‘Speaking of which . . . ’ said Peter. ‘Have you got some more drugs to give the Oasans?’
She frowned. ‘No, I didn’t have time to raid the pharmacy. You need clearance for stuff like that.’
‘Stuff like morphine?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I haven’t told you what I think.’
‘You think we’re handing out narcotics here. It’s not like that. The drugs we give them are medicines. Antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, simple analgesics. I’m confident they’re being used for the correct purpose.’
‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to get a handle on what these people have and don’t have. They don’t have hospitals, then?’
‘I guess not. Technology isn’t their forte.’ She pronounced it ‘for-tay’, with almost mocking exaggeration, the way Americans tended to when quoting French.
‘So they’re primitives, would you say?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
He leaned his head back again and reviewed what he knew about his flock so far. He had only met one of them, which was a small sample by any standards. That person had worn a robe and cowl which looked as though it was probably hand-made. His gloves and boots . . .? Again, probably hand-made, albeit to a sophisticated standard. You’d need a machine to sew leather so neatly, surely? Or perhaps just very strong fingers.
He recalled the architecture of the settlement. Complexity-wise, it was in a class above mud huts or dolmens, but it was hardly high-tech manufacture. He could imagine each stone being fashioned by hand, baked in rudimentary ovens, hauled into place by sheer human – or inhuman – effort. Maybe, inside the buildings, undiscovered by the likes of Grainger, there were all sorts of mechanical marvels. Or maybe not. But one thing was certain: there was no electricity, and there would be nowhere to plug in a Shoot.
He wondered how God would feel about him announcing, right here in the car, that he really, desperately needed to know whether Bea had written to him, and that Grainger must therefore turn the vehicle around and drive all the way back to the base. To Grainger, it would look like a failure of nerve. Or maybe she’d be touched by the ardency of his love. And then again, maybe what seemed like a backwards step would in fact be God pushing him forward, God using the delay to put him in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Or was he just straining to find a theological justification for his own lack of courage? He was being tested, that much was obvious, but what was the nature of the test? Whether he had the humility to appear weak in the eyes of Grainger, or whether he had the strength to push on?
Oh Lord, he prayed. I know it’s impossible, but I wish I could know whether Bea has written back to me yet. I wish I could just close my eyes and see her words before me, right here in the car.
‘OK, Peter, this is your last chance,’ said Grainger.
‘Last chance?’
‘To check for a message from your wife.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s a Shoot in this vehicle. We’re still in range of USIC reception. Another five, ten minutes of driving, and we’ll lose it.’
He could feel himself blushing, with a big daft smile so broad it made his cheeks ache. He felt like hugging her.
‘Yes, please!’
Grainger stopped the vehicle but did not switch off the motor. She flipped open a hatch in the dashboard and pulled out a slim contraption of plastic and steel, which unfolded to reveal a monitor and miniature keyboard. He made the inarticulate noise of surprise and admiration that was called for in the circumstances. There was momentary confusion as to which of them would take responsibility for switching the thing on, and their fingers met on the back of the console.
‘Take your time,’ said Grainger, settling back in her seat and turning her face towards the window, in a display of respect for his privacy.
For nearly a minute – sixty agonising seconds – nothing manifested on the Shoot except a computerised promise that a search was under way. Then the screen filled up from top to bottom with unfamiliar words: Bea’s words. God bless her, she’d responded.
Dear Peter, she wrote.
I’m upstairs in our study. It’s six o’clock in the evening, still full daylight, indeed nicer than it’s been all day. The sun is at a low angle now, mild and buttery yellow, streaming through the window straight onto the wall-hanging/collage that Rachel & Billy & Keiko made for me. Those kids must be teenagers by now, but their wonderful depiction of the ark and its animals is still as cute and eccentric as when it was first done. The way Rachel used bits of orange wool for the lion’s mane never ceases to charm me, especially when it’s lit up by the evening sun as it is now. One of the giraffes’ necks is dangling down, though; I’ll have to stick it back into place.
I only just arrived home from work – bliss to be sitting down at last. Too tired to have a shower yet. Your message was waiting for me when I rushed upstairs to check.
I can understand that you would be eager to go and live with the Oasans ASAP. Of course God is with you and you shouldn’t delay unnecessarily. Try not to sacrifice common sense, though! Remember when that crazy Swedish guy at our Bible study dedicated himself to Jesus? He said his faith in the Lord was so strong that he could just ignore the council’s eviction notice, and God would organise a miraculous last-minute reprieve! Two days later he’s on our doorstep with his bin-bag of possessions . . . I’m not implying you’re a nutcase like him, just reminding you that practicalities are not your strong suit and that bad things can happen to ill-prepared Christians just as they can happen to anyone else. We need to strike a balance between trusting in our Lord to provide, and showing due respect for the gift of life and this body we’ve been lent.
Which means: when you do go to live with your new flock, please make sure you’ve got (1) some way of calling for help if you’re in trouble, (2) an emergency supply of food and water, (3) DIARRHOEA MEDICATION, (4) the compass co-ordinates of the USIC base and the Oasan settlement, (5) a compass, obviously.
Peter glanced up at Grainger, just in case she was reading over his shoulder. But she was still gazing out the window, feigning deep interest in the landscape. Her hands were loosely clasped in the lap of her gown. Small hands, well formed, with pale, stubby-nailed fingers.
He was embarrassed that, apart from a bottle of green water filled from the tap, he’d taken none of the precautions Bea was urging him to. Not even the diarrhoea pills she’d bought for him specially. They would hardly have weighed down his rucksack, those pills, and yet he’d removed them. Why had he removed them? Was he being as foolish as the crazy Swede? Maybe he was indulging a stubborn pride in his minimal baggage, his statement of single-minded intent: two Bibles (King James and New Living Translation, 4th edition), half a dozen indelible marker pens, notebook, towel, scissors, roll of adhesive tape, comb, flashlight, plastic wallet of photographs, T-shirt, underpants. He closed his eyes and prayed: Am I drunk on my own mission?
The answer came, as it so often did, in the form of a sensation of well-being, as if a benign substance in his bloodstream was suddenly taking effect.
‘Have you fallen asleep?’ asked Grainger.
‘No, no, I was just . . . thinking,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh,’ she said.
He returned to Bea’s message, and Grainger returned to her study of the empty scrubland.