A Song for Issy Bradley (24 page)

“Whoa, Zippy.”

He took a step back; he was breathing heavily and she realized she was too. He
definitely
liked her. He couldn’t kiss her like that and not like her. Maybe he even
loved
her—she felt as if she might burst into song, the way they do in musicals and Disney movies. It
was suddenly easy to imagine what it might be like to take all her clothes off in front of a man and let him touch her everywhere, not minding at all about being modest. It was easy to envisage how she might one day walk the tightrope between sin and love without falling off, how it could be wonderful and not wicked.

She wanted to say
“I love you,”
the words were right there, all warm and ready in her throat, when it occurred to her that the only thing better than being kissed by Adam would be for Issy to be alive, and remembering Issy made her sad, so she made a little joke.

“You’ve got to marry me now, you dirty sandwich licker.”

Adam’s eyebrows shot up and he pulled a horrible face, as if marrying her was the worst thing he could possibly imagine. Then he hurried over to Jordan Banks’s back door and held it open.

“It was a joke,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t respond. He pushed past the dining-room crowd and went straight upstairs. She followed him as far as the hall but stopped beside the bottom stair. A few moments later, Lauren came down.

“Adam said you want to go. Are you OK?”

She nodded and dawdled as they approached the front door, glancing over her shoulder, hoping he would reappear on the stairs.

The roll-out bed isn’t even a little bit comfy but it doesn’t matter, there’s more important stuff to worry about. Maybe the blond girl was waiting upstairs for Adam, perhaps he wrapped his arms around her, told her she was nice and broke all sorts of commandments. What if he dies unexpectedly, before he has repented? He won’t go to the Celestial Kingdom, he’ll have to wait in the Spirit Prison until he is judged and then he’ll have to spend Eternity in one of the lower Kingdoms, without a wife or any family, forever. She scrubs at her cheeks with her pajama sleeves, she’s got to stop thinking about miserable stuff—Adam’s not likely to die for a long time.

She rolls onto her side and hugs a big dollop of duvet. She has ruined everything with her scary, desperate joke
—all agony, no hope
. He’ll never love her now.

Cabbage and fish—the smell gusts out like a big fart when Brother Rimmer opens the front door.

“Well, you’ve got a face like a line of wet washing, Alma Bradley.”

Course he has—last Saturday he had to clean the chapel and today he’s stuck being an odd-job man. Al shouldn’t be here at all, he should be playing football with Matty and the rest of the team.

Brother Rimmer tuts and shuffles back carefully—he could do with one of those reversing alarms: beep, beep, beep. He is the widest person Al knows: normal at the top, with a droopy neck and sloped shoulders, but his waist, oh, it’s
tremendous
, as if all of his fat has slipped down to his middle, where it hangs like a massive ring doughnut.

The hall is decorated with jagged-edged pictures of the prophets torn out of the
Ensign
and Blu-tacked to the wallpaper. Mum says Brother Rimmer is a
character
. On Fast and Testimony Sundays he likes to wobble up to the pulpit and say weird shit. Once he said if everyone prayed at the same time they’d generate enough energy to power a lightbulb.

“Come in, come in.”

Al follows Brother Rimmer into the living room.

“Sit down there, lad.”

He perches on the edge of a grubby pink velvet sofa with tassels along the bottom. Brother Rimmer lifts his colossal cardigan out of the way and sits on a swivel chair next to his computer.

“I bought this after Sister Rimmer died,” he says, “with the compensation money.” He pats the computer as if it’s alive.

Sister Rimmer had a hip replacement and then she died. Brother Rimmer sued. Everyone knows because he often mentions it in Testimony Meeting, although he never says how much money he got.

Next to the computer is a special keyboard with wide white keys that looks like it was designed for partially sighted people, but Brother Rimmer probably needs it for his fat fingers.

“This computer has given me a whole new lease on life,” he says as he switches it on, like he’s in an ad or something. “Did you know that the Interwebs were created so people can trace their ancestors and do their Temple work?”

Al knows he should let this pass, but he’s fed up. “They told us at school that a bloke called Tim Berners-Lee invented the Internet.”

