What I Tell You In the Dark (30 page)

The old guy, Nicholas, who took such a dislike to me last time we met, looks particularly unimpressed. The remaining two simply look dumbstruck at my appearance (both here in the room and, no doubt, my actual appearance). It's to them that I address my next remark.

‘You must be the silent partners. I see now how you earned that title,' I quip.

I shut the door behind me, which changes the atmosphere somewhat. Stella looks at Alex, wanting him to do something. It is he who is responsible for my management, he is my keeper. But he makes a hang-on gesture to her with his hand.

‘Okay,' I continue, trying to sound a little cheerier, ‘since no one's going to introduce me, I'll just have to ask.' And here I do look at Abaddon, ‘We know each other of course, as you have no doubt been explaining, in your own inimitable way. But you,' I point at the one nearest me, ‘I have not met before. Name please.' He tells me his name. ‘And you,' I accidentally bark at the next one, making them all jump a little.

He looks completely flummoxed. He looks at Stella imploringly. ‘Stella …?' is all he manages to say.

‘Okay, let's stop this.' I look at the first guy. ‘I've already forgotten your name anyway.'

Abaddon is trying to force words into my mind. My head is buzzing with the effort of keeping them out. I take a few deep, steadying breaths.
I am in control here
, I remind myself.

In this pause, Nicholas asks in an unconvincing bluster, ‘Can we help you with something, Mr Pryce?'

I decide not to bother answering that, instead I walk a few paces closer so I'm right next to the table. I reach behind me. It's time to stop messing about.

One of them, the man whose name I can't remember, says, ‘Okay now –'

Whereupon I produce the Glock and stand over them all, pointing it at the speaker's head.

The appearance of a weapon has had the predicted effect on Abaddon. Like any apex predator, he is unused to challenge, and in a situation like this it is especially problematic. I can tell that he is furious but to show it would be to break character at a
vital moment, and shatter the thrall in which these people are held. His voice rattles into my head,
You dare to lift your heel against me? You dare to desolate His wishes?

They all remain stock still, except for Nicholas, who starts to make a coughing noise. I take this to be a possible sign of a heart attack.

Still Abaddon's voice hisses through me.
Impudent pup. Extinguish your foolishness while you still have a chance. Turn that instrument on yourself
.

‘Save your words,' I tell him. ‘Did you really believe that this day would never come, when your lies would come crashing down about your ears?'

He feigns surprise at this, like he has no idea what I'm talking about, but I can tell that it unsettles him to see this change in me. His bullying has reached the hard flint of resistance.

‘I will smite the shepherd,' I say, turning my attention back to all of them, because no one in this room is blameless. Each has been weighed and found to be wanting. ‘And the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad.'

Nicholas's cough is worsening. ‘Just try to find a comfortable position,' I tell him, ‘on the floor if you have to. See if you can find a way to relax.'

He slides off his chair and crawls to the edge of the room. He sits there with his back against the wall.

‘I'm okay,' he manages to say.

‘I hope so,' I tell him. ‘I wouldn't want you to miss this.'

This is the moment that Alex chooses. ‘Will,' he begins, so softly that none of us are quite sure he has spoken. ‘You're right,' he continues at a more normal volume, ‘if you're thinking you've been treated unfairly.'

Stella isn't sure where he's going with this. He avoids her eyes, nor can he bring himself to look at me.

‘And we need to talk about that.' He makes a monumental
effort and forces himself to glance up at my face. ‘But that's a conversation to be had with cool heads, in slower time,' he says. ‘Why don't we grab a coffee or lunch or …' Even as he's saying it he can hear how useless it sounds.

‘I think I'd rather talk now, Alex, if it's all the same to you. While I have my gun.'

