Between the Bridge and the River by Craig Ferguson Read Free Book Online Page B

his life.
    Carl slowly got to know Fraser and Fraser got to know Carl. Through the dream therapy, the two became rather friendly.
    Carl explained to Fraser that, since he had died, his challenge had been to stop becoming extremely smug because he had guessed so much correctly during his lifetime. He told him that even Freud conceded that he had been on the money and, after death, the two men had rekindled their friendship, enjoying regular Pictionary evenings with Socrates and Tony Randall.
    Fraser was curious as to why Jung had singled him out for treatment. One night, in a fitful sleep instigated by an excellent lamb pasanda from the Crème de la Crème Indian restaurant in Argyll Street, Fraser met him by the statue of Dostoyevsky outside the Lenin Library in Moscow.
    “You are a perfect patient for me,” said Jung, who had appeared this time as a beautiful young English actress named Emily. “You are the totally dual entity. You are an amoral boor with the potential for sainthood. An intellectual moron. An atheistic priest. Plus I don’t really get to choose my patients these days. I can only treat people who dream about me. You seem to do so on a regular basis. Can you explain that?”
    “Not really,” shrugged Fraser. “Although I read about you a bit when I was shagging a psychology student at Glasgow University. The only books she had in the house were by you and Freud and Adler and all that bollocks. She said you were a bit of a Nazi.”
    “Oh dear, where do they get this nonsense? Freud was convinced I was anti-Semitic because I disagreed with him on certain theories, and also, I made a couple of mistakes politically in the thirties, but no, never a Nazi. Simply because they were spiritually dead. Of what possible interest could they be to me?”
    “Point taken,” Fraser concurred. “You know any Nazis? Must be a lot of dead Nazis around.”
    “No, not many. Like I say, they were spiritually dead, so when the body goes, well, that’s kind of it.”
    “So there’s only spiritual people in the afterlife?”
    “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that but you’re on the right track. If the spirit is the only thing that survives, then there’s not going to be much left of you if you have no spirit.”
    “What about evil spirits?”
    “You’re not ready for all that yet. Let’s talk about you.”
    Fraser couldn’t resist Carl’s beautiful blue eyes, his high cheekbones, his full breasts pushing at his bodice. He kissed him on his soft, womanly lips.
    “Hey, it’s still me,” said Carl.
    “I know, but you’re so beautiful.”
    Fraser woke up embarrassed and guilty that morning. He took a long shower before going to work. Jung’s appearance in the taxi to the airport was unusual. Fraser had not been abstemious for the required time and Carl had never appeared during a catnap. This was a change.
    Fraser was unnerved, hung over, and anxious about the long flight ahead. He brought out the invitation and looked at it again, feeling the raised golden letters beneath his fingers. From the Holy United Church of America.
    Dear Fraser Darby
    Your name has been selected by the Lord.
    Working through our committee, Our Heavenly Father
    has chosen you as the top religious media figure in your region.
    You are most cordially invited to a gathering of Christian
    believers in Birmingham, Alabama. Christian Broadcasters will
    come together in celebration and discussion of how better to serve
    God through the media.
    We pray that you will attend.
    Pastors Leon and Saul Martini.
    There was a 1-800 telephone number to make hotel and flight reservations at discount rates for the faithful. Fraser had already called. He had to get out of town for obvious reasons, and Birmingham, Alabama, although nobody’s first vacation destination choice, was as good a place as any.
    No one would have heard of him there, there would be no Press Bar or
Sunday Recorder,
and who knows, he might just be able to wrangle some kind