Read The Crash of Hennington Online
Authors: Patrick Ness
And then a young man named Peter Wickham, whom he had never seen before in his life, had shown up in his office and things went from strange to downright impossible.
—I need help with a resurrection.
—Excuse me?
—I’ve got someone who qualifies. I know this is something the Bondulay Church used to do.
—Someone who, I’m sorry, ‘qualifies'?
—Yes. This man. That I loved. He, well, he didn’t
die.
He had too much grief to stay in this world.
—Oh, my son.
—No, no, no, please don’t do that. I know what you’re going to say. That I’m just mourning in an unhealthy way. I’m not. There’s no reason why he should have died. None. He only had a broken heart. He wasn’t sick, just in pain. That’s all.
—Son, Peter, that story is a myth. A lovely one, a sad one, very sad, but a myth nonetheless. It’s dangerous to take the Sacraments so literally. It’s meant as a metaphor—
—Yes, I know, a metaphor for dealing with grief. I’m not stupid. But that’s not the case here. I’ve been keeping him with me.
—You’ve
what?
—No, listen to me. I’ve been keeping him hidden away—
—Oh, son, your grief has made you not think clearly—
—No—
—You have to … You can’t just—
—Listen—
—What about his family?
—I’m
his family. His other family is why his heart broke. He thought he had failed his father and that made him think he was so worthless that he couldn’t even love me or anyone or
be
loved by anyone. And that hurt him so bad that he died, except he
didn’t
die.
—I know that’s what you want to believe—
—It’s what’s true.
—It’s what you want to believe. Of course, it is. This person’s death has obviously been horrible for you. But, son, you can’t do what you’re saying. You can’t.
—I know how I sound, but hear me out. I’ve had him with me for a while now. I’ve wrapped him in waxseed
oil and bandages. I’ve kept him as clean and safe as I could.
—Oh, my God.
—Please, just listen. I may be in a strange frame of mind, but I haven’t totally taken leave of my senses. I know how it looks. I know the risk I’m taking. I know how crazy it makes me seem. But listen. Even with the waxseed oil and bandages, there are things that should have happened by now that aren’t. I know I’m right about this, Father. I have proof.
—How can you possibly have proof?
—He’s not decomposing. Even with the care I’ve taken,
something
should have happened by now. Some smell, some natural course of death. I know that. I was prepared for that, I was hoping it wouldn’t happen, but I thought that it would and my worry was how to keep his body in good enough shape for his return to it. But listen.
—I’m listening.
—I waited. It was foolish, but I waited. I didn’t know how the return would happen, so I just waited. And prayed. Nothing happened. I should have spent that time searching you out instead of waiting, but then I saw his body wasn’t changing. At all. I realized I had to
do
something. I had to come and see you. And I know how this looks, but I know I’m not crazy. Or maybe I
am
crazy to believe this, but I do believe it. And I’m right. I have proof. His body is waiting. It’s not breaking down. It’s waiting for his return to it and it’s waiting for me to help that return.
For a second, Jarvis wavered. He had seen plenty of crazies come through his door, but despite what this young man was saying, none of the usual alarms were ringing. It wasn’t that he sounded truthful – all of the mentally unstable believed they were telling the truth, and they were, a truth that was all their own – but there was a clarity here, along with an ounce of genuine bafflement, the same mix that had made him
listen to Mrs Bellingham’s dream. Impossible. And yet. The world was quiet, and Jarvis made his fateful choice.
—Tell me, Peter. Tell me everything that’s brought you here. Make me understand.
—You won’t judge until I’m finished?
—You have my word.
And so then the trip the following night to a house buried in the suburbs, safe in its own anonymity, to see what remained of poor Luther Pickett – quite a lot, it turned out – which, why understate things, had shaken every belief and non-belief Jarvis thought he had ever held. After viewing himself as a rational priest offering common sense and the good graces of a genial, half-understood Lord, here was incontrovertible proof of a miracle. On the surface, that is. Jarvis told himself over and over again that just because
he
didn’t understand it didn’t mean that it wasn’t understandable.
