by Alice Oseman
‘Not even in school?’
‘Nah, my schools weren’t that religious.’
‘Do you go to … like … a mosque?’
She chuckles, making me realise what a dumb question that was. ‘Yeah, I go to a mosque sometimes.’
‘Well, I’ve never been inside a mosque.’
‘They’re pretty nice. Would recommend.’
‘Do you get to go very often?’
She stares at the road. ‘No, not very often. Only on special occasions, really. Do you get to go to church a lot?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
We fall into silence again, and she doesn’t try to fill it this time. We just walk and listen to the rain.
The church is just as I remember it. A huge wooden door opens into a cold stone building with wooden rafters and a single stained-glass window at the far end. If the schedule is the same as it was when I was little, there’s a service at 7 p.m., but that isn’t for another couple of hours, so it’s completely empty right now.
‘They don’t keep this place locked?’ Angel asks.
‘We don’t exactly have a crime problem around here.’
‘Hm.’ She loiters behind me, looking around. ‘Interesting.’
I watch her eyes move from the faded cushions stuffed behind the pews to the plaque of vicars dating back to the fourteenth century and the small statue of Jesus on the crucifix behind the altar.
‘It’s not really as grand as I expected,’ she says, eyebrows raised. ‘No offence.’
‘Catholic churches are more decorated than this. This is a Church of England church.’
‘Ah.’ She wanders past me, then turns and sits down on a pew, swivelling so she’s facing the front of the church. ‘This is nice. Bit creepy. But nice.’
‘Creepy?’
‘Well, it’s a good murder location.’
I huff out a laugh and sit down in the pew opposite her. ‘I’m not gonna murder you.’
‘Exactly what a murderer would say.’
We catch eyes across the aisle and both laugh at the same time. The sound echoes around the empty church.
‘I used to come here with my grandad a lot. Like, before all the band stuff happened.’
Angel crosses her legs. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Everything sort of feels okay for a bit while I’m here. Like, I can just stop thinking about it all for a while. Nothing else really matters.’
Angel nods and looks away. ‘I know what you mean.’
She doesn’t say anything else, so I say, ‘D’you mind if I just … go and sit at the front for a bit?’
‘No, of course, go for it.’
I go to the front of the pews and sit and for the first time in weeks, months, I don’t know how long, reach out to God. He’s waiting. He always is. No matter how long I go, no matter how shit it all gets, at least I have one or two things waiting for me. God doesn’t care whether I have one pound or one hundred million. God doesn’t care if I make a mistake, if I fuck up again and again and again. God asks me, ‘How are you?’ and I just start crying. I try to be quiet but I can hear my sniffs echoing from the stone walls. God says, ‘Say something,’ and I tell Him that I don’t know what to say, and He says, ‘Anything you’ve got.’ But I just cry some more. God tells me, ‘Everything that happens is making you stronger,’ and I want to believe Him but I can’t. ‘I love you anyway,’ He tells me. At least someone does.
We exit the church and start trudging through the wet grass of the graveyard. I decide to stop and visit my grandma’s grave. The gravestone still looks relatively new compared to the huge old stones around it, despite it being over five years old now. Grandma didn’t see any of this band shit happen to me. For some reason, that makes me glad.
Across the churchyard and fields beyond, the sun is finally setting, though it’s almost impossible to tell through the rain.
‘Whoa, some of these are from the seventeenth century!’ says Angel. She’s walking around, reading all the gravestones, lighting them up with her phone torch. ‘This is amazing. You can’t even read some of the inscriptions.’
I look down at Grandma’s grave. There are some flowers laid there, a little dishevelled from the rain, no doubt put there by Grandad. Wish I had some flowers to add. All I have on me is a dead phone, my debit card and a knife.
Here lies
Joan Valerie Ricci
a treasured wife, mother and grandmother
1938–2012
I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from
all my fears.
‘What do you think about when you pray?’ I ask Angel.
She wanders over and looks down at Grandma’s grave. She realises suddenly what she’s looking at and stops moving.
