The Breath of Night (34 page)

‘That isn’t interpretation; it’s distortion.’

‘I know you’re a Protestant, Mr Seward, but did you discuss these views with the Olliphants before they employed you?’

‘No. Although, to be honest, I didn’t hold them. Coming here, seeing the Church’s grip on every aspect of national life, has changed me radically.’

‘And changed you into a radical?’

‘I realise that I’m doing myself no favours by speaking out like this.’

‘I appreciate that you’re overwrought. And under the
circumstances
who can blame you? Plus, I see where the trouble lies. It’s all down to language or, rather, terminology. When we speak of the Church, you and I, we mean two quite different things. You mean buildings and treasure and popes and power; I mean the people: the people for whom the Church is the only road to salvation.’

‘What about the gospel?’

‘The gospel is nothing without the Church.’

Philip was torn. While eager to hear what guarantees the Bishop would demand of him, he was determined to pin down the Vicar General. ‘In which case, how far would you be willing to go to protect it?’

‘As far as was necessary.’

‘As far as murder?’

‘That would never be necessary.’ The Vicar General looked shocked.

‘No? There are those who claim that Julian’s death was ordered by a group of right-wing priests to whom his views were anathema.’

‘We are well aware that you’ve made contact with a
psychopath
in Bilibid jail.’

‘How did you…?’ Philip started; to his certain knowledge the only person to whom he had mentioned it was Max.

‘You keep on asking me
how
, when you should be asking yourself
why
.’

‘I’ve told you
why
several times: to discover the truth! And, unlike the Church hierarchy, I believe that the truth is the same as the facts.’

‘Then your understanding is deeply flawed. The evidence of the miracles means that Father Julian’s views – and even his actions – are no longer material. What counts is his example. There is a long-standing Church tradition that on the Day of Judgement we will be made to answer not just for our actions but for the consequences of those actions after our death. So, is
a saint a saint solely by virtue of… well, of his own virtues, or by virtue of the virtues he inspires in others?’

‘Presumably you expect me to opt for the latter?’

‘Most people have a simple faith. They have neither the time nor the training for complex – indeed, for any kind of –
theological
argument. They need signs, which Father Julian is already giving them. And I am sure that St Julian will give them many more. Are you still intent on taking that away?’

‘Do I have any choice in the matter?’

‘We all have a choice.’

‘I was thinking more of my current state than the human condition.’

‘There is of course an easy solution,’ the Vicar General said, standing and facing the wall, where he clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘Unlike some, the police have due respect for the Church. I am sure that I can persuade them to release you into my custody – not literally, of course: our humble clergy house is no match for the Manila Hotel. The charges against you will be deferred while you complete your report and then quietly dropped.’

‘You have that much power?’

‘Not me, no, not at all: the Church!’

‘And what assurances do you have that once I’m free, I’ll comply?’

‘When they searched your room –’

‘What?’

‘Standard procedure. The officers took the precaution of removing your passport. It will be returned when you board the plane next Thursday.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Philip said, anxious to assert his integrity even as he acceded to the demands and despising himself for both. ‘You’re asking me to lie in the report?’

‘Not at all,’ the Vicar General said, turning back to him. ‘I had hoped that we would have understood each other by now: “to excise things which would cause confusion”. Surely you see
that it’s the best way for everyone? For us; for the Olliphants; and above all for yourself. The Bishops Conference has strongly condemned the deplorable conditions in our jails, but so far to little effect.’

‘I can’t think; I think I’m going to collapse!’

‘Would you like me to call for some water?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ Philip gulped. ‘It’s passed.’

‘Of course we can’t expect you to reach a decision at once. If you prefer, I can go now and come back on Saturday.’

‘And leave me here?’

‘They will no doubt move you into the holding cell.’

‘That overcrowded cage at the front?’

‘Exactly. I am sure that, like Father Julian, you would refuse any special treatment.’

‘And if – only if – I were to agree to your proposal, how can you know that once I’m back home, I won’t renege and submit a second report to Isabel and Hugh?’

The Vicar General looked hurt. ‘An Englishman’s word is his bond: isn’t that what you say? But in case things have changed since I was in Guildford, I should remind you that although your laws on abortion may be shamefully lenient, those on child abuse – even when committed overseas – are not. We would have no trouble in proving that Miss Santos is a minor.’

