The thin hospital blanket had slipped, allowing November to run its cold fingers down his spine. Philip shivered. Once he’d have chuckled that someone was walking over his grave. Now entombed in a useless body, he didn’t laugh.

He shivered again. When would someone come and help him? ‘Hey! Hey there!’ His voice sounded like someone else’s. Like a querulous old man’s. ‘Will someone please come and pull my blanket up?’ The words ricocheted around the sparse white room.

No answer. No minion scuttling to obey his slightest whim. No scared underling to flinch at the sarcastic quirk of an eyebrow. Indeed, an eyebrow was about all he could lift. Funny how things bend themselves around.

Finally the door handle turned. Sister Brenda. Bright ‘n’ Breezy Brenda, he’d dubbed her. He despised her for her plump cheerful face and her coarse grey nun-dress. She shimmied in with a good-natured smile.

‘Did you call, Mr Banting?’

‘Yes, I did. About twenty minutes ago. I’m cold.’

‘I’m very sorry we couldn’t come sooner. There was an emergency.’

‘Oh.’ His tone was graceless. ‘I guess emergencies take precedence. Funny thought, though. Being even lower in the pecking order than a stiff.’

She said nothing, busying herself with his pillows and blankets. As she leaned over him, her dress brushed against his chest. He felt nothing. No stirring. No loin-kindling. No sensation. All he noticed was that her hair stuck out around her wimple at odd angles.

‘What’s that picture?’ He jerked his chin towards a photograph on the wall opposite his bed.

She straightened up, a little startled. ‘What’s what?’

‘Well, there aren’t any other pictures in here, you stupid woman. What’s that?’

She turned to look at it, her plain grey back radiating equanimity. ‘That’s a photo of the Sea of Galilee by night. Beautiful isn’t it? You can almost hear the water lapping.’

He grunted.

She poured out a beaker of barley water, popping one end of a bendy straw into it, and the other in his mouth.

‘You’re an intelligent man. Here’s a riddle for you. Let’s see what you make of it. Look at the picture. There’s a man associated with it. What is he running away from, and why?’

Before the biting retort had compounded on his lips, she was gone.




The picture was mostly black. An odd choice for a hospital room. Black ripples on a black sea against a black sky. How charming. The blackness was relieved slightly by a reflection on the water of the lake. Moonlight, it had to be, although the moon wasn’t visible in the picture. He supposed the effect was intended to be cheering. To him, the overall impression was that the moonlight accentuated the blackness.

And what was this nonsense about a riddle? As if he didn’t have enough to worry him. He put the thought firmly away.

Running away. Not like him. He couldn’t run away from anything. In fact, lying in bed for months, everything he’d ever fled was catching him up. Anxieties danced on his chest. Guilty memories paraded contemptuously around the bed. The past was as inescapable as his shadow.

Running. He could run, once. Endless hours spent training. Toning his muscles and perfecting his diet. The thrill of those sweaty moments of glory. The sure knowledge, tucked deep away, that he was the fastest. He was peerless.

Then he’d chosen thrills of a different sort. Different race, same adrenaline surge. Same power buzz when he knew he was elite.

‘Philip Banting,’ they’d say. ‘He’s the best in the business.’

‘You want Philip Banting. Sharp guy.’

And even his business rivals would speak his name with awe. ‘We’ve checked out Philip Banting’s prices. Not sure we can match them.’

Strange it should all come to an end at that junction. He’d nudged forwards on a green light – surely it was a green light – and suddenly, without warning, the Smallhaul lorry had appeared, shattering his windscreen and his life into millions of fragments.

They’d swept up the windscreen piecemeal, and binned it. Piece of junk.

Running away. Who was running away?




Lisa, the physiotherapist, arrived to dispense his morning dose of ritual humiliation.

