by Nev Fountain
A golden opportunity.
In his capacity as script editor, he contacted her agent to see about the possibility of Cheryl writing an episode for the new series. (It was hardly nepotism, he’d reasoned to himself. She was a professional writer, wasn’t she?) Over the phone, she sounded just as lively and fresh, and incredibly excited to be asked—and was that also a bit of relief in her voice? Mervyn wondered why she, a young writer, hadn’t done the obvious and contacted Mervyn earlier.
Then a day later, the card arrived.
It came in a smooth cream envelope, crinkled around the edges like an apple pie made by a sweet grey-haired grandmother. Mervyn almost missed it amid a pile of bills, junk mail and trade magazines. It was laid out in a jokey mix of television and radio script:
GRAMS: FANFARE!
#MARCUS:You are invited by TV and Radio scriptwriter MARCUS SPICER…
CHERYL:And TV scriptwriter CHERYL LIMB…
BOTH:(CONT’D) To their forthcoming WEDDING, which will be set in…
1. EXT: THE VILLAGE OF DORKING, SURREY. DAY.
* * *
(AND…)
2. INT: ST MATTHEW’S CHURCH. DAY.
(ON SATURDAY, FEB 14TH AT 2PM. THE GUESTS ALL EMERGE FROM THE CHURCH GETTING INTO THEIR CARS AND DRIVE TO…)
3. INT. HAMBLEY HALL. DAY
(FOR THE RECEPTION, WHERE THEY EAT AND DRINK LARGE AMOUNTS.)
(THE GUESTS ARE NOT INVITED TO…)
4. INT: MARCUS AND CHERYL’S HONEYMOON HOTEL ROOM. NIGHT
THE END.
* * *
Mervyn went to the wedding with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man climbing into the electric chair, and managed to put a smile on his face that would have disgusted a corpse.
He was greeted by Cheryl after the service. She was a vision, a radiant smile in crushed red velvet, like the happiest pair of curtains he’d ever seen, and full of the giggles that tickled his neck and excited his earlobe that night in the production office.
She gave him a huge bear hug, and touched his cheek. He noticed the same mark by her thumb he created with the photocopier lid. She breathlessly told him how glad she was that he was able to come, and how glad she was that he’d contacted her agent. She’d taken it as a signal, some blessing from Mervyn that he’d ‘come to terms with it’, and that ‘things were okay’ between them—‘After, y’know, me and Marcus and all…’
Of course, with Marcus never choosing to tell him, Mervyn never had a chance to come to terms with anything. Mervyn merely turned his sickly grin up a notch and said yes, things were never better between them.
At the reception, Marcus was surprised to see him, and seemed almost to be avoiding him—odd behaviour for a mate who’d often descended into drunken speculation as to whether they would be each other’s best men when the wedding bells tolled for them.
Mervyn thought he was being paranoid. Grooms have to spend all day glad-handing distant relatives. He’s too busy to stop and chat, Mervyn thought to himself. Convinced himself.
Then, as Marcus and Cheryl were gliding round the ballroom floor to ‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBA, accompanied by wolf-whistles from the more thuggish looking pageboys, Marcus’s eyes locked with Mervyn’s.
Mervyn saw a cold calculation in them. And despair, too. And in that split second, Mervyn knew.
Marcus knew about him and Cheryl. He bloody knew.
What happened, Marcus? Was it an accident that you two got together? No, of course not. Ah, but the most important question really is…
Was it sincere on your part, or just a silly little game like in the old radio days? Did you see her with me and think ‘Let’s have a “Who can bag the pretty lady writer?” competition with me old mate Mervyn’?
Thanks for firing the starting pistol without telling me, you bastard. I bet you even told her that I knew you two were an item, and that I was sulking. I can see you now, puffing your post-coital ciggie and saying, ‘Oh, don’t get in touch with him, Cheryl. He’s hurting. I know old Mervyn. He’ll work it through for himself, and just when you think he’s disappeared for ever, then he’ll contact you out of the blue. Just you see.’
And then I did. That was a shock for you, wasn’t it?
