‘What was that?’
He raised his voice. ‘Nothing.’
Reggie looked thoroughly put out. ‘And you can talk! Leaving the house permanently stinking of Chinese food.’
‘In my family we just call it food,’ responded Ox.
‘Oh, how lovely – my final moments and you mock me. Bloody typical.’
‘Would you calm down? You don’t have to make everything into a …’
Ox stopped as he looked down and noticed Hannah for the first time. ‘Do you mind, love? This is a private conversation.’
Hannah looked between the two men before pointing at Reggie, up on the roof. ‘He … He’s going to kill himself.’
Ox nodded with a mouth full of crisps. ‘Yeah, but almost all of the world’s major religions believe that death is not the end, so, y’know …’
‘But …’
Reggie spoke again. ‘Please, sweet lady, spare yourself this scene. I could not forgive myself if my passing scarred you for life.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Ox. ‘You’re still very much in the splatter zone there, sweetheart.’
‘You are such an uncouth beast.’
‘I’m just saying. She’s got a nice suit on. She might be off to something important. She doesn’t want your blood and guts all over her best rags.’
Reggie shook his head in disgust. ‘Ignore him, but please do be on your way.’
Hannah looked at him and then at her phone. Even as she spoke, the words coming out of her mouth – said to a man standing on a rooftop – seemed so surreal. She felt as if she were watching herself from the outside.
‘Well, ehm … You don’t know where The Stranger Times is, do you?’
Ox laughed. ‘Job interview, is it?’ He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Grace, have you got someone coming in to be the new Tina?’
Hannah could hear another voice yelling back but couldn’t make out what was said.
‘Yeah,’ replied Ox. ‘She’s currently in Reggie’s flight path.’
Something else was shouted, in a noticeably more forceful tone.
‘All right, all right. How is this my fault?’
The voice inside snapped for a third time.
‘OK, relax.’ Ox looked down at Hannah again. Oddly, he only now seemed worried. ‘You’re in the right place, love. Front door is around the corner.’ He jerked his head in Reggie’s direction. ‘Lucky you – we’re about to have an opening.’
‘You are an utter, utter bastard, Ox,’ howled Reggie.
‘Ah, what? Am I not allowed to grieve in my own way? You’re always telling me what to think.’
‘I wasn’t. I was merely pointing out that—’
Hannah looked at the phone in her hand and then blurted out, ‘Should I call somebody?’
‘For what?’ asked Ox.
Hannah gave an upwards nod in the suicidal man’s direction.
‘Ah, don’t worry. This situation is under control.’
Reggie scoffed. ‘That’s what you think!’ He then turned to Hannah. ‘Off you pop, dear. Best of luck in your interview. Believe you me, you are going to need it.’
Hannah shifted her gaze between the two men. They both looked down at her with impatient expressions.
‘Right.’
She shoved her phone into her pocket and hurried down the pavement, glancing back a couple of times as she did so – if anything, to double-check she hadn’t imagined what had just happened.
She rounded the corner to find what must have been the church’s original entrance. Patterned into the brickwork of the porch were the words ‘Church of Old Souls’. Dangling beneath, at a precarious angle, was a sign that read ‘The Stranger Times’. Scrawled below that were the words ‘This is no longer a church. Please go bother God somewhere else.’
Sitting on a camping chair beside the door was a young man of about eighteen, with an expensive-looking camera dangling from around his neck. He was tall and skinny, his gangly frame emphasized further as he was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. On a day that called for at least three layers, he was two layers too few.
‘Hello!’
He leaped to his feet so quickly that his thick glasses fell to the ground.
‘Oops,’ he said in a cheerful voice. ‘Don’t worry. I got ’em, I got ’em.’
He scrabbled about on the ground, knocking over a Thermos and a pile of books in the process.
Hannah stepped forward and picked up the glasses before the man could crush them. She held them out. ‘Here you go.’
