Normal people are heading to Liverpool to watch the derby but Al, Dad and Zippy are on a cleaning mission, bombing down the dock road towards the chapel, which must be spick and span before General Conference. Al doesn’t see why they should clean the chapel. It’s not as though they even live in Liverpool – they only go there for special meetings and activities that involve the whole area. There aren’t any proper cleaners, which means everyone gets to share the blessings of service. It would be nice to have a break from the blessings of service, what with Issy and everything, but Dad says he can’t ask people to clean the chapel if he doesn’t also do it himself. Cleaning is a total waste of time – at four o’clock when the first of the General Conference broadcasts is relayed, the lights will be out. Everyone will watch the prophet on the giant screen and no one will know whether there’s crumbs on the carpet or fingerprints on the glass bits of the doors.
It’s boring in the car. Dad prefers the Tabernacle Choir to Radio 5 and Zippy’s sitting in the front so there’s no one to talk to. Al’s got his iPod Shuffle with him but he’s saving it for later. He’s only got a few songs on it cos Dad does spot-checks and deletes things that don’t meet Church standards. He even deleted a load of songs by the Killers; it didn’t make any difference when Al objected cos Brandon Flowers is a member of the Church. In fact, according to Dad, it’s worse for a member of the Church to write songs about smoking and taking girls’ clothes off, as those who have received the greater light will receive greater condemnation for their sins.
‘Where’s your suit jacket, Alma?’
Al locks eyes with Dad in the car mirror. It’s too late for them to turn back so he tells the truth. ‘I left it at home.’
‘Oh, Alma.’
Dad shakes his head and pulls his disappointed face, the one with the tight dog’s arse lips. Al looks away. Sometimes he likes to imagine he was adopted and a dead ordinary relative is searching for him: someone who likes football, someone who hasn’t thought about God since they were forced to say the Lord’s Prayer in assembly. He glances back at the mirror and can’t help picking at Dad’s disappointment.
‘We’re cleaning the chapel, Dad. I’m not wearing my jacket to clean the chapel.’
‘No one’s asking you to. You need it for later, for Conference. It’s disrespectful to listen to the prophet without your jacket.’
Al shrugs. His hoodie is scrunched up in his lap. Perhaps he’ll wear it disrespectfully while the prophet speaks. He’ll also wear it if he gets cold and if he gets a chance to sneak off. He’ll use it to cover up his white shirt and tie so people don’t think he’s a weirdo wandering around Liverpool on derby day in his best clothes. Mum’s money is stashed in the hoodie’s zip-up pocket. It’s been there since he borrowed it two weeks ago. He’s definitely going to put it back but he’s waiting for the right moment. He rests his hand on the pocket and grasps the roll of notes through the material. Having the money makes him feel better. He’s not got any plans to spend it, but just knowing that he could lifts his mood and counters the ache that’s cased his stomach since Issy died.
There are only half a dozen cars in the church car park. Al recognises Brother and Sister Campbell’s old Saab and President Carmichael’s Jag; the others must belong to people from Liverpool. He watches as Zippy examines herself in the mirror – she’s nuts if she thinks Adam has come with his dad, he’s probably playing rugby for school. President Carmichael likes sport, he always takes the annual church Dads vs Lads football match seriously and he’s one of the few dads who doesn’t have to resort to leg-breaking tackles to keep up. In fact, last year President Carmichael scored a late equaliser for the Dads and when the ball hit the back of the net he removed his T-shirt and his garment top and swung them around his head while he ran the length of the sideline. Brother Stevens pumped the air and shouted, ‘Go, President!’ in his loud American voice, but the spectating families went dead quiet. Mum was sitting on a picnic rug with Jacob and Issy; Al caught her smiling. Sister Campbell didn’t find it funny though, she pulled her plait over her eyes, and Dad just stood in the goal at the other end of the pitch, totally bewildered, as President Carmichael sprinted towards him, half naked and whooping wildly. People aren’t ever supposed to take their garments off unless they’re having a bath or something, but President Carmichael didn’t seem at all embarrassed at having broken the rules in front of everyone. He rolled his things back on and jogged to the centre circle for the restart. He’s definitely not the kind of man who would make his son miss out on sports to clean the chapel.
As they walk into the building, Al is gutted to hear the distant drone of the Hoover. Hoovering has to be the least crap of all the cleaning jobs. You can Hoover with your iPod on and everyone leaves you alone to get on with it. He watches as the Hoover shoots into view at the far end of the long corridor, propelled by Sister Campbell, who is launching it at the skirting boards, her plait swaying like a pendulum. Brother Campbell follows, waving a duster and a bottle of window spray.
