What Men Say (19 page)

On screen, a group of young people gathered in the dusk, holding aloft flaming torches as they filed along a path towards a large barn. “In accordance with the wave of religious fundamentalism sweeping America, they have adopted a stricter—some would say fanatical—moral code, demanding that the community take a more active part in carrying out the teachings of Christ as outlined by Thomas à Kempis and by the Bible. To this end, they have embarked on a series of increasingly violent actions which have split this small community and which now threaten its very existence. In tonight's
Open Eye,
we look at the young Americans who have become
Criminals for Christ.”

There was a reprise of the theme tune and Bridget said in a slightly sarcastic voice: “This is all very interesting but I'm not sure—”

“Shhh,” Tracey said rudely and, to Loretta's surprise, Bridget fell silent.

The commentary resumed: “The actions began four years ago with a peaceful picket of a bookstore in a nearby town selling material which the young people considered an affront to the teaching of Christ. They attempted to persuade customers not to buy magazines featuring Madonna, for example, and they also denounced the work of self-professed atheists like Gore Vidal.” A disembodied hand began tossing magazines and novels into the center of the screen, flames playing about their edges. “Soon the young idealists, frustrated by the indifferent response to their efforts, resorted to direct action. They invaded the bookstore, took down any book or magazine they considered offensive, and made a large bonfire in the main street.” The magazines were now burning merrily but the image faded and was replaced by what looked like a shopfront. The camera zoomed in to the words lettered in decorative glass on the window and Loretta let out a cry of recognition.

“Shhh!” the others exclaimed in unison as the commentary continued: “Encouraged by the publicity given to the public book-burning, the young people turned their attention to another target: the two local banks. Imitating Christ's expulsion of the money-lenders from the Temple, they launched a violent attack which earned them their nickname—”

“The Copycats,” Loretta and Bridget cried together, drowning out the commentary.

Tracey leaned forward and freeze-framed the screen, as smug as Loretta had ever seen him.

“The newsdesk secretary remembered seeing the film,” he explained modestly, sitting back on his heels. “By the time I got in she'd already rung up Channel Four and got the name of the company who made it.”

Sam leaned forward, picked up the wine and filled his glass. “This is the first time you've seen it, right? So you don't know—I guess we're all wondering the same thing, whether she's in it.”

Tracey shook his head. “I talked to the bloke who produced the film and he doesn't remember her. He said only one of them was there, one of the kids who were arrested, that is, and he kept well out of their way. Either that, or the elders warned him to lie low. They were very cagey about what happened to the others, apparently, and at least one of them was still in prison.”

“So that bit was true,” said Loretta, thinking back to that morning's lurid headline. “But the rest—”

“Yes,” said Bridget in a belligerent voice, addressing Tracey, who was crouching on the floor by the television, waiting to restart the film. “How come they got it so wrong? There's quite a difference between a bank robber and a religious loony who goes around chucking bricks through windows to protest about what's it called? Usury?”

Tracey lowered himself onto the floor, sitting with his legs apart and feeling for his cigarettes. “They used a stringer in the States, they don't have their own guy in New York anymore. The most likely thing is that the cops were sitting on the story and she got a second-hand version from someone who wasn't officially on the case. Either that or she sent over a garbled version and it was tickled up in the office. All that stuff's rewritten by the subs, you know.”

Bridget said: “Another illusion shattered.”

Tracey gave her a contemptuous look and Loretta, cross with them both, turned to Sam and said in a loud voice: “We still don't know, of course, what she was doing in Oxford, unless there's something about it later in the film. I suppose they
might
have followers over here but I haven't heard of them. Not that it's my subject,” she added, “Christian sects.”

“Oh.” Tracey sounded disappointed. “That's precisely what I was about to ask you.” He flicked ash into the empty grate and addressed Bridget and Sam. “How about you two? You know of any cults with American connections round here? I remember when I was at Ruskin they used to come round in twos wanting to know if you were saved—Jesus freaks, we called them.”

