by Alan Beechey
“Pleased to meet you, Kurt. My name’s Effie. You need a shave.”
The boy grinned. “That’s make-up,” he said shyly. “And I’m not supposed to be scary.”
“Oh, I thought you were a Hell’s Angel?”
“No, I’m a Heaven’s Angel. I’m the angel Gabriel.” He struck an odd pose that was clearly intended to make him look dangerous, but actually made Effie want to hug him. Then he deflated slightly. “It’s only for the Nativity play,” he whispered. “I can’t really ride a motor-bike.”
“That’s just as well,” said Effie, “because then I’d have to arrest you.”
Kurt’s eyes opened wide. “Are you a policeman?” he asked, with innocent sexism.
“Oh yes. Just like on ‘The Bill.’”
Kurt glanced at Oliver, who was still standing in the doorway. “Is he a policeman too?” he asked.
“No,” said Effie. She smiled slyly. “Kurt, have you ever heard of Finsbury the Ferret?”
“Here we go,” muttered Oliver.
“I’ll say!” exclaimed Kurt, his face brightening. “I’ve got all the books.”
“Well, this gentleman is one of Finsbury’s henchman. It’s all right, though. He’s under arrest.”
Kurt looked critically at Oliver. “He doesn’t look evil enough to be one of Finsbury’s henchman.”
“That’s because he’s a master of disguise. He’s really very bad indeed.”
“Shouldn’t he be wearing handcuffs, if he’s under arrest? Why doesn’t he run away?”
Effie stood up. “Because he’s given me his word that he won’t. Life is so much easier when you trust people. Isn’t it, Hrothgar?”
She addressed the last remark to Oliver, who smiled sarcastically but said nothing. Kurt stared at him for several seconds and then clearly lost interest in the conversation. They followed him through a door that led into the sanctuary of the church.
In daylight, the church seemed austere and uninviting, and its need for fresh paint and plaster was more apparent. Even the colors on the bright banner pinned to the pulpit seemed to recede. Oliver’s earlier impression, that it seemed more like a theater than a place of worship, was reinforced by what was taking place. Barry Foison was sitting in the third pew, wearing the same loose sweater that he’d worn the previous Sunday, studying a script. To the left of the platform, Heather Tapster was sitting at the upright piano, which had been wheeled away from the wall and slightly dismantled. Billy Coppersmith was standing beside her, still wearing his Stratocaster, which was plugged in to a small practice amplifier at his feet.
“All right,” Foison called wearily, “we’ve done the bit with the kindhearted hotel manager, and Joseph and Mary have stashed their moped in the garage. Cut to the shepherds. Kylie, you’ll be a shepherd on Christmas Eve, so you can stop being Mary for a while.”
A small girl was sitting on a folding stool in the center of the highest tier of the platform, immediately in front of the gray pipes of the unused organ. An older boy sat beside her, wearing a shiny lounge suit, and a lifelike baby doll lay in a metal toolbox between their feet. At Foison’s command, the girl picked up the doll and started to clump down stage.
“Kylie, where are you going with baby Jesus?” Foison asked, his high-pitched voice reaching even higher to express his surprise.
Kylie stopped and thought for a second. “I’m taking him to work,” she explained. “My mummy takes me to work with her.”
“Yes, but you’re not baby Jesus’s mummy. Put him back.”
“Yes I am. Mr. Dock explained all that in Sunday School last week. God inseminated me…” She knitted her brow in concentration. “In-tra-ut-er-ine-ly,” she continued slowly. “It’s Joseph who’s not his biological father. We’re an extended family.”
Foison sighed deeply. He had clearly passed the point of seeing the humor in anything uttered by a seven-year-old. “I mean, you’re not Mary now, darling. Tina Quarterboy is going to be Mary, but she couldn’t be here today, so you’re just standing in for her.”
“Can’t I take baby Jesus with me anyway?” Kylie pleaded, cuddling the doll. It burped realistically.
“You’re going to be one of our shepherds,” said Foison firmly. “Shepherds don’t have babies. Well, they do, but they don’t take them out at night.”
