Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  But go down that road, go where your body tells you to go, and shame, degradation and ruin await you. Exposure, ridicule, prison, the paedophile register, the hunted life of an outcast, a social leper.

  A time for bitter reproach. He should never have brought him here in the first place. He’d deluded himself into thinking that his animal lusts were Christian compassion. Now he knew. There was only one solution: keep away from him. Cut loose now before the temptation overwhelms you. He had fallen in love with John.

  The ‘Commanding Officer’

  So to the Sahara Desert. That morning, things were different. Steadman seemed to have changed: to have physically swelled up, become straight-backed, taller and openly military. He was now the ‘Commanding Officer’ who made all the decisions, quickly and decisively. It was, perhaps, what he’d always really wanted to be, thought John. Not a suburban vicar, but a soldier on active service.

  Everything went with an exaggerated military precision. It was early parade, check kit and off to the bus station. When the archaeological relic of a bus eventually condescended to crawl up to the stand, a planned assault went into action to ensure that everybody got seats despite the frenetic rugger scrum that ensued.

  Tracy insisted on sitting next to John, and, to bolster the ‘Dirty Denby’ image, he ostentatiously smooched the whole way over the mountains. The bus was crammed to the roof ‒ young men in jeans, veiled women, white-robed exotics, even four goats – and the windows were filthy. As a result he only fleetingly glimpsed the unfolding grandeur as they wriggled their way over the dry, stony mountains and trundled down a long valley, following a dried-up river bed – a relic of wetter times long gone by – which eventually lost itself in an immense yellow emptiness. In dribs and drabs he became aware of a Biblical land of mud brick fortresses, palm trees and crushing heat.

  Not the Sort of Place a Vicar would Know About?

  Finally they staggered into the little town of Zagora. Squeezing themselves off the bus and disentangling themselves from the jostling crowd of passengers, they found themselves in a desolate, sun-blasted dump of a place, which struck John as an uneasy blend of a one-horse Wild West town and a set for the film of Lawrence of Arabia.

  ‘Cor, worra hole!’ exclaimed Rob.

  ‘We’ll be spending the night at Madame’s place,’ declared Steadman as he shepherded the cavalcade down a dusty, litter-strewn alley and ushered them into a low, flat-roofed building. A battered neon sign above the door, half in English and half in Arabic, said ‘Garden of Paradise Billiard Saloon’.

  ‘Who’s Madame?’ asked John.

  ‘Never you mind!’ growled Steadman aggressively.

  John recoiled at the unexpected hostility.

  ‘Howay, Bob lad, tell wor like!’ said Rob, continuing to talk the ostentatious Geordie he’d been using all day and obviously sensing something deliciously dirty.

  To John’s bewildered surprise, this semi-insolent request was greeted with a big, friendly grin. ‘All in good time, young man. You’ll learn soon enough.’

  Inside was a shabby reception hall decked out in the gaudy splendour of a run-down amusement arcade. A few beaded curtains concealed little cubicles whose dim red lights gave a hint of the precise nature of the ‘Paradise’ on offer.

  Behind a big dusty desk was a vast and voluminously fat white woman with a shock of brilliantly white peroxided hair and lurid red lipstick. Her rolls of pale elephantine flesh seemed to ooze out of a short and barely adequate skirt, while her huge, balloon-like breasts were only nominally concealed by her scanty, unbuttoned blouse. A damp cigarette hung from her lips. This, it seemed, was ‘Madame’.

  Steadman addressed her in fluent German.

  ‘Where on earth’s she sprung from?’ asked John.

  Steadman ignored the question and went on talking German.

  ‘Hey, Bob!’ said Jim. ‘Ah thought all the women roond heor went roon in veils an’ that an’ were locked up in harems, like?’

  At which Steadman turned round with a big, beaming smile and a knowing wink. ‘Not all women, Jimmy lad. Some women have – shall we say? – a different role to play.’

  ‘Where’s she from?’

  ‘She’s from Hamburg.’

