24
Shutting the apartment door behind me, leaving my bodyguard—Unicorn today—to take up position outside, opposite the Swiss Guard, I sniffed appreciatively. Lunch was ready. Jon must be here. They were both in the kitchen, arguing amiably enough about the best way to carry a tray level.
“Hi, smells nice,” I told them.
“Oh good,” said Bane, “we can eat.”
“You’re quiet, Margo,” he said before long. “What’s wrong?”
“Pope Cornelius was at the hospital to anoint Father Mark.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah,” I said sadly. He could die at any time, now… “And how does that make me different from anyone else?” he’d say, if I bewailed that fact to him.
We were all quiet for some time. Bane looked particularly miserable. Would some guilty part of him greet Father Mark’s death with relief?
“I just don’t understand why that heart attack affected him the way it did,” said Jon after a while. “It’s like he’s totally given up.”
“I never thought anything would faze Father Mark,” said Bane, frowning in agreement. “But you’re right. He puts a brave face on, but underneath…you can tell he just doesn’t care. I don’t understand it either.”
“Has he said anything to you, Margo?” asked Jon, when I didn’t speak.
“What? Oh. No. Perhaps…perhaps he’s just tired. He obviously went through one long, drawn-out nightmare with Internal Affairs, though he doesn’t talk about it.”
“True,” sighed Bane. “But it still doesn’t seem like him.”
Another glum silence fell.
“D’you remember that super-fast anointing he gave Margo in the Fellest?” said Jon at last, with just a slight smile.
“It was pretty fast,” agreed Bane.
I’d been thinking about that as well. Perhaps it would make the subject for my next blog post. Out of consideration for Father Mark’s feelings, we’d not told the world exactly what was wrong with him, only that he was seriously ill in the hospital as a result of his time in the EuroGov’s tender care. But I could write about anointing.
Although the internet papers and TV channels were already reporting on his mini-speech, it was Lucas’s baptism that was all over the papers today. The worst EuroPocket papers, as we called them, were stridently declaring it to be a publicity stunt and a sham, and predicting dire consequences for Lucas if we won the vote; other papers were more positive. But whatever their stance, they were pretty enthralled. We’d see what they had to say about his speech in the morning.
I got my blog written just in time to race to one of the grand old reception rooms for a video interview alongside Pope Cornelius and Cardinal Akachi—with a major EuroBloc network, no less—then I snuck back to the hospital. Vote or not, who knew how long we had left with Father Mark? It hurt to be around him, yes, but that was partly why I went. I couldn’t bear for him to die while I felt this way about him. It wasn’t his fault, so why couldn’t I forgive him properly?
Of course, if I really believed it wasn’t his fault, why did I feel I needed to forgive him?
“Margaret,” he sighed, when he saw me (after the usual look of pain flashed across his face—a mutual feeling, alas). “You’ve got better things to be doing.”
“I wanted to come and see you.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“I saw Pope Cornelius arrive earlier.”
He sighed again. “I see. Well, then, you’ll know I really am fine.”
“And you’ll know why I’m here again.”
He sighed once more. He still looked sweat-streaked and weary, but he seemed more peaceful than he had earlier. Had he confessed about killing my baby, or had he done that already? Had Pope Cornelius given him a penance? Or had he said ever so firmly, “I am not setting you a penance for that”?
“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you,” he said more softly and probably no more truthfully than I could have done. “It’s just the vote. I’ve been hoping I might still be here to know the result, but if you keep this up, I’ll start wishing to depart immediately and spare you the distraction.”
I snorted. “You really think that wouldn’t be a bigger distraction?”
He just shrugged. He had a point. Was his emotionally agonizing presence more distracting than the agonizing emotional blow that his death would be? Or should be?
From the way he was looking at me, he was working up to yet another, “There’s nothing I can say that will make it any better, but I’m so, so sorry,” speech. “If you really want to make amends in the slightest,” I snapped, “then could you try not dying?”
He looked startled, then smiled slightly. A genuine smile. “A priest is not allowed to set an impossible penance, so nor are you,” he said lightly.
“Well…at least…at least care, would you?”
He smiled again, very gently, and suddenly I felt more like a little girl than a grown-up married woman. “Margaret, this is not so bad, you know. A downright wonderful way to go compared to what I’ve expected for so long. As I would think you’d particularly appreciate.”
Even a thought of that gurney, and I shuddered. What could I say? He was right. “I’d rather you didn’t go either way,” I muttered. “Not just yet.”
“I will go when I am called and not begrudge it,” he said softly. “But in truth, I would rather stay. Does that make you feel better?”
