Joe Treasure - The Book of Air

‘It’s a star of David, a Jewish symbol.’

‘Because I think I must be.’

‘But Cheryl was a Christian. I mean, seriously.’

‘Cheryl wasn’t anything. She just went along for the ride, and to protect me from my mother’s influence.’

‘But if your mother…’

‘Mum wasn’t Cheryl’s, not really. Cheryl adopted her. So you’ll remember who you are. That’s what Mum said when she gave it me. That must’ve been what she meant.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But what does it mean? That I’m descended from all those Old Testament people, those kings and prophets and high priests, those Israelites wandering in the desert?’

I can’t help laughing at the earnest way she says it.

‘And I was never meant to be praying to Jesus?’

‘Join the club.’

That makes her laugh too.

Reaching the road, I climb over the fence. Abigail follows and I help her down. She’s preoccupied, thinking about her mother I suppose, and the whole Jewish thing, and I’m wondering what it means, if anything, and whether she wants to talk about it. But turning to the church I see Simon on the tower looking down over the parapet. I don’t see any clothes on him. He holds himself against the cold and his little shoulders shake. There’s light from the window below him and the shadowy form of the monkey swinging on the bell ropes.

I run round to the gate and into the churchyard and see Django standing on the roof of the nave, straddling the ridge. He’s got his clarinet in one hand. There’s the bulge in his jacket where he keeps his Bible closest to his heart. He edges forward, moving westward towards the tower. The slates are bright with dew. The stained glass below him flickers with colour – not sunlight but candles. The altar must be covered in them. His foot slips and he recovers, arms out, holding himself steady with a little panting laugh of excitement.

With a few stray notes, the bells fade. The monkey runs out through the porch to meet us, then back inside the church. Up on the tower, Simon begins whimpering. He has his back to Django, but it’s obvious that whatever’s happening Django is controlling it. Simon is leaning forward, as if nerving himself to take more risk. I hear behind me Abigail’s sharp intake of breath. And I hear all the birds of the morning – a riotous clamour – and nothing now to disturb or silence them, no traffic, no tractor or chainsaw, no fighter plane, no road drill, nothing across the wide expanse of fields and woods and wasteland and distant abandoned streets – just birdsong. The air seems dense with the sound, but it’s as thin as ever. When Simon leans forward there’s nothing between him and the churchyard but a fifty foot drop.

Django’s laughter grows and he begins to shout. ‘Don’t be afraid, Simon. They that wait upon the Lord shall mount up with wings like eagles.’

Simon shivers and lets out another whimper. Then he takes a step up and he’s standing naked on the edge of the parapet. My insides react with a lurch as if I’d taken that step myself and was already falling. And I see how this is meant to end.

I make my voice as steady as I can, just loud enough to reach Simon without startling him. ‘Simon,’ I say, ‘step back away from the edge. Whatever he’s said to you, you don’t have to do this. Step back and wait for me.’

Django’s looking at me now, and his face is so full of joy I could punch him. ‘Consider not the things of old,’ he says, ‘For, see, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. Sorrow and sighing shall flee away and the tongue of the stammerer shall speak plainly.’

‘Leave him alone,’ I tell him. ‘You’re scaring him.’

‘I’m not scaring you, am I, Simon?’

Simon shakes his head, but his eyes are shut and his teeth are clamped together.

The window is brighter now, the medieval saints are stirring into life, and I see that it’s more than candles burning. Django’s built one of his bonfires on the altar and the whole of the chancel is ablaze.

‘Behold,’ he says, gesturing at Simon, ‘mine elect, in whom my soul delighteth.’ He lifts his instrument and plays a little upward run of notes. ‘I will cause the sun’s shadow to move backward on the sundial. Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thy righteousness shall go before thee.’

I don’t know if there’s a way to stop this without making it worse. I’m measuring the distance I’ll have to cover to catch Simon if he falls. Can I move now without disturbing his balance, without prodding Django into greater madness? Would I do better to go inside and up to the tower?

‘You shall be like a watered garden, Simon, like a spring whose waters fail not. Your descendants will rebuild the ancient ruins. You will be called repairer of broken walls, the restorer of paths to dwell in. All they that despised thee shall bow themselves down at the soles of thy feet.’

Simon is nodding his head, though his eyes are shut tight. He’s heard this before – he already knows what’s expected of him.

‘Rise on the back of an angel and be seen on the wings of the wind. Fly, Simon. Fly in the midst of heaven.’

Simon raises a foot and puts it out into space and I’m thinking the world’s about to end all over again. There’s no end to the ending of things. Our life is one long sickening plummet into loss and more loss. I hear footsteps in the grass behind me and a hum of distress, but my eyes are fixed on Simon. Whatever power Django has over him, Simon thinks he can fly, or thinks he has no choice but to behave as though he thinks he can fly. This is what I should have been attending to, only this – taking care of Simon. Because if Simon dies nothing makes sense.

A swallow swoops over the roof of the nave, a blackbird starts up nearby, and I notice the birdsong again that I’d forgotten to hear – a chorus of inattention and indifference.

My body reacts to the explosion. My eyes are shut for no more than a second, but when I next look Simon is gone. I heard a scrabbling sound and the thud of a falling weight, but see nothing now except the sun over the porch roof and the sheen of damp slates. From the neighbouring fields and woods all the birds have taken flight, flitting into the air or rising on slow wings.

Behind me Abigail is talking. ‘Maud,’ she says. She’s calm, but means to be obeyed. ‘Maud, give me the gun.’

I turn for a moment and see them, Maud staring in shock, the shotgun sinking in her arms towards the ground. Abigail has one hand on the barrel and the other round Maud’s back. Deirdre is behind them and Aleksy further off, still running. The monkey passes me, scampering through the grass towards them.

I turn back to shout Simon’s name and his face appears above the parapet. He makes the noise he makes before speaking. I see the effort, the motion in his neck and lower jaw. The first word comes out and it’s my name.

‘Don’t move,’ I tell him. ‘You’re all right. I’m coming to get you.’

I take the stairs two at a time and reach the top breathing heavily. He’s kneeling by the door, rubbing himself. ‘Uncle n-Jason,’ he says, ‘There was a bang. I hurt my mm-bottom.’

I take my jacket off and wrap him in it. ‘You’re freezing,’ I tell him. ‘You need to come home with us and sit by the fire and have some breakfast. Let’s see if those bantams have laid us any eggs.’

I see Abigail and Maud down among the gravestones, clinging to each other. The monkey’s chatter rises to a scream. He’s found Django sprawled beside the porch, a dark stain spreading around him on the grass. He clambers over the body, making noises of alarm, glancing back to see who’s with him. He pulls at the hole in Django’s jacket. White flakes come out of it and scatter on the ground. He pulls again and there are more flakes. I think for a moment that Django is stuffed like a toy bear. Then I see that it’s paper. The monkey is pulling the pages from Django’s Bible, which wasn’t quite thick enough to save him. The swallow soars up over the church, drawing my eyes across the trees until I lose it against the sun.