Tomas (10 page)

‘Question three,' says Tereza, ‘do bankers give enough away?'

‘Are you fucking joking?' replies Hank. He's flying now. ‘We fucking give nothing, or only an infinitesimal amount.'

Tereza's impressed by the long word given the circumstances. Perhaps the next version of the ‘box' should include a mode which moves torturees up three inches to reward the use of a five-syllable word.

‘Yes, there are parties and events,' he continues. ‘But it's fig-leaf giving. Conscience relief. A fraction of what we earn. More an excuse to get together and impress.'

The green light flashes. Three questions to go.

‘What do you think about big payoffs?' Tereza asks.

‘They're fucking great,' Hank laughs. Laughter, like tears, in the face of emasculation. ‘You're the CEO. You lose the bank $50 billion. It's time to go. Here's $100 million. And a pat on the back. Good chap.'

Four down. Two to go.

‘How do you treat women?'

In cricket there's a concept called a daisy cutter. It's a way of bowling the ball by rolling it slowly along the ground. It's used for children new to the game to break them into connecting bat with ball. Daisy cutters are impossible to miss. And Tereza's just bowled one at Hank.

‘At first, respectfully,' he says. ‘Can you believe I got married with the best intentions? But drift sets in. When you're working like a maniac you lose perspective. You forget, if you ever knew, your priorities. You start making excuses to work. All-important life-and-death work. You
know what I do on the beach with my kids? I fucking BlackBerry.'

Hank's on a roll. There are no rules for a preamble to a full confession, which is what Tereza and, more importantly, the ‘box' now require.

‘There are a lot of divorces. But even more visits to hookers and strip bars, especially when travelling. What the fuck do you expect? You spend your life in a madhouse, working like a dog, worshipping money. And somehow your home life's meant to be normal?'

The ‘box' flashes a resounding green. Hank hangs his head, his energy spent. It's as if he can't go on.

‘Take your time over the last one,' says Tereza. ‘The “box” can tell if anything's left out. So make your answer full.'

Tereza pauses to let what she's said sink in.

‘Apart from now, what's the most frightening experience you've had in your life?' she asks.

The sobering effect of ice
…

The invisible voice may only be a voice, and invisible at that, but he knows a crisis when he sees one. In a flash he's before his maker.

‘Emergency!' he says. ‘I need a fifty-foot club-wielding monster to smash into a mortuary.'

His maker looks up from behind his desk with the bored expression of a till person shouting an unenthusiastic ‘next'.

‘OK,' pleads the invisible voice. ‘A giant will do.'

‘All that's left is a foot in mouth, a blind eye and a visible hand,' says his maker.

Had the invisible voice a heart, it would sink.

‘I'll take the hand,' he says. Moments later, he materialises with the visible hand at the seaside cafe where Tereza made her confession to Tomas.

‘I'll do the talking,' the invisible voice says. ‘You back me up.' The visible hand raises his thumb.

The waiters are, as usual, bunched together at the serving counter ignoring the customers.

‘I'm the ghost of the outstretched hand for tips,' intones the invisible voice. ‘Do me a service or I'll forever haunt this cafe.' The visible hand hovers in the air, palm outstretched before the waiters.

‘Go on,' urges the invisible voice. The visible hand floats off towards the diners. His intent is clear. He's scavenging for tips.

‘Stop!' shouts the headwaiter. ‘Your service. Name it.'

‘A bucket of ice. Immediately,' the invisible voice replies.

Within moments this is produced. The voice and hand materialise outside the door of Tomas's room of rest. ‘OK, knock,' the invisible voice commands.

They hear a scuffle the other side of the door. The carrion eaters have been quarrelling about which joint to carve first. A compromise is imminent; the vulture's smiling saw is poised over Tomas's thigh.

‘Attention, undertakers,' says the invisible voice. ‘Your assistance is required. An experiment in the temporal displacement of matter has had mixed results.'

‘We're busy,' says the buzzard.

