Al is a coward. He hasn’t been to the bank to swap the fifties for tens cos he’s dreamed about the money every night since he took it. Last night’s episode was replete with smells, sounds and feelings so horrifyingly real that they were bonded to the inside of his head when he woke up.
He dreamed he was pulling the handcart across America – the burnt money was worthless, leaving them with no access to other forms of transportation. Brother Rimmer lay in the back of the cart, half dead with exhaustion. Having finally crossed the Rocky Mountains they reached a gate manned by Brigham Young. Al tried to speak, but each time he opened his mouth Brigham Young shouted, ‘This is my place.’ Al begged and pleaded but Brigham Young wouldn’t open the gate and that’s when the flesh-eating Armageddon zombies teemed down the nearest mountain: Brother Rimmer’s screams have been ricocheting around his head all morning.
Al zips up his hoodie and strokes the pocket. It’s only been five minutes since Dad left. ‘Look after your brother,’ he said as he buggered off to the hospital to see Brother Anderson. He’s spent hours there this week, even though he promised to take Jacob to the beach and the penny arcade at the end of the pier.
When Dad’s been gone for ten minutes, Al sneaks out the back way. He’s got no intention of looking after Jacob, he’s far too busy. He gets his bike out of the shed and wheels it round to the front of the house. As he lifts his leg over the bike frame, Sister Anderson pulls up in her car and rolls down the window.
‘Alma, dear! I hate to be a nuisance, but is your dad home?’ she calls.
‘He’s gone to see Brother Anderson.’
‘Oh, I hoped I might catch him first. I’m going shopping.’ Someone beeps their horn at her, but she isn’t at all bothered. ‘Your dad said he’d sit with Brother Anderson while I catch up with a few things. I’ve been meaning to tell him something, but with Brother Anderson being so ill, I keep forgetting. And as I was passing …’
‘Well, he’s not here.’
‘Can you give him a message, Alma, dear? In case he’s gone when I get to the hospital?’
‘All right.’
‘I’m a bit concerned about Jacob. Something happened in our Primary lesson on Sunday. He said – this sounds silly, but he definitely said it – he said his goldfish was resurrected.’
Al stares at Sister Anderson’s puffy pink cheeks and her fluffy hair, at her bright red lips and the way she’s somehow managed to smear a bloody, Halloween line of lipstick across her top teeth. He hates her for telling tales on Jacob, for blocking the road as if she owns it and coming to the house to speak to Dad when he is already at the hospital.
‘I’m sure Jacob wasn’t telling lies,’ she continues. ‘He’s a good boy. I’m sure he wishes it happened, but he needs to learn the difference between make-believe and real life.’
Beep-beep. Al watches as the queue of cars that have formed behind Sister Anderson take advantage of a break in the traffic to get round her by driving on the wrong side of the road. She doesn’t give a shit, she’s perfectly happy to block the way.
So what if Jacob lied about the fish? What does it matter? Why shouldn’t he get in on the miraculous-story gig? Everyone else is bullshitting about spectacular visitations and answers to prayer.
‘So you’ll remember to tell your dad?’
He nods, and then he can’t help himself. ‘Sister Anderson?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘You reckon you saw Issy in the Temple.’
‘Yes, I did,’ she says.
‘I’m sure you weren’t telling lies.’
‘Sorry?’
‘But you need to learn the difference between make-believe and real life.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He puts both hands on the handlebars and pedals away. He totally owned Sister Anderson, he rained on her parade and shat on her stupid story; there’s no way she saw Issy, no way. He lifts his bum off the seat to gather speed and then he races all the way to Brother Rimmer’s house, laughing into the wind.
Al sits on the edge of the pink velvet sofa, grateful to see Brother Rimmer alive and intact, despite the annoying racket.
Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink.
‘It’s a dying art, spoon playing. Andrea used to love this, she used to beg me to do it.’ Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink.
Brother Rimmer slaps the spoons against his hand and thigh and grins as if he’s on one of those dancing programmes on the telly, trying to make the audience like him. ‘Give us a tune on the spoons, Dad – that’s what Andrea used to say.’
Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink.
Al doesn’t want to know about poor, dead Andrea. Just hearing her name makes him wonder whether she drowned on the beach in the olden days before the marsh took over and the sand was golden, or somewhere else; one of the sluices out on Churchtown Moss or the lake in the park across the road from home.
‘I can teach you, if you like.’
Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink.
‘Nah, it’s all right, thanks,’ he says.
Clackety-clackety. Clink-clink-clink.
