A Song for Issy Bradley (33 page)

“Did you need special tools?”

“Oh yes. I used to have a workshop in the industrial park. I did
a bit there, in between jobs, and I brought sections back here to work on. Used to carry bits and pieces backward and forward in the car—just about squeezed the axles in. Had to use the trailer once in a while, though.”

“How long did it take?”

Brother Rimmer puffs his cheeks up, then blows the air out. “Best part of two years, I should think. After work and Saturdays. Never on a Sunday, of course.”

Al wonders if the project lasted for two years because that was how long it took Brother Rimmer to feel better about Andrea. It seems like a long time, until he thinks of Issy; he can’t imagine a time when he won’t miss her.

“How are you getting on?” Brother Rimmer asks.

“Just finishing off this spoke.”

“No, I mean, how are you?”

“Fine.” Al gets his head down and rubs the spoke vigorously.

“That’s what I thought.” Brother Rimmer sighs. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could eat a buttered frog.” He holds onto the arms of his chair and rocks himself upright.

“You carry on and I’ll fetch cake,” he says.

As soon as Brother Rimmer leaves the garage, Al kneels on the wood-dusted concrete floor and flicks the rusty clasp of the little toolbox. He lifts out the
Ensign
, the old-fashioned teddy bear, and the handkerchief and puts them on the floor.

He has to swap the notes back. There’s nothing brave about taking money off a daft old bloke with a dead daughter. He runs his finger along the edge of the envelope and flicks it open. The damaged notes are almost corrugated; he takes them out, unzips the hoodie pocket, and swaps the money over slowly, as if he hasn’t quite made up his mind, enjoying the luxury of pretending there’s still a choice to be made.

The slam of Brother Rimmer’s back door makes him jump. He stuffs the envelope back into the toolbox, chucks the other stuff on
top, closes the lid, and zips his pocket shut as he gets off the floor. He’s dusting his knees as Brother Rimmer pushes at the garage door.

“Come and help with the tray. That’s it. Now put it down there.” Brother Rimmer sits heavily and holds out a hand for his Barleycup and cake.

Al passes a mug and a plate of Victoria sponge to him.

“Eat up, then.”

It’s good cake. One glance at Brother Rimmer is enough to reveal he is a man who likes good cake.

“You’ll be off on your mission before you know it,” Brother Rimmer says in between mouthfuls. “You’ve got, what—four years? It’ll fly by. Any thoughts about where you’d like to go?”

“No.”

“Hawaii. That’s what people always say. Hawaii and the Bahamas. Come on, you must’ve thought about it.”

Al tries not to think about it whenever possible, but he can see Brother Rimmer isn’t going to give up until he names a country.

“France.”

“What do you want to go there for?”

“The European Championships are in France in 2016.”

Brother Rimmer laughs. “You won’t be watching football on your mission.”

Al gets up and starts sanding again. He won’t be going on a mission at all, but if he tells that to Brother Rimmer he won’t get paid.

When he’s finished sanding the wheel, Brother Rimmer gives him another tenner. “You’re back at school next week, aren’t you? So you can come a week on Saturday.”

“Yes.”

“All right then. Be a good lad, now.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try,
do
.”

B
ROTHER
R
IMMER
’
S HOUSE
is only a five-minute bike ride from the footie pitch. Al arrives just before 1
P.M
. There’s a big gate and a tree-lined path. He cycles down the path, even though there’s a “No Cycling” sign. When he gets to the field he jumps off his bike and leans it against a tree. The grass is wet even though it hasn’t been raining. There are empty chestnut shells and soggy leaves around the outline of the pitch, which has recently been repainted. He kicks the empty shells, thinking about the money while he waits for Matty. At the far end of the field there’s a sandy area with some swings and a slide. Two big lads are mucking about with the swings, flipping them over and over and over until they’re too high for anyone to sit on. He thinks he recognizes them, reckons they used to be in Year Eleven.

