by Heide Goody
“I can’t see how that would make us any money,” said Bishop Dominic.
“Because we’re going to monetise it. You have men on the run all over the country. You can’t take a walk across Wales or the Highlands of Scotland without bumping into one every ten minutes. How much would they pay for a one-month breather and a ticket out of Fortress Britain? We’re talking tens of thousands of pounds.”
“Apart from the immorality of it all,” said Bishop Dominic, “it seems a ridiculous business model. Unbelievably ad hoc and so unlikely to be used.”
“Fixed with decent advertising,” said Clovenhoof. “A leaflet drop over every major prison in the UK with a map showing the location of your nearest church.”
“No, no, too unpalatable,” said the bishop.
“Idea three then. Best of both worlds. Relatively cheap. Definitely legal. You buy some old camera equipment and rig it up in the church and you let people know by word of mouth that a popular reality TV show is being filmed there.”
“Y-y-you…” bumbled Okra.
Clovenhoof wrote a ‘U’ on the board and drew more of the hangman.
“Nope.”
Poppy leaned forward. “You think a TV production company will be interested in producing a reality TV show –”
“A sympathetic television show,” put in the bishop.
“Yes, a sympathetic reality TV show about one of our church communities?”
“God, no,” laughed Clovenhoof. “Your Church is a shitty stick right now. No one will touch it, Poppy. I said you should tell the church members that there’s a reality TV show being filmed there. The cameras are just to convince them of the lie. It will bring the flock pouring back with the promise and hope of TV stardom.”
“Mmmm,” said Poppy doubtfully.
Clovenhoof put an ‘M’ among the other incorrect guesses and finished off the hangman’s scaffold.
“And on which of our churches do you propose to inflict this lie?” said Bishop Dominic.
“All of them, of course,” said Clovenhoof. “Every single one of them.”
Graham was shaking his head. “I just don’t see it. I don’t get it.”
“Oh, come on. It’s dead easy.”
“No. No.”
“Piss flaps.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Bishop Dominic, his voice and eyebrows shooting up.
“Piss flaps,” said Clovenhoof and filled in the final letters on the hangman. “And I thought I’d picked an easy one to start with.” He tutted. “Well, I have got one more idea I’d like to share with you this morning.”
“I sincerely hope it’s better than the others,” said the bishop.
Clovenhoof treated them to his widest and most devilish grin.
“It is,” he said. “And you will love it.”
Joan and Rutspud left Bishop Ken in the pub, mopping up the egg and grease from both his and Rutspud’s plates with a slice of bread and headed back for the mission society house where they might again hope to impress the importance of disabling or destroying the PrayPal app on Felix. Rutspud was wittering on about the apparent hilarity of the phrase ‘bashing the bishop’ but Joan wasn’t listening.
Her attention was taken by the angry crowd gathered outside the brick-built church next to the pub. There were dozens of people shouting and battering at the door and waving dubious placards.
No butts! Keep sex toys out of church!
Sandals not Scandals!
Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour’s Ass!
As they stood and watched, the door gave way and the crowd surged inside the church with a triumphant bellowing. Moments later a huge wooden pew crashed through a nearby window and out into the car park, stained glass skittering across the pavement as the pew splintered.
“It’s not even a Church of England church!” Joan exclaimed in exasperation. “It’s even got the words ‘Catholic’ in big letters above the door!”
“You can’t stop a mob with reasoned argument,” said Rutspud. There was a series of thudding noises that they felt through the ground. “What in Hell’s name…?”
“Step away,” said Joan.
Another window smashed, but this time, an enormous piece of statuary came through the glass, and wedged in place, teetering heavily on the bottom of the window.
“It’s Mary,” said Joan. “Well, not in person, of course, nobody knows where she is.”
“Well if that stone version of her comes down from there, she’s going to make a hell of an impact,” said Rutspud.
Joan was already running. She crashed through the door of the church and held her sword aloft.
“What do you all think you’re doing?” she yelled.
There was a group who were using another pew to try and tip the Madonna statue out of the window, and another group who were hurling prayer books, kneelers and altar paraphernalia around in a general attempt to mess the place up.
It took a few moments for the mob to hear Joan above the noise. She spotted Rutspud searching for something in a dark corner, then a spotlight blazed into life, illuminating her from above. Light glinted off her broadsword and a small but discernible gasp went up from the crowd.
“You are upset and you feel let down. I can understand that,” shouted Joan, “but this is not the way to make things better. You need to stop causing damage and endangering life. Good people don’t do those things, and I think you are all good people.”
Joan saw Rutspud cradling his head in his hands and shaking it gently, but the set of her jaw was firm. She had to believe in the innate goodness of people. Getting swept away with some sort of lynch mob mentality might explain what was going on here, but someone had to stop them.
“Will you join me now in stepping away from violence?” she asked the crowd. “Walk away from this and go home.”
There was a long, long moment where nothing happened. Joan really couldn’t gauge the mood of the crowd, but gradually there was something like a heartfelt sigh throughout the church and people dropped the things that that they’d picked up, instead of throwing them. As soon as they had changed their minds about the destructive rioting, there was an embarrassed and yet strangely polite scramble to get out. Everyone was silent apart from the occasional “no, after you”. The church took less than two minutes to empty completely, leaving Joan and Rutspud alone.
