Murder in a Cathedral (7 page)

‘Plans for Dean Roper’s memorial were drawn up three years ago by his protégé, the perpetrator of the lady-chapel picture. The sketches show a marble effigy of Dean Roper clad in full ecclesiastical regalia, coloured in where appropriate with purple and gold, his body being borne by six winged youths in extremely brief togas. At the dean’s feet is a representation of the martyrdom of a hunky St Sebastian, who seems these days to be the patron saint of gays. The underside of the canopy is painted with murals of what were presumably the dean’s favourite biblical events, many of which seem to involve an excessive amount of romping of the David and Jonathan kind, a few more martyrdoms (was the dean into S&M I wonder?), and what the bishop said were the apostles skinny-dipping in the River Jordan, while John the Baptist and Jesus – turned out for decency’s sake in posing pouches – get on with the baptism in the corner.

‘Not surprisingly, English Heritage emitted a scream of anguish and refused to countenance having such a monstrosity in the cathedral, whereupon the dean and his chums took legal advice and discovered that there was nothing stopping them from erecting it in the garden of the deanery. So the decision was made to put this gay grotto in a reasonably discreet spot in the northwest corner. The foundations were laid, the plinth was put in position and the sculptor got to work.

‘Dean Cooper found out about it, saw the plans, denounced it as satanically inspired and then discovered that his predecessor, a scion of a major brewery, had left to his successor a bequest of a million pounds to be spent on whatever improvements to the cathedral he wanted; the loot would not be released until this gay grotto was in place. That news caused Norm to cave in, so he’s not completely incorruptible.

‘So you can see that there is much to interest me. Try and look upon what I’m doing as a form of paid social work. I promise the post has been redirected, and my calls diverted and I won’t pass up any interviews for real jobs.’

He reread the long letter, grimaced and typed:

‘Do I hear words like “pushover”, “feeble” and “Troutbeck’s office boy” rise uncharitably once more to your lips? Pshaw! That is just because I have become too accustomed over the last few years to apologizing and pretending that I am being pushed into that which secretly I really want to do. So please disregard any wimpery in this letter, any suggestion that I am a piece of flotsam tossed hither and thither on the tide that is Baroness Troutbeck’s will (what a fucking awful metaphor!) and accept instead that I am willingly grasping the opportunity to help prop up a great national institution. And at the very least it’ll be a lot better than moping at home.

‘I must end now. I’m off to Westonbury tomorrow, so this is the only opportunity to assuage my curiosity by visiting Norm and Tilly’s old church; Ellis, my anthropological companion-in-arms, is due to pick me up any minute.’

Pausing only to add endearments, Amiss put his letter in an envelope, addressed it to Rachel care of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office for forwarding in the diplomatic bag and stamped it just as the doorbell rang.

Amiss and Pooley arrived at St John the Evangelist’s ten minutes early to find that there was no parking space within several hundred yards. By the time they entered the vast Victorian church, there was only just standing room: the nave was chock-a-block with worshippers singing lustily along with a male guitarist and three women with tambourines. The man wore sandals, jeans and a flowered shirt, and the women floaty smocks of the kind that went out of fashion when Flower Power died in the seventies. The tune was Dylanesque and the voices poor – but what really horrified Amiss were the words of the refrain:

‘When they come and listen to us sing to God aburve,

They’ll know we are Christians by our lurve, by our lurve.’

He avoided Pooley’s eye.

This song appeared to be the culmination of the superannuated hippies’ gig; when they finished, the lead singer raised his guitar towards the heavens and called, ‘Praise the Lord.’

‘Praise the Lord,’ yelled the congregation.

The Flower Children scampered off into the well of the church and were instantly replaced by a West Indian steel band, which danced onto the platform. Although they were more to Amiss’s musical taste, their sound – augmented by even more tambourines – was so deafening as to cause him actual pain. Unable to identify any more than occasional words like ‘Lord’, ‘suffer’ and ‘save’, he let the sound wash over him, wriggled himself into a better vantage point and watched for audience reaction.

