Yours Truly Read online

  ‘He’s a wicked and selfish man,’ said her friend. ‘You must get your own back on him. Have an affair yourself and he will soon see what he has lost.’

  ‘I love him,’ said the young woman. ‘There is no one else I want.’

  ‘He will never come back to you,’ said her friend, ‘unless you treat him in exactly the same way that he treated you. Then he will come running.’

  The woman left her friend in great confusion and, everywhere she looked, there were handsome men in the street, glamorous posters and alluring images on magazine covers. The whole world seemed to be shouting, ‘You’re still young. There are plenty of other men, it’s time you took your revenge.’ She was so overwhelmed by the clamour of her thoughts that she wandered into an empty church and sat down on a pew deep in shadow.

  She cried quietly for a long time until a kindly priest came up to her. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said, ‘but you seem to be in trouble. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Reluctantly, she told the priest what had happened and why she was now sitting alone in such great sorrow. He shook his head. ‘This is one of the most painful things that can happen to anyone and there are no easy answers. But you must learn to forgive him, because we have all committed great sins, even if they are just in our hearts, and no one is innocent.’ He went on to tell her the story of the woman taken in adultery in John’s Gospel and how all her accusers had left one by one, convicted of their own sin. ‘You must not condemn your husband,’ he said. ‘You must forgive him.’

  The woman nodded in silence, but as she walked out of the church into the sunlight of the busy street, she did not feel any peace. In fact, the words of the kindly priest seemed to weigh her down like a huge stone laid on her heart. She felt angry and sad all at once. If forgiveness were the way forward, she felt beyond all hope, because her mind was tormented with images of her husband and his lover, at every corner, in every pub, in every passing car. Her emotions boiled like the darkest sea in a storm.

  It was then that she saw a figure she knew well walking out of a hairdresser’s salon, looking young, beautiful and very confident. Her husband’s lover looked her in the eye and said coldly, ‘I’m sorry about what has happened, but it’s not my fault.’

  The young woman wanted to shout and scream and punch her husband’s lover, who was already walking away, but her mouth was dry and she felt almost paralysed with the shock of what was now becoming a horrible reality. She blurted out after her, ‘Whose fault is it?’

  ‘You must ask yourself that,’ said the lover, without turning back.

  The young woman now wandered alone for hours and the rain started to beat down in the darkness. She stumbled onwards, not caring where she was going, not caring if she lived or died. The wind and the rain were howling around her as she walked a long way out of the town and down a forgotten country road. She had no idea where she was going, because all she could hear were voices inside her head telling her that it was all her fault and all she could see in her mind were images that tortured her very soul. She was neither seeing nor hearing anything in the world around her, so lost was she in her thoughts, until she came to a lonely hill that was scarcely visible in the gathering night.

  There was a tree in the darkness, which she clung to, although she did not know why. It seemed so strong and very ancient and, as she collapsed at the foot of the old tree, she felt something dripping on her head. It was not water, although the rain was still beating down. It was blood. She looked up, astonished and very frightened, to see a figure hanging high up the tree. Suddenly, a flash of lightning revealed a face gazing at her in such tremendous sorrow and love, she broke down, weeping and weeping, until she could cry no longer. She lay there, hardly daring to gaze any more, shaking and unable to speak.

  The man on the tree spoke to her with such softness that she could hardly hear him. She listened to the voice, which came between deep and agonizing breaths. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘my beloved.’ She clung to his feet, which were covered in blood and cruelly nailed. ‘You see these wounds? Do you know how they came to be?’ She shook her head. ‘They are yours,’ he said, as he attempted to breathe, clearly in great pain. He moved his right hand as much as he could, curling his fingers. ‘Your husband gave me this,’ he said, ‘when he blamed you for his own sins.’ He moved his left hand. ‘Your mother gave me this when she told you that you were not beautiful enough.’ He looked down at the blood streaming from the great gashes in his feet. ‘This nail was driven in by your friend, who tempted you to harm yourself with bitterness and revenge. This nail was driven in by the priest who laid the burden of forgiveness on your broken spirit before you were ready to bear it.’ Finally, blood and water came flowing from his side. ‘This is the last wound,’ said the man, ‘delivered by the woman who spoke to you from the hardness of her heart and whose self-righteousness is even greater than all the others. She will destroy anyone in the name of her own happiness and consider herself justified.’

  At that moment, the man arched his back on the tree and called out in a loud voice, ‘Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.’

  Suddenly, there was a great earthquake, the ground shook and huge clouds roared across the sky, which was filled with lightning and then total darkness.

  The young woman lay at the foot of the tree, holding it closely, weeping softly and then suddenly felt so light in her spirit that she fell asleep, like a newborn baby. She slept for a very long time – it seemed like a whole day and half – and then she awoke with the first rays of a new dawn. The tree had gone and she found herself beside an ancient tomb with a huge stone lying flat on the ground nearby, as if the great weight of death had been pushed aside, almost casually, like a leaf or a pebble tossed to one side by a storm.

