nothing… what did you expect?
‘I don’t get it,’ Lol said. ‘You bought this?’
‘Just now.’
‘You bought Mathew Stooke’s best-selling guide to living—’ he read from the back cover ‘—a balanced, guiltless life without the pointless tedium of God…?’
‘Begrudging every penny,’ Merrily said. ‘But I suppose we ought to support our neighbours.’
20
Government Health Warning
The wood-burning stove wasn’t very big, but was more than enough for this room. One of the newer ones with glass that didn’t fog, two reddening logs melting into one another, the whole chamber flushed pink and orange, a beacon in the greyness of the day.
Sinking into the sofa under the giant Mars Bar beam, legs extended into the heat, Merrily almost fell asleep. Damn it, so much cosier here than the big, draughty vicarage.
Marry me, Lol. Take me away.
She blinked, shocked at herself, sat up. Lol was coming in from the kitchen with mugs of tea. She put out a hand, looked up into the eyes behind his round brass-rimmed glasses.
‘Where am I? How did I get here?’
‘I don’t know.’ He bent, kissed her hand before placing a mug in it. ‘But you’re rather attractive, so hang around if you want.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
She sipped her tea. Lol had been working. Scrawled lyrics on paper upon paper on the desk under the window, his acoustic guitar leaning next to it. This was the Takamine, plugged into the old wooden-cased Guild amplifier that looked like a big valve radio set from the 1950s or something, its red power light aglow.
This was where the Boswell used to sit. Lol never mentioned the Boswell. She hoped she was doing the right thing; it was going to be an awful lot of money, more than she’d ever spent on anything — even a car, come to think of it.
‘Does anybody else know this Stooke’s living here?’
Lol was leaning over the back of the sofa, arms either side of her, his mug of tea in one hand. Merrily shook her head.
‘I’m guessing not. He’s here under a false name, anyway.’
‘He’s not exactly inconspicuous, is he?’
Lol opened The Hole in the Sky to the inside back cover: full-page photo of a man with shoulder-hugging black, curly hair, a full dark beard.
‘And I believe he weighs in at about eighteen stone,’ Merrily said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Got it off the Internet. I couldn’t actually get back to sleep after Jane broke the news. Sitting in front of the computer at half past two, frantically Googling Mathew Stooke.’
‘Of course that might not even be him,’ Lol said. ‘Maybe they borrowed the reserve bass-player from Iron Maiden.’
‘To disguise his identity in the wake of all the threats to his life?’ Merrily shut the book. One of the reviews on the back said, In the current climate, Stooke must be seen as almost insanely brave. ‘You see, that’s completely wrong for a start,’ Merrily said. ‘In the current climate, Stooke’s right in the vanguard. The current climate is aggressively secular.’
‘It means Islam, doesn’t it? The fact that Christians hate him… with all respect, no big problem. Not in this country, anyway. But when you offend the Muslims…’
‘To my knowledge, they haven’t stuck a fatwa on a writer since Rushdie. And fundamentalist Islam… terrorism — that’s the main reason for the growth of the secular state. Secularism’s become a kind of refuge. A political safe haven.’ Merrily put the book on an arm of the sofa. ‘That’s what’s so depressing about it. Nobody’ll admit it, but it’s all about fear.’
‘God gets a government health warning?’
‘That’s next.’ Merrily sank back wearily into the sofa. ‘Still, at least this resolves one issue.’
Reminding Lol about the guy in the three-piece suit she’d spotted after the parish meeting. Jonathan Long. Special Branch. Telling him what she’d learned — or hadn’t learned — from Bliss.
‘So it is political,’ Lol said. ‘Or it’d be the ordinary cops. It’s national security.’
‘All these guys get death-threats. The publishers are probably disappointed if they don’t get death threats.’
‘So this Long would’ve been organising some protection for him?’
‘Possibly. I don’t know. It doesn’t entirely make sense. I mean, he’s not exactly in deep cover if Jane’s rumbled him inside a day. And why here, Lol? What’s he doing here? And why — this is the real issue — why’s his wife cosying up to my daughter?’
‘Well, if she’s a journalist…’ Lol finished his tea, put the mug on the floor. ‘They’re living on the edge of Coleman’s Meadow. Coleman’s Meadow’s a story. Or it will be.’
‘What do you think I should do about it?’
Lol lay back, stretching his legs towards the stove.
‘Out him, maybe?’
‘Does that really sound like the kind of thing I’d do?’
‘Or you could go round, see if he’s interested in attending church.’
‘I did think of that, yes.’
‘Merrily…’ Lol turned to her. ‘Have you read what he thinks about the clergy?’
‘It was a joke. But no, I haven’t read anything he’s written. But I will have by tonight.’
She stared into the stove, where two logs were making a molten Gothic arch, like the gateway to hell.
All the picturesque backwaters in all the world…
In the silence, Lol said, ‘Did I tell you they want me to tour America?’
Merrily sat up, hard.
Of course he hadn’t told her. He knew he hadn’t told her.
‘Who?’
‘Guy called Jeff Caldwell. A promoter I met at the BBC. Prof Levin knows him.’
‘And?’
‘Prof says he’s on the level.’
‘Well…’ Ice sliding into Merrily’s stomach. ‘That’s fantastic, Lol. That’s… you know… Erm, when?’
‘I don’t know. Early next year. Someone backed out. It’s colleges, mainly, but…’
‘Well… congratulations. You… you’ve made it.’
‘You think?’ Lol sat down next to her. ‘People who’ve done it say it’s all motel rooms and… other motel rooms.’
‘Exciting. Wish I was coming.’
The rain was heavier now, the slow, sinister beat of individual drops on the glass giving way to a gusting, shuffling rhythm like a whole drum kit out there.
‘Well…’ Lol said. ‘I had wondered about that. If there’d be any possibility?’
‘Of what?’
‘Going to America. I mean you.’
‘Me? Who’d pay?’
‘Me.’
‘No, that’s not — How long for?’
‘Five weeks, apparently.’
Merrily said nothing. They both knew how impossible that would be for her, for too many reasons to list. Inside the stove the gates of hell had collapsed in an orange starburst.
‘OK, I’ll ring the guy this afternoon,’ Lol said. ‘I mean, it’s not really what I—’
‘Lol.’
‘What?’
‘You have to do it.’
‘I like it here too much,’ Lol said. ‘And it’s too late.’
‘No! Listen. It was like when you didn’t want to play in front of an audience. When you thought you were incapable of doing it. And then you were forced to. And you didn’t look back, and now you’re so much more comfortable with yourself. You… function better.’
‘Um, thanks. But I don’t think it is that important. What’s more important… is what happens on Christmas Eve. At the Swan.’