by Ian Sansom
'"So Peter and the other set out and made their way to the tomb,"' continued the reverend. '"They were running side by side, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first." They are racing to seek the truth about the Lord whom they love,' he glossed. 'They cannot wait. You will know, perhaps, the film Chariots of Fire, the story of the great athletes Eric Liddell and Harold Abrahams and their desire to run after the prize. "He peered in"'–and at this point the Reverend Roberts himself peered in behind the cardboard tomb–'"and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but did not enter."' The reverend lifted up what looked like bath towels from the floor.
'"Then Simon Peter came up, following him, and he went into the tomb." It doesn't tell us, brothers and sisters, but I believe that Simon Peter would have rushed into the tomb! I don't think he would have walked in! He would have run!'
The Reverend Roberts had one arm raised aloft.
Israel could sense the excitement among the congregation; the story seemed to be reaching its conclusion.
'"He saw the linen wrappings lying, and the napkin which had been over his head, not lying with the wrappings but rolled together in a place by itself." He knows that something's not right here. Something has gone wrong,' said the reverend, speaking quietly now.
'"Then the disciple who had reached the tomb first went in too"–he has plucked up the courage now, he is prepared–and he saw, "and believed" is what the Scriptures tell us, brothers and sisters. He believed, instantly that he had seen. "Until then they had not understood the scriptures, which showed that he must rise from the dead."'
'Now this is the message of Easter,' said the reverend, his voice rising. 'The empty tomb, my friends! This is the day that death died. This is the heart of the matter for us as believers, as Christians. If it is true–and we believe it is true–then we can be sure that God exists. With this, doubt vanishes! Through the resurrection Jesus demonstrates that He was who He proclaimed himself to be: the Way, the Truth, the Life. This is the very heart of what we believe.'
There was a quiet murmuring of assent from all around.
Israel was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable.
The reverend had been standing in the mouth of the huge cardboard tomb as he spoke, and he then stepped back and pulled the papier-mâché boulder across the entrance.
There was silence for a moment in the church. Then, suddenly, the boulder rolled forward from the tomb's entrance, down a few steps and down the central aisle of the church, and the cardboard tomb started to topple forward and people in the congregation began to stand up in shock.
The man in the crackling polyester suit moved forward, but too late: the cardboard tomb fell down flat, making a noise like a stable door shutting.
'Holy fuck!' cried one shocked and unholy congregant, who was loudly and violently shushed, but who clearly expressed what everyone else was thinking.
For there at the front of the church was revealed: nothing.
The Reverend Roberts had disappeared.
Israel was stunned. He'd never seen anything like it in his life.
The organist kicked in with 'Now Let the Vault of Heaven Resound', and then there were final prayers, and the service came to an abrupt end, followed by an undignified rush towards tea, coffee and biscuits in the church hall out the back, where the Reverend Roberts had now miraculously reappeared and stood surrounded by old ladies in hats and men in grey suits, and he was booming and laughing away like he was the risen Lord Jesus Himself.
Opinions seemed to be sharply divided about Reverend Roberts' vanishing trick.
One man was jabbing his finger at him.
'God is angry with the wicket!' he was saying. 'Angry with the wicket.'
'Unless a man be born again he cannot enter the kingdom of God,' added another man.
'I agree,' said the Reverend Roberts.
'Acts 18!' he was saying loudly at the Reverend Roberts. 'The Christians renounced magic and the demonic arts.'
'It's not magic,' boomed the reverend. 'I—'
'Beware the serpentine foe of compromise with the world,' interrupted the man.
'Abstain from every form of evil,' said the other.
'I shall,' said the Reverend Roberts, who was taking it all in good part.
'1 Thessalonians,' said the man.
'Chapter 5,' said the other.
'Yes,' said the Reverend Roberts. 'Verse 22.'
The two men looked unimpressed.
'How did Jacob deceive Isaac?' one of the men continued.
'"He dressed in Esau's clothes,"' said the other.
