They Came From SW19 (19 page)

As I got closer to the raised platform at the far end of the church, it was as if the sound was pushing me forward. The sound was shaking the roof and rocking the floor. It was rapping in my back as I was pushed past Roger Beeding and Roger de Mornay and closer and closer to the eight steps that led up to the low wooden platform on which was the gigantic cross and the large black-and-white photograph of Rose Fox.

It was only when I was actually up there and the music had stopped, and I found myself looking down at a hundred or so expectant faces, that I remembered the magnitude of the task in front of me. I had not only to Testify as to how, where and when the Lord Jesus had entered my heart but also to give the punters a detailed account of the innermost secrets of my heart. What I felt about life, my immediate family, the church and the wider issues facing society. Such as the full-scale invasion of sw19 by extraterrestrial beings.

I did not feel confident of my ability to do any of these things. But I was dead sure that the last item would take some getting round to.

‘Hi, guys!’ I said, eventually, ‘I’m Simon Britton. Remember me?’

This got a laugh.

People do laugh in meetings of the First Church of Christ the Spiritualist. In fact, they do just about everything short of brushing their teeth, but this was what I would call a really
good
laugh, if you know what I mean. I felt they were really pleased to see me. They were genuinely amused.

Suddenly, Testifying didn’t seem such a big deal. You know? I was just going to tell them about all the things that were on my mind, about my dad and about Jesus and about aliens taking over the . . .

I looked round at the faces. They didn’t look ready for aliens. Not yet. Not in sw19, anyway. I must work round to the subject gradually.

‘Basically,’ I went on, ‘I’m fourteen. You know?’

There was another laugh. A sort of happy, let’s-all-be-friends-there’s-no-problem kind of laugh.

‘And’, I went on, doing something a bit casual with my hands, ‘being fourteen can be a hass! Right?’

‘Right,’ said a small, fat man in the front row whom I could not remember ever having seen before.

Sooner or later I was going to have to turn this conversation round to Jesus Christ. I figured it was better to start with Jesus. They knew where they were with Him.

‘I’m at Cranborne School,’ I said, ‘and I’m doing GCSEs in two years’ time.’

This didn’t go down quite as well. I could feel them getting restive.

‘In biology, chemistry and physics,’ I continued, ‘geography, IT, English, French, Latin, Spanish and maths. Which is not my best subject!’

They did not want to know this.

‘But’, I said, ‘I haven’t come here to talk about my exam prospects!’

‘No,’ said a voice from the back of the hall, ‘you have not!’

I flung my arms wide.

‘Right, too right!’

What had I come here to talk about? Jesus Christ.

‘Jesus Christ!’ I said.

‘Amen,’ said Quigley, rapidly.

‘Amen,’ said everybody else.

This seemed safe ground. It wasn’t too committing. It was giving everyone a lot of pleasure. And it was certainly an improvement on my thoughts about the core curriculum. I tried it again.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Amen,’ said Quigley.

‘Amen,’ said everyone else.

Maybe I should just go on doing this all night. You know?

‘Jesus Christ!’ I said.

There was a pause.

‘Amen,’ said Quigley, rather grudgingly.

‘Amen,’ said everyone else.

I was going to have to get to the point.

‘The other day, my father died.’

They liked this. A sort of appreciative hush fell upon them.

‘He went out to the . . . er . . . pub, and he had a heart attack and he died!’

‘Alleluia!’ said the strange fat man in the front row, who was clearly new to this sort of thing.

‘But,’ I went on quickly, ‘very soon after this, he turned up outside our house at 24 Stranraer Gardens!’

There was a lot of nodding. This was par for the course, they seemed to be saying. You kicked off, you had the death experience and back you came to tell people about it.

‘When did you make contact?’ asked old Mr Pugh, who seemed to have recovered completely from the compost. I really was going to have to get round to discussing the extraterrestrial problem. We could be here all night rapping about the finer points of mediumship.

‘It all depends what you mean by
making contact.
And who you’re making contact with. We all talk about making contact, don’t we? It’s one of our big things as . . . er . . . Christians, which of course we all are. But this contact I am talking about is a terrifying, although of course in a way wonderful, but also terrifying, form of . . . er . . . contact.’

