by James Oswald
For all I felt uncomfortable with it, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by Mrs Jones’s devotion. It reminded me of my mother too much to be ignored. It’s easy to see why Daniel might have felt stifled there, and with no father figure growing up, he could easily have gone off the rails enough to run away. It’s also possible he fell victim to that unhappy scourge of the Catholic church, the priest a little too fond of his altar boys, and that’s why he jumped on a train to London and ended up near death in my bins. But both of those possibilities feel too easy. There’s more to this than meets the eye, and I can’t help myself from wanting to know the truth. Even as I know I’m going to regret searching for it.
If I remember it correctly, the All Saints is actually a Baptist hall, so an odd choice of venue for a good Catholic like Mrs Jones. Given some of the bands I saw there back when I was a student, it’s happy enough to take a booking from anyone. I drive around the back streets of Newington, past the police station where Janie Harrison and her enigmatic boss work, before finding somewhere to park my Volvo, and even then I have to pay a king’s ransom for the privilege. Edinburgh’s grown busier since I lived here.
The hall’s set back from the street, a stone edifice built in a time when religion trumped planning regulations and building control. It looks like it might have been designed by Alexander ‘Greek’ Thompson’s less talented half-brother, the faux-Doric columns framing its entrance all out of proportion to the rest of the frontage. As I approach, I can see a line of people queueing patiently to get in. I’d not thought a prayer meeting would be so popular, but then I’ve never understood the appeal of religion either.
As I approach the crowd, I hesitate. The dowdy clothes Rose helped me buy this morning would fit right in here, but I’m not wearing any of them yet. And my new wig, the most important part of my disguise, had not yet arrived when I left to visit Broxburn. Nobody’s paying me any attention right now, but that could change swiftly enough if anyone recognises me. Hood up, I skirt past the edge of the waiting crowd and head for the side entrance.
And that’s when I spot a flier advertising the meeting. From where I’m standing I can’t read any but the largest letters, and neither can I make out the picture of the priest, although I’d recognise him easily enough if I could. I sat drinking tea with him not all that long ago, after all.
The Reverend Doctor Edward Masters.
‘Are you waiting to go in? Only we’ll be starting in a moment.’
I’m staring at the flier from a distance, trying to work out why an African priest, head of his own church, would conduct a prayer meeting in Edinburgh. It doesn’t make sense, which is probably why the young man has managed to creep up on me. He reminds me of the chuggers in Euston station, dispensing platitudes and pressing leaflets into unwilling hands. He’s better dressed though, and a local lad by his accent.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The prayer meeting? The reverend doctor will be here very shortly.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ I feign ignorance, which isn’t as hard as it sounds. ‘No. I was just curious. Thought this was a Baptist hall.’
‘And so it is.’ The young man’s smile is as wide and tooth-filled as his sincerity. ‘But our faiths have far more in common than that which divides them.’
I think I’m going to be sick a little, but before my new friend can say any more, a commotion in the street draws both of our attentions. That same black Mercedes I saw outside the front door at Harston Magna Hall has drawn up directly outside the church, smaller vehicles in front and behind it like some presidential motorcade. Almost before it stops, a group of people swarm out of the cars. They are all dressed the same, in simple off-white clothes that look like designer uniforms commissioned by a mad supervillain. Some are acolytes, it’s clear, but I clock at least four as security, close in to the limo and helping their lord and master. Who knows, they may be true believers in the Church of the Coming Light, but I suspect they’re motivated more by a fat pay cheque than any salvation. They’re taller and broader than the others, and their eyes are everywhere, sweeping the concourse for any sign of trouble. One focuses on me, his angry frown a worry until I realise he can’t see me properly with my hood up. I ignore him and instead concentrate on the man they’re protecting.
