Past Lives

Eleven

Macandrew started back down the drive, reflecting on how much he disliked organised religion and its professional proponents. There was something about the look in their eyes which irritated him, a smug self-satisfaction in their self-delusional belief that they were in possession of all the answers. As he neared the gates of the abbey grounds he caught sight of a monk approaching from a path to the left of the car park. He was carrying two metal milk churns. He had his cowl pulled up and was looking down at the ground so that he didn’t see Macandrew standing there. On impulse, Macandrew called out to the white-clad figure. ‘Dr Burnett?’

The monk stopped and turned. Macandrew had anticipated him being startled but the look in his eyes was quite different. It spoke more of anguish than surprise. In that instant he knew he’d struck lucky. This man did not have the calm assuredness of Brother Francis or the Abbot. He’d found John Burnett by accident.

‘Yes?’ said the man uncertainly.

‘I’ve come a very long way to see you, Dr Burnett. Would you at least spare me a few minutes of your time?’

‘I’m no longer a doctor. That was all in the past. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work...’

‘At least, hear me out, Doctor. My name is Macandrew; I’m a neurosurgeon at Kansas University Medical Center. A few weeks ago I removed a malignant tumour from one of my patients; a Hartman’s tumour. I don’t think I need tell you what sort of state she’s in now.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ replied Burnett, avoiding Macandrew’s eyes, ‘nothing at all.’

‘These tumours were your special interest, Doctor. You know more about them than anyone else in the world; I’ve read your papers. Your work was going well. You were on the verge of being able to treat these patients and then suddenly, you give it all up... for this? That’s why I’m here. I had to find out, why?’

‘I was called to do other things,’ replied Burnett.

‘Called? Other things?’ questioned Macandrew. ‘What other things?’

‘I’ve been called to serve God.’

Macandrew said nothing but his eyes never left Burnett. Burnett briefly met his gaze but then looked away, aware of the silent accusation.

‘You don’t think you can serve God by doing what you’re best at?’ said Macandrew. ‘You don’t think you can serve God by saving a group of people from the mental institutions where they’ll undoubtedly spend the rest of their lives if you don’t?’

‘That is conjecture. There was never any certainty of success,’ countered Burnett.

‘But there was a chance,’ insisted Macandrew, ‘and a very good one by all accounts. Now there’s none at all because you’ve decided to “serve God” and, just for good measure, you took all your research notes with you so no one else could move things along. What the hell was that all about?’

‘You don’t understand!’ protested Burnett through gritted teeth and then with more control, ‘You just don’t understand.’

‘So, help me. Talk me through it. Make me understand. Convince me it’s a better idea to spend your time chanting Latin on your knees six times a day than working in your lab doing some real good.’

‘You’re deliberately twisting things,’ accused Burnett. ‘It’s a rare condition. We’re not talking about thousands of people.’

‘No,’ agreed Macandrew, ‘But there are a number and one of them just happens to be my patient. Her name’s Jane by the way.’

Burnett did not respond but Macandrew thought he detected a flicker of doubt in his eyes when he glanced up at him briefly. He continued, ‘There’s something special about these patients, isn’t there, Doctor? They aren’t really brain damaged at all in the conventional sense. There’s more to it. They become... other people?’

For the first time, Burnett looked Macandrew straight in the eye as if conceding the conversation had moved to another level. ‘So you know that much...’

‘One of our psychiatrists thought it might be a form of multiple personality disorder or whatever they call it these days but that didn’t quite fit what we were seeing...’

Burnett appeared to consider for a few moments before picking up the two milk churns. ‘I’m sorry, I really must be getting back,’ he said.

‘There’s one other thing that bothers me,’ continued Macandrew as Burnett started to move away, ‘Why did Ashok Mukherjee and Simone Robin give up too?’

No reply.

‘Were they called by God too?’ asked Macandrew, determined to sting Burnett into responding.

‘You really don’t understand any of this,’ said Burnett, without turning round, his voice full of exasperation. ‘You don’t understand and I can’t tell you.’

‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’

‘That’s about right,’ said Burnett quietly. ‘For his sake.’

‘Fine,’ stormed Macandrew, ‘and a couple of mea culpas on your part will make the whole thing right. I’ll just tell my patient that,’ he said angrily. ‘Not that she’ll understand of course... she’s a thirty-eight year old woman who thinks she’s an eight year old girl. Still, don’t you worry about that; you’ve got hymns to sing... prayers to chant... Maybe you could put in a good word for her? Like I said, her name’s Jane, Jane Francini.’

