As We Know It - Chapters 11, 12 and 13

Chapter 11

“Go then!” projected Sarah, tears streaming down her face. They snaked chinwards over her blotchy, sob-ruined skin and patchy make up. Her right hand flew up wildly to brush them away but the wine dulled her precision and she clattered her fingers into her teeth and lips. It stung and she blinked the pain away, trying to maintain her furious eye contact with Hamish.

Hamish stood stock still in the darkness, watching her outline against the pale wall of the house. His feet felt too heavy to move but his mind was racing. She was shaking, beaming her anger across at him through two dilated pupils and a quivering lip. There was a dull ache behind his own eyes as he fought the pressure of possible tears of his own.

“I don’t want to go!” Was all he managed back in a half shout which petered out towards the end.

“What do you want then?” She flung her arms about her sides. “Do you just want to stick around making me feel like shit for the rest of my life?”

“Stop making out like I have any kind of plan for any of this! I didn’t engineer anything, here, Sarah - I’m trying to deal with whatever this is exactly like you are.” The beer was slurring his words but he tried desperately to hold on to the vague point he thought he could make. “I’m just trying to get through it. With you.”

“Except that you’re not, are you? You’re trying to make me feel bad every step of the way…”

“I…”

“And if you’re not trying to then you’re pretty good at achieving it with very little effort on your part. You’ve made your point tonight can I please just go to bed now? I’m tired.” Her crying had escalated  to swift, panicked sobs with inelegant spluttering between them. Snot covered the back of her sleeve and there was mascara pooling in her collar bone.

“Alright Sarah, what have I done? What have I done other than try and make this work in the circumstances? Have you forgotten that I PROPOSED TO YOU? I wanted to marry you, Sarah, I asked you to marry me… have you conveniently forgotten that in this version where I’m just trying to upset you? I’m not the one who didn’t want to get married.”

“I do want to get married!” she screamed.

“Then why didn’t you just say yes? Like all the other girls who get proposed to by the guy they want to marry? Why didn’t you throw your arms around me and say yes and start laughing and crying like I thought you would?”

“You didn’t give me enough time!”

“How much time did you need? I thought it would be instant!”

“Well the candles went out…”

“I didn’t blow them out!” the heat behind his answers was well established now, the coals hot through and whitening around the edges.

“I know! But, it happened, didn’t it? And then the moment had passed. You’ve seemed so angry since… what do you want me to do, ask you to do it again? Come on Hamish! Back inside the house, I’ll set up all the candles straight out onto the bare wood and you…”

“Stop going on about the damned coasters you psychopath!” He boomed at her. She fell silent instantly. “I honestly don’t think I know you at all sometimes. I used to think you were romantic but now I guess you must have been that kid who watches a Disney princess fall in love and just flinches at the health and safety issues of the groom fighting a dragon in improper footwear.”

“Go to hell.” she snapped.

“I just might… Guess that depends on what your mate Jesus thinks when we find him, doesn’t it? I’ll ask him to check his naughty/nice list when we stumble across him in a Little Chef.”

“I don’t think we are going to find Jesus, is that what you want? Is that better, Hamish?”

“What?” he stopped in his tracks, glaring scrutinously at her.

“Are you happy now? I don’t think we’re going to stroll out of Norton and come back arm in arm with Jesus Christ, son of God. Does that reinstate your faith in me? I’m not quite as stark raving lunatic as you have condemned me to be. I’m going to look for help, or to look for clues or to look for something. I couldn’t give a shit if it’s Jesus or Allah or Ronald McDonald - I just want to find some help before the food runs out and people get into trouble.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt like that?”

“Because, ironically, you’re so preachy. I don’t want to listen to you mocking them anymore - mocking me and things that are important to me. I am part of this village, part of this parish and part of a team at the moment and I am not going to let them down. If they want to call this expedition a hunt for Jesus, then fine; make me a t-shirt, I’ll do it. Come or don’t come; do what you like Hamish.”

She turned over her left shoulder and sloped up the steps and into the house, pushing the unlocked front door open with her whole body weight and practically falling into the house. She felt sick from the emotional exertion and warm Sauvignon Blanc.

