The Buddha of Brewer Street

‘It is also a beginning. The body is like a set of clothes. When it gets old, you discard it for a fresh one. That’s all he has done, decided to discard his body. But not the spirit. That lives on. And will find a new body.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘Where?’

Kunga gave a low sigh. ‘Ah, now that is the mystery.’

The light was fading fast, Kunga trimmed the butter lamps. The last of the gentle breeze had vanished with the light, the flames did not flicker. Everything was still.

‘It is almost over, I sense it. Time for you to go, little friend.’

‘I’d like to stay. Please? To help you.’ A quieter voice. ‘To help him.’

And so they had settled for the night, Kunga sitting before the cave, and Lobsang close before him, wrapped in the monk’s thick robe, waiting for the Dalai Lama to die.

Kunga had been determined to stay awake and vigilant, but he couldn’t help himself. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was Lobsang who woke first.

‘He’s moved,’ the boy whispered, tugging at the monk’s robe.

Kunga brushed the night from his eyes and stared. The sun was beginning to light the sky, deepening the shade within the cave, and for a moment his tired eyes struggled to adjust.

‘He has moved,’ Lobsang insisted. ‘That must mean he’s still alive, mustn’t it?’

It is given to few in the world of Buddhist mysteries to know when the spirit has finally departed; Kunga was one of the few. He shook his head. ‘No. It is over. He is gone.’

The Dalai Lama was dead.

But the boy was right, the body had moved. In death the face had turned as though looking out across the world below. Towards the west. It was a sign.

And Kunga felt a strange sensation in his hand. When his hands had been pulverized by the rifle butt of the Chinese soldier, a large fragment of the clay statue had buried itself deep into the flesh of his palm, leaving a vivid scar that had never fully healed. On the day the Lama had taken himself to his cave, the scar had begun to burn, the first sensation other than constant pain he had felt in forty years, a sensation that had grown more fierce with every passing day. Now it felt as though it was on fire. He rubbed the palm against his chest, but it burned still more fiercely. The outline of the scar had grown red, like a map drawn on the parchment of his skin. A map of what, he had no idea. But he knew it was another sign.

The book and the black eye arrived in his office together, both being carried by Mickey.

‘What the hell have you been up to?’ Goodfellowe growled, seeing the mark that not even a copious sponging of Clinique concealer had been able to hide. Then, remembering his manners: ‘You all right?’

‘Just a little accident.’

‘Accident? What accident?’

‘The truth?’

‘Of course the bloody truth.’

‘Stage diving.’

His silence betokened utter ignorance.

‘Stage diving,’ she repeated. ‘You know, when you try to get up on stage?’

‘You’ve been auditioning for Pygmalion,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘And you fell off the casting couch?’

She looked at him waspishly, the slight bump above her left eye giving her an uncharacteristic scowl. ‘Bugger off.’

‘Whoops, sorry,’ he said, not meaning it.

‘Stage diving,’ she repeated, trying again. ‘The stage in question was at the LSE. A university bash. Def Leppard were playing.’

‘Deaf who …?’

She rolled her eyes in despair. ‘They’re a band. Heavy metal. The sort of music with megatons of bass that makes your skull vibrate. The sort that needs tight leather pants just to keep you in.’

‘I wonder why I haven’t heard of them,’ he muttered, all sarcasm.

‘So the idea is that you work up a rush of blood, jump up onto the stage and try to grab a piece of them.’

‘What on earth is the point?’

‘Not much. They’re ancient, about your age. Most stage divers wouldn’t have a clue what to do if we actually caught them. But we don’t. The purpose of the exercise is for the roadies – their road crew – to grab hold of you and throw you back into the crowd. Or rather, onto the crowd, since everyone’s packed so tight in front of the stage that all they can do is pass you back over their heads. Which means hundreds and hundreds of deliciously sweaty hands tossing you around and passing all over your body.’

‘But why would people want to do that?’

She groaned. ‘Take a wild guess, Goodfellowe.’

The impression began to form, and he had the grace to look momentarily stunned.

‘But last night they must’ve been down on numbers.’ She shrugged. ‘They dropped me.’

He studied her, studied her body, very closely, imagining the hands. His hands. He gathered his flustered thoughts. ‘Two suggestions. First, don’t spread that around this place. Wouldn’t do you any good. Or me, for that matter. Say you ran into a filing cabinet; that’s the standard parliamentary excuse for a black eye.’

‘And second?’

‘When I say I want the truth …’ He winced. ‘I’m not sure I always mean it.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘I guess you were young once.’

‘Don’t bet on it. Anyway, enough of your off-duty diversions. What work have we got?’

She handed him a book that was floating on top of the usual pile of daily letters. ‘Came this morning. From the Dalai Lama.’

‘You’re not the only one full of surprises,’ he offered as he inspected the book. It was an elderly edition of the writings of Sun Tzu, the Chinese military strategist who had written about the art of warfare more than two thousand years before (although he lived so long ago that scholars debated endlessly about whether he truly wrote the works, or if he even existed). The thick paper was brittle and discoloured with age, the cover of cheap card and scuffed. With great care Goodfellowe opened the book, at random, concerned lest the pages should fall apart in his hands.

‘If you rely on Government to put out the fire, by the time the bucket arrives there is nothing left but ashes,’ he read.

He smiled wryly. ‘Two thousand years and nothing’s changed.’

‘At least in those days the Government could afford a bucket.’