‘It’d be no trouble. I don’t charge for lessons!’
‘No thanks.’
‘Good opportunity for you to develop a talent.’
Playing the spoons is beyond pointless; Brother Rimmer would have been better off learning to swim, Al thinks. Brother Rimmer smacks the spoons along his belly and across his chest in a rousing finale and Al claps a couple of times, eliciting a gratified bob of the head.
‘Shall we go out to the garage now?’
‘Not yet, I’m puffed.’ Brother Rimmer lowers himself onto the cushioned swivel chair. ‘Anyway, I’ve got something to show you first.’ He turns on the computer and types something into the Internet search bar. ‘Wait ’til you see this,’ he says. ‘Just you wait! Wait … wait … wait … There. Look!’
Al stands so he can see over Brother Rimmer’s shoulder. ‘It’s a picture of a tree,’ he says.
‘It’s an apple tree.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Blossoming in October.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘It’s a sign of the times. The seasons’ll get all mixed up, before the Second Coming. Prime piece of evidence for any Second Coming detective right there! Could be any day now. What does the Lord say? Behold, I come quickly.’
Al cups one hand over his mouth to catch a snigger.
‘Don’t just stand there like a piffy on a rock bun, come closer, have a proper look.’ Brother Rimmer clicks on another tab and opens a site called Follow the Signs of the Times. The home page is boardered by flames. He clicks on the ‘Questions’ tab and a list appears.
Is it true that the Second Coming will happen after a year without rainbows?
How soon after the Second Coming will Christ declare the Mormon Church his Church?
Is it true that God is the literal, physical father of Jesus Christ?
‘You can learn anything you want here,’ Brother Rimmer says. ‘Pick one thing. Go on.’
Al sighs. ‘That one,’ he says, pointing at the middle of the screen.
‘Where are the three Nephites?’ Brother Rimmer reads. ‘Right then, let’s find out, shall we?’ He clicks on the question and a whole page of text appears. ‘Now this is very interesting, Alma Bradley. What do you know about the three Nephites?’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ Al says. ‘I’m meeting my mate to play football at one o’clock, so I need to –’
‘When Jesus visited America, after he was crucified, three of his Nephite apostles asked if they could stay on earth until he came again. And Jesus said yes, which was nice of him. Look here, listen to this: The three Nephites are still on the earth today, ministering to all nations, kindreds, tongues and people.’ Brother Rimmer swivels his chair slightly to look at Al, who makes a feeble attempt to appear interested. ‘Isn’t that smashing? And do you know what? When Sister Rimmer was alive, she had a very special experience.’
Brother Rimmer sits like one of those nodding dogs people stick in the back windows of their cars. Al can see he is supposed to ask about the special experience but he doesn’t and after a few moments Brother Rimmer gets fed up of waiting and carries on anyway.
‘It happened on the motorway. On the hard shoulder of the M58. One of her tyres blew out and she had to pull over. It was before mobile phones and the Interweb. Sister Rimmer didn’t know what to do, so she prayed for help.’
Al stuffs his hands into his pockets. Not another stupid story where someone gets their prayers answered.
‘Eventually, another car stopped to help. Three men got out. They put the spare tyre on for her and then they drove away.’ Brother Rimmer’s eyebrows flex, as if to say ‘Ta-dah!’
Al shrugs. He can’t believe Brother Rimmer thinks three ancient, undead Americans changed Sister Rimmer’s tyre – he may as well credit the three little pigs.
‘The three Nephites. First thing we thought of. Can’t say for sure, of course. But that’s what we reckoned – our very own miracle. Sister Rimmer told everyone in Testimony Meeting. She was right proud.’ Brother Rimmer swivels back to the computer screen and minimises the page. ‘It’s a comfort, isn’t it? To know the Lord’s looking out for you. He’s a personal God and no problem’s too small to turn over to him.’
Al wonders why the three Nephites went for a roadside assistance miracle when they could have rescued Andrea. At least the miracle was practical – a changed tyre is more useful than a bleeding statue or a cheesy crisp shaped like Jesus.
‘Can we go out to the garage now?’ he asks.
‘All right then. You’re keen, aren’t you? Good lad.’
Sanding the wheels is tricky and time-consuming. They are huge, higher than Al’s waist, with twelve thick spokes. Brother Rimmer sits in his high-backed chair, arms resting on the mountain of his belly.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he says. ‘A few little repairs and a couple of coats of varnish.’
Al slides his spare hand between the spokes as he rubs the wood. ‘How do you make wheels, then?’ he asks.
