by Peter Laws
‘Pilgrimage,’ Matt said. ‘If you get people to make an effort to be somewhere they’re far more expectant when they arrive. Sociologists call it the Burning Bush Syndrome … Or at least I did once, in a paper.’ He nodded down the hill. ‘Plus the church is high up over the village. So it looks all-powerful. Back in the day I bet the parson could sit in the bell tower with a telescope and probably make a list of who was deflowering who.’
‘And is that what you used to do?’ she said. ‘Spy on the flock.’
‘Only on Thursdays,’ he shrugged. ‘Those W.I. pensioners used to get pretty kinky in our hall.’
There were maybe thirty other cars parked outside the main entrance, most of them at odd angles, with their windows down to bring in the cool air. He found a spot near a clump of grass and killed the engine. He buzzed the windows shut.
All four of them noticed the sound as they climbed out of the car. The tinnitus hiss of the waterfall was churning somewhere unseen.
‘Where is it, though?’ Amelia said. ‘It’s pretty loud.’
‘Loud … yeah …’ He wasn’t really listening. He was too busy running his eyes across the wrought iron gates and the swaying long grass spurting from the edge of the gravestones, like old man nose hair. A paved, crooked path ran from the gate to the heavy wooden arch of the main church door. It was closed.
Wren was already pushing through the squealing gate when she noticed he wasn’t with them. ‘Er … Matt? Chop-chop.’
He jogged up behind her and they all crunched up the gravel path to the church, Amelia in an exaggerated march because she liked the sound it made. Lucy was trying hard to see the tip of their cottage from here, but it was lost in the fairy-tale forest. When they reached the door, they spotted a strip of tiny wooden crosses up one side of the wall. The low beat of music was coming from somewhere.
Wren straightened her skirt, flicked her fringe.
‘You look great, by the way. I’d totally hire you.’ He put his arm around her. ‘Nervous?’
‘Put it this way. I need the toilet … again,’ she whispered to him. ‘Are you nervous, Reverend? Ready for Pastor Chris?’
Amelia and Lucy went to push through the heavy door.
It was silly really. All a bit childish, but he was nervous. Like a tiny, unexpected feather, flicking back and forth across the ceiling of his stomach. He’d been in a hundred churches since he left his own pastorate.
Left? That was a charitable way of putting it.
Since then he’d visited all sorts of cathedrals and tiny tin-pot chapels, marching his students about to show them how the theology of a social group affects the layout of their buildings. Baptists love the Bible, so it lies there open, front and centre in the Sanctuary. Catholics love the Eucharist, so the altar sits in the spotlight. How you can read a church’s beliefs in a two-second glimpse.
But when he wandered those places he was neutral. He’d nod at the vicar and say, Don’t mind me. I’m just a geeky academic from the university. Teaching, that’s all. But he didn’t feel neutral at this church, not with this pastor. Because he wouldn’t be seen that way.
The door creaked open and they stepped inside, nostrils instantly damp with the smell of mouldy carpet. It had a typical stone interior, with huge granite pillars slamming down amongst the pews. His first thought was that they looked like the feet of the fighting machines from War of the Worlds. But it also had a large stage at the front. A row of mike stands and a hefty drum kit sat under a huge projector screen.
Wren’s gaze swept across the floors, the pillars, the vaulted ceiling. Then over at the far corner, which was earmarked for the main extension. He saw her eyes flicking from corner to corner, brain firing up images of what she wanted to do with the place.
Someone had taped printed A4 sheets to the pillars and walls. Purging Party: This Way! It was, Matt noticed, in the world’s most satanic font – Comic Sans.
Wren hurried them through the pews and up the centre aisle. As they moved he glanced down at his feet and the iron grille with the heating pipes beneath. The first time Matt ever married a couple he was handed their Argos-bought white gold rings and he placed them on his open Bible. He leant too far forward for an eager nod and one of them rolled clean off and disappeared down the grille with a clatter and a gasp from the congregation. It took the caretaker twenty minutes to prise it up and get it out, dirt, cobwebs, chewed fingernails and all, while the family glared at him throughout, glancing at their watches. Great days.
