Crusaders (27 page)

A child’s pained yelp rent the air.

‘By all means disagree, bonny lad, but perhaps we can discuss it when I’m done …?’

Aripple of laughter. The child’s mother was fussing, but
restoring
order. Gore regained his place.

‘Yes, to love one another. Because, in the words of the apostle John, “If any man hath this world’s goods, and seeth his brother hath need, but shutteth up his bowels of compassion against him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?” Well, how indeed?

‘There may be many in our lives whom we say we love. Sometimes, in the abstract, it’s possible to love the whole world and everyone in it. We’ve all had those moments, haven’t we? When it feels like the sun is shining on us alone, and good will to others comes pouring out of us. But most days, we know, aren’t like that. On a grey day like today, when maybe nothing much is going so right – are we ready then to love a man who lies before us in destitution? And love him not just with a pat on the head and a wince of sympathy, but with a little of the food and raiment that he needs?

‘It’s a tough one, isn’t it? I can’t say my conscience is clear, any more than you, I dare say. We can’t be perfect, we can’t always share in others’ woes. It’s hard enough with friends, never mind strangers. We can always say – can’t we? – that we have “troubles of our own”. And we do.

‘But is it not just possible that in telling ourselves that – in averting our eyes from a stranger’s pain – is it not possible we’re cheating
ourselves
of a greater reward? I don’t mean some gold star from God on high. I’m talking about something far more powerful. I mean, the joy of feeling His love working through us.

‘If we call ourselves Christians then we say that love is the law. And we are bound to that law. God’s love … is burning in us anyway, whether or not we choose to heed it. But why should we cheat ourselves out of experiencing that blessing, by not yielding to it? Why refuse
ourselves
the ecstasy we might have in letting God’s love work through us in our actions? That’s why John tells us, “Children, let us not love in word
,
neither in tongue, but in
deed.”

‘Words grow stale unless they’re renewed by action. So many tired old words we hear too much of. What do we mean, for instance, when we talk about “our community”? We’re always hearing – aren’t we? – about this or that “community”. What is the community of Hoxheath? It’s more than just your neighbours, clearly. More than the people we know by sight in the Netto, or the Gunnery. It’s everybody in our locality, isn’t it? The people with whom we have the daily stuff of life in common – the same concerns, same hopes and fears. And we
do
have those things in common as long as we walk the same streets and breathe the same air. Since we have those same feelings, shouldn’t we try to act on them together? Each of us has a part to play in Hoxheath. A duty to act. But also a reward to be reaped. Because it’s nice to be together, isn’t it? Things we hold in common make us feel safe in the world. Feeling safe in the here and now gives us grounds to hope for more. And hope, dear friends, is the future …’

They shared the peace. ‘Greet ye one another with a kiss of
charity
,’ Gore intoned. ‘Peace be with you all who are in Christ Jesus.’ He watched them slowly shift from their seats, begin to mill about, albeit tentatively. ‘You don’t have to kiss, of course,’ he
hastened
to add. ‘A handshake is fine. But you won’t be taxed for a hug so long as you’re sure of who you give it to.’

That seemed to break the ice, though Gore saw Albert Robinson flinch as he was folded into an aged female embrace.

Had he his preference he would have closed proceedings with the Lord’s Prayer and sent a docile crowd on its way, but he had resolved to offer Holy Communion and offer it he would. After measures of silence, coughs, and shuffles – two, four, five, finally seven bodies rose and filed forward to the fine new communion rail, making of themselves an orderly queue as Gore busied
himself
with the vessels at his makeshift altar. Then he turned to where the supplicants were kneeling, thoughtful, in turn, and passed from person to person, commending that the bread and wine might be to them His body and His blood. The last face
gazing
up at him was Lindy Clark’s, her fur-lined hood an aureole for
her painted face. She looked evenly at Gore as he pressed the wafer into her hand, and after the sip of wine she crossed herself at her breast, her lip curled.

Afterwards, over tea and biscuits at the back of the hall, Gore tried to fight down a creeping euphoria. But the sight of
apparently
contented people taking their turn at the tea urn and settling into unforced conversation with their neighbours was a madly heartening one.
I built this
, he told himself,
I bloody made this work
.

Matt Watson hoved into view. ‘Vicar, could I pinch a shot of you and the lads by the pool table? Before it gets carted off?’

