Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  ‘I told you. I don’t smoke.’

  He threw the roll-up into the bushes and got to his feet. ‘Bollocks. You comin’ in, then?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Stevie.’

  He held out a hand with yellow-stained fingers. It was shaking slightly. ‘Augustine,’ he said. ‘Stupid fucking name, I know.’

  ‘Then change it,’ I said. ‘It’s easy.’

  Outside, the church looked in need of repair. Inside, it was almost derelict. Half the pews were missing and it looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the font. There was a ladder against the wall, and bits and pieces of timber on the floor. The light was coming from a hurricane lamp on a table.

  As my eyes adjusted to the semi-dark, I looked for Martindale. At first it seemed like the church was empty. Then I spotted him in a corner, under a boarded-up window. He was sitting on a packing case, reading. He put the book down and looked over.

  ‘Welcome to St Saviour’s,’ he said. His voice was surprisingly strong. He gestured to his ramshackle surroundings. ‘The house of God.’

  Augustine nudged me forward. ‘This is Stevie. He’s a vegan.’

  Martindale smiled. He was wearing camouflage combat trousers and a grey hoodie. There was no sign of the dog collar.

  ‘He’s taking the piss,’ I said. Then all those beatings from the nuns kicked in. ‘Sorry.’

  Martindale waved a hand dismissively. ‘You think Christ never swore? Not even when he was overturning the money-lenders’ tables? He felt anger, just like we all do. And what about when he was carrying the cross, being abused by the soldiers? And then on the cross. Remember, he was a man as well as the Son of God.’

  ‘What did he say then? “Jesus fucking Christ”?’ Augustine slapped his knee as he went into a fit of coughing.

  Martindale smiled gently. ‘I’ve missed your humour, Gus. Remember, that comes from God, too.’ He waited until Augustine’s coughing fit had passed. ‘How are things with you? Did the hostel work out? I did talk to Mr Sykes.’

  Augustine nodded. ‘Yeah, he said.’ He licked his lips. ‘You haven’t got a fag, have you?’

  Martindale felt in the pocket of his combats and came up with a roll-up and a box of matches. I thought of aid workers handing out sweets to starving children.

  Augustine took them, nodding. ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Outside, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Martindale said.

  When Augustine had gone, he gestured to another packing case. ‘Please, sit. So, Stevie, what brought you to St Saviour’s?’

  I clenched and unclenched my fists. ‘I dunno. People talking, you know. Said you were all right.’

  He smiled. ‘“For a priest”, no doubt. And what did they say I could do for you?’

  I looked at my feet. ‘Dunno, really.’

  ‘If you need food, there’s a van serving soup, later. But I can’t give you a bed for the night. The diocese, I’m afraid – not to mention the council . . .’

  ‘Right,’ I said, as if I had the faintest idea what the diocese and the council were doing. Just being cunts, I supposed, if experience was anything to go by.

  ‘I thought you could give me some help, like.’

  ‘With finding somewhere to stay?’

  ‘No, I’m all right. It gets a bit shit in the winter, like, but it’s all right now.’

  ‘What about health issues? Are you drinking? Taking drugs?’

  ‘Nah, not really. I hate fucking junkies, anyway, you know. Slit your fucking throat for tuppence. I try and keep to myself, like.’

  ‘What about family?’

  I winced, feeling old memories, long dead, being stirred up.

  ‘Never had any.’

  I glanced up. He was looking at me steadily, like he was X-raying me. But I was confident all he would see was Stevie Nichols all the way through, like a stick of rock.

  He took his glasses off and started polishing them with a tissue. ‘Something must have brought you here.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘You felt you needed something. And you thought you might find it here.’

  I kneaded my hands together nervously. ‘Look, maybe I should be on my way, like.’

  ‘Why? Something brought you here, so we ought to try and find out what it was, don’t you think?’