‘Nineteen is above the age of consent for us.’

‘Nineteen? Sixteen? Fourteen? The necessary witnesses could be found.’

‘Thank you,’ Philip said, choked with disgust. ‘I asked how far you would go to protect the Church and now I know.’

‘As I said, as far as was necessary. So have you made up your mind, or would you like to talk it over with your fellow prisoners?’

‘Is that meant to be a joke?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I accept your terms. Of course I do.’

‘Of course you do. You may not thank me now, but I am confident that you will as soon as you’ve had a chance to think
things over. I’ve noticed a change in you since we first met. There’s definitely a new strength in your eyes, or is it your jawline? My country has been good for you.’ He summoned an officer who escorted them out, past the pen, which had filled up further during the afternoon, to the reception area where, after a brief discussion, the desk officer gave Philip back both his property and his freedom. The Vicar General offered him a lift to the hotel, but he insisted on taking a cab. ‘Very wise,’ the Vicar General said, impervious to the snub. ‘What better time to start drafting your report! You’re here for another week, so I hope that once you’ve finished it, you’ll take the chance to explore the city: the restaurants, the galleries and the malls. You’ll find everything you could want: a Rolex watch or a Louis Vuitton suitcase that even the original designers would be happy to own.’

‘Thank you, but I’ve had my fill of fakes.’

Returning to the hotel, Philip went straight to the front desk to pick up his messages. His conviction that the entire staff knew of his ordeal was confirmed by the receptionist’s shudder, until he remembered that there was ink smeared across his face. With the irony that had become his fate, the only message was from the Bilibid governor’s office authorising him to visit Prisoner N204P-0370 Gerron Casiscas. There was nothing from Maribel, whose continued silence, both here and on his mobile, was a sure sign of guilt. He hurried up to his room, where the tears he had held in check ever since his arrest flooded out at the sight of the clothes, books and papers strewn about the floor. He made a desultory attempt to clear up, before crawling, fully clothed, into bed and pulling the covers over his head.

The darkness failed to calm his mind. The conspiracy ranged wider than he had feared. Whatever the scope of Maribel’s and Dennis’s involvement, they must have colluded with Max, since no one else could have told the Vicar General of the Bilibid connection. And if Max were involved, then who else? Might the web extend as far as Whitlock? He hugged himself tighter. Had Max warned Hugh that he was looking into Julian’s
political activities and Hugh instructed him to use every
available
means to scare him off? The truth was that he could trust nobody. The one virtue of his arrest was that it freed him from any lingering remorse at leaving Maribel. Whether she were the prime mover in an elaborate subterfuge or merely a pawn, he had no desire ever to set eyes on her again. Having expected less from Dennis, he felt less wounded by his betrayal. The
sensible
thing would be to sack him, but with under a week before he flew home, he would keep him on, but at a distance,
restoring
boundaries he should never have relaxed. He would take a similar line with Max. By refusing even to mention his arrest, he would deny him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply he was hurt.

Emerging from the fug, he resolved to eat his way out of misery, ringing down for a meal of coquilles St Jacques, steak and chips, white chocolate parfait and, in a spirit of defiance, an expensive bottle of Saint Émilion. After bolting it down, he felt ugly, bloated and full of self-loathing, which he compounded by logging on to the adult channel. This time he picked an Asian film,
Banana Cream Pie,
in which, in a hotel room as bleak as his was lavish, a dazed-looking teenager was mounted orally,
vaginally
, anally and, after much cumbersome manoeuvring, in all three orifices at once, by a tattooed man with gold teeth, a
pot-bellied
man with a ponytail and a scrawny adolescent with acne. Feeling complicit in her violation, Philip switched off after ten minutes, to be left with a profound sense of shame.

He awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth, as though he had drunk a bottle of vinegar. Braced by a strong dose of caffeine, he embarked on his report. Sticking to the Vicar General’s guidelines, he eliminated anything that might be deemed contentious. What remained was a full description of Julian’s miracles, along with a history of his work in San Isidro, all of which, apart from some incidental details in the parishioners’ testimonies and his own account of Jejomar’s crucifixion, was well known to the investigators. After
reading through the nascent hagiography he felt the futility of his visit as never before.

