Unseen Things Above (19 page)

‘Omigod, I am totally
in love
with Bishop Harry! Shame he's married to death.'

No response suggested itself to Martin. For a moment, the events of a year ago tainted every possible avenue of conversation.

‘Oh, been meaning to say, Marty, I appreciate how you trust me?'

‘Well, good.'

‘Coz the Hendersons – don't get me wrong, love those guys to bits – but the minute I arrived they were all, here's the House Rules? Seriously, they had this actual fucking list? Yeah, whatever, guys, your house, your rules. Except, wahey! Got a rule against skateboarding in the kitchen? No? Got a rule against answering the door in my underpants? So my whole time there, The List is getting longer and longer? But in my head I'm, why are you even doing this? These totally nice people have taken you in, why do you have to be such a tool?' He fell silent. ‘Yeah. So, basically, awesome? I totally did not think you'd be this relaxed. Thanks, man.' He reached over and squeezed Martin's knee.

‘You're welcome.' Martin's knuckles were white on the wheel.

‘Hey, look! A fair! We could go to the fair!'

Martin drove resolutely past the fair. He could still feel a phantom hand on his knee. The car was full of Freddie. Bursting with Freddie. He knew he would be able to smell his aftershave in here for days.

‘Listen, Marty, you would like,
tell
me if I was doing your head in? Coz probably I won't notice unless you say something.'

Martin inhaled deeply. He rehearsed the formula he'd learned at family therapy. When you do
that
, it makes me feel
this
. ‘Well, there's one thing. It's just, for example, when Harry arrived, that T-shirt you wore—'

‘Gah! My bad. I should totally not have—'

‘—it makes me feel—'

‘—worn it, coz I know you don't approve?'

They stopped talking over one another. There was a silence.

‘So yeah,' concluded Freddie. ‘Sorry.'

Martin tried to relax his hands on the wheel. ‘It's not that I don't approve. It's more, it made me feel how I felt last year, when—'

‘Na-a-w! Last year was last year, yeah? We've both moved on.'

‘It just makes me feel that you're attention-seeking. Being deliberately provocative. That's all I'm saying. Sorry. But you wanted to know if there was anything . . . Sorry.'

‘Yeah, I meant, like leaving towels on the floor?' He slumped down in the seat and put his headphones on. ‘Jeez.'

Out of the corner of his eye Martin could see Freddie's leg jiggling. Well, he'd misjudged
that
, hadn't he? But hang on, was he responsible for Freddie's reactions?

They drove the rest of the way in ghastly silence, apart from the music leaking from the headphones. Martin parked on the gravel drive of the palace. Freddie disentangled himself from his technology. Still not talking.

‘Look, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but—' Martin stopped aghast. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I'm lonely.'

‘But you have lots of friends! You're out every night!'

Freddie shook his head. Wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘Dude, I'm so fucking
lonely
.'

Martin felt tears rush up. ‘Freddie!' He reached out a hand and nearly touched him. ‘I'm really sorry to hear that. I'm sure it's only temporary. People love you. You're always so popular.'

‘Nah. Everyone's hey, cute dog! I wanna stroke the cute dog! But nobody's like, y'know? Wants me? Gah. Sorry.' He sniffed. ‘Got a tissue? Thanks. 'Kay, let's go.' He got out of the car and crunched off across the gravel.

Martin followed. ‘Look. We could go to the fair after work. If you want.'

Freddie spun round. ‘Seriously? Aw, sweet man! We should totally do that? Yeah.'

He's just a little boy inside, thought Martin. How can I not have seen that before?

The days are drawing in now. It's getting dark by nine o'clock. Tonight, and for the rest of August, the floodlights will not shine on Lindchester Cathedral. Visitors to the Close will see instead a simple light installation projected on to the west front. It is red. It looks almost like a smiley face with only one eye. It's an Arabic letter ‘N' for Nazarene. Sprayed on Christian doorways in northern Iraq, so that the angel of death will stop here, not pass over.

In windows all around the darkened Close, in vicarages and churches, in Christian homes across the diocese, across the nation, there are black posters with the same symbol. One by one the Twitter avatars are dimmed and replaced. We are all Ns. The cathedral shop sells candles with the N symbol. Pray. Pray. Pray. Give. Give. Give. The money saved by switching the floodlights off (£30 an hour) will be donated to relief work for fleeing Christians and other persecuted minorities.