  ‘That’s in Germany, innit? So what’s she doin’ heor then?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’

  ‘Hamburg?’ echoed Rob. ‘Me uncle when he were in the army, like, knew all aboot that place. Why, it’s not the sorta place I thought a vicar would knaa aboot.’

  ‘I know a lot more than you think.’

  ‘Howay, tell us, then!’

  ‘All in good time, lads! Meanwhile, just think what Brian’s going to say when he hears that we stayed in this place.’

  Oh, Bob Steadman, do watch it! (This little exchange was to be the genesis of a ‘Dirty Vicar’ legend, which was to grow exponentially with every telling. What was a vicar doing in the red light district of Hamburg where the likes of ‘Madame’ hung out? And just how did he get to know her so well? Brian Dobson did hear about it and, in due course, was to make full use of the unexpected windfall.)

  A little later they all settled down on cushions around a low table and drank glasses of hot, sugary mint tea. Steadman went into a tight whispering huddle with Rob and Jim. John tried to join in.

  ‘Do let Rob have his say!’ snapped Steadman. ‘There are other people in the world you know!’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Yes, John, I know what you’re going to say, so just keep quiet for a change!’

  Another hostile rebuff.

  Hurt and bemused, John stood up. ‘I think I’ll go outside and take some photographs.’

  Hostile growl. ‘No you won’t! I’m not having you wandering about and getting into trouble. You just stay here.’

  A New Dispensation

  The sun went down in a pink glow and a velvety darkness descended on the dusty land. They spent the night sprawled on the flat roof of the house. As Tracy prepared to spread herself out beside John, Jim grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  ‘Howay, lass that’s enough o’ him! Geordie lads not good enough, eh? Gorra ’ave a birra class ’ave we? Well, not any more!’

  For a long time John lay on his grubby rug, staring at the stars. A new dispensation seemed to have emerged; one which he neither liked nor understood. Things had changed, as if a box had been shaken up and its contents rearranged in a different pattern. On Toubkal he’d been the leader who’d made the decisions, and on whose ability to talk French they’d all depended. But now, with Steadman firmly in charge, he’d been demoted. Made redundant. More, indeed, than merely made redundant: he’d been discarded.

  Jim and Rob had changed. With Kev and his gang safely out of the way, they seemed to have swelled up and taken over the positions they’d left vacant. They were no longer allies, but a dominant and excluding group whose exaggerated Geordie talk proclaimed their aggressive elitism. Michael, with his keen eye for the flow of things, had joined them and so apparently had the two girls. That left him isolated. The camaraderie that he thought he’d built up in the course of the Toubkal adventure had mysteriously vanished. It was all a bitter disappointment.

  And just what had got into Steadman? He was no longer the protecting father figure he’d so depended on before. He’d become a sarcastic bully, openly ingratiating himself with the others and getting cheap street cred by continually snubbing him. Obviously he had offended him in some way or other, but how? What had he gone and done to deserve this?

  His one remaining ally seemed to be Morris. He too was a discarded pariah, continually snubbed by Steadman, who treated him as an unwanted piece of baggage to be publicly humiliated at every opportunity.

  Bitter Sweet in the Desert

  Three days of camelling in the desert followed. For John it was a bitter-sweet experience; good and bad e
ntwined like a coil of multicoloured string. There was the sense of adventure and challenge. Perched uncomfortably on the swaying back of his camel, his increasingly sore backside, the ferocious and deadening heat, the continual thirst, the taste of the chlorinated water in his mouth, the noise of the camels: a deliciously scatological ‘organ concert’ in every meaning of the phrase.

  And there was the harsh beauty of the desert: The gravel, the dust, the sand dunes, the vivid green of the oases with their rustling palm trees and timeless mud brick walls. Hazy and leached of colour as it cringed under the afternoon heat, in the cool of the evening it seemed to awaken from its torpor. Under the long rays of the setting sun, it burst out into a blaze of glowing colours: the rich brown of the rocks, the warm yellow of the sands, the vivid blue of the distant mountains. Then came those wonderful silent nights under the brilliant immensities of the universe. Here was the world of the great explorers: René Caillié struggling over the Sahara, Lawrence of Arabia braving the sun-blasted hell of the Nefud. This was what he wanted.