‘You start with the hub.’ Brother Rimmer points to the middle bit of the wheel. ‘You drive the spokes into the hub with a sledgehammer. Then you attach the wheel. It’s divided into four felloes, they’re like quarters, and they join up to make a circle. Once that’s done you measure around the outside of the wheel with a traveller so you know how much steel you need to hold it all together. You have to heat the steel and hammer it round the wheel while it’s hot. You cool it with water and the steel shrinks tight. No need for screws or anything. There’s other ways, of course, but I wanted to do it like the pioneers did.’
‘Did you need special tools?’
‘Oh yes. I used to have a unit on the Industrial Estate for work. I did a bit there, in between jobs, and I brought sections back here to work on. Used to carry bits and pieces backwards and forwards in the car – just about squeezed the axles in. Had to use the trailer once in a while, though.’
‘How long did it take?’
Brother Rimmer puffs his cheeks up then blows the air out. ‘Best part of two years, I should think. After work and Saturdays. Never on a Sunday, of course.’
Al wonders if the project lasted for two years because that was how long it took Brother Rimmer to feel better about Andrea. It seems like a long time, until he thinks of Issy; he can’t imagine a time when he won’t miss her.
‘How are you getting on?’ Brother Rimmer asks.
‘Just finishing off this spoke.’
‘No, I mean, how are you?’
‘Fine.’ Al gets his head down and rubs the spoke vigorously.
‘That’s what I thought.’ Brother Rimmer sighs. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could eat a buttered frog.’ He holds onto the arms of his chair and rocks himself upright. ‘You carry on and I’ll fetch cake,’ he says.
As soon as Brother Rimmer leaves the garage, Al kneels on the wood-dusted concrete floor and flicks the rusty clasp of the little toolbox. He lifts out the Ensign, the old-fashioned teddy bear and the handkerchief and puts them on the floor.
He has to swap the notes back. There’s nothing brave about taking money off a daft old bloke with a dead daughter. He runs his finger along the edge of the envelope and flicks it open. The damaged notes are almost corrugated; he takes them out, unzips the hoodie pocket and swaps the money over slowly as if he hasn’t quite made up his mind, enjoying the luxury of pretending there’s still a choice to be made.
The slam of Brother Rimmer’s back door makes him jump. He stuffs the envelope back into the toolbox, chucks the other stuff on top, closes the lid and zips his pocket shut as he gets off the floor. He’s dusting his knees as Brother Rimmer pushes at the garage door.
‘Come and help with the tray. That’s it. Now put it down there.’ Brother Rimmer sits heavily and holds out a hand for his Barley Cup and cake.
Al passes a mug and a plate of Victoria sponge to him.
‘Eat up then.’
It’s good cake. One glance at Brother Rimmer is enough to reveal he is a man who likes good cake.
‘You’ll be off on your mission before you know it,’ Brother Rimmer says in between mouthfuls. ‘You’ve got, what – four years? It’ll fly by. Any thoughts about where you’d like to go?’
‘No.’
‘Hawaii. That’s what people always say. Hawaii and the Bahamas. Come on, you must’ve thought about it.’
Al tries not to think about it whenever possible, but he can see Brother Rimmer isn’t going to give up until he names a country.
‘France.’
‘What do you want to go there for?’
‘The European Championships are in France in 2016.’
Brother Rimmer laughs. ‘You won’t be watching football on your mission.’
Al gets up and starts sanding again. He won’t be going on a mission at all, but if he tells that to Brother Rimmer he won’t get paid.
When he’s finished sanding the wheel Brother Rimmer gives him another tenner. ‘You’re back at school next week, aren’t you? So you can come a week on Saturday.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right then. Be a good lad now.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Don’t try, do.’
Brother Rimmer’s house is only a five-minute bike ride from the footie pitch. Al arrives just before one o’clock. There’s a big gate and a tree-lined path. He cycles down the path, even though there’s a No Cycling sign. When he gets to the field he jumps off his bike and leans it against a tree. The grass is wet even though it hasn’t been raining. There are empty conker shells and soggy leaves around the edges of the outline of the pitch, which has recently been repainted. He kicks empty conker shells, thinking about the money while he waits for Matty. At the far end of the field there’s a sandy area with some swings and a slide. Two big lads are mucking about with the swings, flipping them over and over and over until they’re too high for anyone to sit on. He thinks he recognises them, reckons they used to be in Year 11.
