Page 9

My job is to say no.

As school bursar, every single day I am inundated with requests to dredge the bottomless money well that staff and parents believe finances a school.

The Year 6 parents want ice creams for their end-of-term production. Not budget lollies that can be sourced from the Costco for less than they spend on a cortado – oh no, not for their precious darlings. They want organic clotted-cream gelato from a micro dairy in Shropshire. After all, surely their grotesquely pampered little angels are entitled to Madagascan vanilla?

No.

Our science lead wants a purchase order for ￡1,000 to pay some failed drama students to come into school and re-enact the discovery of penicillin. Because a generation cemented to screens can’t possibly be expected to engage for five whole minutes with the myriad books we have already purchased on the same subject?

No.

Ben Andrews has already hinted at a plethora of new expenditure, designed to modernise a school whose educational raison d’être I am unaware has changed and has been delivered perfectly well for decades within our existing facilities. And it’s imperative to move with the times, isn’t it?

No. No. No.

Our modern notions of insufficiency are abhorrent. A child not having what they want is a far cry from a child not having what they need. A parent can choose whether to provide the former. I will determine the criteria for the latter.

Today is a perfect example. As a Christian community, we needed to administer the proper rites to dearest Claudia in her lifelong place of worship. Her length of service merited that, as do the tenets of our faith. That is what was required. If you want to then go and consume soggy quiche and supermarket cocktail sausages in the village hall, that is your choice. And I have chosen to stay in church.

My faith is a private matter. It’s not something I share with the champagne congregation, who are only to be seen here annually at midnight mass or at one of the boundless parasitic celebrations that feed off true belief. Christianity is not an Airbnb in Bognor, to be inhabited and vacated at will. A church is not a fetching backdrop for your wedding photos on Facebook, nor for baptising your child to err on the side of spiritual caution. A church is the body of Christ. And unless you are here to thank Him for His sacrifice, then, frankly, you can fuck off.

With the rubbernecking hordes gorging on stale sandwiches next door, I kneel down to pray. I pray for Claudia’s peace. I pray for my own. And I pray for forgiveness.

For us both.

When I open my eyes, I see Reverend McAlester smiling at me from a few pews down. I have always been vehemently and vocally against female clergy, but the Lord has nothing if not a sense of humour. I will concede that Katherine (I refuse to call her Katie) is doing a fair job, certainly if the measure is attendance in church. Claudia had no time for her.

‘Women should be silent in churches,’ she pronounced, quoting Corinthians in a classic moment of contradiction. Claudia wasn’t one for female advancement unless that female happened to be her – a fatal flaw of feminism in time immemorial. ‘You mark my words, it’ll be all tambourines and tampons! That slattern will lead our church over my dead body!’

Well, you were right about one thing, dear.

‘Hi, ,’ says Reverend Katherine, with her usual disregard for rank or propriety. ‘How are you holding up?’

I wince. I have no truck with modern parlance.

‘How am I holding up what?’ I ask her archly.

She smiles as though we’re sharing a joke. We are not.

‘I know you two were close,’ she says. ‘I just want you to know I’m here.’

Lord, send me strength.

‘I am painfully aware you are there, Reverend; your existence is a matter of visceral visual and audible record,’ I point out. ‘Unless you wish to debate the finer points of solipsism? But I must confess the day has had the best of me and I would prefer to go home and drink a large glass of Italian red.’

‘Amen!’ She laughs lightly. I can’t decide if she’s trying to irritate me or she’s just spectacularly stupid. Or both.

‘ . . . I was hoping we might speak . . .’ she begins.

‘Then you must be delighted,’ I sigh, settling back into my pew with my hands folded across my chest. The reverend wants something from me. I feel it’s only fair to prepare her for the likely response. I always know when someone is about to ask me for something – after all, every relationship under the sun is transactional. Nothing is unconditional. Money. Love. Sex. Life. The wages of sin, after all, is death. We all tabulate an unspoken ledger, our lives the futile pursuit of balancing the books. The penance rarely outweighs the transgression. You overindulge for the month of December – you detox for a few days in January. You commit adultery with your secretary – you buy petrol-station flowers for your wife. We are born in sin and can never be clean. But that doesn’t stop any of us from smearing a wet wipe around the edges occasionally.

‘We’ve had another referral from StopGap,’ Reverend McAlester continues. ‘I wondered if you might consider kindly opening your home again?’

Ah yes. StopGap, the church’s outreach programme, offering temporary shelter to those with nowhere else to go. I have always supported it, as my duty as a devout Christian requires. ‘Be generous to the poor, and everything will be clean for you,’ insists St Luke. He clearly never tended a bathroom after a methadone addict did their worst. But inviting the unhoused into my home is my way of doing the Lord’s work. And, at present, my ledger needs more balancing than usual . . . But not now. I have important matters to attend to. Matters that require my undivided – and unobserved – attention.