‘Lots of things,’ she says, still looking at the grave. ‘Or sometimes nothing. It’s more about feeling than thinking. For me, anyway.’
I guess I’d say the same. But I don’t say anything.
‘Joan,’ she says, suddenly. She points at Grandma’s grave. ‘Your grandma’s name was Joan?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did you write “Joan of Arc” about her?’
I nod again. ‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone thinks it’s a shippy song about you and Rowan.’
I laugh. I want to cry. ‘Yeah.’
I’m teetering on the edge of sobbing but of course I don’t. I keep smiling at him and trying to keep things light. I think I want to sob just because I’m overwhelmed. Or maybe seeing Jimmy at his worst is making me think about my own life too much.
Gross. Don’t wanna think about that.
I’m starting to get kind of hungry, so when we arrive at Jimmy’s grandad’s house – an adorable brick bungalow with a huge front garden – I’m praying that Jimmy’s grandad is the sort of old person who will not let a young person out of their sight until they’re well fed.
Jimmy knocks on the door so loudly that I’m almost scared he’s going to smash the glass.
‘He’s a little bit deaf,’ he says in explanation, ‘and he always has the radio on.’
The door opens to reveal a very tall and thin elderly man. He reminds me immediately of some sort of headmaster character from an old film or an ageing university academic – he’s wearing quite a formal shirt and some trousers, what remains of his hair is slicked back, and his glasses are thick and rounded.
He looks at Jimmy, not even seeming to notice me, and his face lights up in the most incredible, unexpected smile I have ever seen.
‘Jim-Bob!’ he cries, and immediately pulls Jimmy into a warm hug. ‘Oh, Jim-Bob, I didn’t expect to see you this evening!’
‘My-my phone ran out of battery,’ Jimmy mumbles into his grandad’s shoulder.
‘That’s okay, that’s all right. You can come and see me any time. You don’t have to call beforehand.’
Jimmy pulls back, though his grandad keeps his hands on his shoulders. ‘So … I brought my … my friend Angel with me.’
My friend Angel. My heart pretty much skips a beat.
Jimmy gestures towards me, and I experience a brief panic in which I’m not sure whether I should offer to shake his grandad’s hand or not. Thankfully, he doesn’t offer, but he does smile kindly at me.
‘A friend! Well, Jimmy hasn’t brought a friend over since he was fourteen years old.’
I imagine Jimmy, a normal fourteen-year-old, bringing a friend over after school to play video games. Seems like an alternate dimension.
‘Hi, yes, I’m Angel Rahimi,’ I say. Why did I feel the need to add the surname? ‘Er, sorry there wasn’t any warning … erm …’ I shoot a look at Jimmy. What exactly am I supposed to be saying? Even I don’t really know why I’m here.
‘It’s really no trouble at all. I really do enjoy having visitors, especially friends of my grandson. I’m Piero Ricci.’ He steps back and opens the door wide. ‘Look at you both, you’re soaked! Let’s get you inside and get some toast on the grill
.’
Piero has given me some of his dead wife’s clothes to change into while my own clothes are drying on a radiator. Everything in my bags is completely soaked through.
‘I only kept the really special outfits,’ he says with a wink, and holds up a dotty button-up shirt. ‘She used to love this. Said she felt like the night sky. She’d have had a big old strop to see this go to the charity shop.’
He then gives me some grey trousers. Joan must have been about five foot three, because they only reach halfway down my calves. I pull my socks up extra high to try to make up for it.
I leave the bedroom to rejoin Jimmy and Piero in the kitchen, but halt just outside the door as I hear them talking.
‘Found it in a charity shop,’ says Piero, and there’s the noise of a page turning and a finger tapping on the paper. ‘Look, this is a good one.’
‘Yeah, I like how they all really capture the person’s expression,’ says Jimmy, more animated than I’ve heard him in the entire time that I’ve known him in real life.
‘I’ve been saving it for your birthday. I think you’ll find it really interesting.’
‘Yeah, thank you!’
I enter the room, immediately spotting the art book by some unknown artist on the table between them. Jimmy shuts it, like it’s so precious that I’m not allowed to read it, and looks up at me.
