The Enemy of the Good (40 page)

‘But his brothers’ threats to kill him were what led him to run away!’

‘Tell me about it! They’d treated him so badly… they’d made him feel so bad about himself that, when it came to the crunch, he didn’t believe he deserved to live.’

Clement was tormented by the image of the man whom he had painted as Christ taking on the role for real, sacrificing his life to save his persecutors. Moreover, he could not dispel the feeling, however fanciful, that Rafik’s hand lay behind his encounter with Desmond. Intrigued by Desmond’s
transformation
from murderer to knight errant, he wondered whether it could all be ascribed to his conversion and, if so, how he justified his sexuality. In a bid to find out more, he accepted Desmond’s invitation to the prayer group the
following
Friday, finding his worst fears confirmed the moment he entered the room.

‘Officer Willis!’ he said.

‘It’s Jim in here. Isn’t that right, Jim?’ one of the group said.

‘That’s right, lad. No worldly distinctions inside this room. We’re all of us sinners in the eyes of God.’

‘You said it, Jim,’ the man replied, relishing his temporary licence.

The room filled with so many unlikely converts that Clement wondered whether, as in the Brixton chapel, the main attraction was an excuse to escape their cells. Desmond took a seat at the far side of the circle, nodding to him briefly before picking up his Bible. Stick grabbed the chair beside him, nudging it so close that their thighs brushed, giving him a momentary sense of satisfaction and a lingering one of unease. With everyone gathered, Officer Willis (Clement remained suspicious of the
Jim
) announced a period of silent prayer which, as soon became clear, was as nominal as every other silence in prison. Voices were raised from all points of the circle: ‘I want to thank you Lord for the blessing of this nick where I can get near to you with no
distractions
,’ from his left; ‘I feel your Holy Spirit, Lord, like a golden crown on my head,’ from his right. Meanwhile, ‘I thank you Lord Jesus for giving me the greatest fix ever,’ came from the seat next to him, prompting a couple of guffaws and several groans. After a peremptory Amen, which cut through all pretence of equality, Willis called on a young Scotsman to read the Gospel. No sooner had he provided chapter and verse for the familiar story of the woman taken in adultery than the entire group opened their Bibles, although Clement noted in bewilderment that Stick turned to Acts.

He sat silently while Willis encouraged them to analyse the text. After three variations on the theme that we were all miserable sinners unworthy of salvation unless we obeyed the Word of the Lord, Stick put up his hand.

‘Sir, sir, please, Jim sir!’ he said, bobbing up and down like a four-year-old. ‘Can I tell my joke, sir?’ His request met with a chorus of ‘No’s. ‘It’s about the story, sir. Honest!’

‘But is it clean, lad?’ Willis said. ‘Can you put your hand on heart and tell me it’s fit for your mother?’

‘He’s not fit to have a mother!’

‘Shut it, lad!’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die, sir… Jim sir!’

‘Very well then,’ Willis said stoically. ‘Keep it clean, mind.’

‘There’s the Lord Jesus. He’s walking through the desert one day and he sees all these people picking on this prossie… sorry, Jim sir, tart. And he says, “Let anyone who hasn’t ever sinned chuck the first stone at her.” And he looks at them, happy cos he knows that they’re evil and wicked sinners like us. And then he hears this stone whizzing past his ear. And he turns round to see who’s disobeyed him. And there’s the Holy Virgin Mary standing there with a great pile of stones. “Mam,” he says, all hurt – I mean hurt cos she’s shown him up, not cos the stone hit him – “Mam,” he says, “I thought I told you to stay at home!”’

Stick gazed around, hungry for approval, to be met with sighs, groans and grimaces.

‘Any repetition of that, lad, and you’ll be barred,’ Willis said. ‘Understand?’

‘But it’s the same story,’ Stick pleaded.

‘Understand!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Stick replied sullenly.

While Willis took exception to Stick, Clement was far more disturbed by Joe, a young Nigerian, who claimed that the moral was ‘Even when the Muslims mock you and persecute you, you mustn’t fight back but leave them to the angels who’ll throw rocks at them once they’re dead.’ With Willis letting the remark pass, Clement put forward the alternative view that the story exemplified God’s all-forgiving love and that they shouldn’t be misled by the final ‘Go, and sin no more’, which scholars had shown to be an interpolation.

‘What scholars?’ Willis asked.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have their names to hand.’