‘Alma Bradley, just the man!’ Brother Campbell flicks the duster like a linesman’s flag. ‘The men’s toilets need a good clean. Sister Campbell was all set to do it but I thought she should be saved from such an experience!’
Al watches Sister Campbell smash the Hoover into a small gap between several stacks of chairs. She is quite clearly not in need of saving from anything.
‘Go and have a look for some bleach in the cleaning cupboard. I’ll come and help you in a minute.’ Brother Campbell waves the duster again as if to say, ‘Play on.’
Al looks at Dad and considers protesting. Surely it’s dangerous for kids to be in charge of bleach? Dad stares back, practically daring him to complain. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Al capitulates. He ties his hoodie around his waist and they head for the cleaning cupboard.
The bleach is in a huge container, much bigger than the containers in the bathroom at home. Dad reaches and passes it to him.
‘Don’t get it on your clothes. I didn’t think we’d be doing this sort of cleaning, we’re not exactly dressed for it.’
‘I could do something else.’
‘Do what Brother Campbell says for the moment.’
Al lugs the bleach to the men’s toilets. They reek of pee and the floor is stained and wet around the urinal. He wonders if it’s always this dirty; maybe he’s only noticing because he’s got to clean it up. He puts the bleach down next to the sink. He may as well pee before he cleans. He stands further back than he should because of the wet patch, takes aim and squirts on target. It’s only as he’s finishing that he joins everyone else who’s stood back to avoid standing in the wet, and dribbles on the floor.
He washes his hands and waits for a moment. When Brother Campbell doesn’t appear, he steps out into the corridor where he can hear the Hoover humming in the distance, probably on the parallel corridor that runs along the other side of the hall and chapel. He unties the hoodie from his waist and slides it over his head. The back door is still open. It would only take a few seconds to sprint to the end of the corridor and outside to freedom. He’ll get bollocked if he runs away, but what’s worse, a bollocking or cleaning the toilets?
He runs. And when he passes through the open door he keeps running. He runs through the car park at the back of the building and out onto the street. He turns right and keeps running until he reckons he’s gone far enough to safely stop. He’s barely out of breath, pleased with himself and slightly surprised at his own daring. He’s going to be in trouble, but when it comes down to it, all Dad’s got is the disappointment speech and, having heard it so many times, Al is almost immune to its particular hurt.
He decides to walk straight down Queens Drive. That way, when he’s had enough, he’ll be able to turn round and retrace his steps. He walks past houses and a school and a small row of shops; launderette, newsagent, Bargain Booze and a betting shop. The betting shop is packed, people are probably betting on the match. He looks through the window at several televisions and wonders whether they’ll show the footie later. He never gets to watch live football. Dad says TV extras are too expensive so Al has to settle for recording the highlights on Match of the Day. He’ll return to the betting shop in a bit, after kick-off, to check on the score.
He carries on down Queens Drive until he reaches a big square of grass where some lads are having a kick-about. There’s five of them, all wearing Everton shirts. A little lad with dark hair is the best player, the others are OK but he can tell they don’t play regularly, they’re probably here cos it’s derby day. He sits on a graffitied bench and watches their game.
Al used to dream of being a professional footballer but right in the pit of his stomach, in the part that’s so deep and airless a visiting canary would snuff it, he knows it’s too late. He’s missed his chance. It was only a small chance and probably wouldn’t have come to anything, but still.
At first Dad thought football was a good idea. He said if the Devil made work for idle hands he’d probably got plans for idle feet too. Al trained with Sefton Rangers. Matty’s dad Steve gave him lifts cos Dad was usually busy with church. Travelling with Steve was brilliant. He told jokes and called everyone mate; sometimes he farted in the car, shouted ‘gas attack’ and made all the windows roll down at once. When Sefton Rangers started to play competitively Steve drove Al to Saturday morning fixtures. The first time they edged along the narrow track that led to the pitches at Hightown, it was like entering a different world. At the end of the track hundreds of cars were directed onto the corner of an enormous expanse of grass and sardined into tight rows. Al watched as parents, kids and dogs burst out of the cars hauling wellies, umbrellas and camping chairs. He’d never seen so many pitches, players and parents; he realised he was part of something massive and it felt dead good.