‘You certainly are a tall one, aren’t you?’ remarks Piero, chuckling at the length of my trousers. ‘You’ll have to mind your head on the bedroom doors.’
I’m also now using one of Joan Valerie Ricci’s flowery scarves as a hijab. I actually think it’s a pretty good look. Nice one, Joan.
Jimmy’s wearing clothes that seem to fit him, so they must be his. But they look like they’ve come straight from five years ago – the loose beige chinos, a similarly loose polo shirt. For someone who is internationally considered a fashion icon, appearing in fashion and gossip magazines and blogs pretty much every day, it’s almost unnerving to see him dressed like a fourteen-year-old trying to be cool.
‘What d’you fancy, my love?’ asks Piero, heaving himself up from the kitchen table. It seems to take him a great deal of effort. ‘We’ve got eggs? Baked beans? Toast? Hot drinks?’
I sit down at the table opposite Jimmy. ‘Oh wow, all of that sounds amazing—’
‘I can do that, Grandad,’ says Jimmy, immediately standing up from the table, which is so endearing I feel like someone has used a staple gun directly onto my heart.
‘Oh no, you sit down, boyo. I’m not letting you in charge of food.’ Piero flips the kettle on and starts rummaging in a cupboard. ‘Look at you. You’re wasting away.’
Jimmy sits resignedly back down. ‘I am eating,’ he grumbles.
‘Not enough, lad. Growing boys need to eat a lot. I’m going to have to have a word with Rowan, the next time I see him. Make sure he’s keeping an eye on you.’
I’m halfway through my meal when the question I’ve been fearing is finally asked.
‘So how do you know my Jimmy, then, Angel?’ asks Piero, warming his hands on his mug of tea.
I share a look with Jimmy. He just shrugs at me and continues nibbling a dry slice of toast, signalling me to make up something. Thankfully, this is one of my greatest skills.
‘Well, I was just a normal fan of The Ark … but Jimmy and I happened to meet and strike up a conversation at … at a … after one of their concerts. And we got along fairly well, so … we stayed in contact and … now we’re friends.’
It’s weak, but it’s actually not too far from the truth.
‘I see,’ says Piero. ‘That’s nice. Jimmy doesn’t really get the chance to make many new friends, these days.’
The statement strikes me as odd. Surely Jimmy must have a ton of famous, rich, successful friends.
‘And why did you decide to come and visit your old grandad, eh, Jim-Bob?’ asks Piero, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder as he shuffles past to open a cupboard.
Jimmy has been sitting silently all the while Piero has been speaking to us.
Jimmy opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it again.
And then he just starts crying.
It takes a moment for Piero to notice, as he’s busy stirring the teas. Then he turns, with a questioning ‘Hm?’ and his eyes widen. ‘Oh … Jimmy, come on now,’ he says gently. He walks back to the kitchen table and sits down next to him. Jimmy puts his face in his hands. Piero wraps his arm round Jimmy’s shoulders. ‘Come on, lad, you’re all right. It’s all right, now.’
He starts offering comforting words, nothing of any real substance. I don’t really know what to do, so some time in the midst of this, I slip out of the room and go and sit in the living room. Doesn’t feel right for me to be in there, and seeing Jimmy cry makes me more uncomfortable than I could ever have anticipated. I’ve read about him crying in fanfiction hundreds of times. But real life is different. Crying has no romance or drama in real life. It’s just sad.
A radio is on in the living room. Other things in the room: several potted plants and cacti, a large TV, an iPad, a reading lamp, heaped bookshelves, a grandfather clock, and photographs of family members all over the walls. I approach and have a look. Jimmy is there again and again and again. Sitting in a woman’s lap as a baby. Running around in a garden as a toddler, long brown hair flowing behind him, holding a daisy in one hand. A primary school photo in a bright red jumper. A twelve-year-old Jimmy with spiky hair and black cargo trousers, singing and playing guitar in a pub. There’s even a photo of two adults who I can only assume are Jimmy’s parents – a short, serious-looking south-Asian man in a business suit and a tall, thin-faced woman with scraped-back hair. Jimmy doesn’t resemble either of them very much.