‘No,’ I say simply, rising to leave. ‘This isn’t a good time—’

‘I can guarantee it’s worse for Andy,’ she interrupts. ‘And I think you’d be a good fit.’

Her tone both irks and impresses me. She’s firm – demanding, even. Perhaps our lady vicar isn’t all tambourines and tampons after all. I sit back down and nod my acquiescence to hear more.

‘It’s the usual story,’ she says, resuming her fluffy bunny timbre. ‘Single guy hard on his luck has fallen between the chasms in the system and found himself on the streets. No drugs, no crime – well, a little bit of hell-raising in his youth, but that’s long behind him.’

‘In his youth? So he’s not a youngster?’

‘No – he’s closer to your age,’ she says pointedly. ‘Middle-aged men can be a little . . . more challenging to place. People are inclined to treat the unhoused like pets – they only really want the cute puppies.’

She has chosen her words well and they hit their mark. A man my age on the streets. There but for the grace of God . . .

‘How long?’ I ask.

‘Two nights,’ she says, smiling with impending victory. ‘Unless you extend the invitation, of course . . .’

I hesitate and it’s all the encouragement she needs.

‘I saw you praying,’ she whispers. ‘God is good, of course. But He doesn’t half appreciate it coming back the other way sometimes.’

You see? Transactions. Everywhere.

This time she does make me smile. I’m in need of some goodness. She’s won.

I nod. The unfamiliar word gains momentum between my jaws.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll send Andy round,’ she says triumphantly. ‘I have a feeling you two will hit it off.’

‘This is an act of Christian charity, not a sleepover,’ I say, re-establishing the tone. ‘I will house him until Sunday, then send him on his way.’

‘Thank you, ,’ she says, an irritating smile playing on her lips as we shake hands.

‘You’re welcome, Reverend,’ I say back, ensuring my left eyebrow makes my opinion about the tattoo on her right wrist abundantly clear as I pass.

I wend my way back from church to my home on the other side of Flatford. Ours is a typical rural market town, the centre of the universe for denizens of days gone by, the middle of nowhere for us who live here now. I moved here eight years ago, seeking a nourishing slice of bucolic Hardyesque life. But even in the few years I’ve lived in Flatford, I’ve discovered one is more likely to encounter an indigestible slice of bacterial Steak Bake. The charming independent outlets that once formed the high street are gone, replaced by the commercial clones that can be found in any town across the land. The market that once offered farm-grown produce and artisanal cheese now proliferates mobile-phone cases and unseemly quantities of Tupperware. I’ve watched any shop with an iota of pedigree or history steadily close down – the butcher’s, the haberdasher’s, the deli. When I discovered that I was going to have to purchase my gorgonzola from the cheese counter in Morrisons, I nearly left town. When even that option was denied me, I briefly flirted with self-immolation. Flatford is a town trudging inexorably towards its own decay. But, then again, aren’t we all?

I arrive at my gate and walk up the driveway to my home. London money goes a long way in Flatford and my four-bedroom house would be an outstanding example of something I want as opposed to something I need. But the extra space allows me to take in waifs and strays. And it was the devil’s work to find anywhere else with sufficient parking for both the BMW and the Bentley, so we all have our crosses to bear. I do, have and will always live alone. Grateful as I am for being part of the Lord’s flock, I have precisely zero interest in my fellow sheep. God is always with me and He makes an entirely agreeable housemate. I turn the key in my door and step into the home I have contentedly created: it is elegant, it is expensive and it is empty.

Either Reverend McAlester had prefigured my response, or Andy was already nearby, as barely have I been home five minutes when the doorbell rings. I curse myself for my weakness with the reverend and brace myself for the resulting intrusion. I never know what StopGap will put through my door. I’ve faced tears of gratitude and threats at knifepoint. I could be opening my home to a refugee or a rapist. I have long since kept an unlicensed firearm in a locked box beneath the sink as a precaution, procured from one of Flatford’s more dubious denizens. The liberal left love to superimpose a narrative of nobility on poverty. But, in my experience, the needy are every bit as likely to be a saint or a sinner as the rest of us. They just can’t afford to do either particularly well. I sigh and replace my untouched wine glass. I rejoice in doing the Lord’s work. I just wish it kept more sociable hours.

‘Y’right?’ comes the cheery greeting from the silver-haired man at my front door. ‘ innit?’

‘It is,’ I reply imperiously. It’s as well to establish hierarchy from the offset. ‘You must be Andy.’