Dad came occasionally, when he didn’t have to attend meetings or help with service projects, but he looked bored standing on the touchline. He didn’t really talk to the other parents and he never cheered or shouted when Al set someone up or scored. At half-time, when the players were all swigging from their water bottles, Steve used to say, ‘Let me get you a tea, Ian mate.’ And Dad, who’s not really anyone’s mate, would stand there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets and say, ‘No thanks. I don’t drink tea.’ Al used to worry that Steve might ask, ‘Why not?’ a question that would give Dad the perfect excuse to do some missionary work by explaining about not drinking tea or coffee because of the Word of Wisdom. But Steve never asked, he just dashed down to the burger van so he didn’t miss the start of the second half.
It was at the end of last season that Al was spotted. The Everton scout had come to look at another boy, but he noticed Al as well. Dad wasn’t there, so the scout spoke to Steve and gave him the letter. Steve explained it all in the car on the drive home. Al had been invited to go to Finch Farm, the Everton training ground, so they could have a proper look at him and decide whether they were interested. Steve blethered all the way home, ricocheting between excitement and restraint. ‘It’s the dog’s bollocks, this is! I’m made up for you! Don’t get your hopes up though, eh? They’re just having a look.’
Later, when Dad read the letter, he said absolutely not. It was one thing playing football for a hobby, but it was another to consider it for a career. Football was absolutely not conducive to living the gospel.
And that was that.
After Sefton Rangers played their last match of the season, Dad said he couldn’t afford to pay the registration fee any more and Al knew he was stretching the definition of afford to include the cost of the eternal consequences of football-related immorality. The club wasn’t insured for unregistered boys to play in league matches but Al was still allowed to come to training. The new season started two weeks ago. He thought he’d take his mind off missed matches by practising skills in the back garden but whenever he steps out there he remembers Issy won’t be following, which makes the hurt in his stomach worse.
A fat lad in jeans stops playing football and saunters over to Al’s bench, squeezing his hands into his front pockets in an attempt to look hard. ‘What’re you lookin at?’ he says.
‘Just the footie.’
‘You play then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘For a team?’
‘Used to.’
‘Who?’
‘Sefton Rangers.’
‘Never heard of ’em.’
Al would be surprised if the fat lad had heard of any of the teams in the Hightown Junior League; he’s probably never watched an amateur game. He looks like a member of the Sky Sports and Lucozade brigade.
‘Whod’you support?’
‘Liverpool.’
‘Kopite gobshite.’ The fat lad spits on the grass and the others stop playing and wander over.
‘Looking for a win for the Pool today, la’?’ one of them asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’t yer have a look for some rocking-horse shit while you’re at it?’
The lads laugh and high-five each other.
‘You any good?’ the littlest lad, the one who can actually play, asks.
‘I’m OK.’
‘Bit of a posh git, aren’t yer?’ The fat lad gives Al a measuring look and the others start to sing:
Have you ever seen a Scouser in the Kop?
Have you ever seen a Scouser in the Kop?
Have you ever seen a Scouser,
Ever seen a Scouser,
Ever seen a Scouser in the Kop?
Al doesn’t say anything. He reckons they’ll let him play in a minute, when they’ve finished ribbing him.
‘What yer dressed up in posh kex for?’
‘Wedding,’ he lies. ‘Got bored.’
‘Yer might be posh, but I reckon yer ma’s a big prozzie. I bet Rooney’s had her.’ The fat lad raises his arms and celebrates his joke like a goal while the others laugh.
Al doesn’t react. It’s OK, it’s just a sort of test. All he has to do is wait.
‘I bet yer ma’s so massive that when she goes to the cinema she sits next to everyone.’
There’s more laughter and the fat kid jogs on the spot, warming up for his next joke as his belly wriggles under his football shirt.
‘All right, stop mucking about, Danny.’ The little lad takes charge. ‘Yer wanna play then? Three on three?’ He doesn’t wait for a response; instead he kicks the ball to Al and Al knocks it straight back. ‘What’s yer name?’
‘I’m Al. You?’
‘Joe. Get on the end of this, Al.’
Joe whacks the ball forward with the inside of his foot. Fat Danny gets a slight head start, but Al knows he can beat him and he sprints along the grass, wishing he was allowed to wear trainers with his church clothes.
‘Yer ma’s muggin,’ fat Danny puffs.
Al ignores him and keeps running. They reach the ball at the same time and Danny extends his leg for a sliding tackle.
‘What’s Al short for, then? Al-Qaeda?’
