The Long War

wish she could have seen this blissful dawn. Agnes, I mean. I ought to get some flowers for her grave.’
    ‘Was she the type who would want flowers?’
    Joshua smiled. ‘She always said no to flowers. Then she’d accept them, and grumble about a wicked waste of money, and would keep them in her study until the petals dropped off.’
    Helen kissed him on the cheek. ‘Go now.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Just go see her. Never mind some invitation from the Home. Go for yourself. You’ll feel better for it. And don’t worry about us. We’re not going anywhere. I’m not, anyhow . . .’
    He slept on that.
    Then, the next day, he went.
    In Madison West 5, this new city that was growing up to replace the bombed-out hulk of the old – based on a new post-Step Day urban development where, as it happened, Helen had briefly lived with her family before their stepwise trek – the Home had been duplicated meticulously, aside from having various flaws fixed; Joshua himself had given over some money to see to that. Sister Agnes had lived to oversee the rebuilding.
    And then she had died, in the autumn sunlight of a new Earth. She had been buried in the sight of plenty of important people – some of whom, Joshua knew, would frankly have liked to see her dead a lot earlier.
    For now, her body had a brand-new cemetery plot all to itself. It was a clear, bright May afternoon when Joshua arrived with his bouquet and placed it dutifully on the stone, in this small plot outside the Home. There were flowers here already, from the Sisters themselves, and from other grown-up inmates who had benefited from Agnes’s indefatigable patience, her thoughtful love.
    He lost track of time, alone for once, not moving. If he was spotted by anybody within the quiet Home, he wasn’t disturbed.
    He was surprised to notice the shadows starting to lengthen, the afternoon drawing on. He left the little graveyard, to start the long walk back to Jansson’s.
    And he saw a figure standing across the road. A woman in a nun’s habit, just standing, apparently watching him. He crossed the road. He couldn’t see her face; she looked youngish. ‘Can I help you, Sister?’
    ‘Well, I’ve been away . . .’ Her voice was a soft brogue. ‘I only learned of Agnes’s death recently . . . Would you be Joshua Valienté, by any chance? Your face is familiar from the news. Oh dear me, where are my manners? I am Sister Conception. Agnes and me, we went back a long way. In fact we took our vows together. I knew she would become a force in the world, always knew it, even though she could be a mouthy madam . . .’
    Joshua stayed silent.
    ‘Sister Conception’ took a long look at Joshua’s face. ‘It isn’t working, is it?’
    ‘Well, if you want me to think that you aren’t who you really are, no. I’d know her in the pitch dark. I can remember her walking through the dormitory every night, before standing at the door and turning the light out. The click of that old Bakelite switch, held together with glue because there was never any money for a rewiring. The way she made us all feel safe . . . Besides, she never was a good liar. Or any good at an Irish accent.’
    ‘Joshua—’
    ‘I think I can work it out. Lobsang?’
    ‘Lobsang.’
    ‘A stunt like this is just like him. And it was me who brought him in to see Agnes when she was dying. All my fault, probably. And now – well, here you are.’
    ‘Joshua—’
    ‘Hello, Agnes.’ He threw his arms around her, until she burst out laughing and pushed him away.

26
    F OR AGNES, IT had begun with a wakening. She had felt a gentle warmth, and a certain sense of pink .
    She thought this over for an indeterminate time. The last thing she remembered was her own bed, in the Home, the murmuring of a priest. She said, more cautiously than hopefully, ‘And I am in heaven?’
    ‘No. Heaven can wait,’ said a male voice calmly. ‘We have more urgent matters to consider.’
    Sister Agnes whispered (although she wasn’t sure how she whispered), ‘And will there be a band of angels?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ said the firmament. ‘But top marks for getting in a reference to the works of the late Jim Steinman in your first minute of revived consciousness. Now, alas, you must sleep again.’ And darkness returned to cover the firmament, and as it faded the firmament said, ‘Amazing . . .’
    What was most amazing was that all this was spoken in Tibetan. And that she understood .
    More time