‘Good to meet you, mate,’ he chirps back, walking in without invitation. I draw some swift first impressions. His accent is north of here, although most places are. Liverpuddlian maybe? He smells clean – or at least, not unclean, which is a welcome start. I concur that he is indeed around my age, mid-fifties, although carrying rather less weight and rather more hair than I can boast.

He deposits his large backpack – also clean – in my hallway and puts his hands on his hips as he surveys my home. He whistles slowly.

‘Nice gaff you got here, pal,’ he says, more judgement than admiration in his tone. ‘Big place for a single bloke? You divorced? Or a poof? Don’t bother me either way. I’m just made up to have a flushing bog.’

I consider throwing him straight back out on the street. But a light in his eyes tells me that this is a test. He’s baiting me to fail. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

‘My house rules are simple,’ I state. ‘No drugs, no theft, no blasphemy. You will keep your room and my house clean and tidy, or you will be required to leave. Do you understand?’

The light twinkles in Andy’s eyes again.

‘Gotcha, boss,’ he says with a small salute. ‘But, Jesus Christ, I was hoping to nick a tenner for some skank.’

I almost laugh despite myself. The man is brazen. He is the recipient of a benevolent act of charity – and yet something in his manner suggests that he is doing me the favour. But his fearlessness interests me, which is more than most people achieve.

He walks into the lounge and surveys my extensive book collection, running his fingers along their spines. I can’t say I care for it. This is not a library. My books are not for public consumption. I haven’t read most myself, but they add an air of intellectual gravitas to my room, which feels fitting. Andy removes a tome from the nearest shelf.

‘Ni . . . Niet . . . Neo . . .’

‘Nietzsche,’ I correct him, trying not to wince as he manhandles my pristine leather-bound edition in his oafish paws. But part of my role here is to educate. ‘He was a philosopher. A nihilist. Which essentially means—’

‘“God is dead. And we have killed him,”’ Andy quotes effortlessly, without opening the book from which the words originate. ‘Surprised to find heathen attitudes like that festering near a man of God like yourself?’

He turns to me with another twinkle. Tonight is taking a most unexpected turn.

‘I can hardly defend the faith if I do not know the devil’s argument,’ I reply.

‘“A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything”,’ he quotes again. The man knows his Nietzsche. ‘“There cannot be a God because if there were one, I could not believe that I was not He.”’

He winks at me before throwing my book end over end and landing it perfectly back on the shelf.

‘I’m only having you on, y Boy.’ He winks. ‘I’m more of a Sartre man meself . . .’

‘“Hell is other people?”’ I quip back at him with a raised eyebrow.

‘“I am condemned to be free,”’ he retorts with a smile and a small bow. ‘Oooh – don’t mind if I do . . .’

He heads over to the kitchen area in my open-plan room – one has little need for doors when you live alone – and starts searching through cupboards until he finds a stemmed glass. He places it heavily down on the counter before helping himself to some wine from my decanter.

‘Excuse me?’ I say, flabbergasted by his nerve. ‘I’ll thank you to take care of that. It’s—’

‘A half decent Primitivo,’ he confirms after a sip, holding the wine to the light. ‘If you’re going Italian, I prefer a robust Barolo, but it’s not bad. Although if you paid more than a tenner for this you’ve been had, -o.’

He stares at me with amused defiance. Another test.

‘It was ￡9.99,’ I reply. ‘Delighted you approve.’

A smile cracks his face wide open.

‘A man who knows true value,’ he says. ‘We’re gonna get on just fine, y. Now, could you take us to me room? And is it en suite, by any chance? I’ve got something brewing and it ain’t a pint of Best, my friend . . .’

He strolls deeper into my house as though he owns it. I raise my eyes to heaven.

Well played, Lord.

The wages of sin might be death.

But you’re repaying mine with Andy.

Robocoppers

Priya, Al, Tanya

Friday 28 October

17.02

Priya

Al? Where are you?

We’re in the Crown.

Come and see us.

Al

On my way!

It’s cost me an extra tenner and a Dominos for Casey.

(Plus the locksmith.)

But I need a drink!

Priya

I’ll get them in.

And read this.

Hattie gave an interview rather than a statement.

This is the transcript between her and Bob Alsorp.

He has got to be the worst policeman since Noddy. . .

HATITA HUGHES

RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date: Thurs 27 October: 4.47pm

Duration: 15 minutes

Location: 42a Mews Cottage, Flatford

Conducted by PC Robert Alsorp

Alsorp:

. . . and then I had to pull it out right there in front of the traffic warden! That’ll be a belter for the Facebook page!

