Crusaders

by Richard T. Kelly

  ‘Michael. What’s got you all the way out here tonight? Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Not that I know of. No, but I believe we’re to hear a paper from Simon Barlow? A little report, on how you’ve been faring? You didn’t know?’

  Mercer wore a small smile, his breath materialised about him like an aura in the arctic night air.

  ‘I didn’t, no.’

  Mercer patted Gore’s arm with his own leather-gloved hand. ‘Well, never you worry, you’re still in a job. For now.’

  *

  A portable whiteboard had been wheeled into place at the head of the meeting room. Barlow stood over a humming laptop computer, rocking on his heels, seemingly full of battery power himself as he waited for the councilmen to settle themselves and their coffee cups before them. For once he was rigorously failing to meet Gore’s eye.

  ‘Right then. Let me say up front, as I’ve said before – I am hugely in favour of church planting. It’s fresh, it’s dynamic, it’s the way forward for us. Hoxheath has been a good model. But now we see problems.’

  He nudged the mouse, and a graphic blinked onto the screen – a steep-declining purplish mountain-range on an x–y axis.

  ‘We see here – John starts out with maybe sixty heads? Nice. Close enough to what we’d want week in, week out, if we were in for the long haul. And the numbers stay in that park for a bit. Then – fiftyish here. That’s the low end of the national average for Sunday. But then look at this tail-off. And yesterday? Twenty-two, not counting present company.’

  Gore was not quite listening, more concerned with the body language on display about him. Jack Ridley looked sombre. Susan Carrow had her arms firmly folded. Fluorescent striplight danced over Michael Mercer’s bifocals.

  ‘John hit a ceiling. Now it’s looking like he could crash through the floor. The test is – how do we respond? After all of our efforts here?’

  It was for Gore a dismal sensation to observe how swiftly his against-the-odds triumph was being rebranded a bothersome letdown – shrugs and sighs the order of the day, plaudits in the past, now perhaps regretted.

  ‘Do we just, you know, say “Hard luck”? Wait for the turnout to hit zero, then move on? Do we call that a good try? Or do we look to the failings here and see if there are lessons? So future plants can grow? Or even – and I say this cos I’m an optimist, see – do we try and reverse the decline of John’s church? My concern, see, is that we don’t get the same mistakes repeated. We don’t just say we’ll carry on throwing up a lot of little plants that get throttled by weeds.’

  Barlow tapped at his computer keys. Bob Spikings, subdued, turned to Gore. ‘Sorry, John, do you want to, uh, comment?’

  ‘Well, not if I’m the only one who’s finding this all a bit premature.’

  Barlow winced. ‘John, look, what if you give a service and nobody comes? That’s what I’m forever trying to get through to people. We can’t just assume the Church will always be here. I’m not knocking them twenty-odd you’ve managed to pull in. I’m sure you’ve fought for every one of ’em. Trouble is, one harsh winter could kill off the whole lot.’

  Gore glanced to Ridley, who had closed his eyes – pained, or just weary?

  ‘What’s needed,’ Barlow ploughed on, ‘is a proper analysis. If a few people came and stayed, then why not more?’

  Gore drummed on the table. ‘Go on, I trust you have a theory.’

  ‘Well, first and obvious, John, they might have fancied the idea on paper, but not liked what they heard when they got there. Or else they got there and felt they needn’t have bothered. Were ignored, not made welcome.’

  Gore grimaced. And yet treacherous heads nodded round the table.

  ‘See, John, your congregants aren’t just there to put pennies on the plate. Or do a bit of donkey-work when you whistle. If we’re gonna revive our churches, members have to be listened to – actively involved in the service.’

  ‘I do listen to them, I have done. I don’t always agree.’

  ‘Oh, I know, John, I’ve watched you stood there arguing with pensioners, so we know you’re an adamant sort.’ Barlow rode amiably over the chuckles. ‘But a church needs more than a good shepherd. It needs a fisher of men. Doubly so when it’s a small church. Okay, easy for me to say – I’ve got a big one. But you try shuffling into some draughty school hall on a Sunday, and there’s two dozen gloomy faces you don’t know. So much easier to slip in the back of a big chapel where there’s a couple hundred. Band playing, happy voices, whole mix of people. And friendly sidesmen, saying hello there, nice to see you, how are you keeping?’

