Crusaders (48 page)

‘Of course you are, of course. Think nothing of it.’

There was nowhere to park himself but on the settee beside her, and he inserted his person next to a slumbering black cat,
lowering himself gingerly. Cheryl lingered in the doorframe.

‘I’m imagining all sorts, see. I can’t get
on
with anything.’

‘I’m sure. This will sound pat, Mrs MacNamara, but please remember, people go missing every day. I know it’s murder for you.’ He saw her eyes pop feelingly, and so cursed his maladroit phrasing. ‘But we’ll find him. I’m certain he’s safe and well.’

She sniffled, seemed almost to crush her fingers. ‘Well, you say that.’

‘Is it out of character? Has he ever gone off before?’

‘Nah, never. Except for the odd mad night.’

Cheryl piped up. ‘He went off that time after you and that Gormley bloke.’

‘Aye, well, that wasn’t this was it, Cheryl?’ Frowns were exchanged at this evident filial impiety.

‘And what have the police said?’

Silence. Mrs MacNamara’s frown had deepened, somewhat guiltily.

‘You
have
reported this, to the police?’

‘I’ve not. Only that’s why I asked
you
here, Father.’

‘But why not the police? I mean, you need to get into the
system
, get an officer round –’

‘I divvint
want
an officer round. That happened to me friend Paula. All they did was turn her place owa. Made her feel rotten. Like she’d done her own lad in.’

‘What if
I
went to the police? On your behalf?’

‘Aw, don’t, they’d still be round. Please, man, I don’t
like
’em. Can we not keep this just between wuh? Can we not?’

Gore bit his lip, weighing the matter unhappily. Slowly, since no other option occurred, he withdrew his notebook from his pocket, and uncapped a biro. ‘Well then. When was the last time you saw Tony?’

‘Yesterday morning. He’d been in his bed, then I looked in and he wasn’t.’

‘What was the actual time? When you last set eyes on him?’

‘Well, I only
saw
him when he went
up
to bed, like. Midnight mebbe?’

‘Midnight, okay. How did he seem? Was he acting like normal?’

Mrs MacNamara looked to Cheryl. It was the girl who spoke up. ‘The place where he works, right? There was that shootin’.’

‘What shooting was that?’

‘D’you not hear? The pizza place out North Shields. There was two of ’em got shot dead, two fellas.’

‘My God.’ Gore felt his control over proceedings rudely sent packing. ‘My God, so that’s where Mackers – Tony – that’s where he works? He was there when it happened?’

‘Aye,’ Fay fumbled in her lap. ‘I knew there was summat wrang, see, cos he was never home ’til late, and he come in all moody. He was moody, wasn’t he?’

‘He looked like they’d shot him an’ all,’ Cheryl muttered at her armpit.

‘The men were shot actually sitting in the restaurant?’

‘Aye, in front of everyone, like.’

‘Is Tony a waiter there?’

‘He delivers. Drives a bike.’

‘Did he
see
the men shot?’

‘Dunno. He didn’t tell us exactly. He was just so moody.’

‘I’d have thought he would have been traumatised.’

‘Say again?’

‘An experience like that. He’ll have suffered a huge shock, to his system. I mean, it wouldn’t be surprising if he was just –
wandering
the streets somewhere.’

‘You think? Suppose he could, couldn’t he?’

‘It’s possible. He’s not on any medication, is he?’

Cheryl snorted. Her mother squinted at her. ‘He’s not, but.’

‘Have you rung around the hospitals?’

‘
I
did, a few,’ said Cheryl.

‘Well, now, look, this is already a police matter, isn’t it? It’s a part of a – of an actual crime, with a crime number and so on. Tony will have been spoken to himself, won’t he? By the police, on the night?’

‘Dunno. He didn’t say. Never says that much, see. He wouldn’t, but. Normally. Talk to the police.’

Cheryl was shaking her head adamantly. ‘Naw. He said to us he had.’

‘He told
you
?’ Gore turned his attention wholly to the girl.