The young man’s hand wafted around in the air until it found Hannah’s. Clearly he was near blind without them.
‘Thank you very much.’ He sprang to his feet, his fingers holding his glasses in place this time. ‘Hello, again!’
Hannah winced as he snatched the camera from around his neck and took her picture.
‘Hi,’ said Hannah. ‘There’s a man around the corner there, threatening to jump off the building.’
The young man smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, there is. I noticed that too. Keeping your eyes open is an important part of being a journalist. Speaking of which …’ He snatched up a notepad from the table beside his chair and started scribbling. ‘What is your name and age?’
‘I’m Hannah, Hannah Drinkwater. Crap, I mean Willis. Hannah Willis.’
‘Right,’ he said, furiously scribbling away on his pad. ‘And your age?’
‘Well …’ She tried hard to make the rest of the sentence sound playful in tone. ‘That’s a bit rude, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? Oh God, it probably is, isn’t it?’ He drew himself up to his full height, smiled and extended his hand. ‘Hello, my name is Simon Brush. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
Hannah shook his hand. Up close, she could see that his skin was an unhappy testament to the cruelty of teenage years. He looked old enough to have got over the worst of it, but nobody had told his face.
‘Likewise.’
‘Now,’ he said, withdrawing his hand, ‘what was your age?’
Hannah stepped back and eyed his T-shirt. The slogan on it read ‘I work for The Stranger Times’.
‘Oh, you work here?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I am engaging in positive reinforcement. Dress for the job you want, so they say. So, y’know …’
‘Oh, right. I see. I’m here for an interview too.’
‘I’m not here for an interview,’ said Simon. ‘I’m not currently allowed to enter the building. To quote Mr Banecroft’ – he snatched up another of his notebooks and flicked through it to find what he wanted – ‘“under no circumstances is that forlorn four-eyed freak to be allowed in this building”. He has quite the flair for alliteration, doesn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, but that does seem rather mean.’
‘Oh no – y’see, this is like that scene in Doctor Strange when he wants to study at the temple but they won’t let him in, so he sits outside. That’s what I’m doing. I think Mr Banecroft is testing my resolve. I’m showing him my stick-to-it-ed-ness. My determination. This is my one goal in life, and I’m not going to stop until I achieve it. That’s why I’m practising my shorthand.’
‘Ah, OK. I see.’ Belatedly, the wording of the ad came back to her. No imbeciles, optimists or Simons need apply. Oh dear.
‘I’m doing everything I can to be ready when opportunity strikes.’ Simon pulled down on the hem of his T-shirt to show more clearly the message emblazoned on it. ‘See the goal. Be the goal!’
Hannah reread it and then paused, unsure of what to say next.
‘What?’ asked Simon.
‘Nothing. Only it’s, well …’
Hannah realized that, on first scan, her eyes had tricked her into seeing what she expected to be there, rather than what was actually there.
‘What?’ repeated Simon.
‘It’s just, your T-shirt – it’s missing an “e”?’
‘No, it’s …’ Simon looked down and read the wording upside down.<
br />
Hannah smiled awkwardly as he did so, already regretting pointing out the mistake.
‘I work for The Stranger Tims.’ Simon looked crestfallen. ‘Tims? What the …? Bloody dyslexia. I’ve been wearing this for weeks! Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
‘You’ve been here for weeks?’ asked Hannah.
‘Yeah. At least it’s stopped snowing – that was a rough couple of days.’
‘Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Simon slapped on a smile even bigger than the one he had worn previously. ‘Every failure is just an opportunity to succeed the next time.’
‘That has not been my experience,’ replied Hannah.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I should get going.’
‘Best of luck with your interview.’
Hannah smiled at Simon as she moved past him towards the front door. He stood there giving her two thumbs up, like a shivering monument to misplaced optimism.