‘Hear me out,' the disembodied voice replies and the visible hand gives the door another rap. ‘We have successfully transported the entire animal population of the Serengeti to the space outside this building. This is the biggest collection of wild animals in the world.'

‘So?' says the vulture.

‘Unfortunately, there was a fault with the matter-transfer technology,' the invisible voice replies.

‘And?' says the buzzard.

‘All the livestock were killed in transit. There are a million dead animals requiring your attention.'

The buzzard and vulture barrel out of the room faster than Boss Olgarv's swirling rod.

‘Quick,' says the invisible voice, and seconds later a bucket of ice is poured over the corpse's head.

The second Messiah
…

News of Tomas's resurrection knocks the socialite with underpants off the front page. In an attempt to recapture lost ground, she strips naked and jumps up and down shouting, ‘Look at me! Look at me!' Alas, she's been poorly advised: when nothing is held back, what's left to see? The press pack now pick up the scent of the new story, which they chase with yelps and cries without so much as a sideways glance at her bouncing breasts.

This all goes to prove the old adage ‘a good resurrection will always make the front page'. (Or, is it, in fact, a new adage? As far as the press dogs can work out, there's only ever been one resurrection before, also of a
man condemned to death, but at a time when there were no front pages.) From the remotest Chinese paddy field to the US President's Oval Office, Tomas's resurrection becomes the biggest media event in world history.

Judge Reynard takes charge and Tomas is transported back to the military base, the place of his execution. There are medical checks, interrogations and psychohypnotic sessions. But what's the point? The truth is clear. Tomas has returned from the dead.

This simple fact is disconcerting to those who shot him. Soldiers are accustomed to straight lines, not supernatural events. If you're shot, you should remain so. To be resurrected is like disobeying an order – unthinkable. The military commander says as much and suggests re-convening the firing squad.

‘Is that wise, commander?' says the judge. ‘In the few thousand years of man's civilisation only two people have risen from the dead: Jesus Christ and now Tomas. And you wish to shoot him?'

The judge must consult his senior judicial colleagues immediately to discuss the situation but he's apprehensive about leaving the commander in charge. He takes a fateful but necessary decision.

‘While I'm away, commander,' he says, ‘you're to guard Tomas with your life and follow his instructions in all things. I'm sure you understand.'

The commander salutes and stands to attention. For him, an order is no sooner given than it's obeyed.

Tomas decides to use his new-found powers to test his theory about intelligence and obedience.

‘Commander,' he says, ‘the battalion will parade at six o'clock in the courtyard.'

Again the commander stands to attention.

‘Dressed as ballerinas.'

The commander's face remains impassive without a flicker of concern or surprise.

‘The tutus are to be pink. You, of course, are the prima ballerina, so yours will be white and especially ruffled. I'll give further instruction thereafter.'

Tomas has long held the view that it's easier to take orders if you're stupid. Those encumbered with an education tend to be more questioning when told what to do, especially if the orders are venal and pointless – for example, killing other people. Their hearts are just not in it. Others not so burdened do as they're told and get on with the killing. Of course the corollary is that order takers tend to be braver than their more cerebral counterparts. Naturally, there are exceptions to the rule, but in general only the stupidly brave will follow an order to charge a machine-gun nest in broad daylight across a minefield.

The battalion parades at the appointed hour in the uniform specified.

‘Half the battalion,' announces Tomas, ‘are female swans. You stand to the left. The remainder are swan catchers. You move to the right.'

The battalion ranks shuffle in obedience.

‘On my command the female swans will flutter their arms and leap into the air. The swan catchers will give chase with exaggerated dramatic gestures. Commander,
you will pirouette around the courtyard, holding the back of your wrist to your forehead as if a tragedy is unfolding before you.'

The soldiers adopt the preparatory ballerina position, heels together with one foot pointing outwards, arms held in front with hands curved.

Tomas gives the command. ‘Swans, leap!'

These are battle-hardened soldiers, trained in the deserts of North Africa. To see them leaping and pirouetting, one could easily mistake them for an enthusiastic amateur ballet school, all scoring ‘A' for effort.