‘Aye, said he had, but he wished he’d not.’

‘Why not?’

‘Didn’t tell us.’

‘What
did
he say?’

‘Just what I telt
you
, man. He was in a mood, I couldn’t hear half what he said. Just shut the door on us. Heard his mobile ring, but.’

‘He has a mobile phone?’

‘Aye.’

‘I assume you’ve tried calling it?’

‘We’ve not got the number.’

‘Why not?’

‘He never give us it. Said it was just for his work.’

For a moment Gore felt his vision swimming in a high
swamping
wave of fatigue. He rubbed at the corners of both eyes. ‘God, this is – let’s – let’s just try to establish, what are the obvious things to do? Have you talked to his friends? Who are his friends?’

‘Cheryl’s been round all them, haven’t ya?’

‘Aye, just like a few I knaa. They’d not seen him.’

Gore looked closely at her. ‘What about that boy Jason? Jason Liddell?’

Disdain seized her face. ‘I don’t speak to him no more, he’s an idiot.’

‘He is a friend, though, of Tony’s?’

‘Naw. They’d fell out and that.’

‘Why? Any reason?’

‘Dunno. It was all like sort of, “You’re in with this lot and I’m in with that lot. This is my gang and that’s yours.”’

‘Gang?’

‘Aye, like, y’knaa, gangs of lads what knock about.’

‘And Tony was in a sort of a “gang”, you would say?’

‘I dunno with Tony.
Jason
is. There’s a whole load of ’em what live in the same flat. Over on Scoular. They think they’re that rock.’

‘What, it’s a flat just full of kids?’

‘Aye. But it’s Jason’s flat. They put him in there when he come out of care, he just lets everyone crash. Neebody stops it.’

Mentally Gore was herding the fragments into a pile, hopeful that some might coalesce or else stick out. ‘Maybe – you could show me it, Cheryl? This flat, where it is?’

‘Tony’ll not be there, man, I tell you he’ll not.’

Gore bit at the end of his biro. He had no resources left to hand, other than an offer he fought shy of voicing, namely to tramp the streets of the locality for whatever remained of daylight. Yet he was toying with that offer still when another notion, albeit
disagreeable
, stepped forward forcibly.

‘I wonder – I wonder should I talk to Steve Coulson?’ Fay MacNamara ever so slightly flinched. ‘Just that he knows Tony, of course.’

Cheryl was laughing mirthlessly into the neck of her hooded top. ‘Why would
he
help anyone?’

‘I’ve found he can be a helpful man.’

Fay’s MacNamara’s mouth was tight and defiant. ‘Aye, Cheryl, he’s been good to you.’

‘How’s that then?’ the girl shot back.

‘Ways you’re not to know. Don’t listen to her, Father, our Tony always looked up to Stevie.’

Gore nodded tactfully. ‘Fay, do you have a recent photograph?’

‘Of Stevie?’

‘No. Your son.’

Now he was in motion, covering pavement, fighting himself from thinking twice about the wisdom of the mission self-imposed. He knew at least where to start his enquiries, so long as he was in time. Crossman was enlarging in his sights when a BMX bike
darted
maniacally over the kerb and onto the pavement before him. Even on a small-size set of wheels Cliff Petty looked diminutive, yet he stood up on his pedals, his face supremely surly.

‘Oi, you. You said you’d help wuh with wuh dole. Didn’ya?’

‘I did, yes, and I’ve been having a go. Now’s not a great time, Cliffy.’

‘Aw aye, right, you, wank-wank bollocks. Yer
useless
, man.’

‘Listen, Cliffy, you know Tony MacNamara, right? Mackers?’

‘What’s it to
you
, bollocks?’

‘Have you seen him lately?’

But the boy only grasped his handlebars, threw a wheelie, and pedalled away, flicking a V-sign back at Gore.