'"Cloths",' corrected the Reverend Roberts.
'"Cloths",' continued the man, '"and wore kid skins and brought him savoury meat from two kid goats in order to deceive Isaac."'
'Indeed,' agreed the Reverend Roberts. 'But I was not intending to deceive. It was a demonstration, merely of—'
But the two men had tired of the reverend's justifications and shook their heads and moved away, only to be replaced by other men and women wishing to congratulate and debate with him.
Israel stood quietly eating biscuits–good quality biscuits, actually, maybe bought specially for Easter–and eventually the crowds dispersed and the reverend spied Israel.
'Israel!' he called.
'Yes,' said Israel, going over, not quite sure how you were supposed to greet a minister after a sermon. 'Well done! That was very…entertaining.'
'Ho, ho, ho!' boomed the reverend.
'So, how the hell did you do it?'
'My disappearance?' said the reverend. 'I couldn't possibly tell you. Or I could tell, but then I would have to kill you! Ho, ho, ho! No, seriously though. I'll give you a clue: it can only work here in a Baptist church.'
Israel took another bite of his chocolate biscuit–his fifth–and looked blank. 'Why?'
'Because…' said the Reverend Roberts. 'Come on! Baptists? Why are they called Baptists?'
'I don't know,' said Israel.
'Baptism?' said the Reverend Roberts.
'What, the little…?' Israel had in mind the kind of stone font at the back of a church.
'No. Not a font!' The reverend laughed. 'No! The Baptists have the full immersion.'
'Do they?' Israel had never come across that before. He didn't mix much with Baptists back home in north London; certainly no Baptist had ever declared themselves to him.
'Yes!' said the reverend. 'In a pool.'
'What, a swimming pool?'
'Yes, well, more like a large bath actually. At the front of the church.'
'Really?'
'Yes. Under the stage. You have to be careful not to slip, you know. And with the microphone, it's very dangerous.'
'Dangerous?'
'Water and electricity. People have died.'
'Bloody hell. Really?'
'Yes. In church.'
'That's ironic, isn't it?'
'God moves in mysterious ways,' agreed the reverend.
'So there's a mini swimming pool at the front of the church?'
'Yes: no water in it today though. Didn't bring my trunks! Ho, ho, ho!'
'I see,' said Israel, finishing his biscuit. 'So it was all a set-up?'
'Of course!' The reverend laughed. 'What, did you think it was magic?'
'No! Of course not,' said Israel. He had wondered though; he'd read that Keith Thomas book, Religion and the Decline of Magic, when he was at college–good book. Couldn't remember anything about it.
'Do you always do novelty vanishing tricks in your services?'
'Not at all! Sometimes I do juggling!' The reverend laughed and laughed. 'No, no, but seriously. It's good to have some visual aids. It's a trick of the trade.'
'Isn't it a bit odd, though, having magic in a service?'
'Not at all! All things counter, original, spare and strange.'
'Sorry. What's that?'
'Gerard Manley Hopkins? I thought you'd studied English literature?'
'Yes, I did, but I did, erm…
you know, a lot of twentieth-century American stuff.'
'Ah! Chandler? Spillane? Dashiell Hammett?'
'No, it was more Donald Barthelme.'
'Oh. Well. But what was Jesus, after all?'
'Sorry, is that another quote?'
'No! It's a question! What was Jesus?'
'The Son of God?' said Israel.
'No!' The reverend Roberts laughed. 'He was a wonderworking rabbi, wasn't he?'
'Was he?'
'At the very least,' said the reverend. 'At the very least.'
'Right.'
The Reverend Roberts was clearly getting onto a hobby horse here. He had a glint in his eye.
'Also, Israel, in your Hebrew Bible, you know, there's lots of–what shall we say?–jiggery-pokery. Burning bushes, talking donkeys. God wasn't shy of making His point, was He? Even He needs His gimmicks. Abracadabra, it's from the Hebrew.'
'Is it?'
