I said, ‘St Peter (d. 64)?’
He just swore again. ‘Don’t remind me. It wasn’t the nicest way to go. Put your address on the back of there, you’ll be besieged. I promise you. Every tin-shaker in Christendom will be on your doorstep. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m infallible.’
I actually had written our address on some of the envelopes, but only a few.
‘Is this yours?’ He was holding up a key.
It was the key to the old house. I normally kept it on the windowsill.
‘Jointed pin tumbler. Engineering perfection that. The drum action is miraculous. I’m the patron saint of keys, you know. About this money . . .’
‘It’s stolen.’
‘I know. I am the patron saint of keys and locks and security arrangements in general. I know it’s hot.’
‘Doesn’t that mean we should give it back? But if we do, they’ll burn it. So that’s bad too, isn’t it? I keep trying to do good but everything’s messed up.’
‘You’re stressed. I’m stressed. We’re all stressed. This is my portfolio, right – like I said, keys, locks, security. On top of that – fishermen, popes, Rome . . . I am run off my (swear) feet. I’m supposed to mind the gate too, you know. I see everyone in and everyone out.’
‘Do you really? Everyone?’
‘Yeah. Why? Was there someone you were looking for?’
I said, ‘Well . . .’ and then I changed my mind. I said, ‘No. It doesn’t matter.’
He looked at me and sat on the end of the bed. ‘I’m going to tell you something now I’ve never mentioned to anyone. Didn’t mention it to Luke or Mark or John when they were asking. Just kept it to myself. But . . . it’s true. Are you listening?’
And then he told me the story of the feeding of the 5,000. I didn’t like to say it was fairly well documented and widely known. He talked about all the people following Jesus and listening to him and how Jesus never planned anything, and how every time Jesus got hungry he acted like this was a completely unexpected development. ‘He wouldn’t put a scarf in his pocket if he was climbing Everest,’ he said. ‘And he definitely didn’t bring a picnic for these people. The police said there were 5,000, but I reckon there was twice that number, easy. And they were all starving. D’you know what he did?’
‘Well . . .’ I didn’t want to spoil his story but I had to admit, ‘Five loaves and two fish.’
‘No. You see. I knew you’d say that. That’s what everyone said afterwards and I’ll tell you why they said it – guilt.’
‘Sorry. What?’
‘A little kid came up to him – about your size. His name was – I’ve forgotten. I still see him sometimes. Anyway, he came up with these loaves and sardines and Jesus blessed them and passed them round. He wasn’t trying to do a miracle, he was just one of those people who thought everything would be all right, you know. Anyway, so he passed these sardines, and the first person he passed them to passed them on. Know why? Because he had a honey cake and a piece of lamb hidden in his purse. So he passed the fish on and sneaked the honey cake out and made out he’d just taken it off the plate. And the next person, he had a pocket full of dates, so he did the same – sneaked one out, passed the plate on. And so it went on. The truth was, every single bastard one of them had food with them, but they were all keeping it to themselves. Hidden away. Every one of them looking after Number One. And they would have starved where they stood rather than let anyone see. But as the plate came round with the loaves and the fish on, they all got their own food out and started to eat and, as they ate, they started to share and then it began, the biggest picnic in history. And the plate went all the way round back to Jesus and this kid – I’ll think of his name in a minute – and it still had the fish and the loaves on. And Jesus was a bit taken aback, but when he looked up (he’d been talking all the time) he could see that everyone was eating. So he said, “What happened?” and I just said, “A miracle.” Because I didn’t want to bad-mouth anyone in front of him. I was always bad-mouthing people and he hated it and it was turning into a nice evening. And at the time he didn’t say anything, and I thought I’d fooled him, but now I see it was a kind of miracle. The best kind. Because all those people had all they needed. Except something – I don’t know what you’d call it – courage, maybe, or grace. And then this little kid. He stood up and suddenly everyone there got bigger. They were all filled with it and they were there for hours, talking and laughing and drunk on this stuff – this grace or whatever. A little kid stood up and was ready to be generous and that’s all it took. One little kid. He wasn’t planning to save the world. He was planning lunch. He just did the right thing at the right time. One little kid and a plate of fish, and 5,000 people sorted. And that’s according to the police. Like I said, it was twice that, easy. Do you understand what I’m talking about?’