Nearing the Youth Centre, Gore saw a few more cars than usual parked on the gravel out front, and a smattering of juvenile onlookers. He pressed on up the ramp and indoors, there to be met by an empty stage – a scene of dismantle and removal. It appeared that everything not nailed down had been bagged and piled for shifting. Two unshaven men in loose tee-shirts motioned for him to step aside lest they clout him with a stainless steel
sinktop
. He stepped across the floor between the detritus, and through the door of the former games room he saw Kully Gates in faded Wranglers and frayed pullover, pensive over some papers spread out atop a solitary table.

She looked up. ‘Well now. Hello, stranger. You’re late.’

‘Kully, what’s going on?’

‘Oh, you pick your moment. Today’s the great day. Today we shut.’

‘What, your drop-in?’

‘No, no, the whole centre. For the chop.
Bulldozer
time.’

For the first time on this generally confounding day, words failed Gore entirely.

‘Oh yes. We got the news not so long after your last little visit.’

‘But – God, that’s so drastic, isn’t it?’

‘Oh’ – she shrugged – ‘forever they’ve had complaints. “Behaviour issues”, they say. Meaning drugs, you know. A
petition
they got up this time. And it worked! They should have a party! Woo-hoo. Now their kids can all get into a taxi to some club five miles away, can’t they?’

‘They couldn’t have just let you try and get rid of the
troublemakers
?’

‘John, then you have no bugger left. Has to be for all, or else for none.’

‘Isn’t there a duty, though? To have
something
here?’

‘Oh, but they have big plans, John, big plans. You need to read the paper.’

She slid the opened
Sunday Sun
across the table to him and he took it up. Page five was given over largely to a photograph of Martin Pallister, glowing with exertion in shirtsleeves and
crimson
tie, one arm around a thin clear-faced teenage girl, the other round a sheepishly handsome black boy – both of the youngsters in Newcastle football kit.

Tyneside West MP Martin Pallister is betting on young football talent to shoot Hoxheath out of the
doldrums
. The MP today announced plans to lead a regeneration project for the recently closed Hoxheath Youth Centre. Working in tandem with the City Council and Newcastle United FC, the MP will seek a slice of government funds to build a top-class all-weather
football
pitch on the site of the old
centre
, with full changing facilities.

‘Football breaks down
boundaries
in our society, and it creates new opportunities,’ Pallister told the
Sun
. ‘Football is dreams. Right here we hope to make some of these dreams reality.’

‘We love watching our sport in Newcastle but we need to get more people
doing
it,’ the MP went on. ‘Football is now a serious
profession
in this country. If we get local talent started young and properly encouraged, they could make their fortunes – and maybe save the Toon a few bob in transfer fees down the road,’ Pallister joked.

After announcing the project, the MP enjoyed a game of ‘head-tennis’ with Junior FA hopefuls Sophie Benton, 16, from Town Moor, and Remi Odukew, 15, of Fenham.
 

Gore looked to Kully, who shook her head sadly. ‘God, I should have paid attention when he was banging on about football. I’m sorry, Kully. Is there anything I can do?’

‘You? I doubt it. Well, no, I say that, you can give me a hand with some of this rubbish. My car’s outside.’

Reluctant to intrude further on Kully’s dejection, Gore chose to defer his enquiries into the disappearance of Tony MacNamara. They each took an end of a cumbersome computer monitor, and Kully began to shuffle backward toward the rectangle of pale
daylight
.

Awkwardly stooped, his fingers pudgy in gloves, Gore was
chaining
his bike to the gate outside the vestry of St Mark’s when he sensed a messenger drawing nigh through the dark, be he friend or foe. It was Michael Mercer, the dapper, bespectacled, slight and prematurely snowy-haired archdeacon of the diocese.

‘Michael. What’s got you all the way out here tonight? Am I in trouble?’

‘Not that I know of. No, but I believe we’re to hear a paper from Simon Barlow? A little report, on how you’ve been faring? You didn’t know?’

Mercer wore a small smile, his breath materialised about him like an aura in the arctic night air.

‘I didn’t, no.’

Mercer patted Gore’s arm with his own leather-gloved hand. ‘Well, never you worry, you’re still in a job. For now.’

