Only Strange People Go to Church

by Laura Marney

  Chapter 3

  Having just avoided the clutches of a back-street pervert, the last thing Blue Group needs is to be abducted by an anonymous White Van Man. She might be overreacting but you can’t be too careful so she quickly commits to memory the registration: X909 JSU.

  Maria has a foolproof method for remembering things. It’s a skill she picked up years ago from a book called Improve Your Memory or something like that. The trick is to make each number or letter mean something. X is easy, that’s sex, 909 is like the emergency number except that there’s a zero in it. Yes, that would work: it’s an emergency to have sex. The zero in the middle could represent lack of sex or the actual sex orifice, but no, that’s too graphic. Unfortunately Maria’s mind locks on to this and immediately she has a three-dimensional image of the two nines on either side of the zero as a pair of animated legs. Legs that are open and willing. Oh dear. It must be the sight of the flasher’s meat and two veg that has her off on this train of thought and she hasn’t even sorted out the other letters yet. JSU suggests the word ‘Jesus’. Someone told her once that, like hanged men, men who have been crucified have erections. This changed Christian iconography for her forever and she’s never been able to look at a crucifixion scene in quite the same way again. So, emergency sex with Jesus? It’s blasphemous but it’ll have to do. Along the side of the van it says Bespoke Carpentry and a mobile phone number. Wasn’t Jesus a carpenter? That fits nicely. The mobile number is 07781 434…

  ‘Excuse me,’ White Van Man shouts over the noise of his diesel engine, ‘I’m looking for Hexton Church, d’you guys know where it is?’

  He addresses this to the whole group.

  People in Hexton never speak to Blue Group. Apart from the odd chorus of Spot the Loony from hooligans, the populace largely shuns them. Hextors seem to believe that mental disability is contagious, keeping their distance and averting their eyes when Maria and her clients pass by. Shopkeepers speak only to Maria, and even then, reluctantly.

  Blue Group are momentarily speechless, stunned by the stranger’s bonhomie, and then they all want to tell him at once.

  ‘It’s not in this street; you have to take a left at the top.’ ‘Left. At. The.’ ‘That church is haunted.’ ‘Top. Second. Right.’ ‘No, go back the way you came.’ ‘He has to carry on and keep turning right and then he’ll be back to…’ ‘Second. Right. Again.’ ‘I know where it is. I’ve passed it loads of times.’ ‘If you go as far as Black Street then you’ve passed it.’

  White Van Man turns his engine off and scoots across the passenger seat closer to them.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you properly.’

  Maria knows exactly where the church is but with everybody jabbering at the same time she can’t think off the top of her head the best way to get to it from here.

  ‘Left. At. The. Top. Second. Right. Second. Right. Again.’ says Brian’s voice machine.

  ‘Left at the top, then second right and second right again?’ says the driver, this time directly to Brian.

  Brian lets his head fall forward and pulls it up again in a slow nod.

  ‘Cheers mate.’

  White Van Man wrinkles his nose. He has a concerned look on his face. It’s a nice face, intelligent and inoffensive. He’s quite good looking in that generic square-jawed, broad-shouldered kind of way and perhaps it’s this observation that reminds Maria of the sick stains down the front of her jacket. And Brian and Fiona’s jackets. Fiona’s face is still red and blotchy from the running and the crying. Collectively they must look a right shambles.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ says the driver.

  Fiona and Martin begin to speak in an excited rush.

  ‘There was a man.’ ‘We chased him’ ‘I was going to catch him’ ‘He was scared of us’ ‘He had his…’

  ‘Yes,’ says Maria, taking charge, ‘okay Fiona, and you too, Martin,’ she says, chastising them with a look. It’s embarrassing enough without going into it with a van driver.

  ‘We’ve had a slight upset, but we’re fine now, thanks.’

  The van driver says nothing and smiles. All of Blue Group beam back at him.

  ‘I’m Ray, by the way,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Blue Group are often shy with strangers, they hang back and let Maria do the talking, but not now.

  ‘I’m Fiona, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Martin,’ says Martin, pointing to himself.

  ‘I’m Jane, how d’you do.’