Wren followed the arrows through a stone arch until they came to an old wooden door lined with cruciform black metal studs. The sun was streaming from under it, lighting up the slabs beneath their feet.
The sign said: Praise the Lord you found it! Now let’s purge! – Smiley face.
Music was thumping through the wood.
‘I really need this job, Matt,’ Wren suddenly whispered.
‘Just be yourself.’ She stood, as stiff as the door. Then out of the corner of his mouth. ‘And if you’re interested, sociologists call this the shitting-bricks syndrome.’
She hooted out a laugh and he saw her shoulders relax a little.
He squeezed her hand and swung the door wide open.
They stepped outside onto a stone patio, peaking their hands across their foreheads and squinting from the early evening sun. God was deliberately shining his cosmic torch in their eyes. Just to be annoying.
The view though … wow.
They were faced with a stunning wrap-around sight of green hills rolling down into woodland. Little farms and crops of houses sat in the distance and at the bottom of the steep hill was a sparkling lake with Cooper’s Force Waterfall pounding into it.
‘Woah,’ Wren said.
But Matt’s eyes weren’t really on the view. They were on the people. Everyone was wearing sunglasses. Everyone. Forty people just standing about on the stones, chatting and nibbling rice and refried beans from dangerously curved paper plates. An iPod sat in the cradle of a massive speaker shaped like a Zeppelin. He didn’t recognise the music, but someone was singing about the golden streets of heaven with jangly guitars.
Matt took a step forward and Wren raised her hand in a little wave. Nobody noticed them. Mouths kept chewing and chatting, people lifted their plastic cups for a top-up of what looked like water. Some would cock their necks back as they laughed. But nobody saw them.
Matt was just about to call out a hello when he felt a bony hand landing on his shoulder.
‘You came!’ It was Seth Cardle, looking like a golfer. Pale-pink Fred Perry top on a pair of thin cream trousers. He tapped his sunglasses down his nose (Rayban, Matt noticed). He looked Wren in the eye. ‘Tell me you haven’t eaten.’
‘Nope,’ Amelia butted in and slapped two hands on her empty stomach. ‘We’re empty.’
Seth smiled and pushed his sunglasses back into position. ‘There’s all the chilli you can handle, little one. But first things first. Wren, I have someone you must meet.’
Seth slipped his hand into Wren’s and tugged her away, across the patio, through the crowd of eaters. Matt and the kids shared a shrugging glance and followed behind her.
Clearly Seth had been a validation because people finally started to smile at them. Raising their cups and giving little finger waves, saying ‘welcome’ and ‘hello’ through guacamole- and tortilla-stuffed mouths. Seth was heading for a group of about seven people, standing by a low stone wall. All with their backs turned, rocking their shoulders with laughter.
Matt couldn’t see who was making them shriek with delight but the sound, tone and rhythms of that voice were riding on the breeze. Instantly recognisable. Like the tune to a novelty single that had lodged itself in the brain through relentless, excessive airplay.
Somewhere in the centre of those people, an unseen Chris Kelly was telling one of his stories. And they were loving it.
That feather again, teasing his innards, when there was really no need for it.
Seth raise
d his fist near his lips and deliberately coughed. Then again, louder. The laughter faltered. A head swivelled back toward Wren. Then another, until all seven sets of sunglasses looked back, eyebrows frowning at first. Looking … interrupted.
They were all women, apart from a bald, fat guy in a Hawaiian shirt with a jet-black goatee. He was the only one who smiled and seemed to have a hell of a lot of teeth when he did. His little finger had a streak of chilli sauce that he removed in a quick lizard-lick.
‘Helloooo,’ Wren said, waving. For some reason she also started bobbing her shoulders left and right, like an eager primary-school teacher greeting her class. And when she spoke, her voice sounded small. ‘I’m the architect. I’m Wren.’
Instant smiles leapt from face to face.
Wren smiled back, much more at ease and walked towards them. But Matt held back a little; so did the kids.
