drop out. Dr. Timothy Leary, I believe. Have you heard of him?”
Marda shook her head, completely confused. Her intuition told her that she would survive only by pretending to be much less intelligent than she really was, and then making Duval feel superior by appearing to learn quickly what he wished her to. She had indeed read about Leary and had discussed his ideas with friends, but she knew that “no” would be the correct answer to the question. Somehow she sensed that he wanted, as did all men, or certainly all men with diminished egos, to explain things to her. Let him go ahead, then.
“Dr. Timothy Leary experimented with drugs in America,” lectured Duval. “LSD-‘acid,’ it’s called-can make a person explore their inner mind, he claims. Silly, really. The religious mystics had better, safer and more sustained visions without this ‘acid.’ Religion, approached properly, can give you a real ‘trip’”-Duval waggled two fingers on each hand to provide the quotation marks-“if you want it enough.”
“And when I have learned your religious course properly, I can go?” asked Marda hopefully.
“If you reach the level of attainment of which I think you may be capable, you will not only learn a new philosophy of life, but you will also be free to decide whether to stay or go.” The lie came easily.
Marda forced a lopsided grin for Duval, then looked thoughtful. “How long will I take to pass your…exam, your examination?” she asked seriously.
“Historically speaking, a few-very few-people have reached the mystical stage in weeks. Others take a lot longer.”
“What about those who fail?”
“As long as you are sincere and you try”-Duval’s eyes glanced heavenwards-“God helps you to try and try again.”
Marda’s knees felt weak, but she struggled to stay engaged in this sinister tutorial. “But some fail, perhaps like the girls in the other cells?” She was not sure if she wanted him to answer this.
Through the grille, Duval looked at her kindly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to look after you. Ensure you eat properly. Make sure you are warm. In return I merely expect you to listen to me and to answer me openly and honestly. We will start with a little Sunday school-Bible classes, if you like-and then as we progress and study and gain spiritual depth, I will try to explain why I have chosen you.”
By now Marda was convinced she was dealing not only with a homicidal religious maniac but also a patronising bastard. The only course was to placate him and wait for an advantageous occasion to escape. Meanwhile, appeasing him meant food. Obviously the first lesson.
She took a deep breath. “The sooner we start, then, the better,” she said brightly. “Is that OK with you, Michael?”
Duval looked at her with a slightly quizzical expression. “Indeed,” he said thoughtfully.
Shifting his standing position, he composed himself to begin the lesson. “Let us talk about faith,” he began. “My first definition of faith was provided by my old theology tutor. He told me that a philosopher is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there, and a theologian is the man who finds it. I thought it was amusing the first time I heard it, but I soon realised that faith depends upon doubt. Believing in God unquestioningly sometimes, yes, but at other times doubting him. Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith, it’s a crucial element. Religion may be morally useful without necessarily being intellectually sustainable. So you could say that a believer is happier than a non-believer. Perhaps that’s as valid as saying that a drunken man is happier than a sober one.”
Marda wondered yet again whether he was merely trying to impress her or whether he wanted genuinely to engage her in conversation. Intuitively, she grasped that he wanted questions from an eager pupil.
“What is God like?” was Marda’s first question, as she assumed an attentive posture on her bench.
“So you believe in God?” replied Duval, peering through the grille.
“Yes,” she said. But what she really wanted to shout was, I cannot believe in God because long ago he would have destroyed evil men like you. How could God allow such an unspeakable evil? In other circumstances she might have wanted to discuss the holocaust, but for now she was keeping it simple.
“I can tell you that God is alive, Marda, because I spoke to Him this morning,” said Duval smugly. “Perhaps you are surprised by such direct communication. You mentioned, I recall, that you are not a Catholic.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied defensively, “but that doesn’t mean I’m hostile.”
She started to cough suddenly, as the nauseating taste of bile rose in her mouth. She was shivering from the horror and unreality of her interrogation, but she knew she had to try to disguise her disgust. She patted her chest and coughed again. “Please excuse me; the cold is getting to me.”
Duval waited for her to continue. The coughing fit gave Marda time to select her words. “I’m interested in religion but not really inspired by it. I told you, I think, that I was christened in the Church of England and then didn’t really bother. I went through a period of doubting God’s existence. You know how it is. Well, maybe you don’t. That was a stupid remark,” she said, feeling awkward.
But Duval answered her seriously. “I hope I am not an unthinking Catholic. My early conversion changed me. You don’t know how much less tolerant I would be if I hadn’t become a Catholic…” He paused, waiting for a response. Marda did not move a single muscle on her face, and there was silence for a few seconds. Then he continued, as though he was discussing the weather: “But I have my healthy scepticism. In some ways I tread my own path. I have my doubts about big organisations such as the Church. They grow bureaucratic, the arteries become sclerotic. They insist on absolutes. You know, the Curia in the Vatican is a bit like the Politburo in Moscow. Both Catholics and communists are alike in assuming that an opponent cannot be honest
He stopped, peered through the grille, and turned his gaze directly to Marda, “All right, let’s start at the beginning. Who made you?”
“Well, God, I suppose.” Marda was somewhat taken aback by the question.
“You are not sure.”
“No,” Marda paused, “but maybe there are various gods.”
“No.” Duval started to recite: “There is the one God, who is three-with His Son, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost, the Holy Spirit if you like. Again, who made you?”
“God.” Marda felt like a chastened schoolgirl.
“And why is there a God, do you think?”
“To guide us?” she hazarded.
He prompted her: “To provide moral limits, moral goalposts perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, “that’s a good way of putting it.” Marda gathered her thoughts. “Um, I don’t believe in organisations, either. Yes, I suppose I should know my Bible better, but I try to act according to my own conscience. I try to develop my talents-if I have any-to the best of my own ability, without hurting anybody else.”
She paused to wipe her runny nose with the edge of her finger.
“I don’t need an organisation to tell me what to do,” she continued, “but I suppose that God’s word has been interpreted over the centuries-by the Catholic Church and others-and that provides me with the essence of what I believe, as an individual. So, I suppose, God has provided us with morality.”
Duval waited for her to finish, then said “I don’t know if you understand the philosophical implications of what you have just said, but you are developing the theory of moral relativity.”
“I don’t have a theory; I just try to do what is right.”
“Perhaps,” replied Duval, shifting from one foot to the other, “but if we become too relative, too individualistic, then we might as well decide whether the earth is God’s plaything, His golf ball if you like, or rather- to turn the argument on its head-maybe our role is not to worship God but to create him…that black cat which isn’t there in the pitch-black room. But we do need God, whether we feel Him intellectually or emotionally. And so we are back to faith again.”
He changed tack. “Let me play devil’s advocate: if God cannot make us become better, then perhaps it’s time to get rid of Him. No God, no faith, no nothing…God, however, is necessary for the human condition.”
He sighed, enjoying flexing his intellectual muscles, but felt that at this stage it was probably rather in vain.
Not to listen to you, you monster, Marda thought, keeping her face neutral.
“Take your time, Marda. I like a considered reply. Not just something flippant, off the top of your head, just to please me. I want the truth at all times. God will know if you lie, and we can hide nothing from Him. So let us try