Al jumps over Danny’s leg and executes a practised Sombrero flick. ‘Watch and learn,’ he calls as he reclaims the ball, dribbles along the wing of the makeshift pitch and shoots between the coat-posts of the goal.
‘Goooooooooooooal.’ Little Joe shouts it like a Spanish commentator, as if it’s the goal of the season, and Al can’t stop his mouth from relaxing into a smile as they jog back to the centre of the pitch.
‘How about you and me against the others?’ Joe says as he lobs the ball to fat Danny for the restart.
Danny tries a bit of fancy footwork. It only takes a moment for Al to dispossess him then he pounds along the grass, nudging the ball from foot to foot, gulping the cool autumn air, savouring the way it slices past his throat and into his chest. His lungs are pumping and his nose is full of the best smell in the world – football. It reeks of grass and the wet-potato-skin smell of soil; it’s a smell that creeps up your nose at the end of August when the mornings get nippy and the rot of summer starts to soften the ground; a smell that sends your thoughts deep into your feet where there’s no room for God, no space for Eternity – right foot, step over, left foot, scissor dribble – he would play footie all day every day if he could, and at night he would go to bed brimming with uncomplicated, bone-deep contentment. He chips the ball to little Joe and dashes forward to get on the end of the one-two.
‘Goooooooooooooal,’ Joe howls.
Fat Danny grabs the ball, puffs back to the approximate centre of the pitch and kicks off again. One of the other lads passes back to Danny but Danny can’t block Joe’s tackle and the chase is on for another goal. Joe passes to Al, who races along the wing. Danny tries to keep up. He looks like a sweaty tomato, utterly pooped except for his gob, which seems to run on Duracell batteries.
‘Yer ma’s so poor, when she goes to KFC she has to lick other people’s fingers.’
Al flips Danny off and leaves him standing.
‘Yer ma’s so fat, she doesn’t need the Internet – she’s already worldwide.’ Danny wheezes as Al and Joe celebrate another goal.
They all jog back to the centre together and Danny flops onto the grass where he lies on his back, panting like a dog.
‘Shall we swap things around?’ Al asks. ‘Let’s start from scratch and pick teams.’
One of the lads checks his watch. ‘Sorry, mate. We’re gonna have to go. We’re meant to be watching the match at mine, kick-off was ten minutes ago.’
‘Aw, you could’ve said,’ Danny complains. ‘Someone get me coat for me.’
Al watches the lads retrieve their coats. When they come back they heave Danny to his feet and Al wishes they weren’t going. He doesn’t want them to walk away and leave him standing, so he heads off first.
‘See ya then,’ he says.
As he reaches the pavement, someone calls after him, and when he turns, Danny and the others start singing:
If I had the wings of a sparrow,
If I had the arse of a crow,
I’d fly over Anfield tomorrow,
And shit on the bastards below,
Shit on, shit on,
Shit on the bastards below.
‘Jog on, Al-Qaeda,’ Danny shouts.
Al gives Danny a wave and heads back up Queens Drive. His stomach aches. He pretends it’s just the adrenalin crash at first before conceding that he’s sad. Everyone is, even Dad, it’s obvious cos he’s left all his normal words at Cliché Converters – he can’t stop saying crap like this life is but a moment and time heals all wounds, as if he thinks everything will be better once Issy is forgotten. Al isn’t going to let time heal anything. He isn’t going to allow himself to forget, in fact he’s glad his stomach hurts because it’s evidence of his ability to remember and he deserves to be punished by memory.
Issy’s first word was ‘Ma’. Everyone thought she meant ‘Mum’, but Al knew she was saying the second half of his name, and when he came into a room and she called ‘Ma, ma, ma’, and waved her tiny, starfish hands, it made him feel happy. It wasn’t like she was anything special – she always had dribble on her chin and half the time she stank of poo – but she noticed something good in him, something no one else could see, and so he didn’t mind her; he thought she was all right. As soon as she started to walk she began to follow him around. He pretended it was annoying; sometimes he would jump over the stair gate and sprint upstairs just to hear her call his name from the bottom step: ‘Al-ma, Al-ma!’ Once she was old enough to be out in the garden without Mum following her around saying ‘Careful, Issy!’ she watched him play football and when he practised free kicks and precision shots against the apple trees she retrieved the ball for him like a little dog. Sometimes he tested her, but she still liked him. Occasionally he kicked the ball at her and watched as she tried dead hard not to cry. Sometimes he said, ‘I don’t like you,’ and then, just as her face folded, he said, ‘I don’t mean it.’ He can’t remember being nice to her; he knows he was, but he can’t remember it at the moment. All the mean stuff has risen to the surface and it’s floating there like shit in the sea. He wasn’t even nice to her while she was ill in bed – dying in bed – he was too busy being a smart-arse to notice how sick she was. He is a first-class shit. What he would like most in the world, besides her not being dead, is to go back in time and say something nice: thanks for collecting the ball for me. I like you. I’ll miss you.
