I Was Born for This(73)

‘Well, it’s a good murder location.’

I huff out a laugh and sit down in the pew opposite her. ‘I’m not gonna murder you.’

‘Exactly what a murderer would say.’

We catch eyes across the aisle and both laugh at the same time. The sound echoes around the empty church.

‘I used to come here with my grandad a lot. Like, before all the band stuff happened.’

Angel crosses her legs. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Everything sort of feels okay for a bit while I’m here. Like, I can just stop thinking about it all for a while. Nothing else really matters.’

Angel nods and looks away. ‘I know what you mean.’

She doesn’t say anything else, so I say, ‘D’you mind if I just … go and sit at the front for a bit?’

‘No, of course, go for it.’

I go to the front of the pews and sit and for the first time in weeks, months, I don’t know how long, reach out to God. He’s waiting. He always is. No matter how long I go, no matter how shit it all gets, at least I have one or two things waiting for me. God doesn’t care whether I have one pound or one hundred million. God doesn’t care if I make a mistake, if I fuck up again and again and again. God asks me, ‘How are you?’ and I just start crying. I try to be quiet but I can hear my sniffs echoing from the stone walls. God says, ‘Say something,’ and I tell Him that I don’t know what to say, and He says, ‘Anything you’ve got.’ But I just cry some more. God tells me, ‘Everything that happens is making you stronger,’ and I want to believe Him but I can’t. ‘I love you anyway,’ He tells me. At least someone does.

We exit the church and start trudging through the wet grass of the graveyard. I decide to stop and visit my grandma’s grave. The gravestone still looks relatively new compared to the huge old stones around it, despite it being over five years old now. Grandma didn’t see any of this band shit happen to me. For some reason, that makes me glad.

Across the churchyard and fields beyond, the sun is finally setting, though it’s almost impossible to tell through the rain.

‘Whoa, some of these are from the seventeenth century!’ says Angel. She’s walking around, reading all the gravestones, lighting them up with her phone torch. ‘This is amazing. You can’t even read some of the inscriptions.’

I look down at Grandma’s grave. There are some flowers laid there, a little dishevelled from the rain, no doubt put there by Grandad. Wish I had some flowers to add. All I have on me is a dead phone, my debit card and a knife.

Here lies

Joan Valerie Ricci

a treasured wife, mother and grandmother

1938–2012

I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from

all my fears.

‘What do you think about when you pray?’ I ask Angel.

She wanders over and looks down at Grandma’s grave. She realises suddenly what she’s looking at and stops moving.

‘Lots of things,’ she says, still looking at the grave. ‘Or sometimes nothing. It’s more about feeling than thinking. For me, anyway.’

I guess I’d say the same. But I don’t say anything.

‘Joan,’ she says, suddenly. She points at Grandma’s grave. ‘Your grandma’s name was Joan?’

I nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘Did you write “Joan of Arc” about her?’

I nod again. ‘Yeah.’

‘Everyone thinks it’s a shippy song about you and Rowan.’

I laugh. I want to cry. ‘Yeah.’





I’m teetering on the edge of sobbing but of course I don’t. I keep smiling at him and trying to keep things light. I think I want to sob just because I’m overwhelmed. Or maybe seeing Jimmy at his worst is making me think about my own life too much.

Gross. Don’t wanna think about that.

I’m starting to get kind of hungry, so when we arrive at Jimmy’s grandad’s house – an adorable brick bungalow with a huge front garden – I’m praying that Jimmy’s grandad is the sort of old person who will not let a young person out of their sight until they’re well fed.

Jimmy knocks on the door so loudly that I’m almost scared he’s going to smash the glass.

‘He’s a little bit deaf,’ he says in explanation, ‘and he always has the radio on.’

The door opens to reveal a very tall and thin elderly man. He reminds me immediately of some sort of headmaster character from an old film or an ageing university academic – he’s wearing quite a formal shirt and some trousers, what remains of his hair is slicked back, and his glasses are thick and rounded.

He looks at Jimmy, not even seeming to notice me, and his face lights up in the most incredible, unexpected smile I have ever seen.

‘Jim-Bob!’ he cries, and immediately pulls Jimmy into a warm hug. ‘Oh, Jim-Bob, I didn’t expect to see you this evening!’

‘My-my phone ran out of battery,’ Jimmy mumbles into his grandad’s shoulder.

‘That’s okay, that’s all right. You can come and see me any time. You don’t have to call beforehand.’

Jimmy pulls back, though his grandad keeps his hands on his shoulders. ‘So … I brought my … my friend Angel with me.’