Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

He held her gaze, resisting the reflex urge to nod. There seemed no acceptable response to her question except to agree and start swapping anecdotes about uncanny hunches that had been proved true. The thing was, he’d never had much interest in psychic phenomena, and he and Bea had often noted that the sort of people who were most deeply enthralled by the science of the supernatural were also least able to spot the glaringly obvious reasons why their own lives were in chaos. He couldn’t say that to Grainger, of course. He was just about to say something diplomatic about how faith was a bit like an intuition that didn’t depend on rare coincidences, when she pressed on:

‘Anyway, a few months ago I got this intuition about my dad. I saw him in my mind. He was being wheeled down the corridor of a hospital, on a trolley, real fast, by a bunch of medics who were like, “ Gangway !” It was so clear, it was like I was running along behind. He was conscious but confused, his arm was attached to an IV drip but he was fumbling around for the pocket of his pants, looking for his wallet. “I can pay, I can pay!” He knew he was in deep shit and he was terrified he’d be refused treatment. His face… it wasn’t like I remembered, it was unrecognisable, he looked like an old bum that they just scooped off the street. But I knew he was my dad.’

‘And have you had any other… intuitions about him since then?’

She closed her eyes, tired out by revisiting her clairvoyance, or by her intimacy with him. ‘I think he’s hanging in there.’ She didn’t sound at all sure.

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘I’m praying for him.’

‘Even though it makes no difference to the shaper of galaxies, huh?’

‘Grainger… ’ he began, but the formality of the surname suddenly exasperated him. ‘Can’t I call you Alex? Or Alexandra, if that’s what it’s short for?’

She froze as if he had just put his hand between her legs. ‘How did you…?’

‘You wrote to my wife. Remember?’

She considered it for a moment. ‘Stick to Grainger,’ she said, but not coldly. And then, when he looked perplexed, she elaborated: ‘Surnames just work better here. I guess it reminds us that we’ve all got jobs to do.’

He sensed she was finished with the encounter. She had got from it, or failed to get from it, whatever she’d come for. He only wished he’d had the chance to explain more fully how prayer worked. That it wasn’t a matter of asking for things and being accepted or rejected, it was a matter of adding one’s energy — insignificant in itself — to the vastly greater energy that was God’s love. In fact, it was an affirmation of being part of God, an aspect of His spirit temporarily housed inside a body. A miracle similar, in principle, to the one that had given human form to Jesus.

‘Spoken like a trouper,’ he said. ‘But tell me, Grainger: what do you think my job is?’ He was thinking that maybe the conversation could still be steered back into the waters of faith.

‘Keeping the Oasans happy,’ she said, ‘so they keep helping us set up this place. Or at least so they don’t get in the way.’

‘That and nothing else?’

She shrugged. ‘Making Springer’s day by taking an interest in his gross collection of knitted cushion covers.’

‘Hey, he’s a lovely guy,’ protested Peter. ‘So friendly.’

Grainger stood up to leave. ‘Of course he is, of course he is. Friendlyfriendlyfriendly. We’re all friendly, aren’t we? Pussycats, as Tuska says.’ She paused for effect, then, in a clear, serenely dismissive voice that chilled him to his soul: ‘Fucked-up pussycats. With their balls cut off.’

A few minutes later, alone and ill-at-ease, Peter resumed his letter to Bea.

As for sexual harassment, there doesn’t seem to be any of that either.

He stared at the screen for a while, trying to decide where to go from here. He felt compassion for Grainger, certainly, and wanted to help her, but he had to admit that wrestling with her troubled spirit had drained him. Strange, because in his ministry back home he was exposed to troubled spirits every day, and it never tired him at all: indeed, he’d always be energised by the thought that this encounter he was having with an angrily defensive soul might lead to a breakthrough. It could happen anytime. You could never predict the moment when a person would finally be able to see that they’d been rejecting their own Creator, fighting against Love itself. For years they blundered and stumbled through life wearing cumbersome armour that was supposed to protect them, and then one day they saw it for the chafing, imprisoning, useless baggage it was, and cast it off, allowing Jesus to enter them. Those moments made everything worthwhile.

I’ve just spent some time with Grainger, he wrote, figuring he should share the experience with Bea while it was still fresh. Who, contrary to what you assumed in one of your messages, is a woman. She won’t let me call her by her first name, though. Nobody here does. Even the ones who are very friendly prefer to stick to surnames.

Anyway, Grainger is by far the most vulnerable person I’ve met at the USIC base. She can be in a fine mood one second and then suddenly it’s as if you’ve pressed the wrong button and she changes in a flash. Not nasty, just irritable or withdrawn. But she opened up more today than she has on previous occasions. She’s harbouring some deep, unresolved hurts, and it would take a very long time to get to the bottom of them, no doubt about that. It’s a wonder she was selected for this team, actually. She must have come across more grounded and easy-going during the interviews than she does now. Or maybe she really WAS more grounded at the time. There are times of our lives when we feel indestructible even though quite a lot of things are going wrong, and other times when everything is going well yet we feel anxious and fragile from the moment we wake up. Not even the most steadfast Christian is immune to the mysteries of equilibrium. Anyway, Grainger’s main source of grief seems to be a difficult relationship with her father, who she hasn’t seen in 25 years. I’m sure you can relate to that! In fact, I’m sure you would be the ideal person to discuss these things with her, if only you were here.

Speaking of which, I found out the real reason why you are NOT here. A few hours ago I met

In the pause while he searched his brain for Doctor Austin’s name, he recalled that he’d already written about this at the beginning of the message, before Grainger interrupted him. He deleted the redundant words, feeling more tired every second.

I’m going to say goodbye and send this letter now. It was hanging around unfinished all the time that Grainger was here and I’m ashamed that I’ve kept you waiting so long between responses. You are right to chide me for my perfectionism. I’m going to do better from now on! (Joke) Speed up my responses. Send this one flying towards you while I’m working on the next one.

Love,

Peter.

True to his word, he sent the message, then opened up another of Bea’s letters and refamiliarised himself with its contents. This time, he let go the idea that he must dutifully address each and every point she raised. She didn’t need that. What she needed was two simple things: an acknowledgement that he’d read her letter, and some sort of message from him in return. His eyes lit upon the part where she described the almost-healed wound on her hand: ‘pale and pink and a bit waxy from the swaddling, but looking good!’ Immediately he began to compose a letter of his own.

Dear Bea,

I’m so happy to hear that your hand is healing so well. I was horrified to hear you’d hurt yourself and this is a great relief. Please don’t be in a hurry to go back to work. You need to be fully well in order to take care of others. Plus there are lots of bugs lurking around in the hospital, as you know — and I’m not just referring to