‘A bit.’
‘I’m talking about you.’
‘Now I’m really lost.’
‘Look, I can’t say too much. Because there’s free will and all that to think about, but I will say this. See this key . . .’
It was the key to our old house.
‘Miracle of the lockmaker’s art this. See it? Keep it with you. Keep it safe. I think I can say that without going too far. Keep it with you. Keep it safe.’
15
It was the big night. We all had to go round on tiptoe backstage so that no one could hear us. Anthony and I looked out through the curtains. The hall was full of parents, all perched on tiny chairs, nearly all pointing video cameras. At the back we could see Dad trying to squeeze past everyone to get into some spare seats. Dorothy was with him.
‘What did he have to bring her for?’ asked Anthony.
‘You invited her,’ I reminded him.
Then it began. An angel from Year Four came and told me about Mary having the baby. Then we set off for Bethlehem, with all the other angels at the front of the stage singing ‘Little Donkey’. When we got to the far side of the stage we were hidden by the curtains. Mary got off and sneaked behind the inn, back to stage left, but Dave the donkey wouldn’t fit so I had to go out the side door, run through the foyer, dragging the donkey past the head’s office, and back in through the dining-hall doors.
St Joseph was waiting. He said, ‘That was terrific. You really put me back in there. Look . . . tears.’
‘Thanks. I mean, sorry if I upset you, but . . .’
‘No, no, catharsis, that’s what it’s all about.’
‘OK. Got to go. Got a cue.’
I was heading for the stage when Dave snagged on something. I looked back and there he was. The man with the glass eye had grabbed the donkey’s tail. I caught my breath.
He spoke very, very quietly. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘I’m the poor man.’
I nodded again.
‘I think you’ve got some more money for me, haven’t you?’
He looked over my head at the bag. I tried to move round so he wouldn’t see it. But he’d already spotted it. He reached out towards me. But the door behind him opened and all the angels came giggling out, followed by Miss Nugent.
‘Come on, Damian,’ she hissed. ‘You should be in Bethlehem by now.’
Glass Eye pulled back behind the locker, away from me and the bag. He didn’t want anyone to see him.
‘Damian! Come on!’ pleaded Miss Nugent.
I looked at Glass Eye and mimed, ‘Got to go,’ and went. Simple as that. I headed for the stage, surrounded by angels.
When I was back behind the curtain, Miss Nugent said, ‘And what on earth are you doing with that anachronistic bag on your back? Did they have Nike in the first century? I don’t think they did, did they?’
I didn’t know what to do. But Mr Quinn was there, to work the star of wonder (it was on a pulley). He said quietly, ‘I did tell him it was all right, Miss Nugent . . .’ and then he whispered something to her. She rolled her eyes but went off t
o play the piano.
The angels had to sing ‘Little Donkey’ again before me and Rebecca went back on. So I just had time to do one clever thing. Here’s what I did: I took all the straw out of the saddlebags and stuffed the money into them. Then I put the straw in my own school bag. I switched the money and the straw.
Then I went up to Mr Quinn and gave him my bag. He looked very surprised (and pleased). I said, ‘I don’t need it after all. Shall I take it to the cloakroom?’
He said, ‘Well, that’s great. No. I’ll take it back for you. Well done, Damian. Moving on, eh?’ And he ruffled my hair and took the bag.
I watched it go.
Then it was our turn to go on and knock at the doors of all the inns and ask if they had any room. It was the same door three times but a different innkeeper each time.
‘Have you any room?’
‘No, we’re fully booked. Don’t you know there’s a census on?’
I could just see Glass Eye standing behind Dad. I turned my back to the audience – which you’re not supposed to do – so that he could see I’d taken my bag off.
‘Have you any room?’
‘Not for the likes of you. Take that mangy donkey away from my hotel at once.’
I heard the fire door thud quietly as I knocked at the third inn door. I knew he’d gone off to look for the bag. He’d find it in the cloakroom. If he looked inside he’d see it was full of straw. What would he do then? Probably kill me.