Joan heard sirens approaching. Her eyes met Rutspud’s and without speaking they both ran for the door and didn’t stop until they were well away from the church. Joan looked at Rutspud who held something in his hand.
“What’s that?” she asked.
He held out a rock, but when he turned it over Joan saw that it was the broken head of a gargoyle. Joan took it and held it alongside Rutspud’s head, comparing the two. Rutspud struck a pose and attempted his best film star pout.
“Uncanny,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Bishop Dominic Anyange scratched his grey bonce and looked at Clovenhoof down the length of the meeting table.
“And when you say you want to ‘buy us out’, you mean…?”
Clovenhoof gave him a stupid look. “I mean buy you out. You invited me here today because Okra knows you’re desperate. The Church is in dire straits. And I don’t mean you’re getting money for nothing. As a business enterprise, you were slowly going down the pan for ages and this – this!” He thrust his hands at the large window overlooking Pigeon Park and St Philip’s Cathedral through which one could faintly hear a mob of angry Christians – “This is the nail in your coffin.”
“That is a rash oversimplification and not at all true,” said Bishop Dominic.
“W-well, in truth, Your Lordship,” said Okra. “If… if w-we take a look at –”
“It is true?” said the bishop.
“Woolies. BHS. Carillion. You’re just the latest big business about to go under,” said Clovenhoof.
“And you’re offering to inject some funds in?” said Graham.
“I’m not investing, Graha
m. I’m not giving you my money to spend. I want to buy you out.”
“But we are not a company, Mr Clovenhoof,” argued Poppy. “We do not have shareholders. Our properties are not held by individuals or a family firm or a trust. The Church of England is an entity unto itself.”
“Piffle,” said Clovenhoof. “If a new church is built, that money comes from somewhere. The debts you have are marked against something.”
“The Church does own things it can sell,” said Graham, “redundant churches, halls, residential properties, tracts of farmland…”
“Yes, I want those,” said Clovenhoof. “And everything else.”
“E-e-everything else?” said Okra.
“Your buildings will become mine. Your employees become mine. Your intellectual properties, your processes, your traditions and copyrights: they all become mine.”
“But the Church of England sits at the heart of the worldwide Anglican church,” said Poppy. “Damn it all! It is the Anglican Church. Its communion stretches across six continents. It’s not just the ruddy Church of England.”
“Fine,” said Clovenhoof with a shrug. “Slice off the English bit – I’ll have that – and let the rest of the world get on being Anglicans without you.”
“There would be uproar,” said Poppy. “They wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Well, you say that,” said Dominic thoughtfully. “I can see some of the American Episcopalians and the African churches being quite keen for us to go our own way.”
“We are sort of like the embarrassing liberal hippy father,” nodded Graham.
“And what would your role be in the management of the Church?” asked Dominic.
“I’d be the CEO,” said Clovenhoof. “The boss, the managing director, the chairman of the board.”
“B-but that would make you the, well,” said Okra, “in truth, your role –”
“You want to be the Archbishop of Canterbury?” said Dominic.
“Fuck, no,” said Clovenhoof, disgusted. “I just want to own the thing. I don’t want to join. No, I’ll be appointing my own bishops.”
“But that’s the role of the monarch!” said Poppy.
“And is that for sale too?” asked Clovenhoof. “I’d look good in a crown.”
Dominic laughed. It was a laugh like a rush of air from a fizzy pop bottle. He had to laugh or possibly explode.
“You have certainly been entertaining, Mr Clovenhoof, and I thank you for that. I suppose that you’re either one of those wealthy eccentrics we hear so much about or you’re rich enough to think that our time is worth wasting with a practical joke.” He stood and there was a clear authoritative finality in his body language. “Thank you for coming.”
Clovenhoof wasn’t budging. Time to break out the numbers. Despite his constant pretence otherwise, he was a former angel and one of the things angels excelled at was numbers. They were among the few entities that could count up to infinity.
“On the plus side, you are one of the largest landowners in the United Kingdom –”
“Th-that is apart from, a-and not limited to –”
“Yes, the National Trust have trounced you on that score and done better with quality tea rooms. You have property. You have investments. Although these are all, sadly, legal and ethical investments. You also have a hardcore of committed members. Those are your pluses and worth hundreds of millions in the bank.” He took a big theatrical sigh. “But then there’s those minuses. Many of your churches stand empty and if you sell them they’ll only be converted into second homes in the country for wealthy arseholes. Your personal stock is tumbling. Right now, no one wants your money. Your hardcore congregation is either dying of old age or currently waving angry placards. Your senior management has been decimated. Your leadership is gone. No cash, no credibility and no future.”
He dipped into his ultra-black smoking jacket and after struggling for a moment to see where the pocket was, pulled out a cheque book.
“I will buy it all. I will take on your debts and scandals and build a new shining city on the hill – well, on the waste ground behind the Boldmere Oak.”
