Now I Know (2 page)

[
Long pause.
]

Other people are only voices too of course. You can tell a lot from people's voices when that's all you've got to go on. Their voices give them away and they don't know it. You can hear when they're being genuine and when they aren't, and whether they're naturally kind or cruel, or thoughtless or strong or weak, and if they're being brave. And if they're hiding something. If you listen very carefully, you can hear the lies hiding behind the words.

That's how I know I'm not the knockout that Simmo pretends. And that the consultant doesn't mean a few days when she says about the bandages coming off my eyes. I can hear the lie in their voices.

I don't ask whether I'll be able to see again when the bandages do come off. I couldn't bear it if they lied about that. And they would lie, wouldn't they, if the answer was no?

[
Long pause. Sound of deep breaths being taken in and slowly exhaled.
]

Sorry. Didn't mean to say any of that. Promised myself I wouldn't. Doesn't mean anything. Just came tumbling out. Haven't talked to you for so long. Seems years. Lost track of time and days. Seems like I've been here for ever and won't ever leave.

So nice to talk to you . . . Nice . . . Silly word. I mean . . . such a relief . . . to be able to talk to you and say some of the things churning in my head, even if they have to be recorded and take two days to reach you, knowing the post, even if sent first class, and that'll cost the earth.

Sorry . . . there I go again . . . I've tried talking this letter twice today already but made Simmo wipe the tape. Neither time was right, because I went off all over the place, saying things I didn't mean . . . The drugs, I expect . . . And not actually having you here . . . Seems ridiculous, talking blind into thin air. Well, this time I'm making myself see your face, as though you really were here, and not letting myself think of anything but your face and what I want to say. But even so I . . .

[
Pause
.]

Where was I? . . . Oh, yes—your visit. I knew you were here. I felt the touch of your hand. But I couldn't say anything. I tried very hard but nothing happened. Like one of those dreams when you strain to move but your body won't budge.

Well, what I want to tell you is this. Your touch, the touch of your hand, made me believe I could live again. Till then I hadn't believed and was praying for the end to come quickly. But your touch, and knowing it was you, made me believe I could make it. And made me want to. Thank you for that gift, dear Nik.

[
Pause
.]

Being ill, I mean being very ill, makes you feel useless. Makes you feel you're a burden to everyone. You feel all of life is passing you by. Your own life becomes meaningless. There's no sense in it any more.

[
Pause
.]

What you believe matters. I'm learning that the hard way. I believe everybody matters. Being ill or being well shouldn't have anything to do with it. Everybody has a part to play in building the world God has given us. I'm a Christian because I believe that, and I believe it because I'm a Christian. But how do you play your part when you're trapped by illness?

If you were here, Nik, you'd be interrupting like mad by now!

What I'm trying to say is that I've decided that perhaps it's my job while I'm like this to work out what illness . . . means. And why not? There's nothing else I can do.

[
Pause.
]

I can't talk for long at a time because even talking tires me. I must stop soon. But I wanted to ask if you'd do something for me. Simmo has brought me some Talking Book tapes of the Bible. She says there are other books—novels and poetry—she can get for me but she doesn't know what I'd like. If she sends you the list, would you choose something? I'd like you to because then it will be like you giving me a book you want me to read, the way you've done before, and I can imagine you're listening with me. Then we can talk about it in our tape-letters. If you'd like to, I mean. Only if you'd like to.

[
Pause. Deep breaths, in and out.
]

I know that must sound pretty silly. Such a little thing. But you've no idea how such pitiful little things mean most when you're in my predicament.

Something else, while I'm on silly things. I quite often burst into tears. Into sobs, I mean, because my eyes can't cry. Reaction, I suppose. ‘Just your nerves, love,' Mum says. She says it so dolefully that I can't help laughing. Between crying and laughing for no reason, I'm sure Mum thinks I've gone off my head.

Anyway, I'm making such a big production out of it because if I start howling when I'm recording you'll hear. And it'll sound ghastly. I hate the idea of you hearing it. I don't mean to cry. I'm not looking for sympathy. There's just nothing I can do about it. Simmo says, ‘Forget it, he'll understand.' And I know you will. But I wanted you to be prepared. I can't edit out or press the pause button or anything like that. A case of ‘look, no hands'. It's just that suddenly everything comes over me in a great overwhelming wave . . . and the wave breaks . . . and . . .
nurse! . . . quick!
. . .

†

The day after Nik threw up into his bath he was asked by his history teacher, Leonard Stanley, if he would like to help a youth group who were making a film. The group needed a researcher.

They were making a film about what would happen if Jesus Christ returned today. They weren't a church group—far from it. But one evening they had had a long discussion about the politics of the Middle East and the arguments for and against the state of Israel, and they had arrived at the conclusion that the world was no better now than it was at the time of Christ's first visitation in Palestine two thousand years ago. They had agreed that if Christ returned today, and lived in their own West of England town, never mind in Palestine, he would be treated no better, and possibly even worse, than he was treated then.

The group's idea was to use their film of Christ's second coming to make strong criticisms of life today. They supposed that staid old fogies could hardly get upset if Christ was the person who showed up the bad things that go on and the old fogies responsible for them. (They considered anyone over the age of thirty to be an old fogey. One of them wore a sweatshirt that said so.)

