The Second Cure Page 8

  ‘What is your own political orientation?’

  ‘Irrelevant. I am talking about the science here.’

  ‘My word, that put you back in your box, didn’t it?’ Brigid chortled at the interviewer. ‘They should serve popcorn with this.’

  On another sofa some seven hundred kilometres south, her mother, Winnie, was flipping channels on the remote and landed on the same program.

  ‘You have also made some equally startling assertions about the impact of the parasite on religious belief.’

  ‘We’ve observed a significant decrease in left temporal lobe blood flow, which could potentially impact religiosity –’

  ‘You’re saying it will reduce religious belief?’

  ‘It is possible. The changes in the left temporal lobe, in conjunction with disinhibition in the parietal lobe, suggest this could decrease belief and the capacity for prayer and meditative states. There are reports of significant drop-offs in church attendances across the globe, and in mosques and synagogues.’

  ‘That’s documented?’

  ‘Only anecdotal, at this point.’

  Winnie felt a chill at his words. She grabbed the remote and started changing channels again, looking for something – anything – else to watch.

  ‘We’ve also noted increases in neural connections between the visual and auditory cortices. There are reports of an increased incidence in synaesthesia …’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘Essentially, it is a blending of the senses. Tasting sounds; letters and numbers as colours. There are many variations. In most populations, synaesthesia is found in less than five per cent of the population. Among those with the infection, the rate is closer to fifty-five per cent.’

  The interviewer frowned, clearly troubled. ‘So, changes in perception, in political attitudes, in religious belief. This is saying, isn’t it, that human forces in our society are ultimately just a matter of the way that brains work? Isn’t it biological determinism, with no room for culture?’

  ‘Where do you think culture comes from?’

  ‘Environment?’

  ‘Environment, and from our brains. Look, when push comes to shove, each of us is just an electrical storm perched precariously on top of a bag of bacteria.’

  ‘And where is culture? Where is experience?’

  ‘Culture and experience shape the electrical storm. The electrical storm shapes culture and experience. Culture is simply an emergent property of brain function.’

  ‘Do you really believe that? It’s rather bleak, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course I do. What else are we? Are you suggesting a physical body and some sort of separate “spirit” for which there is absolutely no evidence? That idea is as dead as Descartes. And as for “bleak”: do you really want to live in a comforting delusion, or would you rather face up to reality as it actually is?’

  ‘Yet you’re also saying that reality isn’t really “real”, aren’t you? That everything we perceive is read through a neurological – which equates to an ideological – filter?’ ‘I’m not some warmed-over solipsist, like a teenager who’s just discovered The Matrix. There is an objective reality out there, there are sound waves and electromagnetic particles of various wavelengths and atoms and molecules and subatomic particles bouncing around. It’s just that our capacity to read that objective reality is limited by the subjective perception of our senses and the way our brains interpret those signals, and is mediated by various neurological biases and deficits. None of us is entirely free of such biases, but some of us do recognise that they exist.’

  ‘What about free will?’

  ‘If you want to talk about free will, you’ll have set aside another hour.’

  The interviewer smiled. ‘And we have run out of time. Thank you, Doctor Shadrack Zinn.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ the interviewer addressed the camera, segueing into the next item, ‘the spread of Toxoplasmosis pestis in the Middle East is causing consternation among imams –’

  ‘Well, he’s a bunch of fun,’ said Richard, muting the television. ‘Can’t imagine why you got a divorce. Has he ever actually smiled in his life?’

  Charlie laughed. ‘He does have a sense of humour, really. It’s just drier than the Nullarbor.’

  Richard raised an eyebrow as he refilled the wineglasses.

  ‘No, really. He … loves puns.’

  ‘Another fail. I just can’t believe you were married to him. He’s so bloody … smug!’

  ‘Yeah, well. I was young. I read smug as wise, and arrogant as justified.’

  Richard took her hand. ‘I’m just glad you left him.’

