by John King
Harry knew from the telly that the Mayans had been into peyote and mushrooms thousands of years before the righteous majority stood up in Parliament and pointed the finger. Most places in the world had their own version. Like the Christians getting pissed on blood. No wonder they feared vampires in the Middle Ages. But they were all at it, all over the planet, whether it was magic mushrooms in the shires or sweat lodges on the American plains. Everybody needed a holiday. The brain had to loosen up sometimes and he reckoned the old witchdoctors understood these things, picking plants and mixing potions, collecting the fungus and reaping the harvest. They fixed up the strobe lights and created ceremonies, added a bit of music and some costumes and away you went. That’s why they got pissed sitting in The Unity. Easing the tension, though Karen was right when she said lager was a violent drug. But they lived in that kind of world, so it was natural enough.
It was the fucking hippies that got acid banned, with their long hair and noncy dress code. The Sex Division came from a punk/herbert generation that identified hippies as sell-out merchants. Until they started making a big noise acid had been legal. It was before their time anyway, and the Christians lived a material life without visions or imagination, so nowadays it was all synthetic stuff. Pills and powder. Badly brewed lager shifted down the assembly line. Scientists in back-rooms juggling formulas, creating reactions, maximising profits. But mention death experiences or dreams too loudly and you were in trouble. There was always some cunt around ready to slap your wrist. Telling you to get back in line and stand up straight.
‘Did you hear about the new sports centre they’re going to build?’ Will asked. ‘There’s going to be a swimming pool, weights room, sauna, squash courts.’
‘Where’s that going to be then?’ Harry asked, fed up with mind games.
‘Over by the library.’
‘What about the swimming pool down the road then?’
‘They’re knocking it down and building a DIY shop.’
‘Bit daft, isn’t it?’
‘You know what they’re like. It never makes much sense. Suppose the swimming pool’s a better site for a shop. The sports centre isn’t definite yet, but the finance is more or less in place. They reckon it will be a luxury effort.’
‘Probably one of those fun pools. Plastic dinosaurs slides and a maximum depth of two feet.’
Denise was in charge of the pub with Len away and had called last orders. Before long, the pub had emptied, leaving Carter, Harry, Balti and Will at their table. Slaughter passed them on the way out, knackered.
‘See you lads.’
‘Thanks Slaughter.’
Eileen and Denise came and sat at the table once they’d cleaned up. Denise sat next to Terry and slipped her hand between his legs under the cover of the table. Eileen was beside Will. He’d noticed her looking at him the last few times he was in the pub. Ever since he’d started bringing Karen along. Maybe she was interested, or perhaps it was his imagination. He thought hard about Karen as Eileen started going into one about the hard evening she’d had.
‘Have a nice night out then?’ Denise asked.
‘Great,’ Harry said.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nice little pub in South London.’
‘Anywhere’s better than here. I’m fed up with this place.’
‘It’s alright,’ Balti said. ‘Free beer after closing-time then?’
‘In your dreams,’ but Denise hadn’t charged them for the last round.
Will wondered if Carter was getting to grips with Denise. She was sitting quite close to him and there seemed to be something between them. Carter kept looking away and Denise seemed cocky. He’d ask him later on. He didn’t like her much. She was a real turn-off. Not so much the looks, but the attitude. Eileen was different, but he had Karen and was a one-woman man. Like Balti and Harry, probably, if they had the chance.
Will had had a good day. It was a bit morbid sometimes going round the houses of old people who’d just died, making offers for their furniture and various odds and ends. The stuff had to be shifted, though, and it made things easy on the relatives. The house he’d visited that morning had been full of good stuff. The furniture was old and sturdy, built to last. Nowadays it was pinned together and the wood was cheap and cheerless. He’d told the son and daughter they could get more than he could offer them, if they sold items on merit and went to a bit of trouble, but they didn’t care because they were in mourning and he’d done well for himself. Will believed in being up front with those kind of things.
