by Andy Jarvis
“Why do people do this?” said Baz, rinsing his hand in a bucket.
“It’s for posterity,” I said. “So future generations will remove this boiler and wonder about the two lads that placed it here all those years ago.”
“Hey, how about a butt print? That’ll make them wonder! Say it’s for posterior-ity!”
“Better not. This’ll take a day or two to dry before we can bolt the boiler down to it. RJ will go up the wall if he saw it.”
“Yeah, he’ll probably complain that the cement’s got a crack in it.”
“Ha, nice one Baz! But I don’t think we should risk any more of RJ’s wrath, do you?”
“No, maybe not. Hey, we were lucky really.”
“I suppose,” I said, “if you count being five hundred quid out of pocket lucky. How could you be so dumb as to leave the glue lying about?”
“Me? You fixed the door remember; and you wiped it clean after.”
“Yeah, then I handed both the tube and cloth to you.”
Baz said nothing, but carried on working, tidying up the tools and washing shovels and trowels in buckets of water. We kept our voices down, wary that Reverend John was always nearby when we worked in the vestry. He appeared not long after we finished the trowel work.
Noticing our handprints he said, “The boiler will obscure that I assume?”
Assuring him that it would, he said, “I don’t really see the point then,” and opening the fire exit, he marched off down the cobbled lane, stopping briefly to examine the dry walling I’d done after Chorley’s collision. We watched as he stopped at the junction further down and turned into the road below Silas’ allotment, disappearing beyond a row of houses at the far end.
“Where do you think he’s going?” asked Baz.
“I wonder…maybe he’s going to go round to Silas and give him a good thumping.”
“I bet he could thump Harvey if he ever came around. He’s a strong bugger for his age, that one. Did you see Arden struggling with those books? And last night in the vestry he just threw them down like Hulk Hogan body slamming a lightweight. How old do you think he is?”
“He’s got to be seventy or so at least,” I suggested. “I was amazed when he said that the John Cannon in the Records was his father, when you consider that the baby was in the ground at least seventy years.”
I stood silently at the door for a minute, taking in some clean, cement free air while Baz made a brew. The late winter frost that had lifted that morning as we sat in Reverend John’s lounge, now settled again as night fell across Candlewell. A sliver of crescent moon hung in the deepening sky above tree and roof tops. March had come already, and although it had been delayed several times, our contract was nearing completion. The new boiler sat near the fire exit still on rollers and partially wrapped, awaiting its concrete base setting. The radiators were in place and the pipes had been laid, awaiting burial and the floor stones relaying. These we had left for now, unsure if Arden still wanted further access to the burial site.
We were lucky. Not just because we had got away with it without the cops being involved, but because Reverend John had forgiven us. That felt just as important to me. I wondered if the people of Candlewell would be so forgiving, knowing that we’d been digging around in their past without permission. Whether they would or not, I still felt that we didn’t know enough. We were trapped in that borderline area of no-man’s-land, having learned too much and not enough at the same time. Yet there was nothing I could do. I knew that Baz would want to talk about it as much as I did, but there lay the danger – getting Baz’s curiosity up to fever pitch once again. Still, I couldn’t help but mention it.
“There’s a lot we didn’t ask,” I said, as Baz joined me with the tea.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we still don’t know who this child is, do we?”
“Maybe Arden will find out.”
“Maybe, but how’s he going to prove anything without Isabel? I mean where is she? Look around the graveyard, Baz. There’s no Rankins buried here, never mind anyone called Isabel. And what about Silas and that mandrake, or the window in the church?”
“Look, do you want to go back and ask RJ?”
“No thanks.”
“Listen Ed, we’ve survived with our skin intact. We’ve another contract almost finished with a nice bonus and overtime to come. We’re still young, free and happy. Let’s just count our blessings and get back to enjoying life.” Baz paused for a few minutes as we stood watching the day disappear over the allotments. “Something’s still on your mind, isn’t it, bud? I can tell.”
“Yeah I know,” I said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s just that I feel something’s amiss. It’s like something’s tying me to this place, until everything’s right. Like when someone’s trying to persuade you of something, they grab hold of your arm, but not forcefully. They're just trying to emphasise their point of view. You feel like you should walk away, but can’t.”
“Of course there’s something tying us to this place. We have a boiler to finish installing, remember?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s something else. I like it here, Baz. It’s like the place itself is asking me to stay.”
“I know, just joking. I think I know what you mean, I feel it too. But what the hell, we can’t do anything about it, right?”
“Maybe not, but I feel…I feel like I don’t want to resist, almost like I should stay.”
Baz breathed a heavy sigh, finished his tea and went about the vestry checking everything before switching off the lights. He suddenly grabbed my arm from behind. “Hold it a minute, bud,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“Over there, far side of the allotment. Something’s moving, if I’m not mistaken.”
Sure enough, as Baz pointed, a shadow in the part moonlight flitted between the trees beyond the far boundary. It crouched behind the low wall, its head occasionally bobbing above as though looking about to check its solitude.
“Maybe it’s your beast again,” whispered Baz.
“That’s no beast, but a bloke, or I’m badly mistaken.”