  A figure was seated beside her. She knew who it was from the terrible scars in his feet. His arms were round her and he held her for a long time in the stillness of the garden as the birds sang and the rays of the sun warmed her face. He cradled her head in his lap, he ran his fingers through her hair and he said to her softly, ‘You are very beautiful.’

  She gazed up at him, the tears now dry on her cheeks, and he nodded. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go, my daughter. Your pain will always be mine, and mine will always be yours. Go into all the world and, from now on, listen only to the sound of my voice singing in your heart.’

  The Spider Who Believed in Himself

  There was once a very young and headstrong spider. He never listened to his parents and teachers or anyone in authority. He was determined to find his own path through life, in his own way and in his own time. He was determined to believe in himself, above all things, and find authenticity in as many different adventures as possible. He had watched all the spider films and listened to all the spider songs and even been to the Arachnid Olympics, where his spider heroes had all said the same thing: ‘You just need to believe in yourself and you can achieve anything you want.’ For a long time, this philosophy suited him well and he would weave his webs in the most daring places and catch more flies than any other spider in his class. He dreamed of winning gold medals for Perfect Stillness and Deception and, one day, the World Championships for ‘Bluebottle Catching’.

  His parents loved him very dearly, but nothing they said could persuade him to take a little more care with his young and precious life. There was one particular and fearsome hazard that had cost the life of his grandfather and several cousins. His mother and father had only the vaguest idea of the peril that lay beyond, but they knew that this dreadful place lay somewhere through the Great Dark Pipe.

  ‘Don’t ever go there, son,’ his father had warned repeatedly. ‘You will disappear for ever, like my father!’

  ‘Yes,’ his mother pleaded gently, ‘don’t listen to all the dares and bravado of your friends! No young spider has ever made it back from the Great Dark Pipe and others have returned shrivelled and crushed and drowned. It’s horrible! I have seen the ruin of
many young and rebellious spiders.’

  The young spider smiled to himself, clearly ignoring these old-fashioned warnings from his aged parents. Naturally, the Great Dark Pipe held a deep and fatal fascination for the teenage spider (he was all of fifteen weeks old). He had climbed up high buildings, built precarious webs from crumbling rafters and swung clean and low from rusting tractors. He had even woven his gossamer magic between door handles and doorposts, although these escapades had nearly cost him his life. Somehow the thrill of danger, of every new and unpredictable adventure, intoxicated his young mind. He became convinced, day by day, that the Great Dark Pipe would be his ultimate conquest.

  One night, he scuttled away from all his friends and family and, through a narrow gap, entered the very lowest curve of the mysterious and shadowy Great Dark Pipe. He began to climb and it was remarkably calm and still. There were no hazards, only a few drops of water, and, in fact, the damp made it so much easier to ascend smoothly. At one point, he heard a great sound of water flowing somewhere far away, a terrible din, but nothing came down the pipe and he slowly continued right to the very top.

  The intrepid young spider squeezed out of some fine mesh and found himself on a vast and silent sloping world, lit only by a far-off moon. He explored as far as he could, right and left, forwards and backwards, but to his slight consternation he found he couldn’t climb up to the top at all. He then realized, in this hard white wilderness, that he was lost. It was almost unknown for him to feel panic, but the fear that started to overwhelm him now was unfamiliar and deeply disturbing. He began to long for old rafters and skirting boards and door posts and forgotten corners in garden sheds, as he found himself sliding down, once again, into the cold whiteness.

  Why couldn’t he climb up to the edge, which he could sense sometimes so near and yet always so far? Why couldn’t he retrace his steps? He could no longer find the forbidden entrance to this bleak and terrible place.

  Just then, a light snapped on and the whole world was filled with a blazing and dreadful brightness. Instinct told him to stay quite still, so he did – he was very good at that. He stayed perfectly still and he was prepared to remain like that until it became dark again. He desperately wanted to try one more run up the smooth sides, but he knew extreme danger when he saw it.

  Something vast was looming above the cold and cruel world he had entered.

  A voice screamed and he froze with utter terror. ‘Aaaargh!’ came the cry. ‘Aaaargh!’

  Another shape loomed in the glare of this harsh universe. ‘Spider, is it?’

  ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ the voice continued to scream. ‘Wash it down! Wash it down!’

  There was a dreadful silence as the little spider sat there, utterly still but completely exposed, and for the first time in his short life he knew there was nothing at all he could do. He did not dare admit it, but he was helpless and the slow, tormenting realization came to him that believing in himself was not enough. It could not save him.

  If only the darkness would come. If only he could find his way back to the Great Dark Pipe, which now seemed so comforting and so inviting.

  But there was no chance of that. Everything now lay in the hands of some other vast beings – everything had become their choice, their belief, their will.

  ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ the voice pleaded again. ‘Get rid of it!’

  ‘No,’ said the gentler, deeper voice. ‘No, I will not kill him. He deserves to live too, you know!’

  With that, a huge hand came down and, as it did so, as the shadow fell on the little spider, he was forced to run for his life, high up the white walls, down again, high up, down again, but nowhere, nowhere could he escape, and the deep and gentle voice said, ‘Come on, little one’ as the vast being finally caught him in his cupped hands. The spider felt the rush of air and the sheer terror of unexpected flight, out of his control, far beyond all he had ever known.

