“Ah? A rival? Dear me, how sad.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to do something about it.”
“Remember that God giveth, and He taketh away,” said the Rev. “That’s what the Bible says. Sometimes we must accept His will, Livingstone.”
“The Bible doesn’t say God taketh it away from one bloke and giveth it to another who doesn’t deserve it.”
The Rev smiled understandingly, damn him. “Ah, but it may say that. In a way.”
“What do you mean, it may do? It’s written down there in words, isn’t it, Rev? Either it says it or it doesn’t.”
“Hardly. The Bible means different things, according to our interpretation.”
“Well, holy shit. Nobody ever told me. So can it mean whatever you want it to? That must make your job a lot easier, Rev.”
“Mmm. On the other hand, there are a number of basic truths that we must live by, Livingstone.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
There wasn’t much fun in baiting the Rev. He was likely to take it seriously and decide I needed to join Bible classes, like the glue sniffers. So far I’ve managed to get away with not coming to services because of my voluntary work in the churchyard. But if the Rev got the idea that I was some poor soul facing eternal damnation instead of being the original Good Samaritan, he’d have me with a Good News Bible in one hand and a hymn sheet in the other before you could say Moses.
The sound of a petrol mower drifted across the graveyard, along with the smell of cut grass. There was a horribly familiar boiler suit moving backwards and forwards by the graves at the end of the churchyard. It was Welsh Border, still toiling away in the gathering dusk like the Gadarene Swine.
But no one keeps me away from my dad’s grave. The Rev went over to speak to Councillor Border while I walked down the row to the lump of stone that’s the only thing commemorating the day that Granville McClure gave up the fight. My mum is here, too, but she lasted longer and died of pneumonia in the end. Somehow that doesn’t seem as bad — at least it’s something that God did to her, not someone else.
Border had switched off the lawnmower to empty the grass box when the Rev wandered up, and I was vaguely aware of him kicking his boots against the side of the mower as they talked. His voice was rising in agitation, and it occurred to me for a second or two that maybe he was still smarting from our previous encounter. He’d got it into his head that I was a hooligan or an unsavoury character. People come to all sorts of wrong conclusions about me.
Then I looked up and met his eye. The Rev was getting anxious and flapping his hands about, as if to ward off a swarm of midges. A large figure loomed in the background by the church wall, unwrapping a Mars bar.
“All I’m saying, vicar,” said Border, raising his voice so that I could hear, “is that we ought to be a bit more careful who we allow to be buried in this churchyard. Some families that quite undesirable and always will be, in my opinion — no matter what jobs they manage to weasel their way into. People expect a churchyard to be a respectable place, not a hangout for criminals. They’re entitled to think they’re going to be buried with decent Christians, not alongside the relatives of thugs and crooks.”
Well, that was it. Patience finally runs out for everyone. I had my limits, and Welsh Border had just crossed them.
“Donc,” I said. “Help Councillor Border with his grass cuttings.”
Dave ambled forward, his chocolate bar still sticking out from between his teeth. He reached down and pulled the full grass box off the lawnmower, like he was pulling the leg off a fly. It was one of those plastic boxes with net sides, and it was full to the brim. Bits of chewed grass spilt over the lip onto Border’s beautifully mown patch.
“Just a minute. I don’t want your help. I can manage perfectly well myself.”
“I don’t think so, Councillor. You look tired. In fact, you look so tired you might fall over at any moment.”
The grass smelt green and dark and juicy, the sort that stains your hands and clothes as soon as you look at it.
“The compost heap is over there,” said the Rev helpfully, pointing away towards the back of the churchyard, trying to ignore the atmosphere. Poor bloke, he doesn’t know what to do when it comes to taking sides between the sheep and the goats. The thing about goats is that they’re stubborn where sheep are meek, wayward where sheep are regimented, independent where sheep are submissive. You can count me in with the goats if you like. No kidding.
“No, Rev, I think the compost heap is right here in front of me.”
Welsh Border took a step towards me. His hand came out, a finger pointing aggressively at my face. His mouth opened to say something offensive, but he didn’t quite get round to saying it. His face suddenly went bright red and tears came to his eyes. It would have been nice to think it was his guilty conscience troubling him. But it could have been my boot trampling on his big toe.
“Get off my foot, McClure. I’ll have you charged with assault.”
“Oh sorry, Councillor. I thought I was treading on a worm.”
“I’ll—!”
Just then Dave swung the grass box and slipped it neatly over Border’s head, smothering his latest gem. Grass poured over the councillor’s shoulders, slithering into the collar of his shirt and down inside his boiler suit. A high-pitched screeching, choking sound came from somewhere inside the box.
“Oh my goodness,” said the Rev. “Are we having a contretemps?”
With Councillor Border incapacitated, Dave and I decided to make our escape from the churchyard.
“Grass,” I said to Dave as we walked back up the road.
“What?”
“Grass. Do you think he got it?”
“’Course he got it, Stones. I tipped it right over his nut.”
“No, I mean the message, the meaningful pun. Grass. He grassed me up. So we grassed him up. Right?”
“Some of it were dandelions,” said Dave.
We walked on a few yards more.
“Yeah, that might have confused him a bit,” I said.
After I’d sent Dave off in the Subaru, there was nothing else much to do except wait for dark. I ate a pizza from the freezer and downed just one can of Mansfield Bitter while I watched TV.
I was anxious for news that Lisa was safe, but no call came. There was nothing from Nuala either. Had I upset her? Was it something I said?
The call that did come was from Uncle Willis. I had the answerphone on, but when I heard his voice, irritated at having to talk to a machine, I picked up the phone.
“Hello, Uncle.”
“Livingstone? In person?”
“Yeah, in person.”
“Why do you give me a message saying you’re not in, when you are?”
“It depends who’s phoning.”
“Well, it seems a bit funny to me. When I phone, I want to speak to the person, not a robot.”
“What is it you’re calling about, Uncle?”
“I wondered whether you’ve had a think. You know, about that little thing we were talking about the other day.”
“Well, to be honest, I’ve been a bit busy.”
“Working hard at your business, no doubt.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“That’s good. I want your business to do well, you know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I was wondering, you see, after you’d been to see me, whether you properly realised what I was saying.”
“Well, I think so, Uncle. You’re leaving your money to set up a trust to help kids.”
“That’s right. But my money won’t be enough on its own.”
“Well, there’s never enough, is there?”
“What a trust like that would need is a regular income.”
“Yeah? We’d all like that, I suppose.”
“It would require, let’s say, a successful local businessman willing to put in a percentage of his profits each month. Do you understand what I’m saying now, Livingstone?”