‘Good morning, Philip,’ she chirruped in her high-pitched voice. ‘I brought you the paper. Thought you’d like to read about the Test Match. I know you’re a cricket aficionado.’ Undaunted by his silence, she steamed on. ‘It’s a blustery old day out there. A tree was down on my way to work. And I expect you’ve heard about the postal strike. Silly business.’

All the while she was chatting, her hands were as busy as her tongue, massaging and pummelling, bending and flexing. Like he was a piece of play-dough. He closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else. He couldn’t feel what she was doing. Ideally he wouldn’t be able to hear her, either.

‘Come on then, Philip, let’s see you twitch those fingers. Good, good. You’re doing really well.’

Strange idea of success, physiotherapists had. An infinitesimal twitch of two fingers. Every ounce of his concentration funnelled onto making those fingers move, and that was the measure of his achievement.

Once, he’d hob-nobbed with minor royals and members of cabinet. They’d courted him, hoping to be seen in the society papers with Philip Banting, sporting hero and business legend. Now he was supposed to be delighted by the avian blandishments of a physiotherapist.

‘I’m thinking of getting a transfer to a private hospital. Get a dedicated physiotherapist to work with me. Someone experienced.’

Lisa’s rhythmical movements of his arm suddenly stopped. He had been feeling them, he discovered, not in his fingers, but in the rocking of his whole body. Belatedly, he realised that the sensation was oddly comforting.

‘I’m sorry you aren’t satisfied with your treatment here, Mr Banting.’ Her voice was flat. Now he’d upset her. He didn’t care, though. His tongue was the only means of wielding power remaining to him. It felt good.




The newspaper was lying on the bed beside him, pulling the upper sheet taught across his body to reveal it for the wasted, useless article it was. By definition the body was his, because his traitorous heart continued to pump blood impartially around head and body alike. His brain, however, had abrogated all responsibility for everything below his neck.

The newspaper might as well be in Timbuktu. He turned his head as far as it would go and squinted round at it. It was folded. He could see the headline: ‘S PLUMMET.’ What was plummeting? Interest rates? The Dow Jones? House prices? He banged his head on the pillow in frustration.

The picture on the wall opposite mocked him. It was so calm, so peaceful. Who was running away? He tried to remember what he knew about the Sea of Galilee. Fogged memories from long ago Sunday school – another world, another person – floated past his consciousness. He grabbed one and examined it. Yes! Hadn’t Jesus had something to do with the Sea of Galilee?

Oh. It wasn’t a real riddle. She was just pushing religion at him.

But why would Jesus run away? He didn’t remember much, but he wouldn’t chalk him up as a coward.

A nurse came in to empty his catheter bag.




Where was Harriet? He thought back over the weeks he’d been in hospital. Much of it was an opiate-induced fog. But it didn’t seem to him that she’d been markedly attentive.

Harriet. He’d desired her from the first glimpse. He’d made up his mind that he had to have her. Possess her. So he’d wooed her with every bullet in his arsenal. One day she’d escorted him to a cocktail party at Clarence House hosted by the Prince and Princess of Wales. Another time she’d arrived home to a thousand red roses, strewn around her flat. Her engagement ring was a one carat pink diamond. And success had succeeded his efforts. Gladly and gratefully she had become his wife.

So why was this nagging doubt fidgeting in his mind? Why did he have this fear that perhaps she only loved him for that?

Harriet finally arrived. ‘Hello, darling. How are you today?’

She was wearing a new outfit. Different perfume, too. Didn’t seem like she was pining too much.

‘Nice of you to bother dropping in. Glad you could fit it into your busy schedule.’

She bent over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I told you I was going to visit Sally for a few days. She sends her love. Robert’s been promoted. And the baby is walking.’

‘Lucky baby. Must be nice.’

‘Now don’t be bitter, darling. It’s not like you.’

No, he never had been bitter before. Never had the need.




‘Harriet!’

She stopped in the middle of a long story about runner beans. ‘Yes dear?’

‘Find a Bible.’

‘I beg your pardon, Philip?’

