Peter’s fingers flew up to his brow, touching the flaking skin there. ‘I’ll be more careful next time, I promise,’ he said. ‘Grainger’s given me some excellent suntan lotion.’
‘Sunscreen,’ Grainger corrected him irritably. ‘SPF 50.’
Austin said: ‘I actually meant the natives. The Oasans, as you call them. We’ve been supplying them with basic medicines virtually since we first got here. It’s the only thing they seem to want from us.’ He smirked in deference to Peter’s mission. ‘Well, just about the only thing. But you know, not one of them has ever shown up here for treatment. Not one! Which means not one of them has ever been checked out or diagnosed properly. We would love to know what’s up with them.’
‘Up?’ echoed Peter.
‘What ails them,’ said Austin. ‘What they’re dying of.’
Peter had a vivid mental image of his congregation in all their colours, singing hymns and swaying shoulder to shoulder.
‘The ones I’ve been dealing with seem quite healthy to me,’ he said.
‘Do you know what drugs they’re taking?’ persisted Austin.
The question annoyed Peter and he tried not to show it. ‘I’m not aware of them taking any. One of my Jesus Lovers – one of my congregation – had a close relative who died not long ago. I never met him. Another one has a brother – or maybe a sister – who’s in constant pain, apparently. I imagine that’s where some of the painkillers are going.’
‘Yes, I imagine so.’ Austin’s tone was neutral – breezy, even. There wasn’t a milligram of sarcasm detectable in it. But once again, Peter felt that his fellowship with the Oasans was being assessed with a jaundiced eye. The intimacy he shared with the Jesus Lovers was profound, built on a foundation of a thousand solved problems, disentangled misunderstandings, shared history. But as far as the USIC staff could see, his intimacy with the inhabitants of Freaktown hadn’t even got off the ground. The quaint Christian had nothing to show for his labours that a rational person could respect. People like Austin had a list of questions which they assumed needed answers before the word ‘progress’ could be uttered.
But that was what the Godless were always so good at, wasn’t it? Asking the wrong questions, looking for progress in the wrong places.
‘I appreciate why you’re curious,’ said Peter. ‘It’s just that the Oasans I see every day aren’t ill. And the ones who are ill don’t come to our church.’
‘Don’t you . . . uh . . . ’ Austin waved one hand vaguely around, to indicate door-to-door evangelism.
‘Normally I would,’ said Peter. ‘I mean, when I first arrived, I assumed I’d be visiting homes, looking for ways to make contact. But they’ve been coming to me. A hundred and six of them, last time we met. It’s a big congregation for just one pastor with no backup, and it’s growing. I’m giving them all my attention, all my energy, and still there’s more I could do if I had time – and that’s before I even think of knocking on the doors of the ones who’ve been keeping away. Not that they have doors . . . ’
‘Well,’ said Austin, ‘if you do find a sick one who’d be willing to come here and, you know, let us check him over . . . Or her . . . ’
‘Or whatever,’ said Flores.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Peter. ‘The thing is, I don’t have any medical knowledge. I’m not even sure I could recognise a specific disease . . . in one of us, let alone in an Oasan. The signs and symptoms, I mean.’
‘No, of course not,’ Austin sighed.
Nurse Flores spoke up again, her simian face unexpectedly illuminated with sharp intelligence. ‘So, the ones you’re dealing with could be sick and you wouldn’t know it. Every last one of them could be sick.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve built up a lot of trust. They tell me what’s on their mind. And I work beside them, I see how they move. They’re slow and careful, but that’s their way. I think I’d be able to tell if something was badly wrong.’
Flores nodded, unconvinced.
‘My wife’s a nurse,’ said Peter. ‘I wish she were here with me.’
Austin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got a wife?’
‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘Beatrice.’ The mention of her name felt desperate somehow, an attempt to lend her an individual status she could never truly have for these strangers.
‘And she’s . . . ’ Austin hesitated. ‘She’s in the picture?’
Peter thought for a moment; remembered his conversation with Tuska: Is there a special person in your life right now? Nope, can’t say that there is. ‘Yes.’
Austin cocked his head, intrigued. ‘It’s not often we get someone here who’s got . . . you know . . . a partner waiting for them back home. I mean, a partner who’s . . . ’
‘In the picture.’
‘Yeah.’
‘She would’ve loved to come too,’ said Peter. For the first time in ages, his mind retrieved a vividly complete recent memory of Beatrice, sitting beside him at the USIC office, still dressed in her nurse’s uniform, her face flinching in distaste at the horribly strong tea she’d been handed. Within a microsecond, she adjusted her expression to imply that the tea was merely too hot, and she turned back towards the USIC examiners with a smile. ‘It would’ve made such a difference,’ Peter went on. ‘To me and to the whole project. USIC didn’t agree.’
‘Well, she must have failed the suitability tests,’ said Austin, with an air of commiseration.
‘She wasn’t given any tests. USIC interviewed us together a couple of times, and then they made it clear that the rest of the interviews were for me alone.’
‘Take it from me,’ said Austin. ‘She failed her ESST. Was Ella Reinman there at the interviews? Small, thin woman with very short grey hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘She does the ESSTs. That’s what her questions are all about. Your wife got analysed on the spot and disqualified, take it from me. The amazing thing is that you didn’t. You must’ve given very different responses.’
Peter felt himself blush. His clothing was suddenly plenty warm enough. ‘Bea and I do everything together. Everything. We’re a team.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Austin. ‘I mean, I’m sorry she didn’t get to come with you.’ He stood up. Flores and Grainger stood up, too. It was time to leave the mortuary.
After that, there was nowhere to go but his quarters, and his quarters depressed him. He was not, by nature, a depressive person. Self-destructive, yes; he’d been that at times. But not gloomy. There was something about his room in the USIC base that sapped his energy and made him feel boxed in. Maybe it was simple claustrophobia, although he’d never been claustrophobic before, and had once even bedded down inside an industrial garbage skip with the lid closed over him – and was grateful to have the shelter. He could still remember his sense of wonder when, at some point during the night, the mound of garbage on which he lay started heating up, enveloping his half-frozen body with warmth. This unlikely, unexpected generosity from a non-human agency was an early foretaste of how he would feel in the bosom of Christ.
But his quarters at USIC gave him no such feeling. The room might be spacious and clean, yet it seemed to him dismal and tawdry – even when the shutters were lifted and the sunlight made the walls and furnishings almost too bright to behold. How was it possible for a place to be sunlit and yet dismal?