Dark Roots Read Online Free PDF

I look away, but there suddenly seems remarkably few places to look. My turn. Five minutes and I’m out. Five minutes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
    â€˜Good morning. Something to declare?’ A deep breath. Hold body still, hold head still. Head-waggers are liars.
    â€˜Yes, I think so.’ I reach over and snap open my own suitcase, and dig down the side. ‘I thought I’d better check, better to be safe than sorry.’
    I find the bottle and bring it out. He looks at it, noticing the seal, the liquid inside. He doesn’t look surprised. Oh God, has this been tried before?
    â€˜It’s holy water, you see. From the font at the Sisters of Mercy mission in Popayan.’
    He checks my passport stamps. ‘That’s where you’ve just come from?’
    â€˜Yes, for the Semana Santa. I promised I’d try to get some for an ill friend. Does it have to be confiscated?’
    He pauses, rubs his chin. ‘Look, I’m afraid so. That water could contain all kinds of bacteria.’
    â€˜I just thought ... since it was sealed ...’ I trail off. ‘That’s all right, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I suppose the idea of water having healing properties seems quite ridiculous to you.’
    He looks up briefly and gives me a quick, tired grin. ‘Not at all, I’m a Catholic. Or was.’ He reaches over and opens the suitcase. ‘Is this your luggage?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did you pack it yourself?’
    â€˜I did, yes.’
    â€˜Are you aware of its contents?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He moves my clothes aside and takes out the three newspaper-wrapped packages. As he unrolls one I have a sense of standing looking at this scene as if through a long lens, the edges grey and prickling. When this happened when I was a child, it meant I was about to faint. Blue and white plaster appears, the face simpering with goodness. He raises his eyebrows enquiringly.
    â€˜It’s a statuette of Our Lady, from the sisters at the convent,’ I say. He holds it in his hand. I concentrate on the bottom of the statue for a moment, down by the foot where she’s crushing the snake, down where the minutest crack can be seen in the plaster. It’s smooth but not machine smooth, not solid cast. No, it’s smoothed by hand, sitting on the floor of Emilia’s kitchen with plaster mixed up in an old tin. Me having an attack of nerves and gabbling about taking it back, forgetting the whole thing, pissing off home. Emilia’s low and sombre voice as she crouched there: I took this risk for you, yeah? Now you take risk for yourself. It will work, you trust me. It will work.
    I can’t drag my eyes away from that rough spot of plaster. Maybe it’s an uncontrollable reflex after all. I look at the newspaper. The hands start wrapping the statue up again with quite careful deliberation, and he goes to unwrap the other two. Then hesitates. Oh Jesus, oh God, I promise with whatever time I have left I’ll sing nothing but glory and praise to the short gift of my life, just please don’t let him look too closely. I look at the coloured stamps on my passport, the ridiculous photo that Dr Mick had signed after a similar long silence of fervent prayer on my part and professional hesitation on his.
    The customs guy smooths the newspaper and packs the statues carefully back in the case.
    â€˜I’m afraid I have to confiscate the water,’ he says, his face grave.
    I lower my eyes. ‘Well, don’t feel badly. I should have known you’d have to.’
    He leans closer to me — God, another person about to betray an intimate confidence. ‘You know what we sometimes do,’ he says in a low voice. ‘If the person’s a really devout Catholic, say, and they’ve just made a lifetime trip to Lourdes, and the bottle’s unsealed, then I say I just need to take the holy water into the quarantine office for a moment. Then