Bishop Dominic’s face wrestled with itself, trying to know what to say.
“But why?” it eventually said. “You don’t strike me as a man of the faith.”
“Man? No. Of the faith? Absolutely. I think the Almighty above would be very… interested,” he grinned, “to see what I am doing right now. But as to why, let’s just say I will enjoy utilising the tax-free status that a recognised religion will bring.”
“Is that all?” said Poppy.
“Oh,” he added, “and did I mention I would be paying enormously generous management bonuses to compensate you as part of the buy-out?”
Back in the society mission kitchen, Felix (who was evidently warming to the notion of being kept in genial custody) was keen to show Joan and Rutspud the latest developments.
“Guys, you have no idea how it’s escalated,” he said.
“Oh, I think perhaps we have a bit of an inkling,” said Rutspud, as he carefully placed the gargoyle on the table.
Joan and Rutspud crowded around Felix’s screen as he showed them footage of rioting in churches up and down the country.
“Rioting’s a strange thing,” observed Felix. “It’s super contagious, like Ebola times ten.”
Joan watched in dismay as mounted police clashed with protestors at York Minster. “Once the first few churches were shown on the news being smashed up, it spread like wildfire. This one is odd, though. It’s not like the usual riots, where scumbags smash up JD Sports and steal trainers. Not much you can steal from churches.”
Live footage showed a man running through the streets of York carrying a silver chalice in each hand.
“People surely don’t believe an app can forgive them for all of these things,” Joan said.
Felix turned to her. “I don’t know what you think forgiveness is.”
“It’s the absolution of sin,” she said.
He made an unconvinced noise. “You do know that some of us don’t believe in sin. And when I say ‘some of us’, I do mean most people.”
“How can you not believe in sin?” she said.
“Quite easily,” said the programmer. “It’s just some bollocks made up by religious types to make people feel bad about themselves and to keep order in our guilt-based society.”
“So, you don’t believe these people are doing anything wrong?”
“Wrong?” Felix blinked and pushed the hair away from his eyes. “There are things society doesn’t approve of and there are things that are against the law. Right? Wrong? These are just words. Now, I’m perfectly able to forgive someone but that just means I put aside my anger.”
“For a man who wrote a forgiveness app, you sure don’t buy into the forgiveness business,” said Rutspud.
Felix placed a finger on the image of the man in York with the stolen silver. “I forgive him.” A police officer ran from off screen, tackled the man around the waist and dragged him to the ground. “He’s still going to prison.”
Joan wanted to say that she was in favour of forgiving everyone, that punishment in general, particularly the kind that was meted out by Hell was, by and large, pointless. And then she thought about the vile Claymore Ferret and his ilk who had caused so much upset and distress in the Celestial City.
“There does have to be justice,” she said. “Now, if your app could provide forgiveness and the appropriate penance as well…”
“Penance?” said Felix. “As in – what? – a bunch of hail Marys?”
Joan grimaced. “I think hail Marys might not be sufficient for some of these people.”
Felix tapped rapidly on his laptop and bewildering lines of gobbledegook scrolled past. It seemed to interest Rutspud greatly.
“Are you doing that?” asked Joan. “Are you making them pay?”
Felix nodded. “Yes, I think we can do that.”
Joan looked at the gargoyle on the
table. “Keep an eye on them for me,” she said, patting it on the head as she left the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
A mere five days after sealing the deal to buy out the ailing Church of England, Clovenhoof was ready to show the world his vision.
He pulled aside the little curtain so that the journalists assembled in the presidential reception hall (the downstairs bar of the Boldmere Oak) could feast their eyes upon the scale model for the spiritual heart of his new empire. The model church stretched across a table that could have hosted a five-a-side tournament. Outside, builders clattered noisily as they assembled the materials to make it a living reality.
Clovenhoof’s team of designers, engineers and feng-shui consultants had worked through coffee-fuelled days and drug-fuelled nights to create this model. When Clovenhoof had reviewed it this morning he’d tweaked it a little bit so that it would make the maximum impact. He’d jacked up the middle bit by inserting house bricks from underneath, and he’d given the side of the building some rakish dragon wings formed from rows of beer mats. The overall effect was of a slumbering dinosaur lying on a coloured box. Clovenhoof had insisted that traditional stained glass was too restrictive. He demanded that the architects work out something with lasers or somesuch so that he could change the designs and colours at will. He’d also decided that the traditional single spire just wasn’t enough. He wanted six. Bells would be put in one of them, to satisfy the traditionalists. The second would contain a cinema. At least one of them would contain an exhibition space. He’d already pencilled in ‘Smoking jackets through the ages’.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been invited here today to witness the launch of the Hooflandian Church. This will be the new seat of power for the Church of England, which I now own.”
“Is this a stunt, Mr Clovenhoof? Surely you can’t own the Church of England?” asked a blonde woman who pushed a microphone forward.
“I do own the Church of England,” he said. “Call it a stunt if you like, but quite honestly, a stunt’s only really a stunt if there’s bodily functions involved. I can demonstrate once we’re done here with a quick blast of Oops I did it again.”