Karen had come round the shop later on, admiring the furniture and china. He had to find space to display the stuff and he’d been wrapped up in the thing, not really listening to her, then picking up on what she was saying, about how they could use the furniture and he should put it aside.
‘Anyone want another drink?’ Denise asked, and Will was sure she was touching Carter up.
‘Go on then,’ Balti said.
He watched Denise as she went to the bar, Eileen following.
‘That Eileen’s gagging for it, Will,’ he said.
‘Leave it out. I’m a married man.’
Balti watched the girls behind the bar, then turned and looked down the street. The wind had picked up. He wondered how McDonald was doing. Getting stitched up as he sat there enjoying a free pint. Sitting in Emergency while Balti sat in The Unity. The bright light of a sterilised hospital and the warmth of a friendly pub. Life was good sometimes. Taking the pint Denise placed in front of him. Tipping the magic liquid down his throat. Letting the lager take the strain.
DEATH TRIPPING
The vicar was consulting the holy book and delivering his words of comfort. The mourners listened in silence. Mango sat next to his dad. To his right was Debbie, to the other side of the old man Jackie, who was holding a tissue to her eyes. Now and then she lowered it tentatively, but never for longer than a few seconds. Mango looked at his sister with a dull throb of irritation. Her hair was freshly dyed and the roots that normally showed through and annoyed him were gone. At least she wasn’t sobbing out loud, sending echoes into the rafters, embarrassing him.
The Wilsons were together in their grief. Mango had bought a new suit. The material smelt good. The cut was perfect and elevated his already heightened sense of worth. His gear was new and alive and boasted prosperity and success, in a church that was old and musty and stunk of death. Flowers added colour to the dark interior, but were doomed to wilt in the next couple of days and only served to increase the morbid atmosphere. The best thing was the stained-glass windows.
The scenes incorporated the usual classic imagery—Christ as a child with his mother and father, Christ as a young man drinking with the saints, Christ dying nailed to a crucifix bleeding from his head and chest, myth and history rolled in together, promoting self-sacrifice and resurrection. The heart and lungs had been crushed by the weight of the dying man, the sadism of the Romans right there above the congregation, detailed in black and white, red and yellow. It was the colour that dominated. The images melted as clouds shifted outside. Glass trapped sunlight and filtered it through a prism, thousands of precious stones converging in raking shafts of light that cut through and highlighted floating dust, illuminating the epitaphs carved into grey stone walls.
Margaret was the beloved wife of Nicholas Young, and the loving mother of Emily and Patricia Young. She had died in child birth in 1847, and though she was greatly missed by her husband and children, they were content in the knowledge that she sat with God in a kingdom of eternal light, surrounded by angels and saints, with their son James who had died with his mother, an unborn spirit that would rest forever in the heavenly realm, a celestial world where there was nothing but love and eternal joy.
Mango tried to ignore the effects of the stained glass and concentrate on the vicar. He didn’t want to read the memorials. They were depressing. He’d never seen the vicar before because, after all, the Wilsons weren’t exactly a churchgoing family
, but even so, this was the correct ending. Having a man of the cloth, someone trained and educated in the Christian mysteries, delivering the final tribute made things official. But Mango was finding it hard following the vicar. He was lecturing them about blind material values and a new spiritual order, about good and evil and the bliss that followed the long, hard struggle. Materialism had swamped humanity and at times like these it was important to remember that there was a spirit that needed nurturing, that death should be seen not so much as an end but as a new beginning. Mango wondered whether the vicar had ever heard of shares and bonds and the profits available when a man with business acumen invested wisely? The vicar had obviously never felt the tug of a brand new Jag eager to soar past the hundred mark. Now that was living.