The thing about these people – not these ones specifically but the schemers and doublespeakers of every generation – is that they always think they're the first to plumb the dark arts of persuasion. It's hilarious. People have been doing it from the get-go. Take my whole Resurrection gig as an example. The Great Defib, as I like to think of it. That was nothing, absolutely
nothing
to do with us. No divine involvement whatsoever. It was a one hundred per cent piece of human theatre. Some guys I'd seen hanging around Golgotha, no idea who they were, snaffled JC's body and subbed in a ringer to come stumbling out of his tomb. Honestly, if you could have seen it, you'd be in bits – he didn't even
look
like Jesus. But then, that's just the point: he didn't have to. They'd read the situation perfectly. Mass hysteria had kicked in by that point. Even his nearest and dearest (even, it pains me to say, my darling Maryam) bought into it. But that's grief for you – it'll make you see what you want to see, allow you to believe whatever it is you need to believe. Mark II (that's the name I give him in my head, partly because he actually looked more like Mark than Jesus – that same weak, sly mouth) saw the whole thing through with, I have to admit, considerable style. Even those who would have been starting to suspect something couldn't voice it at that stage, he was just too beguiling. He had them eating out of his hand.

‘Anyone else want to have a go at handling me? No? Right then, let's get on with it, shall we? Could everyone please put their mobile phones on the table?'

Nothing. Not a single one of them moves. Abaddon is too
absorbed in my gun – he's watching it like there's nothing he's ever coveted more. The others, though, are simply in shock. I'm being too brisk. I need to slow it down, I need to soften my delivery and let them catch up. That's the trouble when you're having to act outside your comfort zone – it can all get a bit overzealous.

Luckily the Drum, louche bolthole that it is, has equipped its meeting room with a well-stocked honesty bar. I select a bottle of vodka from the tray.

‘How about a little something to calm the nerves,' I suggest.

I do a quick tour of the table tipping everyone's water on the floor and replacing it with a few fingers of spirit. I don't want Nicholas dying on me, so I give him the option – vodka or water (a little nod to one of my more talked-about miracles). He points to the vodka, which makes me less concerned that he might be about to peg out on us.

‘Why are you doing this?' Stella wants to know. She must be scared but she manages not to let it show. I have to hand it to her, she has class.

‘You'll see.'

Alex is about to say something.

‘No more talk.' I wave the gun at the drinks lined up in front of them. ‘Down the hatch.'

Abaddon looks all tensed up, as if he's coiling his body back into the chair, preparing to spring. He would, after all, be the valiant hero if he wrestled me to the ground. I walk round to the end of the table opposite him and lean forward, letting the weight of the gun clonk down on the wood, reminding him how full of carefully engineered death it is. I glance at the drink in front of him – he alone has not touched his glass.

‘It's only vodka,' I say to him, ‘it won't kill you.' Then, straightening up, levelling the gun at his head, I add, ‘But I will, if you don't do what I say.'

He hears the sincerity in my voice and downs the lot in one swig. All bullies are cowards at heart. Seeing him do this gives me an idea. I slide the bottle down the table to him, Western style.

‘Fill it,' I say. ‘Fill your glass to the brim.'

Again he complies, albeit with a little more reluctance this time. When it's full, he musters a voice I've not heard from him so far. It's injured, quietly outraged at what he is being made to endure. ‘Surely you're not suggesting I drink that?'

‘Not suggesting, no.' I cock back the hammer on the gun. It is a loud, crisp sound. ‘Telling you.'

‘Have some compassion.' Yet again it is Stella who has been brave enough to speak out.

A thin vein, watery blue beneath her skin, pulses at her temple. It is the only sign of emotion, that and the indignation in her voice. But what could she possibly know of my suffering? For it is in suffering, I would like to point out to her, that we find the real measure of compassion.
Com passio
. I suffer with.

Instead I ask, ‘You think perhaps I am just a witness to human life?'

She looks away. To her, the question is unanswerable – a pointless non sequitur, further proof of my derangement. But to me, it is the vital distinction. With Jesus, witnessing was all that I did. There was only transient suffering then, the banging in of nails, the breaking of limbs, but nothing was really sacrificed. I let them continue in their lives believing that I would reappear. It prompted them to go surging out towards their own violent deaths. Even my Maryam set to wandering, eking out the last of her years in the conviction that she would once again be with me, in glory, in
lux aeterna
. All of them reduced to dust while I lasted on through the centuries. Where is the compassion in that? But this time it's different. This time I've made an investment of my own. I have skin in the game.