“Can I have a lamb, then?”
“It’s not that sort of shepherd,” Foison began, but was cut off by Kylie’s scream, which echoed around the empty building. The boy playing Joseph had finished inspecting the contents of his left nostril and had sneaked up behind Kylie, snatched the doll from her arms, and was now attempting to see if its head was detachable. Kylie turned and pushed him. He pushed back. The doll burped again. Foison covered his face with his thin hands, while Heather Tapster bolted from the piano stool and tried to separate the two children.
“Good afternoon, Barry,” said Oliver. “I don’t really want to stop the show, but is this a good time to ask you a couple of questions?” He had sidled over to the young man, who looked up, startled to hear the voice.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Swithin, isn’t it?” he said with a nervous smile. He glanced over to the stage. Joseph was back on the stool, idly kicking the doll, which he was dangling between his legs. Heather had led Kylie through a door to the left of the church, which presumably connected with the rooms behind the sanctuary wall.
“I think we have a minute or two,” Foison said. “Kylie has to change costume. Is this about your article?”
“Not really. It’s about Tina Quarterboy.”
Oliver beckoned to Effie, who came over and introduced herself. If Foison was surprised to meet a police officer in this odd way, he showed no sign. Effie and Foison talked about Tina for several minutes, but the young man could offer no reason why the girl had run away and had no clue where she might be. He seemed open and genuinely concerned for Tina’s safety. From a distance, Oliver studied him carefully. Foison was about his age, and yet the young man had called him “Mr. Swithin,” without any hint of sarcasm. This meant he had either forgotten Oliver’s name or that it was an habitual affectation, which was odd. Ben had spent more time talking to Foison on the previous Sunday evening—Oliver would have to compare notes with his friend.
“It’s so strange that she should just disappear,” Foison concluded. “Quite unlike her. She was so looking forward to being the Virgin Mary in our little play.”
“She was going to wrap the babe in swaddling bands and lay him in a toolbox?” Oliver queried, after Effie had privately signaled that her interview was over. Foison laughed, covering his mouth with his fingertips. His teeth were very white.
“I thought the children might enjoy it more if we updated it somewhat,” he said.
“Well, Joseph was a carpenter, so I suppose a toolbox is appropriate.”
“Actually, in this version, Joseph is an IKEA salesman. But we’d better press on.”
Heather Tapster had resumed her seat at the piano, and following a cue from Foison, struck two very loud chords. Billy joined in, with an odd wailing tune that slithered across several keys, thanks to Billy’s liberal use of the guitar’s tremolo arm and his habit of bending every note across the fretboard until the string seemed about to snap. It took a minute for Oliver to recognize the melody as “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night.”
Three children filed glumly out of the door by the piano and paced across the lowest tier of the platform. Kylie was now dressed in a nurse’s uniform, another girl was wearing a smart dress and carrying a briefcase, and a boy was clearly supposed to be a policeman, although it wasn’t immediately obvious why he was carrying a crook. Nor could Oliver fathom why he also had a long, white cotton-wool beard.
“Garth!” Foison yelled, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing?”
Garth thought about the question for several seconds before d
elivering his considered response. “What?” he said.
“Lose the beard, Garth. And the crook.”
“But I’m supposed to be a shepherd,” he protested.
“Only metaphorically. You’re a policeman—a modern-day shepherd, the sort of person who’d be on watch at night in today’s world.”
“Why can’t we just be real shepherds, like in the Bible?” asked Kylie petulantly. “Then I could have a lamb. And I want a beard like Garth’s.”
“You’re a nurse, sweetie,” said Foison, drawing on his dwindling reserves of patience. “And Garth’s not supposed to have a beard.”
“Can’t I still have a beard if I’m a policeman?” Garth asked.
“No, and that’s not a regulation beard anyway. Take it off, please.”
Garth reluctantly put the crook down and removed the beard. Foison covered his face with his hands again and took several long deep breaths. When he looked up again, the other girl was wearing the beard.