Meeting up with Matty to play football has been the best thing about half-term. Matty doesn’t talk about Issy. He just carries on as if nothing has happened. It’s nice to pretend everything’s normal, even though afterward, when he remembers it isn’t, things often seem extra crappy.

A flock of Canada geese chase through the sky in arrow formations, screeching to one another as they head for the marsh. He stops and watches them pass.

When Matty arrives he leans his bike next to Al’s and dashes onto the field. He’s brought his new Premier League ball. It’s light and soft. It’s got a nice feel, and Al thinks he might buy himself one, next season, or the season after, once he’s thought of a way to sort out Mum’s money.

They jog down the pitch, passing to each other. When they reach the far end, near the park, Matty goes in goal and Al practices free kicks. Then Al goes in goal so Matty can practice. They concentrate on their feet, hands, and eyes—they don’t need to talk to each other. It’s perfect, until Matty misjudges a free kick and the ball flies over the top of the goal and into the little park.

Al expects the lads mucking about next to the swings to thump
it back, but the taller lad, whose hair is shaved so closely to his head that he almost looks bald, drops his cigarette, picks up the ball, and starts to head out of the playground toward the alley between the houses that back onto the field.

“Oi,” Matty shouts. “Oi! That’s my ball!”

Al runs. He remembers the lads on Queens Drive and how everything was fine once they started playing together. He calls to the lads. “Do you want to play?”

They turn round. “Do you want to play?” the shorter one mimics.

“How about a kick-about, two on two?”

“If you want the ball, come and get it.”

The lad with the shaved head holds the ball up. He’s got wicked acne—his cheeks are bubbling with pus. When Al steps closer, he chucks the ball in the air and catches it again and again.

“Congratulations, you can catch.” Al gives the lad a slow handclap and Matty nudges him.

“You’re a gobby little shite, aren’t you?” the shorter lad says.

“Give us the ball.”

“Come and get it.”

Matty swallows hard; he looks like he might be about to cry. A ring of anger warms the ache in Al’s stomach, like a gas flame. He’s going to go apeshit if the lads don’t give the ball back.

“Aw, look. He’s going to cry.” The shorter lad points at Matty and wobbles his bottom lip up and down with his finger. “Aw, diddums,” he says. “Do you want your mum?”

“Bet he does. Mummy’s boy.”

“I reckon his mum’s gross. Ugly enough to make an onion cry.”

“Shut up and leave him alone. It’s not your ball. Give it back.”

“Do you fancy his mum, then?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Al experiences a pleasant rush of disobedience as he swears.

“I reckon he does, poor sod.” The shorter lad looks pityingly at Al. “Do you like fugly old women?”

“Fuck. Off.”

“He likes fugly old women ’cause his mum’s one—a great big fugly whale. So fat and lazy she’s got her own postcode.” Spotty-Face throws the ball up high and catches it with a grin.

Al thinks of Mum—who is
not
lazy or fat—and the simmering ache in his stomach begins to burn.

The shorter lad laughs and his mate, showing off now, carries on. “She’s so lazy she sticks her arse out the window and lets the wind wipe it.”

That’s it. When Spotty-Face throws the ball in the air again, Al lunges at him, shoving him in the chest as hard as he can. The lad lands smack on his butt.

Al grabs the ball. “Run!” he says to Matty.

“Come here, you little shit.”

Al doesn’t look round. He runs alongside Matty, as hard as he can, the ball held under one arm like a rugby player. Moments later, he hears two pairs of feet pounding the grass behind them. Is this brave or stupid? He can’t tell. He keeps running, all the way across the football pitch. The lads are unfit, they smoke. He can hear one of them coughing behind him.

When they reach the edge of the field, Al and Matty tear down the path to the trees where they left their bikes. Al unzips his hoodie far enough to stuff the ball down his front and they jump on the bikes.

“You look like you’re, ha ha, like you’re, ha ha, bloody preggers, Al.”

“Shut up and ride.”

