Therapy

unit of rebel soldiers stopped the truck he was in, and demanded that he hand over the food and medicine to them. He refused, and they pulled him and his African driver out of the truck and shot them. Damien was only twenty-five.”
    “How awful,” I said, inadequately.
    “Not much sense to be made of it, is there?” said Bede, turning his head to gaze out of the window again. “He loved Africa, you know, loved his work, was totally dedicated... We had his body flown back. There was a Requiem Mass. Lots of people came, people we had never even met. People from the charity. Friends of his from university. He was very popular. The priest who gave the address, some sort of chaplain to the charity, said Damien was a modern martyr.” He stopped, lost in thought, and I couldn’t think of anything to say, so we were silent for a moment.
    “You think your faith is going to be a consolation at times like these,” he resumed. “But when it happens, you find it isn’t. Nothing is. Our GP persuaded us to see some busybody he called a Grief Counsellor. Stupid woman said we mustn’t feel guilty. I said, why should I feel guilty? She said, because you’re alive and he isn’t. I never heard such rubbish. I think Damien was a fool. He should have given those brutes the damned food and driven away and never stopped until he was out of the whole bloody continent.”
    His gills were white with anger as he remembered. I asked him how Maureen had taken the tragedy.
    “Hard. Damien was her favourite child. She was devastated. That’s why she’s gone off on this absurd pilgrimage.”
    “You mean, as a kind of therapy?” I said.
    “It’s as good a word as any, I suppose,” said Bede.
    I said I thought I had better be going. He said, “But we haven’t talked much about the old days at Hatchford.” I said perhaps another time. He nodded. “All right. Give me a ring. You know,” he went on, “I never much liked you, Passmore. I used to think you were up to no good with Maureen at the youth club.”
    “You were absolutely right,” I said, and wrung another thin smile from him.
    “But I’m glad you came this morning,” he continued. “I’m a bit lonely, to tell you the truth.”
    “Does Maureen ever talk about me?” I asked.
    “No,” he said. “Never.” He spoke without malice or satisfaction, merely as if stating a matter of fact. While we were waiting for my taxi to come, he asked me if I had any children. I said two, one married, the other living with a partner. “Ah yes, they do that nowadays, don’t they?” he said. “Even ours do. Think nothing of it. Not like it was in our youth, eh?”
    “No indeed,” I said.
    “And your wife, what does she do?”
    “She’s a lecturer in one of the new universities,” I said. “In Education. As a matter of fact, she spends a lot of her time counselling teachers who are having nervous breakdowns over the National Curriculum.”
    “I’m not surprised,” said Bede. “It’s a total shambles. I’d like to meet your wife.”
    “I’m afraid she’s just left me,” I said.
    “Has she? Then that makes two of us,” said Bede, in a characteristically clumsy effort at humour. At which point the doorbell rang, and I was driven off to Wimbledon station by an annoyingly loquacious driver. I didn’t want to make small talk about the weather or the prospects for the tennis. I wanted to think about the fascinating revelations of the morning.
    A plan is forming in my mind, an idea so daft and exciting that I dare not even write it down yet.
     
    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
     
    Friday 11th June. Well, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going after Maureen. I’m going to try and track her down on the road to Santiago de Compostela. I’ve spent the last three days making the necessary arrangements — booking the car ferry, getting a green card, buying guidebooks, maps, travellers cheques, etc. I ripped through the backlog of mail and phone messages, and dealt with the most urgent ones. There was a series from Dennis Shorthouse reporting that Sally has made a court application for a maintenance order to meet the running costs of the house, and asking with mounting urgency for instructions. I phoned him and told him I wouldn’t obstruct divorce proceedings any longer, and would agree to appropriate maintenance and a reasonable financial settlement. He asked me what I meant by reasonable. I said, let her keep the house and I’ll keep the flat, and the rest of