Sally returned, in her care a tubby man with a dark floppy fringe, wearing an anorak over his suit, grizzling into a mobile phone. As he marched testily into his very own corner and paced as if caged, Sally crouched beside Gore and Lyons.
‘You know Don Watson? He runs Barzini’s Pizza? You’ll have seen ’em, right, they’re everywhere now.’
Gore shrugged, trying without success to recline into the squeaking red sofa. Lyons was idly punching numbers into his own miniature phone, a force field of disinclination raised all around him. Abruptly he began a conversation, punctuated by wearied groans and guffaws. Gore gathered that a business associate was on the other end, for the talk seemed to be all of bothersome matters that one would rather the other dealt with.
‘Aw, you do it, will ya? Just for once, man. I can’t be bothered dealing wi’ Steve Coulson this week. Don’t make us. Prick.’
As Lyons set down his phone and peered into the murk of a polystyrene cup, Gore studied him with renewed interest.
‘Sorry, do you know Steve Coulson?’
‘Do I know Steve Coulson? Bloody hell, man. Do you?’
But Sally was in the doorway again, hopping from foot to foot.
*
‘Welcome back to the morning session, with us today three special guests, each in their own special way offering new and improved services on Tyneside.’
Gore adjusted his headset and sat poised at the proposed six inches from his microphone. Lyons and Watson were separated from him by a cable-strewn expanse of red baize. The egregious Carter bossed the table, and in commercial breaks he asked very solemnly of his guests that they endeavour to sound as jolly as possible whenever they resumed. Once the red light blinked them back on air, Carter’s own voice was pumped full of hale and hearty. Gore had to admire such polished fakery.
‘Reverend Gore – just before the break we said a bit about this new church of yours in Hoxheath. What interests me is this. Who are you trying to reach with a new church? What’s your demographic? Have you done, say, any market research?’
‘Uh, that’s a good question, Chris. For starters I’m very confident we’re already reaching a lot of the older people in the parish, who’ve got a longer tradition of churchgoing in their lives. Then I’m sure we can also reach the younger adults, young families, who probably had a religious upbringing themselves, of a sort, and might want the same for their kids. Beyond that? I’d say we want to reach anyone out there who hasn’t heard the Christian message.’
‘Gaz? Did you have a religious upbringing?’
‘Aw, I don’t remember, man.’
‘Right. So a new church on Tyneside, how does that grab you?’
‘Whey . . Nee disrespect, I just think the whole idea of church is a bit funny, y’knaa? For me, like? I reckon for young people now, gannin’ to clubs is like what gannin’ to churches used to be for the old uns.’
Carter seemed to take that seriously. ‘Interesting. Reverend, do you think – do you worry – that people in Hoxheath could care less about the Christian message? Has it anything to offer them? Really?’
‘Well, I do think every one of us could stand to be told that we should do unto others as we’d have them do unto us. That seems to me good advice whoever you are. But, sure, I’d be just as happy to meet people who’ve never thought twice about any of it. I should emphasise – everyone’s welcome at my church, we won’t turn a soul from our door. What we really want is just a real community forum for Hoxheath.’
‘And that’s nice, but our listeners will want me to remind you there are parts of Hoxheath that are pretty … well, notorious. For crime, for drug abuse, for long-term unemployment. People might wonder what sort of community you’ve got there to speak of?’
‘Chris, it’s important to challenge stereotypes –’
‘Some are true, but.’ This was Don Watson, meeting Gore’s eye across the table for the first time, looking very settled in his chair and his view.
‘Maybe. It’s true in Hoxheath there are people who’ve had a lot of trouble in their lives. It’s hard to earn a living in parts of this city. And when people can’t earn a living they can end up doing some very desperate things.’
Don Watson placed some of his bulk over the edge of the table. ‘Can I say, Chris? That’s what we call a bleeding heart. One thing you learn sharpish in business, nobody does you any favours in this life, so you’d best get on with it. Another thing you learn is to call things by their name. A crime’s a crime, and a criminal’s a criminal, know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Reverend, you sound very affable but some people will say isn’t the Church supposed to take a tougher line on, well, sin?’