Burnett stopped in his tracks and Macandrew felt that he might be on the edge of success. He said more calmly, ‘Think about it; that’s all I ask. If you change your mind about telling me what’s been going on I’ll be staying at the Bruntsfield Hotel in Edinburgh for another week.’

Burnett turned round and Macandrew sensed that he was wavering. He walked slowly towards him and, despite the failing light, could see the tortured look in his eyes.

‘All right,’ said Burnett. ‘I know you want to do your best for your patient. You’re a surgeon and it’s just possible that something might be done to help her. But you have to agree to certain conditions.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Macandrew.

‘I will give you a letter and a token of proof. You must take them to Dr Simone Robin at the Seventh University of Paris. The token will ensure that she will at least listen to what you have to say.’

‘And the conditions?’

‘If Simone says no, you must leave it at that and agree not to pester her any more.’

Macandrew was bursting with questions but he managed to hold his tongue in the interests of the greater prize. Burnett was no longer working on tumours but it seemed that Simone Robin just might be.

‘When will you give me these things?’

‘Come up to the abbey with me now,’ said Burnett.

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ said Macandrew. He told Burnett about the Abbot having refused him permission to speak to him.

‘I’m sure Father Abbot was just thinking of my welfare,’ said Burnett, ‘But you’re right. Maybe it’s not such a good idea. Give me a note of your full name and your affiliations and I will write you the letter after supper. Be at the gate in the morning at eight and I’ll give it to you along with the token when I go down to the guest house.’

Macandrew wrote down the details for Burnett on a page in his diary and tore it out. He handed it to him and said, ‘You’re a Benedictine monk, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a postulant,’ corrected Burnett.

‘But Benedictine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll know what happened at the Benedictine convent in Israel, the one being used as a hospital?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Israeli police raided a Benedictine convent in Jerusalem and came across a number of people who were on their missing persons list. Although they’d been perfectly healthy at the time of their disappearance, they were now deranged and seemed to imagine that they were other people The sisters told the police they had been the subject of experiments carried out by some priest sent from Rome.’

Macandrew faltered when he saw the look on Burnett’s face. He had never seen a human being go so white before. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘He used it!’ Burnett whispered. ‘He used it!’

‘Used what?’ asked Macandrew but in the circumstances, he really didn’t expect an answer. He doubted if Burnett could hear anything he said, he seemed to be in a state of shock. ‘Perhaps you should sit down for a moment...’ He started towards Burnett but the monk held up his hand and shook his head. He picked up the milk churns and hurried off, leaving Macandrew standing there feeling bemused. ‘Until tomorrow morning then!’ he called after him but the hooded figure did not respond.

Macandrew drove slowly back into Elgin and booked into a hotel for the night. He felt confused and troubled and the cheerless room he was given did little to improve things. He ran a bath but the water was lukewarm so he couldn’t indulge himself in the long, relaxing soak he’d planned. He had to towel himself down vigorously to get warm. There was a radiator in his room but it seemed decorative rather than functional and gave out more noise than heat, relaying the irregular timpani of multiple air locks in an antiquated system. The phone rang and a female voice asked him if he would be eating in this evening.

Macandrew said not. He wasn’t sure where he would be eating but it would be somewhere else — somewhere warm, assuming that such an establishment existed in this city. He looked out the window into the gloomy streets and saw the shimmer of frost on the sidewalks. The temperature was falling with the arrival of darkness.

An average meal in a grubby but warm Indian restaurant was followed by a couple of beers in a smoke-filled pub with the television on. He didn’t feel like a third so he drank up and plumped for an early night.

The temperature in his room and his state of mind conspired to make sure he didn’t get the good night’s rest he was hoping for. When he was awake, he was shivering with cold. When he was asleep, he was pursued in dreams by monks from another age, each hideously deformed and carrying an Emma Forsyth doll. He was glad when the dawn light came and chased the night away; he felt exhausted.

Being Sunday morning and “against management policy” — as he learned when he asked — an early cooked breakfast was out of the question. He settled for coffee and toast before checking out at seven. He comforted himself with the thought that if everything went according to plan he would be back in Edinburgh by nightfall. He would have a hot bath, a good meal and start making plans for a trip to Paris. He drove out to the monastery and arrived in plenty of time for his meeting with Burnett: he sat in the car watching the gates.

Just after eight, a white hooded figure came round the bend in the drive and Macandrew got out of the car. He frowned. There was something about the man’s gait that was wrong. The angle of the feet and the manner in which the sandals slapped down on the ground suggested a fat man. Burnett was small and thin.