Gore shrugged – why not? – ran hands through his hair and took steps toward his altar. Then he felt two hard shoulders
tackling
him behind his knees, butting up under each thigh, and
powerful
hands upon his armpits, hoisting him into the air as easily as if he were newborn. He was aloft the paired shoulders of Shack and Simms, and he teetered wildly, but found his balance with his palms upon their backs. There were laughs and cheers from all about the hall, though he saw perplexed faces too among the
lingering
tea-drinkers. But Stevie Coulson was reaching a glad hand up to him, Gore grasped it firmly, and the big Nikon camera flared like a muzzle-flash.

‘My name’s Gore, I’m here to be on
Tyne Talk
with Chris Carter?’

He stepped back, surveyed the tiled foyer of Tyne FM Radio, dense with the comings and goings of clipboarded runners, motorbike messengers and newly arrived ‘talent’ such as himself. Within moments a beanpole blonde girl in black emerged from the elevator, only to seize Gore’s arm and usher him back through the fast-closing doors.

‘So did you read about my service in the
Journal
?’

‘The
Journal
? Aw no, it was your sister, I thought? Aye, we got a call from your sister at SEG? Telling us all what you were doing.’

Of all the liberties
, thought Gore. He bit back displeasure. ‘Right. And this is live, this show?’

‘Aye, dead informal, just a roundtable. People with all different views on things … You’re in here.’

She was pressing him out of the corridor into the Green Room – in fact, white – where one soul had already taken up jaded
residence
on a seemingly inflatable sofa of fire-engine red.

‘Reverend, this is Gaz Lyons, Newcastle’s top nightclub
promoter
.’

‘How man. Sally, you couldn’t fetch us a double espresso, pet?’

‘Sorry, Gaz, it’s only the machine coffee we’ve got on this floor.’

‘Get us two of them then, would you? Bit too much naughty last night.’ Lyons belched, clapping a hand to his mouth. He was
perhaps
in his early forties, Gore decided, though his hair was a
plaited
tower of bleached dreadlocks. He wore combat trousers festooned with zippered pockets, and a padded coat that looked to be of some light-but-durable textile, fit for outer space – a sort
of futuristic clown, albeit heavily medicated, in need of better skincare and earlier nights.

Sally returned, in her care a tubby man with a dark floppy fringe, wearing an anorak over his suit, grizzling into a mobile phone. As he marched testily into his very own corner and paced as if caged, Sally crouched beside Gore and Lyons.

‘You know Don Watson? He runs Barzini’s Pizza? You’ll have seen ’em, right, they’re everywhere now.’

Gore shrugged, trying without success to recline into the squeaking red sofa. Lyons was idly punching numbers into his own miniature phone, a force field of disinclination raised all around him. Abruptly he began a conversation, punctuated by wearied groans and guffaws. Gore gathered that a business
associate
was on the other end, for the talk seemed to be all of
bothersome
matters that one would rather the other dealt with.

‘Aw, you do it, will ya? Just for once, man. I can’t be bothered dealing wi’ Steve Coulson this week. Don’t make us. Prick.’

As Lyons set down his phone and peered into the murk of a polystyrene cup, Gore studied him with renewed interest.

‘Sorry, do you know Steve Coulson?’

‘Do
I
know Steve Coulson? Bloody hell, man. Do
you
?’

But Sally was in the doorway again, hopping from foot to foot.

‘Welcome back to the morning session, with us today three special guests, each in their own special way offering new and improved services on Tyneside.’

Gore adjusted his headset and sat poised at the proposed six inches from his microphone. Lyons and Watson were separated from him by a cable-strewn expanse of red baize. The egregious Carter bossed the table, and in commercial breaks he asked very solemnly of his guests that they endeavour to sound as jolly as possible whenever they resumed. Once the red light blinked them back on air, Carter’s own voice was pumped full of hale and hearty. Gore had to admire such polished fakery.

‘Reverend Gore – just before the break we said a bit about this new church of yours in Hoxheath. What interests me is this. Who
are you trying to
reach
with a new church? What’s your
demographic
? Have you done, say, any market research?’

‘Uh, that’s a good question, Chris. For starters I’m very confident we’re already reaching a lot of the older people in the parish, who’ve got a longer tradition of churchgoing in their lives. Then I’m sure we can also reach the younger adults, young families, who probably had a religious upbringing themselves, of a sort, and might want the same for their kids. Beyond that? I’d say we want to reach
anyone
out there who hasn’t heard the Christian message.’