‘Surprise surprise! Not a scrap of evidence.’

‘But it wouldn’t be hard to get hold of them. I did a lot of research for a painting called the
Two Marys
.’

‘We know all about your paintings,’ Willis said. ‘Filth!’ Clement’s hope that Desmond, whose dead lover was implicated in that filth, would once again ride to his rescue was dashed by his silence. ‘Whatever Mr Hippy-hair here thinks, we’re not stupid, are we lads? We know how books are made. We know how words go missing over time. But this isn’t your Jeffrey Archer or even your Shakespeare. It’s God’s book: the Holy Bible. A book like a great wall that keeps the Devil out and the righteous in the ways of the Lord. Remove a single brick and the wall will crumble. Where will we be then?’

‘In Satan’s hands?’ one of the men asked.

‘Right! Locked up in Hell for ever.’

‘With respect,’ Clement said with blatant insincerity, ‘that’s not faith but fire insurance. If you read the Gospels – and I’m sure everyone here has – ’ His voice faltered as he found himself staring at Stick – ‘you’ll know that Christ makes very little mention of sin.’

‘Remember, lads, the Devil quotes scripture for his own ends.’

‘His overwhelming concern is with God’s redeeming love. We must all hold on to that. Be proud that God created us in His image. Be proud that Christ took on our flesh.’

‘And what have we done with that flesh?’ Willis asked. ‘Defiled it. Debased it. Made it a cesspit of foul lusts and diseases, as you should know better than anyone.’ Clement wondered if Desmond’s offer of protection would hold good against partisan officers. ‘What do any of these men have to be proud of? They’ve destroyed their families. Left wives without husbands… children without fathers. It’s shame they should be feeling, not pride.’

Clement detected a rumble of discontent at Willis’s shift from
we
to
they
. He recalled Mike’s denunciation of shame and longed to free his fellow
prisoners
from an emotion that sentenced them twice. ‘None of us here needs to feel ashamed,’ he said, emphasising the pronoun. ‘Why should you make these men feel worse about themselves than they already do?’

‘To bring them to God. To ensure that, even though they’re the lowest of the low in this world, they’ll be God’s chosen ones in the next.’

A burst of Amens and Hallelujahs left Clement convinced that his own words had fallen on deaf ears. Seizing his advantage, Willis ordered the group to bow their heads in prayer before bringing the meeting to a close. While the men broke up the circle and replaced the chairs in rows, Willis confronted Clement. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your game,’ he said. ‘It’s not enough for you to defy the Bible on your own account. You want to bring these men down with you. Well, I won’t let you. That lad,’ he pointed to Stick, who for no discernible reason was balancing a chair on his head, ‘was giving himself to every man on the block for a packet of smokes until he found the Lord. That man – ’ he pointed to a stocky man with a goitre – ‘was cutting his wrists as regularly as the rest of us – ’ he scowled at the sight of Clement – ‘most of us – cut our hair. Are you telling me they’re no better off?’

‘I admit they’ve found something, but I’d dispute the fact that it’s Christ.’

‘Are you doubting the love of God?’

‘Not at all. Just your interpretation of it.’

‘Get back to your cell. One more word and I’ll have you on report.’

‘Yes, Jim,’ Clement replied deliberately.

‘Yes, sir,’ Willis thundered, to Clement’s delight. He walked back with a restored sense of purpose. Echoing the prisoner who thanked God for
enabling
him to approach Him without distractions, he thanked Him for locking him up in order to show him new ways to be free.

The next morning Clement was called to see the deputy governor, a rumpled middle-aged man with exceptionally large hands, which he wrung repeatedly during their conversation. ‘I hope you’ve settled in all right,’ he asked, like a headmaster greeting a junior member of staff whose function eluded him.

‘I’m not climbing the walls, if that’s what you’re getting at. My cell-mate seems a decent enough chap.’

‘Yes, I wanted you placed with a lifer. Experience has shown that they make the most placid prisoners. It’s the men serving five years or less who have
something
to prove.’

‘All Parker’s out to prove is his skill at model-making. Except, of course, his devotion to his dead wife.’