  Maria waits for Brian’s voice machine to finish.

  ‘Brian. Charmed. I’m. Sure.’

  ‘And I’m Maria, nice to meet you.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘thanks for the directions.’

  Ray slides back across to the driver’s seat and starts the engine. ‘Take care. Bye now.’

  ‘Bye Ray!’ ‘See. Yah.’ ‘Bye bye!’ ‘Cheerio Ray!’ ‘Wouldn’t. Want. To. Be. Yah.’

  Fiona and Martin wave until the van is out of sight. All of them seem to be as invigorated by this encounter as the last one. All except Maria.

  With the adrenaline receding, she’s absolutely knackered, and disheartened and embarrassed. It’s a cruel irony that the only half-decent looking man in Hexton who has ever spoken to her, did so while she was sporting a vomit-encrusted jacket. With a sigh she rounds everyone up and heads back to the centre.

  Her first priority will be to find fresh clothes for Fiona and Brian and then herself. That’s assuming of course that, with the excitement of it all, no one else has peed themselves.

  Chapter 4

  Bert, the centre manager, insists on the police being called, which, as far as Maria is concerned, is a big palaver for nothing. The two constables, although they are nice–overly nice in fact–struggle to hide their smirks as they interview Maria and her clients. Blue Group are scared by the policemen, intimidated by their uniforms and confused by their official yet über-nice manner. They may have mental disabilities but they know when they’re being patronised and rather than become indignant, as Maria regularly does on their behalf, they meekly hang their heads. Even Fiona is reluctant to tell the police what she knows. She volunteers nothing, only nodding and shaking her head in response to their questions.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ says one of them, ‘it’s not much to go on: man of average height and weight, skin and hair colour unknown.’

  ‘And you’re certain this was a man?’ says the other, apparently sincerely.

  ‘Yes, Officer,’ says Maria. ‘You may be surprised to discover we are cognisant of basic human anatomy.’

  ‘Of course you are, Miss, just checking.’

  ‘And his hair colour is known,’ Maria corrects him, ‘at least, his pubic hair is. I told you: a kind of tobacco colour. Maybe the hair on his head is the same colour.’

  ‘Tobacco,’ he confirms.

  ‘Yes, you know, golden.’

  ‘Right. Golden pubes.’

  The cop bangs his pencil down hard in his little notebook and closes it. They smile and thank Blue Group for their help, a little too profusely for Maria’s liking. They can’t doff their hats and get out of the centre quick enough and Maria knows that they’re probably sitting in their squad car right now sniggering over Goldenpubes and the five dafties.

  Bert also insists that Maria informs parents and carers. She knows this is going to mean trouble, and it does. Jane’s brother, Vince, phones the next morning demanding assurances that his sister will never again be forced to endure sexual intimidation. He makes no actual accusation but his tone of voice implies that Maria is somehow guilty, that she has low moral standards. It is as much as she can do to remain civil to Vince.

  Martin’s parents are much more relaxed; they are chuffed to bits with Martin’s own account of how he single-handedly rescued Fiona from the Bad Man. They are pleased and proud, but quite unsurprised by their son’s heroism. Weirdly there is no call from Fiona’s mum, usually the first person on the phone to complain. But Brian’s dad’s
reaction more than makes up for it.

  Brian’s dad, Phil, is furious. This is quite normal; Phil has a constant background level of rage. He’s angry because his son is disabled, angry at Brian for being so in-your-face disabled. He’s angry at losing his job when the factory closed down, angry that he no longer has the means to buy Brian gadgetry that might alleviate his disability, angry that the price of the specially adapted bathroom quadrupled when the word ‘disabled’ was mentioned, angry at the centre bus which picks Brian up and is a daily reminder to all the neighbours of Phil’s complete failure to produce a normal healthy son, angry with strangers’ sympathy or embarrassment, angry at his own sub-standard sperm.

  So it’s quite refreshing for Phil to be angry at the flasher. Maria can see how revitalised he is with this novel channel for his fury. He arrives at the centre wanting to know where and when the flasher flashed. Maria would tell him were it not for the baseball bat he is wielding. His twin brother Billy waits outside similarly tooled up. They both intend to ‘sort this out’ today.