Apart from a workout in the hotel gym before lunch and a dip in the pool at teatime, he did not stir from his laptop all day. He received only two phone calls. The first was from Max who, making no reference to his arrest, confirmed the arrangements for the evening’s party. The second was from Dennis who, with unprecedented – and unsettling – diligence, asked if he were needed for work. Curbing his surprise, Philip gave him the day off, apologising for not having informed him earlier and asking him to apologise too to Maribel for his failure to bring her the
makabuhay.
‘The traffic around Quiapo was so heavy that I was forced to give up,’ he said, trusting that his pauses were as
inscrutable
as Dennis’s grunts. ‘Anyway, I expect I’ll see you later. Will you be dancing at the club?’

‘I am always dancing. I am star attraction. When I am not dancing, all the
baklas
are asking: “Where is Dennis?”’

‘So you’ve solved your problem?’

‘What problem is this you mean? There is no problem.’

‘Your money problem: your 10,000 pesos problem! I had a hunch that it had something to do with Ray.’

‘This is no problem. Ray is big friend of me. I am giving him massage. I am best masseur in Manila.’

‘Fine,’ Philip said wearily and put down the phone.

Although he had no wish to see Max, let alone to celebrate his birthday, Philip was determined to put up a brave front. So at 9.30 he hailed a cab to drive him to Legaspi Towers, where he found Max waiting impatiently in the forecourt. ‘Many happy returns!’

‘Thank you,’ Max said, stepping into the car with a sly
expression
, which looked more than ever as if it should be set off by whiskers: not mutton-chops or sideburns, but cat’s whiskers sprouting from the corners of his mouth.

After a strained ride, they pulled up outside the Mr Universe, a two-storey building in a patch of wasteland. Red, white and
blue fairy lights festooned the façade and a giant plywood
bodybuilder
, whose perfectly curved biceps looked as if they had been traced with a compass, was propped up beside the door. Philip nervously surveyed the seedy display and desolate setting, while Max chatted to the hefty doorman.

‘Happy birthday, Mr Max,’ the doorman said. ‘They’re waiting for you inside.’

‘Thank you, Madame.’

‘He doesn’t seem the sort of guy to have a female nickname,’ Philip said, as they walked through the plastic-strip door.

‘That’s because he’s a she,’ Max replied.

‘You’re joking!’

‘We call her Madame Papaya.’

‘After the fruit?’

‘After the tree. It’s one of Nature’s freaks. The male papaya bears the flowers and the female the fruit. You can turn the female into the male by cutting it. That’s what she’s saving up for.’

‘You can’t even trust the trees in this country,’ Philip said, as he stood in the doorway and took in the ambience. The low ceiling was hung with paper streamers, which looked as if they had been left over from an office party. The walls and bar were painted the ox-blood of a fleapit cinema. Twenty or thirty small tables faced a raised stage, the size of the dais in his old village hall: an image he immediately tried to shrug off. The air was stale and thick with smoke.

The manager, a florid man in his forties with a shirt to match his manner, greeted Max with two hurried pecks and several waspish comments, before leading the way to an alcove where Ray and Amel were sitting. ‘Your guests have arrived, sir,’ he said to Amel, who stood up to welcome them, wishing Max a happy birthday and apologising for his brother’s absence.

‘Brent is standing for congress. We have had to put this club solely in my name.’

‘Philip, my friend, you must sit here besides me,’ Ray said, making room for Philip on the banquette. Philip slid into his
designated place, trusting that Amel’s presence would act as a restraint on Ray’s roving hands.

After pouring the champagne and toasting Max, Amel excused himself for a moment, leaving Max and Ray to gossip, and Philip to watch the stage. Whatever the relevance of the club’s name, it bore none to the dancers, most of whom looked as if they should still be competing on their high-school sports fields. Wearing leopard-print pouches, feathered headdresses and beaded armbands, a dozen young men were performing a tribal number. The rotating lights were, however, more animated than the dancers who, either from lack of space or the
limitations
of the choreography, remained rooted to the spot, gyrating their hips, rolling their bellies, sliding their hands up and down their torsos, and making no attempt whatever to engage with their audience.