Mango concentrated on the sky behind the Christ Child, keeping his eye on the shepherds and all the other potential animal-worriers in the background going about their hopefully legitimate business. There was straw for bedding and no room at the inn, which wasn’t surprising when, even today, with technology racing ahead and the materialist ethic firmly established, thousands slept on the streets of London. Mango was glad he hadn’t been in Bethlehem at the time, because he would have put his foot down and passed the pregnant mother roaming alleyways, heading for the orphans that the priests sold to men of means. Because, when you had a hard-on and listened to the priests in charge, it wasn’t really prostitution if the girls were cared for by holy men and protected by God. And the girls remained virgins in the eyes of the creator. The synagogues were charging through the nose, and those shepherds caught his attention again. He had to keep them under constant surveillance. Never turn your back on a sheep shagger. He was back with the light losing the images. Back inside a grey church. A religious sanctuary where his most private thoughts were no longer his own.
Mango’s dad leant forward and his son started. Was it a heart attack? A stroke or something? The shock of realisation? No, he was smiling, the old sod. He was actually smiling in the middle of a funeral service. Maybe not. No. He was sitting up again. It was a trick of the light. Because Mr Wilson was a decent citizen who, though he never went to church, nevertheless respected the sanctity of religion. The church may no longer have been a focus for the community, but Mr Wilson would have been shocked by its destruction. It was an old building that went back hundreds of years and there had to be something like that around, even if the congregation was tiny. Birth, marriage and death were all worth celebrating. It was something that had to be done. And done properly. Speaking of which, they were going to have a good drink after. Destroy a few brain cells and do it in style. It was what the deceased would have wanted. It was a chance to wash away the sadness.
The light in the sky over Bethlehem consisted of various shades of purple and the star marking the occasion was a brilliant yellow that left an impression. Mango saw the spaceship hovering, recording the miracle birth for later study. A peephole through time and all you had to do was lift your head and blank the words fired by the cross-dresser in the pulpit. No, that was out of order. He couldn’t think like that in God’s house, bringing everything down to the gutter. He had to keep his mind focused. He was fine at WorldView because his attention was centred and he could listen to his colleagues and the clean thoughts and cleaner language rubbed off. It was true that some of his colleagues were far from angelic, but it didn’t matter really because they were proper and confident. There was pure colour and light flooding through the window, a focal point within the church. He should be able to appreciate the place for what it was, rather than wondering how much it cost to enter, or whether the smile on a dodgy-looking shepherd’s face was genuine, or what kind of benefits Mary could expect as a single mum.
Mango was tired. He wished he was alone and able to enjoy the sunlight. Just sit in total silence for a few minutes, with all the radios and TVs turned off, the cars still, everyone deep asleep minding their own business. Nobody preaching, telling you what to think and what to do. He wasn’t hearing much of the service, now and then returning to the vicar’s words, making an effort, and then he was off again. Moving from the colour to the pictures and back to the colour. He had to pay attention. A small boy at school with the teacher shouting that if he didn’t pay attention to the mathematical equation on the blackboard he’d end up stupid and on the dole and never do anything with his life. But the coffin the Wilsons had chosen was top of the range and Mango felt proud putting it on his credit card. His old man and uncle nodded their heads solemnly and thanked Jimmy, the kid they’d seen grow to be a man and make his fortune. They were proud of the boy. Mango smiled and looked at the mouth moving in time.
The vicar had a kind face and seemed sincere enough. Mango made a last effort and realised the vicar was telling a story. Something personal from his own life. An event that had come to pass a few days earlier. At seven in the morning in fact, because, you see, the vicar was an early riser. Every day was a new beginning. He was walking his dog around the common when he’d found a purse belonging to one of his parishioners. An elderly lady with little money, who was a regular at the church—it would be nice to see some of the people here today come again because religion had an important part to play in everyday life—and he had made a detour. This wasn’t a problem. He’d tucked the purse through the woman’s letterbox as he didn’t want to bother her. Maybe she was still asleep or valued her solitude. The curtain twitched and before he knew where he was he’d been invited inside for tea and biscuits, and Reggie the labrador sat at his feet and was patted on the head and given a Digestive. That was the most important thing in life, fellowship. Everyone gathered here today should rest assured that this feeling of unity and giving continued beyond the grave and in to the next world. This was truly the greatest comfort.