  Left him? It wasn’t quite like that, but Charlie didn’t want to correct Richard on that point, not now. ‘Me too.’

  ‘It should have been you they were interviewing.’

  ‘He’s already got a profile, though, as a – what did they call him? A “controversial neuroscientist”. He’s clickbait.’

  ‘I reckon most of what he said went over the audience’s head. Certainly went over mine. You know how to talk about science so people actually understand it.’

  She looked at him. ‘But the thing Shadrack was saying about the visual and auditory cortices? That’s what I was telling you about before – what he said at uni today.’

  Richard pulled her against him on the sofa and she nestled in. ‘So you think I’m infected with this Toxoplasmosis bug? That it gave me synaesthesia?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I haven’t turned into some raging leftie …’

  ‘… You’ve never paid attention to politics.’

  ‘Or lost my religion …’

  ‘… Because you didn’t have any.’

  ‘So you and your ex reckon this thing that happened to me with my painting, you reckon it isn’t real? That some bloody parasite did those paintings?’ Richard’s voice was low and she could see he wasn’t happy with the suggestion.

  She chose her words with care. ‘Of course you did them, Richard. But your talent as a painter – and as a composer – comes from your biology, from your brain. The thing is, it’s the brain that the parasite affects, and this change in you might be because of it. Is there any harm in looking into it? Just a few tests? It’d be good to know what is going on.’

  ‘Why? If I don’t want to change it, why bother?’ Richard was frowning.

  ‘Well, what if it’s something more serious?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know. Something that could kill you. That’s why I want you tested. Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what’s going on? If we can confirm it’s Toxo, that’s good, right? We can stop worrying.’

  ‘Maybe some things don’t need to be understood, Charlie. Maybe I’m just happy this is happening, and maybe I don’t want to tempt fate.’

  ‘Fate? What’s fate got to do with it? Would you feel this way if you … felt a lump under your arm? Or if you got a god-awful rash? Don’t see a doctor because of “fate”?’

  ‘A rash wouldn’t let me do the best painting of my life, would it? I can’t see the point in being tested for something I don’t want to fix.’

  ‘Would you want it fixed if it were a brain tumour? That could kill you?’

  He looked at her. ‘You don’t think it’s a brain tumour. You think it’s your pet parasite.’

  ‘I don’t know, Richard. That’s what I’m saying. I need you to find out.’ She felt herself on the edge of tears, and Richard, looking at her, softened. He never could bear it when she cried, especially if he was the cause.

  ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll do it. But you’ve got to understand, honey. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t know where it’s come from, but it’s really pretty bloody wonderful. You get that, don’t you?’

  ‘I get that. I understand it. Thank you.’

  13.

  Townsville, Queensland

  Brigid’s taxi from the airport wove its way through the
arriving throng as smiling young things with orange vests and fluoro sticks directed traffic to one of the largest car parks she’d ever encountered. The pedestrians seemed oddly fearless as they surged towards the main entrance, certain that cars would stop for them. Perhaps they were right.

  ‘Big place,’ the cabbie commented as he tapped her credit card.

  ‘Ever been in?’ asked Brigid.

  ‘Nah. I’m Catholic,’ he said.

  She got out and walked through an imposing entrance, all glass, chrome and white render, and was greeted by more smiles. Perhaps frowns were forbidden at the Song of Light New Apostolic Church.

  Mammon wasn’t, however. The building was sleek and vast, suggestive of light and space. There were no signs of traditional Christianity here, no crosses, no stained glass. It felt more like an airport or a concert venue.