The smiley faces swung open like a set of doors. And sitting on the low wall, while the others stood, was Chris Kelly in his black shirt and dog collar. He was sat like Jewish Rabbis used to when they taught in the Ancient Middle East. In their system the teacher always sits and the student stands. Chris had one arm across a knee in the exact same stance as the leaflet. Only now he was wasn’t holding a Bible, it was a bottle of Evian. Bizarrely, he looked even younger than Matt remembered him being fifteen years ago. Though he had the same pinched little mouth that belied the loudness of his voice.
He hadn’t yet spotted Matt.
When Chris saw Wren he sprang to his feet, clawed off his sunglasses and boomed out her name. Singing it like an opera singer: ‘Wrennnn Hunnnnnnter!’
People stopped chewing and looked over.
‘Everybody. This is her. The one we’ve been praying about. This is Wren Hunter the architect!’ He rushed towards her. ‘It’s a privilege to meet you. It really is.’
‘Oh the pleasure’s mine. The village, the cottage are just so—’
‘I’ve got to say it …’
‘Say what?’
‘The hair. I love the red hair!’
She gave him an awkward smile.
‘In fact … may I?’ Chris didn’t wait for an answer. He leant forward and glided his fingers through her fringe, lifting it to the ladies behind him like it was a wig on a stand they all might buy. A few smiled with eager nods, nudging each other. One or two seemed gutted and looked to the floor.
‘You’re a lot prettier than the last architect we had!’ Chris said.
Seth barked into his hands with that loud, tuberculosis laugh of his.
Nobody seemed to notice Wren gently cock her head to the side, so her hair slipped from his fingers. ‘Chris. I’d like you to meet my family.’
‘Yes, of course! Bring them on!’
‘And funnily enough,’ she turned her head back to Matt, ‘I believe you know my husband.’
‘I do? Point the rascal out and I’ll …’ his words fizzed into silence.
Eye contact.
‘Chris …’ Matt took a step forward. ‘It’s been a million years.’
It was odd. Because at first Chris did absolutely nothing. He just stared. Tilted his head like an only child studying a fly in a jar. And as irrational as it seemed, Matt could swear the rest of them did that exact same movement too – the hive mind telling all eyes to narrow behind the black lenses and … 1, 2, 3 … Tilt!
‘You might not remember me,’ Matt took another step forward. ‘We trained at Bible college together.’
Chris closed his eyes, and just said, ‘Halleh-bloomin-lujah!’
Lucy sniggered.
Chris’s eyelids shot open and he stomped over. ‘Matty Boy!’ He hugged Matt hard, adding three sharp pats on the back, the way some men do to signal that they might be hugging another guy but dammit … I’m. Not. Gay.
‘Everyone. This is unbelievable. It’s my old study buddy!’ Chris hooked a thumb at the living coincidence that was Matt Hunter, a look of wonder on his face. ‘I mean, really! What are the chances?’
Someone shouted, ‘It’s the Lord.’
Chris said, ‘Amen to that.’
‘And this is Lucy, and Amelia.’ Wren shuffled them forward to display them. Probably because Mr Mason had just instructed her on the phone that ‘reasonably well-adjusted kids were part of any good CV.’
‘Wow, lovely. Pretty and lovely.’ Chris shook the kids’ hands vigorously. ‘And of course you’ve already met my Ben.’ He leant over and waved a little group apart. Ben came stumbling out.
‘Hey guys,’ Ben nodded politely at Lucy and Amelia. ‘I brought my Frisbee again. If you want a game, we’re all going to play later.’
Chris spoke before the girls could answer, in a voice that was suddenly whiny and bizarre, and aimed point-blank at Matt. ‘Of all the architects …’ His mouth was moving at odd angles and he pushed out his hands like Tommy Cooper. It took Matt ten seconds of utter bafflement before he realised that Chris was attempting a Humphrey Bogart impression. The kids were unsurprisingly oblivious. They’d barely even heard of Elvis Presley. ‘Of all the architects in all the world, you happen to be married to the one who walked into mine.’ Chris laughed hard, everyone did the same. Then as the chuckling died down he quietly said. ‘But seriously. The Lord’s brought you to me. That is a rare treat, Matt.’
‘Good old Matt Hunter,’ Chris said, throwing an arm around his shoulders, pushing his knuckles playfully into the top of Matt’s head like they were both in an 80s Mafia movie. ‘At a Purging party, in my church! What are the chances?’