It should—to know that I hadn’t completely stamped out his will to live—but it didn’t. In a way it just made it worse.
Click.
I sat there for a little while once he was asleep, a deep-rooted panic in my gut. I had to go now, I really did, back to my computer, but…would this be the last time I saw him alive?
That was the question I found myself asking at the end of every visit for the next two days, but still he hung in there. Pale and strained and…I was no longer in any doubt that he was in much more pain than he let on. I prayed fiercely for him, for a mind programmer, with much less of the “Your will, Lord” than I should’ve done. And for the strength—the reasonableness—to forgive him.
Kyle had been getting such a…hunted…look whenever I managed to catch sight of him that I’d taken the decision to back off and give him some space. He didn’t want to talk to me, but he was talking to Father Mark. Hopefully he’d work through the anger and relent. Soon, Lord? Any chance he could do it really soon? Like, in the next week?
I was typing almost nonstop at my laptop, anyway. But Lucas had noticed everyone else worked, and he just “sat in his room eating,” as he put it. Not that he ate a lot. Ranulph, the head gardener, was happy to allocate him an old disused greenhouse in which to raise plants for us to sell. So I stole an hour with Bane to help Lucas finish setting it up. Bane helped with the heavy lifting, and I chased spiders. Lucas was taking more cuttings from his precious purple fuchsia and beginning crosses of the most promising Vatican varieties while we were still finishing off.
When Ranulph dropped round and got Lucas talking plants, Bane and I bade our goodbyes and left them to it.
5 days
“The EGD would have it that anyone with fewer than five perfectly functioning senses is somehow less than human. Exactly what, then, is someone like me? With only four (slightly more than!) ‘perfectly functioning’ senses. Am I a gorilla? A dolphin? EGD logic fail.”
Jonathan Revan—quoted in an article by Margaret Verrall for the ‘The Parisian Voice’, reprinted in ‘The Madrid Tribune’
Ring-ring.
Bane went to get it. Good. I was busy at my computer, as ever—but the familiar fear coiled in my belly. Not Father Mark… Not Father Mark…
“Hello? What? Really? That’s brilliant! Isn’t it? Why not? Oh…I s’pose…can we come over? Okay.” Bane hung up, and turned to me, excitement and caution warring on his face. “Some defector just walked into St. Peter’s.”
“So?”
“Says he’s a mind-programmer.”
“What?” I hurtled out of my seat. “That’s wonderful!”
“Ye-es,” said Bane warily. “Bit convenient, isn’t it? We haven’t had a mind-programmer join us for…the whole history of anyone in Africa, as far as Eduardo’s been able to discover, yet right now…”
…when we needed one so badly… “Eduardo’s suspicious?”
“He’s not too happy. I’m with Eduardo on this one, it stinks to high heaven. Anyway, he said we can go over if we like, see what we think of the fellow.”
The defector was sitting behind a table in the interview room dressed in an expensive and totally un-rumpled suit, looking…un-rumpled. An average-sized man, in fact, pretty average in every way.
“So how do we even know he is a mind-programmer?” demanded Bane, after I gave him a description. We were invisible in the observation room.
“His ID checks out,” said Eduardo. “Though naturally I’ve no intention of letting him know I know that.”
“Easiest test is to put him in with Father Mark and see if he does any better than the psychiatrists,” I said.
“Easiest, maybe—also riskiest.”
“Riskiest? What risk? If he strangled Father Mark with his shoelaces, it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference, at this point.”
“He’s one of the ones who programmed Father Mark in the first place. I ran his name and photo past Father Mark already.”
That shut me up for a moment. Hadn’t expected that.
“So what reason does he give for defecting?” asked Bane.
“Says he feels bad about what he did to Father Mark and other people. But he also gives the impression that he doesn’t think the EuroGov are going to win, so it may be self-serving, when you get to the bottom of it. He may feel if we knock off Sorting and Religious Suppression it won’t be long before we get to Torture—and that’s how I’d class his previous work.”
“Has he asked for money?”
“He wants a comfortable house in Africa and to be left off the chore rotation of whatever free town it’s in. And a written assurance that he won’t be sent to ‘Friedrich’s touchy-feely farm’ as he puts it. An astute enough request, since he participated in the torture of at least one Vatican State citizen, not that we try defectors for past crimes, as a general rule.”
“Well, that all shows good character,” I couldn’t help saying.
“Quite. He does not come across as a savory customer.”
“But he’s the only mind-programmer we’ve got. It’s try him or let Father Mark die.”
“Well, no need to ask what you think we should do. Any opinion, Bane?”