  Maria can’t tell him; what if they go there and find some golden-haired, golden-pubed innocent passerby? They’d stove his head in. And Maria would be responsible. Even if they got the right guy: death by baseball bat? It seems unduly harsh.

  Brian is also refusing to tell his father in what street the flashing occurred. They have argued, Phil tells Maria, Brian laughing and repeatedly punching ‘Goldenpubes, Goldenpubes, Goldenpubes’ into his voice simulator until his dad ‘wanted to smash the fucking thing to smithereens’. Brian, like any teenager, despises his father.

  The brothers Billy and Phil spend an ecstatically rage-filled day patrolling the streets of Hexton, but meet with no obvious sexual deviants. It must be too cold, or perhaps the sight of two heavily armed vigilantes is enough for the flasher to keep his willy in his pants.

  *

  Fiona knows where men keep their thing. They keep it in their pants. Mum says that’s fine by her so long as it stays there. The man is a bad man. He got his thing out and then ran away. But it’s not fair because Fiona wanted to see it. She saw Martin’s thing when they were at swimming lessons. The man’s was pink and small, like Martin’s. Fiona saw Martin’s thing when she climbed on the seat in her cubicle and looked over into his cubicle. She didn’t tell Maria that she saw Martin’s thing.

  Mum said Fiona was a bad girl. She said Fiona made Jenny cry about the baby’s strawberry. Mum says the strawberry is unlucky but it isn’t the end of the world. The strawberry is right beside the baby’s nose but it can’t eat it. No one can. Mum says she is sick of all the weeping and wailing about a tiny wee strawberry and she doesn’t want to hear another word about it. Mum says Sienna is a normal healthy child. She says Jenny should be grateful it’s only a birthmark and not a congenital mental defect. Jenny said Fiona can hold the baby but she’s not to squeeze it.

  Maria is taking Fiona to the pictures. Fiona loves Maria. The packets of crisps at the pictures are bigger than the packets at the centre. Fiona is worried that mum won’t let her go to the pictures. She is worried Maria will tell mum about the man’s strawberry. Mum will get mad. But Maria didn’t see the man’s strawberry. The man’s scarf fell down and Fiona saw it on his cheek but he pulled his scarf back up and Maria didn’t see it. The man is unlucky. Fiona is a good girl. She’s not going to tell about the man’s strawberry.

  Chapter 5

  Maria is going to be late. She’s still to get the bus out to Hexton and she’s not even dressed yet. She has her appraisal meeting with Mike today. Due to the importance of this meeting it’s crucial that she arrive in plenty of time but, due to the importance of this meeting, she had to have an extra long meditation this morning. Two years ago Maria had sneaked a peek at her appraisal form after Mike’s summative comments. ‘Head full of wee beasties,’ he’d written. It’s a disgusting yet fascinating idea; cockroaches and beetles nibbling at her brain, blindly clambering over each other in the darkness under her skull, maggots sucking and sliding, bobsleighing the grooves in her cortex. But it isn’t true. As usual, Mike’s got it wrong. Maria’s head is full of much higher forms of life.

  Her usual routine is to enter meditation by lying on her bedroom carpet. The carpet has an unfashionably thick woolly pile, ideal for meditative purposes. Her flat is east facing which, in the morning, is a good thing. Between the bed and the chest of drawers there’s enough space, just, for her to lie down and catch the early morning light on her face.

  If she concentrates hard enough, Maria experiences bliss. Although she’s never actually tried any illegal drugs she has attended enough drug awareness workshops to understand that this sensation must be similar to that induced by ecstasy and other class As. Maria has no need of synthetic drugs; the pharmacy in her brain makes all the chemical cocktails she wants.

  From this happy place, beside a shimmering river designed in her imagination, Maria progresses to planning her day, conferring and taking advice from her spiritual advisors, programming her personal development and her long term goals. Spiritual advisors come and go, depending on how they inspire her. They’ve been with her, in her head and by her side every day, ever since she got spiritual.