‘Gaz? Did you have a religious upbringing?’

‘Aw, I don’t remember, man.’

‘Right. So a new church on Tyneside, how does that grab you?’

‘Whey . . Nee disrespect, I just think the whole idea of church is a bit funny, y’knaa? For me, like? I reckon for young people now, gannin’ to clubs is like what gannin’ to churches used to be for the old uns.’

Carter seemed to take that seriously. ‘Interesting. Reverend, do you think – do you worry – that people in Hoxheath could care
less
about the Christian message? Has it anything to offer them? Really?’

‘Well, I do think every one of us could stand to be told that we should do unto others as we’d have them do unto us. That seems to me good advice whoever you are. But, sure, I’d be just as happy to meet people who’ve never thought twice about any of it. I should emphasise – everyone’s welcome at my church, we won’t turn a soul from our door. What we really want is just a real
community
forum for Hoxheath.’

‘And that’s nice, but our listeners will want me to remind you there are parts of Hoxheath that are pretty … well, notorious. For crime, for drug abuse, for long-term unemployment. People might wonder what sort of community you’ve got there to speak of?’

‘Chris, it’s important to challenge stereotypes –’

‘Some are true, but.’ This was Don Watson, meeting Gore’s eye across the table for the first time, looking very settled in his chair and his view.

‘Maybe. It’s true in Hoxheath there are people who’ve had a lot of trouble in their lives. It’s hard to earn a living in parts of this city. And when people can’t earn a living they can end up doing some very desperate things.’

Don Watson placed some of his bulk over the edge of the table. ‘Can I say, Chris? That’s what we call a bleeding heart. One thing you learn sharpish in business, nobody does you any favours in this life, so you’d best get on with it. Another thing you learn is to call things by their name. A crime’s a crime, and a criminal’s a criminal, know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Reverend, you sound very affable but some people will say isn’t the Church supposed to take a tougher line on, well,
sin
?’

‘Um, I’ll probably sound quite stuffy here … but there is a body of thought within the Church concerned with what we call
structural
sin – sins that arise because people were sinned
against
, in some way. That possibly sounds a bit academic.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ Watson grunted.

‘Well,’ Carter leapt in, ‘let’s try and take some of your calls before the break. Jack from Fenham, are you there, Jack?’

A throat was cleared down the line.
‘Thank you. I’m listening to that fella you’ve on there, Mr Lyons? And he was talking about
nightclubs
being like churches? I want to tell him this. I’ve never been to a church where there’s drug dealers handing out drugs to kids like they were sweeties, and fights on the pavement outside, and lads vomiting their guts –’

‘Sounds like a canny night, that.’ Lyons wheezed in
amusement
.

‘Okay, but have you been to a nightclub before, Jack?’

‘No, and I shan’t, thank you, not if Mr Lyons is any advert for it.’

‘Okay, thank you, Jack.’

As Gore was escorted back to the foyer by Sally, he made a
mental
reckoning of his performance and decided to call it a moral
victory
of sorts, redeemed in part by that late show of support.

‘That was really good,’ Sally offered. ‘Good response, lots of calls.’

‘Thank you for having me.’

‘Aw, well, they asked us to tell you we’d be glad to have you back, anytime. You’ve got something to say, you know?’ And she nodded, keenly, perhaps a few more times than Gore could take as sincere.

The following evening found Gore once more before his parish council, and he strode into the room feeling himself justified. He poured his coffee, took his seat by Jack Ridley and tipped back his chair in a proprietor’s manner. Bob Spikings, too, wore a fulsome air. ‘Well, I think I speak for us all when I say the, uh, top item on the agenda has to be a big hand for John on the success of the first service of St Luke’s.’

It was a tinny, hesitant round of applause – even Ridley a little tardy – though Simon Barlow appeared most vigorous and earnest in his acclamation. Spikings nodded. ‘Quite right, John, and, uh – with any luck, you’ll soon have no more need of us. Then we can all get our Thursday nights back. I should say, too, there’s the matter of your performance on the radio yesterday, which I’m sure those who heard will agree was first-rate. And, uh, tremendous PR. The media is golden, as we know, and you really, uh, handled yourself well.’

Gore smiled thinly.