Loretta frowned. “Sure you're not thinking of the Festival of Light? Cliff Richard and Dana? My best friend at school had a Cliff Richard phase and she went to those dreadful concerts.”

“Mormons,” Tracey said reminiscently, drawing on his cigarette, “we used to get them as well. You could always recognize them by their short hair.”

“It doesn't go on so much these days,” Bridget said thoughtfully, forgetting her hostility to Tracey. “Though one of my students did get mixed up with those people who drive around in a bus. You remember,” she said, appealing to Loretta, “it was parked next to the Taylorian in St. Giles and two of them stopped us outside Boots. What are they called?”

Loretta remembered two rather aggressive young men in military fatigues who had tried to thrust religious pamphlets into her hands. “The Sons of God,” she said. “Are they American?”

“Sounds worth a look,” Tracey began but Sam interrupted: “I don't see the connection here. These guys
you're talking about, they're born-agains, right? These people”—he gestured toward the flickering TV screen—“these people sound more like the sects you get in places like Montana. They don't exactly go out begging people to join. It's, like, members only.”

Tracey shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. “OK, but if there's been a split . . . I mean, the whole
point
about the film is the kids have got pissed off. I know it's a long shot, but has anyone got a better idea?” There was silence and he added: “So how do I go about getting in touch with these Sons of God?”

Loretta said, not very hopefully: “The telephone directory?”

Bridget frowned at her. “How about looking in
Vade Mecuml
I'm sure it lists religious groups, Christian societies, that sort of thing.”

“Where do I get a copy?”

Bridget shrugged. “W. H. Smith's? Unless Loretta's got one?”

Loretta glanced towards her study. “I did, but I don't know where I would have put it. Haven't you seen it?” she asked, seeing Sam's incomprehension. “It's a student guide to Oxford, I usually get it for the list of restaurants. You know, if you want to know the best West Indian restaurant in Cowley Road, that sort of thing.” The reference to food jogged her memory and she looked at her watch. “Shouldn't we eat? After all, we know she—” She hesitated, realizing they had tacitly adopted this distancing mechanism when referring to the dead woman and feeling uncomfortable with it. “We know the—the victim isn't in it and we can always watch the rest later.”

“Thank
God,
” said Bridget, following Loretta's lead. She reached for her almost empty glass of Aqua Libra and nudged Sam, who was sitting beside her with a faraway
look on his face. “Come on,” she said, “food. Junior's getting restive.”

Loretta, who had never expected to hear arch remarks of this sort from Bridget, felt Tracey's gaze upon her as she stood up and deliberately avoided his eye. “Bring your glasses,” she instructed, picking up the bottle and moving to the door.

Downstairs in the kitchen she went to the hob, turned up the flame under the pasta cooker to bring it to a rolling boil and returned the tuna sauce to the neighboring ring. She lifted the lid and was favorably impressed by the color and aroma of the contents, which she stirred gently with a wooden spoon. A noise from the dining room made her turn and she was just in time to see the gray cat, poised on the edge of the table with a slice of prosciutto dangling from his mouth.

“Bertie!” He growled as she rushed towards him, leaping from the table with an awkward motion which upset a bowl of fresh figs and sent them crashing to the floor. Loretta watched his tail vanish under the descending cat flap, leaving behind the spilt fruit and a ragged slice of meat which was all that remained of her lovingly prepared first course.

“Four basic course modules of two terms each—Shakespeare, The Novel, Major Poets, and Use of English. Is that agreed?” Bernard Shilling, head of the English department, removed his glasses and surveyed his staff. There was no verbal response from the lecturers slumped around the rectangular table in their usual postures of indifference, resentment and despair; Bernard looked down at his notes, creating an interval of silence which was quickly broken by murmurs of discontent and the noisy repositioning of chairs.

“Major Poets,” Digby Richards whispered, nudging
Loretta in the ribs as a preamble to one of his bad jokes. “I told you it was political.”

“Digby? Did you want to say something?” Shilling pounced on the one member of staff he disliked as much as Loretta.