‘Have you any room?’ I said, a bit faster than usual. ‘My wife is having a baby.’
‘Not really, but if you’re stuck you could bed down in the stable. It’s dry and warm at least.’
We went through the inn door. Rebecca said, ‘Oh, I thank you.’ Everyone said, Aaaaah. And camera flashes went off like sparklers. We sneaked behind the curtain.
Mr Quinn started yanking on the pulley to make the star of wonder cross the stage. The kings were supposed to follow it, singing ‘We Three Kings’. After the third verse (the one about myrrh) we were supposed to go back on. Except I had other plans. I was going to disappear with the money.
The singing started, ‘We Three Kings of Orient are . . .’ I had three verses before anyone noticed I wasn’t there. Three verses till I missed my cue. It was a three-verse head start.
The saddlebags with the money in were really heavy, so I just left them where they were, on the back of the donkey, and pulled the donkey after me down the corridor. I was going to go straight for the main doors. But I’d forgotten that all the angels were out in the corridor. I had to go the other way, past the head’s office and the cloakrooms. That’s where the bags were. Glass Eye might be there. I walked slowly, listening. The kings were already on to ‘Gold I bring . . .’ There, on the floor of the cloakroom, was my empty school bag and a pile of straw next to it. He’d already looked in the bag. He’d already know I’d tried to trick him. He’d already be looking for me.
I didn’t have time to change so I grabbed my coat from the hook and put it on over the St Joseph costume so I wouldn’t look so noticeable. Then I trundled the donkey off towards the main door. I froze. Mr Quinn was outside, smoking a cigarette. The kings were on ‘Frankincense to offer have I . . .’ Fancy Mr Quinn smoking. He must know it’s bad for you. Suddenly he dropped the cigarette, came inside and headed for the main hall. I dragged the donkey after me, out of the big doors, bouncing it down the steps, and ran across the car park. I was going so fast it nearly fell over on its side.
As I passed the school gates, I looked back. There was no sign of Glass Eye. He wasn’t after me yet. I legged it over the road and into the bus shelter. Miraculously, a Smart Bus was coming. There were a few people sitting up on the top deck. Their faces were all lit up in the square bus windows. They looked down on me like choirs of angels. I grabbed the saddlebags and climbed on board, leaving the donkey in the bus shelter.
I asked for a single to Smithdown Road. It was seventy-five pence. Then I realized that though I had thousands of pounds hanging over my shoulder, I didn’t have any change. I didn’t have anything smaller than a tenner. The bus driver just stared at me and said, ‘Seventy-five pence,’ again.
I patted the pockets of my coat. I didn’t want to open the saddlebags in case all the money fell out.
‘Can I sit down a minute? I think . . .’
‘You’ve come out in your costume,’ said the driver. ‘And your money’s in your kecks.’
I didn’t want to lie. Not when I was dressed as St Joseph, so I just said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Sing me “Little Town of Bethlehem” and I’ll let you off,’ said the driver as he pulled out.
I sat in the front seat and very quietly started singing. In the wing mirror, I could see the donkey’s head sticking out of the bus shelter, like out of a stable. I couldn’t see anyone following me. ‘The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight,’ I sang.
After all this was over, Dad told me what happened during the play. When it was time for my entrance, Mary came on but obviously I didn’t. She sat by the manger with nothing happening. Then she said, in a big loud voice, ‘This is nice and cosy, Joseph.’ She thought I was just behind the set. When I still didn’t come on, she said it again, only louder: ‘This is nice and cosy, Joseph.’ People started to giggle. My dad said he started to fret. I bet Glass Eye was fretting too, standing at the back. He was probably just about to go out after me. Mary went, ‘I SAID THIS IS NICE AND . . .’ and then she stopped. Someone did come on. It wasn’t me but it was someone with a big beard and robes and – this was what Dad said – a kind of glow. Everyone had been leaning forward but now everyone sat back in their chairs, like they were relaxing in front of a nice fire. Dad said it must have been Mr Quinn who’d quickly wrapped a blanket round himself and put a tea towel on his head. ‘He must have used one of those sticks you have when you go camping. You know, you snap them and they glow. Just like that. It was very effective. You couldn’t see his face properly, but he had this aura. I forgot to worry about you for a minute.’ I knew when he said that that it wasn’t Mr Quinn at all. It was the real St Joseph who had stood in for me so that even Glass Eye had to just stay and watch him. So thanks for that.