It takes Abaddon a while to finish his glass. Whether he's making a show of it for their sake or whether he genuinely struggles to force it down I neither know nor care. I wait patiently. Stella, who is sat beside him, touches him on the arm whenever he pauses. He smiles gratefully and continues. We'll see how long his charade of vulnerability lasts once the alcohol hits his bloodstream.

‘Right then,' I clap my hands together, ‘let's try it again: would everyone please slide their phones into the centre of the table?'

This time they do it. I notice the time on one of the screens – five to nine. Better call my cameraman.

I keep my gun on the group while I pick up the hotel phone and dial. It hasn't, of course, occurred to any of them that it might not be loaded. Its symbolic presence is too huge – the switch between life and death, immediate and irreversible change. Not something to be trifled with.

It is Fleur who answers the phone and I have to spend a minute or two chatting to her while she waits for Gregory to appear. At one point I hold the receiver against my chest to tell Abaddon to drink some water. He has started hiccuping. The taut readiness of just moments ago has already slackened into a look of crumpled nausea. His eyes are closed and his lips are moving, like he's trying hard to remember something.

The others murmur a bit, asking him if he's okay, until I jiggle the gun in their direction and they immediately fall silent again.

‘Okay, thanks.' I'm back with Fleur. She has just sent Gregory on his way. ‘And listen,' I add, ‘maybe we could grab a coffee before I leave today.'

She agrees – maybe we could.

‘I'll come and find you,' I tell her.

It's important to keep everything feeling natural. I wouldn't want any suspicions to be aroused, not when it's all going so
well. I hang up the phone and am just starting to get Stella organised when there's a polite tap on the door and in pops Gregory. His face is a picture. He looks over at my subdued kennel of suits, then at me, then repeats the cycle. By the time he's done it a couple of times, he has managed to formulate a question.

‘What have you been doing in here?' Then, obviously feeling that doesn't quite cover the extent of what he wants to know, he adds, ‘What is this?'

‘Just shut the door,' I tell him.

He reaches behind him and half closes it.

‘All the way, please.'

Reluctantly, he clicks it shut.

Abaddon is talking to himself in a low grumble of Aramaic. His eyes are still closed. He's shaking his head and really hissing some of the words. It's upsetting the group. I tell him to be quiet, also in Aramaic so he knows I mean him. He opens his eyes. The word I've used,
dumah
, silence, is also a reference to a name he used for a while, in the distant past, for some of his bloodier work. He seems pleased to be reminded of it.

‘You don't have the stomach for this.' He's using English again, but his voice has reverted to its old self, pointed and cruel. He seems to have forgotten all about the wronged and righteous act he was pulling just before.

‘This is His world,' he adds, slurring slightly, ‘not yours.' The phrase sounds familiar. No doubt he's parodying something I have said in the past. I don't waste a second trying to think what.

Gregory, who has been observing this exchange with increasing confusion, has had an idea. ‘I get it,' he says, ‘you're doing a role play. This is some kind of scenario, and I'm here to …' He runs out of steam at this point. In a less hopeful voice he asks, ‘Why am I here?'

‘I told you, you're here to do some filming. So I suggest,' I point at him with the gun, which I'm not sure he had noticed because I've been holding it down by my side for the past minute or two, ‘that you take that phone,' I point to Alex's one in the pile, ‘and get this woman here in the frame.'

It has a galvanising effect on the young director, who hurries over to take the phone. It has a less positive impact on Stella. She wants to know what I am planning to do with her. I hate to see the fear that, despite her best efforts, is now starting to get the better of her. I want more than anything to be able to tell her that this is just a short, unpleasant interlude for the betterment of mankind.
Grit your teeth and bear it
, I would like to say.
I will not hurt you. I could not
.