The big wooden doors that opened on to what Hannah assumed was the nave of the church were firmly locked, but a rickety stairway beside them led to an upper level. The walls were damp, the paintwork flaking and faded. The fourth step from the top was broken and Hannah had to hop over it.
She stepped through a doorway into the reception area of The Stranger Times – a long, narrow room. At the far end a short, plump black woman sat behind the reception desk, typing furiously at a PC that still had one of the old, full-bodied monitors. Hannah hadn’t seen one of those in a decade. Foldaway metal chairs sat stacked in one corner, and a battered leather sofa that’d seen better millennia was pushed up against the wall.
The woman looked up and beamed a warm smile. ‘Hello, are you here for the interview?’
‘Yes, ehm, I’m Hannah Drinkwater – I mean Willis.’ Hannah glanced at her watch: twelve fifteen. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
The woman waved a hand in her direction. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. He hasn’t stirred yet. I’m Grace, the office manager.’
She extended her hand. Hannah moved across to shake it. She noticed a couple of framed pictures on the desk: one of Jesus and the other of Phillip Schofield. Grace had long painted nails, and jangly bracelets around each wrist, which gave every movement a musical accompaniment. She had a very warm, reassuring smile.
‘Take a seat. STELLA!’
The last word was screeched with such ferocity that Hannah jumped back involuntarily.
‘Sorry,’ said Grace. ‘Please take a seat – we’ll be right with you.’
Grace went back to clacking away at her keyboard. Hannah nodded and sat down on the sofa. It was one of those couches you sank into whether you liked it or not, which made it damn near impossible to find a comfortable way of sitting. She moved around, trying to find a dignified compromise, while the leather made embarrassing little parpy noises and her skirt rode up. Tufts of stuffing poked out of one of the holes in the upholstery.
‘Did you have any trouble finding the place?’ asked Grace cheerfully.
‘Oh no, I … Well, a bit … Actually, ehm, are you aware there’s a man trying to jump off your building?’
Grace didn’t even look up. ‘Well, it is Monday.’
‘Right.’
On her way to the interview at Storn that morning, Hannah had been so nervous she’d walked out in front of a car and been greeted by a screeching of tyres and some furious honking. She was beginning to consider the possibility that she’d died at that moment and everything that had happened since was, in fact, hell. It would explain a lot.
On the wall behind the sofa, some front pages of The Stranger Times were displayed in grotty frames. ‘Nessie Is the Father of My Child’ hung beside ‘Virgin Mary Halts Terrorist Attack’ and ‘Switzerland Doesn’t Exist’. Reading these made Hannah realize that she was criminally underprepared for the interview – she knew absolutely nothing about the job she was going for. The Stranger Times appeared to be a newspaper, although the word ‘news’ was something of a stretch.
Hannah jumped as Grace hollered ‘Stella!’ again.
There came a thump from behind the double doors opposite the sofa, followed by the sound of stomping feet on wooden floorboards. The face of a pretty girl, wearing a sour expression and topped with a head of badly dyed green hair, popped through the doorway.
‘What are you shouting at me for?’
Grace didn’t even move her head. ‘Because I need you for something.’
‘There’s no need to shout.’
‘If I do not shout, you do not come.’
The girl sucked her teeth. ‘Treating me like I’m some dogsbody, innit.’
‘That is exactly what you are, and don’t you suck your teeth at me, young lady.’
‘What? I can’t express myself no more? You want a robot?’
‘If it’d clean up its room, then yes. This lady is Ms Drinkwater—’
‘Willis,’ interjected Hannah.
‘Right.’
The young girl, who Hannah assumed was the hollered-for Stella, gave her an appraising look. ‘She tryna be the new Tina?’
‘Speak properly. And yes, she is. She’s got an interview with Vincent.’
Stella shook her head. ‘I give her two minutes.’
Grace stopped typing and glowered at Stella. ‘I did not ask for your opinion. I want you to show her through.’
‘I’m just keeping it real.’
‘How about you keep it zipped and do what you are asked?’
