‘Not great. Last hook… there that’s done.’

Hortense fairly bounced away from her and walked into the hall to open the back door to Ryan.

‘But Gran, why does he live-’

‘Well, you’re going to have to eat up dis marnin’ – feed a fever, starve a col’. Deez tomatoes fried wid plantain and some of las’ night’s fish. I’ll fry it up and den pop it in de microwave.’

‘I thought it was starve a fe-’

‘Good marnin’, Mr Topps.’

‘Good mornin’, Missus Bowden,’ said Mr Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off a protective cagoule to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. ‘I trust you is almost of a readiness? We’ve got to be at the hall on the dot of seven.’

As yet, Ryan had not spotted Irie. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he did it formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in a coma. Irie could only see half of him from where she stood: a red fringe, a bent knee and the shirt cuff of one hand.

But the voice was a visual in itself: cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work done upon it – missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and all delivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.

‘Fine mornin’, Mrs B., fine mornin’. Somefing to fank the Lord for.’

Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his head and spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Irie forward and then shooing her back, uncertain whether they should meet at all.

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps, it is, an’ I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, you know, but I just got a pin an-’

‘But the Lord ain’t interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he Mrs B.?’ said Ryan, slowly and painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot. ‘Jehovah is in need of your soul.’

‘Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot,’ said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticated carnations. ‘But at de same time, surely a Witness lady don’ wan’ look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord.’

Ryan frowned. ‘My point is, you must avoid interpretin’ scripture by yourself, Mrs Bowden. In future, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord’s? And myself and my colleagues amongst the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse…’

Ryan’s sentence faded into a general Erhummmm, a sound he was prone to making. It began in his arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the final shiver of a hanged man.

‘I don’ know why I do it, Mr Topps,’ said Hortense shaking her head. ‘Sometime I tink I could be one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman… I feel like the Lord talk to me in a special way… It jus’ a bad habit… but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyan keep up wid all de rules and regulations.’

Ryan looked out through the double glazing. His face was pained. ‘Nuffin’ changes about the word of God, Mrs B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is just pray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date. Erhummmm.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps. I do it day and night.’

Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. ‘Now, did I ’ear you say plantain for breakfast, Mrs B.?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to han’ dem over to de chef.’

As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.

‘Now, dis is my granddarter, Irie Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear.’

Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was no response from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden he seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereas Irie saw nothing, not even a type, not even a genre of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quite unique, redder than any red-head, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.

‘She’s – she’s – Clara’s darter,’ said Hortense tentatively. ‘Mr Topps knew your mudder, long time. But it all right, Mr Topps, she come to live wid us now.’

‘Only for a little time,’ Irie corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr Topps’s face. ‘Just for a few months maybe, through the winter while I study. I’ve got exams in June.’

Mr Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China’s terracotta army, he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.

‘Clara’s darter,’ repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper. ‘She might have been yours.’

Nothing surprised Irie about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: Ambrosia Bowden gave birth in an earthquake… Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy… false teeth in a glass… she might have been yours…

Half-heartedly, with no expectation of an answer, Irie asked, ‘What?’

‘Oh, nuttin’, Irie, dear. Nuttin’, nuttin’. Let me start fryin’. I can hear bellies rumblin’. You remember Clara, don’t you Mr Topps? You and she were quite good… friends. Mr Topps?’

For two minutes now Ryan had been fixing Irie with an unwavering stare, his body held absolutely straight, his mouth slightly open. At the question, he seemed to compose himself, closed his mouth and took his seat at the unlaid table.

‘Clara’s daughter, is it? Erhummmm…’ He removed what looked like a small policeman’s pad from his breast pocket and poised a pen upon it as if this would kickstart his memory.

‘You see, many of the episodes, people and events from my earlier life have been, as it were, severed from myself by the almighty sword that cut me from my past when the Lord Jehovah saw fit to enlighten me with the Truth, and as he has chosen me for a new role I must, as Paul so wisely recommended in his epistle to the Corinfians, put away childish things, allowing earlier incarnations of myself to be enveloped into a great smog in which,’ said Ryan Topps, taking only the smallest breath and his cutlery from Hortense, ‘it appears that your mother, and any memory I might ’ave of her, ’ave disappeared. Erhummmm.’

‘She never mentioned you either,’ said Irie.

‘Well, it was all a long time ago now,’ said Hortense with forced joviality. ‘But you did try your best wid ’er, Mr Topps. She was my miracle child, Clara. I was forty-eight! I taut she was God’s child. But Clara was bound for evil… she never was a godly girl an’ in de end dere was nuttin’ to be done.’

‘He will send down His vengeance, Mrs B.,’ said Ryan, with more cheerful animation than Irie had yet seen him display. ‘He will send terrible torture to those who ’ave earned it. Three plantain for me, if you please.’

Hortense set all three plates down and Irie, realizing she hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, scraped a mountain of plantain on to her plate.

‘Ah! It’s hot!’

‘Better hot dan lukewarm,’ said Hortense grimly, with a meaningful shudder. ‘Ever so, hamen.’

‘Amen,’ echoed Ryan, braving the red-hot plantain. ‘Amen. So. What exactly is it that you are studyin’?’ he asked, looking so intently past Irie that it took a moment before she realized he was addressing her.

‘Chemistry, biology and religious studies.’ Irie blew on a hot piece of plantain. ‘I want to be a dentist.’

Ryan perked up. ‘Religious studies? And do they acquaint you with the only true church?’

Irie shifted in her seat. ‘Er… I guess it’s more the big three. Jews, Christians, Muslims. We did a month on Catholicism.’

Ryan grimaced. ‘And do you have any uvver in-ter-rests?’