'The Reverend Des?'
'You bet.'
Harry tapped his fingers on his chair.
'It's a beautiful day,' said Desmond Pearce surveying the sun-filled garden. There was still dew on the course-bladed grass and honey-eaters hung from the fragile branches of a blue-flowered bush. 'And a good place to be sitting too.' He shifted his bulk around in his creaking chair, crossed his legs one way, then the other. 'Odd socks,' he said, leaning forward to take off his coat without uncrossing his legs. 'I've got odd socks.'
. But Harry wasn't looking at the socks. He was staring intently at Desmond Pearce and making him feel uncomfortable.
'Well,' Desmond Pearce said, and slapped his big knees. He had only just (four weeks now)·arrived from the country, where he had been very successful. He could talk to men in sales yards and paddocks, in pubs or at the football.
Harry was still staring.
'I have a lot of trouble with odd socks,' Des said. 'Sometimes I go to the laundromat with matched pairs and come back with all odd socks. Sometimes I go with all odd socks and come back with pairs.'
'Have been making a list,' Harry said, 'of religions.'
'Oh.'
When you talk to a man in the middle of a paddock, you look off into the distance, or at the ground, you do not stare at him like this.
'And seeing you are here,' Harry continued, 'I might ... ah ... ask your help.'
'Ah, yes,' said Pearce with a feeling of inadequacy, not to say dread, in the face of this velvety urbanity.
'The problem begins,' said Harry, closing his eyes and talking as if the whole thing had nothing to do with him personally, but rather about some character in a much-told story, 'with the high probability that I shall shortly die, mmm?'
And he smiled a slightly apologetic, but none the less charming, smile.
Des Pearce was not good with dying.
'Shall shortly die. Now, I think there is also a likelihood that I will go to Hell and that ... ah, I wish to avoid. But,' he pulled a battered notebook from his dressing-gown pocket and waved it at the clergyman who was beginning to wonder if he wasn't some ratbag atheist out to have some fun, 'but there are a lot of religions.' A pause. That dreadful stare. 'You see my problem.'
'Well, you've got a bugger of a problem,' he said carefully.
'I've had fifteen milligrams of Valium, I'm ashamed to say.'
'And you're not a Christian?'
'I was, but I think you'd call me lapsed.'
Was he an atheist?
Harry Joy folded his arms and Desmond Pearce was shocked to realize that his eyes were wet and that his face, half-hidden by his fringe, spectacles and moustache, showed real fear, that the dry rather indifferent tone had been adopted to get through a difficult subject.
'Lapsed as buggery,' said Harry Joy and they both watched a cabbage moth alight on Desmond Pearce's leg.
'Are you scared?'
Harry nodded.
'Of Hell?'
'Mmmm.'
'What have you done to make you think you'll go to Hell?'
Harry shrugged.
'Have you murdered someone, something like that?'
'Good heavens no.'
Des Pearce was feeling better now, better in the way you felt when you knew there was something you could actually do. 'Look, old mate,' he said, 'do you really think God is such a bastard he wants to punish you for all eternity?'
'Why shouldn't he?'
Des Pearce grinned. 'It doesn't make sense. It's like you wanting to torture flies, or ants.'
'Yes.'
'Do you?' he said, joking.
'That's my point. People do. Look, I read the Bible in there,' he gestured into the hospital. 'It doesn't muck about. It says you either believe or you go to Hell. And look,' he took from his notebook a grey, much folded pamphlet he had found as a bookmark in the library Bible. It was titled:
'Harry, this was written in 1649.'
'I know. I saw that.'
'Well . .. it's a bit out of date isn't it? This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages.'
'We're talking about eternity,' Harry said incredulously, 'and you're talking about three hundred years. That's a drop in the bucket. You can't just modify Hell. You can't change it.'
'I haven't. The churches have.'
Harry was beginning to get hives. He could feel them now. There was this tightening in his throat and this curious swell-ing which always preceded them. His fingers moved, as if he wanted to clutch something. 'How can you change your mind about Hell?' he smiled. 'If it was true once it must always be true. What about the people you sent there in the Middle Ages? Have they all been allowed to go home?'
'It's the twentieth century,' Des Pearce grinned, but he felt irritated.
'Are you saying there is definitely no Hell?'
'I ...'
'There is a Hell.' He said it with that lunatic brightness Desmond Pearce had seen in the eyes of Mrs Origlass who had seen a flying saucer land beside the railway line at Anthony's Cutting.
'I can't imagine God wants to punish us, Harry.'
'Ah, but maybe not your God, you see. Maybe,' Harry looked around furtively (just like Mrs Origlass, he thought, that darting movement of the head), 'maybe another god. Maybe it's a god like none you've ever thought of. Maybe it's a 'they' and not a he. Maybe it's a great empty part of space charged with electricity. Maybe it's a whole lot of things in a space ship and flying saucers are really angels.'
(Landing beside the railway line at Anthony's Cutting.)
'Look,' Harry turned over the pages in his notebook. 'I made a list of religions, and do you know what I think?'
'What, Harry?'
'They're all wrong.'
'All of them?' he smiled.
'Every damned one of them: Harry said, 'maybe: And felt the hives swelling up beside his balls, like twenty nasty flea bites on top of each other.
'You must have done a lot of study: Des Pearce said, looking at the list and noting the absence of Animism and Zoroastrians before he handed it back.
'Study: Harry waved his arms, dismissing the hospital, its garden, certainly its library. 'What good is study?'
He made the gestures of an angry man and yet, Des Pearce saw, he still smiled charmingly.
'A God for people who read books?' Harry was saying. 'No. Definitely not. I will tell you two things I know: the first is that there is an undiscovered religion, and the second is that there definitely is a Hell.'
'Then,' Des Pearce held out his arms sadly, 'I can't help you …'
But maybe I'm wrong. Don't you damn well see, I might be wrong. Tell me what to do …'
'I can't.'
'Tell me to believe.'