In one frame, there’s The Ark’s GQ magazine cover from last year – ‘THE REINVENTED BOY BAND’ – Jimmy in the centre in sharp focus. In another, there’s what looks like a poem written in primary school, and it catches my eye, because the title is ‘The Angel’. I start reading it.
When all was bad in Jimmy Land
He wished for someone to rescue him
To make him part of a famous band
And fight off things dark and grim
‘Jimmy’s gone off to bed now.’
Piero’s voice makes me jump and spin round.
He chuckles. ‘Oh, sorry, my love, did I make you jump?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, smiling. ‘I was just snooping around.’
‘Looking at all our memories?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wrote that gem when he was about seven, I think.’ Piero sits down heavily into an armchair and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘Always had a knack for words.’
I sit down on a sofa. ‘Is he … okay?’
Piero barks out a laugh. ‘Well. No. No, he’s not.’
There’s a pause. What should I say? It’s clear that Jimmy’s having some sort of emotional breakdown.
‘He’s had a very severe anxiety disorder for several years,’ says Piero with a heavy sigh. ‘Panic attacks. A lot of paranoia. Started fairly soon after his grandma died, then got worse as all this band malarkey got more intense. Used to see a lot of that when I was a boy. My father had it after the war.’
I guess I knew that he’d got some sort of mental illness after I saw the panic attack. Piero makes it sound way more serious than I’d been thinking, though.
‘Runs in the family, I think,’ Piero continues. ‘My daughter has it mildly. It killed my father, in the end, though. He didn’t tell anyone. Refused to talk about it. Never cried. When he popped off they said it was natural causes, but it was too early for that, in my opinion. I could see it. It was the anxiety. After leaving his home country as a boy … after that bloody war … it was too much. He found being alive excruciatingly painful.’ Piero nods towards a sepia photograph of a man in a suit. ‘Angelo Ricci, his name was. Almost like your name, eh?’ He chuckles.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘So i
t’s a good thing to see the boy crying,’ says Piero, almost cheerfully. ‘Jimmy thinks about everything. Overthinks, really. He’s got a very strong imagination. He’ll imagine things that aren’t ever going to happen and convince himself that they will. It hasn’t been this bad for quite some time.’ He looks at me. ‘But at least he lets it out. It’s ten times worse if you just keep it inside.’
It sounds kind of like he’s telling me something, but he continues talking before I can think about it too hard.
‘Do you know whether there might have been anything to set it off?’
Of course. The Jowan rumours, the Rowan and Bliss fiasco, the mob at the meet-and-greet, his meltdown in the bathroom.
‘The Ark are going through a bit of a crazy time in the news,’ I say, not too sure how much I’m allowed to reveal to Piero.
Piero nods. ‘I see.’
There’s another pause. Piero stares blankly into the fireplace, before suddenly saying, ‘And why are you really here, my love?’
‘What – what d’you mean?’
He chuckles. ‘Any fool can see you and Jimmy aren’t friends.’
I swallow a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, er … well …’ I look away. Shit. What do I say? The truth is too weird. Maybe Jimmy wouldn’t want him to know the truth about the knife.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say. ‘Nobody knows I’m here.’
‘Oh really?’ Piero crosses his legs. ‘Just felt like it, did you?’
‘Yeah.’ My voice lowers. ‘I just … wanted to help. Help Jimmy, I mean. He needed help and … well … I love him, so …’
‘You love Jimmy?’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Not like … not like I’m in love with him. I just … he’s just …’ I can’t explain it.
‘I thought you weren’t his friend?’
‘I’m not. I’m just … I’m just a fan.’
‘Ah.’ Piero nods. ‘And you wanted to help Jimmy.’
‘He needed help and … I was the only one who could help.’
‘How gallant.’
‘Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do,’ I whisper.
Piero shrugs. ‘I don’t think there was a right or wrong there. There rarely is, in my opinion.’ He leans forward suddenly, linking his fingers together over his knees. ‘You know what I think, my love?’
