Mission (51 page)

‘Mmm, interesting …' Fowler lit a cheroot and began lecturing me. ‘The three main constituents of blood are the red and white cells and the plasma – the liquid carrier medium. The red cells enable the blood to carry oxygen round the circulatory system and the primary function of the white cells is immunological. They fight off infection. The red cell contains no nucleus when it enters the blood stream. The white cell does, and is independently motile. It can wander in and out of the circulatory system at will, concentrating in vast numbers in infected areas of the body.'

‘So far so good,' I said. ‘When do we get to the exciting bit?'

‘Any minute now,' replied Fowler. ‘If I don't give you the basic setup, you won't be able to understand the importance of what I discovered. After all, you're the man who didn't even know the going price for a pint of blood.'

‘I was just kidding, Jeff. Go ahead,' I said, ‘I'm all ears.'

Fowler resumed his dissertation. ‘Okay. The red cell has a finite life of around 110 days. During that period it ages and is finally removed from the system by the action of the spleen. Now it is possible, by careful analysis, to establish the percentage of new blood cells in any given sample. These are called reticulocytes. And the percentage in any normal red cell count is usually around thirty per cent.' He paused before delivering the punch line. ‘In the sample Miriam gave me that was supposed to have come from the unlucky Mr Lucksteen, the proportion of reticulocytes was zero per cent. They were all mature red cells. And they were all identical.'

I could see from his face that this was meant to be startling news but its full impact was lost on me. ‘So, is that what you meant when you talked about an abnormality that could arrest the ageing process?'

‘Absolutely,' replied Fowler, his eyes gleaming. ‘That's what made me suspect the pair of you. I could understand you not wanting to get
technical, but when Miriam didn't press me for any details, well…' He puffed a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Can you imagine it? No
new
blood? Naturally, I wanted to know more, but the sample wasn't big enough for the full range of tests to be applied. But I managed to establish that the blood contained no nutrients. Things like glucose, calcium and iron that are produced by the digestive tract then passed out into the bloodstream and carried to where they are needed in the body.'

‘That figures,' I said. ‘He hasn't eaten anything since he's been here. But he's downed several bottles of wine and according to The Book, he ate some bread and fish when he was back in Bethany.' I frowned. ‘Something's wrong somewhere. Isn't there calcium, iron and glucose in all of that?'

Fowler brushed my question aside. ‘And then, the miracle happens. Father Rosado drops out of the blue with the phial of blood from the statue, and there was more where that came from. I was able to establish that it was identical with the sample Miriam had given me. Again, a one hundred per cent mature red cell count. No nutrients and, most important of all, no DNA in the lymphocytes. They're a special type of white blood cell. The little bastards that gang up to reject heart transplants.' He paused. ‘I take it you know what DNA is – deoxyribonucleic acid?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘It's the chemical that carries encoded genetic data.'

Fowler nodded approvingly. ‘It's a constituent of the chromosome which is present in the nucleus of the cell. The chromosome is the hereditary blueprint. Without it, the cell can't reproduce itself. And if none of the other cells in the body contained DNA …'

I completed the sentence for him. ‘The organism would have to be an original. A one-of-a-kind.'

‘One-of-a-kind, yes,' said Fowler. ‘But not an original. An almost perfect reproduction of a real human being, with closed-circuit body chemistry.'

I shook my head. ‘A
more
than perfect reproduction, Jeff. One that will never grow old, fat, or senile. Or be fed to the flames, or left to the worms.' I understood what Fowler had been saying. The Man's physical entity was eternally present. It was a stunning demonstration of the Empire's powers over the life and death cycle of the ‘Braxian universe.

Carol Shiragawa wandered into the kitchen, snaked an arm round
Fowler's neck and slid a hand behind his belt buckle. ‘What gives? Is this where the action is?'

‘No,' I said. ‘It's all out front.'

Carol rolled her eyes. ‘You mean we're just going to sit around and listen to that kook with the beard?'

‘Well', said Fowler, ‘that was the general idea.'