“These Major Poets, Bernard,” Digby responded innocently, exaggerating his South African accent. “I was wondering if you could give us an indication of who they might be.”

Bernard's bushy eyebrows shot up. “I'm sure we have the expertise to draw up a list, when the time comes. In consultation with the sponsor, of course.”

“Of course.”

Bernard felt in his waistcoat pocket and took out an elaborately engraved fob watch. He frowned, shook it and held it to his ear, unwilling to admit that it had stopped working and he had no idea what time it was. It was a curious fact, much discussed in the department, that his relentless drive towards what he called “modernization” had been accompanied by a sartorial regression to dandyism which expressed itself in tweeds, brogues and side whiskers—a subconscious admission, Digby said, that the driving force behind all the jargon was a complete capitulation to Victorian values.

Bernard put on his glasses, glanced furtively at the pink Swatch watch worn by the woman on his right and shuffled his papers. “If that's all, I'd like to move on to the subsidiary modules which, on the face of it, present more of a problem. I've examined all the teaching currently done in the department and I have to say that in an ideal world I would find some of it hard to justify—very hard indeed,” he finished, removing the glasses again and glaring at Loretta and Digby. “The days are gone,” he continued, “when educational institutions could afford to construct a curriculum based haphazardly
on the research interests and career ambitions of individual members of staff . . . Indeed I would go as far as to say that what has gone on in certain university departments in recent decades amounts to a fraud on the young people entrusted to them and on the taxpayer.” He stopped, daring the glum faces round the table to mount a challenge.

“In the modern world,” he intoned, “with fierce competition for limited resources, I consider it no bad thing that we should all be asked to justify ourselves, to explain why Subject A should be taught rather than Subject B when Subject A is esoteric and of no obvious relevance. To that end, I have drawn up a questionnaire for each of you”—he reached for a pile of A4 sheets on the desk behind him—“which Mrs. Whittaker has kindly photocopied and I shall now pass round. You'll see that you are asked to provide a brief description of the courses you currently teach, the number of students who've opted for each course in the last three years, a breakdown of the class of degree obtained by those students, and an explanation of the relevance of the subject in the light of current educational parameters.”

There was silence for a moment as the questionnaire was handed from person to person and the nine lecturers—the entire staff of the English department except for two lucky individuals who happened to be on holiday—absorbed its contents. It resembled a flow chart, Loretta thought, with boxes to be ticked and key words underlined; she picked up a pen and, heedless of the consequences, scribbled the title of her course on Edith Wharton, Henry James and the American novel followed by the words “useful background reading—Merchant-Ivory films.”

“Not now, Loretta,” Bernard said testily as she began filling in a second box. “I'm assuming some of you will
have to check with Mrs. Whittaker if your own records aren't up to date. Yes, Michael?” He turned to deal with a query from the other side of the table and Loretta threw down her pen, recalling the rumor which had flashed round the department at the end of the summer term to the effect that departing third-years were going to be asked to evaluate the performance of their lecturers on a scale of one to five. It was Bernard's attempt to show his enthusiasm for the government's new, consumerist approach to education, Digby told her at the time, but she had refused to believe him. Now it seemed all too likely that the rumor was true, and that she was at the mercy of kids like the pouting blonde twins who had unaccountably signed up for her Virginia Woolf seminars. Loretta remembered her mortgage and had to stifle a moment's panic, telling herself she wasn't out of a job yet, but Bridget's suggestion that she stand in for her at St. Frideswide's during the autumn term suddenly seemed like a lifeline.

“Bernard,” a voice said tentatively, and she looked up to see Chloë Calder sitting back in her chair, holding the questionnaire away from her so she could read it over the top of her half-moon glasses. Chloë was in her fifties, clever but unworldly, and Loretta listened with dismay as she proceeded to spring the trap Bernard had set for opponents of his commercially sponsored two-year degree course. “Bernard,” she said again in her hesitant upper-middle-class voice, “Chaucer
has
no industrial or professional application. That is, one might argue, one of his chief virtues.”