It all bloody makes sense now. No wonder I haven’t heard from either of you for the best part of a year.
But it’s all got a bit out of hand, hasn’t it? Didn’t expect to end up in the morning suit with a carnation in your lapel, making speeches and cutting cakes, did you? Was it her parents? Did they subtly twist your arm into matrimony? No, of course not. Cheryl’s more than capable enough of worming the right responses out of a feeble, spineless man like you. Probably got you when you were flat on your back, weak from booze, desperate for your new nurse not to leave you in a puddle of your own piss and vomit…
And, from what he saw of them in the years after, he knew he was right. About everything.
Mervyn remained at the reception for an hour or so. His heart wasn’t in it, but there was always that sense of duty one felt when personally invited to a birthday or a wedding or christening; to leave too early would feel like a betrayal. He hovered around the edges chatting to the vicar, who seemed to have used the hour after the service to get blind stinking drunk.
‘Thish is great,’ he kept saying, punching Mervyn playfully on the shoulder. ‘Besht gig ever.’ After a few more ladles of fruit punch, the vicar was using Mervyn as a lamp-post, draping himself around his shoulders. ‘Itsh jusht you and me guy, jusht you and me againsht the world.’
‘Just you and me against the world?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about God?’
‘Yeah, him too.’ The vicar leered glassily up at him. ‘Jusht you and me againsht God. Bashtard. We’ll short him out.’
And then he vomited into the punchbowl. Mervyn assumed he was a vicar in one of the more progressive churches.
He slunk away shortly after. If it wasn’t for the untidily-wrapped wok hiding behind a set of bathroom towels and a Kenwood mixer, there was no evidence that he’d even turned up.
He went back to work. The next two years of Vixens from the Void weren’t going to script-edit themselves. Cheryl’s writing career slipped quietly away and died peacefully in its sleep, in the shadows behind the lengthening autograph queues for Marcus Spicer: Raconteur, Blockbuster Novelist and God-Knocker in Chief.
The discussions about a Cheryl-penned episode of Vixens dribbled away to nothing; just as, after opening that cream envelope, Mervyn’s heart had dribbled away through the gaps in his ribcage.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mervyn went on to the internet, found the Godbotherers’ website, got their contact details and rang them up. He arranged a meeting with Lewis Bream on the following day. The whole thing took about 40 seconds.
That was odd. And slightly weird. The man on the other end of the phone seemed excited. Why were they so keen to meet him?
It was easy to find out where the Godbotherers were based. Their headquarters was slap-bang in the middle of Soho, on the top floor of a place off Berwick Street, located right between a darkened sex shop and a newsagents (which might as well have been a sex shop, judging by the contents of the magazine shelves). The Godbotherers’ building was modern and glass-fronted, and it gleamed like a shiny crucifix dangling between two sinful-looking bosoms.
The foyer was overwhelmingly white; white doors, white walls, white floor. Even the chairs were covered in white leather. When he sat down he half-expected an alarm to ring and for someone to come up to him and tell him he wasn’t allowed on the furniture. The Godbotherers shared the building with several other companies, but he couldn’t help suspecting they had a hand in the décor.
He felt like he was sitting in heaven’s waiting room, and that God had decided to spruce things up and bring a touch of corporate hospitality to the afterlife—put in a few pot plants, a magazine rack, replace St Peter with a smiley blonde lady with a name badge. It was a very consumer-friendly purgatory.
Sprouting out of each side of the reception desk were two lifts. Two pointless lifts. Lifts of unique pointlessness. Lifts so pointless that they were only to be found in large swanky foyers of shiny corporate buildings. The lifts were able to hold about two-thirds of a person at a push, moved at about three inches an hour, and only went up 30 feet. They also had glass walls, so as they rose into the air with arthritic slowness the occupants could smile sheepishly at those left on the ground; the lucky ones who had suddenly decided to take the stairs.
One of the pointless lifts was coming down.
Like a glowing angel descending from the heavens to scare the shit out of some shepherds, Lewis Bream’s beatific smile shone through the glass. He was still smiling when the lift doors glided open and he glided out.