Mango agreed, but had been distracted as the story drew to its happy conclusion.
He saw a new face in the stained glass. The mouth was moving and filled with a pulsating red light. It was a young mouth drowning in blood and wine, and sometimes the edges curved up, then down. Mango recognised features in the face. It had been in the window for hundreds of years and the expression was changing all the time, clouds covering the sun before relenting and letting the light through. He understood why it was so dark inside the church, and why the atmosphere was sombre and why stained glass had been invented. It forced you to lift your head and look towards the sky, towards the sun, like plants that always found a way towards the energy source. At WorldView the layout of the office meant he was without sunlight during the day, the windows a mark of seniority and superiority reserved for his betters.
When the vicar concluded the service the mourners left the church and trouped into the graveyard. The earth was freshly dug and black against moist green grass, the yew tree still in the wind and the bark rock hard and bleeding. Mango looked around and the stones were older to his left, chipped and touched by moss, the inscriptions battered by rain and pollution, the dates more recent where they stood.
Mango breathed in deeply and smelt the richness of the soil, studying the earth, the shades of stones and white roots ripped and exposed. He watched a worm. It was thick and juicy and trying to dig back down under the surface, hurrying to escape predators. There were more words and tears, the vicar a good man at heart who was respectful towards the deceased, helping family and friends find solace in this dark hour. As the box was lowered Mango felt another flush of pride in the fine wood and quality handles. The first handful of earth that hit the lid of the coffin made a crisp sound that gradually dulled as people came forward to take their turn.
Will stood at the gate watching from a distance. He could see Mango and the rest of the Wilsons. Mango stood out in his new suit. Will hadn’t known the dead woman very well, but she’d been friendly to him when he was a kid and that was enough. He wouldn’t stay long because it was a family occasion and he didn’t want to get in the way. Will wondered where Mrs Mango was. He looked at his watch and left, leaving the Wilsons to ge
t on with it.
‘Do you want lager or bitter, son?’ Mr Mango asked, when they were back home.
‘Lemonade’s fine,’ Jimmy smiled.
The old man was looking sharp. His eyes were shining and he was standing tall. Jimmy Boy watched him pour the lemonade from a two-litre All White’s bottle. It was quality stuff. None of your own-brand rubbish today. His old man was standing straight and fighting the sadness he felt at losing his sister.
‘Thanks Dad.’
Mango went over to the table his sisters and cousins had filled with food and took a sausage roll. He wondered what it would be like when it came time to bury his own sisters. How would he feel? Jackie an old woman carted off to the morgue for the butchers to prod and cut up. Youth drained and replaced with whatever it was they put in your veins once you were dead. Top of the head sliced open. Inspecting the brain of a little girl playing in the street in summer, skipping with Debbie. He couldn’t think about it right now.
‘Your aunt was a fine woman,’ Uncle Ken said, standing next to Mango.
‘She was Ken. She was.’
‘Shame your mother couldn’t be with us at the church.’
‘I know. She was upset. It hit her hard.’
Ken lifted his tankard to his mouth and gulped down three healthy mouthfuls of the Chiswick bitter. It was a bit of an expensive drink, but Jimmy had been more than generous. The lad had certainly done well for himself and didn’t mind sharing his wealth around. Uncle Ken smiled at Mango and patted his nephew’s shoulder with a huge hand.
‘You’re a good lad Jimmy.’
Auntie Stella came over.
‘I’ve just seen your mum Jimmy, and she’ll be out in a minute. I gave her something for her headache. She feels guilty not turning up for the funeral, but I told her she shouldn’t worry. It’s only the ceremony. We’re family.’