The Camp

by Guy N Smith

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ He turned, strode towards the exit. There’s something funny going on. Oh, God, I have to find out if Sarah’s all right!

  He stood outside in the bright early evening sunlight. All about him people were talking and laughing, a long queue forming for the first bingo session. The jukebox in the amusement arcade vied with the blare of music from the funfair. A multi-coloured noisy artificial jungle and suddenly Norman Tong was the hunted. Wanting to run but not knowing where to flee. Walking away, quickening his step, going nowhere in particular, his thoughts a jumble which he had to unravel.

  Suddenly he slowed, stared. A figure ahead of him, he would have recognized that stiff posture anywhere, the straight back, the jerky movements, the short dark hair with streaks of grey in it.

  ‘Mrs Mace!’ Shouting as he hurried forward. Formal even in his astonishment, his relief, for once he had called her “Ruth” and been reprimanded severely for it. ‘Mrs Mace, wait for me!’

  She was walking fast as though she was late for an appointment, hurrying but not relinquishing her dignity, her handbag on her arm, looking neither to the right nor the left.

  He caught up with her, drew alongside her, looked up into the pallid features. Tight-lipped, staring straight ahead of her, oblivious of his presence. He gained a yard, drew ahead of her, called her again. Her eyes were fixed, she did not see him. A woman in a trance, a sleepwalker. Don’t wake her up, it could be dangerous.

  Norman thrust himself in front of the other, barred her way. She made as if to swerve aside but he went with her. She bumped against him, stepped back. ‘Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, it was so clumsy of me.’

  ‘Mrs Mace. It’s me!’

  She stared, saw him but there was no sign of recognition on those stoic features. A puzzled smile. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Ruth, it’s me, Norman. Norman Tong!’

  ‘I think you must have made a mistake.’ She stepped to the left, swerved round him. And this time he let her go, stood watching her as the milling bingo crowd swallowed her up and hid her from his view.

  He staggered to one side, out of the stream of constant pedestrian traffic, leaned up against a steel barrier. And for the first time in his life Norman began to doubt his own sanity.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The chapel was situated at the rear of the squash and badminton courts. A plain brick building, it had an almost apologetic air about it, as though it skulked here in hopeful anonymity, feared lest its presence might offend. A short flight of steps led up to an arched doorway with a crucifix inset above it, and there was no other proclamation of its purpose except a small noticeboard which announced that on Sundays communion was at 9 am and matins at 11.30.

  On weekdays the door was left unlocked from 11 am - 9 pm for the convenience of any campers who felt that they needed the solace of its peaceful atmosphere. An additional service, one whose cost was negligible. The resident camp chaplain could be found most days in the indoor games room where he stressed it was important to maintain a relationship with modern youth who might one day see the Light.

  The Reverend Willis relished the summer months; this was his third successive stint at the camp and he hoped for a fourth. So much more relaxing than assisting a vicar in a parish, your time was virtually your own and your problems were few. Campers were not, on average, regular churchgoers, the congregation rarely numbered more than thirty and he was seldom troubled during the week. A cushy job, he was the first to admit it. But somebody had to do it so why not himself?

  At 33 he was putting on weight. He was more conscious of it during the hot weather, a reluctance to exert himself either mentally or physically, his most vigorous form of exercise these days was a game of table tennis.

  The church services were becoming a bore, a repetition. He was sure his congregation felt the same about them. The only variations were the psalms and hymns, and his weekly address became shorter and shorter; nobody really listened, anyway, except perhaps that odd couple in the front pew who had been here for communion earlier. They had caught his eye last week, they were obviously at the camp for a full fortnight.

  ‘Let us pray.’ He glanced at them again through splayed fingers. ‘Let us pray for the sick and the needy, relatives and friends back at home.’ That covered a lot, they could either pray or kneel for a couple of minutes and let their thoughts wander. Surely they didn’t want to listen to him reading out of the prayer book.