The lamps are going out across the Levant, thinks Marion. It is nearly two in the morning and she can't sleep. She stands alone in the dark gazing at the symbol. A red brand of anguish. Jesu, mercy. The clouds part. A few stars glint. Somewhere a car alarm goes off. The cathedral clock chimes two.

Do they feel our prayers? Marion shivers. There's an autumn chill tonight. The clouds cover the few faint stars again. Is there a communion of saints, a web of souls? Are we all one? Is there a heaven? Is it right there, a hand's width away, a breath away, a parallel universe in another dimension? Are those terrified martyrs bursting through, even now, as the blade butchers them? Are they stumbling through and plunging into glory? Oh, catch them, please catch them all.

Footsteps in the distance. A figure passes under the shadowy lime trees. Another restless soul? Ah, it's Gene. He must have heard her leave the house.

He doesn't say anything, just comes and drapes a coat round her. She leans her head on his shoulder. He wraps her in his arms and they sway together, back and forth, gently, very gently, as she sobs bitterly in the dark.

Chapter 17

G
oldenrod droops in the unkempt vicarage gardens of Lindchester Diocese. Water cascades over clogged vicarage gutters. Oh, well. The diocesan housing officer's probably on holiday. And anyway, not much point him sending someone to clear the gutters now, when before long all the leaves will fall and it will need doing again. For the most part, clergy just shrug and put up with it. They know the diocese is strapped for cash, that there are probably more urgent repairs to attend to elsewhere. And so the old wooden fences wag and knock in their concrete posts when the wind blows. The kitchen sink doesn't drain properly. Cables snake from five- gang extension leads because there aren't enough sockets. But vicarage families live with it. One day their turn may come for a new kitchen, or sealed double-glazing units, and that will eat up the budget for three normal vicarages. So for now, water crashes from the blocked gutter. It's not as though they own the house, is it? No, or they'd make sure the job got done properly, rather than put up with the cowboys the diocese sends because their quote came in cheapest.

The gutters are not blocked in the vicarage at Gayden Magna, no siree. Neil gets them cleared twice a year and sends the bill to the diocese. The housing officer coughs up without a murmur. Please pretend I didn't tell you that, and hold fast to the belief that work done on Lindchester vicarages is governed by a strict and fair schedule of repairs, rather than a league table of how big a nightmare the clergy spouse is. But the squeaky wheel gets the grease even in the Church, I fear.

The Gayden Magna wedding is now officially postponed until the New Year. Neil can't bear the thought of distressing poor old Bishop Bob any further. No, not a word please. Bishop Bob is off limits. But the new bishop? Hah! The new bishop is going to get it with both great big gay barrels.

‘Yes, but what if the new bishop's a nice guy too?' asks Ed. ‘What if it's Guilden Hargreaves?'

‘Who?'

‘Guilden Hargreaves. You know. Principal of Barchester Theological College.'

‘What, him with the big hair? Wait! Isn't his mother Perdy Hargreaves? Oh my God! Dame Perdy? So
he's
the new bishop! Does that mean you won't get defrocked for marrying, like the others?'

‘Nobody's been defrocked. They've been disciplined, or had their permission to officiate revoked.'

‘Whatever.' Neil swats this casuistry away. ‘But Guilden will back you up, so excellent, about time! Let's invite him to the wedding.'

‘Hold on, hold
on
, it's just a rumour. Rupert Anderson' – he pauses while Neil delivers an opinion on the archbishop – ‘has just gone on record saying there's no reason why a gay priest—'

‘Pff! We've heard
that
before.'

‘Yes, but why would he emphasize it again now, if it's not a signal?'

‘You know what, Eds? I have no idea. I have no
idea
what goes on in their heads. He's probably got some Brazilian boyfriend stashed away somewhere. Half of them have. The last guy was a closet queen.'

‘We don't know that.'

