“The Blue Book”

He leaned forward in the last pew, his head resting heavily on two clenched fists, eyes slowly, gradually, barely closing. He ran his right hand over the back of his neck. Still wet. It had been raining. Cold rain. Rain that dulled the body. It was better to not feel than to feel each stinging, pricking drop. The sky was deep, and the rain dropped onto street from its depth. And endless recession of water into the sky and an endless stream of water against the church roof. The funeral had begun an hour ago. Roy was a nervous thinker. Expansive, though. “I’m a bloody cliche. Back fucking row of the church, wet, dirty, doubting. I pulled this right out of a damn movie. A cheap crime novel. I could write the scene now. ‘I walk through the buildings, steep, sheer cliffs graying, darkening, now colorless as the moon rises towards the crest of the sky and the fog filled the tight spaces above the street, a hazy sea filling the tight spaces between the buildings that seemingly leaned closer together as they stretch higher. My cheap boots splash among the dark water pooled between the street stones, a result of the seemingly endless and omnipresent rain and flat black clouds of the past weeks. Even now a light drizzle melts into the smoky fog to make sight almost impossible save for the bluish light from the rose window in the front of the church.’ A damn cliche. Death is always so damn cliche. We all come back to the church. Hug Pastor Harnish. ‘Last time I saw you you were ye high.’ ‘I know, I’ve drifted away. Glad to be back though.’ ‘We are here to celebrate her life, not mourn her.’ ‘Well said indeed, Pastor.’ Crying when Aunt Megan called with the news. ‘So damn sad, ‘innit? So sad.’ Cliche again. Saw Uncle Lee, all the cousins. The book in my hand feels more and more comfortable by the familiar face. Hmmm, less cliche. It’s nice though, I guess. To be back, same church, same book in my hand. Oh I remember wearing those letters of the cover, thumbing over them as a lad. Anxious, restless for Sunday school to be over then. Lost the L-E. Ha, didn’t I have a little pious phase after that. Rubbed the I-B right off listening to Pastor every week. Then just thinking. The Pastor even joked about that didn’t he. ‘Couldn’t kick you out of the classroom all those years ago, can’t force you in now, huh Roy? And you’ll be at the pulpit?’ He never was very funny. Was that why I stopped going? I hope not. Oh good lord, I hope not. I think it was Ryne. I know what he would say now. “Throw ‘at litt-el book in tha river and let’s do some bidness.’ He was never much for faith. ‘In this game, gotta trust but verify. Clever, ‘innit. Churchill’s little diddy, that one.’ Ryne wasn’t one for accuracy, either. ‘Yesterday, my troubles seemed so far away.’ ‘That’s a one from Sinatra,” he liked to say. Ah, what a thing to be thinking about now. Ryne and music and quotes. Papa was gone and now Gram too. How much she had done for me. Wakefield had been rough. I was without this damn book. Gram was there, when I was inside and when I got outside. This crucifix they’ve given me is so cold. Gold, hard, thin, Jesus’s body so hollow, so dead. It was blessed, they said. It’s no more than a trinket. It might as well be a little Buddha, one of those cheap green ones they sell in Chinatown on London with a $3.99 sticker on the bottom. Gram was more. Just more. More than I am. It’s all on me too. He’s calling me up now. ‘And now Victoria’s grandson has a few words to say.’ Not a good time. Really shouldn’t even have come. Running late anyway.”

Ray stepped outside. It was still raining.The rain was less heavy now. The sky had turned from a brutal evening black. There was more blue. He began to think again. “What changed? Why am I back? The church, the book, the words, it’s nice. All very orderly. The Catholic Church is still Catholic, that’s for damn sure. And isn’t that how I like it. ‘Holy, Holy, Holy Lord.’ ‘Veni, Sancte Spiritus… Veni, Sancte Spiritus.’ Pretty and orderly. I’m out here alone. I need some order. How did Jenny put it back then? Things were good then. Worst of it was that she had me pinned. Knew who I was. Always half-mocking wasn’t she? That’s why it didn’t work. Bollocks. Hated that bloody passive-aggressive shit. She liked to describe me in her writerly way. ‘I’m a tiny black pebble on the southern shore, blown by the wind into the air. Beaten by the air, dragged along the ground. I am eroded to the core. My core is soft, a few grains of sand barely connected. I am where I am taken. I land in a church, on a road, by the beach. I am kicked about by schoolchildren, grounded by car tires. I am indeterminate, floating. The wind determines where I go. The wind determines me.’ Maybe she was right. She always could write. That didn’t help her love. Damned sure didn’t help me love her. At least I’m alone now. Free to work. Don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Gram knew all about my work. She never did like it but at least she understood. Jenny could never know. Maybe that was rough. So little honesty. Doesn’t matter now. Work’s easier when one’s unattached. Just stay attached to the book.”

