“Erm…”

“Look at the Middle East, Israel. Israel, Israel. The war against terror. Bird flu. SARS. Soaring crime. I believe we are witnessing the beginning of the outpouring of the bowls of wrath, Israel.”

“Doesn’t sound good, certainly,” said Israel.

“When you look in the papers, Israel, isn’t all you see photos of people drinking and cavorting and in states of undress? Celebrities? Lowlifes?”

“Erm. I’m not sure about the paper thing, actually. Doesn’t it depend rather which…”

“The angels are pouring out God’s wrath.”

“Uh-huh,” said Israel, nervously.

And then Adam Burns broke off suddenly from his litany of wrath and woes, as though awakening from a trance.

“You say you’re a librarian?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask, does the library stock the Left Behind series?”

“I don’t think so,” said Israel. “I can always run a check for you.”

“My sense is,” said Adam, “that the forces of the secular state don’t want that kind of literature in the libraries.”

“Well, I’d hardly regard myself as an agent of the secular state. We have a very open policy on what’s admitted,” said Israel.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm,” said Adam, unconvinced.

Israel felt that the conversation had perhaps drifted away from where he wanted it to be going. He shifted in his tiny seat.

“Sorry. Just to get back to Lyndsay Morris.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“When was the last time she was at the club here?”

“It would be about a month or so ago, I think.”

“OK. And can you think of any reason why she hasn’t been back since?”

“I’m afraid I had to ask her to leave the Retreat.” Adam did his cough.

“Right. Why?”

“She was becoming rather…a problem.”

“Really?”

“It was a question of behavior.”

“Oh dear. What sort of behavior?”

“I’m afraid Lyndsay was self-harming,” said Adam Burns.

“What?”

“She was cutting her arms with razor blades.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s not uncommon, actually, among the young people we work with, Israel. More girls than boys.”

“Why was she self-harming?”

“Personally, I think it was something to do with home.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I believe, Israel, that I have what the Bible calls the gift of knowledge.”

“The gift of knowledge?”

“Yes. One of the gifts of the spirit.”

“1 Corinthians 12?” said Israel.

“Yes,” agreed Adam Burns, rather surprised. “That’s right. And I felt I had to ask to her to leave.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be-”

“It’s complicated, Israel. Lyndsay had become a part of our church group-”

“Kerugma?”

“That’s right. So she wasn’t just coming on Friday nights. She had become part of our fellowship. And when someone…breaks covenant with us within the fellowship we feel we have no choice but to defellowship them.”

“Defellowship?”

“That’s correct.”

“Sorry, I still don’t quite understand how a young girl who is self-harming would be breaking-”

“Let me put it this way, Israel. We believe that Jesus shed his blood in our place and that his was the perfect sacrifice. And so in self-harming we believe the young person is denying this once-only act of atonement. Do you see?”

Israel nodded skeptically.

“So,” continued Adam Burns, “persisting in this sort of behavior, we believe, is behaving in many ways like the priests of the Old Testament, who continually offered sacrifices that could in no way atone for their sins.”

“Right,” said Israel, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with Adam Burns’s logic.

“Which is wrong. It’s a sin.”

“OK.”

“Jesus wants to transform us, Israel. He wants to make us into his likeness. And if we resist that and continue to set our face against the Lord’s will for our lives, then I’m afraid it’s difficult for us to share fellowship with such a person.”

Israel smiled, falsely.

“The aim of Kerugma is not merely to proclaim the gospel but also to offer to one another mutual encouragement and edification in Christ. 2 Thessalonians 2:15.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where the churches are instructed to ‘stand firm and hold to the traditions which you were taught, whether by word of mouth or by letter from us.’”

“Yeah.”

“So, if we believers are part of the body of Christ, shouldn’t we be unified, as his one bride?”

“Erm…” said Israel, his voice strained and high. “So, basically, when you found out she was self-harming-”

“Persisting in self-harming.”

“Right. You then asked her to leave?”

“Yes.”

After thanking Adam Burns for his time, Israel left the community halls as quickly as possible. As he hurried down the street he remembered something his mother would sometimes say to him. “All Christians,” she would say, “are crazy.” He’d never quite understood what she meant.

He’d never been so glad to see teenagers hanging around on street corners drinking and smoking and shouting abuse.

21

Israel rang Veronica.

“Hi.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Israel.

“Oh, right. So, shoot.”

“What?”

“How are you getting on, Israel?”

“Fine.”

“What have you got?”

“I went to the Venice Fish Bar.”

“And?”

“I spoke to some people there.”

“Yes. And?”

“They thought Lyndsay was close to the owner.”

“Gerry Blair?”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“He’s married.”

“I know.”

“So how close is she?”

“They didn’t say.”

“God, well. That’s brilliant. We’re talking tabloid there.”

“Are we?”

“Absolutely! And what else?”

“I also spoke to her ex-boyfriend.”

“Who?”

“He’s called Colin. He spends all his time editing Wikipedia and playing computer games.”

“Computer nerd?”

“He was quite nice, actually.”

“Boring. God, I hope it’s Gerry Blair.”

“Anyway, he put me onto this guy who runs a sort of Christian youth group thing that Lyndsay used to attend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he thinks there were maybe problems at home.”

“What sort of problems?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Your interviewing skills are not that great, Armstrong, d’ye know that? You have to ask the supplementary.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.”

“Anyway, how did you get on with Maurice?”

“Fine, yeah. He’s quite dishy, actually.”

“Dishy?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything to go on?”

“Not yet, no.”

“So what do we do next?”

“I think I need to follow up some up of the leads we’ve established.”

“We?”

“Yeah. I’ll get on to the Gerry Blair angle and the computer nerd boyfriend-what was he called?”

“Colin.”

“Him, yeah.”

“Can’t I follow them up?”

“That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think you have the necessary skills, Israel. You’re more use to us out on the street.”

“Out on the street.”

“Yeah. I think you need to speak to Mrs. Morris, without Maurice there. See what she has to say about it all.”

“Can’t you talk to her?”

“D’ye want me to do all the work, Israel?”

“No.”

“Look, Maurice is going to be busy with last minute door-to-doors and what have you. I’ll keep an eye on him, and I’ll start on Gerry Blair as well. If you go and see Mrs. Morris-”

“What should I say?”

“Just tell her…I don’t know. Tell her you’re a librarian. That usually works, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But-”

“OK, Israel, sorry, got to go, thanks. Bye.”

Which is how Israel ended up the next morning ring ing the doorbell at Maurice Morris’s luxuriously appointed home, where there didn’t seem to be anyone in, and then wandering around the back of the house, toward the sea-where waves lapped up against the shore-and peering in through the windows of one of the many restored outbuildings, the old grain store, where he saw a woman lying on a sun lounger, smoking, wearing sunglasses, and which is how he ended up tapping on the window, and putting his head round the door, allowing a little rush of wind into the room, and saying-