Church Group

by Michael Brightside

  * * *

  On Monday I woke at seven o’clock to find a spider had built a nest in the corner of my wardrobe in the garage. After shaking all the spiderlings I could from the t-shirt I’d decided I was going to wear, and vacuuming up the nest, I went in the house to make some breakfast.

  “Excited about your first day at the new job Lu?” my mum asked.

  “Not sure yet Mum, don’t even know what I’ll be doing there.”

  “Bet you’re glad not to have to get up so early to go in with your dad though?”

  “Yeah, it’s nice to get up a bit later.”

  “What about actually working with your dad? Do you think you’ll miss it?”

  “Probably, a bit. I bet he’ll be glad to not have to put up with me every day.”

  “He’s going to miss working with you Lu, more than you think,” my mum said. “I know he doesn’t like to show his emotions but he will. I could tell when he told me you’d got the job, he was happy for you but I think he also enjoyed your company. Even if you used to argue sometimes.”

  “He knows I had to find something else though doesn’t he Mum.”

  “Of course he does Lu,” my mum replied, “you weren’t going to work with your dad forever were you.”

  After taking the first bus which went as far as Carlton Town, then changing for another to get me to the industrial estate on the outskirts of Carlton, I soon appreciated how easy I’d had it before, getting a lift in the car. The only real apprehension I had about the job, aside from the rigmarole of taking the buses, was what I would actually be doing for a job. The people I would be working with didn’t matter to me; I knew they weren’t going to spend their whole weekend awake like I did, so I planned to just avoid talking to them unless I had to.

  I arrived back at the big faceless building I’d committed myself to at 8:20 am, ten minutes before I was due to start. A hurried cigarette later and I was introduced to Gemma who would be my supervisor. Slim, with long dark hair and probably somewhere in her thirties, she was fairly attractive. I tried not to make it too obvious as I stared at her bum in her tight black skirt, while she led me to where I’d be working. There was a small booth, with white chipboard walls in front and to both sides, and a plastic school-style chair. In front of the chair was a white bench and on top of the bench sat what she explained was a spot welder.

  She picked up a component out of a box of what were apparently diodes, then took another component from a box of what looked like little flat metal W’s. Then she sat down in the chair and used her foot to drag a pedal on the end of a wire out from under the bench. Having made herself comfortable, Gemma then put the whole lot into the machine, pushed the pedal twice, and welded everything together to make something I didn’t know what was for. A few more rushed demonstrations later and it was my turn.

  As I lowered myself into the chair the sheer white walls rose around me, blocking my view of anyone else and making me feel very hemmed in. I picked up a diode and a W and held them before the welder, struggling to line the bits up properly as they fumbled in my hands. It didn’t help when she put her head just above my right shoulder and said, “That’s it, just do it how I showed you.” Words spoken to instil confidence but that had the opposite effect.

  My hands began to shake as I pushed the pedal on the floor. BANG. A big yellow spark flew out and landed on the bench.

  “Sorry. It’s just harder with you watching me,” I said, beginning to feel all too claustrophobic.

  “Tell you what, take the ones I did and put them to one side. I’ll go off and leave you for a bit. Just remember if you’re not sure look at my examples.” And with that she walked away.

  Being able to concentrate on what I was doing now, instead of the eyes behind me, I took another one of each of the parts and offered them up to the welder. Holding my hands perfectly still, I pushed the pedal down slowly; the two shiny gold coloured jaws of the machine gently squeezed together before welding the components with a little glow and a nice popping sound. I held it up close to my eyes to examine it, then checked one of the example ones. It wasn’t bad! Now to solder the other side. Slowly. Even more slowly. POP. I’d done one. Properly this time. Phew, it meant I could actually do the job. I took a proper breath for the first time in ages, moved my chair back so I was more comfortable, and was suddenly aware of all the little popping noises surrounding me. POP-POP, then the sound of one of the little finished components being dropped in the done tray, then almost immediately another POP-POP.

  I was going to need to get a bit quicker at this.