‘Um, I’ll probably sound quite stuffy here … but there is a body of thought within the Church concerned with what we call structural sin – sins that arise because people were sinned against, in some way. That possibly sounds a bit academic.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Watson grunted.
‘Well,’ Carter leapt in, ‘let’s try and take some of your calls before the break. Jack from Fenham, are you there, Jack?’
A throat was cleared down the line. ‘Thank you. I’m listening to that fella you’ve on there, Mr Lyons? And he was talking about nightclubs being like churches? I want to tell him this. I’ve never been to a church where there’s drug dealers handing out drugs to kids like they were sweeties, and fights on the pavement outside, and lads vomiting their guts –’
‘Sounds like a canny night, that.’ Lyons wheezed in amusement.
‘Okay, but have you been to a nightclub before, Jack?’
‘No, and I shan’t, thank you, not if Mr Lyons is any advert for it.’
‘Okay, thank you, Jack.’
As Gore was escorted back to the foyer by Sally, he made a mental reckoning of his performance and decided to call it a moral victory of sorts, redeemed in part by that late show of support.
‘That was really good,’ Sally offered. ‘Good response, lots of calls.’
‘Thank you for having me.’
‘Aw, well, they asked us to tell you we’d be glad to have you back, anytime. You’ve got something to say, you know?’ And she nodded, keenly, perhaps a few more times than Gore could take as sincere.
*
The following evening found Gore once more before his parish council, and he strode into the room feeling himself justified. He poured his coffee, took his seat by Jack Ridley and tipped back his chair in a proprietor’s manner. Bob Spikings, too, wore a fulsome air. ‘Well, I think I speak for us all when I say the, uh, top item on the agenda has to be a big hand for John on the success of the first service of St Luke’s.’
It was a tinny, hesitant round of applause – even Ridley a little tardy – though Simon Barlow appeared most vigorous and earnest in his acclamation. Spikings nodded. ‘Quite right, John, and, uh – with any luck, you’ll soon have no more need of us. Then we can all get our Thursday nights back. I should say, too, there’s the matter of your performance on the radio yesterday, which I’m sure those who heard will agree was first-rate. And, uh, tremendous PR. The media is golden, as we know, and you really, uh, handled yourself well.’
Gore smiled thinly.
‘Can I raise a point? About the service?’ It was Susan Carrow, in her yellow pullover and snow-white blouson and citrine scarf, the ensemble clearly tailored to her ash-blonde hairdo yet bestowing on her the look of a lemon meringue, and today, it seemed to Gore, a sour one to boot.
‘Can I just say? I was a bit put out – as were others – by those three – I hardly know what to call them … those three muscle-men who were strutting about the place?’
An emphysematic snort came out of Jack Ridley.
‘I didn’t think their presence was at all appropriate. I mean to say, one of them was smoking, and then another I heard using language that the children present shouldn’t have had to hear. And of course I was hardly going to tell them off because I was frightened, frankly, as were some of the
children …’
Spikings turned to Gore, who made sure to emanate bemusement. ‘Mrs Carrow’s referring to Steve Coulson and some colleagues of his from the security firm he runs, who very kindly came down and gave us a hand in the shifting of heavy items. I should say, too, that those who took communion on Sunday did so at a rail that was donated by Mr Coulson.’
Spikings stared determinedly downward at his paperwork. ‘Well, yes, of course – we know Mr, uh, Coulson here at St Mark’s, and he’s given generously to this church also.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ volleyed Mrs Carrow, ‘but him and his pals have the look of thugs to me, and I can’t say they comported themselves any better. And I’m not the only one thought as much, because people talk, you know …’
Gore leaned forward. ‘Susan, I didn’t hear any complaints, so I –’
‘Oh, that’s cos you were off getting your photo taken –’
‘And frankly I don’t appreciate some of your own language.’
Mrs Carrow did not appreciate the rejoinder, and Gore was still returning her piqued stare when Simon Barlow coughed and took charge of the silence in the room. ‘Hang on, sorry, have I got this right, John? You had bouncers for sidesmen? At your first service?’
‘Geet big skinhead navvies,’ Susan Carrow nodded. ‘With tattoos.’
‘And this Coulson bloke,’ Barlow continued, dawning marvel in his eyes. ‘He gives money to this church?’