But what to do? Even dealt with on a moment-to-moment basis – what should he do right
now
? – the impossibility stuck like a parasite. Should he turn Peter in? For all he knew, Peter had
killed
Luther, for there was no question Luther Pickett was dead, and maybe Peter had then lapsed into some sort of quasi-religious ecstasy out of guilt. That seemed the likeliest possibility, and so Jarvis’ duty was clear. But what if? The young man’s veracity seemed as solid as terra firma, and as for the body …
The body was the whole other disturbing bit that had quite promptly set to monopolizing Jarvis’ dreams. There were the few obvious certainties: It was definitely a dead body with no heartbeat and no breath, but it was also 1) warm and 2) giving off a strange, barely-there
hum
that Peter hadn’t noticed until Jarvis pointed it out. Jarvis had performed eighty-one funerals in his years in the parish, a macabre personal tally that every priest knew by heart and wished they didn’t. He knew what
a dead body looked like, even shortly after death. It didn’t look like this. Luther was flushed, decidedly odorless, easy to move, giving off the mysterious hum, and yet dead, dead, dead.
Jarvis didn’t believe in miracles as anything but illustrative allegories in the Sacraments. Honest-to-goodness ones never appeared in real life and certainly none that were so obvious. The blind were never healed except through limited science; limbs were never reattached except imperfectly and without their full usage; and the dead never returned to life under any circumstances. And still. And yet. Unless.
Unless it was a miracle.
Because how could it otherwise be explained? His rational mind told him to turn Peter over to the authorities, but there was a voice, too, that also questioned him. What if this were the one time he was presented with the miraculous, and his only response, as a clergyman, as a righteous, believing man, was to turn a blind eye? What if the one time he was offered a glimpse of the truly holy, he refused to see?
—Whose house is this?
—A foreclosure. I saw the address in a want ad.
—I don’t understand.
—Hennington Hills is full of all sorts of local thieves and things. Some truly not-nice people work there. You pick this kind of stuff up. Bank forecloses, family is evicted, then months go by while the bank and the government work out the sale. The house stays empty until then.
—But you’ve no idea when anybody might come back?
—No.
—So you’re not really safe then?
—Not really, but what choice do I have? I have to keep Luther hidden. I have to. That’s my only option. People are going to start looking for me soon, if they haven’t already. I
don’t have much time anyway, but I have to try. I have to be here to bring him back.
—I’ll tell you what I’ll do.
—Yes?
—I’ll return on Monday. That’s four days. If nothing else has happened to Luther, if the body is in the same state, well, we’ll go from there. I’ll help you. But if he
is
changing—
—He won’t. He hasn’t.
—If he
is,
then we’ll have to start talking about other things. Call me every day. I’ll come back on Monday.
Jarvis left with a sick feeling in his stomach, a knot of doubt, confusion, and yes, a faint faith. Things got worse. When he returned home, the television news greeted him with a public appeal to find Peter Wickham, wanted fugitive connected with the disappearance of Luther Pickett, beloved foster son to multi-billionaire Archie Banyon. What had he done? A probable murderer had sat in his office and he had let him go free without a single word of counseling to turn himself in. He had ignored the horrible experience the family of Luther must be going through, and for what? A miracle? Who was he kidding? What had come over him? How had so many years of loyal service and devout worship failed him so utterly?
All this, and the pinnacle of the week had yet to come.
—Father Kingham? If I may.
—This isn’t an appropriate time for an announcement, Brother Velingtham. If you wouldn’t mind waiting until the end of the sermon when we have some time set aside for church business—
—But this is so much more important than mere ‘church business', Father. I think it might be too important to wait.
—After
the sermon, Theophilus.
—I’m afraid not, Jarvis. I need to speak. Brethren and Sistern, hear me.
—Theophilus—
—The time has drawn nigh.
—Time for what?
—The light wind has encroached.
—What?
—I’ve spoken to some of you already. I’ve heard your murmuring. There is a man among us.
—Sit down, Theophilus. Now.
The congregation rose up.
—Let him speak!
—Let Brother Theophilus speak the truth!
—It’s the time of the light wind!