The chances? Matt thought, as he pulled his ruffled head out and smiled politely. The chances were slim.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Matt and Chris sat on the stone wall, facing out from the church. From that angle they could look out across the valley, legs dangling over the side, Huck Finn style. The waterfall looked petite as waterfalls go, but it was surprisingly loud, and wild enough to look worthy of a postcard. Or a tea towel at least. The sun was going down.
He could hear Wren and the kids being fussed over behind him in amongst the ants-march munching of taco shells on the patio. The overweight youth worker with the Hawaiian shirt and toothy smile – ‘Call me Billy, everybody does’ – was inviting the kids to a video games tournament at the church on Saturday.
‘How great is this?’ Chris said, rubbing a hand on Matt’s shoulder and making Matt almost shake the food off his plate. ‘Meeting up again.’
‘Yeah, it’s a small world, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ Chris said. ‘But I wouldn’t like to paint it!’
The oddness of the joke and the sheer pet dog eagerness in his eyes made Matt laugh out loud. This delighted Chris no end.
‘How old are you these days?’ Matt asked.
‘Forty-two and counting.’
He gave an impressed nod. ‘So how come you look younger? Are you drinking virgin’s blood out here? You have a painting locked away in an attic?’
‘Funnily enough, no. You’ll be oooo … thirty-four now, right?’
Matt nodded.
‘Then how come you look older than I do, eh?’ Chris slapped him on the back, hard enough to make Matt cough into his fist. ‘Kidding. Kidding! You’re quite the Dapper Dan these days, aren’t you? You were always …’ he looked into the air and grabbed at a word, ‘Suave.’
Matt burped.
‘So …’ Chris eyed him. ‘How’s The Hunter been all these years?’
‘The Hunter … Wow. No one’s called me that in a looooong time.’
Chris sloshed some water into Matt’s plastic cup and spilt a bunch of it across his thumb. He was, of course, oblivious to it.
‘I’ve been really good, thanks.’ Matt shook the water from his hand. ‘Great, actually.’
‘Well, I can see that. We all can. Wonderful family. Lovely kids.’
‘Your son, Ben. Seems like a decent human being. How on earth did you manage that?’
Chris gave a mock wag of his finger. ‘Perhaps I’m ju
st premium stock.’
‘Clearly,’ Matt said. ‘People circle the day in their calendar when they first meet Chris Kelly.’
It was supposed to be a joke but the flash in his eyes made it clear he took it as a compliment. ‘Speaking of premium,’ Chris’s eyeballs darted left and right then he put a hand over his mouth, ‘can a minister say this? … You have a …’ he coughed the words out, ‘a very foxy wife. Walks with a little Christian swagger.’
Matt laughed, more in disbelief than anything else. ‘You really haven’t changed at all, have you?’
‘Hope that’s a compliment. You remember how we used to laugh?’
How tempting it was to say no, not really. But he found himself nodding, half from politeness, and the other because actually it was quite fun seeing the guy again. Weird, but still … amusing. And as Matt pondered it, he wondered if Chris might be even more manic than he used to be. Unless it was nerves, of course. Running into an old friend like this … with their last moment in the snow being so monumentally awkward.
You’ll burn, Matt, he’d said that night. And the fire will never go out.
Matt held up his cup and toasted him. ‘Well here’s to you, Chris. Your church is growing. The congregation seem “into” you. You’ve got a big building project on the way. Principal Wilder would be proud.’
Chris’s eyes softened, a gentle smile changing his face. ‘Thank you for saying that. Really … but what about you? I hear you’re a professor.’
‘How come you know that?’
‘Seth.’
‘Ah. Of course. Well, yes, I’m a professor.’
‘Of?’
‘The sociology of religion.’
‘Ooof. You always were more intellectual than me.’ He flicked a hand straight over the top of his head. ‘I guess I’m more … practical. But you like teaching it?’
‘It’s not just teaching. I do a fair amount of research, some writing. A bit of consultancy work. I prefer that sort of thing to the lecturing to be honest. Actually I’m on sabbatical at the moment.’