“Silas, maybe?”
“No, it’s too big for Silas,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s the same shadow we saw sneaking about the graveyard last night. In fact, I’m bloody certain it is. I can tell by the movements. He tries to act like some animal, but I bet that’s just a ploy when he gets disturbed, pretending like.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know, but I bet he’s up to no good. I bet he’s some kind of poacher, or house breaker come in from the city for easy pickings, hiding out until everyone’s asleep. Or maybe…yeah that’s it. I bet he was after burgling the church last night until we came along. I can’t believe the audacity of the guy.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’ve got an idea. We pretend we’ve noticed nothing, like we’re finished for the day and walk down the lane around the corner then sneak back. With a bit of luck he might go for the church again in the meantime.”
We pulled the fire door shut leaving it unlocked, and marched off to some of Baz’s over the top I-haven’t-seen-anything-suspicious whistling.
Quietly as possible, we slung the tools into the back of the van and crept back up the cobbled lane, crouching below the wall.
The church was still shut. I peered over the wall and after what seemed an age the shadowy head bobbed back up. I signalled Baz to go back down to the gate and approach from the bottom of the field in a kind of pincer movement. Talk about cunning. Come here for easy pickings? Here’s two eastside city boys you hadn’t counted on, mate. You might not take the bait, but if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, I thought, as I scrambled over the wall.
I landed stealthily on all fours, then threw myself belly down between rows of old broccoli stalks. I tied a few sprigs in my hair and blackened my face all SAS-like with what smelt suspiciously like not too well rotted horse shit.
Between the stranger’s head bobs and scratching I trundled along ape-like, occasionally bellying out trying to look as vegetable-like as possible.
I reached the far side. I heard the shuffling, scratching, digging. I imagined the local headline...and possible reward. I leapt the low wall and landed face down onto a small compost heap.
A heavy weight crashed down upon me, locking a forearm around my neck with a hammer hold to my left arm, wrenching it up to my shoulder blade, leaving me thrashing and pounding the earth with my free right arm like a wrestling referee giving a mandatory three count.
“You fight like a sissy,” hissed the voice through clenched teeth. A strange combined smell of old leather and unfamiliar herbs filled my nostrils.
“Gerr…off!” I squeaked, almost choking.
“You will have to be swifter than that to capture me, my friend. You would not survive two minutes in the wild. Even the fox cubs would eat you alive.”
He released his grip only to follow it up with a short, sharp elbow to the back of the head. “Gayboy,” he hissed, sprinting off between the trees.
“Ed, Ed…where are you?” Baz whispered loudly from somewhere nearby.
“I’m here, dumbass!” I yelled. “Where the hell were you?”
The shadowy form of Baz jogged high footed in and around the tree roots and ruts, flapping his arms as he approached. He hovered over me still flapping like some demented, curly headed Batman. “I couldn’t tell where you were, how far along the wall, until I heard all the scuffling. What happened?”
“He jumped me, okay?”
“I thought we were supposed to do that?”
“We were, only you weren’t there for backup. Christ’s sake Baz, I needed some rearguard action.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about that.”
“Fuck you, alright? Just fuck you.”
“Sorry mate, not the time or place, is it? Are you okay, who was he anyway?”
“How the hell should I know who he was? He’s hardly going to introduce himself as the local cat burglar and leave his name and number, is he?”
Baz pulled me up to my feet with a hefty yank of the one arm that didn’t nearly get ripped out. “What did he say, did he speak?”
“He said…oh nothing. I couldn’t make it out.”
“Ed? What the fuck have you got in your hair?”
“Broccoli stalk, I think.”
“Really? I always thought you were more of a fruit than a veg…sorry.”
“No. Definitely not, it’s veg, right. In fact, neither, just broccoli stalks, okay?”
“Okay. Is that how you’re supposed to stalk someone?”
“Very funny…not.”
“And you stink like shit.”
“Look, let’s just go get a shower and have a pint, alright?”
“Not too many though. Penance in the morning, remember?”
8.
We had too many. We celebrated our lucky escape from the wrath of Reverend John by drinking, arguing and bragging about the encounter with the prowler late into Saturday evening. In the morning the first peel of St. Mark’s bell was like gunfire through my head.
“Hey, sleepyhead!” I yelled, diving into Baz’s room and shaking him roughly. “Did you set the alarm or what?”
We were up and ready in a flash. Not the prettiest of sights. We don’t usually expect to be attending a church service on a working weekend, or any other time for that matter. But with polished boots, clean pants, a couple of McBright’s winter cardigans and a tie each borrowed from the landlord of the Bell, we’d do.
The last of the congregation were just going in as we raced up the path. A brisk wind had picked up during the night, swirling a few bits of bracken and dry grave petals into an eddy as we approached the church door. Reverend John’s smile turned to stone as we approached. He said nothing; just gave us a hitch hiker’s thumb gesture to enter.
Inside the main entrance a young altar boy hung on for dear life as he swung on the bell ropes. A heavier man assisting stayed rooted firmly on the ground. I had to nudge Baz who giggled uncontrollably at the sight.
“Hey, I’m having a go on that after!” he whispered.