‘Jeezuss,' groaned Carol. She turned to me. ‘Who is this guy? Is he some kind of religious pot-head from California?'

I exchanged a glance with Fowler. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘Aww, come on,' she smiled. ‘Gale just told me he thinks he's Jesus Christ.'

‘Yes, that's right,' I said. ‘He is.'

Carol turned to Fowler. ‘What is this – some kind of put-on?'

‘How do you mean?' I replied.

She laughed. ‘Leo, I know you think I'm dumb but don't try and tell me you really believe that.'

I squared up to her. ‘Yes, I really think I do. And I say that with the greatest possible reluctance.'

Carol eyed me sceptically then looked at Fowler. ‘How about you?'

Fowler shrugged non-commitally.

‘You're both as nutty as he is.' She shook her head in disbelief, and stopped her stealthy assault on Fowler's body. ‘Do you have a bike here?'

I nodded.

‘Great.' She planted a kiss on Fowler's cheek.

‘Where are you going?' he said.

‘For a ride. What do you think?'

Fowler looked confused. ‘But – don't you want to stay here with us?'

Carol patted his face. ‘Honey, if I'd wanted to hear people talk about God, I'd have gone to church.'

‘You'll find the bike in the garage,' I said. ‘If you want a tracksuit, mine's behind the door of the upstairs bathroom.'

‘Thanks.' Carol gave Fowler a quick feel on account and left.

He turned back to me, pink with embarrassment. ‘Sorry about that.'

I spread my hands. ‘You can't win ‘em all …'

In a way, Carol's reaction was perfectly understandable. Neither she, nor the others had seen what we had seen – his scourged and crucified body on the slab in the morgue, its inexplicable disappearance, his return a week later, miraculously whole; the stigmata he had produced at will and which had made my stomach turn; his tricks with the bottle of wine, and with the books; his manipulation of my mind, enabling me to speak Hebrew with the fluency of a first-century rabbi. Linda had already seen The Man. God knows what the others came expecting to see. But they all found an olive-skinned, thirty-four-year-old black-bearded Semite who needed a haircut; wearing the plaid shirt, green cords and blue jogging shoes he'd picked up when Linda had taken him shopping. He was not flanked by angels, no saintly halo hovered above his head, his eyes were not turned meekly heavenwards, no doves descended; his voice was not underscored by a swelling Celestial soundtrack.

It was little wonder that Kovacs, Gale McDonald and Fowler each sought me out in the kitchen instead of remaining glued to their seats; spell-bound by The Man's words. One would have thought that Kovacs couldn't wait to speak to him, and that McD and Fowler would not have wanted to miss a thing. Carol? Yes, okay, maybe she was dumber than the rest of us, and easily bored. But the others, in their own oblique way, had come to be reassured. They knew who I was. Whereas the claim I'd made on behalf of The Man was too hard to take. What they wanted from me was some rational explanation. Something that would convince them that I was telling the truth when The Truth itself was sitting outside on the porch. Fowler's scientific mind had been engaged by the mystery he'd found under
his electron microscope; McDonald the news-hound had the whiff of a good story and had dragged Linda into it. All three had come beating at my door for an answer and I'd let them have it right between the eyes.

The trouble was it wasn't the answer they wanted. McD and Fowler could have handled the Man from Mars. The media input over the last thirty years beginning with visionaries like Asimov and Hugo Gernsback and culminating with the philosophical pyrotechnics of Spielberg had made a close encounter of the third kind not only plausible but positively welcome. Indeed, it was viewed by some as the only thing that might divert the world from what they saw as a headlong plunge into the abyss of nuclear war. But to find your curiosity has led you to confront an individual who might be the Risen Christ was something else entirely. Especially when that individual's appearance was something less than divine, and when his message seemed calculated to reduce the whole elaborate edifice of organised religion to a heap of rubble.

There was nothing I could do that would make them see what their hearts and minds had, so far, failed to recognise. To accept that Ya'el was The Man meant more than just revising their belief-system and accepting a tolerant attitude towards the possible existence of God; it required a quantum leap of the imagination; an act of faith that, for the moment at least, none of them seemed able to produce.