Hamish was left standing in the front garden. It was one thing to have an alcohol infused row on the way home from a huge night out, quite another to feel this destroyed after a few hours in a Village Hall.

They should have left before it all got so out of hand, before Mr Frinton recited the Jabberwocky and Beryl downed 8 blue Panda Pops just to prove to Nigel that she could. They should almost certainly have left before the piggy back races around the room, and if not then, they should definitely have left before The Vicar convinced them to sing Islands in the Stream together. Hamish was no Kenny Rogers and the pint of wine Sarah had devoured to give her the confidence to become Dolly was currently being returned to the circle of life via the porcelain receptacle upstairs.

Hamish trudged towards the front door, ready to lay his spinning head down. Tomorrow was going to be interesting.

Chapter 12

“It really was a wonderful speech, vicar.” said Mrs Shoe kindly to the sagging Vicar. “Everyone thought so.”

The Vicar winced at her in the violent sunshine and prayed for salvation from the internal beating that was hounding his senses. At some point during his night’s sleep his body had been overrun with homicidal creatures that were hell bent on eating him alive from the inside out. Either that or this was his first hangover in 24 years. Second in his lifetime.

The Vicar had not been hungover since the day following his initiation to his University rowing team. Despite having drunk far more river water than alcohol during the various initiating ceremonial challenges, he had awoken the next morning to find himself paralysed by both alcohol consumption and actual paralysis.

The 22 year old not-yet-vicar had roused himself in his dormitory bed and gone to swing his legs over the side in search of bacon. Finding his legs unresponsive he’d tried to sit up and found that his entire lower body seemed to have fallen out with his brain.

Being somewhat panicked at his lack of mobility, the young lad had called his biggest, strongest friend over and been fireman lifted to the University medical centre. The paralysis was caused by a stray disc from his spinal column which had been ejected somewhere between the 8th and 14th beer funnel of the evening.

Already a pious man, and heavily sedated on various muscle relaxants, the vicar-to-be decided that this was a sign from someone much smarter than him that perhaps he should never drink himself into rigor mortis again. It seemed somewhat prophetic, therefore, that this second hang over and the apocalypse had so neatly coincided. He briefly wondered if any rowing had occurred in the interim period between waltzing with Mrs Hemell and waking up in this fresh, dehydrated hell.

“Although,” continued Mrs Shoe in a voice that brought The Vicar’s focus crashing back into the room, “It did make me rather pleased that you have not chosen to put a musical portion into your sermons throughout the year. That bit I could have done without. Although perhaps it would have seemed better if I knew who Wham are? Certainly some folks were loving it. Personally, I had to make do with the dance moves. Now, that’s where your talent lies Vicar. That’s where you’ve got grace. I never knew you were so light on your feet... and back. I’d really always assumed break dancing was for the much younger man. I think it might even be the first time I’ve seen a white man give it a go...”

The Vicar decided to intervene. If not for the sake of UK race relations then certainly to save his own dwindling dignity stores from the torrent of revelation erupting from an ever eloquent Mrs Shoe.

“Yes, well, the Lord has blessed me with many passions and, er, talents.”

“I don’t know if blessed is the right word, dear.” countered Mrs Shoe, “You looked fairly tormented at times. I meant to ask you if it was possible to dance in tongues?”

“Yes.” said The Vicar swiftly, “Yes, it is. But it’s a very personal experience and not something it is well thought of to discuss after the event. I should imagine it is an omen that this search for Jesus will go well. A divine omen.”

The Vicar was fairly sure that if he didn’t get a cold glass of water and a sun hat soon he’d be spouting blessings to Jupiter and Mars. He felt dangerously close to inventing-an-extra-god-to-explain-away-his-own-shortcomings territory. If he lived through this hangover, and apocalypse, The Vicar made a promise to himself to be more understanding towards those Gods who’d likely been called in to being to protect some historical spiritual leader from a previous incarnation of Mrs Shoe. Paganistic polytheism had never looked so good.