  Immediately inside the entrance was a bookshop, and a quick browse revealed that over half the books were penned by either Jack or Marion Effenberg, with titles like Own Your Destiny through Jesus and The Wealth of God’s Word. Code for prosperity gospel, of course: the belief that God really does love people making lots of money and that Jesus was only kidding with that stuff about rich men and eyes of needles. The other books were tracts by American televangelists, no doubt stocked on a quid pro quo basis. More shelves held DVDs and CDs, which, like the church’s books, were plastered with Jack and Marion’s serene – and yes, smiling – faces. T-shirts and calico bags were festooned with single words: Love! and Grace! Brigid checked out the prices of the merchandise. Hmm, nice little earner, given the thousands of people who turned up there each week. If everyone had bought a least one of these books … She tried to do the numbers, but maths was never her strong point. Lots, anyway.

  The crowd was growing and being siphoned into the multiple doors to the auditorium, so Brigid joined them to get a seat not too far from the back. The size of the place was staggering. She’d read it seated four thousand, and judging by the multitudes pouring in, it would be a full house today. She wondered how many were there out of curiosity, keen like her to get a glimpse of the new premier on his spiritual turf. The music had already begun, electric bass and drums throbbing through the air. Blue spotlights were slowly swinging across the crowds, and three enormous video screens above the stage carried the word Praise! in letters that must have been three metres high.

  Despite herself, Brigid began to feel a thrill of anticipation, and wondered if it was the technology – the light, the sound – doing it, or whether she was picking up on the emotions around her. The audience (it seemed wrong to call it a ‘congregation’, for it looked nothing like the High Anglican experience of her childhood) was alive with expectation. The air itself seemed primed. She gazed up into the distant ceiling where the air looked slightly misted, a faint haze in front of the spotlights. Surely they couldn’t be pumping anything in through the air-conditioning. Could they? Brigid had read of ‘ambient scenting’ and ‘endorphin branding’ being used in merchandising – evocative smells and who knew what else being used to create emotions in consumers. Could the Song of Light be playing the same tricks with scent as they were with sound and colour? She thought she could smell a light, slightly sweet tone in the air, something like fairy floss, but couldn’t be sure she wasn’t just imagining it.

  Now the lighting had changed and the crowds took their seats. The music grew louder, the bass deeper and stronger, the sweeping lights increasing in speed as they swooped across the space. Onto the stage came the musicians playing their electric guitars, and a drummer was revealed to the side. A singer with hair to his shoulders took centre stage, looking like a grunge musician from the nineties. Or a clichéd Jesus. Brigid realised this was Seth, Son of Effenberg, the one she’d arranged to meet. He was even better looking than in the photos and clips she’d found online. Twenty or so young women filled the area behind him, dancing to the music, their arms raised high. Seth’s blissedout face filled the video screens, his eyes closed, his lips parted slightly in a smile. He began to sing, and the audience stood as one, arms aloft. ‘Praise Him!’ he sang, the words subtitled on the screens, and the people around Brigid responded with ‘Amen!’ and ‘Jesus!’ He had a great voice, the sort you’d hear in the finals of one of the TV talent shows.

  The band played three songs, each more urgent than the last. The words were simple and repetitive, full of ‘let the spirit in’ and ‘feel the love of Jesus’ and the tunes so facile that by the end of each the audience could sing along.

  Now the lighting changed, and the music became subdued. Seth spoke now, instead of singing, talking directly to God, thanking him for blessing them all, urging him to enter the hearts of those present. Brigid looked at the people around her, gently swaying, their arms outstretched, their eyes closed. The Grunge-Jesus shtick was going down a treat with them. A teenaged girl in the row ahead reminded her of herself at that age. Brigid had attended a church similar to this for a year or so, much less sophisticated and high-tech, and far smaller. Part of the attraction had been the sense of belonging this girl clearly felt. Another part was the knowledge that her father, the priest, had hated it. A malicious corner of her wished he was there now to see how such places had thrived, while his own church languished. But even this church was losing numbers in some of its branches, despite its shallow allure.

  Another man had appeared on stage and the musicians retreated to the rear of the stage. The audience erupted into cheers and whoops and clapping. This was Luke, a pastor with the church. He held up his arms and walked around the stage, looking up at the throng with the compulsory smile.