When he gets to the betting shop he stops and looks through the window. There aren’t many people there now, they probably prefer to watch the match in the pub – betting shops and pubs, two places he’s never supposed to set foot in, even when he’s older.
The match is showing on several tellies. It doesn’t matter that he can’t hear the commentary, he’s just happy to watch. He reckons Liverpool can win, even with Gerrard on the bench. He leans closer to the window as Rodwell and Suárez clash in what looks like a soft tackle. The replay confirms there was no malice in it, but when the camera pans back to the action, Rodwell’s getting a red card.
Rodwell’s only a teenager and he’s local; he trained at Finch Farm and played his first match for the Everton Reserves when he was just fifteen, which means he’s brilliant, even though he’s a Toffee. Al is sorry for Rodwell for a moment, but the feeling doesn’t last long: Rodwell’s parents probably took him to matches and cheered when he played well, they probably let him practise on Sundays. He thinks of his own Sundays – three hours of church, followed by a whole afternoon of time-wasting and reverence, and the thought sends him straight back to the Sunday before Issy died.
He was sneaking out of the house, a tennis ball hidden in his right armpit, just a matter of centimetres from freedom, when Dad poked his head round the kitchen door.
‘Alma, just the man. Let’s do your interview now.’
He followed Dad back to the lounge, wishing bodily harm on the individual who’d decided that righteous fathers must interview their children once a month.
Dad closed the door behind them. ‘Sit down.’ He gestured at a chair in a way that made Al feel like a visitor. ‘Let’s start with a prayer. You say it, please.’ Dad bowed his head and folded his arms.
Al didn’t fold his arms and he kept his eyes wide open as he said, ‘Dear Heavenly Father. Thank you for this sunny day. Thank you for this interview. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.’
‘Amen.’ Dad opened his eyes. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘How’s school going?’
‘Fine.’
Dad didn’t respond but Al was wise to the silence. He knew not to jump into the pause with both feet and reveal something. He waited it out while the clock ticked and the tennis ball bristled his armpit. ‘Think you can elaborate on fine?’
‘Not really.’ The tennis ball’s furry nylon coating was beginning to make him sweat.
‘How’s your testimony?’ Dad leaned forward, resting an elbow on each of his knees, pushing his palms together like a praying mantis.
‘Fine.’
Dad frowned and Al realised he’d said too many ‘fines’.
‘How do you feel about Joseph Smith?’
‘Fine.’ A laugh quivered in his windpipe and he covered it with a cough. ‘Good. Yeah, good.’
‘You know Joseph Smith was only a little older than you when he had the First Vision? How does that make you feel?’
Al pretended to consider the question. ‘Well …’ he said, trying to sound thoughtful.
‘Pretty impressive for a young boy, wasn’t it? Especially when you think of what so many fourteen-year-olds are up to nowadays.’ Dad sighed and leaned back in the chair.
‘Did you know Steven Gerrard had a trial with Man U when he was fourteen, Dad?’
‘Everything’s OK at school? You’ve had a good first week back?’
Al nodded, concentrating on his armpit, which had launched into a series of clenching spasms.
‘Anything you’d like to say to me? No? Well, I’d like to share my testimony with you.’
Al looked at the carpet as Dad bore testimony of the truth of the gospel. He said it was the best thing in his life, a shining beacon in the darkness, and he didn’t know where he’d be without it. Al knew where he’d be without it – playing football in the garden.
‘I’ll offer the closing prayer then,’ Dad said finally.
During the prayer Al stared at the framed cross-stitch picture above the mantelpiece: Families are Forever; or in other words, You’ll Never Escape.
After he had finished praying, Dad stood and extended his right hand. Al tried to grasp it with his arm pressed flat to his side, but Dad insisted on a hearty up-and-down shake which made the ball pop out of his armpit and drop to the floor where it bounced several times.
‘Would you believe me if I said it was a hairball?’
