Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“Question four,” said the Reverend Roberts. “What is the shortest chapter in the Bible?”

“I don’t know,” said Israel. He turned to George. She was definitely wearing makeup. “The shortest chapter in the Bible? What do you think?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” said George with a slight pout. Israel thought, Was that a pout? She was definitely doing something with her lips. Like Dorothy Lamour.

“It’s a psalm,” said old Mr. Devine.

“Are you sure?” said Israel.

“Ach, ye’re an aggryvatin’ boy,” muttered Mr. Devine. “Of course I’m sure!”

“Yes,” said Israel, placatingly. “I’m sure you’re right. A psalm,” said Israel. “I was just going to say that myself.”

“Aye,” said Mr. Devine. “Which psalm?”

“There are a lot of psalms,” said Israel.

“Psalm 117,” said old Mr. Devine.

“That’s so funny! That’s just what I was going to say!” said Israel.

George looked at him and smiled.

She definitely smiled. At something he said. He couldn’t recall another occasion when she’d smiled at something he said. Maybe it was the beard.

“Question six,” said the Reverend Roberts. “What is the longest-I repeat, the longest-chapter in the Bible?”

“It’s a psalm” said old Mr. Devine.

“We’ve moved on, actually,” said Israel.

“It’s a psalm,” said old Mr. Devine.

“No,” said Israel. “We’re on the longest chapter in the Bible. Long-est.”

“It’s a psalm,” said old Mr. Devine.

“Everything is a psalm!” said Israel. “Psalm, psalm, psalm. It can’t possibly be a psalm.”

“Why not?” said Mr. Devine.

“Because we just put that for the shortest chapter.”

“Things vary in length,” said George.

“So I’ve been told,” said Israel unthinkingly.

“Are you being suggestive, Armstrong?” she said.

“No, no. No,” said Israel.

“Good,” said George.

Israel had never quite mastered the art of double entendre.

“Now. Maths,” said the Reverend Roberts.

“Oh no!” said Israel.

“Porches at the pool of Bethesda multiplied by the shekels of silver plundered by Achan, divided by the number of sons of Haman.”

“What?” said Israel.

“Let me repeat that for the hard of hearing, and those of you who didn’t go to Sunday school,” said the Reverend Roberts, who kindly repeated the sum.

“A billion?” said Israel.

“Ach,” said Mr. Devine, scribbling down figures.

“Zero?”

After more questions of a scriptural and mathematical nature-the number of daughters of the priest of Midian, the height of Nebuchadnezzar’s image, the weight of a talent, the length of a cubit-the Reverend Roberts announced a short break, when fish and chips were to be served, and there was to be a collection for a Romanian orphanage, and a rickety-wheel raffle for packets of Seeds of Samson and Sweet Shalom Smoothies, and Jacob’s Ladder energy drinks, and Linda Wei came boldly striding across to Israel’s table. Israel was on pint five. He was in great form. He was really enjoying himself.

“Linda!” said Israel. “Good evening! Or should I say perhaps Bon soir!”

Linda’s hand instinctively flew up and protectively patted her beret. Her face was set.

“Ça va?” said Israel.

“Mr. Armstrong,” said Linda.

“What is the weight of a talent?” said Israel.

“The weight of some our talents will be greater than others,” said Linda.

“Ah, very good,” said Israel. “I see what you’re doing there! Very funny. Seriously, you don’t know the length of a cubit, though, do you, even Mr. Devine here was struggling with that one.”

“No.”

“Oh well, not to worry. Who’s on your team tonight?” said Israel.

“You haven’t forgotten your appraisal meeting on Monday morning?” said Linda.

“Sorry?”

“Your six-monthly appraisal is scheduled for Monday morning. You haven’t forgotten about it?”

“Yes, I had actually.” He laughed, and then, realizing that Linda was not laughing with him, he added, “No. No. Of course I hadn’t forgotten. Only joking.”

Linda continued not to smile.

“No. Sorry. I mean, yes.”

“You have or you haven’t forgotten?”