  The man was praying all right, eyes closed, lips moving as he mimed his innermost thoughts, whatever they were. Or it could just have been a façade which he had perfected to impress his fellow worshippers back home, the chaplain thought. Pathetically thin, the brown Sunday best suit hanging on him the way it did on the coat hanger in the wardrobe. Thinning, grey hair, sharp pointed features. Religious mania, perhaps, some off-beat sect obsessed with their own beliefs, a different interpretation of the Bible. Praying intensively, the words would have been a shout if they had not been mimed. Gave you the creeps.

  The woman by his side kept glancing furtively at him, almost afraid. She was thin, too, but taller and a year or two younger, possibly still in her forties. The palms of her hands were pressed tightly together, the extended fingertips twitching with obvious anxiety. She wore a long black dress that showed signs of age, worn 52 times a year plus funerals. Long-suffering, afraid in case she offended her man but worried about him all the same.

  The Reverend Willis glanced surreptitiously at his digital watch; give them another minute, use up the time. A sham but it was for their benefit. People interested him, always had. Out of all the millions in the world, no two were exactly the same either in looks or personality, which was the next greatest miracle to the creation of life itself. A game he played, guessing who did what for a living, a private mental dossier which was often never confirmed because usually he never saw them again after the service.

  He heaved himself up on to his feet, experienced a wave of dizziness which was a matter for slight concern, he passed it off for now and blamed the heat. A nod to the organist; the Blessing, then the final hymn and all over for another Sunday.

  ‘May the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,’ that chap was still praying hard, thin lips moving incessantly, ‘keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, now and forevermore … Now let us sing hymn number 247 …’

  Willis did not join in the singing, it wasn’t his job; if anybody wanted to sing that was up to them. Mostly the congregation went through the verses in low embarrassed tones. The woman was on her feet, she had her hymn book open, was having trouble finding the right page. Her husband was still on his knees. She kept glancing down at him, an expression of concern on her bland features.

  The chaplain shuffled his papers together, tucked them inside his prayer book and turned towards the plain wooden altar. A nod of respect, walking slowly in the direction of the vestry doorway, timing it so that he passed out of sight just as the hymn ended. A discreet wait and then he would disrobe himself, check that everybody had left, that nobody wanted to see him, and then make his way across to the Marine Bar. He always had a lager on a Sunday, a kind of perk, he did not drink otherwise.

  Listening to the shuffling of receding feet, the door banging. It should have been wedged open, maybe somebody had nicked the stop. Another look at his watch. They should all be gone by now, he had better check just in case.

  He did not acknowledge the altar this time because there should have been nobody there to see him. An almost impatient emergence back into the chapel, then stopping in surprise. That couple were still there, both of them praying now. The man had not moved, probably had not broken off from his original prayer. The woman was perched on the edge of her pew, leaning forward, face hidden in her cupped hands.

  Willis halted, felt embarrassed. He thought about tiptoeing back into the vestry, leaving them to it. No, they might look up and see him. He was reluctant to disturb them, they obviously did not need him. They c
ould stop here till nine o’clock tonight if they so wished, it was none of his business. He hesitated, decided to walk on past them, smile benignly if either of them looked up, go straight out through the door.

  His footsteps clicked on the polished wooden floor, he winced at the noise, tried to walk on the balls of his feet but it made no difference.

  ‘Good morning, vicar.’ It was the woman who spoke, head uplifted, struggling to smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ actually I’m a curate not a vicar but thanks for the compliment. Slowing as he approached them, one of those situations where you wondered whether or not to engage in small talk. ‘I trust the service was to your satisfaction?’

  The man’s eyes opened, he shook himself as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep. Orbs that took time to clear, eyes that were confused, trying to recollect where he was, glancing at his surroundings. Slow realisation, licking his lips.

  ‘God has been with us this morning, vicar,’ he spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘God is always with us,’ Willis replied, wondered if it was too late to hurry on. He had been right, this guy was some kind of religious fanatic. Probably harmless enough.

  ‘He has spoken to me this morning.’ The other’s voice was a low monotone, barely audible. ‘We have work to do.’

  ‘Who?’ It sounded foolish. Humour the old fellow, it’s no good arguing.

