Crusaders (36 page)

Martin found he could no longer tether his tongue. ‘Eh, it’s a pop concert, we’re not off to fight the
Wehrmacht
.’

Pip tutted. ‘Martin, you wouldn’t say that if you were Asian.’

‘Well, I’m not, am I? Okay, we’re not so mixed in Newcastle. But I don’t think the National Front’s got a Thousand Year Reich on the cards.’

He was aware he might as well have pissed into their tea, but was pleased to have relieved his irritation. For some time he had suspected that his tutor at Newcastle was earmarking him for teaching, and in soft moments he yielded to a certain fantasy of standing up and expounding before a classroom of keen lads and lasses. But the profession itself he disliked instinctively –
middle-class
fuckers in the main, it always seemed, and nary such dismal proof as that before him now.

He woke with an acrid mouth and a pulsing head. The party had been a late one, and to its arduous end he had been declaiming most eloquently to some wide-mouthed girl about the vulnerable merits of anarcho-syndicalism. It was her bedsheets he was now half-in and half-out of, her humid pit of a room. She herself – Rosie by name, he was reasonably sure – was nowhere in view. But then she was tugging him awake, for he had dozed off again. She seemed unusually troubled. He was prepared to apologise. In fact, her moaning was to do with there being a phone call for him. That he had been traced seemed the worst possible start to the day
– this before his flatmate came on the line, barely coherent, to say that Martin’s mother had been trying to reach him all morning. Joe had suffered an awful accident at work.

Martin ran all the way to the General Hospital, cursing himself, dread clasping at his stomach and chest, afraid to imagine what he would see.

He found Jenny seated and still and colourless, the mild Dr Honeyman hovering over her, having driven her from Purves directly on receipt of the news. But Honeyman slipped away as Jenny tried dazedly to talk. Joe had been in charge of an overhead crane that unloaded prematurely, a steel drum crushing his right side against a concrete abutment. As Martin put his arms around her, hoping to instil calm and control the wild spin in his
head-space
, the registrar was pacing toward them, his mouth set plain in a line of regret.

‘Mrs Pallister, we’ve reviewed all the options, I’m afraid an amputation
is
going to be necessary …’

‘Is there really nothing else you can try?’

‘I’m truly sorry, just – the state of the arm, it’s effectively
severed
. Even if we could re-attach it, he’d never have the use of it. I’m so sorry, Mrs Pallister, this is just the place we find ourselves. So I need your approval.’

Jenny was shaking her head, but Martin knew in his bones that matters had passed beyond redemption.

Joe came around very late that night and was propped up, bloodless and hoarse, an immaculate bulbous cloth bandage
midway
between his right elbow and where his wrist had been.

‘I saw it come at us – saw it all the way …’

Jenny tried a hesitant caress of his right flank. Martin stared doggedly downward at the vestiges of the mop-head across the linoleum floor.

‘See … It’s odd, so odd. It wasn’t the pain, that wasn’t the worst – not like you’d think. I just remember thinking, clear as day, aw God, that’s it. That’s done for, it’ll not ever get mended …’

In the silence Martin heard the rattle and squeak of trolley wheels.

‘It didn’t get this, but, eh?’

He glanced up. Joe was raising and clenching his left fist. His voice had clotted, and the gesture seemed to Martin entirely futile and forlorn. Then he heard his mother’s drastic sob, saw her painful smile, and realised that Joe’s good thumb was rubbing at the thin gold of his wedding band, which he now pressed to his lips. Martin felt himself rise unsteadily, venture to lay a hand on his father’s left forearm, and leave the room. Outside, a pair of slender nurses were trotting past and he managed but barely to bury his face behind his hands.

‘When we start to complain of all the things that aren’t like they were in the old days – well, there’s a danger we never stop, isn’t there? The price of butter. Manners – young people’s manners especially. Newcastle United, of course. The Labour Party …’

Liven up, John,
Gore chided himself. As he had feared in the drafting, he was sounding like an old coot. The intention, yes, was to focus on his core demographic, sticks and liver spots and all. Yet as he spoke, he was counting those mainly stooped and grey heads. Thirty-nine, forty? Undoubtedly a turn for the worse –
perplexing
too, in light of his rising profile, and thus a slight that he was minded to take personally.