  At the same time, there was the bitterness of his rejection by the others and, especially, by Steadman. Isolated, he gravitated towards the Moroccan camel drivers and to the blue-robed, turbaned Tuareg guide in particular. He carefully observed him as he made his ‘desert bread’ every morning, assiduously photographing the whole complicated process. While Jim and the others disdained eating the finished product – ‘Ah’m not eatin’ no Pakkie crap, me!’ – he gorged himself on it and profusely thanked the man. He watched fascinated as he performed the elaborate and alien ritual of his Muslim prayers. Using his now superfluous rags of French, he asked about Islam. What did Muslims think of Christians? How did they view Jesus Christ? The man seemed flattered by his attentions and replied in a torrent of badly accented and almost incomprehensible French.

  A bond seemed to develop. The man let him help with cooking the desert bread and boiling up the tea. At night he was invited to drink tea with the Moroccans. Seated cross-legged on the sand under the glittering stars, they conversed. ‘Vous êtes different. Peut être vous êtes destines d’être Islamist.’

  John glowed. It was a deep compliment. Destined to be a great explorer like Burkhardt or Richard Burton? That would be something!

  ‘Gannin’ Pakkie, are yer?’ sneered Rob as John settled down to sleep.

  ‘What’s Up Wi’ Bob?’

  On the evening of the third day they returned to Zagora. Leaving the camels with the Moroccan drivers, they strolled back to Madame’s place. Michael sidled up to John, and for the first time in three days, began to talk to him.

  ‘What’s up wi’ Bob?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, has something happened?’

  ‘Well, ’e’s gone all funny, like. Not ’is normal self. Ah mean, ’e’s being ower rude ter you, like. Ah divvent knaa why. Ah mean, Ah thought you twos were proppa mates, like. Now ’e’s not talkin’ ter the rest o’ us. Seems ’e’s reet arsed off wi’ the lotta us.’

  John turned round to see Steadman walking behind him in vigorous conversation with the Tuareg guide. Just then Tracy walked up to him and tried to interrupt him, only to be brushed aside with an unfriendly shove.

  Michael was right. Something had got into Steadman. But what was it?

  Inner Crisis; a Curse, not a Blessing

  The fact was that Steadman was having a mental crisis. The desert, that far-off yellow blur to the south where the ancient river lost itself in the scorching sands, that ferocious environment with its strange and fearsome people with their alien culture and complex languages, there was something worthy of him! Vicar in a dreary north country suburb, fighting a losing battle to ignite a tiny flame of spirituality in silly old women and inadequate adolescents? What a waste of himself! And these kids he’d been landed with in Morocco? So crushingly banal! So petty and trivial! Raise their snouts from the muck they wallowed in? Fat chance! Pie in the sky!

  Christianity in Moorside! At best a trough of glutinous treacle, a vague sort of do-goodery. You were always having to apologise for being a Christian, always having to kow-tow before the supposed ‘superior wisdom’ of the scientific atheists at the university. To think about the realities of death and the transience of life evinced a psychotic lack of mental hygiene. So you airbrushed them out or smothered them in that glutinous treacle which passed for ‘post-religious enlightenment’.

  But here in the desert it was different. Uneducated, bigoted, crassly superstitious, unbelievably narrow… these Muslims here were all that, but nevertheless wiser than all the ‘liberated sophisticates’ of Boldonbridge. They weren’t embarrassed to talk about God. They knew that death and eternity were realities that had to be faced and not drowned in a barrel of treacle.

  The wild was calling him. Telling him to break out of the cloying cocoon of Moorside and be true to his real self. But there was an even more pressing need to cut loose and flee. It was there, two yards in front of him. John Denby.

  John the ridiculously beautiful… that fleeting culmination of adolescent beauty before adulthood coarsened it. At this precise moment, that gorgeous body obsessed him! Those delicately muscled legs, that glorious backside rippling so seductively under the tight jeans. That shock of blonde hair. Those lustrous eyes. And not only the body. There was nothing petty or banal about him! That developing mind, so full of curiosity and wonder. He could see things that the others simply couldn’t see. In all the dross around him, he was the nugget of gold. A soulmate.