  ‘You and I, and Margaret here!’ A snap answer; who d’you think I mean?

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Willis swallowed.

  ‘This is a Godless place, a camp of iniquity.’ The head was thrust forward, the features screwed up, a mask of fanatical ferocity. ‘Three killings. Murders. Your church is empty because they have all deserted the Lord, preferring to sin. And what are you doing about it?’

  The chaplain swallowed. ‘I … er, I’m doing my best.’ Which wasn’t true but you couldn’t go out there preaching, shoving religion down folks’ throats.

  ‘No, you’re not!’ A bony finger wagged, the man’s wife had hold of his arm as though she would have liked to pull her husband away but dared not. ‘You are not doing a thing about it. There is evil in this camp, an unrest which is going to develop into rioting, the likes of which we have seen in recent years in the streets of our major cities. The ungodly are plotting to overthrow law and order, to destroy God and everything he stands for.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not quite as bad as that, Edward.’ The woman’s tone was shrill, frightened rather than reprimanding. ‘They will perish in their own cesspit of evil, we shall stand firm and be saved.’

  ‘Be quiet, Margaret.’ He shrugged her restraining hand off. ‘They will drag us down with them.’

  ‘Did God tell you all this?’ Willis asked and shuffled his feet with embarrassment.

  ‘I heard it from the mouth of one who is surely a disciple of Satan himself.’ A hushed voice, looking around as if he expected some manifestation of evil to rise up from the row of pews. ‘An employee of this very holiday camp, a groundsman embittered and soaked in evil. He is urging the so-called workers to revolt, to drench the camp in blood.’

  ‘That wasn’t what he said at all …’ Margaret interrupted.

  ‘You must interpret it how it is meant.’ A glare, then turning back to the clergyman. ‘The evil of communism, a Godless society, is being preached. People are listening to it just as they once listened to Hitler. The slumbering serpent has arisen.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ Willis began to edge away. ‘If what you say is true then we shall have to counter it, won’t we?’ God, let me get to the bar and mingle with sane people!

  ‘You have been warned,’ the voice followed him down the aisle, ‘prepare thyself now, before it is too late.’

  Margaret Holman sighed, she was trembling as though with a sudden attack of the ague. Edward had finally gone over the top, he had been heading that way for months. Years, in fact. Church meetings three nights a week had got under his skin; hers, too, but she had not succumbed. If you listened to something for long enough you either believed it or rejected it totally. She and her husband had gone in opposite directions but she had not the courage to tell him. Yet. Deny yourself all the pleasures in life and be saved, was his motto. Life was a drudgery, you couldn’t even have a glass of shandy when you were on holiday. Well, if Edward wanted to immerse himself in religious fanaticism, that was up to him. She wouldn’t be able to talk him out of it. Damn that groundsman, collaring him like that last night, sitting down on their seat in the Recreation Garden and launching into a tirade of communistic ideas. Edward had sent him away with a flea in his ear, all right, but look what it had done to her husband. He’d been muttering to himself in his sleep all night and now he’d gone off at a tangent. Just like that other bloke had done at the Donkey Derby. People should keep their opinions to themselves, she had been doing that for the last twenty years!

  ‘He won’t do anything.’ Edward Holman jerked a thumb after the departing chaplain and picked his cap up off the pew. ‘Not interested, doesn’t believe me. And Margaret …’ pulling her close, mouthing in her ear, ‘it’s up to us now. We have to fight them.’

  She nodded, again resisted the urge to argue. Edward was sick, he needed to see a psychiatrist. Maybe the doctor as well. She had put his nocturnal mutterings down to indigestion, he had rather made a pig of himself in the restaurant last night. The supervisor had visited their table to see if everything was all right and Edward had talked her into letting him have a second helping of that stodgy steak and kidney pie. That might have been a contributory factor but it wasn’t the root of the problem, just helped to highlight it.