Tilly had been right. There was no denying that this was a wildly enthusiastic congregation. And what was more, there was nothing uniform about its members. Middle-aged, middle-class trendies, washed-out teenagers, down-and-outs and clean-cut Mormonesque types were all singing along lustily, their faces full of joy: Amiss and an increasingly tight-lipped Pooley seemed the only spectres at the feast.

The din ceased, the band dispersed and a single light shone onto a youngish man in a bright yellow tunic who had just materialized in the pulpit. Amiss recognized him as the Rev. Bev by his black ponytail and the three rings in his left ear.

‘Brothers and sisters! God is love!’ He threw his arms out and motioned to his congregation to respond.

‘God is love!’ they parroted.

‘Hallelujah!’

‘Hallelujah!’

‘Louder, louder. Hallelujah!’

‘Hallelujah!’

As the din died away, a hulking skinhead with spots gazed so threateningly at Amiss and Pooley that on the next round of ‘Hallelujahs’ they participated enthusiastically.

Bev’s voice fell several decibels. ‘Hey,’ he crooned. ‘Hey, hey, hey.’

‘Hey, hey,’ shouted the congregation.

‘How do we know that God loves us?’ he enquired. There was a dramatic pause. His voice rose. ‘ ’Cos he’s told us so, that’s how! In his very own story!’ And in a crescendo: ‘In his very own – his very own book!’ At which he picked up a volume from the edge of the pulpit and waved it over his head. ‘And this is it. The Holy Word of God! God’s own book! The Bible!’

He put the book down and looked sternly at the congregation. ‘Now why did God give us this book?’ They gazed back expectantly. ‘So we would read it, of course! Not to leave lyin’ there! He gave it us so we could build up the muscles of faith.’

He moved his head slowly from left to right and surveyed each section of his flock sadly. ‘But you’re just not building up those muscles the way God wanted, are you? You’re lazing about. Your muscles are all flabby.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s not what God wants.’ He bunched his fists and flexed his impressive pectorals. ‘This is what God wants from you. He wants you all to build big muscles and be champs!

‘You know how a wrestler gets to be a champ?’ Again he surveyed his listeners slowly, this time from right to left. ‘I see you all know the answer. First he works out to build up those muscles. And then he practises wrestling against ever stronger and stronger opponents. He’s always preparing himself to meet the next one.’

He brandished the Bible again. ‘This is your own private work-out equipment – a present from God to you. Exercise, exercise, exercise. Build up those big faith muscles. And then you’ll be ready to wrestle with sin.’

His voice fell dramatically. ‘When you’re strong enough, you’ll be ready to take on the great enemy himself. Yes, brothers and sisters, when you’ve got the faith muscles of a Mr Universe, you can throw the Great Satan himself!’ His voice rose. ‘And if we’re all champs and we wrestle him together, we’ll be able to put our feet on Satan’s neck and count him out!

‘That’s our holy mission! That’s what God wants us to do. That’s why he gave us the equipment.’ He gazed round. ‘Now, you know how you feel when you give someone a present and they’re not grateful enough? It bugs you, doesn’t it? And it bugs God too when he looks down and sees you leaving the exercise bike of faith gathering dust in the corner of your soul.’

The congregation shuffled in a shamefaced way.

‘But this isn’t just bugging God. It’s committing suicide. ’Cos if you ignore God’s exercise bike you won’t have the muscles to climb into heaven when you die! Think of that! You’ll be looking at the staircase and you won’t have the strength to climb up to God! Jesus will be standing at the top with his arms open to you, and you won’t be able to reach him.

‘There’ll be a place for you somewhere else, though. You don’t need muscles to tumble down the mine shaft to hell. And as you fall towards the devil and the lake of eternal flames, you’ll be crying out in despair. “Oh, God,” you’ll be crying, “I’m sorry I didn’t work-out when you gave me the chance. Save me.” ’

He shook his head gloomily. ‘But God won’t hear you. ’Cos when you fall down the mine shaft to hell, you’re not on line to God any more. Only to Satan.’

Even Amiss was feeling rather guilty and depressed by this time. So, like the rest of the congregation, he was relieved when Bev Johns decided to lighten the tone. ‘OK, OK. That’s enough of the’ – he raised his index fingers and mimed quotation marks – ‘ “Bad News”. Now for the’ – he repeated the business with his fingers – ‘ “Good News”.’ Then he leaped in the air. ‘Jesus is our friend!’ He motioned to his hearers. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus!’