Brother Rimmer chuckles. “I expect the Holy Ghost prompted him to do it—Tim whatsit
and
God.” He taps his nose with his finger as if he has just revealed a Top-Secret Fact. “Do you want to see my family history?” He opens a Word document. “Look here,” he says. “Look what I’ve found out. I’m related to the royal family and they’re related to Jesus through the kings of Scotland, see? And the kings of Ireland and the Viking kings, are you following me? And here we’ve got the kings of Israel. If you go back further, I’m related to Noah and then Adam. There you are, lad. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I like to surf the Interwebs and find things out. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use my noodle.”

Al sniggers.

“So, shall we get to work, then?” Brother Rimmer heaves himself to his feet and motions to Al to follow him. He heads into a poky kitchen with funny, old-fashioned, boxy units in a horrible shade of green, then he opens the back door to reveal a large garden,
covered in knee-high grass, dandelions, and other flowers Al can’t name. It’s going to take hours and hours to mow.

On the left side of the garden there’s a garage with a rusty-looking up-and-over door and a window and door in its side.

“Is that where you keep your lawnmower?”

“Oh, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not too bothered about the grass.
‘And God said let the earth bring forth grass
’—who am I to argue? There’s more important things to be getting on with.” Brother Rimmer waddles out into the garden.

“Come on,” he says. “Keep up!”

When he reaches the garage he pulls a set of keys out of his cardigan pocket. He fumbles for a moment before slipping the right one into the lock. The door opens and there is a warm waft of wood and something sharp and tangy that reminds Al of the stuff people paint on their fences. Brother Rimmer turns on the light and steps inside.

Al follows. He scans the space: ancient lawnmower, a couple of toolboxes, a high-backed armchair, and several shelves loaded with canned food—mushy peas, corned beef, and peach slices. In the middle of the garage something is covered by a massive sheet.

“Put the wood in the hole, lad.”

“What?”

“Close the door!”

“Oh, OK.”

Once Al has shut the door, Brother Rimmer swoops the sheet away, as if he’s doing a magic trick, and Al is disappointed. Underneath there’s just a wooden
thing
. A sort of big box on wheels.

“Well, what do you think of that?”

Al can see he’s supposed to be impressed, but he isn’t.

“It’s a handcart, Alma Bradley, a genuine, handmade handcart. I built it myself and you and I are going to restore it.” Brother Rimmer sinks into the armchair. “You aren’t the most miserable person I’ve ever seen, but you look like him. Come on, lad! Open up the big
toolbox. Unclip it just there. You want the sandpaper sheets. The thickest one, that’s right. Now rub along the wood in the same direction as the grain. Look for the grain—it’s like a tide—see which way it’s going, and rub.”

Al brushes the paper along one of the cart’s long arms. The scratchy noise makes his hair stand on end.

“That’s right! Take your jacket off and put some muscle into it. Here, give it to me, I’ll look after it for you. Know why I made the handcart?”

“No.” Al’s arm is already beginning to ache.

“It’d certainly come in handy if the prophet said it was time to return to Zion, wouldn’t it, eh? We used to talk about it a lot, when Sister Rimmer and I first joined the Church—the gathering of the saints.”

“But they had planes when you joined the Church, didn’t they? So you wouldn’t need a handcart.”

“Course they did, I’m not that old! But all sorts’ll happen in the Last Days. What if you needed to flee and there weren’t any planes left? I’ll tell you what you’d do; you’d pack your belongings and your Food Storage in this old girl. Then you’d pull her to Liverpool, where you’d hop on a boat to New York and trek to Utah, just like the pioneers.

“Keep rubbing, that’s right. Once you’ve done that arm, come round here and do this one. Not long ’til the Second Coming now. Have you been watching for the signs of the times?”

“No.”

“ ‘No man knoweth the hour,’
but the righteous will recognize the signs. Do you know what it says in my Patriarchal Blessing? It says I’ll live to see it.
I’ll see the Second Coming!
How about that, then?”

Al shrugs. People have been waiting for the Second Coming for two thousand years. It probably won’t happen. It’s just something to talk about, like England winning the World Cup.

“Every nation will gather in Jerusalem to see Jesus appear on the
Mount of Olives and destroy the wicked people who don’t believe. He’ll roast them like crackling and then he’ll bring peace to Earth. And I’m going to see it all. Have you had your Patriarchal Blessing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno.”