Stella rolled her eyes.
Grace rolled her eyes.
Hannah smiled nervously at them both, now feeling a whole different kind of uncomfortable.
Stella opened the door and stepped back. ‘Well, come on, then.’
Hannah stood, quickly brushed down her skirt, and followed Stella through the door.
‘Good luck,’ said Grace.
‘Thank you.’
What Grace said next was lost under the sound of Stella closing the door behind her with more force than was strictly necessary, but she could’ve sworn she heard the words ‘You’ll need it.’
Hannah found herself in a long hallway, with stained-glass windows down the right-hand side that threw explosions of colour across cardboard boxes piled haphazardly against the opposite wall.
She smiled nervously at Stella. ‘My mum and I always argued too.’
‘Yeah, cos all black people are related. Grace is my mum, Oprah is my auntie and Barack Obama is my cousin, yeah?’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …’
‘Whatever.’ Stella stomped down the hallway a few feet, and then stopped and turned around. ‘You don’t want to keep the boss waiting.’
‘Right.’
Hannah fell into step behind Stella as she carried on.
‘He’s a white dude, so he’s probably your brother or something.’
‘Honestly, I’m … It was just …’
‘Whatever, Maybe-new-Tina.’
Hannah guessed the girl couldn’t be much older than fifteen. She wore ripped jeans, Doc Martens, and the kind of pissed-off body language that could be read from space.
Hannah stumbled over a box of browning newspapers, which spilled out across the floor.
‘Careful, I is filing those.’
‘Sorry. So, ehm … when did Tina leave?’
‘I dunno, never met her. I’ve only met the seven or eight people who’ve tried to be the new Tina.’
‘But …’
‘Nobody has lasted long enough for anyone to remember their name.’
‘You mean …’
Stella held up her hand for silence; they had reached the end of the corridor. She stepped to the side and then leaned forward to knock loudly on the door three times.
A soft groan issued from inside.
‘Boss. We got someone wants to be the new Tina.’
No response.
‘Maybe now isn’t a good time,’ said Hannah.
/> ‘It never is,’ said Stella. ‘Count of three, I’m gonna open the door, you run in. My advice – stay low, move fast.’
‘What do you—’
‘One-two-three.’ Stella said it as if it were a single word before reaching across, grabbing the handle and throwing open the door in one swift motion. She leaned back quickly, as if she were expecting a torrent of water to come rushing out.
‘Should I—’
‘Go, go, go!’
Hannah moved inside and the door slammed shut behind her.
Dawkins IS God
A church has been formed in Lancaster based on the premise that well-known atheist Richard Dawkins is really the son of God. High priestess and part-time mobile hairstylist Veronica Clift, 41, says it makes perfect sense. ‘Revelations clearly states that only 144,000 people can fit into heaven, and the divine Richard is doing everything in his power to get the numbers of true believers down to prevent overcrowding.’
CHAPTER 3
Hannah found herself standing in what was technically a rather large office. The reason it was ‘technically large’ as opposed to ‘actually large’ was the number of box files and piles of newspaper that occupied almost every available space. The only light in the room came through the stained-glass windows, the sunbeams capturing the dusty air and giving the place a sense of dilapidated charm. While it might have been a delight for the eyes, it fared less well with the other senses – particularly smell. The stench was that of a compost heap that smoked sixty a day.
‘Hello?’
No response. Hannah stood still and listened. There seemed to be a soft snoring sound coming from the desk in the corner, but she couldn’t see its occupant thanks to the piles of books, files and general detritus that littered it. She tentatively took a step forward, careful to avoid the silver foil container, the contents of which might once have been from an Indian takeaway, but now appeared close to an exciting breakthrough in the field of biological warfare.
As she moved nearer and was able to see past the largest pile of files, a mop of hair came into view. It was lying on the desk, snoring loudly.
Hannah cleared her throat to no noticeable effect.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
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