A portable whiteboard had been wheeled into place at the head of the meeting room. Barlow stood over a humming laptop
computer
, rocking on his heels, seemingly full of battery power
himself
as he waited for the councilmen to settle themselves and their coffee cups before them. For once he was rigorously failing to meet Gore’s eye.

‘Right then. Let me say up front, as I’ve said before – I am hugely in favour of church planting. It’s fresh, it’s dynamic, it’s the way forward for us. Hoxheath has been a good model. But now we see problems.’

He nudged the mouse, and a graphic blinked onto the screen –
a steep-declining purplish mountain-range on an x–y axis.

‘We see here – John starts out with maybe sixty heads? Nice. Close enough to what we’d want week in, week out, if we were in for the long haul. And the numbers stay in that park for a bit. Then – fiftyish here. That’s the low end of the national average for Sunday. But then look at this tail-off. And yesterday? Twenty-two, not counting present company.’

Gore was not quite listening, more concerned with the body language on display about him. Jack Ridley looked sombre. Susan Carrow had her arms firmly folded. Fluorescent striplight danced over Michael Mercer’s bifocals.

‘John hit a ceiling. Now it’s looking like he could crash through the floor. The
test
is – how do we respond? After all of our efforts here?’

It was for Gore a dismal sensation to observe how swiftly his against-the-odds triumph was being rebranded a bothersome
letdown
– shrugs and sighs the order of the day, plaudits in the past, now perhaps regretted.

‘Do we just, you know, say “Hard luck”? Wait for the turnout to hit zero, then move on? Do we call that a good try? Or do we look to the failings here and see if there are lessons? So future plants can grow? Or even – and I say this cos I’m an optimist, see – do we try and reverse the decline of John’s church? My concern, see, is that we don’t get the same mistakes repeated. We don’t just say we’ll carry on throwing up a lot of little plants that get throttled by weeds.’

Barlow tapped at his computer keys. Bob Spikings, subdued, turned to Gore. ‘Sorry, John, do you want to, uh, comment?’

‘Well, not if I’m the only one who’s finding this all a bit
premature
.’

Barlow winced. ‘John, look, what if you give a service and
nobody
comes? That’s what I’m forever trying to get through to people. We can’t just assume the Church will always
be
here. I’m not knocking them twenty-odd you’ve managed to pull in. I’m sure you’ve fought for every one of ’em. Trouble is, one harsh
winter
could kill off the whole lot.’

Gore glanced to Ridley, who had closed his eyes – pained, or just weary?

‘What’s needed,’ Barlow ploughed on, ‘is a proper
analysis
. If a few people came and stayed, then why not more?’

Gore drummed on the table. ‘Go on, I trust you have a theory.’

‘Well, first and obvious, John, they might have fancied the idea on paper, but not liked what they heard when they got there. Or else they got there and felt they needn’t have bothered. Were ignored, not made welcome.’

Gore grimaced. And yet treacherous heads nodded round the table.

‘See, John, your congregants aren’t just there to put pennies on the plate. Or do a bit of donkey-work when you whistle. If we’re gonna revive our churches, members have to be listened to – actively involved in the service.’

‘I do listen to them, I have done. I don’t always agree.’

‘Oh, I know, John, I’ve watched you stood there arguing with pensioners, so we know you’re an adamant sort.’ Barlow rode amiably over the chuckles. ‘But a church needs more than a good shepherd. It needs a fisher of men. Doubly so when it’s a small church. Okay, easy for me to say – I’ve got a big one. But
you
try shuffling into some draughty school hall on a Sunday, and there’s two dozen gloomy faces you don’t know. So much easier to slip in the back of a big chapel where there’s a couple
hundred
. Band playing, happy voices, whole mix of people. And friendly sidesmen, saying hello there, nice to see you, how are you keeping?’

Gore pinched his temples. ‘Simon, all that stuff you do isn’t going to happen at St Luke’s. It can’t.’