It was fascinating to watch. They all listened as he told them many of the things he had told me, and did their best to stifle their incredulity but the magic, the sheer wonder of the moment slipped through their fingers. Gale McDonald and Jeff Fowler who had come hoping to gain some professional advantage were clearly frustrated. Peter Kovacs became worried over the theological implications of the Man's dismissal of the Trinity; Linda, bless her, was obviously hoping for a miracle.

It would have made things so easy. And I said as much to Miriam when the two of us chanced to meet over the dishes in the kitchen. ‘It's crazy,' I muttered. ‘All he has to do is make those wounds appear on his wrists.'

Miriam shook her head. ‘People believe what they want to believe. They could say they were hypnotised, like people claim after they've seen the Indian Rope Trick.'

‘But he showed us,' I protested. ‘I've seen all kinds of things.'

‘Maybe he feels you're a lot more important than they are,' said
Miriam. Which, with hindsight, was another cryptic remark.

‘I don't see why I should be,' I replied. ‘But even if I am, it's no answer. The reason Gale, Jeff and Linda are here is because he told me to tell them.'

‘I thought you dreamt that,' she said.

‘Don't split hairs,' I snapped. ‘What's good enough for Joseph is good enough for me. They're going to go away thinking we're a couple of lunatics.'

‘I doubt it,' said Miriam. ‘Give them time. Even after what we saw at the hospital it took us a week to come to terms with it.'

‘Yes, I guess you're right,' I mused. ‘I'll have to curb my missionary fervour, otherwise I may end up making house calls.'

Carol Shiragawa, who disappeared for several hours, returned having pushed the bike for the last five miles with a flat front tyre. By this time, the conversation had moved into the living-room and around the log fire. Carol showered and changed back into her clothes then joined us with the obvious intention of giving us a yard-by-yard account of her cycling saga which, apart from a few expressions of sympathy, found no takers.

Let's face it, if you're given a choice between hearing about a front-tyre blow out or the birth of the Son of Man, it's a no-contest. Carol stuck it gamely for a good thirty minutes then went into a huddle with Miriam and disappeared into the kitchen. A move which more than made up for her total disinterest in the proceedings because the result was a truly inspirational
sukiyaki.

During supper, I announced that I was thinking of spending my two-week vacation in Israel. The news caused some surprise among my guests but I did not enlarge upon my reasons for going. Somehow it didn't seem the right moment to tell them I was thinking of growing oranges. The Man sat at the head of the table with Miriam on his right and Linda on his left. Jeff sat next to her, facing Kovacs, leaving me flanked by Carol and Gale McD. Since one came from Iowa and the other Montana, I engaged them in a bantering conversation about the manners and morals of the mid-west which Carol interrupted from time to time to blow kisses across the table to Fowler while rubbing her shin against my left calf; seemingly unaware that Gale McDonald was applying the same inviting pressure to the right. Unfortunately, I was too far down the road to be able to respond to the joint invitation but I mention the incident for its anecdotal interest. It may not say much about religion but it says a great deal
about human nature. Or maybe we had an uninvited guest and this was his way of letting me know he was there.

It was the first time that I actually saw The Man eat something and, like the smart cookie he was, he complimented Carol at length in what I assume was faultless Japanese, then chatted to her again afterwards while the rest of us did the dishes. I never got the chance to question her properly about what he said but I had the feeling he gave her something to think about.

Jeff followed me outside when I went to get another basket of logs. ‘I thought you said he didn't eat.'

‘Not when he's been with us,' I replied. ‘But so what? The Book says he ate some fish and honey in Bethany and broke bread with a couple of guys at Emmaus.'

Fowler looked over his shoulder then lowered his voice. ‘Don't laugh, this is important. Has he been to the john?'

I bit back a smile. ‘Funny you should ask. I've been curious about that too. The answer is – not to my knowledge. Maybe he does all that back in first-century Jerusalem. Or waits till he's outside what we laughingly refer to as the space-time continuum. Or maybe he doesn't go at all.'