The figure was now close enough for him to see that it was definitely not John Burnett. This man was middle aged, stout and had a florid complexion which was becoming more so through the exertion of carrying the milk churns. The bridge of his nose was depressed and his bottom lip protruded beyond his top, exposing a row of notched teeth, which suggested to Macandrew’s medical eye, the legacy of congenital syphilis.

‘Good morning,’ said Macandrew, trying to mask his disappointment. ‘I thought it would be Brother John.’

The monk looked puzzled, as if not knowing what to make of Macandrew then he glanced at the guest house and asked, ‘You’re here on retreat?’

‘Yes,’ lied Macandrew.

‘Brother John has been called to Edinburgh.’

‘Really? I thought this was an enclosed community,’ said Macandrew. ‘I thought the brothers didn’t leave here. Some emergency perhaps?’

‘Father Abbot doesn’t confide in me,’ said the fat monk testily. ‘He just told me to take over Brother John’s duties... in addition to my own.’

‘Do you know if John’ll be back soon?’

‘No idea.’

The monk carried on towards the guesthouse and Macandrew was left looking back up the drive. ‘Shit,’ he murmured. ‘Pax to you too, Brother.’

He sat in the car for a few minutes wondering what to do next. He couldn’t turn up at the abbey gates every morning hoping that Burnett would re-appear at some point. He wondered if being “called to Edinburgh” had anything to do with the Israeli story that seemed to disturb him so much. He concluded there was no alternative. He would have to tackle the Abbot about it.

A flurry of snow bestowed a medieval air on the scene as Macandrew walked up the abbey. As if to complete the picture, a single file of six monks crossed from their living quarters to the abbey, each with hood up and head bowed, hands tucked inside the sleeves of the robes. They had already entered by the time Macandrew reached the door. Another monk however, wearing a leather apron over his robe was hurrying across the courtyard and saw Macandrew standing there. He didn’t say anything but looked quizzically at him.

‘I must speak with the Abbot,’ said Macandrew.

The monk inclined his head to one side and gave a slight nod before disappearing back inside the living quarters. Macandrew looked up at the sky. The grey November light seemed strangely white despite the thick cloud cover. There was more snow to come.

The monk re-appeared at the door and beckoned Macandrew.

He was shown into a room with bare stone walls where the abbot sat behind a dark oak desk. There was a Spartan simplicity about the room, its only focal point being a large crucifix hanging on the wall behind the desk. It seemed to Macandrew that particular attention had been paid to highlighting the agony of the figure hanging on it. Blood ran from wounds inflicted by the crown of thorns.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said the Abbot.

‘I arranged to meet John Burnett this morning,’ replied Macandrew. ‘I’m told he’s no longer here.’

‘Brother John told me about your arranged meeting.’ The Abbot paused to see if this would elicit any sign of guilt from Macandrew. He continued when Macandrew held his gaze without flinching. ‘He told me of your concern for your patient and asked that I give you this letter and also this.’ He handed Macandrew a silver St Christopher medallion along with a sealed envelope.

‘Can I ask why Dr Burnett was called away so suddenly?’ asked Macandrew.

‘I can’t say,’ replied the abbot.

‘Can’t or won’t?’

The Abbot shrugged his shoulders.

‘He was very upset when I told him about a newspaper article concerning a Benedictine convent in the Holy Land,’ said Macandrew. ‘Did that have anything to do with it?’

‘You are a persistent man, Doctor,’ said the Abbot. ‘But I will not be cross-examined. Suffice to say, the life of the monastery has been upset more than I care for by John’s coming here and now by your presence. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.’

Macandrew got up to leave. ‘Please relay my thanks to Dr Burnett when he returns.’

‘God be with you.’

Macandrew thought the valediction colder than charity.

He started back towards Elgin to join the main road south, relieved that he had the all important letter and token for Simone Robin. The prospect of being able to help Jane Francini was something he couldn’t have hoped for at the outset of his trip and it excited him. Perhaps the French researcher would be more forthcoming than Burnett for it still seemed odd that anyone would want to cover up a success story. He hadn’t reckoned on a visit to Paris but it was something he was now looking forward to. In the meantime, he faced the drive back to Edinburgh through snow and sleet.

A large malt whisky arrived from room service and gave Macandrew his cue to pad through to the bathroom, take off his towelling robe and sink down into the deep, warm bath he had just filled. He propped the glass up on the side and savoured the moment of immersion with a deep sigh of satisfaction. The stiffness from the long drive was just beginning to fade from his limbs when the telephone rang.