‘We can always have a pop at the Church, too. You’ll have noticed, I’m sure – scheme after scheme we’ve seen for reforming it, restoring its unity, making it “relevant”. Sometimes the extra effort only brings fresh disappointment …’

Like, for instance, today.
The late-declared absence of Steve Coulson and crew, purportedly ‘busy’, had reduced them to bare bones, all the more damnable since the scarcity heightened Gore’s awareness of a pair of conspicuous newcomers. Blue-suited Martin Pallister was front and centre, sitting upright, arms folded. But Simon Barlow slouched and rubbed his chin near Lindy, who was minus Jake and looking rather nice in boots of tan suede and a jean jacket over a short jade peasant dress. He would have to address the issue of
her
in due course.

‘I do wonder sometimes – with all our talk of schemes and structures – whether we’ve maybe lost sight of the relationship of God and man? If God seems irrelevant to us sometimes, might it not be because we’ve
made Him a rather distant notion? Not a living God, his influence
present
among us. But a God stuck in some Bible-story past? Don’t get me wrong,
God is God – yesterday, today, and for ever.’

He looked up, paused, enjoying Barlow’s over-emphatic nod.

‘But God’s revelation was not set down once and for all time. Not even in the tablets of stone. Why? Because we are God’s children. We grow and change, as children do. And God watches us. Do you really imagine that God’s own view of his children doesn’t change just as we change?’

Gore didn’t bother to check for Barlow’s displeasure. What he did assess, and appreciate, was the keen attention of Pallister.

‘If I might digress just for a moment – perhaps you’ll have heard me on the radio recently, or read the column I’ve been doing for the local paper, talking about some matter of politics?’

Aloud harrumph from the pews – Albert Robinson, ever so
easily
riled.

‘Some say that churchmen shouldn’t get involved in these things. But politics are our daily bread, aren’t they? We can’t escape them even if we wanted to. If God has a purpose for this world, politics must be a part of it. Of course, I don’t pretend to know His purpose. But I do know it’s a matter of what’s right and best for us as humankind. How can politics be free of that?’

‘I’ll tell you what
I
think, Reverend.’

Gore raised his eyebrows but kept his lips veiled by the rim of his teacup.

‘You’re over-busy, you are. Excuse me, but on the bloody radio and all, banging on about them bloody Bosnians …’

Not your bloody business, Albert,
thought Gore. It was annoying, though, that Pallister, next in line for the meet-and-greet, had to witness his being harangued. True, he had got himself exercised at length by Dragan and Dijana, a fretful but pleasant pair of young Orthodox migrants who sought him out for guidance on housing. He had only directed them to the Citizens Advice Bureau, and understood they were to be accommodated in one of the fearful high-rises of the Scotswood Road. But their story had struck him
sufficiently as to recount it during another appearance on Chris Carter’s show, and in his occasional column for the
Journal
.

‘I thought you were for
us
.’

‘I am, Albert.’

‘I’ll tell you, you’re
not
– not if you’re on the side of strings being pulled for people who’ve just blown into somewhere and want it all handed them on a plate. You can’t be for
everybody
.’

The pensioner waved a snappish hand and turned, nearly clashing into Pallister, at whom he peered with similar
contumely
before shuffling off. Gore supposed he might just have lost one more punter. He ought then to be working the flagging room, asking after everyone’s health. But Pallister could scarcely be expected to wait, nor did he look minded to. Meanwhile, and rather to Gore’s irritation, Simon Barlow seemed to be circulating purposefully, chortling keenly, giving the glad hand to one and all.

Pallister whistled through his teeth. ‘Tough crowd you get in, John.’

‘Oh, some people, they’ve just got to get their tuppence worth. Thanks for coming, anyway. You didn’t bring your camera crew?’

‘Naw, man, I thought you’d have one ready for us.’ He glanced around the sparse hall. ‘No, they weren’t wrong, it’s a job you’ve got on here. You deserve every encouragement.’ He slotted his folded Order of Service into his jacket pocket and rubbed his palms as if removing a sully. ‘Anyway. This was good, thanks, got to shoot off now, pick up my lad for the day.’

‘You have a son?’