Hughes:

[laughter] You are a one! Right then, Bobby my boy. Let’s get this show on the road. I’m due down the bingo. What do you need to know?

Alsorp:

Just need to dot the t’s and cross the i’s [inaudible] . Thanks for having me round. I think this thing’s working if [inaudible]. Right – light’s on – let’s hope for the best. First thing, need to get the rigmarole done . . . So Hattie, you understand that this is an out-of-custody interview?

Hughes:

I do. Although you’ve been trying to get me in handcuffs for years, Bob Alsorp . . .

Alsorp:

[laughter] Don’t you let my Nora hear you say that, or she’ll be next up on a murder charge! You’re not under arrest and you are free to leave at any time.

Hughes:

It’s me own bloody house, Bob. Where am I gonna go?

Alsorp:

Fair point. And I also need to caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.

Hughes:

I ain’t going to no court, so no problem there. Well, not for this, any road [inaudible] . . .

Alsorp:

Don’t go telling me that! And anything you do say may be taken down in evidence.

Hughes:

Don’t you go taking nothing down, PC Alsorp! I still remember you chasing me around you ma’s garden in the buff when we were nippers! Don’t need to see no more of your little truncheon.

Alsorp:

[laughing] You mind your lip, gal! Now, can you tell me what you remember of Monday night?

Hughes:

Well, I’ll hardly forget it in a hurry . . . It were a right bloody mess. I met with Stitchers—

Alsorp:

For the tape, the witness is referring to Claudia Stitchwell . . .

Hughes:

Yeah – her – and she wanted to chat about menus for the term. No idea why. I ain’t listened to a bloody word she’s had to say about it for twenty year and I ain’t gonna start now. She’d feed those kiddies gruel if it were down to her, the mangey old bat—

Alsorp:

Stick to the facts, Hattie.

Hughes:

That is a fact! Plain as the spots on your arse, Bob! Anyhoo, I’d been preparing egg sarnies – I don’t care what no one says, everyone loves an egg sarnie – and the tuna vol-au-vents (my own recipe). And, I’ll tell you this for free, your boys can check every inch of my kitchen – you’ll find more nuts in a convent. Anyway, I was putting out me savouries and Tanya was putting out her cake – bloomin’ Stitchwell turns up and nicks a bloody great slice before we’ve even finished laying out, the greedy cow – when dopey Andrews tripped over his own feet, knocking St Stitchwell’s special brew over and dropping Creepy Jesus in me vol-au-vents and Tanya’s lovely cake!

Alsorp:

Daft sod! Handsome lad, though. Reminds me of me back in the day.

Hughes:

Ha! You’ve always had a face like a bad dream, Bob Alsorp. Even your own mother used to put a blanket over your pram when you were a babe. Said you looked like [inaudible] .

Alsorp:

You’re yanking my plank!

Hughes:

My lips to God’s ears. She told my ma – and you know what that pair were like, thick as thieves . . . Anyways – the vol-au-vents were a gonner, so I had to make some more. The cake was a mess, but I fixed it up and Kiera came to help me clean up (although she made more a mess, smearing it all over me face, the daft mare) and we did a half-decent job even though [inaudible] so I sent her to take Stitchers a cup of tea. I went back to sorting out me vol-au-vents, before turned up banging and slamming around my kitchen like an oaf, trying to find the rev’s poxy wine. Apparently, madam was in a right state – couldn’t find her pa’s bible for the opening prayer, so I went to the office to help her look. Turned out it was in the wrong drawer, the dozy mare, so I calmed her down. She made me wait while she guzzled down her cake and tea and sent me on my way.

Alsorp:

What time would you say this was?

Hughes:

I dunno, don’t wear a watch do I? But not long before the thing started? Quarter past six maybe? But I wasn’t going to the speech – I heard enough of the old witch all day long, so I cleaned up and buggered off home to [inaudible] .

Alsorp:

Can anyone confirm what time you left?

Hughes:

No, you great melon . . . Actually, I did run into Kiera’s Matt on me way home, who brought me my handbag what I’d left in his shop like a proper dumdum. Gave me my bag and I went on my merry way. It was Monday. Corrie weren’t gonna watch itself . . .

Alsorp:

Right – interview terminated at [inaudible] . Thanks, Hats, appreciate your time. It’s all a bloody nonsense . . .

Hughes:

You’re telling me! And if you want to investigate summit, why not that tenner you owe me from the footie sweeps down the Crown? I’m adding interest if it ain’t in my purse by the weekend, you [inaudible] . . .

Alsorp:

It’s a fair cop! Thanks for this, Hats – especially when you’re the last person who’s gonna bump off old Stitchwell! It’s not like you’re gonna [inaudible]. Now how do you switch . . .