‘It’s not exactly difficult to remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.’ Dad picked up the ball and tried to stuff it into the pocket of his trousers. ‘Off you go.’
Al walked around the garden for a bit, thinking of other things he could have said when the ball fell out of his shirt. Things like, ‘My balls just dropped.’ He sniggered to himself and wished Matty was there to share the joke. He thought about fetching a proper football from the shed, but decided against it, kicking a few of the early fallen apples against the wall instead.
He was about to head indoors when Issy appeared. She was giggling. She lifted the back of her Sunday dress and produced the tennis ball.
‘How’d you get that?’
‘Daddy left it on the chair after my interview. He went upstairs to look for Zippy.’
‘So you nicked it and stuffed it down your knickers? High-five!’ They smacked hands and he gave the ball a precautionary wipe with his shirt tail. ‘Go and stand over there, near the wall. I’m going to see if I can kick it right at you. You can dodge, but you mustn’t move until the ball’s left the ground, OK?’
He chipped the ball with the inside and then the outside of each foot while she chattered as she dodged shots and retrieved for him. Someone in her class had done a wee on the floor during their first ever PE lesson, she’d been talking about it all week, and he half listened while he refined his touch, wishing he had a goal so he could practise free kicks properly. Neither of them noticed Dad watching from the kitchen door.
‘Bring the ball here.’
Issy picked it up and carried it to Dad.
‘I’ve already told you once today,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you again. Alma, no football training for you this week.’
Al kicked the ground and skied a tuft of grass. Dad wouldn’t be happy until he’d trussed him up and sacrificed every last bit of him, like bloody Abraham.
Issy rushed over and wrapped her arms around his leg in a consoling hug but he shook her off and shoved her back towards Dad.
‘It wasn’t me. It was her,’ he said.
She stumbled when he shoved her and Dad picked her up, as if she was in danger and needed protecting. ‘You’re accountable for your own actions, Alma,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to break the Sabbath. It was your choice and you can accept the consequences.’
Issy didn’t look back as Dad carried her into the kitchen. If she had, Al would have mouthed sorry, or at least winked. That’s what he likes to think, anyway.
It’d been shitty to snitch on her. He’ll always regret it. It’ll stick with him in the same way missed penalties and own goals stick with footballers. He knows it serves him right, he deserves it, just like Gerrard deserves to remember the penalty he skied at Blackburn last season.
Penalty for Liverpool!
The staff in the betting shop stop what they’re doing and watch as the Everton players pantomime indignation and the ref points to the spot, blowing his whistle to shut them up. Kuyt is going to take it. He never misses, he’s bound to score, and with Everton down to ten men, the floodgates are sure to open for an epic Pool win. Al wills Kuyt to do it. He can barely look as the Dutchman takes a run-up then kicks the ball. Crap. It’s a rubbish penalty, a pathetic miss, straight at the goalie. Al could have done better himself – come on, Liverpool – he can’t believe they’re throwing it all away on the day he’s finally watching them play in real time and he suddenly wonders whether they’d do better if he wasn’t watching; if he’s actually jinxing it cos he shouldn’t be standing outside the betting shop, he should be cleaning up pee but he’s run away, like Jonah. Perhaps if he goes back and does what he’s supposed to do, Liverpool will win.
He heads up Queens Drive again, stroking his hand over the roll of cash in his hoodie pocket, thinking about all the things he could buy.
When he reaches the chapel he jogs down the side of the building and into the car park so he can sneak through the back door. He hurries along the corridor, opens the door to the hall and there’s Dad, pushing a massive two-sectioned brush along the waxy floor. The brush is open like a giant mouth and its jaws are stuffed with dust bunnies and old bits of dried-up food. Dad ignores him, so he stands next to the stage for a bit, looking around, trying to pretend he’s there for a reason. Eventually he turns and heads for the door.
‘Where have you been?’ Dad’s voice fills the echoey space.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Have you been playing football?’
‘No.’
‘Alma, you’ve got dirt all over your trousers.’
He looks down. Shit.
‘Don’t you think your mum’s got enough to worry about at the moment without having to do extra washing because you can’t do as you’re told? It wouldn’t hurt for you to think of someone else first, would it?’
Dad turns to push the brush along the next section of floor and Al wants to say it wouldn’t hurt for him to think of someone else first either, but although the words are straining at the gate of his mouth, he can’t let them go.