‘Jesus is our friend!’ they cried.

‘Jesus loves us!’

‘Jesus loves us!’ they shrieked.

‘Show you love your brothers and sisters! Hug each other for Jesus.’

Apprehensively, Amiss looked sideways at Pooley, who was standing as rigid as a young officer at Rorke’s Drift waiting to be overwhelmed by the Zulu hordes. As Amiss made a feeble gesture in his direction indicating that they might be better off hugging each other than awaiting the attentions of perfect strangers, he was grabbed by a large black woman in a cartwheel hat, who enveloped him in her capacious arms and squeezed him painfully. As soon as she put him down, she was replaced by a haggard man in a woolly hat who smelled of unwashed clothes and yesterday’s whisky. Amiss tried not to flinch and to return the hug with the appropriate pressure. It cheered him somewhat to see that a horror-stricken Pooley was being pawed by a couple who looked like terminally ill vegans.

Bev, who had been jumping about in the pulpit urging them on, called the proceedings to order. A hunched and twitching Pooley moved close to Amiss. ‘I may never forgive you,’ he whispered.

‘A singularly inappropriate response, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

They were drowned out by a holler from Bev, who plucked the microphone off its stand and began to croon with the assistance of an electronically enhanced guitarist who had leaped onto the altar:

‘Where on earth is Jesus?

Is he at the bar?

Is he out there raving?

Going much too far?

‘Taking dope and drinking,

Kicking up a fuss,

Is he in a harlot’s bed?

No! He’s here with us!’

The beat induced most of the congregation to bop along enthusiastically and the applause was such that the Rev. Bev went through the performance again with redoubled élan. ‘That was a song for Jesus,’ he yelled at the end. ‘Let’s hear it for Jesus, now, brothers and sisters. Save me, Jesus!’

‘Save me, Jesus!’ screeched his flock.

‘Save me, Jesus!’

‘Save me, Jesus!’

He motioned them into silence. ‘Every week I give you new hope that Jesus wants to save everyone. No one is too wicked or depraved for him to love. Make ready now to greet your new sisters and brothers and help them to Jesus, our Lord.’

He stabbed his right forefinger towards the main entrance and the double doors were pulled open simultaneously. There was a tremendous din of revving engines and then, in a thunder of sound, down the aisle came a vast black-and-silver motorbike with two black-clad riders. It drew level with the platform, juddered to a halt and as it fell silent another bike came through the door, to be followed by another and another until seven stood silent. The dramatic effect was slightly lessened by the outbreak of coughing brought on by the exhaust fumes.

The coughing died down, and in well-choreographed symmetry, the riders propped their bikes against the south wall, strode to the front of the platform, turned their backs on the congregation and raised their arms towards the preacher.

‘Praise the Lord!’ he cried.

‘Praise the Lord!’ was what Amiss presumed they shouted in return; the sound was muffled by their helmets. Picked out in silver studs on the back of each black leather jacket was the legend:

HEAVEN’S ANGELS

BIKERS FOR JESUS

‘Hallelujah, hallelujah,’ cried the preacher. There was a lusty chorus of hallelujahs in response. He tore off his tunic and revealed a T-shirt with the exhortation: ‘Jump for Jesus!’ Leaping up and down he cried, ‘Now, jump for Jesus.’ Feeling like a complete idiot and avoiding Pooley’s eye, Amiss obediently followed the example of the bikers and his neighbours, until after a couple of minutes exhaustion overtook the crowd.

The bikers removed their helmets and raised their arms again towards the pulpit. ‘These were bad people,’ shouted Bev, ‘but they’ve seen the light and with the help of Jesus they’re going to drive out the devil’ There was an expectant hush, and from the ceiling there descended a fluorescent red cross. ‘Come on, now! Shake out the devil! Shake him out! Shake him out!’ He descended from the pulpit – revealing his bottom half to be clad in jeans and trainers – rushed towards the bikers and knocked each of them over until they all lay prostrate. ‘Down, down, all of you down for Jesus,’ he screamed, and the congregation obeyed as quickly as infirmity and clumsiness permitted.