‘No, John. It
could
. With just a bit more thought to presentation. A bit more
care
. For starters you’d look a lot friendlier if your sidesmen weren’t ruddy nightclub bouncers.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Gore began, feeling himself pitted solo against the room, ‘Mr Coulson is no longer involved at St Luke’s. Also I’ve been looking at some proposals for changing the decor – the lighting and so on.’

‘Okay. That’s one part of presentation. What about your
self
-presentation
?’

‘What of it?’

‘John, think about those old dears – they can just about groan through a hymn on a wonky old piano, but then they have to
listen
to a sermon from a wordsmith like you. Not a simple story, with an uplifting message. Not you, eh, John? I mean, sorry, but the other day I reckoned you were making it up as you went along. Sigmund Freud? Dear me. I know time’s scarce, but you owe it to those people to be properly prepared. It’s a courtesy.’

The impression of the scoring jab was much the worse for Gore, silent as he saw the relish climbing up one side of Barlow’s face.

‘You see, on one hand we’ve got John’s bad numbers, then we’ve got all his other endeavours out there in the world. The two could be related.’

‘What are you referring to?’

‘Oh, you know, John. We all see you, running out and about with the locals. Extracurricular activities and that. But it doesn’t always look to me like the true work of the spirit. It’s possible you’re wasting your time. And, by extension, the time of others.’ Barlow opened his palms to the table.

‘I never asked for your time, Simon.’

‘I
think
’ – Spikings inserted himself, uncomfortable – ‘we’re maybe, uh, drifting somewhat here. In fairness to John, his media work, which I assume you mean, Simon, has been quite a success.’

‘Nice for John, sure. Nice to be on the radio, in the paper –
people
like a bit of chat off a tame vicar. But it doesn’t seem to have done the trick for your numbers, has it?’

Gore tossed his capped biro onto the blank open notebook before him. ‘Right. So, all
talk
aside, what are you actually
proposing
I
do
?’

Barlow stabbed at his keyboard. ‘Let me just tell you a few things about my church.’

An array of pie-charts blinked up onto the whiteboard. Much squinting and leaning forward.

‘Fifty-three per cent of people coming every week had never
been inside a church before mine. But
this
one’s the stunner. Thirty-three per cent of them travel five miles or more to attend. And – just so you don’t say I’m big-headed – seventy-one per cent say they like what we do, but they want
more
of it. More music, more evenings, more events, more youth work. Now, you all know my view. A
vital
church is where the Gospel truth gets preached week in, week out. What my stats show is that a church like that is self-renewing. New people are always coming to the door. Because they’ve
heard
, see? That this church has something for them – them and them alone – and they couldn’t get it
anywhere
else.’

Salesman of the Year, no contest
, thought Gore, as Barlow made exhortative shapes with his hands, sleeves rolled up despite the low thermostat.

‘I’m not saying “Everyone back to mine.” We’re full up. I
am
saying the people of Hoxheath need a bit more encouragement. You can’t bring a church to the people. But you can bring people to a church. One coachload of my lot could turn the whole thing round. I’m saying let’s show Hoxheath what it means to have a righteous congregation, a proper, full-on, Jesus-loving service. A joyful noise unto the Creator.’

Barlow’s slow-burning fervency seemed to have arrived at an earnest pause. Spikings clicked his pen. ‘Simon, do you – is this a, uh, concrete proposal?’

‘Too right, Bob. Let me do a social at St Luke’s, a proper fundraiser. I’ll provide the bells and whistles. One night only, I’ll bring my church to Hoxheath. My bands, my youth team, my sidesmen. They’ll be made up, honest, they love to network. Call it maybe two quid on the door, another quid for a raffle ticket? But when the hat goes round at the end, I promise you, you’ll see
tenfold
that. And all for St Luke’s, of course.’

Spikings tapped the table, pensive. ‘Well. What do you say, John?’

‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘I must say it sounds rather nice,’ offered Susan Carrow. ‘Could be a shot in the arm. You can’t say we don’t need one.’