‘I thought I told you. Suzie didn’t mention? I’m nowt but an invoice to her, aren’t I? Look, so what about my offer? Have you had any thoughts?’

‘I’m thinking it over, as we said.’

Pallister crooked a forearm, jabbed at his watch-face. ‘Statute of limitations, mind, eh? C’mon, man. I’ve not got for ever. That forum I told you about? It’s this Thursday. If we’re doing this, I need you there.’

‘I’ll talk to you before then.’

‘Try and be sharper, eh? I’m not back in London ’til tomorrow night.’

Into Pallister’s place stepped Mrs Alison Boyle, sighing as she squared loose pages of sheet music needlessly between her hands.

‘Is it all okay with you, John? What I’m doing?’

‘Fine, sure. Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Oh, just you never say, so I wouldn’t know.’

And off she trotted, point made. As he frowned Gore felt a soft hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh! Lindy.’

‘Aye,
Lindy
. Listen, you. I want a word.’ And she threw a light pretend punch at his arm. Fully decorated this morning, mascara and mauve eye-shadow, fuchsia lips and
framboise
rouge, little pink clips in her hair. For November it was a summery sort of ensemble, and he noted she didn’t wear a bra either. But then he supposed it was the local custom. She looked nice, for sure, and he knew he ought really to tell her as much.

‘John? Are you listening to us?’

‘Sorry, can we pop outside?’ He gestured to the door, conscious of his own hush. As he took her arm, he saw Monica throw him a critical glance.
Come on, what’s to look at?
True, several more
able-bodied
regulars had already pitched into stacking up the chairs. But the vicar couldn’t do everything – not every Sunday, not on top of the prep and the spadework and the diplomacy. Did he not deserve five minutes’ grace?

They trotted together down the school corridor in silence,
passing
the Year Two artboard. He heard her scoff under her breath.

‘Ha. Typical. Fanny Blott’s taken all Jake’s pictures off the board.’

‘How is Jake? Where is he today?’

‘With his auntie. He’s got a bit cold.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

Pushing out of the front doors Gore took in the panorama of the car park. Simon Barlow leaned against his Mondeo, in the startling act of puffing on a cigarette. A few berths further away, big Sharon Price was helping her bent grandmother into the rear seat of a hatchback, the slowness painful to behold. Even she seemed
to peer at him without sympathy. He turned to see Lindy kicking her square heels under the legend
FAITH HOPE CHARITY
.

‘What, then?’

‘Well, yes, what?’

‘
You
wanted to gan outside.’

‘Yes but you wanted a word?’

‘Aw right, and you don’t?’

She was shaking her hennaed head in sore wonder. Other
parties
were starting to trail out of the front doors and past the pair of them – curly Rod Moncur, his usual grin mislaid. No, Gore
granted
he had not thought this manoeuvre through so very astutely.

‘Are we a secret then? You and me?’

‘Well, not any more, I doubt. Look.’ He beckoned her a little
further
hence, closer to the wall. ‘Lindy, I’m not trying to make a fuss, I just think a little discretion is maybe necessary? It’s not – it’s just there are various issues. One is I want to have you more involved in this church, and that will be harder if I’m known to be – involved with you.’

‘John, if I’m dead honest? I’m not really bothered about your church. It’s not why I’m here, is it?’

Gore absorbed this. It seemed quite the day for plain speaking.

‘Are you even arsed about us? I mean, do you want to spend time with us?’

‘Yes, I do. Look, if we’re being so honest, I was more wondering if you wanted to spend time with
me
.’

‘Well, right enough, you never pick up the phone so you’re probably a wrong ’un.’

‘It’s just I’ve got an awful lot on, Lindy.’

‘You think I don’t?’

‘I don’t mean it like that, it’s more … you’ve got your hours, yes? Your shifts? My commitments are a bit more nebulous. And sort of … continuous. But I do have certain specific times that are free –’

‘Like when?’

‘And,
listen,
and
those are times I’d gladly spend with you. And Jake.’

‘You don’t have to worry there, John, you’re not his daddy.’

‘Well, come on, I don’t pretend that, do I?’