“I definitely haven’t forgotten it, Linda.”

“Good. We have a lot to discuss.”

“As always!” said Israel.

“Probably more than always,” said Linda. “Given recent events.”

“Recent events?”

Linda leaned over to Israel. “Your unexplained absence. Leaflets promoting political parties. Maurice Morris.”

“Maurice Morris?”

“His daughter?”

“Sorry, Linda, I have-”

“Lending the Unshelved to the under-sixteens?”

“Sorry, I have-”

“I’ll see you Monday morning,” said Linda.

“Right,” said Israel. “Yeah, yeah.”

“First thing.”

“Oui. Oui. D’accord,” said Israel.

“Please do not speak French to me,” said Linda.

“That’s not what the girls usually say to me!” said Israel.

“Mr. Armstrong!”

“Sorry,” said Israel. “Just the…beret. I…”

“We are ready to resume, brothers and sisters,” announced the Reverend Roberts. “If you could take up your pencils, please.”

A hundred Tumdrum Presbyterians laid down their chips and took up their pencils.

“And we’ll start with a difficult one,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Just to get you in the mood. There are seven things that the Lord hates, brothers and sisters, seven that are detestable to him. Can you list them?”

“George W. Bush!” yelled Israel.

“Sssh!” said George, old Mr. Devine, and a dozen others.

“Sorry,” said Israel. “U2?” he said more quietly.

George punched him. But not in the usual punching him way she had. This was more of an affectionate, rabbit punch kind of a punch.

“Haughty eyes,” said old Mr. Devine.

“What?” said Israel.

“A lying tongue.”

“Are you making this up?” said Israel. “How do you know all this sort of stuff?”

“Hands that shed innocent blood.”

“Quite right.”

“A heart that devises wicked schemes.”

“George W. Bush. See, I said.”

“Feet that are quick to rush into evil.”

“There. There!” said Israel. “I’m right.”

“How many have we got?” said old Mr. Devine.

“Hold on.” George counted them up. “Five.”

“We need two more,” said Israel.

“Oh, well done. That’s the only question you’ve answered correctly all evening,” said George.

“A false witness who pours out lies,” said Mr. Devine. “And a man who stirs up dissension among brothers.”

“Bingo!” shouted Israel. “Housey housey!”

“Thank you,” said the Reverend Roberts.

The evening wore on.

“What seed did manna look like? Was it (a) coriander, (b) mustard, (c) cumin, or (d) peppercorn?”

“What part of King Asa’s body was diseased? Was it (a) his hands, (b) his bowels, (c) his stomach, or (d) his feet?”

“What about his di-”

George punched him a little harder that time, and Israel’s chair tipped back, and the last thing he remembered of the evening was lying on his back, George standing over him.

“The ferret is mentioned in which book of the Bible?”

At precisely seven o’clock in the morning, as every morning, except on Sundays and Christmas Day and when he was away golfing in Turkey or in Spain, Maurice Morris sat down to breakfast, freshly shaved and eau de cologned, hair neatly combed, and wearing a red pullover and blue blazer, a reflection of his profound broad-mindedness. He had all of the papers laid out on the vast granite breakfast bar before him, and coffee in his bone china cup, and just a lick of un-salted butter on his granary toast; he was going to stay trim if it killed him; he wasn’t going to go down the traybake route. He had the big wall-mounted HD plasma screen television on, with the sound muted-he liked the lady who did the news in the mornings, even though she was a little chubby, and maybe even a little old to be doing the whole breakfast news on the sofa thing, but there was just something about her that gave him a kick, he was addicted to her, the slight sense of unpredictability in the way she moved, which reminded him of someone-and he was also listening to BBC Radio Ulster. He never missed the local news headlines. Knowledge was Power. That was another one of his mantras. He’d thought about having them all painted up on the wall, to remind himself: a kind of inspirational Wall of Positive Thinking. He could maybe get them mounted on boards: YOU ARE 100% RESPONSIBILE. FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION. FEEL THE FEAR AND DO IT ANYWAY. But his wife wouldn’t have allowed it.