  Gore pinched his temples. ‘Simon, all that stuff you do isn’t going to happen at St Luke’s. It can’t.’

  ‘No, John. It could. With just a bit more thought to presentation. A bit more care. For starters you’d look a lot friendlier if your sidesmen weren’t ruddy nightclub bouncers.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Gore began, feeling himself pitted solo against the room, ‘Mr Coulson is no longer involved at St Luke’s. Also I’ve been looking at some proposals for changing the decor – the lighting and so on.’

  ‘Okay. That’s one part of presentation. What about your self-presentation?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘John, think about those old dears – they can just about groan through a hymn on a wonky old piano, but then they have to listen to a sermon from a wordsmith like you. Not a simple story, with an uplifting message. Not you, eh, John? I mean, sorry, but the other day I reckoned you were making it up as you went along. Sigmund Freud? Dear me. I know time’s scarce, but you owe it to those people to be properly prepared. It’s a courtesy.’

  The impression of the scoring jab was much the worse for Gore, silent as he saw the relish climbing up one side of Barlow’s face.

  ‘You see, on one hand we’ve got John’s bad numbers, then we’ve got all his other endeavours out there in the world. The two could be related.’

  ‘What are you referring to?’

  ‘Oh, you know, John. We all see you, running out and about with the locals. Extracurricular activities and that. But it doesn’t always look to me like the true work of the spirit. It’s possible you’re wasting your time. And, by extension, the time of others.’ Barlow opened his palms to the table.

  ‘I never asked for your time, Simon.’

  ‘I think’ – Spikings inserted himself, uncomfortable – ‘we’re maybe, uh, drifting somewhat here. In fairness to John, his media work, which I assume you mean, Simon, has been quite a success.’

  ‘Nice for John, sure. Nice to be on the radio, in the paper – people like a bit of chat off a tame vicar. But it doesn’t seem to have done the trick for your numbers, has it?’

  Gore tossed his capped biro onto the blank open notebook before him. ‘Right. So, all talk aside, what are you actually proposing I do?’

  Barlow stabbed at his keyboard. ‘Let me just tell you a few things about my church.’

  An array of pie-charts blinked up onto the whiteboard. Much squinting and leaning forward.

  ‘Fifty-three per cent of people coming every week had never been inside a church before mine. But this one’s the stunner. Thirty-three per cent of them travel five miles or more to attend. And – just so you don’t say I’m big-headed – seventy-one per cent say they like what we do, but they want more of it. More music, more evenings, more events, more youth work. Now, you all know my view. A vital church is where the Gospel truth gets preached week in, week out. What my stats show is that a church like that is self-renewing. New people are always coming to the door. Because they’ve heard, see? That this church has something for them – them and them alone – and they couldn’t get it anywhere else.’

  Salesman of the Year, no contest, thought Gore, as Barlow made exhortative shapes with his hands, sleeves rolled up despite the low thermostat.

  ‘I’m not saying “Everyone back to mine.” We’re full up. I am saying the people of Hoxheath need a bit more encouragement. Yo
u can’t bring a church to the people. But you can bring people to a church. One coachload of my lot could turn the whole thing round. I’m saying let’s show Hoxheath what it means to have a righteous congregation, a proper, full-on, Jesus-loving service. A joyful noise unto the Creator.’

  Barlow’s slow-burning fervency seemed to have arrived at an earnest pause. Spikings clicked his pen. ‘Simon, do you – is this a, uh, concrete proposal?’

  ‘Too right, Bob. Let me do a social at St Luke’s, a proper fundraiser. I’ll provide the bells and whistles. One night only, I’ll bring my church to Hoxheath. My bands, my youth team, my sidesmen. They’ll be made up, honest, they love to network. Call it maybe two quid on the door, another quid for a raffle ticket? But when the hat goes round at the end, I promise you, you’ll see tenfold that. And all for St Luke’s, of course.’

  Spikings tapped the table, pensive. ‘Well. What do you say, John?’

  ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘I must say it sounds rather nice,’ offered Susan Carrow. ‘Could be a shot in the arm. You can’t say we don’t need one.’