  I put my head up to see what sort of people I now worked with, I hadn’t had a chance to look when I’d walked in. There were four lines of the little booths, each eight people deep. I was the third person back on the line to the furthest right, as in there was no one to the right of me. There were men and women, from almost school leavers like me all the way to people who looked ready to retire. A complete mixture, like a random cross-section of people dragged in off the streets. There was something most of them shared in common though, apart from spending five days a week facing the same way. Nearly all of them had earphones in. Sat there in their little white cells, they were oblivious to the outside world; cocooned in a bubble of their chosen sound.

  I pulled the Walkman from my bag and carefully pushed the earphones into my ears, proper headphones were a fashion faux pas at the time. Pushing play filled my head with the sounds of DJ Sy. As I picked another two components up, I made it my mission to do the job as quickly as everybody else and not let myself down. Then a wonderful thought filled my head. I was getting paid to listen to rave music....For eight hours a day, five days a week, I could work through the collection of tapes I’d amassed; hardcore, old skool, anything at all and no one would say a thing. I turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

  Fuck me Luke I thought, you’ve only gone and got yourself the world’s best job.

  As I sat there I wondered what other jobs they might have for me.

  When the end of the first week came and I was still in that chair, I realised I was probably already doing everything they’d ever want me to.

  Like Some Tight Shorts Wearing Gestapo

  October 2000.

  The feeling of invincibility that comes from taking ecstasy, combined with the hunger for the next big high, can lead you to taking risks you wouldn’t normally take. This may have been how I found myself sharing a joint with Al on the garage roof, both wrapped up in winter coats and Al wearing that bright yellow beanie hat he’d had on when we first met. It was just us two tonight, James was working again and Kyle was now spending most of his spare time with Louise; which wasn’t surprising as it also meant he was the only one of us getting laid.

  I sat with my back to the windows of my parents’ house to block their view of the tiny yellow flashes from the lighter. At ten o’clock on a Friday they would most likely still be up. Us having both taken a blue speckled smiley face tablet would be up a lot longer still.

  During an hour long, whispered debate, we’d managed to agree that there were probably two people lying on the roof of someone else’s garage; on an undiscovered planet orbiting one of the many stars we could see. Possibly even having the same conversation. I wouldn’t accept Al’s idea that there was another him and another me out there though. The universe didn’t know what to do with the two of us it had.

  I was glad when Al finished rolling the spliff. Lighting it, then slowly blowing a long funnel of smoke up into the chilled air and passing it to me.

  “What should we do now? I spend every fucking night in this garage,” I said. “Why don’t we go to yours?”

  “Nah fuck that Lu. They’re doing my head in at home. Let’s go down to that scout jamboree thing.”

  The scout jamboree was a new thing to the village, something we hadn’t done before. Things you hadn’t done before didn’t come along very often in Kirk-Leigh. It was a good call by Al.

  “Yes mate. Let’s go
terrorise the fucking scouts.”

  It wasn’t far from mine, on a field next to Island Lane. The place by the backwaters that Al had taken me to see when we first met. I remembered seeing them put the tents up a week earlier, massive circus sized tents and marquees; we would have had a look before but along with the tents they also put up a steel perimeter fence. Despite being excited to see what was going on in there, I still moaned for the whole journey about how much warmer Al’s house would have been. He probably wished he’d gone on his own.

  A barrier had been set up at the main entrance- traffic cones set out in a line across Island Lane prevented cars from coming in. At least two security guards stood in a makeshift hut. I could only see one through the window but unless he was on as many drugs as us, or talked to himself to pass the time, then he wasn’t on his own. Just before the hut was a small wooden sign that read ‘REMEMBER SCOUT PASSES AS YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED BACK IN WITHOUT THEM.’ We’d have to find another way in. I didn’t know where my scout pass was.

  We continued on the main road, not even attempting to go down Island Lane with its security guards. With the scout’s field still to the left of us, we walked a hundred or so yards, until we were sure we couldn’t be seen. Then we stopped. Al sneaked through a ditch, then over to the fence and managed to pull two panels apart, while I kept a look out for headlights on the road. The fence was made of individual panels clipped tightly together, but not tightly enough to stop a determined Al. We were in. Now it was just a case of putting the fence back together again and getting to the action.

