I have a special reason for coming to this particular church. It feels cool within those thick stone walls. The noise of the lawn mower working away outside cannot penetrate the stone or the windows.

I contemplate the frescoes on one of the walls. The skeleton of Death is chasing a human being, smiling wryly and wielding his scythe. The man is terrified of Death, which always comes untimely. In this ancient place I am faced with pictures of the Black Death, the Plague. Time stands still, but the reality of past time is present even so.

It occurs to me that amongst all these images of Gotland peasants, I can see Aida. A black face among the medieval farmers from Tingstäde and Roma. Solidarity among men and women is as much present in horror as it is in joy.

Among the people portrayed are her mother, her brothers and her sisters. Death pursues them all down the ages. The images frozen onto the walls of the medieval church are in some ways a moving picture. The figures come running towards me, gliding through arrested time.

Then it was the Plague, now it is Aids. Then it was bacteria, now it is a virus. But death is never visible. Whence does the illness come? Where do the sores come from, what causes the emaciation?

Why should bacteria and viruses be so small that they cannot be seen? Why should they have this unfair advantage?

I sit in a pew in the dark interior and reflect. When did I first hear about this insidious and mysterious illness that seemed at first only to affect gay men on the west coast of America?