  ‘Uh, Monica, then – what say you?’

  ‘I’ll not be the one to pour cold water on it. It’ll need to be a weekend, mind. And all Mr Barlow’s lot doing the lifting. I’ve not got time for it.’

  ‘Oh, you can leave it in my hands, Monica. Lock stock.’

  Spikings glanced toward his diligently minute-taking wife. ‘When, though? When are we supposed to do this?’

  ‘Let’s not mess about,’ Barlow leapt in. ‘Call it for this Saturday.’

  ‘Gosh. That quick?’

  ‘Bob, that’s how you have to act in a tight corner. Look at the Bob Geldofs of the world. Not everything needs a million boring meetings. Just give me the sign and I’ll do it.’

  Gore could feel eyes on him, awaiting his next move – and indeed he could see himself rising and walking out, washing his hands of this room, this disapproving convention, dingy old raindark Hoxheath. But walking to where? He waved a noncommittal hand at Barlow, then let it fall.

  ‘Okay. So I took the liberty of asking a couple of friends along tonight, they’re outside, and I’d like to bring them in. They’re youth workers at my place, always full of ideas. I can guarantee they’ll drive this train.’

  No one demurred. Barlow paced from the room and the air was still in his wake, a mood of general relief, as when – it seemed to Gore – a much-deferred task, an awkward spot of knife-wielding, had been accomplished by other hands. Rose Spikings’s pen scratched across the page before her. Gore worried a thumb at the peeling edge of the meeting table. When he raised his gaze it was to observe the entrance of two dimly remembered faces over matching firehouse-red tee-shirts proclaiming THE SHIELD SOCIETY, Barlow the conductor in their wake.

  ‘This is Stuart and Tina Grieveson – John, you’ve met before?’

  *

  Gore lingered by his bike as one by one the councilmen, at whose faces he couldn’t stand to look, climbed into their vehicles and made off into the evening. Barlow emerged belatedly, conferring as if affably with the archdeacon. Once Mercer was ensconced in his Volvo saloon and Barlow was jiggling keys by the door of the Mondeo, Gore strode across the crunching gravel and jabbed a finger at the smirk that met him. ‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’

  ‘Whoah, don’t be waving that about, son, I don’t know where it’s been.’

  ‘I ought to put you through the window.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, John. With what? You’d need your bullyboys for that.’

  Annoyingly, Barlow did not shrink. But nor did Gore’s adrenalin-flow cease. ‘How big of a rat are you, Simon? Sneaking about in my business.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap, I’m helping you out. Don’t you ever listen?’

  ‘Oh, sure, that’s you, all heart. And you get nothing out of it.’

  ‘Not much I can see, no, short of some extra legwork.’

  ‘Oh no? Short of maybe weaselling me out of my living?’

  ‘That’ll not be my doing, John. You’re doing fine on your own. Tell you what, but, it ought to have a new man – poor old St Luke’s. Someone who’ll preach the Gospel. Not sit counting the hairs on his arse – chasing skirt, palling about with thugs. Or giving off to the MP, for that matter.’

  ‘What fucking business,’ Gore spat, ‘is that of yours?’

  ‘Calm yourself, will you? I’ve a bit of a stake in it, John, matter of fact. I’m meeting your sister tomorrow.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Oh yeah, her and Martin Pallister. About this group he’s putting together? His board? The one you bottled on, right?’

  Gore felt it now – the blade going in between the shoulders, to the hilt, Barlow’s pleasure in same.

  ‘Do you never talk, then, you and her? Must say, but, I’d never have picked the pair of you’s for brother and sister. You sure you weren’t adopted?’

  As if involuntarily Gore seized the lapel of Barlow’s coat. But the adrenalin had waned, his fist easily beaten aside.

  ‘Oh, piss off, John, either take a swing at me or get out of my face. It’s bloody freezing and I’ve other things to do tonight.’

  *

  She answered the door wearing a white towelling bathrobe and reading glasses, the ends of her bobbed hair wet.

  ‘Well. What do I owe this pleasure, kidder?’

  ‘I want to talk about Barlow.’

