Trinity

George avoided his father’s workshop for as long as possible. Upon entering it was even more miserable than he’d expected. Something must have died amongst the wildlife and detritus, and he could smell it thickly in his nostrils. In good weather the conservatory walls brought it light, but now the grey sky closed oppressively above him, and the grass lay soggy and wilting outside, seemingly less green than usual. The rain hammering migraine-inducingly against the glass walls, dripping off the sloping roof like waterfalls.

No doubt the rain was intolerable, but George much preferred it to the stifling heat of the funeral. He’d waited by the empty plot, sweating through his suit. There was something grotesque about it all. He considered the proximity of his father’s body, rotting away in its now forever-home, before being lowered next to his already sleeping wife. George couldn’t help but imagine the bones of his mother and the bloated stomach of his father as he disintegrated beside her, and he was impatient to throw the ashes to ashes, dust to dust, so that they could end this morbid pageantry. It had been a quiet affair. His father was, at best, a loveable eccentric, and at worst a social pariah.

Since hearing the news of his father’s cardiac arrest, George had tried practicing the word, shaping it around his mouth like bubble-gum. ‘Orphan’. There was something Victorian about it, something archaic that didn’t quite sit right. What would be a better, more suitable term, he wondered. A parentally-challenged child? But George wasn’t a child anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. He’d hoped that the birth of his own son would allow him to slip into an understanding of family that could help him become a more complete person, but if anything it had made him more estranged from the rest of the world. For years he’d fantasised about being the supportive and loving role-model he’d never had, the antithesis to his own father, but that was never going to be the case. He was stiff, awkward, overly-formal when faced with his son, convinced that he was being mocked in ways he couldn’t follow. His wife too seemed in on the joke. When he heard them chattering away together (indecipherable nonsense) he felt the sting of rejection despite the fact they always intended to include him.

George hadn’t expected to be left anything in the will. The two hadn’t spoken in years, which George had intended to be a punishment although he had his suspicions that his father hadn’t noticed. George was hurt by this, despite having deliberately made every attempt to prevent contact. What was the point in the conviction that you would slam the door in someone’s face if the door was never knocked on in the first place? But as it turned out, he’d been wrong. His father had left him everything he owned. The childhood home was now awfully dilapidated and would never make a profit unless George put real effort into restoring it, and he had no intention of that. He gave himself a week. He’d clear out everything in a yard-sale and drive the rest to the tip. He had no intention of decorating, but he’d clean. There would be no the scent of freshly baked cookies, but instead one of bleach and polish. Empty. Sterile. Excellent value. He’d accept the first offer, regardless of its stinginess.

The plants in his father’s workshop were dying from lack of watering, creating a pungent fragrance that attacked, rather than tickled, the senses. They’d expanded to an almost jungle-like quantity, although with them stooping and crumbling they were far more like forgotten Christmas trees than flourishing rainforest. There were books piled atop of shelves that were intended, almost certainly, for plant pots. Ropes attached to the ceiling dangled crucifixes. Formaldehyde in jars showed things George refused to examine. If he couldn’t sell them to some macabre taxidermist in the yard-sale, they would go straight to the skip. Already, he clung onto his bin-bag in preparation.

In the corner, hidden beneath it all, was the old writing desk. All George’s childhood memories of his father had consisted of his back hunched over this desk as he scribbled aggressively, neurotically, muttering to himself as he did so. Sometimes George would come to say hello, and his father would ignore him. He’d see the flicker in his eye that indicated he’d been seen and heard, but no words were spoken. The pain of being ignored felt physical and contributed, no doubt, to the chronic stomach-ache that had defined his childhood. He’d always been a sickly boy. He thought that he’d recovered from it all until the sight of the rickety garden furniture, the statues of Hindu goddesses with swinging arms and elephant heads, the little sculptures of Zeus and Hera, the hieroglyphs and psychedelic artwork, brought up the vile sensation of bitterness and a sickness in his guts.

