Eric Brown - Kéthani

He laughed loudly at that and shifted in his chair in an exaggerated fashion.

“This horsehair underwear prickles the backside,” he said, and laughed again. He took another drink and then settled back with a reflective smile.

“Ah, you have a point, Andy. You have a point.”

Khalid bought a round.

“But don’t underestimate the human need for balance,” Matt went on, smiling his thanks at Khalid. “The conscious mind goes for the quick fix, but the subconscious knows that everything has a price.”

He held up his pint. “I was talking about diet. We now face the prospect of eternal life, but still the need for healthy eating exists in our society. The doctors say a little alcohol is good for the body, but how many heed the call and drink a glass of good red wine each day? The Hollywood stars that act as our new messiahs preach self-denial: they prefer the truth of lettuce and low sodium diets to the gospel of Timothy Taylor.”

He folded his hands as in prayer and looked to the ceiling and I started to laugh. Despite the relatively small quantities consumed, I think we were both farther along the road to drunkenness than we suspected.

“Maybe you have something there,” I said. “I feel guilty if I don’t devote at least an hour a day to practice.” I patted my battered cornet case, tucked safely on the seat next to me. “It’s not just that my embouchure suffers.”

“Puritanism is hardwired into the brain,” said Matthew. “Resurrection is not enough. Don’t underestimate the Church’s ability to adapt and absorb, Andy. We took the winter festivals and made them Christmas, we brought the marriage vows from the doorstep to the altar, we took the rite of the funeral pyre and made it into cremation.”

Khalid looked up from his pint and winked at me. “So how are you going to make the Kéthani your own, Matt?” he asked.

“The Kéthani are but tools to achieve God’s purpose,” Matthew said. “As are we all.”

I was stunned.

“Surely that’s not the papal line?” I said.

Matthew smiled. “Not yet,” he said.

Last orders were called, and conversation turned to a different topic.

The following evening I tramped through the snow to the draughty village hall. My way was lighted, once, by the shaft of light from the Onward Station as it beamed the remains of that day’s dead to the orbiting starship.

I had intended to have a word with Matt about what he’d told me at the bar the night before, that he thought he was being followed. That had to wait: as I arrived he was mediating a dispute between the band and Katherine Emmett. Davey, her mentally handicapped son, wanted to play the triangle in the orchestra, but the rest of the band was not happy about this. Naturally, all sorts of reasons were being given, except for the real one: we don’t want the dummy in the band.

“He keeps putting me off,” said Kelly Wrigley, resting her flute on her knees.

“He hits it too hard, especially in the pianissimo sections.”

“He doesn’t always keep time,” said Graham Leicester.

A lesser man would have pointed out that Graham didn’t always keep time either. But not Matthew. He gazed mildly at Graham and the noise of the complaints just drained away. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he spoke quietly.

“Graham, why are you in this band?”

Graham looked confused.

“To help raise money for the restoration fund.”

“Why else?”

A pause.

“I enjoy playing,” he said eventually. He was blushing.

Matthew stared at the band, the uncomfortable silence lengthening.

“Why are you here, then, Matthew?” asked Graham, gaining courage.

“For the same reasons as you, Graham, but I also play to the glory of God.” This reminded me of something Matt had once told me after a few pints: “You know Andy, Benjamin Britten said of J.S. Bach that to truly understand his music one must realise that it was all written to the glory of God.”

Now Graham gave a clever smile. “Shouldn’t the music sound good then, if it’s to the glory of God?”

Some of the other band members nodded their heads. Graham had scored a point.

“Of course,” said Matthew, and something in his tone meant that the nodding suddenly ceased. He spoke in his softest voice. “But even without Davey, will the music we make be perfect?”

Graham dropped his eyes and shook his head.

“Then let him play.”

The music resumed. Davey, thirty years old and like his mother not implanted, sat on a plastic chair at the back of the hall, enthusiastically, if ineptly, bashing away at big steel triangle.

Oh, and just in case I am giving the impression that Matthew is some sort of saint, let me point out that I saw him wince, just as painfully as the rest of us, every time Davey tapped off the beat.

By nine o’clock, the time we usually packed up, Matt was on a roll.

“That was good. That was very good…” He looked around us all. “But it could be better! Guitars, we need more energy. Stab out the chords. Keep them short! Dit! Dit Dit! Not der-der-der.”

It was a piece without piano accompaniment, and I sat out, leafing through the local paper and looking forward to a pint at the Fleece after the rehearsal.

The orchestra started up, and seconds later the music stuttered into silence as first one instrument and then another gave up the ghost.

I looked up. Matt seemed frozen, the pencil he was using as a baton poised in the air. He was staring over the heads of the orchestra towards the door to the kitchen and toilets. He looked shocked, shaken, and I turned in my seat to see what he was staring at.

“Andy,” he said, “would you mind terribly if I handed you the reins for a minute?” And so saying he dropped the pencil in my lap and hurried over to the door. He peered within, circumspectly, then stepped through.

I took my place before the bemused villagers. “Okay,” I said. “Bar forty-six, I’ll count three in…”

They played, and seconds later Matt reappeared. He entered the hall and looked around, then strode past us and moved to the front door. He was gone for about five minutes. I wondered if he’d seen an intruder and was about to call a halt and see if he needed assistance when he hurried back into the hall, thanked me and took up the baton. His hand, as I passed it to him, was shaking.

Ten minutes later he brought the rehearsal to a close.

I packed up, then caught Matt’s eye while he was in conversation with Mrs. Emmett. He seemed distracted, not himself, and he kept darting glances towards the kitchen door. I mimed downing a pint, and received his affirmative nod. While the others were packing up, I left the hall and hurried through the village, more than a little perplexed at Matthew’s odd behaviour.

The Fleece was a haven of warmth and inviting firelight.

Of the usual Tuesday night crowd, only Khalid and Doug Standish were present. Doug was a big, almost stereotypically burly, gruff police type, whose initial morose manner had mellowed, as we’d come to know him, to reveal a sensitive character with a dry sense of humour.

I secured a pint of Landlord and joined them by the fire.

A minute later the door blew open admitting a cascade of confetti-like snow and the red-faced figure of Father Matthew Renbourn.

Khalid waved him over. “Ah, ‘tis the Father, bejesus, and you’ll be having yourself a pint of the usual, I’ll be bound?” This hardly raised a smile from Matt.

Khalid went on, serious now, “Are you okay?”

Matt sat down before the fire. I gestured to Sam at the bar to pull Matt a pint.

“What is it?” I asked.

Matt looked from Doug to Khalid, and then at me. “You know I mentioned yesterday that I thought I was being followed?”