  There was something in his eyes that definitely gave you the shivers. For a split second I wondered if he knew I was a fake. I considered picking up a lump of wood and chucking it through a window. At least that would have been in character.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Used to. When I was little. Didn’t have much choice, like. Get a caning, otherwise.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Don’t see the point. I believe in hell, like. Reckon I’ve seen it. But heaven? Clouds and angels and all that? I mean, who thought that up? Walt Disney?’

  I wondered if I’d gone too far, but he seemed pleased. ‘Oh, I agree with you. If heaven exists, it certainly won’t be like that. And perhaps the reason people see it wrong, is because they’ve been looking for it in the wrong place. Have you ever thought of that?’

  I squinted at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Maybe it’s here.’

  I looked around, an uncertain expression on my face.

  ‘I mean, perhaps it could be here. It’s up to us to create it. The world’s a long way from being perfect at the moment. You know that as well as anyone. But maybe that’s only because we’ve let the forces of darkness get the upper hand.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said eventually, genuinely confused. What was he on about?

  He stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. I thought maybe he was going to bless me, but he just gave it a squeeze then turned towards the door, putting his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I think you’ve been searching, Stevie. You don’t know what for, but that’s OK. That’s normal. In fact, it’s part of the process. And your search has led you here. But let’s see if this is your real destination. Go away and think about what I’ve said. Then, if you want to, come back. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I sucked in a breath as I got to my feet. My joints were sore from all those nights in freezing doorways.

  ‘Be safe. God be with you. And perhaps we’ll meet again soon,’ he said.

  Outside, I looked for Augustine, but he was gone. Maybe the roll-up was all he’d come for. Fair enough: when you were on the scrounge, putting up with a bit of Jesus Loves You bullshit was the price you had to pay, and tonight he’d got a freebie.

  But what had led Douglas Weston to St Saviour’s? Not the prospect of a cigarette and a mug of soup, I was fairly certain. So did he just see a star one night and decide to follow it down the City Road? Or was there a lot more to Paul Martindale than met the eye?

  I started walking. After a couple of minutes, my arthritic knees started to loosen up. I lengthened my stride and started to feel the strength coming back into my limbs. I was becoming more and more myself with every step. Stevie Nichols got smaller and smaller, then gradually faded away, as if he didn’t exist.

  27

  I got to the Clearwater office early, hoping I could catch Alan before Mrs Allenby got there. As usual, he was tinkering with some electronic equipment as if he hadn’t moved since the last time I’d seen him, the only difference being he now had a fresh mug of black coffee steaming in front of him. He pressed a couple of buttons on a small black box then bashed away at his laptop for a few moments, before looking up.

  ‘So how’d things go at St Saviour’s?’

  I sat down. ‘Hard to say. Martindale’s an interesting character. Is it OK if we wait for the debrief? I wanted to ask you something before the boss gets here.’

  He looked intrigued. ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Are you still monitoring the calls from the house?’

  ‘Not really. W
e can only pick up Mrs Shlovsky’s calls and I think we’ve established she doesn’t know anything. Mostly she’s calling her girlfriends when she gets a bit tipsy, that sort of thing. Then she calls up Anastasia every couple of days for a mother–daughter catch-up. That’s about it.’

  I nodded. ‘Can you do me a favour? When she calls Anastasia, can you listen in on those calls for me?’

  He scratched his chin. ‘I guess. It’s pretty boring stuff. Like listening to the Kardashians, you know? It’s actually more interesting in Russian, before I can translate it.’

  I grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I just want you to pick up one or two keywords. Well, one, actually.’

  ‘Which is?’ He grabbed a notepad and picked up a pen.

  I put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t write anything down, OK? This is just between you and me, off the books. No need for anyone else to know.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Logan. What are you up to?’

  ‘Just trust me, Alan.’ I gave him my most winning smile. ‘When have I ever let you down before?’

  He shook his head. ‘Now you’ve really got me worried.’ He pushed the notepad away. ‘OK, what is it.’

  I paused, feeling like I was standing on the edge of a precipice.

  ‘Daisy.’