  ‘I’ll pop him out of the window,’ murmured the deep and caring voice and, with that and another rush of cool air, the hand lowered the little spider on to the fresh grass and the flowers covered with dew.

  The window closed. The voices receded. And the spider found himself in the most beautiful garden, with plenty of food and a thousand holes to hide in, under stones and in sheds, and a myriad of branches where he could weave his daring webs once again.

  His parents and friends and brothers and sisters watched with horror as a flood of water came down the Great Dark Pipe and, for all they knew, he was lost for ever.

  Meanwhile, as the young spider began his new life in the sunshine, there was a strange peace flooding his body and giving new energy to all of his eight legs. He no longer believed just in himself. He no longer believed he could fulfil all his dreams and do whatever he chose without help. He truly believed that there was someone else out there, far bigger and far kinder than he had ever imagined.

  The Angel of Light

  One day, a radiant figure came flying through the cosmos. He was beautiful and charming and spoke with the most soothing and persuasive voice you have ever heard. Some called him ‘the Prince of the Power of the Air’ because he ruled the airwaves and his media kingdom was without equal in power and influence. He was the greatest writer, actor, singer and film-maker all rolled into one, for he knew the secret of inspiration and gave his wisdom freely to all who would listen.

  His other name was the ‘Angel of Light’ and he had many apartments and offices around the world, from Hollywood to London, from Mumbai to Beijing. His business interests flourished, from Silicon Valley to Nairobi and from the highest places in the land to the humblest child’s bedroom on a deprived estate. Wherever there was a screen, a phone, a games console, an app, a connection, the Angel of Light could be found smiling and making himself at home. It is fair to say that he was the most skilful dramatist in the known universe and his greatest ambition was to create a parallel universe of the imagination that would endure for ever.

  One day, he decided to give a rare and honest account of his philosophy and artistry in film, and this is how he addressed the human race:

  I will create an imaginary world that you can comfortably inhabit. I will invite you into my world with laughter, beauty, pathos and haunting music. You will be laughing so loud, you will be crying so much, you will be so involved with the characters I create and so hypnotized by the images I pass before your eyes, you will not notice that it is a world without God.

  It is a world where there is morality but not absolute morality: what is right or wrong will depend on the needs of my heroes or my heroines. For they will be alone again in the Eden of my imagination and they will eat freely of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, so much that they will become like gods.

  The protagonists in my drama will have no authority higher than their own happiness. So, whatever goes wrong for them will be a tragedy; whatever goes right for them will be a comedy, a celebration of love.

  I will enrich their characters at every turn at the expense of others. If they admit adultery, I will not allow you to enter deeply into the lives of their victims. I will drain these other characters of life, of humour. I will make them ciphers, ridiculous stereotypes: I will show you how shallow fools clearly deserve to be cheated on and deceived. Or I may show something deeper – something more painful in the consequences of human desire – but, if I do, I will move you by the pain and anguish in the hearts of my heroes. You will see how they suffer for forbidden love and, ultimately, you will always pity them.

  My Adam and Eve will never know sin or responsibility for their actions, because they will be gods.

  I will lure you into my imaginary world with bright lights, with the splendour of nature, with the exquisite beauty and erotic power of the human body. Oh yes, I will borrow everything I need from God’s world.

  But I will banish his presence. With the flaming sword of my imagination, I – the Angel of Light – will stand at the gates of my Eden and guard them jealously from the entry of t
he truth.

  Yet, I will always welcome you, tempting you into my garden with little scraps of truth. I will offer you edited highlights of the spiritual world, God’s world, speeches about justice, war, love, forgiveness, moments of moral insight, jewels of inspiration – in such a way that you will never notice how many people were killed in the name of justice, how many families were ruined in the name of love.

  You will be thrilled by the speed, the drama, the electrifying pace of my world, dazzled so you will not care or stop to reflect for a single instant.

  You will be mine.

  You will laugh, perfectly on cue, when I create yet another simpering vicar or ludicrous bishop or hypocritical evangelist. When I cuckold yet another bald-headed old fool or uptight, uncaring wife.

  You will applaud when more faceless, characterless extras are amusingly blown to smithereens.

  You will not reflect.

  You will glory in violence, because it has no consequence and no meaning.

  You will burn with self-righteous indignation at tales of corrupt priests and cruel nuns and sinister cardinals. You will know, without a shadow of doubt, that you yourselves are never corrupt, never cruel and never lie to save your own skins. For you will always fight for the truth – my truth.

  You will not reflect.

  You will walk tall above the predators and the abusers, and you will celebrate the documentaries and the exposés of hypocritical celebrities and their shameful self-love, and you will never once look into the mirror of your own soul.

  You will not reflect.

  You will be mine. And better, far better, your children will be mine. For they will have drunk my delicious cocktail of truths and half-truths, of morality and immorality, of heroes who are absolved of their sins because they are so beautiful and they have loved so tenderly and murdered only in the name of justice.

  Your children will hold hands with my Adam and Eve, in the cool of my garden, and God will not come to them.