Dad pretends he has to do all this stuff cos he’s the Bishop, but he does it cos he wants to. He’s got a choice – he’s an adult. He goes to meetings all the time and he enjoys it, he stays behind after church for hours and he likes it – it probably makes him feel important when everyone queues up outside his office to tell him their problems and ask for help. He could have cancelled his meetings when Issy died, he could have told everyone he was taking a few weeks off, but he wants them to think he’s a hero, carrying on in the face of adversity. He can’t even do easy things to cheer Mum up.
When the hearse arrived last Saturday afternoon Dad was angry. He waited until the men had left Issy’s coffin in the lounge and then he got stuck right in, he didn’t even bother to close the door so Al earwigged from the landing.
‘We don’t do this, Claire.’
‘Don’t tell me what “we” do.’
‘Well, we don’t.’
‘I want to.’
‘We concentrate on the resurrection. That’s why we don’t have crosses everywhere. I shouldn’t have to tell you, you know this – the empty tomb, that’s what we think about, not the body left behind.’
‘Stop telling me what to do.’
‘I’m not, I’m trying to explain –’
‘Is there something in the Handbook about not doing it?’
‘No, I don’t think so, I just think –’
‘Then you can’t tell me not to.’
‘You didn’t even ask what I thought. And what about the children?’
When Mum started talking again Al had to concentrate cos her voice was quiet.
‘I never ask for anything, ever.’ She sounded like a bag of wasps. ‘But I’m asking for this. Actually, Ian, I’m not even asking.’
Dad sucked it up and Issy stayed in the front room until the funeral. Jacob didn’t seem to mind but Zippy spent the whole weekend upstairs sulking. Al hadn’t been at all sure what to make of it. Part of him wanted to laugh because it was so weird. He actually made a little chuckle as he watched the men carry the coffin through the front door from his vantage point on the landing, but it was the kind of chuckle you do when you’re hunting for a reaction and you can’t find the right one. The coffin had been on a wheelie stand and there was a sort of tablecloth thing dangling over it, like a skirt. It’d looked like something a magician would use, a levitating prop, or one of those platforms ladies lie on before they’re sawn in half.
Dad stops pushing the brush and tucks his tie into a gap between his shirt buttons. ‘There’ll be a dustpan somewhere in the kitchen. Do you think you can go and get it without doing another disappearing act?’
He fetches the dustpan and works alongside Dad, sweeping up little piles of muck and depositing them in a bin liner. When the whole hall has been swept clean they start to unstack the chairs that line the walls at either end. There will be so many people at Conference that the screen between the chapel and the hall will be opened and latecomers will have to listen to the prophet from the basketball court.
They’re just finishing up when President Carmichael pokes his head round one of the doors. ‘Bishop Bradley and Alma,’ he calls. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you, President,’ Dad replies. ‘How are you?’
‘Fantastic!’
Al tries to catch Dad’s eye to share the joke, but he won’t join in.
‘Can I borrow Alma for a moment, Bishop?’
‘Be my guest,’ Dad says.
Great. Another interview. That’s all Al needs. President Carmichael waves him through the door and ushers him down the corridor to his office. Even though President Carmichael doesn’t live in Liverpool, his office is here, next door to the Liverpool Bishop’s office but bigger, nicer. The desk is chunky and the chairs are soft.
‘Sit down, sit down.’
President Carmichael sits in the leather swivel chair behind the desk. On the wall, above his head, are three framed pictures: Joseph Smith looking windswept and poncy; the prophet – way younger than he is in real life; and Jesus with hair like Cheryl Cole in the L’Oreal advert.
‘How are things with you, Alma?’
‘Fine.’
President Carmichael grins, as if he’s used to doing interviews where people say ‘fine’ to every question. He taps his hands on the desk for a moment then reaches into his suit pocket. He gets his phone out and flicks a finger across the screen.
‘I don’t know many lads who’d happily spend their Saturday afternoon cleaning.’
‘Neither do I.’
President Carmichael laughs and holds up the phone. ‘Now it’s time for the classified football results,’ he says, and Al can tell he’s about to read the score like James Alexander Gordon off the radio. ‘Saturday the first of October, Barclays Premier League: Everton nil, Liverpool two.’ He turns his phone off and puts it back in his pocket. ‘I thought you’d like to know. Do you think I’ve got a future on Radio 5?’ He opens a drawer in his desk, digs around and produces a four-finger KitKat. ‘There you go.’
‘Thanks.’ Al picks up the chocolate. He knew Liverpool would win if he came back.