He was dressed in a herringbone suit (complete with handkerchief in breast pocket) that looked like he’d only just tried it on; it looked stiff and flat, like a doll’s outfit cut out of a girl’s comic. Lewis looked slightly less sweaty and odd than on the BBC bulletins (he could hardly have looked more sweaty and odd) but he still had that bug-eyed serenity in his face.
He was very warm and courteous to Mervyn, and offered his hand. ‘Mr Stone, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘I’m very glad you could find time to meet me.’
‘Not at all,’ grinned Lewis. His eyes glowed like bicycle reflectors. ‘I’m so glad you could come to us.’
Mervyn couldn’t cope with the creepy smile any more. He turned away to avoid the glare, and looked out of the lift. He was treated with the stunning views of the tops of people’s heads.
‘All the way up,’ Lewis said. ‘When I have guests, I say: “Get in the lift and head towards the light.” Just one of my little jokes.’
The lift doors pulled open, and for a moment Mervyn was indeed dazzled by an explosion of light. After he got used to the glare, he could see why. They had walked into a bright, airy floor with glass-fronted offices and huge windows, designed to catch the natural light from every direction. Mervyn could literally see a 360-degree view of the London skyline, so clear it seemed like a diorama.
A sturdy round-faced man with a spotty tie, horn-rimmed glasses and huge mane of sculpted grey hair was seated at reception. He leapt up, brushing crumbs from his shirt, staring at Mervyn with frank awe, as though he were a film star.
‘Cary, could we have some refreshments for my office? Mr Stone has come an awfully long way. He must be parched.’
‘Certainly Lewis.’
Mervyn watched him waddle away. The devil has all the best tunes, he thought, and he looks like he kept all the sexy receptionists for himself, too.
‘I’m surprised to find your centre of operations around here. It’s hardly the most spiritual of neighbourhoods.’
This was obviously an observation frequently put to the head of the Godbotherers, because his response was smooth and rehearsed. ‘Jesus did not preach in churches, nor did He keep the company of holy men,’ beamed Lewis. ‘He sought out the sinners, the unbelievers and the unworthy, and he preached to them where he found them.’
‘Yes, I thought that’s what you might say,’ said Mervyn, flatly.
‘Yes, there are traders in sin all around this area. The sinners are at our gate… And there are sinners within.’
‘The sinners within? Right, well, that shows great humility to admit you’re not perfect.’
‘Oh, I’m not talking about us.’ He chuckled. ‘When I say “within”, I mean within these walls. We share this building with a video editing facility, two management consultancies, a PR company and the headquarters of a magazine aimed at the dedicated sodomiser. Truly, we walk amongst the godless.’
‘What’s so godless about a video editing facility?’ said Mervyn.
‘Need you ask? All manner of pornographic and pagan material is fed into their machines for processing, so that it can be broadcast into our homes.’ He sighed. ‘But I dwell on the lost souls within this building too much. All will be swept away when our saviour returns to us.’
‘The landlord?’
Lewis didn’t dignify that with a response. ‘The benefits of sin are fleeting and fickle. They will come to nothing. I am pleased to say that the magazine ceased trading last week.’
‘Well if the strapline on their cover is “For the dedicated sodomiser”, I can’t say I’m surprised,’ snapped Mervyn.
‘It is hoped when they are cast out, we will expand our offices and commit the rest of this building to good works. We will prevent this building becoming a house of iniquity’
‘The House of Iniquity. I think I’ve seen their autumn catalogue. Apparently, whips and chains are the new black.’ Mervyn was using the full force of his acerbic nature to prompt a response. Nothing.
They reached Lewis’s office. Like the rest of the building, it looked just like an office in any successful corporation; there were posters on the walls advertising company products, photos of celebrity endorsements and awards. The only things that set it apart were pieces of scripture dotted around the walls and a large cross fastened behind the desk, tastefully made in cedar wood and varnished so Mervyn could see his face in it.
Lewis took a seat behind the desk and gestured Mervyn to sit. ‘Now, Mr Stone. I trust this is about the miracle?’
‘The what?’