It was a full house. The late comers, including ourselves had to stand up at the back. Some of the congregation seemed surprised to see us, but most smiled approvingly or even shook our hands as though we’d just been converted. A few introduced themselves and asked about the heating, but nobody got uptight about the delays. There seemed to be a genuine warmth about the people that no mechanical form of heating could replicate.
Reverend John entered last, beckoning the altar boy by his name, Thomas, to retreat to the vestry. Then he came up to us, pointing along the aisle. “Front row you two,” he whispered.
“But it’s packed,” I said.
“I’ve reserved seats for you,” he gestured, giving us both a shove.
The bell stopped and a lady at the organ turned on her stool and smiled at us, then gently chimed in on the keys with some delicate hymn as we made our way up the aisle. Reverend John and Thomas both disappeared into the vestry, leaving the congregation sat in silence.
The cold of the pew seeped its way through my pants with a promise of numb buttocks before service was out. Baz twiddled his feet nervously. I craned my head around occasionally, wondering where Arden had got to. An empty space and prayer book next to me suggested the worst. “Where do you think he is?” I whispered. “What if he’s handing over the Records to Harvey right now?”
“Can’t do much about it if he is,” whispered Baz. “Just hope RJ doesn’t keep his promise to shop us all.”
Thomas emerged from the vestry first. He arranged candles at either side of the altar and prayer books on a pulpit to the right in front of the organ, then knelt briefly before the central crucifix before disappearing back inside.
The organ lady and another man appeared to be discussing the instrument, as he tinkered on the keys and argued with her in low tones.
“Well you’ll just have to keep hitting it, Mrs. Cass,” he said louder. “It should clear, it’s only a bit of damp, something that we’re just going to have to get used to, the way things are moving around here.” Then he gave us a half smile as he strode past me and Baz.
The church burst suddenly into sound; the pew beneath us vibrating in the crescendo as Mrs. Cass hit the keys hard for the intro of Immortal, Invisible it was called, according to our hymn books. Reverend John emerged from the vestry resplendent in white, with green and gold tabard. All stood singing as he walked out beaming with pride, holding aloft a gold crucifix followed closely by Thomas in white, they marched slowly down the aisle then back to the altar to Mrs. Cass’ soul stirring accompaniment.
The next twenty minutes seemed a low key affair compared to the time we heard Reverend John’s voice booming across town. Baz kept nodding and I had to nudge him every time we were to stand, kneel, pray or sing something, but especially when folk got up to recite from the gospels. All except for the one where Jesus tells one of his disciples to try casting his net on the other side of the boat and he gets this huge haul of fish. “Could have done with him on that Whitby trip, we got sod all,” he whispered.
Eventually Reverend John came to the front. He didn’t use the pulpit as I thought, but a wooden stand like a music conductor’s, to which he clipped his papers. He stood silent for a full minute, leafing through his notes and looking at the audience. He frowned briefly at Baz, who began to drift again, then back at the Flock.
More seconds passed. The congregation became stone silent. Reverend John waited until the very last cough and foot shuffle subsided. The air tingled.
Then he began softly: “It is said, according to Matthew 5:5, that the meek shall inherit the Earth.” Several more seconds passed.
“Whooo shall inherit the Earth!” he suddenly boomed, the word who reverberating through my ribcage.
Baz shot bolt upright.
“Will it be you?” Reverend John swu
ng to the right, pointing to a man in the second row, who fumbled nervously with a hymnbook.
“Or you?” he fired at someone directly behind me and Baz. Instinctively we ducked the invisible bullet.
“Will it be the good?” he continued, loudly smacking a fist into a palm. “Surely the good, will inherit the Earth. But good does not necessarily mean meek. To be good you must surely be strong. To resist temptation takes great inner strength. So will it be the good?” He snatched up his sermon papers and paced to the right.
“Or will it be the bad?” he said, pacing the other way. “From what I can see the bad are doing a pretty good job of inheriting. Grab, grab, grab! Take, take, take! Me, me, me!” he boomed, making grabbing gestures and pounding his chest.
“Or will it be the ugly?” he hissed, leaning forward, frowning, holding his hands half clenched like talons.
Mrs. Cass hit the keys to the opening bars of the famed spaghetti western theme and a ripple of laughter coursed through the congregation.
“The ugly, you see, are not the physically deformed. Nor are they the elderly, who grow old gracefully, accepting the ravages of time. They are the ones with the darkness in their hearts. They look just like you and me, no different. They work hard and have good jobs, perhaps, bringing up their children well, to be socially responsible adults even. They are good neighbours.”
Cue Mrs. Cass again, this time with a well known television soap theme. More giggles.
“They may look in on an elderly person living alone,” Reverend John said softly, returning to his stand. “They even come to church to pray. Model citizens every one, until they come home at night. They kiss their spouse, tuck the children into bed, have a nice relaxing drink. ‘How was your day dear? Oh fine, fine, darling – and yours?’ A picture of domestic idyll – a virtual Eden! Eden? But where is Eden?” he said, cupping one hand to an ear and leaning forward like a primary school teacher expecting a hand to go up in response.