Once again he’s wearing a black suit that might well have been exquisitely and expensively tailored, but only when he was a younger and smaller man. As if the word of the Lord were filling him to bursting, he has expanded outwards over the years until a point where his clothes can barely contain him. He moves with a surprising, fluid grace, working the crowd of people like any rock star or Hollywood darling. Back at Harston Magna Hall, he was impressive but quiet, as if the ancient stones somehow cowed him. Either that or he felt no need to work the crowd when it was only my mother. Now there’s power radiating off him. It’s something I’ve noticed with a few men – and they’re always men – who have reached the top and know for a certainty it is where they are meant to be.
‘I have to go now. The reverend doctor needs me.’
I startle at the young man. Such is Masters’ presence, I’d completely forgotten him. With a shudder, I drag my attention away.
‘Sure. Thanks.’ It’s about as much as I can manage.
‘Will you be joining us?’ he asks, and for a moment I’m almost tempted. I could sit at the back and see what all the fuss is about.
‘No.’ I shake off the last of the spell. ‘Not my cup of tea.’
I turn and walk away, surprised to find that I’m shaking slightly. A cup of tea wouldn’t be a bad idea at all. Or maybe something stronger. That and surrounding myself with people who aren’t moved by religious fervour. Normal folk. I take a quick look around to remind myself of this part of town, dredge my student memories, and then I make a beeline for the nearest pub.
I don’t get all that far.
There’s hundreds of pubs within shouting distance of where I am, but I’ve only gone a few dozen metres before I stop. Something about Masters and his entourage put me on edge, drove me away. That blind instinct of flight is hard-wired and difficult to resist when it hits you. I wasn’t prepared for it, but I am now. And I’m intrigued.
Turning back towards the main road, I notice a side door to the hall, propped slightly ajar as if to let the air flow. I can’t help myself from going to have a closer look. The door opens onto a short, dark corridor, empty save for a small stack of chairs. There are toilets on each side for the congregation, and the far end is closed off from the hall beyond by a heavy black curtain. I know full well I shouldn’t be here, but on the other hand I’m not exactly breaking and entering.
As I approach the curtain, I begin to hear voices. I can see a line of light painted across the floor and wall where there’s a slit in the fabric. Scarcely daring to breathe, I inch closer and peer through. The main hall is laid out with more of the same chairs that are stacked behind me, most of them occupied, the people in them transfixed by the man doing all the talking. Edward Masters has abandoned the podium set up in the middle of the stage and is pacing back and forth, hand-held microphone to his face like a stand-up comedian. There’s nothing funny about his words.
‘. . . rain down fire and brimstone on their heads. He will smite the unworthy, and they will burn in the fires of Hell.’
I scan the backs of the assembled heads, then freeze as a figure moves past the curtain right in front of me. For a moment I think I’ve been rumbled, hope that I can get out of the door and leg it down the street before I’m dragged inside. Then I recognise the off-white material of the uniform worn by Masters’ acolytes. This close, I can see the rough weave of it, some kind of sackcloth or similar. And then the figure walks away, white ankle socks on his sandalled feet. Adjusting my position to take in more of the room, I can see others from the entourage circling the audience like teachers at assembly. Like prison guards. Making sure nobody tries to es
cape while the great man is speaking.
‘. . . there will be no hiding from Him, no escaping His wrath. The Lord sees everything. He knows what you keep in your heart. He sees the look you give your neighbour’s wife. He measures the minutes you cheat your employer by leaving early. He is watching you at all times. Judging you at all times.’
It’s all pretty generic stuff, really. But there’s no denying the power in Masters’ voice. He has the assembled worshippers mesmerised. I can feel it myself, like a cord trying to pull me out of my hiding place, through the curtains to join the throng.
‘. . . only by accepting His word into your hearts can you hope to feel His love. Only by submitting to His will can you hope to be saved. Are you ready to be saved?’
This final question is bellowed out with such force I rock back on my heels, which is probably just as well given that another one of the acolytes chooses that moment to pause with his back to my curtain. His bulk and the heavy material muffle the words that follow, but it sounds like a commotion. Then the sackcloth back moves aside and the acolyte hurries to where the rest of his fellows are already congregating near the front of the audience.