Truth to tell, though, only a small minority of the group were in the slightest interested either in the life of Christ (now or two thousand years ago) or in politics. They would have been hard put to say which they found more boring. What interested the majority was being together and having some fun. Within the group there was another minority who were not interested in politics but were interested in film-making, and wanted to use cameras and sound equipment and create spectacular special effects, and generally wanted to carry on as if they were big names in Hollywood. So as usual in human affairs, as well as in youth groups, the decisions were thrashed out between the few vocal members of each minority while the rest waited with as much patience and as little attention as necessary till the most determined ones got their way.

In all this the group was led and encouraged by their organizer, a man of twenty-seven called Frank Randwick, a motor-mechanic by trade and a youth leader by desire. He it was who first suggested the idea of making the film, and he immediately appointed himself its Director.

Of course the political hotshots gave themselves the job of writing the script. And early in the discussions they realized that none of them knew very much about the life of Christ or about Palestine in his day. The script-writers did not want to be bothered about such insignificant details. But they found themselves opposed by three of the so-far silent girls.

As it happened (and rather appropriately, you might think) the girls were cast to play the three Marys: Mary the mother of Christ; Mary Magdalene, who legend has it was a converted prostitute; and Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and of raised-from-the-dead Lazarus, who is celebrated in the Bible for anointing Christ's feet with balmy oil and afterwards wiping them clean with her presumably long and luxuriant hair.

These three suddenly vocal girls declared that if the group was going to film Christ's story they should at least get the facts right. The script-writers said to hell with facts, what mattered was the message. It wasn't the facts of Christ's life that interested them, they said, but telling people about life now.

The girls were determined, however. Check the facts or they wouldn't take part. And as it seemed a very neat way of getting their own back at the script-writers for being so boring about politics, a number of the rest of the group supported the girls.

In the face of this opposition and with the astuteness of born politicians, the script-writers said okay, the facts would be verified. But later, in secret, they agreed with each other that they'd do what they liked anyway, whatever the facts were, just as soon as shooting started and everyone's attention was occupied by the excitements of filming.

They demanded, however, that a researcher be appointed to help them. As no one in the group wanted such a thankless and unglamorous job, the Director approached the Head of Nik's school, who passed the buck to the head of the history department, Leonard Stanley, who nobbled Nik, because Nik was one of his better history students.

But Nik was not keen.

He said, ‘I'm not bothered about religion and I don't believe in God.'

Leonard Stanley said, ‘But think what a marvellous project it will make. History in action. You can submit your notes and an essay about the whole experience as part of your exam assessment work. No one else is doing anything like it.'

Nik said, ‘I'd prefer black holes. I'm interested in black holes. They're more important than God nowadays.'

‘Black holes,' Leonard Stanley said, ‘don't have a history.'

‘Everything has a history,' Nik said. ‘At least, that's what you tell us.'

The teacher shrugged. ‘Nobody knows much about black holes yet. That's what I mean.'

What he really meant was that he didn't know much about black holes himself and didn't want the bother of finding out in order to grade Nik's work.

‘Now God,' he went on quickly, ‘God has been around a long time. We know quite a bit about him. About religion, anyway.'

Nik smirked. ‘God has never been around at all. He's an invention. God's a fiction, sir. Just a story. In the past people needed some all-powerful being to explain things they couldn't understand, and to calm their fears. Or to blame for the awful things that happened to them, like illnesses and earthquakes. And sometimes they used God to scare other people they didn't like. But it's no good any more. It doesn't work. We know better now. God is dead. If he was ever alive, that is. That's what I think, anyway.'

Leonard Stanley snatched a winning point, poking a finger at Nik's chest. ‘In that case,' he laughed, ‘God's all history. Isn't that right?'

Nik couldn't help nodding an unwilling agreement.

Leonard seized his advantage. ‘And you can't have a better subject for a history project than a subject that is nothing but history, can you?'

Nik said, ‘I still prefer the history of living things, if you don't mind, sir.'

‘Look,' the teacher said, turning on his serious manner. ‘People are living. People have histories. People have a long history of believing in God. A history that goes back to the beginning of people. And a lot of people, probably the majority of people in the world, still do believe in a God of some kind.'

‘And look where they've got us,' Nik said. ‘They fall for this God stuff and before you know it they're fighting each other about whose God is the real one. Then they start torturing their enemies to try and convert them. And they end up fighting holy wars and killing each other, and anyone else who doesn't agree with them. All in the name of this God they think they own and who gives them the right to murder in his name. It's not on, sir. I don't want anything to do with it.'

Leonard Stanley liked nothing better than this kind of heated argument from his students. He believed it helped them discover how exciting history is. Not that he expected anyone actually to do anything as a result of the arguments. Talk was one thing, action another. But this time he had quite mistaken the character of the student he was arguing with.

Leonard rubbed his hands and said, ‘Listen, Nik. People do all those things for other reasons as well as religion. For politics, for example, and family feuds, for money, or food, or to gain territory, or because of jealousy, or even for love. All you're saying is that religion includes the whole of the human race, the good and the bad. Which makes it a perfect subject for a historian to study.'

‘But,' Nik said, ‘the Christians say God made people in his own image, don't they? So if there's a God, and if he made people in his own image, and they go round murdering each other and doing horrible things, then it's all God's fault that the human race is like it is, and the sooner we ditch him the better. But if there isn't a God, then there's no point in doing history about him because it's a waste of time.'

Leonard said, ‘I'm not saying whether there's a God or not. Historians don't answer questions like that. What they do is tell the story of people and how they got to be the way they are. It's people who interest historians. All I'm saying is that religion is one of the most powerful forces—maybe
the
most powerful—in the history of people everywhere. So we should study it.'

Now it was Nik's turn to shrug. ‘Maybe.'