clothes on and join us in the chapel … Don't worry if you're late. This is just the first Mass – Father Campion's. There'll be two or three more later, then High Mass in St Peter's.'

Bryan nodded, closed his eyes, heard the scuff and tramp of feet beyond the curtains, a last carillon of voices, the sharp slam of a door, then sudden silence. Shreds and scraps of memory were stirring in his brain, images so shameful he wished he could disown them. Not much point in that, though, when Colin knew, the whole plane knew, the entire two hundred pilgrims knew – knew he was a coward – worse than just a coward: a madman and a laughing-stock. The whole appalling ignominious scene was now playing in his head: the aircraft taking off, at last; crowded, claustrophobic and clearly overloaded – bombs on board, and terrorists, not just priests and pilgrims – his panic taking off, as well, as he clawed his seat-belt open and plunged frantic down the aisle, shrieking out a warning.

He'd only meant to help, give the others time to snatch their snakes and notebooks, as the plane juddered, whined, vibrated, on its death-dive. Three stewards had grabbed hold of him, but he'd fought them fist and foot; punched three solar plexuses, kicked three heaving groins. More braided arms assaulted him, till he was hopelessly outnumbered, and sobbing for his Mother. They'd held him down like a drunk, or common criminal, then strapped him in a harness thing and snapped on plastic handcuffs. He'd been so humiliated, horrified, he'd only howled the louder, until some bossy creepy cleric who seemed to think he was a doctor crossed with God and Billy Graham had started praying loudly over him, then tamed him with a handful of shiny purple pills. He sat up on one elbow, pressed his aching head. Those pills had furred his brain, turned his mouth into a cesspit.

The remainder of the journey was mercifully blank, though he did recall jolting through some nightmare of a city, which seemed far too bright and noisy considering it was night; lights flashing in his eyes, buildings looming up, then vanishing again; the constant noise of singing, very close and threatening. Fragments of the songs and hymns still echoed in his head – a curiously confusing mix of ‘Ten Green Bottles', ‘Tipperary', ‘Faith of our Fathers', and ‘Wake, O Wake with Tidings Thrilling'. He wished he
could
wake up – wake in some quite different room, without those galling memories; wake to sweet normality: a temperamental boiler; some strike or jam or go-slow on the news.

He eased slowly out of bed, explored the draughty room – though there was little to explore: no washbasins or wardrobes, no rugs or chairs or cupboards; nothing much at all save thirty beds (all with their blue curtains), and pathetic heaps of luggage – underpants and sweaters spewing from old duffel bags, dented cases leaking shoes and socks. He squinted through the one small deep-set window, glimpsed a blank brick wall, a row of battered dustbins. So this was Rome – and it was probably also Christmas, since he'd been wished a happy one. It didn't feel like either. Christmas meant his Mother rousing him at five a.m. so she could complain about the dark, or the price of Tesco's turkeys, or the brown bits in the sprouts. And Rome meant warmth and fountains, exotic sun-kissed ruins, murals on the walls – naked-breasted goddesses, and nymphs without their fig leaves. He glanced around the drab walls of the dormitory – only cracks and stains and scribblings, and a patch of greenish mould. The cold was worse than London, not bracing sleety sharp, but a clinging clammy damp which reminded him of rubber gloves and mortuaries.

He picked up someone's shaving mirror abandoned on a bed, studied his own face. He didn't look the way he should, the way that he remembered; seemed to have become a stranger, foreign to himself. ‘Happy Christmas,' he wished the face; watched the pale lips mouth it back. Then tense uneasy silence. He shouldn't be alone on Christmas Day. Yet worse to join that cheery singing crowd again, endure their false concern. He'd just have to find his Mother, brave her scorn, her fury. Anything was better than this chilly barren dormitory, this accusing solitude. He borrowed a fawn raincoat crumpled on a suitcase, limped out to the passage, bare feet flinching on the coldly naked stone. He could hear more eager singing from the far end of the corridor – women's voices, this time, which meant Lena might be near.