This was very well received. I’ve noticed that in sermons of any kind it is important not to state your hand too early, or too clearly. You have to dress it up a bit. You know? You may have come there to say something really basic like, ‘Sin is Bad!’ or ‘God is Good!’ but it is crucial to start by talking about your Auntie Renee’s operation, or why your dog was sick in the back of the car on the m4. Were they ready for me to get closer in?

‘What I have to say,’ I went on, ‘is
so
important and
so
. . . vital that at first it may be difficult to believe. You may say, “Oh no! That Simon’s a loony!” You know?’

‘We won’t!’ called Quigley, with what I feared was misplaced optimism.

‘You may say, “Cart Simon off to the nuthouse!” You know?’

‘Amen,’ said Hannah Dooley.

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row.

It was now or never. I had to go in, and go in fast.

‘If I were to tell you,’ I said, trying to look each one of them in the eye, which is not an easy thing to do with ninety-odd people, ‘that Wimbledon was being invaded by alien beings from another planet, you would probably laugh and call me a lunatic. Right?’

They did not look as if that was the case, actually. If anything, they seemed rather receptive to the idea of talking about the invasion of the locality by monsters from deep space. The fat man in the front row was shaking his head vigorously. He obviously wanted aliens on the agenda of the First Spiritualist Church.

‘But,’ I said slowly, looking round the hall, ‘I think I have evidence –
clear
evidence – that something of this sort is going on, right here, under our very noses in our . . .’ I groped for the right word and found it ‘. . . Christian community.’

We were on course here. We had said goodbye to GCSE options and we were on course. The awful thing was that, as I said it, I began to have serious doubts about it. As if what I thought and what I said were two completely different things. But I found myself looking straight at Pike. And he was leaning forward on his chair, his hands clasped together. He was nodding! He seemed so attentive, so clued in to my every word, that I suddenly found the confidence to go on. In a kind of rush I went back to the main menu.

‘Well, I can’t be very specific about them. About who they are or why they are doing it or what they want. But all I can say is that I am
certain
that there is, as I speak, an extraterrestrial presence in the area. They are
here
, guys. As is, of course, Jesus Christ!’

I thought I had better bring things back to Jesus. And it certainly did help. People were nodding seriously, as they tended to do when you mentioned JC.

‘I know that a lot of people find this sort of thing ridiculous. A lot of people dismiss it out of hand. But I don’t think they should. Impossible things can be true. I
saw
my father, I am telling you – out in the street. And he’s dead!’

At the back I could see Quigley purse his lips. He did not, I have to say, look at all pleased.
Jesus
, I thought to myself.
Work in Jesus. Now!

‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘healed the sick and raised the dead.’

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row.

‘And a lot of people found that ridiculous!’ I realized as I said it that this could sound a little tactless. Especially in view of the fact that, in the far corner, the old lady in the wheelchair was making determined but unsuccessful efforts to get up and walk.

‘Not,’ I went on, ‘the sick and the dead, of course. They were very glad to be helped in that way. But the cynics, who refused to believe the
evidence
of their eyes. People who scoffed. People who sneered at what others truly believed.’

This was good. Quigley was looking foxed. Everything I was saying was, so far anyway, completely acceptable Christian dogma. As far as I knew. Although what is and is not acceptable in the First Church of Christ the Spiritualist changes from minute to minute.

‘Aliens,’ I went on, ‘are somewhere out there in the universe. It stands to reason that in such vast space there must be some other beings. Are we saying that God has absolutely no imagination at all? That all he can come up with is a few rotten old . . . humans?’

This was even better. The old direct questions seemed to be quite a good technique. You could see them struggling for answers and coming up with nothing at all. I tried a few more, in quick succession.

‘Has something happened in your life that you can’t explain? Have you seen something that just doesn’t fit into the normal pattern of things? Do you have a feeling, for example, that you are being watched?’

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row. He was on my side, guys. He could stay. I raised my voice slightly. At the back Quigley was looking very worried indeed. If he was going to interrupt, he had left it a little late.

‘Are you,’ I continued, ‘unable to lay your hands on familiar domestic objects, and have you come to the conclusion that someone must be moving them?’