  His whole being seemed to light up when he approached John. He knew what he wanted to do. But go down that road, let your iron self-control slip for just a moment, and ruin and shame would follow. John Denby was the Forbidden Fruit of the Garden sent to test his resolve. The glorious Song of the Sirens luring him to shame, squalor and degradation. In olden times he would have thought he was the Devil incarnate, deliberately luring him to destruction.

  Once more, just as four nights ago in Marrakesh, he was filled with self-disgust. He’d allowed himself to flatter the youth, build him up; yes, bring him to Morocco at his own expense. He’d wilfully deceived himself into thinking that it was an act of Christian charity, whereas it was no more than pure lust, perverted and sordid lust. Now he was paying the price. The message was clear: push the tempter aside before he destroys you.

  Yet at the same time, he felt pangs of remorse. Shame at the hurt he was causing an innocent youth by his sudden rebuttal. Shame at the obvious bewilderment and upset at the sudden and inexplicable rejection. Poor innocent creature, who needed his help and guidance and instead got the crazy lurching of a perverted lust! John Denby’s beauty was a curse, not a blessing.

  Discomfort

  Back at Marrakesh, tired, dusty and sweaty after an acutely uncomfortable bus journey.

  ‘Well, that were a reet waste o’ time!’ declared Jim as they stumbled back to the pension.

  John winced. It had been a wonderful experience, a dip into a colourful world of challenge and fulfilment. The only bad bit had been some of the people he’d been forced to go with.

  A bad-tempered wait for the shower ensued. A wretched apology of a thing at the best of times, the sudden demand for its services was too much for the spindly old contraption. A trickle of tepid water dwindled to a few drops, and then stopped altogether.

  ‘Jesus!’ snorted Rob. ‘Can’t them Pakkies do anything proppa, like?’

  ‘Now He’s Really Gone Nutty’

  Then Steadman called everybody together for a meeting in the courtyard. Hair all awry, wild-eyed and with bushy eyebrows quivering, he looked to John as if he’d just had an encounter with the electric chair.

  ‘Cor,’ muttered Michael, ‘now he’s really gone nutty! That’s all we need!’

  To John he seemed to be putting on a show and hamming it up badly, as in ‘high melodrama’ mode, he launched forth.

  ‘Well, chaps, we’ve had our little jolly. No
w it’s the real thing!’ Pause. ‘Yes, the real thing!’ He spat these words out as if he were a venomous snake spitting poison at its prey; the prey, perhaps, being the despised idiots with whom he forced to deal? ‘We’re going back in time. Back to the third world. Back to the real world! ! Another pause as he fixed his X-ray eyes on Morris. ‘So, if you’re into dried food, professionalism and safety… well just forget it!’ More metaphorical poison spat at Morris. ‘Because from now on there’s going to be no concession to suburban prissiness. Are you up to it?’ Melodramatic and hammy pause. ‘Because all I can offer you is exhaustion, fear, vile food and the gut rot.’

  After an even longer and even more hammy melodramatic pause, he continued in a gentle tone. ‘And, for those of you who survive the ordeal, I can give you the honourable title of “Mountain Explorer”. Any questions?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Jim. ‘We’re not gannin’ fuckin’ Pakkie again, is we?’

  ‘Yes we is gannin’ fuckin’ Pakkie again!’ replied Steadman, picking up the challenge with relish and consciously imitating Jim’s rich Geordie accent. ‘And, my boy, it’s like it or lump it!’

  With that, he screwed up his eyes and flashed a withering beam of metaphorical X-rays in the direction of Morris, who squirmed uncomfortably as if he were a small boy who hadn’t done his homework properly. John felt a pang of sympathy for him as a fellow pariah.

  Then Steadman went into ‘Commanding Officer’ mode as he reeled off a stream of orders, in a staccato machine gun style.