Long live the Pope! His praises sound
Again and yet again …

He shuddered for his Mother, who opposed the Pope on principle, as being doubly foreign (Roman and a Pole), stubborn, male, and Catholic, and dressing in a frock. He yanked up his pyjama bottoms, which were threatening to trip him up, crept towards the voices, tapped shyly on the door. No one seemed to hear him, so he pushed the door a crack, stuck a timid head round. The hymn broke off abruptly, embarrassed shrieks replacing it, gasps of wild alarm. He glimpsed a swarm of females in various stages of undress – droopy flesh bulging over corsets, or being hoisted into boned and bossy brassières; pink suspenders dangling over wobbly blue-veined thighs.

He slammed the door immediately, stood shaken just outside, dodged a bruised backside as it burst open once again and a terrifying female clapped him on the shoulder. He knew how he must look to her – a pervert and a flasher in the proverbial dirty mac, who invaded women's dormitories, stole their underwear.

‘Look, honestly, I didn't mean … I'm not that sort of …'

‘Hallo, dear. I'm Phyllis. It's Bryan, isn't it? Poor Bryan, you
do
look pale! Someone should be with you.'

‘I'm … er … looking for my Mother.'

‘Of course you are. That's natural. You've been very poorly, haven't you? Your Mother said you often get these turns.'

He couldn't speak for shame. Had Lena been maligning him, telling all those matrons his secret fears and failings – how he still slept with a nightlight, could only swim with water-wings?

‘Look, I need to find my Mother. I'm feeling rather …'

‘Don't panic, dear. She's quite all right – just sleeping in a single room, that's all. It's really Father Fox's room, but he moved out late last night, so she could have some peace and privacy. He felt it wasn't fair that she should have to share a dormitory when her leg was playing up so much, and she'd been through all that …' Phyllis broke off, tactfully, cleared her throat to fill the nervous silence. It was already filled for Bryan. Those mortifying memories had swarmed back into his head again as he completed her docked sentence: Lena coping heroically with her frenzied babbling son, being pitied for her thankless role of being tied for ever to a retarded child of thirty-two.

‘You come along with me, dear. Your Mother's fine – you'll see. I popped in to say hallo to her, earlier this morning. She's a brave soul, isn't she? That right leg's really swollen, yet …'

Guilt joined shame and fury, as Bryan shambled down the stairs, Phyllis clutching on to him as if fearful he might faint or fall, or simply run amok.

‘That's it. Mind your head now. This place is very old. Sixteenth century, I think Father Campion said.' She paused to pull her socks up, knee-length woollen socks in thick green rib, worn beneath a tartan skirt and a knobbly home-knit cardigan. ‘Right, we just continue down this corridor and your Mother's at the end here. It's a lovely little room, and sweet of Father Fox to give it up, but then he's charity itself. He's sleeping in the attic with Father Smithby-Home.'

Bryan counted on his fingers. Three priests, at least, in just the last three minutes. His Mother would be virulent, surrounded by these Catholics, dragooned by Popish priests, still smarting at the ‘scene' he'd made, humiliated, shamed. He hardly dared to face her, hung back behind the door, peered in through the crack as Phyllis knocked and entered.

Lena was sitting up in bed in a new pink (
pink
?) knitted bed-jacket, a young and handsome priest in a smart black suit and dog collar hovering at her side, pouring out what looked like proper English tea from a normal English teapot.

‘Sugar, Lena dear?'

‘Two, please, Father, thank you.'

Father! Lena
dear
? Bryan stared in disbelief. His Mother looked not furious, but smug – lolling on her pillows, handing back the sugar bowl to her attentive servant-priest, then greeting Phyllis effusively as if they'd been bosom friends since childhood. He remembered Phyllis now. She'd been talking to his Mother before the plane took off, drawn to Lena because of her role as VIP: the one and only pilgrim in a wheelchair. By five o' clock, when they'd met up with their party, his Mother's leg had swollen up so badly, the airline had offered her a wheelchair; laid on a smart young lackey in a braided uniform to push her to the plane. They'd even boarded first, been allowed to jump the queue; Lena scattering gracious smiles like the Queen Mother in her landau, as smarming stewardesses swathed rugs across her knees, offered embrocations.