‘Uh, Monica, then – what say you?’

‘I’ll not be the one to pour cold water on it. It’ll need to be a weekend, mind. And all Mr Barlow’s lot doing the lifting. I’ve not got time for it.’

‘Oh, you can leave it in my hands, Monica. Lock stock.’

Spikings glanced toward his diligently minute-taking wife. ‘
When
, though? When are we supposed to do this?’

‘Let’s not mess about,’ Barlow leapt in. ‘Call it for this Saturday.’

‘Gosh. That quick?’

‘Bob, that’s how you have to act in a tight corner. Look at the Bob Geldofs of the world. Not everything needs a million boring meetings. Just give me the sign and I’ll do it.’

Gore could feel eyes on him, awaiting his next move – and indeed he could see himself rising and walking out, washing his hands of this room, this disapproving convention, dingy old
raindark
Hoxheath. But walking to where? He waved a noncommittal hand at Barlow, then let it fall.

‘Okay. So I took the liberty of asking a couple of friends along tonight, they’re outside, and I’d like to bring them in. They’re youth workers at my place, always full of ideas. I can guarantee they’ll drive this train.’

No one demurred. Barlow paced from the room and the air was still in his wake, a mood of general relief, as when – it seemed to Gore – a much-deferred task, an awkward spot of knife-wielding, had been accomplished by other hands. Rose Spikings’s pen scratched across the page before her. Gore worried a thumb at the peeling edge of the meeting table. When he raised his gaze it was to observe the entrance of two dimly remembered faces over matching firehouse-red tee-shirts proclaiming THE SHIELD SOCIETY, Barlow the conductor in their wake.

‘This is Stuart and Tina Grieveson – John, you’ve met before?’

Gore lingered by his bike as one by one the councilmen, at whose faces he couldn’t stand to look, climbed into their vehicles and made off into the evening. Barlow emerged belatedly, conferring as if affably with the archdeacon. Once Mercer was ensconced in
his Volvo saloon and Barlow was jiggling keys by the door of the Mondeo, Gore strode across the crunching gravel and jabbed a
finger
at the smirk that met him. ‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’

‘
Whoah
, don’t be waving that about, son, I don’t know where it’s been.’

‘I ought to put you through the window.’

‘Don’t be
ridiculous
, John. With what? You’d need your
bullyboys
for that.’

Annoyingly, Barlow did not shrink. But nor did Gore’s
adrenalin
-flow cease. ‘How big of a
rat
are you, Simon? Sneaking about in my business.’

‘Don’t talk crap, I’m helping you out. Don’t you ever listen?’

‘Oh, sure, that’s you, all
heart
. And you get nothing out of it.’

‘Not much I can see, no, short of some extra legwork.’

‘Oh no? Short of maybe weaselling me out of my living?’

‘That’ll not be my doing, John. You’re doing fine on your own. Tell you what, but, it ought to have a new man – poor old St Luke’s. Someone who’ll preach the Gospel. Not sit counting the hairs on his arse – chasing skirt, palling about with thugs. Or
giving
off to the MP, for that matter.’

‘What fucking
business
,’ Gore spat, ‘is that of yours?’

‘Calm yourself, will you? I’ve a bit of a stake in it, John, matter of fact. I’m meeting your sister tomorrow.’

‘You
what
?’

‘Oh yeah, her and Martin Pallister. About this group he’s
putting
together? His board? The one you bottled on, right?’

Gore felt it now – the blade going in between the shoulders, to the hilt, Barlow’s pleasure in same.

‘Do you never talk, then, you and her? Must say, but, I’d never have picked the pair of you’s for brother and sister. You sure you weren’t adopted?’

As if involuntarily Gore seized the lapel of Barlow’s coat. But the adrenalin had waned, his fist easily beaten aside.

‘Oh, piss off, John, either take a swing at me or get out of my face. It’s bloody freezing and I’ve other things to do tonight.’

She answered the door wearing a white towelling bathrobe and reading glasses, the ends of her bobbed hair wet.