James Craig: Nobody's Hero

He was, she acknowledged, her gift from God.

Elma Reyes was well on the way to heaven when there was a knock at the door. She tried to ignore it but, fatally, Harry hesitated. As his fingers stopped their insistent probing, she immediately growled, ‘Don’t stop.’

‘You want me to get that?’ Harry mumbled.

‘No, no,’ she gasped. ‘Keep going.’

‘Elma?’ The knock was sharper this time, more insistent. ‘Are you in there?’

‘Shit.’ Elma felt Harry’s hands slip over her backside as he stepped away from the table. With a sigh, she rolled over, giving him a full view of her goodies, and reached for a fresh towel.

Embarrassed, Harry looked down at the stains on his shirt. ‘The door.’

‘I know. I heard it.’ You’ve never tried to fuck me , Elma thought sourly as she slipped off the damp massage table. She tried to stare him down, demand that he contemplate her nakedness, but he wouldn’t catch her eye. I’ve not even seen the remotest sign of a boner. Not even a lick of those thin old lips of yours. What in the world is wrong with you, man? Are you gay or somethin’? How can that possibly be? Didn’t you want to screw those white women who took you to court for tryin’ to touch them up?

The third knock was louder still.

‘Who is it?’ she shouted, giving in to the inevitable, finally wrapping the towel around her diminutive frame.

‘It’s Jerome.’

‘Uhuh.’ Elma glanced at Harry, who was now busy cleaning his hands with a handiwipe, and rolled her eyes towards the heavens. The Reverend Jerome Mears was Elma’s star turn for the Miracles Conference. It had cost her fifteen grand, plus expenses, to get him over to London for this one single appearance – a ridiculous amount of money, but a sum she deemed it worth paying if it ended up helping catapult the Christian Salvation Centre into the big league of international worship.

Billed as America’s leading healing evangelist, Jerome Cameron Mears III came with an impeccable pedigree. Voted Texan Church of the Year in three of the last seven years (a record), the Mears Ministry had taken twenty-first-century churchgoing to a whole new level. In its digital database were lodged thousands of documented cases of believers who had been cured of a broad range of ailments and injuries, thanks exclusively to Jerome’s hotline to God and the power of his preaching. According to his promotional literature contained in the Ministry’s online Media Pack, there were also ‘at least eleven documented cases of people who have been raised from the dead’ as a direct result of the Reverend’s blessing.

To date, Elma Reyes could not claim to have cured anyone of anything, never mind brought a parishioner back from the dead. On first reading about Jerome’s claims, the streetwise South London girl in her had been doubtful as to their veracity. Even allowing for the fact that she was dealing with a bunch of Americans, the language of it all struck her as odd. At least eleven cases? How could you not be sure of the number? Surely if there was anyone else out there who had been reanimated as a result of your silver tongue, you would know about it?

Before handing over the down payment on the Reverend’s fee, Elma had toyed with the idea of asking to see his ‘documentation’. In the end, however, she decided that such a request would have been demeaning to their professional relationship. As her dear, late father – a thirty-year veteran of the 171 Tabernacle and the Forest Hill bus depot – used to say: doubt, scepticism and an empirical-based approach to life were the way of the dullard and of the apostate. And, God knows, there were enough of both of those in the world already.

Stifling a yawn, Elma made no effort to move towards the door. ‘What is it that you need, Jerome?’

‘Can I have a word? We should talk.’

‘I’m kinda busy right now.’ Elma reached for her glass and took another mouthful of wine. ‘Can I come and grab you in ten?’

‘It’s kind of urgent.’

Elma sighed. ‘Okay, okay. Hold on.’ Feeling deeply unsatisfied, she padded across the room and flicked open the lock. Pulling the door open she waved Jerome inside.

‘Come in.’

Following her through the tiny hallway, the Reverend sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘You havin’ a party?’ Resplendent in a bespoke yellow MacLeod dress tartan suit, he looked like a refugee from children’s television. The suit had been created by Lewis amp; Hayward on Savile Row; Elma knew that it had cost more than two grand, but it made the man feel good and that was what counted. Plus, it would go down a storm back home.

London, however, was a different matter. Elma frowned. ‘Are you wearing that on stage?’

‘Sure.’ Jerome’s grin grew so wide, it looked like it might eat his entire face. ‘Ain’t it great?’

I’m gonna need some sunglasses , Elma thought.

Looking her up and down, the American did not seem that impressed. ‘Are you good to go?’

‘Just getting myself in the zone,’ she said defensively.

‘Hm.’ Jerome nodded at Harry, who avoided his gaze.

I’m never gonna come now , Elma thought miserably. ‘Harry . . .’

Finally realizing that the session was over, the masseur blew out the candle, made his excuses and quickly left.

As the door clicked shut, Elma tried to smile at Jerome while he took in the details of the chaotic scene. ‘I need to relax before a performance.’

‘Indeed.’ The Reverend smiled lasciviously. As a man who had been arrested in a hotel room not unlike this one with two fifteen-year-old girls, a quart of Jack Daniel’s and three grams of cocaine (scented candles were not his thing) just before his keynote address to the 2013 Jesus Gets You More conference in Atlanta, Jerome knew exactly what the woman meant. Performance anxiety was a terrible thing – you couldn’t let it bring you down or someone else would take your place in the spotlight in the blink of an eye. God suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder just the same as everyone else. ‘Gotta be at your best when you hit that stage.’

‘That’s right.’ Elma belatedly became aware that she was feeling more than a little drunk.

‘Gotta be all loose.’ Jerome waved his arms around like a dancing jellyfish. He liked to think of himself as God’s answer to Charlie Sheen; he did the sinning so that his grateful flock didn’t have to engage in any of that unfortunate behaviour themselves. If others took a similar approach he was cool with that. As long as he got the balance of his fee, he was not going to judge a small-time player like Elma Reyes one way or the other.

Elma waved the wine glass in front of her face. ‘Fancy a drink? A little loosener before the show starts?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’ Hands on hips, Jerome stood in the middle of the room, looking not unlike a middle-aged Eminem gone badly to seed.

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’ The preacher stepped over to the window in order to let out a small but surprisingly pungent fart. ‘I don’t want to sound a note of alarm,’ he drawled, laying the Texan accent on thick for the Brit woman, ‘but we are due to start quite soon and the crowd out there,’ he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, ‘is still rather thin.’

And you’re worried about the rest of your money. Holding her towel closed with one hand, Elma grasped her wine glass firmly in the other. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time.’ She tried to force a smile on her face. ‘People here arrive late.’

‘You tend to do things differently here in England,’ Jerome mused, not exactly happy about it.

‘Exactly. The general assumption is that we will start at least half an hour late.’