  He looked bemused. ‘Like the flower?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The click of the door closing made me look round. Mrs Allenby was hanging up her coat. I turned back to Alan, a finger to my lips. He nodded dubiously.

  Alex and Ryan arrived a few minutes later, and we all busied ourselves with getting a brew before sitting down at the conference table. Mrs Allenby got out her notepad and gold pencil.

  ‘Before Mr Logan tells us about his meeting last night, I would like an update on what we know about our subject, Paul Martindale. Mr Oldfield?’

  Ryan already had his laptop open. ‘He’s not one for social media, I’m afraid. Doesn’t seem to be his style.’

  ‘Perhaps also not the best way to communicate with people living on the streets who may not have the latest smartphone?’ Mrs Allenby added with a thin smile.

  ‘Yes, quite. Anyway, we do know he studied theology at Trinity College, Oxford, but left without taking his degree. He disappeared off the radar for a year or two before turning up at a Franciscan monastery near Carlisle. But that doesn’t last long, for some reason. Next thing he’s made parish priest of St Jude’s in a little village in Wiltshire, but gets into a bit of bother with the locals about letting heroin addicts use the church, so he leaves there, and then a few months later he gets the job at St Saviour’s, which had been vacant for a while.’

  ‘Not exactly a plum job, then,’ Mrs Allenby said. ‘It sounds like our Mr Martindale has had a somewhat fractious relationship with the church authorities.’

  ‘A bit of a rebel, I’d say,’ Ryan agreed. ‘The Franciscans are big on poverty, so you can see why they might appeal to him.’

  ‘But maybe not the monastic life,’ Mrs Allenby said, ‘since he didn’t stay with them long. Too cut off from the real world. He likes to get his hands dirty, I think.’

  ‘He must be like a pig in shit at St Saviour’s, then,’ I said.

  Mrs Allenby gave me a look, then turned back to Ryan. ‘Do we know anything more about his time at Oxford?’

  ‘Not really. He didn’t make a splash in any of the university societies, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What about his studies?’

  ‘Like I say, he didn’t stay the course, but not because he was a lousy student. He got top marks in his first-year exams.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Mrs Allenby tapped her gold pencil on the desk. ‘Did he have any special areas of interest?’

  Ryan scrolled though whatever documents he was looking at. ‘He was writing a dissertation on the theology of the crusades, apparently, when he left.’

  Mrs Allenby nodded to herself, making a note.

  Alex had her arms crossed and was shaking her head. ‘This is all very fascinating, but what could it possibly have to do with the Russians? Martindale might be a bit of a rebel, as priests go, but apart from letting junkies shoot up in the vestry, what’s he ever done? Do you honestly think he’s taking orders from the Kremlin to blow up the Houses of Parliament? Why would he? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Mrs Allenby looked up at her mildly. ‘Patience, my dear. Let’s gather all the pieces, and then see if we can fit them together.’ She turned to me. ‘So, Mr Logan, what was Mr Martindale like in the flesh? I take it you did meet with him?’

  ‘Yeah. We talked for a few minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘Just you and him?’

  ‘There was another homeless bloke but he buggered off.’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’

  ‘The usual stuff. Did I believe in God? What had brought me to St Saviour’s? He wanted to know if I had any family. He seemed to have a thing about creating heaven on earth. Then he sent me on my way, said come back when I’d thought about things.’

  Mrs Allenby scribbled on her notepad. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘You reckon? I mean, he definitely had something about him, a charisma, you know. But apart from that . . .’

  She looked at me. ‘So how did you feel? When he dismissed you.’

  I thought about it for a moment, trying to remember what it felt like being Stevie. That sense of being on the outside of everything. Frustration. Anger, simmering away constantly like a saucepan on a low heat. My fists clenched instinctively under the table.

  ‘Pissed off, I suppose. Like I was expecting him to do something for me, to help me, and he wouldn’t.’

  She nodded. ‘You were expecting a quid pro quo. Sit through a sermon and you get a cup of tea and a bun, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, he said to think about what had brought me to St Saviour’s before coming back. Like it was some sort of test.’

