A slow synthesised basso profundo exhalation of the word Radioactivity throbbed through the air. On the screen, a finger tapped out a Morse code, establishing a feverish pulse beneath the deep and resonant syllables. Soon, huge individual words flashed on to the screen, simultaneously pronounced by the robotic voice: CHERNOBYL. HARRISBURG. SELLAFIELD. HIROSHIMA. A red and yellow radioactivity hazard sign receded down a red and yellow tunnel. STOP RADIOACTIVITY.

Father Guido drifted further down the gentle slope towards the stage, sipping his drink appreciatively. Everyone was so friendly. He was in love with La Signorina Jade, and also, if the truth be told, far from indifferent to the lovely Signorina Nadia, with her special healing gifts. The young Scotsman had been unusually affectionate and although the aspirin he had insisted on giving him was completely unnecessary, it was a generous gesture that Guido couldn’t help admiring. As he drew closer to the stage, Guido was arrested by the sight of two young women dancing together. One, he recognised as Signor Sterling’s lovely blonde girlfriend; the other he had not been introduced to yet, but the two of them were clearly close friends, singing along to the lyrics, while interpreting them with dance.

Stop Radioactivity

Is in the air for you and me.

They both looked up and around with stylised alarm, pointed at each other and then reached out for mutual protection.

Discovered by Madame Curie.

They sang these words while holding each other’s shoulders. The line seemed to give them both special pleasure, but they soon suppressed their smiles, separated, widened their eyes and clasped their cheeks as they continued:

Chain reaction

Mutation

Contaminated population.

‘Hi, Father G,’ said Saul Prokosh, approaching Guido from behind and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. ‘Don’t you love them?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Guido, ‘truly I love all of them.’

‘Is this the best party you’ve ever been to?’

‘It is, it is,’ said Guido, feeling a pang of disloyalty towards Brother Manfredi, whose birthday party in the vegetable garden last year had been the talk of the monastery for weeks.

‘Signor Saul, I wanted to discuss a delicate matter with you …’

‘You want the number of my proctologist in LA?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Father Guido, ‘I do not understand.’

‘Just kidding,’ said Saul. ‘Say it how it is, Guido; tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘I have been asked by the Curia,’ Father Guido launched in blindly, ‘to approach you about a share of the profits from the scan of Fra Domenico’s brain.’