  She got spiritual as a way of life after she’d done political, which was prior to promiscuous, and long after religious. Maria has tried them all. Nothing else ever lasted long but this spirituality thing has been a grower.

  True, she is unencumbered by a relationship at the moment but, she often asks herself, is having a boyfriend the be all and end all? Her friends, the girls she shared a flat with at uni, the Kelvin Street Kids as they called themselves, they’ve all got nice partners now. The boyfriends Maria’s had up until now have never quite worked out; they’ve always been flawed one way or another. She’s always ended up with the nerds, the geeks, the lame ducks her friends wouldn’t entertain. After the debacle with her last boyf, the exotically named Dirk, that Saturday morning she found herself in a bookshop browsing the Mind/Body/Spirit section.

  The books weren’t all hippy dippy nonsense, some of the advice made perfect sense and made her feel better, certainly better than Dirk had ever done. Better than her earlier interests: politics, promiscuity or religion had ever done. And there was so much to absorb. Reading in the bookshop café with a mochachino on Saturday afternoons allowed Maria to accept and relax into Saturday nights alone in front of the telly.

  The Mind/Body/Spirit books got her started on meditation and spiritual advisors. It’s a harmless enough little foible, she thinks, a creative and amusing diversion that helps get her through the day. Given Mike’s previous appraisal comments Maria knows it’s best to keep her interesting interior life to herself. If he knew what went on in the privacy of Maria’s own head he’d be freaked out and want rid of her, or at least send her home on the sick.

  She’s going to be late, again, giving Mike another golden opportunity to spike her promotion prospects. Another year will go by with Maria at the bottom of the ladder, another year of unfulfilled potential. She feels panic creep up her spine.

  Ironically, her leading spiritual advisor, Nelson Mandela, kept her late this morning with a long debate on the nature of patience.

  ‘The most important thing,’ he kept saying, ‘is not that you are promoted, young lady.’

  He only calls her young lady when he’s annoyed with her.

  ‘The most important thing is that you learn patience.’

  Of all her advisors, Maria is reluctantly forced to concede, Nelson is far and away the most qualified on the subject.

  ‘Because’, says Nelson sagely, ‘what is patience but love?’

  He’s used this line before. Maria’s pretty sure she read this in one of her MBS books as a quotation of Nelson’s but still, that doesn’t make it any less true.

  She takes three deep centring breaths and begins visualising a successful outcome to the meeting. When she thinks of Mike she has to stop her mind leaping to its usual impression of him: a prissy, s
nobbish, insensitive, knob-end. For the purposes of the visualisation she must rejig that notion and conceive of Mike as a smiling, caring boss who values his staff.

  She visualises him coming out of his office to greet her, taking one of her hands in both of his, leading her inside. Like a TV advert for a credit company, she pictures him nodding agreement as he ticks the boxes on her appraisal form. She envisions them sharing a joke, an affectionate chuckle at some of the antics of Blue Group. She imagines his bashful admiration of her tolerance. She sees him writing a fulsome report recommending her for promotion to Senior Key Worker, them both smiling as they shake positively and confidently over the deal.

  And, sure enough, when she arrives for the meeting, Mike does indeed come out to greet her.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Maria, you’re nearly seven minutes late.’

  ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘Look, never mind, you’re here now. We’ll have to get on.’

  On leaving school Maria hadn’t the grades for medicine, which was just as well. Even if she had been qualified, she knew she couldn’t deal with blood and guts and death, eyeballs and innards. This squeamishness also ruled out nursing. She wanted, needed even, to do something therapeutic, therapeutic but unbloody. After university and years in career wastelands, she’s now a low status Key Worker in an Adult Learning Centre. And loving it.

  Despite the long hours, the tedious staffroom politics, the boring meetings, the frustrating disagreements with clients who regularly throw tantrums and scream at her or pee themselves in the supermarket, she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Sometimes she sees herself as a kind of secular nun devoting her life to this work.

  Mike will find no room to criticise Maria’s work when it comes to client care. None are cared for more assiduously than Blue Group. The one thing about which Mike could carp, and no doubt will, is the Inclusion Initiative.