  There’s something exciting about being somewhere you’re not supposed to be. As soon as we closed that fence behind us I noticed the stars start to wobble and my jaw go tight. We started off towards the distant pointy roofs of the tents, following a line of trees to the right of us that separated two fields. Halfway down, as we struggled not to trip over in the dark, I was hit by the light of a torch, followed by another.

  “Where do you think you’re off to?” came a booming voice. Fuck! We’d been caught! Was this a police matter or were they just going to have a go at us? Neither sounded particularly good. Al pulled his beanie hat down to hide his face.

  “You know you’re not allowed out this late, get back to the camp now,” said that same voice without having given either of us a chance to reply. The mad bastards thought we were trying to sneak out. Now they were chaperoning us in. Neither of us said a word. You don’t tell the shopkeeper when they’ve given you too much change.

  When we finally passed the dense cover of the trees, and the campsite came fully into view, it took my breath away. I’d expected to find a field full of boys sitting round watching their leader show them a thousand ways to tangle up a perfectly good bit of string. Comparing badges they’d earned and pulling on each other’s woggles. Whatever woggles are. Instead we’d stumbled across some kind of camper’s festival.

  There were hundreds of scouts, if not thousands. Spread out over the vast expanse of grass. In individual groups with campfires; singing, dancing, shouting, jumping around, and in the centre one giant mass in the largest of the tents. I’d been in this field before but it never looked so big then. Live music and yellow fire light came from all directions. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Result! This is so much better than Al’s house!

  The security guards held back and waited for us to go to where we belonged. We didn’t know where to go first. We started walking through the field, trying not to look conspicuous, when a group gestured us over. There were six of them; boys and girls, probably the same age as us and it was obvious they’d been drinking. Sat around a tower they’d made from all their empty beer cans, like a shrine to excess. Each of the cans at the top had a flickering tea light candle in it that swayed yellow in the breeze. One of the boys played a guitar while the others sang. I didn’t recognise the song, it was more alcohol than drugs. The circle shifted round to make space for the two new arrivals and I sat down on the grass next to Al. The guy with the guitar carried on playing while most of them carried on singing.

  It was the perfect place for us to have ended up, we could see out the rest of the night here and be home in no time when the pills wore off. The only thing we hadn’t had the foresight to procure was beer. I was more than pleased when a couple were passed round the ring of people to us. Mine tasted wonderful; cold like the night.

  “Where’s your scout group based?” a little brunette asked us. She was nice to look at, not stunning, more girl next door. If I was only drinking I would have tried to have sex with her, but the ecstasy had given me an inside out penis. The boy with the guitar stopped playing so he could listen for our answer.

  “Er, local,” Al replied clearly off guard.

  “No whereabouts I mean. Which district?” she pressed.

  “Carlton,” Al said. It was a good answer, if you’re going to lie, at least lie about something you know.

  “That wasn’t far for you to get here then. Practically on your doorstep,” she laughed. If only you knew I thought.

  “Where are you all from?” I asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t also be Carlton.

  “Kent,” she said.

  “What have they had you doing?” a lad with blonde hair who looked like he might be Swedish but obviously wasn’t, asked. We’d fluked our first answer. I didn’t know how many more questions we’d get away with, especially not with one word answers.

  “Canoeing,” Al said. Again, genius.

  “We did that today,” the girl I wanted to fuck said excitedly.

  “Did you see the old pillbox down the end of the lane?” I added.

  “Yes. Some of the lads were going to jump off it into the water, their Akela came running over shouting at them. The water’s only a few feet deep apparently.”

  “Less than that when the tide’s out,” Al said coyly.

  The lad with the guitar lifted the strap from off his shoulders and carefully placed the guitar on the grass next to him. “So what grade are you?”

  Bollocks. What the fuck is a grade? It was looking like we might need to re-evaluate our situation.

  Was this really what you did upon meeting two strangers? Invite them to sit around your campfire then interrogate them like some tight shorts wearing Gestapo? We’d tried to integrate with these people, to share this one fleeting night with them, but they had no manners. I wanted to discuss what it was like to all share in one giant collective consciousness, or their feelings on the curse of being aware of your own temporary existence. Not answer stupid questions. We made our excuses and left, fortunately without being caught again.