I got off the Smart on Smithdown Road and walked back down Panama Street for the first time since we left. A bizarrely bright star was shining straight through the tiny gap in the houses, lighting up the door of number 37. I put the key in the door, turned it like I used to and stepped inside.
Obviously I knew the house would be empty. I had helped empty it and no one had bought it. I knew it would be empty. I just didn’t know it would be that empty. It was the emptiest place I’d ever been. It was like waking up in the morning a bit late, hurrying downstairs and then discovering that the stairs had gone, that you’d stepped off into space. That’s what it was like, space.
It didn’t even sound like our house. It sounded like a submarine. And when I started up the stairs, with the saddlebags, it sounded like a giant drumming on the side of a submarine. I hurried to the landing and opened the airing-cupboard door. There were no towels or sheets inside, the way there used to be. But there was a long steel pole with a hook on the end, hanging on the back of the door. This was a special pole for opening the loft and pulling down the easy-store telescopic loft ladder. I took the pole and stood under the loft hatch. I tweaked the catch. The door dropped open and smacked the wall. The telescopic ladder rattled down, sounding like 10,000 tin parachutists hitting a corrugated roof. Then it stopped suddenly, the bottom rung swinging in mid-air just above my head. I touched the catch to release the lower half and another 10,000 , tin parachutists landed. Then it went quiet.
I hauled the saddlebags up into the loft. I’d never been up there. I’d seen Dad go up and down from time to time. I’d always wanted to know what was up there. Nothing. Even more nothing than in the rest of the house. Nothing and a big grey metal tank full of water. Every now and then you could hear a pinging drip of water. But that was a
ll. There was a space between the tank and the wall. I pushed the saddlebags into the gap and went back down the ladder.
I was just pushing the lower half of the ladder back up when I heard it. There was someone at the front door. I held my breath. It was OK. They couldn’t get in. I remembered what St Peter said about the key and slid my hand into my pocket to make sure it was still there. It wasn’t. I’d left it in the front door. I could hear it turning in the lock now. I raced back up the ladder and hauled it up after me. When I reached down to pull the hatch back up, I could hear someone coming up the stairs. I quickly pulled the hatch back into place and scrabbled over to the water tank, holding my breath. They were walking round right underneath me now, whoever they were. I tried to slide myself into the gap between the tank and the wall.
Suddenly the tank shook and thundered. Water poured out of it and into it like it was going to explode. I scurried away from it. Someone downstairs had flushed the toilet. I tried to control my breathing, which is probably what gave me the hiccups. I hiccuped once. Couldn’t believe it. Listened hard. The footsteps downstairs stopped. They’d heard – or thought they’d heard – something and now they were listening properly. I held my breath. There were voices and more footsteps. I hiccuped again. The footsteps stopped again. I pulled my St Joseph beard out of my pocket and put it over my mouth to stifle the noise. That’s when I heard the Harry Potter theme playing very close by. I looked around. The video mobile. The video mobile was in my coat pocket and now it was ringing. It was too late to do anything about it. Before I could even switch it off, the hatch of the loft dropped open. A cube of light punched into the loft. The telescopic ladder pitched up on its end, nearly hitting me in the jaw. It clattered down. Then stopped mid-air and swinging. Then someone undid the catch and it hit the floor. Then there was a moment of quiet. Then someone stepped on the bottom rung. I sat shaking, watching the top of the ladder quiver under the weight of somebody’s feet. Another step. Another quiver. No word. I hiccuped again. Then there were two steps very quick, one after the other. I tried to back into the shadow. Then the ladder shook again. A hand reached into the space. Then I saw the back of a man’s head. Then I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. Then the man turned to face me. And it was Dad.