“So you don’t even know which of the ten tribes you’re from? You should get it, lad. It’ll set your whole life out on paper and let you know what’s to come. Once you know what’s coming, there’s no need to be scared.
‘If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear.’
 ”

“The stuff about people being roasted sounds pretty scary to me.”

“Course it isn’t, it won’t be happening to you. Do you know your Articles of Faith?”

Al had to memorize all thirteen Articles of Faith when he graduated from Primary to Youth. Mum bought him a packet of football cards for every article he memorized, but he can’t remember any of them now.

“Give us number ten.”

He clears his throat.
“ ‘We believe …’ ”

“Good guess! They mostly start with ‘We believe,’ so you were pretty safe there.
‘We believe in the literal gathering of Israel and in the restoration of the Ten Tribes; that Zion will be built upon the American continent; that Christ will reign personally upon the earth; and that the earth will be renewed and receive its paradisiacal glory.’ ”

“Oh, yeah.”

“ ‘Come to Zion, Come to Zion! For your coming Lord is nigh!’ ”
Brother Rimmer sings the words of the hymn in a thin, reedy voice. “Do you know where the ten tribes are?”

“No, um—are they lost?”

“I’ve been researching it on my computer and guess what? They’re inside the Earth.”

Al stops sanding. “What? Alive? And inside the Earth?”

“That’s why no one’s found them. Airplanes aren’t allowed to fly over the North and South Poles. You know why? It’s where the openings are. And it’s why you can’t see the Poles properly on Google Earth.”

“Maybe you can’t see properly ’cause everything’s, you know, dead white?”

“There’s an expedition planned for next year, to the North Pole, just above the Arctic Circle, where the sea isn’t level anymore. They’re going to search for the opening. I’ve made a donation.”

Al shakes his head. Real life isn’t exciting enough for some people. You can tell them amazing things, true facts like Zidane was never caught offside in his whole career or Beckham scored a goal against Chelsea that traveled into the back of the net at 97.9 mph, and they don’t care.

“You shouldn’t send money to anyone; you have to treat people online like you’d treat them in real life—that’s what they say at school. If someone knocked on your door selling stuff, you’d tell them to go away, wouldn’t you?”

Brother Rimmer laughs. “Course I wouldn’t,” he says. “How do you think I joined the Church in the first place? The missionaries knocked on my door and I said, ‘Come in.’ ”

“Oh.”

“I’d never met anyone from America before. America was
big
back then and people actually liked it—Elvis Presley and the Everly Brothers, Oldsmobiles, Cadillacs—very exciting. Sister Rimmer and I weren’t much older than the missionaries. When you’re a convert, like me, you never forget
your
missionaries. Elder Nielson—could’ve eaten an apple through a barbed-wire fence with those big white teeth—and Elder Riter.

“Sister Rimmer wasn’t having any of it at first. But then she read the Book of Mormon and when she prayed to find out if it was true, that was that. We joined the Church right away. We hadn’t been members long when Elder Riter gave Sister Rimmer a blessing because
we hadn’t had any children.” Brother Rimmer pauses to clear his throat.

“Keep rubbing, that’s right. When you get to the end, swap to the fine paper. Sister Rimmer fell pregnant. And we had our daughter.”

Al fetches the finer paper from the big toolbox. “I didn’t know you have a daughter,” he says.

“Our Andrea died. She drowned.”

Al’s hand drops to his side; he should say something nice to Brother Rimmer but he can’t think what, he can’t even borrow something nice that someone said to him when they heard about Issy ’cause they all spouted crap.

“She was about your age. We never had any others. Only her.”

Al rubs the handcart’s arms again so he doesn’t have to watch Brother Rimmer’s neck wobble sadly as he swallows.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Al rubs harder. He hates it when people say that. It makes it seem like Heavenly Father goes around killing children in order to teach their families a lesson.

“People are never the same after something like that. It happened to the pioneers all the time, you know. Have you seen pictures of Joseph Smith’s wife, Emma? She’s that miserable, you’d think they dropped a stitch when they knitted her face. But five of her children died, didn’t they? It leaves a mark. Changes people forever.”