‘He might have thought of that before he killed her,’ the deputy governor said tersely, leaving Clement open-mouthed. ‘But I must confess to having a further motive for summoning you. We have an honourable tradition of prison literature in this country. Think of Malory, Bunyan and Daniel Defoe. And, of course – ’ he added, as if in deference to Clement – ‘Oscar Wilde. Sadly, we don’t have a comparable tradition of prison art. That may of course mean that we’re locking up the wrong people.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Either way, we’d like to redress the balance. I’ve been authorised by the Chief, who’s something of a fan of yours, to ask if you’d paint a piece for the prison chapel.’

‘Really? I’m flattered… although I can’t say I feel inspired. Quite the reverse.’

‘Isn’t that the artist’s fate? One per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration?’

‘It certainly would be in here. To tell the truth I’ve taken a long break – over a year, in fact – from painting. I’d only just picked up my brush again before my arrest and that was… that was a one-off.’

‘Surely that will make it even more of a challenge?’

‘I must admit I’m tempted. If anything’s going to keep me sane, it’s work. But I need time to think. May I let you know in a day or two? I’ll have to get a sense of the space.’

‘That’s easily done. I’ll ask one of the officers to take you there right now.’

‘No, there’s no point when it’s empty. I have to see it in use.’

The first opportunity came the following Sunday, when he joined the line of prisoners braving the taunts of ‘God Squad’ as they waited for the officers to escort them across the yard.

‘They jeer at us for being Christians,’ Desmond said, ‘but they’re quick enough to ask us to say a prayer for them when they’re up in court.’

Stick ran out at the last minute. ‘Will you walk with us?’

‘Sure,’ Clement said, to Desmond’s visible annoyance.

‘D’you want to hear my joke?’

‘No!’ Desmond roared.

‘Go on,’ Stick pleaded, ‘it’s religious.’

‘So long as it’s short,’ Clement said, offering a compromise.

‘There were three lads in this playground… no, this café… no, playground… well, it don’t matter.’ Desmond moved away in disgust. ‘There were three lads anyway. The first one, he says, “My dad’s a teacher; he makes me clever for nothing.” The second one, he says, “My dad’s a doctor; he makes me well for nothing.” The third one, he says, “My dad’s a vicar; he makes me good for nothing.”’

‘Excellent,’ Clement said, his smile under increasing strain as Stick
dissected
the pun.

They entered the chapel, a sombre room painted a municipal beige, with a vase of peonies on the altar, a wooden crucifix suspended from the ceiling and the Stations of the Cross hanging like cheap pennants on the wall. Feeling as depressed by the confused churchmanship as by the tawdry furnishings, Clement made his way to the seats where, true to his Anglican training, he kept a respectful distance from his neighbour until one of the officers ordered him to ‘fill up the gap’. Stick needed no encouragement, sitting so close that Clement yearned for a cloud of incense. After the opening hymn,
Holy Holy Holy
, in which, despite sharing his hymn book, Stick muddled not only the tune but the words, the chaplain called up a prisoner to read the lesson: Christ’s account of the Last Judgement in Matthew 25. Although the halting delivery marred even the crude cadences of the
Good News Bible
and Stick’s schoolboy giggle on ‘naked and you clothed me’ was a profound irritation, Clement found the references to prison-visiting strangely moving. He was less convinced when, in a generous, if laboured, attempt to reach out to his congregation, the chaplain preached on the need to let Christ into their lives.

‘Don’t keep Jesus standing on the front step. He doesn’t have a search warrant. He won’t break the door down like the police. He’s waiting for you to invite him in. Would you rather leave it till you’re up in the dock on
Judgement
Day? “Who’s this?” God will ask. “Never seen him before, m’Lud!” Jesus will reply. And you’ll be sent down not just for life but for eternity.’

After leading the prayers of intercession, with only those for families and friends receiving any response, the chaplain drew the service to a close. He stood at the chapel door, greeting the men as if they were going home for their Sunday roast. Holding Clement back, he asked if he might have a quick word and led him up to a tiny office.

‘I must apologise for the mess,’ he said, dumping a pile of service sheets on the floor. ‘I share it with my Free Church, Catholic and Sikh colleagues.’

‘Practical ecumenism?’ Clement asked.

‘We’re never here at the same time.’

Shifting in his seat, like an actor unable even to play himself authentically, the chaplain asked if he would agree that there were many different paths to God.

‘Of course.’

‘Then I urge you not to dismiss Officer Willis’s. He’s complained about your disrupting his prayer group. He claims that you put your own will above the Good Book.’