'Oh, yes. It's very popular among the clergy these days, magic.'
'Really?'
'Unicycling as well, very popular. There's a bishop over in England who specialises in turning water into—'
'Wine?' said Israel. 'That's very good.'
'No, no, no!' said the Reverend Roberts. 'Even better than that! He turns wine into a sparkling non-alcoholic celebration beverage!'
'Sorry?'
'Shloer,' said the reverend. 'Isn't that fantastic! Unlike this coffee,' he added, leaning down towards Israel, 'which tastes like gnat's piss.'
'Yes,' spluttered Israel.
'But my friend,' said the reverend, putting his arm round Israel's shoulder, 'enough about me, how are you?'
Living in Tumdrum Israel had become accustomed to no one asking or being particularly interested in how he was; in fact, he'd almost lost interest himself, and found it increasingly difficult to gauge, though given the events of the past twenty-four hours he had no difficulty in finding the right word to describe how he was feeling at the moment.
'Terrible,' he said.
The reverend was strolling with him over to the door.
'More overdue books?'
'No, God, bloody hell, no–oops, sorry.'
'No offence taken.'
'No, I mean, it's much worse. I have a, er, a missing persons problem of my own to solve at the moment,' said Israel.
'Oh, yes?'
'You know about Mr Dixon?'
'Should I know?' said the reverend.
'He's disappeared.'
'What, Mr Dixon from Dixon and Pickering's?'
'Yes.'
'Oh.'
'And there's been a big robbery there.'
'Really, when was this?'
'Yesterday,' said Israel. 'Yesterday morning.' It seemed like a lifetime ago.
'Paramilitaries?'
'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I'm trying to find out what's happened.'
'Ah! Playing detective again?'
'Not exactly. The police think I may have had something to do with it.'
They were descending the steps at the front of the church.
'You!' The Reverend Roberts laughed.
'Yes, me,' said Israel.
'Ho, ho, ho!' laughed the reverend.
'What?'
'That's very funny.'
'Why?'
'Well, you're a librarian, Israel!'
'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'But they took me in and arrested me. I'm out on bail.'
'Goodness me! Bound with fetters of brass and taken to Gaza!' said the Reverend Roberts.
'Uh-huh.'
'Oh dear, dear, dear. This is grave news indeed.'
'Yes.'
'I know him quite well, actually,' said the reverend.
'Mr Dixon? Really? Do you?'
'Yes. Methodist. Very good-living people, the Methodists. Wouldn't give them houseroom. Ho, ho, ho!'
'How do you know him?'
'Through the North Antrim Society of Magic.'
'The what?'
'He's a brilliant magician. Takes it very seriously.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes. You should probably speak to Walter Wilson. The Wonderful Wilsoni. He and Mr Dixon are old magic friends–go back a long way. You should definitely speak to him. He might have an idea, you know, where to start on your—'
'Inquiry.'
'Precisely. See, you've picked up the lingo–you'll be fine!'
They were standing outside the church. Israel was looking at the empty space where he'd left Brownie's bike.
'My bike!'
'What?' said the reverend.
'I left my bike here.'
'It's not here now.'
'No,' said Israel. 'God! Who'd steal a bloody bike from outside a church. Jesus!'
'I doubt it,' said the reverend.
'Sorry, it's just…'
'It's fine.'
'I've got to…I've only got a week to prove my innocence,' said Israel.
'I'm sure it won't take that long,' said the reverend.
'But if I can't get around anywhere.'
'Well, I would offer to give you a lift, but'–the reverend checked his watch–'I'm afraid I have to meet some of the elders of the church, who are very keen to talk to me, as you may imagine, after my sermon.'
'Yes, of course,' said Israel, desperately trying to think what he needed to do next, and how to get there, and who was going to help him. 'What's the time?'
'It's half past twelve.'
Israel groaned.
'Is there a problem?'
'No. No problem. Just…Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I need to ring someone.'
9
'The old team, then,' said Ted, when he arrived, triumphant, in his cab to pick up Israel.