“I bet there are social workers with long white beards!” she protested, as Foison marched over to the platform and silently took the beard away. Oliver and Effie tiptoed across the church and took a seat close to the piano, waiting for an opportunity to talk to Heather and Billy.
“All right, let’s start again,” said Foison. “Go off and come on again when you hear the music.” The three children groaned.
“Do we have to hear Billy play the guitar again?” said the social worker. Billy scowled at her.
“It’s rock music, Danni. It’s modern. Don’t you like it?”
“Can’t we just sing a nice carol?” the girl continued.
“About a lamb?” Kylie added.
“All right, all right, we’ll assume you’ve heard the music and you’re all on stage. Garth, you start.”
Garth took three steps toward the front of the platform, clasped his hands behind his back, and flexed slightly at the knees.
“Evening all,” he intoned. “Blimey, it’s a bit parky round the houses tonight. What I wouldn’t give to be curled up back at the nick with a nice cuppa and me copy of the Socialist Worker, thus proving that the Filth aren’t all a bunch of pig-ignorant fascists…”
Foison turned and smiled weakly at Effie, who beamed graciously back. While the three children practiced their scene, Oliver sidled across to the piano and peered over it at Heather Tapster.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” he whispered. Heather frowned, as if she didn’t understand. She seemed distracted.
“Nigel’s elevation to the peerage,” Oliver continued softly.
“Oh, yes,” she said softly. “Thank you, Mr. Swithin. We’re truly grateful that the Lord has blessed our efforts.”
“I have a police detective with me,” he said, still keeping his voice low, “and she’s looking into Tina Quarterboy’s disappearance. Is this a good time to ask you and Billy some questions? It won’t take long.”
Heather glanced away quickly at the stage. Foison was reminding the children of their lines. “Well, all right. But I’m not sure that I can help. I don’t know Tina very well, and I haven’t seen her since last Sunday’s service. It’s quite a shock to hear she’s run off.”
“Do you have any idea where she may have gone?” asked Effie, who had slid in beside Oliver. She waved her warrant card. “Were there any friends who may have taken her in for a couple of nights?”
“Taken her in,” Heather repeated slowly. She tossed her head, as if trying free herself from a cobweb. “Billy knows her better than I do. Perhaps he can tell you.”
She called quietly to Billy, who took off the guitar and joined the group at the piano. Effie explained who she was, which seemed enough to terrify the teenager, and he answered her questions more or less monosyllabically, with frequent glances at Heather for moral support.
“And you didn’t see her on Thursday evening, after school?” she concluded.
“We don’t go to the same school,” Billy said.
“But did you see her?”
“I went round to see Nigel and Heather,” he answered cautiously. “We were rehearsing for Barry’s Nativity play. He saw us.” He gestured to Oliver. “So are you a copper, too?” he asked.
Oliver shook his head. “You and Tina used to be friends, I understand,” he commented.
Billy studied his sneakers. “We broke up. Her Mum and Dad didn’t want her to come with the rest of us to Nigel’s house after church.”
Effie turned back to Heather. “Is there any chance your husband may have seen the girl, or that she may have confided some of her troubles in him?”
Heather shrugged. “You’d better let him answer that. He’ll be at home this evening, if you’d care to drop round. We’re having the young people in for some seasonal prayers. Maybe you’d like to join us?”
“Unfortunately, I have to be somewhere this evening,” Effie said quickly, which was news to Oliver. “How about tomorrow? Assuming Tina hasn’t turned up in the meantime.”
“We’ll be at church in the morning,” Heather replied. “It’s Nigel’s first Communion service as a new deacon.”
Foison clapped his hands. “Music cue,” he trilled. “Appearance of the angel Gabriel to the shepherds.”
Billy picked up his guitar, seemingly grateful to break away from the detective, and waited for Heather to strike a bright chord. He improvised a loud pentatonic fanfare, jamming his foot hard on a sustain pedal on the floor. The music died away, not quickly enough for Oliver’s taste. He was amazed at how long a guitar solo could be sustained without the application of either a plectrum or any appreciable talent.
“Gabriel!” Foison shouted. “The angel Gabriel! Kurt, that’s your cue!”