‘I knew it was only a matter of time before one of you came to me. What was it like? All my years of worship and I have never been in the presence of His Work. Was there a shining light? A mighty wind? Did you hear His voice? This is so exciting.’
‘What miracle?’
‘The miracle. The smiting of the blasphemer.’
‘I think you mean the murder.’
Lewis smiled and threw up his hands expansively. ‘You say potato…’
‘Well his widow calls it murder.’
‘Yes of course. Tell her I’m sorry for her loss, but the Lord’s will…’
He allowed the rest of the sentence to float away. Lewis began to stare out of the window. Now he realised that Mervyn wasn’t here to talk about a shining light, or about bearing witness to a miracle, he had completely lost interest.
Mervyn ploughed on. ‘Unsurprisingly, the widow doesn’t think that the Lord had anything to do with it. She doesn’t believe there’s an invisible deity waiting to “smite” anyone who happens to criticise him.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t like to think that the Lord punishes those who doubt him. Hmm. Mrs Spicer… Correct me if I’m wrong, but she is the one with cancer isn’t she?’ Mervyn didn’t answer. He was too shocked and outraged at the obvious implication to even speak.
He scrambled for a question. ‘What do you know about a statuette, Mr Bream?’
For the first time, Lewis was unsettled. ‘A statuette? What statuette?’
‘Yes, a small statuette of the Virgin Mary and Child. About so high. It belonged to Marcus. It was stolen from his house. He was looking for it in the weeks before his death.’
‘I’m surprised a man like that owned such a thing.’
‘Well he was being ironic.’
‘Ah. Ironic. Ironic like a blasphemer looking desperately for Jesus. Albeit only in the form of a statuette, of course.’
‘Would you be interested in such a thing? The statuette?’
‘Why would I be interested in the man’s statuette? We have many. We even make our own, and customise them according to the wishes of the buyer. You can have a Jesus for any occasion; you can have Him standing by a facsimile of yourself, Him with arms wide open in welcome to you, Him laying hands on your own likeness, Him kneeling with anyone you wish…’
‘Is that the one sold to the dedicated sodomiser?’
Lewis didn’t take the bait. He just smiled indulgently. ‘Just keep digging that hole, Mr Stone. You’ll find yourself in a deep, dark, hot place before long. The statues sell very well. It is one of the ways we raise funds for our good work.’
‘So you’ve not come acr
oss this statuette, then.’
‘Ah. Refreshments! Thank you Cary.’
The door opened and the round-faced man entered slowly, clinking as he came. He was bearing a tray laden with tea things, plates of biscuits and bottled water.
Mervyn took a biscuit, and leaned back in his chair. ‘You seem much more relaxed now than you were during that BBC interview.’
The smile flickered—only slightly, but it definitely flickered.
Got him.
‘After the trial of that interview… I gained strength from the Lord. His actions in striking down the unbeliever showed me I was chosen, transformed me, I became reborn in his love.’
‘Well, I saw the interview. You certainly got crucified and no mistake.’
The smile drained off Lewis’s face. ‘Have you just come here to blaspheme?’
‘No,’ said Mervyn, munching away. ‘I’m actually here on behalf of Mrs Spicer to find out what you actually meant when you said—’
‘Do you like the biscuits?’ Lewis said abruptly. He took one and held it up. Etched on it was a tiny face of Jesus. ‘It’s another thing we make. This is our post-Lent selection.’
Mervyn looked down at the tray. The other biscuits had other designs on them; crosses, fish, the Virgin Mary, and some quotes from the Bible.
‘Isn’t sticking him on a biscuit a bit… Blasphemous?’
‘We are not Lutherans or Islamists, Mr Stone. The way we see it, it’s good public relations; the more places He is seen, the better our “reach” with potential believers.’ He proffered a tray. ‘Try another one—they’re very tasty. The face is cinnamon. Oh, but would you like some water?’ he said, gesturing to the bottles on the tray. ‘Please, pick any one you like.’
There were just two bottles of water on the tray. It was Estuary English, the same brand the BBC had given them for the commentary.
The same water that Marcus Spicer was intending to drink, just before his last moments on earth.