‘That’s sort of how I met him,’ offered Gore. ‘Well, in fact, we actually met in the Gunnery pub.’ He had the sudden blushing sensation of having volunteered more information than was helpful.
But Barlow’s eyes were gleaming, dissimulating pure pleasure, and he bashed the table surface with the flat of his hand. ‘Outstanding. Outstanding, John. That’s the spirit, eh? You can’t say that’s not ringing in the new. That’s worth another round of applause in itself. Honest, John, I’d never have thought it. Talk about thinking out of your box.’
Susan Carrow still looked to have something tart stored in her mouth. ‘Well, I hardly see the cause for congratulation.’
‘Oh, but Susan, Susan – it takes all sorts. All sorts. Who are we to judge, eh? Hasn’t John always said that? I know I’ve heard him. Didn’t the Lord find a great servant in the harlot Rahab? Was she not justified by works and works alone? Was faith not a mighty current in her? Too right it was.’
Gore thought himself long inured to Barlow’s crackerjack displays of exuberance. Today he found himself wondering if the man was off his medication. But whatever the source of his sustenance, Barlow was beaming at Gore as if thinking him good enough to eat. ‘What will you do next, John? Eh? Whatever next?’
‘That is a good question, I should say.’ Spikings seemed anxious to reclaim the chair’s privilege. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the week, John?’
Gore bridged his fingers. ‘Well, my thought was to maybe start doing some voluntary hours at the Citizens Advice Bureau. On Westgate Road?’
‘Come off it, John, where’ll you get the time for that?’ Scratchy scepticism was back in Barlow’s voice. ‘You can’t, not if you’re doing your pastoral duties properly. We’ve been through this, haven’t we?’
Spikings was nodding. Mrs Carrow seemed to draw sustenance from these reproofs. ‘What about a Sunday School? Didn’t we talk about that last time?’
Barlow clucked his tongue. ‘Hang on, Susan. Let’s step back a minute, take a closer look at the turnout John got Sunday. How many kids from the school were there? Monica?’
‘Ten, a dozen maybe? Not so many. I can’t force them, as you know.’
Barlow was doing an impression of The Thinker. ‘Hmm. And can I ask, Monica – how exactly is RE taught in your school? How’s the faith made present?’
She shrugged. ‘I start and end the day with prayer. We follow the curriculum, of course, far as it goes. Teaching the belief systems –’
Gore watched a familiar vulpine cast form on Barlow’s features. ‘“Belief systems”. What’s that about? See, in my day RE was about introducing the kids to a certain guy called Jesus Christ. Wasn’t it the same for you? I mean, I’m sure you’re only doing what the powers that be say is adequate. But come on, a church school should have a clear Christian ethos? Shouldn’t it? I know it’s hard to get the staff now, but hey.’
Gore leaned forward. ‘Simon, please, what’s this – what’s your point?’
‘A dozen kids? Sorry, is that not pitiful? Monica, you can’t sit there and tell me you couldn’t have given John a better start?’
Gore was sure Mrs Bruce would retort in a manner fit to blister the paint from the walls. And yet she looked to have sustained a blow to the heart. Barlow nodded, apparently content he had hit his target. ‘These kids, see … I’m all for them getting their A-B-C and their one-two-three. Just let’s not pretend that’s the end of it, yeah? Making them into clever little devils. Church education means fostering the head and the heart and the soul of the child.’ And he clasped his big paws before him, a plangent gesture reminding Gore of Gordon Lockhart. ‘Anyhow. Another day maybe. Yeah, so what about that ruddy Sunday School then, John?’
‘Much done, much still to do.’ Gore rocked backward in his chair, very sure he had lost sufficient hours of his life already bearing witness to Barlow’s grandstanding. ‘I’ve been pursuing this idea of a crèche with one of the mothers who came to my first meeting.’
Spikings gestured to his diligently annotating wife. ‘Good, good. And that’s who, sorry?’
‘Her name is Lindy Clark.’
A mordant exclamation fell from Monica’s lips. Gore rolled his tanks over the objection, thinking it wholly predictable. ‘Ms Clark has a child of her own, and several jobs she has to do just to keep the boy, but she’s very kindly been putting some thought into this matter for me.’