‘Do not harm her, my friends. She yearns for salvation.’ Masters’ voice booms out again now it’s not blocked, and as I adjust my position, I see him step down off the stage and approach the group who have surrounded a young woman. It’s hard to tell if she’s overcome with holy joy or was hurling abuse. Either way, she is forced to her knees as he approaches, one hand clasping a book that is probably a Bible, the other reaching out towards her. When he presses his palm to her forehead, I can hear the whole room take a collective breath.
‘Are you here to be saved?’ Even without the microphone his voice fills the hall.
The young woman twitches, either trying to get away or having some kind of fit.
‘Are you here to be saved?’
Two of Masters’ acolytes hold her by the arms, a third presses down on her shoulders, and yet the twitches are becoming more violent now. I don’t know whether to run out and help her or call the police. Instead, I do what any good millennial would do and take out my phone to start filming.
‘I can feel the devil in you, child. Don’t fight me. Fight it.’ Masters pushes harder against her, and her head tilts back so far I fear it might snap. Lifting up his Bible, he shakes it at the gathered audience. ‘Pray with me, people. Pray for this poor tortured soul. In the name of Jesus, pray.’
It’s a good show, I’ll give him that much. The young woman shakes and convulses like the best ham actor, her wails increasingly strident as Masters exhorts the congregation to pray harder. And all the while he bears down on her with his massive hand. It has to be rehearsed; too staged to be anything else. I’m almost as drawn in by the whole thing as everyone, though, which is why I’m taken by surprise when another of the sackcloth-clad acolytes passes my hiding place. His shoulder brushes the curtain, and I almost drop my phone. I don’t think I make a noise, but he must hear something. Before I know it, the curtain’s jerked aside and I’m staring straight at him.
We stare at each other, motionless, for what feels like minutes but is likely only a few heartbeats. He doesn’t make a sound. One of the professional bodyguards, then. I realise my phone camera is still recording video at the same time as he reaches to snatch it away from me. That’s not happening.
I palm the phone as I duck and twist, ready to make good my escape. I’m not exactly doing anything wrong here, but the heavy security presence doesn’t bode well. Two steps and I reckon I’m away, but then my foot clatters against the pile of chairs.
‘Security!’ His shout is loud enough to wake the dead, although whether it can be heard over the ecstatic wails of the young woman in the middle of the hall is anyone’s guess. I’m too busy smacking my shins against chair legs and struggling to regain my balance to care. Stay classy, Con.
At least the fallen stack slows the bodyguard from following. I’m limping badly as I push through the half-open doorway and hobble into the street. A glance to the far end, where the front of the hall opens up onto a small square, shows three more burly acolytes appearing around the corner. My car is that way, which buggers up my chances of escaping to it. At least they’re hesitant, getting their bearings before charging at me. That’s the only thing that saves me from being caught.
Behind me, the first bodyguard has made it through the maze of fallen chairs and is shoving his way through the door. I pause just long enough to pull over the nearest wheelie bin to block his route, then half run, half grimace away. My only advantage is that they’re none of them locals. I know these streets well enough, and better yet I know where the pubs are. The ones that will be full of people, and which have handy back doors I can escape through.
Heart pounding, I do my best to ignore the pain in my ankle as I dart down a narrow close. It’s tempting to pause and pull more obstacles in the way of my pursuers, but speed is more important. I risk a glance backwards and see two people in pursuit, worrying since there should be four. I might know these streets, but it’s been a while. Have they doubled back in an attempt to head me off? Or is my infringement not important enough to justify that amount of manpower? Maybe they’ve gone back to guarding Masters. He pays their wages, after all.