  ‘Don’t you go getting up on a soapbox,’ she urged, rather nervously, as they stepped out into the hot sunlight and headed back towards their chalet. ‘You saw what happened to that fellow at the donkey race. Ended up in hospital, I don’t doubt. These camp policemen won’t stand for that sort of thing and who can blame them?’

  ‘We have to get the Word across.’ His speech was slightly slurred, he leaned against her. ‘They cannot suppress the Word of God. If they stone us then we must suffer as Christ suffered on the cross.’

  And that was when Margaret Holman became very frightened.

  ‘Well, are you comin’ or aren’t you?’ Billy Evans stood by the door, overcoat buttoned, scarf wrapped around his neck and tied in a muffler knot, cap pulled down till the peak was almost hiding his eyes. His face was shiny with sweat, his galoshes squeaked on the floor as he fidgeted with his feet. ‘C’mon, Val, shake yerself!’

  Valerie Evans started in the chair, sat up suddenly, instinctively groping for the carrier bags by her side, grabbing at them; after the food was gone there might not be any more.

  ‘Hang on, Billy.’ She sat upright, undecided. Afraid. ‘Another five minutes won’t make any difference. Put the kettle on and let’s ’ave a cuppa before we go.’

  ‘Bugger the tea,’ he snapped, ‘if it wasn’t for you I’d’ve been gone hours ago. Always the same, you are, fiddlin’ about over things that don’t matter at the last minute when we’re goin’ out. You was even late for our weddin’, remember?’

  ‘It’s a woman’s privilege to be late,’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, d’you think it’s a good idea to go?’

  ‘Whatever d’you mean?’ His features suffused with blood. Damn Val, she was always one for changing her mind at the last minute. But not this time!

  ‘I think we’re wastin’ our time.’ She was staring straight ahead of her. ‘I mean, if everybody’s going south then there won’t be any room for us. And if we couldn’t get on a ferry we’d be left stranded. I reckon we’re better off stayin’ put.’

  ‘You silly old cow!’ He rattled the doorknob but didn’t turn it. ‘If we stop ’ere, we’ll die. Starve. Freeze. ’Cause there ain’t no more food left and we won’t be able to keep warm. I’m already out of fifty pences for the meter but ’ow long before the electricity runs out for good? There aren’t any power workers left, the
y’ve gone south along with everybody else.’

  ‘All right,’ she sighed loudly. ‘Nip round to the garage then and fetch the car. I’ll be ready the moment you get back.’

  ‘You’re bloody thick!’ he snarled. ‘Fetch the bleedin’ car! The snow’s that deep I wouldn’t be able to get it out of the garage, and even if I could the roads are all drifted. Use yer brain, we’re goin’ on foot like everybody else.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her expression was vague, her memory seemed to be troubling her a lot these days. It was all because of Billy, he had turned her into a vegetable over the years. The sooner she was without him, the better. ‘Tell you what, Billy …’ She pursed her lips the way she always did when she was deep in thought. ‘Suppose you go on ahead. Then when you’ve found somewhere warmer for us to live you can send me a postcard and I’ll come on. How’s that?’

  ‘You’re nuts,’ he laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the small room. ‘You’d die before the week was out for a start, like I’ve been tellin’ you. And even if you didn’t, there won’t be any postmen to deliver letters, so I couldn’t let you know. Now, come on, get up on yer feet and don’t let’s ’ave no more of these delayin’ tactics.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She struggled up, felt dizzy and had to hold on to the edge of the table. ‘If you say so then I guess we’d better go.’

  ‘That’s more like it …’

  As his fingers began to turn the Yale knob a sudden knocking shook the door, a frantic rapping on the opaque glass as though his fingers had triggered off some hidden device.

  ‘Bloody ’ellfire!’ Billy Evans recoiled, snatching his hand away. ‘Now who the bleedin’ ’ell’s this?’

  ‘Open the door and see,’ she snapped.

  Nervously his fingers went back to the small knob, twisted it with some difficulty. It needed oiling, he’d have to see to it. No, he wouldn’t, because they were leaving and that would be a waste of time. He clicked the lock, let the door swing inwards, and saw a tall dark-haired woman standing on the walkway outside.