The heavy curtains at the back of the church twitched, and a very short biker stepped through.
“Yo!” he shouted. He took a comb from his pocket and swept it theatrically through an imaginary pompadour. Then he adjusted his black leather jacket with a twitch and swaggered down the aisle.
“Don’t have a cow, dudes and dudettes,” Kurt crooned. “For word to your mother! The Notorious G.O.D. sends a wassup to you and your posse, knowwha’I’msayin’? There be some heavy shit coming down in the city of my man David…”
“Don’t say sh—Don’t say that word!” said Foison with a wince. “Start again and do it right.”
“Let me be Gabriel instead of the Sentimental Socialist Worker,” said Danni, as Kurt retreated dejectedly to his starting point. “My mummy says I’m her little angel.”
“I’m sure she does, dear,” Foison murmured, “but Gabriel was a boy angel.”
“Angels have long golden hair and they wear nighties,” Danni protested. “That makes them girls.”
“Not in my experience,” said Foison under his breath.
“All the angels I’ve seen were girls,” Danni continued.
“You’ve never seen an angel!” Kylie cut in.
“I have. I’ve seen lots of angels. In fact I saw one just a minute ago. Flying up there in that sunbeam!” Danni pointed into a bright ray of sunlight streaming through a circular window above the church’s disused balcony. “And it was a girl,” she added defiantly.
“Bloody little liar,” snapped Garth. Danni stared at him, then burst into tears. The boy playing Joseph, who had wandered off to stuff chewing gum into the organ pipes, noticed the commotion and threw baby Jesus at Garth, with the aim of knocking off his helmet. The doll hit Kylie, who also burst into tears.
“Gabriel’s musical cue, quickly please,” shouted Foison, attempting to break up the brawl between his shepherds. But before Heather could strike the keyboard, a different musical fanfare sounded raucously from the back of the church, and a troupe of six or seven small boys in uniform blazers and scarlet forage-caps came through the curtain. They were each blowing a bugle. Dougie Dock
swaggered in behind them, wearing an adult-size version of the same uniform.
“I brought your heavenly host, Barry,” called Dock, as the boys ran down the aisle, exchanging high-fives with Kurt. “We’ve been up the High Street, giving the shoppers a tune or two.”
He marched pompously up the aisle to the front of the church, while Foison shuttled the new arrivals through the door by the piano, calling out instructions. Dock greeted Heather and, without asking, sat beside her on the piano stool and laboriously picked out the broken-chord accompaniment to “Heart and Soul.” Heather moved away.
“I thought you were going to join in on your electric twanger, young Billy,” Dock said, after playing the chord sequence many more times than called for by his skills. He glanced up and noticed Oliver and Effie, immediately leaping to his feet and hurrying over to them with an affected balletic lope.
“Well, hell-oo,” he sang, with the same cadence that had made Oliver wish to avoid him on the previous Sunday. Reluctantly, Oliver took the proffered hand.
“And how’s my old friend, Oliver?” he asked, grinning broadly behind his thick-framed glasses. Even though it was earlier in the day than their last encounter, his cheeks and chin were as blue as Kurt’s, but without the aid of makeup, suggesting that Nature was wasting testosterone on entirely the wrong people. “I say, did you ever see your uncle’s Bottom?”
Dock laughed heartily at his joke, and then turned and explained it at some length to Heather and Billy. Effie prodded Oliver.
“Tell me you didn’t,” she groaned. “Not to him.”
“And who is this lovely lady?” Dock was now asking in fulsome tones, politely lifting his forage-cap. A couple of long, stray hairs went with it.
“Effie Strongitharm,” she said, before Oliver could remember her name.
“And are you, my dear?” Dock retorted, taking her hand.
“Am I what?”
“Strong in the arm?” He squeezed her hand slightly and felt for her biceps with his free hand, as if assessing her strength, but something made him abandon the joke abruptly and step back. Oliver was not sure if Effie had given him a flash of the famous and feared Strongitharm Look or if Dock had actually found her biceps, which was remarkably firm and taut due to years of karate.