‘Go on. I bet you’re starving, boys are always starving – mine are, anyway. What’re you going to do during the Relief Society session of Conference?’
Al’s mouth is full. He shrugs.
‘Is Jacob coming along with your mum? You can wait here together until the Relief Society session’s finished, if you like. Save you from having to watch girls’ stuff. Me and your dad are presiding, but there’s no need for you and Jacob to be there. I’ve got The Princess Bride on my laptop, it’s got to be better than listening to old ladies, hasn’t it?’
President Carmichael is a real person, that’s why people like him – Dad would never acknowledge that anything to do with church could be the tiniest bit boring. Al stuffs the last stick of KitKat into his mouth, screws up the wrapper and goes to put it in his hoodie pocket. Then he remembers the money and keeps hold of the paper. He’s seen The Princess Bride a billion times, so has Jacob, they’ve seen it so many times that they can quote parts of it to each other. It’s a bit babyish, but it’s definitely better than watching the Relief Society Conference or hanging around in the corridor until it finishes.
‘Be good to your parents, eh? All this … everything … it’s hard for them. Come on, let’s find some hymn books to go on the extra chairs in the hall; some people like to sing along with the Tabernacle Choir.’
Al feels a rush of cheerfulness as they leave the office; he isn’t in trouble, Liverpool won and the inside of his mouth is sticky with chocolate. He gives President Carmichael a burst of his best Tabernacle Choir impersonation.
‘Laaaaaaaa, la, la, la.’
To his surprise, President Carmichael joins in and they head down the corridor together warbling like a pair of X Factor rejects.
He has to sit with the family during Conference. Mum calls it ‘sitting as a family’ and she makes a big deal of it cos Dad usually sits up on the stand during church meetings. Al ends up right in the middle, squeezed between Jacob and Zippy.
It’s getting dark outside and the lights in the chapel and hall have been switched off so everyone can concentrate on the massive screen. The chapel is full and people are sitting on the first couple of rows of chairs in the hall; tomorrow the hall will be full too cos more people come to the Sunday sessions of Conference.
‘Alma, take your hoodie off. It’s about to start.’
Al lifts the hoodie over his head and bundles it into his lap. An American announcer welcomes everyone and the camera pans over Temple Square in Salt Lake City which always looks sunny and sparkly-clean and then the Tabernacle Choir start to sing ‘The Morning Breaks’, the song they always sing at this session of General Conference. Dad gets his hymn book out to join in, and the camera switches to show thousands of people sitting in the Conference Centre. They aren’t singing, they’re listening to the choir, but Dad doesn’t notice, or perhaps he doesn’t care. ‘Lo, Zion’s standard is unfurled!’ he sings.
Jacob tugs Al’s sleeve. ‘I’m Miracle Max,’ he hisses.
‘What?’
‘I’m Miracle Max from The Princess Bride.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Doing miracles is what I do,’ Jacob whispers, trying his best to sound like the crazy old man from the movie.
Al sniggers. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘In that case, I’m Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die.’ He delivers the line in his best Spanish accent to make Jacob laugh.
‘Shush.’ Zippy pokes him. ‘Don’t be immature.’
He’d rather be immature than super-holy. Zippy probably thinks the prophet will say something amazing once the choir’s stopped singing, something like ‘Get ready for the Second Coming … tomorrow!’ instead of his usual snore-ful stories.
He pokes Zippy back. Dad frowns and shakes his head, but he doesn’t stop singing.
‘The dawning of a brighter day, the dawning of a brighter day.’
Mum isn’t singing, she’s just staring straight ahead. She looks like she’s been whacked in the face by a football, sort of concussed. Al twists the hoodie bundle in his lap until he can feel the roll of cash through the zip-up pocket. Maybe the prophet will say something amazing, something so bloody brilliant and wonderful that it will make everything better. If the Second Coming is just around the corner it’ll be followed by the Millennium and then Issy will come back … if it’s true. He watches Jacob rest his hand on Mum’s lap; she doesn’t seem to notice, and as the song slows to its conclusion and Dad’s voice gets louder – ‘Thus Zion’s light is bursting forth, to bring her ransomed children home’ – Mum closes her eyes. She does it in such a deliberate way, it’s as if she’s closed her ears too and it’s like she’s not sitting with them any more.
The opening prayer begins, and although he usually keeps his eyes open, Al squeezes them shut cos he feels like he did when Kuyt stepped up to take the penalty earlier; he’s willing something good to happen but he can hardly stand to look.