‘Ms Clark,’ said Susan Carrow, fresh stocks of contempt in her voice, ‘is a little tattooed lah-di-da with no thought in her head but for herself.’
‘Susan, please.’ Spikings, and indeed his wife, seemed genuinely pained by the outburst. Gore made a point of chuckling under his breath, looking disbelievingly to the window, then the door. ‘No, John, that all sounds well and good, well and good. The thing I’ve always said, the really good thing about this job, is that you meet people.’
‘Oh, all sorts of people, Bob.’ Simon Barlow made plain his own amusement. Gore made out just a little malice in the tone. In the silence he threw open his hardbacked notebook and scribbled a few short notes. He trusted his council understood that it was nothing to do with anything they had uttered – other than that Barlow, in the midst of his prior fit of quasi-scriptural raving, had reminded Gore of an excellent notion for a sermon.
Chapter III
STEVIE COULSON IS BUSY
Saturday, 19 October 1996
He spun the wheel of the borrowed transit van, fiddling the dial of the dodgy radio, questing for some good and proper driving tunes though wary of the player’s limited capacity, for its housing had been sorely misused as an ashtray on some previous loan. For the moment he could get nothing but angry swarming fuzz. Beyond the windshield rainclouds were massing, but the promised deluge was staying its hand. Traffic at least was kindly as he turned off the Scotswood Bridge and onto the Derwenthaugh Road that would wend him down through Blaydon and Rowland’s Gill. In short, not the absolute worst of days, though the day’s labour wore an onerous cast. Giving up on the music, he whistled and sang a few bars of ‘The Blaydon Races’, a regular salve to his spirits.
‘We flew across the Chain Bridge, reet into Blaydon Toon …’
My God, he thought, if the fella wrote that could see old Blaydon now.
The suspension groaned, and a hell of a clatter broke from the back of the van as Stevie pulled up to stop-lights on the A694. He cursed himself for not having made a better fist of securing the cargo. No point in stopping, though, for he had neither chain nor twine to hand. He kept his thoughts n
ailed to the promise of three o’clock, this outing but a chore en route. In and out like shite off a stick, that was the target – and if the traffic and the skies behaved themselves he would be installed in the Strawberry for at least a pair of pints before kick-off. Whey aye. He took the next right turn and was soon motoring through Highfield and Hooker Gate, Derwent Valley territory, the familiar depths of Chopwell Wood to his left.
It was the sticks, Chopwell, no question, and Karen never let him forget. But the development into which he had placed them, brand spanking new-built at the time, was a perfectly sound one, had kept so over the years, and remained perfectly handy for the Metro Centre, where Karen was presently engaged on the perfume floor of Debenhams. True, she faffed on about moving, but such ambitions were not Stevie’s business. For – what was it? – all of five or six years, they had had no real grounds for dispute. Five it must be, Stevie reckoned, for tomorrow Donna turned six.
His card, he knew, was a poor choice, and he ought to have found one with the number on it. But he believed that the gift, in its size and splendour, would more than compensate. The darker suspicion behind his hope was that Donna wouldn’t care less, preferring to join her mother in some witchy chorus of daddy-disparagement, some more sticking of the Stevie voodoo doll. This Donna just bore no relation to the gurgling moppet he used to paddle about between his big hands – some double it was, who shrank from him now. He bore the slight, didn’t brood on it, as was his discipline. For he had every intention of proving to his daughter that some things in life were steadfast and unconditional – even if, at times, they racked up a man’s temper.
He swung the van through wrought-iron gates, past the floral-fringed sign that proclaimed HALCYON HEIGHTS, and pulled into a spot beside Karen’s silver Saab, outside the narrow two-storey mews house. It too languished under its own idiot name, HEATHERDOWN. Stevie had never seen fit to scribble such nonsense onto an envelope.
Karen opened the door onto her porch, clad in ski pants and old sweatshirt, streaky hair in a scrunchy. Almost all he could see of her now was her bold chin, her sharp nose, in or out of his business. She had yet to apply her face this morning, but the one she turned upon Stevie was not entirely bilious. She had wheeled away again toward the small kitchen at the rear of the house before she noticed Stevie was not at her heel.
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