The first pub I reach is closed, which wasn’t part of the plan at all. My pursuers are still following me, although they’re not running to catch up now, which is reassuring. I’ve got my hoodie up, and I’m fairly sure the first bodyguard didn’t get a good look at me. Maybe that’s what this is all about, simply them trying to identify me. It’s not as if Masters is heading up some crime syndicate and I just filmed them planning their next drug run. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it is even to have these two following me. Are they that paranoid about their little prayer meeting? The laying on of hands? The wailing woman who was almost certainly a paid actress? As the initial adrenaline surge wears off, my fear turns to anger. Who the fuck do these people think they are?
I stumble in through the door of the next pub perhaps a little more noisily than is necessary. The barman looks up in surprise, but nobody else seems to notice. It’s early evening, and the place isn’t as full as I’d have liked. Still, it’s enough folk that my pursuers will probably give up now.
‘Sorry about the door. Tweaked my ankle coming up the street and it hurts like a bugger.’ I slide onto a stool as the bartender approaches, point at one of the taps. ‘Pint of Eighty Bob, please.’
He grunts something non-committal, but pulls down a pint glass and begins to pour. I pull down my hood, look around the bar a bit more. Some football match is playing on a telly across the room, even if nobody is watching it. Directly underneath the screen, two old men nurse silent pints, tiny chaser nips alongside them. A young couple are canoodling in a booth near the door, oblivious to anyone’s disapproval. There’s a group of young women who might be students, huddled over notes and discussing something that occasionally has them breaking into peals of laughter. It’s a late-afternoon pub, and a welcome relief after the excitement of the chase.
‘Two fifty, love.’ The bartender startles me, but only for a moment. I pay half what the same pint would have cost me back home, take a long sip of the cold, bitter brew. A clatter at the door is more punters coming in, and as I glance at them I see into the street beyond. Too late, I notice one of the bodyguards standing there, staring straight at me. He holds his phone high, camera facing me. A short pause before I can reach my hood. Then he gives me a thumbs up, turns away, and walks back towards the church hall.
26
‘Ah, Con. You’re back.’
Rose greets me in the hall as I let myself in an hour and a half after my close call with the reverend doctor. I have a horrible sensation of déjà vu, and then it hits me that this is very much like being back at St Humbert’s, caught sneaking into school late at night after an unauthori
sed visit to one of the local pubs. Rose has perfected that same expression of deep disappointment, and I feel suitably ashamed for not letting her know where I was.
‘Sorry. Thought I’d go check something out, and then I kind of ended up in a bar on West Preston Street. Needed something to calm my nerves.’
Rose’s stern expression melts into a mischievous grin, and I know she’s been winding me up. ‘Did you get anything to eat?’ she asks. ‘Or are you on the haggis supper and pickled egg diet still?’
‘How on earth . . . ?’ I don’t finish the sentence. She wouldn’t tell me anyway.
‘There’s some stew in the oven if you’re hungry. It’s not as good as Emily Robertson’s, but it is Newmore mutton. I brought some down the last time I was up there.’
The mention of my aunt’s lodge up in the Perthshire highlands reminds me of when I first met Rose, late last summer. I was being hounded out of London then, too. Only that time it was my life on the line, not hassle from the tabloid press.
‘Stew sounds wonderful. Thank you. It’s been a long day and I may have skipped lunch.’
‘You need to look after yourself, my dear. And drinking alone is not healthy, you know.’
I follow Rose through to the kitchen, mostly tuning out her cautions. I’m well used to being alone and fending for myself, but it’s nice to be mothered sometimes. My own mother never much bothered, after all. Too busy trying to wash clean her soul of every perceived sin her family committed. As I tuck into an enormous plate of wonderful-smelling mutton stew, complete with squishy carrots and a baked potato oozing melted butter, I can’t help wondering what my mother would have made of this evening’s prayer meeting. If you’d asked me a week ago, I’d have said the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters and his ostentatious showmanship would have appalled her. And yet she wanted the man to bless her son’s wedding. It makes no sense at all.