What in the wide green earth was this? Theophilus stood in his pew with an infuriating, smug grin that Jarvis had to quell an urge to punch.
—Theophilus, what is the meaning of this?
—Only what any good parish priest would know if he’d had his ear to the ground, if he had been listening at all to the voices of his flock. That very section of the Sacraments that you railed against so passionately a few weeks back is coming true. I say again to you good people, the light wind has encroached.
All became clamor. Voices shouting, one on top of another. Jarvis could sense that not everyone was following what was happening, which was good, because he was completely lost himself. Through it all, Theophilus accepted the support, the accolades, the questions, even the disagreements, with the same inflated, magnanimous smile and a look in his eyes that, despite the heat, made Jarvis shudder.
She stepped heavily across the pavement, raising clouds of dust with each round footstep. There was a field further up this street that they rarely grazed upon, the grass being so short it was difficult for them to grab even with their wide, strong lips. Still, it was a field, and one that stayed green no matter what the weather. She reached the spot and headed for a break in the fence. She led the herd across grass that changed color and height in stripes, into thicker grass along the edges. They interrupted the walking of four of the thin creatures, but she took no notice of them. What concerned her most was the sound the grass made under her feet. It crackled. Grass that crackled was not too dry to eat, but it was close. She walked until the crackling quieted and then finally ceased. It was a longer walk than it should have been.
Maggerty wavered outside the fence after the herd entered. There had been trouble on the golf course before, trouble which he could not quite put his finger on. He seemed to remember that he had been roughed up here, and he had a vague idea – its vagueness a plonking, ugly thing in this time of new mental sharpness – that he had been told not to trespass again. He could remember bowed legs and big, beefy arms, but try as he might, he could not get the images to coalesce into a bigger picture. Oh, well. It was hot, and he didn’t want to lose sight of the herd. He stepped through the open slats and stumbled after the drifting animals.
(Thomas sat on his perch in the golf cart more for the sake of an escape than any current business necessity. If he was really honest, he was also here for a boost in confidence. From this seat, he had dazzled and cajoled Hennington’s finest, accepting the money that he had managed to convince them was a mere gift for the treats he could offer. Stealing money was easy. Having your victim willingly, even happily hand it over was one of life’s great pleasures. But these recent months had filled him with unease. Jon Noth was turning into a more and more difficult wild card, Jacki Strell was still – still – missing, and his father, once so formidable, had fallen to pieces at the loss of the one son he loved, the son that wasn’t Thomas. Here in the golf cart, patrolling his greens, the greens he had personally supervised the building of the greens where he had conquered and vanquished, he felt the rush of return of the old Thomas, the Thomas that brooked no bullshit, the Thomas who made enemies quiver, the Thomas who was either feared or respected. He lit a cigarillo to aid the mood’s revival. As he put the lighter away, Thomas saw Maggerty follow The Crash across the course.
A slow, ugly smile spread across Thomas’ face.)
Maggerty had been right in his recollections. He had once before been thrown out by Thomas Banyon. On facts alone, no one could quite blame Thomas for his actions. Maggerty had used a sand trap as an opportunity to defecate while The Crash grazed. What one
could
object to was the vigor and seeming glee that Thomas had taken in grabbing Maggerty by the neck and thrusting him onto the pavement outside. Even the richest of Henningtonians agreed that, after the horror upon horror of Pistolet, necessary punishment should be meted out grudgingly with a stern face and serious demeanor, not a laugh and a smile. Maggerty’s nose had been broken, but it had been broken so many times in his life that he didn’t even notice the pain. The same with the cuts on his elbows and palms which were so scarred he barely even bled. He had very much noticed, however, the pain in the cut under his arm, the stab in his side that seemed to go all the way to his heart, a bayonet into an enemy soldier.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His fingers ran their familiar years-old path to his wound. For a few seconds, he actually thought he couldn’t find it. He ran his hand up and down his side feeling for the suppuration, the infection that had always been, if not an old friend, then a familiar acquaintance. Concerned now, he pulled his shirt open and then all the way off. He lifted his arm into the air, pulling back loose skin, searching for it. Then he saw.