  She sighed – ‘Fine’ – and swung the door wide. The interior of the Quayside apartment did not much surprise him, not in its dim-lit open-plan whiteness nor in the pricey functionality of its furnishing. A glass of red wine sat atop a stack of paper on a low table by a black-leather Mies van der Rohe chair, sited with a certain exactness upon a russet hooked rug. Susannah flopped into this pew. Gore lowered himself onto the edge of the white sofa facing, his topcoat unsurrendered.

  ‘What’s your problem then?’

  ‘You can’t guess?’

  ‘Haven’t we done this? You weren’t into it. Obviously, obviously Marty had me scout other people. We’d a few other meetings. He had me get hold of what’s-his-face. Marty goes to his church, takes his kid the odd Sunday. As far as I know he finds the guy interesting. Can-do about stuff.’

  ‘Yes. That’s how he worms his way into everything.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, he didn’t want to know at first. Bit like you. I don’t think he’s a Labour man by nature.’

  ‘No, he fucking is not.’

  She made a moue. ‘Well, whatever – he’s turned out alright. Unlike you. I guess he’s just more our sort of vicar.’

  ‘I just cannot believe … you’ve got in bed with that arsehole.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so petty, Jonno. It’s just an arrangement. A consultation.’

  ‘Do you actually know what he’s like? Him and his sort? He’s twisted, Bible-mad – he hates gays. Hates women.’

  ‘He’s always behaved himself round me.’ And demurely she sipped from her glass. Gore found himself maddeningly short of any more concrete charges.

  ‘The main thing for our purpose is he’s got a lot of ideas. About education. Which is Marty’s main thing.’

  ‘What ideas?’

  ‘All stuff about new schools. New kinds of schools. It’s all here.’ She lifted and heaved to her brother the brick of A4 paper from her side table. Above the scarlet circle-stain of her glass he saw the letterhead and logo of The Shield Society, a Gosforth address.

  ‘I can’t knock it. He runs a good operation. Just five people he’s got in the office, but by God they graft. From a fundraising point of view they’re shit-hot. I’d hire them in a New York minute if they weren’t spoken for.’

  Gore flicked the pages – policy document upon policy document, in irksome small type. ‘I can’t be bothered with this.’

  ‘No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’ve got quite a smart idea for getting shot of the really crap schools. Replacing them with big bran-dnew bui
lds.’

  ‘And who’s going to pay for that?’

  ‘Private funds, kidder. It won’t be the begging bowl. Naw, they would be independent schools, these, only they wouldn’t charge fees – cos of them being so well-endowed. So they’d pay better for better teachers. And you’d get a damn sight higher standard than some rotten comprehensive. More focus on the useful things, skills that get you jobs. And, you know, they’d be proper godly and all. I mean, it ought to be up your street.’

  ‘What do they get out of it? Barlow? “The Shield Society”?’

  ‘I don’t know, man. Spreading the good word. It’s early days. Just blue-sky stuff for now. But it’s thorough. That’s one thing he understands, your pal Barlow. Red tape – how much you’ve got to cut to ever get owt done. Any road.’ She sighed. ‘We’re only talking. Simon’ll sit on Marty’s board, Marty’s going to speak at some event they’re doing. Introduce him around … Quid pro quo. Just like he would have done for you, kidder. He was all for getting you in with the people he knows. But not you, oh no. You had to take your bloody stand against the wicked world.’

  ‘Everything you told me was bullshit, Susannah.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’ She took a longer pull on her wine. ‘Fair enough, but, I see now – it wouldn’t have worked. I’ll tell you something else about this Barlow. He works a room. He can bring money to the table. Not just whingeing for handouts. I was amazed, actually. Turns out he’s tight in with Dick Broke.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sir Dick Broke. The ball-bearings millionaire? From Consett? You never read the business pages, do you, kidder? He’s got Jesus and all, see, Dick Broke. Got a big fat foundation where he puts all his dividend. For his good causes. I know he keeps Simon’s office in paperclips.’

  Gore set the papers down on the floor. ‘Right. And these are the people you want to work with? You think a Labour MP should work with?’

  ‘I bloody do. Tell you what, if you’ve built up a multi-million-pound company all by yourself, you’ll have a strong view of the world, and it’s liable to have a bit more heft to it than some bloody vicar’s. People might pay attention. They might care.’