Meeting up with Matty to play football has been the best thing about half-term. Matty doesn’t talk about Issy. He just carries on as if nothing has happened. It’s nice to pretend everything’s normal, even though afterwards, when he remembers it isn’t, things often seem extra crap.
A flock of Canada geese chase through the sky in arrow formations, screeching to each other as they head for the marsh. He stops and watches them pass.
When Matty arrives he leans his bike next to Al’s and dashes onto the field. He’s brought his new Premier League ball. It’s light and soft. It’s got a nice feel, and Al thinks he might buy himself one, next season, or the season after, once he’s thought of a way to sort out Mum’s money.
They jog down the pitch, passing to each other. When they reach the far end, near the park, Matty goes in goal and Al practises free kicks. Then Al goes in goal so Matty can practise. They concentrate on their feet, hands and eyes – they don’t need to talk to each other. It’s perfect, until Matty skies a free kick and the ball flies over the top of the goal and into the little park.
Al expects the lads mucking about next to the swings to thump it back, but the taller lad, whose hair is shaved so closely to his head that he almost looks bald, drops his cigarette, picks up the ball and starts to head out of the playground towards the ginnel between the houses that back onto the field.
‘Oi,’ Matty shouts. ‘Oi! That’s my ball!’
Al runs. He remembers the Scousers on Queens Drive and how everything was fine once they started playing together. He calls to the lads. ‘Do you want to play?’
They turn round. ‘Do you want to play?’ the shorter one mimics.
‘How about a kick-about, two on two?’
‘If you want the ball, come and get it.’
The lad with the shaved head holds the ball up. He’s got wicked acne – his cheeks are bubbling with pus. When Al steps closer, he chucks the ball in the air and catches it again, and again.
‘Congratulations, you can catch.’ Al gives the lad a slow handclap and Matty nudges him.
‘You’re a gobby little shite, aren’t you?’ the shorter lad says.
‘Give us the ball.’
‘Come and get it.’
Matty swallows hard; he looks like he might be about to cry. A ring of anger warms the ache in Al’s stomach, like a gas flame. He’s going to go apeshit if the lads don’t give the ball back.
‘Aw, look. He’s going to cry.’ The shorter lad points at Matty and wobbles his bottom lip up and down with his finger. ‘Aw, diddums,’ he says. ‘Do you want your mum?’
‘Bet he does. Mummy’s boy.’
‘I reckon his mum’s a right munter. Ugly enough to make an onion cry.’
‘Shut up and leave him alone. It’s not your ball. Give it back.’
‘Do you fancy his mum, then?’
‘Oh, fuck off.’ Al experiences a pleasant rush of disobedience as he swears.
‘I reckon he does, poor sod.’ The shorter lad looks pityingly at Al. ‘Do you like fugly old women?’
‘Fuck. Off.’
‘He likes fugly old women cos his mum’s one – a great big fugly whale. So fat and lazy she’s got her own postcode.’ Spotty-face throws the ball up high and catches it with a grin.
Al thinks of Mum – who is not lazy or fat – and the simmering ache in his stomach begins to burn.
The shorter lad laughs and his mate, showing off now, carries on. ‘She’s so lazy she sticks her arse out of the window and lets the wind wipe it.’
That’s it. When the spotty lad throws the ball in the air again, Al lunges at him, shoving him in the chest as hard as he can. The lad misses the ball and lands smack on his bum.
Al grabs the ball. ‘Run!’ he says to Matty.
‘Come here, you little shit.’
Al doesn’t look round. He runs alongside Matty, as hard as he can, the ball held under one arm like a rugby player. Moments later, he hears two pairs of feet pounding into the grass behind them. Is this brave or stupid? He can’t tell. He keeps running, all the way across the football pitch. The lads are unfit, they smoke. He can hear one of them coughing behind him.
When they reach the edge of the field, Al and Matty tear down the path to the trees where they left their bikes. Al unzips his hoodie far enough to stuff the ball down his front and they jump on the bikes.
‘You look like you’re, ha ha, like you’re, ha ha bloody preggers, Al.’
‘Shut up and ride.’
They push off and pedal hard. Once their feet have got some traction and their tyres have made a few rotations, they’re away and there’s no chance of being caught. Al isn’t angry any more. He’s just avoided having his head kicked in. And he’s done it all by himself, without any supernatural help, just his own brain and legs. Another swarm of geese arrow above the park, cackling madly, black against the sky like animations. He looks back over his shoulder. The two lads are clutching their knees as they catch their breath between coughs.
‘Fuck off, you wankers,’ he shouts. ‘Fuck off!’