‘Can I raise a point? About the service?’ It was Susan Carrow, in her yellow pullover and snow-white blouson and citrine scarf, the ensemble clearly tailored to her ash-blonde hairdo yet bestowing on her the look of a lemon meringue, and today, it seemed to Gore, a sour one to boot.

‘Can I just say? I was a bit put out – as were others – by those three – I hardly know what to call them … those three
muscle-men
who were strutting about the place?’

An emphysematic snort came out of Jack Ridley.

‘I didn’t think their presence was at all appropriate. I mean to say, one of them was
smoking
, and then another I heard using
language
that the children present shouldn’t have had to hear. And of course
I
was hardly going to tell them off because I was
frightened
, frankly, as were some of the children …’

Spikings turned to Gore, who made sure to emanate
bemusement
. ‘Mrs Carrow’s referring to Steve Coulson and some
colleagues
of his from the security firm he runs, who very kindly came down and gave us a hand in the shifting of heavy items. I should say, too, that those who took communion on Sunday did so at a rail that was donated by Mr Coulson.’

Spikings stared determinedly downward at his paperwork. ‘Well, yes, of course – we know Mr, uh, Coulson here at St Mark’s, and he’s given generously to this church also.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ volleyed Mrs Carrow, ‘but him and his pals have the look of
thugs
to me, and I can’t say they comported
themselves
any better. And I’m not the only one thought as much, because people talk, you know …’

Gore leaned forward. ‘Susan, I didn’t hear any complaints, so I –’

‘Oh, that’s cos you were off getting your photo taken –’

‘And frankly I don’t appreciate some of your own language.’

Mrs Carrow did not appreciate the rejoinder, and Gore was still returning her piqued stare when Simon Barlow coughed and took charge of the silence in the room. ‘Hang on, sorry, have I got this right, John? You had
bouncers
for sidesmen? At your first service?’

‘Geet big skinhead navvies,’ Susan Carrow nodded. ‘With
tattoos
.’

‘And this Coulson bloke,’ Barlow continued, dawning marvel in his eyes. ‘He gives
money
to this church?’

‘That’s sort of how I met him,’ offered Gore. ‘Well, in fact, we actually met in the Gunnery pub.’ He had the sudden blushing sensation of having volunteered more information than was
helpful
.

But Barlow’s eyes were gleaming, dissimulating pure pleasure, and he bashed the table surface with the flat of his hand. ‘Outstanding.
Outstanding
, John.
That’s
the spirit, eh? You can’t say
that’s
not ringing in the new. That’s worth another round of applause in itself. Honest, John, I’d never have thought it. Talk about thinking out of your box.’

Susan Carrow still looked to have something tart stored in her mouth. ‘Well, I hardly see the cause for congratulation.’

‘Oh, but Susan, Susan – it takes all sorts.
All
sorts. Who are we to judge, eh? Hasn’t John always said that? I know I’ve heard him. Didn’t the Lord find a great servant in the harlot Rahab? Was she not justified by works and works alone? Was faith not a mighty current in her? Too right it was.’

Gore thought himself long inured to Barlow’s crackerjack
displays
of exuberance. Today he found himself wondering if the man was off his medication. But whatever the source of his
sustenance
, Barlow was beaming at Gore as if thinking him good enough to eat. ‘What
will
you do next, John? Eh? Whatever next?’

‘That is a good question, I should say.’ Spikings seemed anxious to reclaim the chair’s privilege. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the week, John?’

Gore bridged his fingers. ‘Well, my thought was to maybe start doing some voluntary hours at the Citizens Advice Bureau. On Westgate Road?’

‘Come off it, John, where’ll you get the time for that?’ Scratchy scepticism was back in Barlow’s voice. ‘You can’t, not if you’re doing your pastoral duties properly. We’ve been through this, haven’t we?’

Spikings was nodding. Mrs Carrow seemed to draw sustenance from these reproofs. ‘What about a Sunday School? Didn’t we talk about that last time?’

Barlow clucked his tongue. ‘Hang on, Susan. Let’s step back a minute, take a closer look at the turnout John got Sunday. How many kids from the school were there? Monica?’

‘Ten, a dozen maybe? Not so many. I can’t force them, as you know.’

Barlow was doing an impression of
The Thinker
. ‘Hmm. And can I ask, Monica – how exactly is RE taught in your school? How’s the faith made present?’

She shrugged. ‘I start and end the day with prayer. We follow the curriculum, of course, far as it goes. Teaching the belief
systems
–’