Bane chewed his lip for a moment. “If we let this guy at Father Mark and he says he’s cured him, we’ll have to do some seriously careful tests before letting Father Mark loose. Might still need to relocate him far from Margo. But we have to try.”
Eduardo frowned, as though secretly hoping someone would come up with a reason good enough to justify keeping the guy away from Father Mark. “Jack?”
Unicorn shrugged, blue eyes troubled. “We’ve got to try it, sir. Margo’s right; he can’t make Father Mark worse.”
Eduardo sighed. “All right, it’s undeniable. I don’t think any of us could stomach not making use of him, in the circumstances. Let’s get him up there, then.”
He went out of the room and almost immediately reappeared in the interview room. “Hello again, Doctor Reynar. Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been decided to grant you a temporary visa to remain. However, as you probably know, Father Mark Tarrow is here in the hospital, and it will be a condition of your visa that you cure him.”
“Of course,” said Doctor Reynar. “But you understand, there will be certain things which I require.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to dictate terms, Doctor Reynar,” said Eduardo coolly.
“No? I don’t think you quite understand the scarcity value of my particular set of skills. If I choose to walk back across that white line, the EuroGov will welcome me with open arms. My art is a delicate one. I have my conditions or I will not work.”
“Oh, he’s charming, isn’t he?” muttered Bane.
I grunted agreement, equally revolted by the oily tone and pompous words.
“Still, Father Mark’s life,” I reminded him—and myself—after a moment.
“Yeah,” said Bane, wholeheartedly. No, he really didn’t want Father Mark to die. Not really. Nor did I.
“Reasonable terms regarding your medical work will of course be met,” said Eduardo. “Now, can you start at once? The situation is urgent.”
Doctor Reynar heaved a big sigh. “Am I not to have a cup of tea and bite to eat?”
“I’ll have it sent up to the hospital. In the meantime, you can begin assessing your patient.”
“Very well,” said Doctor Reynar irritably.
“Caring fellow,” I muttered.
“We didn’t need to meet him to know that,” said Unicorn dryly.
True. I offered thanks to God guiltily tinged with wariness. Had the Lord really sent this man to us or was the cause something less benevolent—or at least more human?
Eduardo called round later in the day and from his expression and irritable manner, he shared my lack of certainty. “Well, it’s good news,” he said without preamble. “He’s got the panic response stabilized.”
“Already?” Too good to be true, surely?
“It would appear these characters leave themselves metaphorical back doors and shortcuts,” said Eduardo. “We haven’t just taken his word for it—he got pretty sniffy about it, but we tested it out. Father Mark can be around a doctor now without the drugs in him.”
“My goodness,” murmured Bane, “then his life is saved?”
“So long as we don’t offend dear Doctor Reynar,” said Eduardo bitterly.
“Then…he probably really can undo the programming that makes Father Mark try to kill me?” I asked.
“He says it’s more complicated; reckons we’re looking at several weeks. But he seems totally confident about the eventual outcome.”
“So, as long as we win—” Bane broke off. Swallowed.
Five days. Opinion polls now varied widely. In some, we were clear winners. In others… I swallowed too, feeling nauseous. Again. Of course, I’d probably have my head in a toilet for half the day by now, if it wasn’t for Fa…for the EuroGov. Now I was just stuck with stress giving me some of the downsides without any of the upsides.
Lord, stay with us.
2 days
As a former reAssignee I want to add my voice to all those you have heard over the last six months and beg you—do not dismiss us as imperfect, for every human being is imperfect. Do not dismiss us as unimportant, for no human being is unimportant. And do not, do not imagine that you can raise your children in a society that treats children as we and countless others were treated, and that they will be safe.
No child is safe while Sorting continues.
No adult is safe while there is no Religious Freedom.
Margaret Verrall—blog post, ‘The Impatient Gardener’
I had written far into the night, pouring myself into a set of posts for the next two days. What might be my final posts. I’d now done everything that I could do through my writing to help make the case for an end to Sorting and Religious Suppression. The day of the vote itself would be split between live interviews and Eucharistic Adoration, for which I kind of hoped Bane would join me, otherwise we were hardly going to see each…be with each other.
But right now, I was admiring rows of neatly potted plants and trying to understand an explanation about how Lucas had taken the pollen of one variety and used it to pollinate another variety and how this would result in new hybrids.
“So when will they be ready?”
He looked amused. “Not yet, Margaret. The plants have to make the seeds first, then I plant the seeds, then the new plants grow. Then none of them may be very good, so you try a whole load of new combinations, and each time keep the best ones. You have to be patient to get something really good.” He shot the purple fuchsia cuttings a look of rather parental pride.