'Yes.' Israel was trying to remember Mr Wilson's address.
'Half twelve, didn't I say?'
'Yes, Ted.'
'There you are then. I'll not be hanging around today, mind. I've choir this afternoon,' said Ted.
'You sing in a choir?'
'No, I play trombone in the choir: what do you think I do in a choir?'
'I—'
'In the name of God, man, are you daft in the head?'
'No. Erm. Thanks. Yes. It's just…'
'What?'
'You don't strike me as the kind of person who would sing in a choir,' said Israel.
Ted's shaven head bristled at this: veins stood out on his bull-like neck. 'Aye, right,' he said. 'And you don't strike me as the kind of person who'd be arrested on suspicion of robbery and kidnap and unable to dig hisself out of the flippin' hole he's gotten into, but.'
'OK, fair point, yes. Sorry.'
'I should think so.'
'So what is it, a church choir?' said Israel.
'Not at all,' said Ted. 'We're a male voice choir.'
'I thought they were Welsh?'
'Aye, in Wales they are. That's just what you'd know.'
'Well, they are mostly Welsh though, aren't they?'
'Aye, and to a worm in horseradish the world is horseradish.'
'What?'
'It's a saying.'
'Meaning?'
'It's a small world to him that's never travelled.'
'Right.'
'If you'd ever been anywhere you'd know.'
'I've been to lots of places,' Israel protested. He'd been to France. Once. And Israel. And that was it, actually.
'You get choirs everywhere, you witless wonder,' said Ted. 'And we're over a hundred years old here–one of the oldest in Ireland, north or south. Started out with the fishermen, like, once it was into winter, and they'd laid up their nets, and most of them didn't take a drink, but, so they formed the choir. And that's us.'
'Very good,' said Israel doubtfully.
'We're world-famous, you know.'
'Uh-huh.' Israel was looking out of the window at the desolate housing estates they were passing through: what did a paramilitary mural do to your house price exactly?
'We're away over to Slovenia in the summer for a competiti
on,' said Ted. 'And last year it was South Africa.'
'Really? You're going to Slovenia?'
'Aye.'
'And you went to South Africa?'
'Aye.'
'You're not winding me up?'
'We came second in South Africa. Greece we were in a couple of years ago. They've some lovely singing in Greece.'
'That's amazing. From here, the Tumdrum choir?'
'Aye. That's right. Stick up your snoot at us.'
'My snoot?'
'Aye. Your nose.'
'I'm not sticking up my nose at you.'
'Aye. Well.'
'I'm very interested in your choir, Ted.'
'You are, are ye? Well, you're very welcome to come along.'
'Erm…'
'You're not a bass, by any chance? We're short of a bass.'
'No, I don't think so. I've got my hands, er…'
'Aye, well, you don't look like a bass.'
'Thanks.'
'You look more like a castrato.'
'Thanks.'
'I'm telling you, boy. You still need a haircut, tame that fuzz. Any longer you'll be lookin' like a woman.'
Israel had rather hoped he was looking more like Bob Dylan.
Ted dropped him off at Mr and Mr Wilson's house, up at Ballyrankin, which was one of the constellation of stained 1970s concrete estates that fringed Tumdrum like claggy on a sheep's arse; since living here Israel had actually seen the claggy on a sheep's arse, so he felt he could speak authoritatively on the subject. Each house up at Ballyrankin looked exactly the same: it was as though you were looking at a street wallpapered with houses. The Wilsons' house sat slap in the middle of a long repeat-pattern.
Israel rang the doorbell.
An old lady opened the door. She was wearing a cardigan with a Scotty-dog brooch, and a pinny. As far as he could remember Israel had never seen anyone wearing an actual pinny before, except in television dramas. Like many of the women Israel had come across in Tumdrum she also wore a machine-knit sparkly cardigan, and also like many of the women Israel had come across in Tumdrum she seemed both hugely distracted and desperate to talk.