  Mrs Allenby smiled. ‘It was. And now we have to make sure you pass it.’

  Alex looked confused. ‘What do you mean? I don’t get it.’

  ‘Classic recruiting technique, my dear,’ Mrs Allenby said. ‘He’s sorting the wheat from the chaff, finding out how you react to being rejected. Do you shrug your shoulders and slink away? Or does it make you determined to do whatever he wants to be accepted?’

  I thought about it. How did Stevie feel? Like he wanted to set fire to the church and watch it burn down from a cosy doorway with a bottle of vodka, probably. Actually . . . no. I waited, letting the feeling of being Stevie grow stronger. When Martindale talked about something having led him to the church, Stevie felt something he’d very rarely felt before. Belonging. It didn’t matter what he was supposed to belong to; just the feeling of being accepted, of being where you were supposed to be, was enough. Deep down in the dark of his lonely, pissed-off soul, he felt a tiny flame bursting into life. He desperately wanted Martindale to say, ‘Yes, Stevie, no doubt about it, you were led here, to me.’ Maybe Mrs Allenby was on to something after all.

  ‘So if Martindale’s recruiting down and outs, what’s he recruiting them for?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘And what’s the deal with Weston? He’s not a down and out; he’s living on Billionaire’s Row, for God’s sake,’ Alex added.

  Mrs Allenby looked at us impatiently, as if we were a particularly stupid remedial maths class.

  ‘To answer the first question, Mr Logan needs to make sure he passes Martindale’s test. Then, hopefully, we will find out. And the answer to the first question should also provide the answer to the second.’

  ‘So what do I need to do?’ I asked, feeling a little tremor of excitement from Stevie bubbling up.

  Mrs Allenby looked at her notes. ‘If I’m right, Martindale is looking for empty vessels.’

  Alex looked at me and grinned. ‘You’re just what he’s looking for, then, Logan.’

  I didn’t smile back. The Stevie part of me didn’t like people taking the piss.

  Mrs Allenby continued, taking no noti
ce. ‘He needs to see you’re being compelled by forces beyond your control. At least, that’s what you feel is happening. You want to give up your selfhood, your individuality. You want to be absorbed by something bigger than you, so you don’t have to think for yourself any more.’

  I thought back to my talk with Martindale. When his eyes were boring into me, was that what he was looking for? A void he could fill? He wasn’t just trying to reach out a helping hand to one of life’s unfortunates? It was true, he had freaked me out a little, but was that just because Stevie was weak-minded and vulnerable?

  Alan spoke for the first time. ‘To be honest, you make him sound a lot like an Islamic State recruiter.’

  Mrs Allenby put her hands down flat on the table. ‘Yes, I do rather, don’t I?’

  28

  I decided to walk home. I needed time to figure out how I was going to play my next meeting with Martindale – or, rather, Stevie’s next meeting. But I had a feeling all I really needed to do was let Stevie get on with it and just say whatever came into his head. If Martindale was looking for restless, tormented souls, desperate to be absorbed by something bigger and more powerful than themselves, then he couldn’t do any better than Stevie Nichols. I already suspected that my real problem was actually going to be keeping my own head above water once Stevie had taken the plunge.

  I pushed thoughts of Stevie to one side and focused on my surroundings. I needed to stay sharp and make sure I didn’t miss any followers. I turned into the park. If anyone came with me, they’d be easy to spot in the open, and if they decided to wait for me at the exit on the other side, I could lose them by going through a hole in the fence and sneaking out down the back of a row of shops.

  I pulled out my phone and pretended to take a call, turning 180 degrees back towards the entrance.

  There was someone following me.

  It was Alex. I put the phone away and waited for her to catch up.

  ‘You were out of there a bit sharpish,’ she said.

  I shrugged. ‘The nine to five doesn’t really suit me.’

  ‘You going back to the flat?’

  ‘Nowhere else to go. What about you?’