They push off and pedal hard. Once their feet have got some traction and their tires have made a few rotations, they’re away and there’s no chance of being caught. Al isn’t angry anymore. He’s just avoided having his head kicked in. And he’s done it all by himself, without any supernatural help, just his own brain and legs. Another
swarm of geese arrows above the park, cackling madly, black against the sky like animations. He looks back over his shoulder. The two lads are clutching their knees as they catch their breath between coughs.

“Fuck off, you wankers,” he shouts. “Fuck off!”

Ian flops into the car and fastens the seat belt. The windshield is streaked with rain and he’s soaked from the walk. The glass steams up and he closes his eyes. Just a moment’s rest, he thinks.

The car has been parked in the supermarket parking lot all afternoon. There’s a risk of getting booted, according to the signs, but it costs £3 to park at the hospital and this week alone he’s saved £18 by ignoring the big yellow warnings. It occurs to him that parking in the supermarket in defiance of the warning signs may be an act of dishonesty.
“Are you honest in your dealings with your fellow men?”
is a question he must answer satisfactorily in order to be worthy to enter the Temple. Is it dishonest to park illegally? Probably. Lying to everyone about Claire is dishonest too, but he can’t think what else to do. Eyes closed, he fumbles to adjust the seat, sighing as it reclines. Just five minutes’ peace and quiet, that’s all.

He is woken by the sound of his own snores. When he tries to sit up he is held in place by the seat belt. He checks his watch and groans—he’s been asleep for more than an hour. He unclips the belt and adjusts the seat, then wipes a circle in the steamed-up window with the cuff of his suit jacket. It isn’t raining anymore, the wind is blowing tides into wide puddles, and people are fighting it as they push shopping carts across the lot. He turns the key and switches on the fan to clear the windows properly.

There’s something exhausting and stultifying about sitting next to a hospital bed and there’s a heaviness, a melancholy quality to the air that, given recent events, means it’s difficult for him to be
there at all. No one has thought of it, and he doesn’t like to say. Brother Anderson is not particularly forthcoming at the best of times, but during today’s visit he was virtually mute and Ian had to resort to delivering a running commentary on the weather as it blustered past the window. At least the weekend starts tomorrow and Brother Stevens can take his turn at the hospital. “It’s so lucky you’ve got a week off, Bishop,” Sister Anderson said when she realized it was half-term. “I hate to be a nuisance but it’s like an answer to prayer.” Ian bristled but he was trapped by scripture:
“I was sick and ye visited me … inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Would he go and visit Jesus in the hospital? Of course he would. Should he go and visit Brother Anderson in the hospital? Of course he should.

As soon as the windshield is clear, he refastens his seat belt and begins the drive home. Jacob will be waiting. He has promised to take him to the beach and he will keep his word, even though it will be cold and incredibly windy there this afternoon.

It hasn’t been much of a holiday for poor Jacob. Before Issy, when things were normal, Ian could help people and not feel the slightest bit guilty about being away from home. But it’s suddenly difficult to balance the scales of service. Alma isn’t prepared to do his bit and it’s not fair to expect Zipporah to do everything. When he was called as Bishop he was promised the family would be blessed if he did a good job; if he put the Lord first, everything else in his life would fall into its proper place. He still believes this, he does. And if he can just keep going until Claire gets back to normal, the blessings of his service will be made manifest, he is certain of it. No one needs to know what is happening at home. If people find out, President Carmichael might decide that early release is the best option—a failure so enormous Ian can’t countenance it. In fact he’s aware of only one occasion when a Bishop was released early and he remembers how awful it was.

Bishop Davie was released when Ian was twelve. He’d served for only two years, which was strange because bishops usually serve for
at least five. Ian was aware of whispered exchanges between his mum and dad and there was a funny atmosphere at church for a few weeks. Then Bishop Davie disappeared. His wife and children kept coming to church at first, but it wasn’t long before they disappeared too. Ian overheard Mum saying that Sister Davie couldn’t cope with the shame.