‘Go away,’ murmured Macandrew, still keeping his eyes closed. It couldn’t be anything important. Probably someone on the front desk asking what time he wanted to eat. Why should telephones always get priority anyway? People stopped in the middle of doing all sorts of important things just to answer the damned phone. Why?... ‘Because it gets on your damned nerves if you don’t!’ he said out loud, getting to his feet and dripping water over the carpet as he tip toed over the floor, pulling his robe around him. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

‘John Macandrew?’ asked the voice. ‘It was male; it sounded afraid; its owner was speaking in a whisper.’

‘Who is this?’

‘John Burnett. I need your help. They’re holding me prisoner.’

‘Burnett?’ exclaimed Macandrew. ‘A prisoner? Where? Who’s holding you?’

‘Listen!’ urged Burnett. ‘He’s mad and he’s dangerous. You’ve got to warn Simone.’

‘Who is? Where are you? You’re not making any sense.’

‘I managed to steal a mobile phone from one of them. I’ve only got a minute.’

‘Tell me where you are,’ urged Macandrew, beginning to establish priority in his questions.

‘I’m being held at a seminary in East Lothian. It’s called St Bede’s. You’ve got to warn Simone. I haven’t told them anything yet but she has all my research notes. They’ll stop at nothing.’

‘Who are “they”? What should I warn Simone about?’ asked Macandrew. He heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line and suddenly felt afraid. ‘Burnett?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you still there?’

There were muffled sounds of a scuffle. Macandrew heard Burnett gasp and then the line went dead.

With trembling fingers, he dialled 999 and asked for the police. Explaining this wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Police.’

‘I’ve just had a call from a Doctor John Burnett. He’s in serious trouble. I think his life may be in danger.’

‘Where about is this, sir?’

‘He’s being held at the seminary of St Bede in East Lothian.’

‘Saint...? How do you spell that?’

‘I’ve no idea. Look, the man’s in danger...’

‘And you are...?’

Macandrew gave his particulars and said where he was calling from.

‘Any idea where in East Lothian, sir?’

‘None. In fact, I don’t even know where East Lothian is. I’m an American.’

‘Oh well, I’m sure we’ll find it. Don’t go out sir, will you. We’ll be sending someone round to take a statement.’

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ said Macandrew wearily.

The police arrived at the hotel within ten minutes.

‘Mister Macandrew?’ asked the first policeman as Macandrew approached the desk.

‘Doctor Macandrew,’ corrected the girl on duty.

The policeman acknowledged her contribution with a blank stare then turned back to Macandrew. ‘Well, at least it wasn’t a hoax call.’ The policeman flipped open his warrant card. ‘DI Clements. This is Sergeant Malcolm. The fact of the matter is sir, that we have no record of a seminary called St Bede’s in East Lothian, or in Mid or West Lothian for that matter. We’ve checked.’

‘I see,’ said Macandrew with a sinking feeling. No one was on the way to help Burnett. ‘But there must be! That’s what he said, I’m sure of it.’

‘Have you any idea why this man should consider himself to be in danger sir?’ asked Clements.

Macandrew shook his head and confessed, ‘I hardly knew him.’

The policemen exchanged glances then Clements said, ‘Have you any idea why he should call you instead of say... us, for instance?’

Macandrew shook his head again and said, ‘No. I haven’t. He’s a monk.’

‘A monk?’

‘Sorry, a postulant. Benedictine.’

‘Good God, do they still have such things? And he telephoned you?’

‘Yes.’

‘From St Bede’s?’

‘On a mobile phone.’

‘A monk with a mobile phone,’ said Clements slowly. His sergeant covered his mouth to hide a smile. ‘They do say everyone’s got one these days.’

‘He said he had stolen it from whoever was holding him against his will. This is serious, God damn it!’ said Macandrew. ‘A man’s life is in danger.’

‘Just trying to establish the facts sir,’ said Clements.

‘Did you check the phone book?’ asked Macandrew.

‘And the local tax and rates registers. No St Bede’s.’

‘Maybe the church authorities?’ suggested Macandrew.

‘We thought of that too. It’s just a bit difficult to raise them at this time of night. Office hours, you know. Jesus apparently knocks off at five too.’

The sergeant’s radio crackled into life and he half turned away to respond to the call. When he turned back again his face had taken on a new animation. ‘It does exist sir,’ he said. ‘The desk sergeant at Haddington remembered it. He says it’s been closed for ten years or more but it was definitely called St Bede’s and he’s told us how to find it. It’s off the road between Haddington and Longniddry. The local blokes are on their way.’

‘Thank God,’ said Macandrew.

‘We’d best get down there,’ said Clements. ‘We’ll keep you informed, sir.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d let me come with you?’

Clements indicated uncertainty with various facial contortions. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good...’

‘He’s been ill and I’m a doctor,’ said Macandrew.

‘All right,’ said Clements. ‘Get your coat.’