Hannah Dooley, who is notoriously absent-minded, was nodding furiously. I paused dramatically and raked the audience with my eyes the way I had seen Quigley do.

‘Who do you think might be responsible for all these things you can’t explain? Who do you think might be here, even as we stand here in Christian worship? Who might be walking among us even as we pray to the Lord Jesus?’

‘Aliens!’ shouted Pike with sudden tremendous enthusiasm.

‘Aliens!’ yelled Hannah Dooley.

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row.

Quigley was white with fury. I saw him whisper something to Mrs Danby, but she didn’t seem to hear him. But it was too late for Quigley. ‘If you really want something, boy,’ my dad used to say, ‘then go for it!’ I went for it.

‘Aliens,’ I continued, ‘are right here at this moment! They have landed! And I have
conclusive proof
!’

There was more rhubarb. ‘He has proof!’ ‘Conclusive proof!’ ‘He says he has proof, Mabel!’ etc. I stopped for a second and tried to think what my conclusive proof was. The thought of describing it out loud to over a hundred people made it feel less convincing than I thought it had been.

‘A close friend of mine called Mr Andrew Marr has
disappeared
!’

I saw Pike’s weather-worn little face watching me with intense concentration. ‘Aliens!’ he yelled. He was getting the idea quickly, guys. Years of intensive training in the paranormal had taught him how to draw these kinds of conclusions with consummate speed.

‘Aliens!’ I said. ‘And these same aliens have also . . .’

Here I paused again. I gave the next three words a great deal of lip and tongue work.

‘. . . taken my father!’

Here I raised my hand to heaven and shook my fist at the sky. My voice rose an octave or two as I screamed, ‘Give him back, you bastards!’

‘Give him back, you bastards!’ yelled Pike.

‘Aliens!’ yelled Hannah Dooley.

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row.

Quigley made his move. But both he and I knew it was too late. He sounded positively mealy-mouthed as, with a great show of wonder and puzzlement, he started to say, ‘These aliens . . .’

‘Yes,’ I said, sticking with the simple idea, ‘Aliens! These aliens!’

‘Aliens,’ said Pike, dead on cue, ‘are come amongst us, my friends! Hear! Hear the word of the Lord!’

If there had been any danger from Quigley, it was headed off, once again, by Pikey, who dashed into a space by himself and, springing up and down like a goblin, started to shout, ‘Hear the word of the Lord!’ at regular intervals.

I could see Quigley was about to make another move, but before he could do so I held out my hands, palms downwards, in a gesture much favoured by Mr Toombs in his last ecclesiastical campaign. ‘Let us pray,’ I said.

‘Oh, let us pray!’ said Hannah Dooley.

‘Pray!’ squeaked Pike. ‘Oh, let us pray!’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Old Mother Walsh,’ he said, ‘prithee the snake be not come!’

This went down very big with the lads. When she was feeling down, Old Mother Walsh was always going on about how the snake was slithering in our direction. It was entirely feasible, of course, that it should be at the controls of an interplanetary vehicle of some sort.

‘Old Mother Walsh,’ Pike said again, ‘let not the snake come out of the sky!’

There was much murmuring of assent at this. You would have thought, from the way they were all carrying on, that they were all closet members of the British Interplanetary Society. Quigley was looking at me in open horror now. You could see that my attack had taken him completely by surprise. Even if he had wanted to try unmasking me, he wouldn’t have dared. This was the most exciting News the First Church of Christ the Spiritualist had heard in years. They were bored with all this let’s-hear-it-for-Galilee-purify-your-heart rubbish. Even talking to the dead can pall. They wanted Simon Britton.

‘Let us pray,’ I said, ‘that this . . . alien menace be . . . dealt with! By the . . . proper authorities and by . . .’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Quigley, smartly.

‘Alleluia!’ said the fat man in the front row.

‘Amen,’ said Hannah Dooley.

‘Because,’ I said, looking straight at Quigley, ‘don’t let’s kid ourselves. There are other planets and there
are
people on them, and from time to time those people may well want to get on board ship and head down here. And if we
refuse
to believe that, we’re being like the mockers and the sneerers who refuse to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. Because belief . . .’