I smiled. “Well, my blog title says it. I’m a very impatient gardener. If you could call me a gardener with my success rate.”
Success rate… Doctor Reynar was reporting good success with Father Mark. Unfortunately, his claims were no longer such as could be tested. Doctor Reynar hadn’t let me see Father Mark for three days, now, but I suppose the whole forgiveness thing was no longer quite so urgent. Unless we lost the vote. Still…
Doctor Reynar couldn’t do anything worse to Father Mark; his motives, unsavory as they might be, checked out; everything we’d been able to check checked out and still…the whole thing left me so uneasy.
“Margaret?”
“Sorry. Just thinking about Father Mark.”
“I wouldn’t let Doctor Reynar near…near a seedling.”
I stared unhappily up at him. “I know, but what choice do we have? Father Mark could easily have been dead by now, without that man.”
“I don’t trust him as far as I can pick him up and throw him.”
And considerably physically recovered though Lucas might be, he certainly couldn’t do that.
“I know. But what do you suggest? Let Father Mark die?”
Lucas frowned. “I don’t want Father Mark to die.”
“Well, then!” I stroked a fuchsia’s deep-veined leaves absently for a moment. “Y’know, I don’t think it would be half so bad if I could see him. At least then I’d be able to tell if he really seemed to be improving…” I trailed off. “Well, I couldn’t tell he was programmed until he made a move, so maybe not. I’d just feel better.”
“That man won’t let me in. Won’t let anyone in.”
“What about Eduardo?”
“No.”
My turn to frown. Unicorn was keeping us up to date, but he’d not mentioned that absolutely no one was allowed in. “That doesn't seem…necessary. I mean, Doctor Reynar had assistants when he did what he did to Father Mark the first time. Not that I know anything about mind-programming.”
“Eduardo should insist.”
“He can’t, can he? Doctor Reynar has us over a barrel. I just wish someone could speak to Father Mark. Check he’s happy with what the guy is up to.”
Lucas turned his head slightly to one side and eyed me rather intently. My heart lurched in mingled hope—and fear that our need for reassurance could actually do harm. But…I didn’t trust Doctor Reynar as far as I could throw him, either. Bane, Jon and I had sat with him in the cafeteria several times to try and find out about Father Mark’s progress, and he didn’t improve on closer acquaintance. So… “D’you think you could…get in there?”
Lucas smiled faintly.
“Okay, ask a stupid question. But without anyone knowing you’d been there? We mustn’t lose Doctor Reynar!”
Lucas pulled a face, as though he’d love to lose Doctor Reynar but his reason disagreed. “Don’t worry,” he said simply, then added, “Tonight.”
I bit my lip, but didn’t take back my request. The programming didn’t relate to Lucas in any way; how could it possibly do any harm?
Lucas adjusted a couple of pots for a few moments, back and forth. Something on his mind?
“Margaret…something’s been bothering me.”
“What?”
“Well, when you do wrong, you do penance, yes? After you’re forgiven, as…as an apology, to show how sorry you are.”
“And it has a purifying effect on oneself, yes.”
“Well, what do you do when…all your wrongs are far too many to ever be put right?”
I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ve just been baptized, Lucas; all your sins are gone. You don’t need to do anything.”
“But if it’s partly an apology…what if you want to do something?”
“Um…well, I don’t suppose there’s any reason you can’t. So long as you do understand it’s not necessary. Anyway, genuine sorrow is the most important thing: over and above that, we just do what we can and leave the rest in God’s hands.”
“Do what we can?”
“That’s right. However little or however much. And even the little is totally voluntary for you right now.”
He nodded thoughtfully, then snagged a spider that was trying to move back in and carried it outside.
1 day
I’d like you all to take a moment to imagine something. Try to imagine the hope that’s burning right now in the hearts of thousands of parents across the EuroBloc. The hope that their child might live. Imagine it, and remember that feeling, and don’t forget it when you vote tomorrow.
Margaret Verrall—blog post, ‘The Impatient Gardener’
A hand was shaking my shoulder…my eyes flew open in the darkness, my heart thudding. A voice calling urgently, “Margaret! Margaret?”
“Lucas?” I pushed myself into a sitting position and fumbled for my bedside light. “What are you doing here?”
“What on earth?” said Bane. “How’d he get in?”
“He’s gone,” Lucas said straight over us. “Listen, he’s gone!”
My mind was still attempting to lurch into action. “Who’s gone?”
“Father Mark!”