After the swans have been caught and the commander has given a bravura performance as the vaulting tragic muse, the battalion is dismissed to its barracks. Tomas is left to ruminate on the three points that have defined this historic day.

First, he's alive. How and why he has no idea. Having provided his morality lessons he was caught and in a way tried. Sentenced to death, he faced his executioners with Tereza's beautiful face in mind. He felt nothing but a swirling sensation in his veins, followed by sleep.

Second, the theory's right. The stupid do follow orders and he has the additional satisfaction that yesterday's executioners are today's leaping pink swans.

And third, he now has a battalion of the stupidly brave at his command.

Hank 2: Defining a man's worth
…

‘So what's it going to be?' Tereza asks. ‘You're on a plane struck by lightning? Lost in a forest as a child? Ruptured your appendix and almost die?'

Despite the symphony of oinks and squealing, Hank's breathing is now calm. His words when they come are clear and measured. The condemned man on the scaffold making his valedictory speech, untroubled by thoughts of hope or reprieve.

‘The night before the big day,' Hank starts, ‘sleep is, of course, impossible. But I'd settle for a sleepless night. Instead I sweat like a sick child with a fever; cheeks burning, hair wet.

‘In the early hours I drift off for a few minutes, the sort of sleep that comes from exhaustion. I have the nightmare which first came to me when I was ill as a child. I'm orbiting the moon in a spaceship, unable to return to earth. I go round and round, forever trapped in space. I wake up horrified that this dream keeps returning.

‘I shower off the sweat and the nightmare but there's no way I can eat breakfast. My stomach is a forest of knots. The thought of food is nauseating, laughable.

‘I dress with a crisis of indecision over which tie to wear. Which lucky tie? I choose and tie the knot. My neck swells and I pull at my shirt collar but it makes no difference.

‘At work, it's like no other day. It's as if you're on a beach holiday when one day, for no reason, it snows. We
all know each other but no one makes eye contact. It's too dangerous. It would give too much away.

‘Chuck's called up first. When he returns I pretend not to look but I can't help sneaking a glimpse. There's a half smile on his face, which tells me nothing. Or maybe everything? Or nothing and everything? Who the fuck knows? Chuck sits at his desk and makes a silent phone call to his wife.

‘A comic thought pops into my head. Shit TV should screen a series of hushed-voice phone calls, everything people don't want others to hear: whispered secrets; doleful confessions; bad news; excruciating revelations; embarrassing results. It would achieve top ratings. People love other people's pain. The misfortune of others is even more satisfying than your own success.

‘I know I'm going to be called up sometime after lunch. But even though I've trained for it, like a sky diver making a jump, I'm not ready. “It's your turn, Hank. Secure your parachute. Jump!” But I'm not jumping. I'm going up in a lift.

‘The lift door closes with a finality that says: “This could be your last journey up. Or maybe there'll be more. You'll know in five minutes.”

‘ “Go straight in, Hank,” says my boss's secretary. I put my hand on the door handle. I breathe in and out hard. Whatever happens I mustn't show how I feel. This is it. I push the door and go in.

‘ “Hank, come in,” says my boss. “Sit down,” and then, “Sit down,” again. That's two “Sit downs”. Is that as in, “Relax, it's all OK”? Or as in, “I've got some bad
news for you, you'd better sit down (twice)”? I sit down.

‘ “It's been a great year,” says my boss. That's an OK start but the words “for you” added at the end would've been better. The first sentence tells you a lot. Maybe everything. I adjust my expectations to my upper-middle level.

‘ “Your bonus is $3,000,000.” That's it. A lightning flash. No preamble beyond the introductory five-word banality. Then three words followed by a number which defines my worth as a man.

‘I make a rapid calculation as my boss makes some ceremonial pleasantries. $3,000,000, less forty per cent tax leaves $1,800,000, divided by two for sterling leaves £900,000 net. I wanted £1,000,000 but it's not bad. And the bank's been clever. I'm fed but left hungry for more.

‘My boss wraps up and I don't display a flicker of emotion. I say “thank you”, shake hands and leave the room.