‘Oh, really? Talk to Roddy Fallon some time,' says Neil. ‘Last summer he was
that
close to breaking the story, but then the fecking church Gestapo moved in and his source went to ground. Fine, don't believe me then. You carry on thinking if we all just pray and wring our hands the haters will go away.' He does his annoying knuckle-rap on Ed's forehead. ‘Hello? You've got to
campaign
if you want anything to change. Roddy would do a feature on us in a heartbeat. Yeah, yeah, fine, I understand, Mr Nice Vicar. But for my money, it's time to stop being nice. Let's out those hypocrites who keep voting against equal marriage, I say.'

Ed sighs. ‘I've got a funeral to take. Can you rant at me later?'

‘What about that replacement bishop you've got?' Neil calls after him. ‘Where does
he
stand?'

‘Later.'

‘Fine.'

*

Where does the replacement bishop stand? He's currently staying by himself in the vacant house in Vicars' Court (the one Freddie turned down). His teenage daughters are off at some dangerous charismatic festival, the damaging effects of which will manifest themselves later in extreme helpfulness round the house. There's no sign of a Brazilian boyfriend, but Harry Preece is a bit camp. We all know that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Camp doesn't equal gay. Freddie May is totally in love with him. Which doesn't mean anything either. Freddie May would fall for a saltwater crocodile if it smiled at him sweetly.

So, Harry Preece remains a bit of a puzzle. We need to solve the puzzle. Because how can we possibly know how to behave towards someone unless we know what they
are
? Are you male or female, posh or common, gay or straight, saved, not saved, one of us, not one of us? And in Anglican circles, we would also like to know where to place you on the churchmanship spectrum, so that we know whether we agree with you. Harry is from an Evangelical stable, but is he an
Open
Evangelical? If so, how open? Flung wide (
Accepting
Evangelical)? Or simply ajar (OK with civil partnerships provided there's no mincing)? We will not quite relax until we know where the bishop stands.

He does not on his dignity, anyway. Unlike Bishop Paul, Harry leaves the office door open. Every time Penelope or Martin tactfully close it for him, Harry opens it again. They have been forced to conclude that he wants it left that way.

It's Wednesday morning. Martin has just made a big cafetière of Fair Trade coffee and is checking on his Swiss Railway watch to see if it's ready to plunge. Uh-oh. Freddie has just popped in to scrounge a coffee and smoulder at the bishop. He's taking a break from painting radiators at the school. He sits on Penelope's desk in his undone painty overalls, swinging his feet in his undone work boots. Straps trailing, laces trailing, pheromones trailing. He looks (in Iona the sub-organist's memorable words) as if he's just had a swift shag in a broom cupboard. There's a fresh tattoo on his inner forearm – a rainbow ichthus – still covered in clingfilm.

We will sneak in and eavesdrop.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Someone will be here to help you. Bye bye.' Penelope put the phone down and stuck her tongue out at it. ‘Honestly, there's no pleasing some people! Freddie, a gentleman's coming this afternoon to collect the pictures he bought from
Souls and Bodies
. I don't know where you put everything.'

‘Hnnh? Oh, it's all in the palace dining room with labels on, Mish Moneypenny.'

‘Well, can you show me? He's been a pain in the bottom about artwork being stored in an empty house,' fretted Penelope. ‘The temperature and humidity, for heaven's sake!'

‘Want me to deal with him?'

‘Would you? Oh, thank you, lovely boy.'

‘No worries. Text me when he comes.'

The bishop appeared in the doorway. ‘I smell coffee. Is it elevenses?'

Martin checked his watch again and carefully plunged the cafetière. ‘May I pour you a coffee too, Bishop?'

‘Yes, please!' He beamed round at them all. Then his gaze focused on the prize Freddie had won at the fairground rifle range. ‘Why is that large pink bear wearing my mitre?'

‘Coz he's a bishop? Gotta love a right reverend bear.' Freddie swung his feet and lolled his tongue out.

Penelope swatted him.

‘That bear's an imposter!' cried Harry. ‘He's never taken holy orders in his life! Where did he train?'

Martin pursed his lips. He crossed the office, removed the mitre and handed it to Harry.

‘Thank you, Martin. Now, about tonight, Penelope,' said the bishop. ‘I notice I'm down to bless a window out in the sticks somewhere. Hmm. “Bless this window to our use and us in your service, amen.” That should cover it. Could you print me off some directions?'