Presenting a mask of hurt seemed to buy Gore a moment to measure his feeling. Why was he letting this slide? Work, yes – his mission, it wore a solitary cast. There again, his own company also gave him no offence. It did not, at any rate, entail complications of this kind at every turn.

‘Okay, so how’s about Tuesday? Can we’s do something Tuesday?’

‘Blast. I can’t.’

‘You see?’

‘Wednesday, but? I’d love to see you then.’

She swayed. ‘Right then, Wednesday. In the day, aye? You’ll come round to ours?’

He had earned half a smile, however expensively bought. She offered her lips, and he abandoned caution and brushed them lightly with his own, a hand straying to her hip. Then he watched her wander away, and wondered what they might do to pass the time.

Barlow was sauntering over, stroking his chin, grinning
impiously
.

‘Girl trouble, John? Blimey. Kiss and make up though, eh?’

In the teeth of unwanted scrutiny Gore endeavoured to exude only blankness. Barlow chuckled and looked aside. ‘Oops. ’Scuse me for breathing, then. That was old Martin Pallister in there with you, wasn’t it? What got him here?’

‘Just being the MP, out for the community. Wants me involved in some project.’

‘
Oh
yeah? What would that be?’

‘God knows. It’s written on the wind.’

Barlow wore the aspect of the ravening hound denied its haunch, but seemed resolved nonetheless to divert his energies. ‘Huh. Anyway. That sort of half worked today, didn’t it? I mean, with the obvious problems.’

‘It’s been better. Today was a fall-off. I had some support
missing
.’

‘Yeah, I was hoping to see these bouncers of yours. Nah, you’ve done okay, John. Done it your way. I respect that. We’re different, I know, but we both plough our own furrow, don’t we? You and me? Lone wolves. The diocesan mob up here, they haven’t a clue how to handle me neither.’

‘You’re maybe not the easiest man to handle, Simon.’

‘Oh, I try to fit in. You don’t hear me moaning about women priests any more, do you? I don’t need the aggravation, it’s a waste of time. And energy.’ He produced his packet of Silk Cut, extended it to Gore. ‘No? It’s the workload’s got me on these. No, seriously. My thing is, I just want to make my point, have it noted, then get on with my job. Working for the gospel on Tyneside.’ He flared up and exhaled. ‘Some causes are lost. There’s always others.’

Gore glanced behind him. ‘Simon, I ought to head back in.’

‘Hang on, no, listen. We ought to talk. I wanted to say – do you remember Gavin Knott? From back at Grey?’

‘Gavin. Yeah, I do. Augustine fan. Quiet sort, serious.’

‘You didn’t keep in touch though? I thought you two were matey?’

‘No, not so much. I know he went to London. Lewisham, I think.’

‘He did, yeah, close to a pal of mine. Anyway.’ Barlow sighed.

‘The thing is, Gavin, he’s – ah well, the bad news is he’s HIV-
positive
is what he is.’

Gore’s hand went to his brow. ‘No. Oh no. That’s awful.’

‘Yup. Sad to say.’

‘Are you sure? How do you know?’

‘This pal of mine. It’s not news yet, but it’s gonna be. Bound to be.’

The news had dismayed Gore more than he could have
anticipated
. Casting his mind back now, he was surprised that Knott had ever let himself succumb to an expression of sexuality. His catastrophe then seemed doubly cruel.

‘Oh, it’s tragic, yeah. Real tragedy, for him.’ Barlow sighed. ‘But there’s an issue there too. Don’t you think?’

The amity had slunk out of Barlow’s even gaze, as Gore now supposed it had been bound to. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t know how else you dress it up, John. We bang on about these things and no one ever listens. It’s just a fact, but. You don’t get up to that sort of thing, and you don’t get diseases that kill you.’

‘Is that what you’d say to Gavin?’

‘What would
you
say, John? After all this time? “Sorry, pal”? Look, I didn’t want the poor little sausage to suffer. I didn’t want people like him to ever get in that jam in the first place. You
know
that, John, I’ve always said it. It’s time to get it out on the table and say “Enough”. Our Church wasn’t meant to be just a refuge for a load of mixed-up gaylords. Sheepish little closet-cases, always saying “Judge not”. All because they’ve got every reason to fear getting judged. This is serious, John. If they won’t go now, it’s time they got shown the door.’