‘You heard me. Find me a Bible. A New Testament.’

She rummaged in the locker beside the bed. ‘Here you are, dear.’

‘Well don’t hand it to me. I’m not going to turn the pages, am I? Turn to the gospels. Find me any story involving the Sea of Galilee at night.’




‘Good morning, Mr Banting.’

‘Sister Brenda. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for days to speak to you.’

‘I’ve had a couple of days off. Glad you missed me.’

‘Of course I haven’t missed you. One nun is much the same as the next. No, it’s your riddle. I’ve solved it. Jesus was running away from the crowds.’ He paused, triumphant.

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘That’s only the first half of the riddle. You’re quite right so far. But why was he running away? That’s the second part.’




Why would Jesus run away from crowds? Were they about to crucify him? That would be a good reason to run.

Smallhaul weren’t running far, though they might wish to. His solicitor was due in to discuss the civil liability suit following his accident.

‘With injuries as severe as yours you’re looking in the region of £3 million,’ the little man had advised, his eyes luminous at the prospect. Philip had nodded grimly. Take them to town. Their lorry had carved up his car. Now he was going to carve up their company.

He wondered if they had adequate insurance. Small firms often didn’t. Not his problem. They were going to feel the full weight of the law on their necks. It was their good luck that they weren’t looking at a criminal charge of manslaughter.

He hadn’t thought about his car for some time. He cast his mind back to the beautiful machine that it was before the crash. The soft leather seats, the climate control, the state-of-the-art Sat-Nav system. How he’d enjoyed rolling into the reserved parking space at work. How he’d smirked at the envy on the faces of his subordinates.

Occasionally he would take a promising junior under his wing and teach him the Banting way. ‘Take a look,’ he’d say, gesturing nonchalantly towards the BMW outside. ‘You’ll have one of those, one day. You have potential. I see it in you.’ He’d loved to see hope rise in their eyes. And to be the architect of that hope.

Who was parking in his reserved space now? Or had they left it open for him, in case he turned up one day unannounced? The spectre at the feast. Probably Newman had it. Little weasel. Philip closed his eyes and remembered with satisfaction the time he’d instructed the Personnel Department to fax Newman with details of all his private calls that month. Newman’s face had blanched like a cadaver. Of course Philip had been gracious. Waived the cost. Wouldn’t hear another thing about it. Ha.

But Newman had had the last laugh after all.

Why was Jesus running away from the crowd? When was Harriet coming?




‘Wait! Read that bit again.’

Harriet sighed slightly and adjusted her glasses. ‘Jesus, knowing that they intended to come and make him king by force…’

‘Yes! I have it!’

‘Philip, you’re not making a lot of sense. Shall I read on?’

‘No, you can go now. I’ve heard enough.’




He was running from the crowd because they wanted to make him king. But why? Really, this didn’t answer the riddle. It just moved the question one step back. Why would anyone turn down a perfectly good offer of kingship?

He’d never turn down an opportunity like that. Never had. Power was there to be seized – by power, if necessary.

So why was Jesus fleeing kingship? Perhaps he wasn’t into power. But then there were the miracles. That was power.

And with power you could do so much. Money; influence; yes, even benevolence.

Jesus wasn’t big on money though, was he? That was one of the things Philip had always had difficulty understanding about him.

And influence. One of the perks of being a big fish was feeding with the sharks. Jesus seemed to prefer minnows, though.

But what about helping people? So he liked healing. Suppose he had let them make him king. He could have done so much more. And it felt good, helping one’s inferiors.

He looked again at the picture on the wall, deriding him in its tranquil solemnity. Jesus was walking on the Sea of Galilee in the wrong direction. Away from the crowds. He’d taught them and fed them, but the minute they started talking about kingship he was out of there.

He shook his head. There was something deep at work here. He’d probably never understand it.

Odd, having all that power at your disposal and not using it. Like carrying your motorbike on your back. Or your cross, perhaps.