He swept everything into the big-bag. These things would be worth a fair amount of money he was sure, but he didn’t want to pore over anything from this desk. They thumped onto the floor, the volumes on theology, the scrolls and dusty leaves of philosophy, and the sacredness of the materials alongside his desecration seemed pleasingly ironic. He wished his father had been a Frankenstein. A mad scientist was at least a figure that a child could understand. He’d have endured some Einsteinian character with a shock of fluffy hair, a lab coat and chemical vial. If his insanity had been backed up by genius, it might have all been worth it.

George found the piles of notebooks and barely flicked through the pages. There was nonsense scribbling, his handwriting deteriorating as madness and arthritis got the best of him. Not a one of them could be sold on. The moleskins were stained in different colours. Red, green, blue, lilac. He opened the side drawer and found the last one, small, black, and leather. A post-it note was stuck onto the front cover, a biro scratch spelling out the words: The Answer.

George’s father never owned a computer. He didn’t trust what they might do with this information. Distorted algorithms terrified him. Anyone normal would have typed up a manuscript and backed it up online, but not George’s father. Like a small boy at school, he’d copied out the words time and time again until they were as neat as possible, every letter placed with perfect spacing and intention. George read:

Prelude:

My darling Georgiana and I loved fiercely. Although we disagreed on almost everything, our values were identical and my girl made sure I stood by them steadfastly, even when temptation crossed my heart or anger would distort my thinking. She always managed to make my stars shine brighter, right up until the day she passed away.

It was different then. Terminations weren’t considered an everyday procedure, and doctors would always attempt to convince potential mothers to fully consider the operation before committing. The permanence of such a decision was very much stressed. Not in our case.

We were told early into the pregnancy that there was something wrong. This was easy to believe. Georgina was in agony, could barely stand. An ambulance had to be sent for. After the first scan the doctor was adamant. Her child would kill her and likely die itself in the process.

I begged, pleaded for her to reconsider, but my Georgina had her mind made up. She could never, and would never, actively harm one of God’s creatures. Not once did I see her resolve quiver. She said she had no fear of heaven. Why would she? I had told her enough times that she was already an angel, and she said that she was ready to go home.

Our son survived, although premature and struggling with chronic sickness throughout his infancy. The same could not be said for our dear Georgina. She held him to her chest as she passed away, blood haemorrhaging from her, and promised me that this was what she wanted and that one day we’d all be reunited.

I dare say the loss of her would’ve been enough to spark a demise into insanity, but intellectual necessity snapped me out of it. I needed to know if she was right in her assumptions. Naturally, I considered Paley’s Watch and the usual dips into theism that many grieving people find comfort in, but I went further, reading the mythology, the history, and all the cynicism caught up inbetween it all. This book is not an argument, nor is it a theory to be considered. Within these pages you will find indisputable fact. There is an answer. Challenge if you must, but it will be of no use. I pray you use the information wisely.

George considered reading the whole thing from cover to cover. A thin volume, it wouldn’t have taken long. He didn’t want to. His stubbornness was relatively emotionless, but all the same consisted of resolve. He delayed putting the house of the market. First, he felt compelled to contact a publisher.

George managed to type it up one word at the time, so focussed on the task that he didn’t necessarily take in all the content. He deleted any mention of himself as they all seemed to cause a strange stabbing sensation in his abdominals. The book sold well. Well enough to refurbish the house. Well enough to make a nice little nest egg for himself. His family moved into their new home with little stress. On the first night there, they had a bonfire, sacrificing all the dead plants and rat-bitten furniture. The smoke stung their eyes but George didn’t blink. The old copies of the moleskins were used for fuel. They burned well. His wife and child went inside as the sky grew darker, night spreading like an oil spill above them. George stayed out with a tumbler of whiskey. For the first time in a while, he felt able to toast his father’s life, and poured out his libations onto the flames, jumping back just in time as they rushed out to greet them. George laughed, imagining that as the last hurrah of his father’s spirit.

In an upstairs bedroom, the curtains twitched. His son looked down at George with something that might have been fear, or perhaps just confusion. George raised the glass to him too, waving slightly, still grinning in his euphoric, and slightly drunken, state. The child’s expression remained the same. The curtain closed.