  ‘Isn’t this awesome?’ he cried. ‘Aren’t you awesome?!’ he asked them. ‘Jesus is here!’ he told them, and the hysteria ratcheted up further. ‘I feel His presence! Do you feel His presence?’ he asked the back rows. ‘Do you feel His presence?’ he asked the stalls to his right. ‘Do you feel His presence?’ he asked those to his left. They did, and they answered with a roar. ‘Praise God!’ he cried and they responded, ‘Praise Him!’ and he kept on until their voices were hoarse. ‘This is a time like no other for our church. This is a time when the Lord Jesus Christ our Saviour has heard our call. This is a time when He has listened to our prayers, and He has done something amazing.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, you know what I’m talking about. And yes, Pastor Jack and Pastor Marion are here!’

  ‘Amen!’ shouted the voices around Brigid. ‘Amen!’

  He waited for the responses to die away, and spoke softly, the piano playing gentle chords in the background. ‘And there is more to celebrate today. For today, we have had news that the new church we have planted in Johannesburg, in South Africa, has opened its doors. We are growing, brothers and sisters, we are growing in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord! Our church is growing and God’s word is going out in Africa!’ (Amens all around.) ‘In America!’ (Praise him!) ‘God’s word in France! God’s word in Mexico! God’s word in Russia! God’s word in nine countries across the planet!’ (Cheering, clapping.) ‘And God’s word here, right here now, in our hearts.’

  Brigid saw assistants with black buckets emerge and walk up the aisles, passing one to each row. The congregation dropped in cash and envelopes and passed the buckets on.

  ‘Help us plant God’s love, brothers and sisters! Let us remember the words of the Lord; let us remember that our tithes stock God’s warehouse, and He gives back to us a hundred-fold what we give Him. And let us remember that if we don’t give, we aren’t just denying ourselves, we are denying God. We are robbing God’s warehouse. So give. Give to God that He can give to you. In the seat in front of you are the envelopes: put your notes and cheques in them, or fill out the credit card details on the back. Or get out your phones and go to our app, where we accept direct debits, Paypal and Stripe payments! God is thanking you for your love …’

  When the bucket reached Brigid to the accompaniment of the piano tinkling, it was brimming with envelopes. Ten per cent of one’s income was the
going rate. She passed it on without contributing, and the collectors vanished as discreetly as they had arrived.

  Warm-up act and financial transactions dealt with, it was time for the main attraction. Pastor Marion Effenberg emerged from the wings, wearing a long white dress, and was met with a standing ovation. If the enthusiasm for the previous preacher was warm, now it was molten.

  Marion stood modestly in front of the crowd, nodding her acknowledgement of the rock star welcome. This was a far cry from her demure appearance on Speaker’s Green. This was a woman on home turf among her northern Queensland devotees, at the place her spiritual empire began.

  Finally, she began to speak, quietly at first. She talked of the humility she felt as the founder of a church such as this, a place that gave so many so much hope. Then she talked of her humility in the face of God Almighty, whose presence was with them today, and of her humility as the wife and helpmeet of a man as good and noble and wise as Pastor Jack. He, she told them, was a man who was not afraid to fight for the word of the Lord, who was not cowed into silence by a secular world of superficial desires. He was a man of strength, a man of God, a man of humanity. He was a great man, a man for our times, a man for our spirits and for our hearts.

  As she continued, her voice grew in power, and she moved across the stage with energy and grace, her cadences rising and falling, and the audience responded as one, enraptured by her words. Then she fell silent, and so did the crowd.

  ‘I want to pray,’ she said. ‘I want to pray for Pastor Jack, and I want you to pray, too. Let us pray to Jesus, our Lord.’ She closed her eyes and raised her arm, and all around Brigid heads dropped low and hands reached upwards. The air was vibrating with expectation. Effenberg’s charisma might be justly famed among the political class, but his was nothing compared with Marion’s. She was electrifying.