He was back at the bar. The rain, just a drizzle. It had let up. The funeral, the eulogy he never gave, are distant memories. The rain was lighter and the church seemed a world away. It was just down the block. The rain had been so total, so encompassing before the service. Everything seemed different now. It couldn’t be the same world. Gram was gone. But in this world, the world without rain, she wasn’t being buried now. This world was warm. Henry’s Tavern. Back home, in truth. “It’s still dingy. No one notices me in here. The two leather jackets huddle in the corner. Two guns one the table. That would seem damn brazen elsewhere. Not here. A few pounds and cards on the table at a bar. Routine. Bottles on the table. Fine. A few guns on the table. Routine at Henry’s. What am I drinking tonight? What would Gram have me drinking tonight? She was a Jack and Coke woman. She’d probably not like me skipping out on the funeral. With the eulogy to give and all. So something strong for me. Real strong. ‘A pint and a scotch. That’ll do, bartender.’ New guy behind the bar. So it has been a while. Mass and alcohol. What am I, Irish? Slow down, Roy. Look. Think. Find the guy. ‘Henry’s. 10 PM. New Job,’ said the note. Couldn’t be the old Arsenal shirt in the middle of the room. Too calm, too happy. This is real life shit. People get nervous about life and death. Especially taking a life and making it a death. The ponytail at the end of the bar? He’s hammered, so no. The black shirt and black watch to my right. Of course. He’s sleek, moneyed. Sleazy though. He meets a lot of people. Most love him. Some hate him. he’s ambitious. A politician, maybe. Needs people out of his way. I tap him on the shoulder. He shakes my hand, smiles. A real smile. So he will be relieved when this is over. Hands me an envelope. Money and a name. Smart, clean. I bring in the jobs now. Ryne still does the work, though.”

Three in the morning. No more rain, just water. Puddles and humidity. The darkness outside the church was profound. Just like anything outside or inside the church. At least for Roy. “How had Ryne known? He told it all. Must have know the guy from Henry’s. This was a political. These blasted politics. Have some damn respect for tradition. For faith. Damn it all, I make my money off these politics. Stop complaining and get to work straight away. Another election. Didn’t know Harnish was politically active. Never mentioned it to me. But so conservative? And so popular? Surprising. He was a charismatic one, though. Made me feel comfortable at the funeral last night. Took him ten minutes to convince me to speak. I barely had time to think. I can see how he could be dangerous. A whisper here, a little God talk there and he might get the Catholic vote all fired up. No matter to me. Haven’t voted in decades. No politics between me and the book. Would only blur the lines. Huh, doesn’t the government always pays well. Especially the Party. All those tax dollars to use. Must be worth the money. Quiet the opponents, get more of it next time around. Makes sense. ‘Focus, Roy.’ ‘I got it, Ry. Be quiet.’ I always got like this during a job. Right before the hit. The mind wandered. A coping mechanism, I’ve heard. Wrong, I say. I’ve got the little blue book to cope. I’m right with it and right with God. And I had been right with the Pastor. Probably not so much anymore. Still, why cope? My mind just wanders. Can’t help it. Last time, we were after a mayoral candidate in Bristol. We’re at his office door. Ryne’s impatient as always. ‘C’mon Roy, get at it.’ My tool was in the lock. Just a twist and we’re in the office. One shot, job done. No sign of forced entry, no trace of Roy or Ryne. Trouble is, I’m sitting there thinking about my first job. Alice and I were done. This was before Jenny. The book was still in my life. I was at Mass on Sundays, reading the book all the time. Still had to make money somehow. He told me later about why he picked me. ‘Easy. Sit in the back pew. Find the poorest, strongest bloke on his way out. You believe in the book. You’ll sure as hell believe whatever I tell you. I’m less of a bullshitter than that preacher. And I got more money than he does.’ That’s all it was. I looked sad, looked poor. A week later and we’ve offed Ryne’s ex-wife. He couldn’t pay anymore child support. He had to kick me in the back of the head before I snapped out of it and opened the door. The rest is history. Literally. The mayor’s death was in the papers. Anyway, Pastor Harnish sleeps in a little room in the annex. Down the center aisle, around the altar, through the back door. I’m kicking open the door, the Pastor pops awake. Ryne pulls the trigger and its over. Someone in the capital wins an election by a few more points now. I pay my rent for another three months. Ryne just gets a fix. Ryne’s voice ‘Got ‘im. Look at you, Roy. Back in church, back in bidnes. All rainbows and sunshine now, ‘innit Roy? Say, you still carrying that book about withca? Maybe you could fill in for that poor preacher man.’ ‘Fuck off Ryne. See you for the next job.’”

Late morning. The rain gone, a rare sunny day in Blackpool. Roy sat up in bed, no trace of a hangover, even less regret so early in the day. He gave the book at his bedside a tap. He was working on the B now, its flaky cheap golden print crumbling away from the leathery, deep blue cover. So he drove. East out of Blackpool. Out of Blackpool was the important part. The B was nearly gone. Soon Roy would be working on the blue cover. His thumb would turn blue. The sun shot into the windshield, the glare distracting from the road. It was the kind of heat that could melt a book cover and burn a face. It was hot. “A good sign. A good omen. Another bright, sunny, faithful day. Not that they’re common. Not in the past few years at least. The norm from now on, though. Past Preston, past Burnley, past Bradford, Leeds. Past Beeston and Barnsley and Worksop and Lincoln. Isn’t there a little tune to that? Mum loved to sing it. Screw it. Too rattled to remember. It’s been like this for a while. Can’t remember the good times. Just the bad ones. The killing and the book. Johnson, Smyth, Doncaster, Blair, Canter. The names run through my head. Names handed to me on a slip of paper. Payment delivered, the job done. How could I do it? How could I do it and read the book and go to Mass? It’s all doubt. Ignore it. It’s me and the book now. The gold letters are gone. We’ve been together a long time. We’ll be fine. Jolly. Just have to wait for a new job.”