Ken McClure: Past Lives

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Ignatius, sensing the pair’s unease. ‘You’ll be more comfortable here and the doctor will be able to look after you properly.’

Eli looked at Stroud and wasn’t at all sure that he wanted the doctor looking after him. He looked as if he could do with some looking after himself. Stroud opened his bag and took out several glass vials and a box of plastic syringes which he laid out on a tray. Eli tried to catch Benny’s eye but Benny was obviously still enjoying the euphoria the wine had bestowed on him. Eli saw Stroud remove two syringes from their wrappers and fit needles to them. Ignatius noticed him staring and said something to Stroud who responded by stopping what he was doing to open a small cabinet and take out a bottle of pills. He handed it to Ignatius who opened it and gave two pills to Eli. ‘Here, these will help you relax.’

Eli was shown into an adjoining room by Ignatius while Stroud indicated to Benny that he lie down on a leather-topped couch.

Benny stared up at the ceiling, wondering why it was moving. He’d only had two glasses of wine... He felt the doctor bare his arm and rub it with a swab. It felt cold, icy cold. Ignatius had come back into the room and was looking down at him. ‘Just relax,’ he was saying. ‘Relax and listen to what I say.’

Benny felt a slight sharp sensation in his arm. The light feeling in his head became more intense. It was as if his brain had suddenly become free of his body. His body had been a prison for his real self.

‘What is your name?’

‘Benny Zur,’ he replied slowly. The words seemed heavy; he had difficulty getting them out.

‘Where do you live?’

‘I told you... Tel Aviv.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty fi...’

‘Relax...’ soothed the voice from somewhere far away beyond the horizons of light. ‘Just relax.’

The sun was coming up... no, it was night. He was in a desert... no, he was in a forest and he was afraid. He couldn’t cope with the flood of images that were streaming through his consciousness, all demanding his attention. His pulse rate rose sharply. He became disorientated. The pictures kept coming and he couldn’t view them dispassionately because they all featured him. Each one triggered a different emotional reaction and he couldn’t keep up. He needed more air. He felt his legs go into painful spasm and tried to sit up. But he couldn’t; he was now trapped in a body that weighed too much. He broke out in a sweat: he could feel it running down his face but he couldn’t wipe it away. He was filled with foreboding. Something awful was about to happen, something awful... had happened.

‘Your name?’ asked the voice.

‘Ishmael Hamadi.’

‘Where do you live, Ishmael?’

‘Beer Sheva.’

‘Tell me about yourself. What do you do? Do you have family?’

‘I’m a camel driver. I live with my wife Ruth. We have two sons, Saul and Eli. Ruth’s mother stays with us too — she’s blind. Her father used to live with us but he died two months ago. He was eighty years old.’

‘Do you own your camels, Ishmael?’

‘No, they belong to Zachariah. He owns more than a hundred but I am in charge of three other drivers. Zaccharias trusts me.’

‘Have you ever heard of someone called the Nazarene?’

‘The one the Christians follow?’

‘Yes.’

‘He died a long time ago!’

Ignatius nodded to the Stroud who administered another injection.

Benny appeared to have some kind of convulsion. He sat bolt upright with fear etched on his face and cried out in anguish but the moment passed and he slumped back down on the bed. Stroud indicated to Ignatius that he could continue.

‘Your name?’

‘Ibrahim Dwek.’

Whereas Ishmael had spoken with a coarse accent, Ibrahim Dwek spoke in cultured tones and told of his life as a librarian at the Temple in Jerusalem. He wasn’t married and lived with his widowed mother Nesta and his sister Shula. Ignatius made notes while keeping up a string of questions as he gradually built up a picture of Dwek’s life. ‘What do you know about a teacher from Galilee, the one the Christians follow?’

‘Jesus of Nazareth? He’s long dead but people still speak of him and he has a big following.’

‘Are you or any of your family or friends, followers?’

‘No.’

‘A little more, please, Doctor.’

In response to the look of doubt that appeared on Stroud’s face, Ignatius whispered, ‘He hasn’t been put under any real stress.’

Another small injection was administered and Benny’s skin became pallid and his breathing laboured. There was a vague chemical smell on his breath which made Ignatius recoil slightly. ‘Tell me who you are and where you live,’ he asked in his even, reassuring tones.

‘James. I’m from Caesarea.’

‘What do you know about Jesus of Nazareth, James?’

‘He died that we might live forever.’

Ignatius exchanged glances with Stroud. ‘You’re a follower?’ he exclaimed.

No reply.

‘You do know him?’

‘The Romans crucified him the year I was born.’

The disappointment in the room was almost palpable. ‘Why did you say what you did about living for ever?’

‘I met a man in prison.’

‘You were in prison? Where?’

‘The Roman prison in Caesarea.’

Ignatius suddenly became very excited. He had to work at keeping his voice calm. ‘You were in prison in Caesarea where you met a man who told you about Jesus of Nazareth?’

Ignatius did not blink as he waited for a reply. He was almost too frightened to take a breath. When no reply was forthcoming he said, ‘The man who told you these things, he came from Tarsus, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, Paul of Tarsus.’

Ignatius silently mouthed the words, ‘Saint Paul.’

‘Tell me about your time in prison,’ he said hoarsely.

A tremor started in Benny’s hands, which quickly spread to his whole body and he became very restless. His words didn’t make sense any more.

‘Another injection,’ said Ignatius.

‘Not possible,’ said Stroud. ‘There’s none left.’

Kansas City

USA

Macandrew left Tony Francini with Saul Klinsman still trying to pacify him while he went to examine Jane. What the hell did Francini mean by “not his wife”? One of the nurses saw him as he approached the recovery suite and came over. She said. ‘Mr Francini was here Mac; he was very abusive.’

‘I’ve just seen him,’ replied Macandrew. ‘What’s going on?’

The nurse shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘Mrs Francini seems totally disorientated. She’s conscious but doesn’t recognise any of the nurses; she didn’t know her husband; I don’t think she even knows herself.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She insists her name’s not, Francini,’ said the nurse.

Macandrew entered the recovery room where Jane Francini lay. It was a small, quiet room with subdued lighting in line with hospital policy that patients should come round after their operation in a calm and reassuring environment. Any medical paraphernalia associated with emergency resuscitation was stowed in cupboards behind the patient or out of their line of sight. Jane Francini had opened her eyes to a large print of Kansas corn fields at harvest time hung on a wall of sky blue but, at the moment, she was throwing her head from side to side on the pillow in a state of great distress.

Macandrew watched her shrug off the attentions of the nurse who was with her. She growled angrily at the woman and spoke what sounded to Macandrew like a stream of gibberish. The look in her eyes however, suggested that she thought the nurse should understand and respond to what she was saying. The nurse stepped back to allow Macandrew to take over. She seemed relieved.