He smiled at Mrs Shoe and walked briskly over to the largest clump of gathered villagers. Sarah and Hamish were stood in the middle, both had backpacks at their feet and nervous smiles on their faces. Every year The Vicar waved off a group of very similarly dressed teens... but this trip was no Duke of Edinburgh Award. This was the Prince of Men Award. The Vicar prayed inwardly to his recently birthed God Of Sherry Induced Misdemeanours that he hadn’t used that rather embarrassing “Prince of Men Award” bit in his speech at the Line Dance.

“You two look fresh as daisies!” said The Vicar brightly.

“Thanks Vicar, how are you feeling yourself?” replied Hamish.

“Excruciatingly glad I’m not joining you,” said The Vicar in a low voice designed for Hamish’s ears only. Hamish grinned and patted The Vicar gently on the back.

“Quite the party last night - wasn’t it?”

The two men smiled at each other and The Vicar pondered for a moment whether it mattered that they were sending such a staunch atheist on the hunt for Jesus. Would it matter? Certainly in his heart The Vicar felt Jesus would have as much time for those still doubting as those who filled his pews every Sunday. Perhaps agreeing to go in the first place would be enough of an affirmation of good willing to avoid eternal damnation?

Which begged the question - why was Hamish going? Purely for the love of Sarah, The Vicar supposed. Was Hamish really expecting to find Jesus?

Was anyone really expecting Hamish and Sarah to find a living, breathing human Jesus? Were they looking for a sign? Or a message? Commandments 2.0? The Vicar didn’t know. But there was no harm in looking.

“Are you all set then?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Sarah, “I suppose there’s nothing really left to do but go?”

“I suppose so.” The Vicar smiled, placed a hand kindly on Sarah’s shoulder for a moment and then began a round of applause as Hamish took Sarah’s hand and they headed out of the village towards the hills. It was a perfect scene, The Vicar thought.

“Onwards! For the Prince of Men Expedition!” Bellowed Hamish into the distance.

The Vicar’s insides quietly passed away.

Chapter 13

Lightning flashed across the turbulent, purpling sky. Rain was whipping across the grass, fleeing the four corners of the earth and tumbling sideways across the faces of our intrepid explorers. They were soaked; water seeping in through cuffs and collars, running down every crevice of skin and sliding off soaked hair, down frowning faces. They were hunched over, battling through the relentless torrent of cold water that drove into them from all directions.

Hamish watched Sarah fervently for signs of fatigue, he was worried. Back in the village it had all seemed like a merry adventure; like Lord of the Rings, but with a significantly less attractive cast. Now they were out and the weather had only got worse as the light failed, he felt like an idiot. He wanted to say useful things, like: "Lets just get to that bend in the path and then we can bed down for the night." But there was no bend in the path because there was no path. Where were they going?

If they had bumped into his own mother right at that point and she'd asked where they were going, he didn't think he'd have been able to reply without wincing. "We're looking for Jesus, we think he might be lost." It was a fools errand. After a lifetime of pitying people who were blindly fumbling after an invisible God, he suddenly found himself in wellington boots and a wax jacket eagerly hunting down the fairly elusive heir to the throne of heaven. Wasn't Jesus supposed to be seeking them out? How hard could that be when you have an all powerful Dad? If he couldn't even navigate Exmoor then what hope was he going to be in getting them all safely across the Styx?

He tried to shake the scorn from his mind and ended up doing an excellent impression of an enthusiastic soggy dog. He’d promised himself to keep his mouth shut. Sarah was right; even if he was still too proud to say it to her. There was no harm in going out to see what lay further afield from the village - no one was actually looking for Jesus. They were looking for help and it just so happened that whatever help they found would be attributed to Jesus regardless of his lack of actual intervention.

They had decided to head East, largely because they already lived in the South West and the Welcoming Committee had agreed that realistically Jesus was unlikely to be in Cornwall. Nowhere in the Bible did it say he was partial to a pasty and some surfing. Hamish privately thought that Cornwall was likely to be exactly where Jesus was - wasn't that where all posh kids go on their holidays while they're saving up for the all important gap year in India? For some reason he was fairly sure he wouldn't like a modern Jesus even if they could find him. Jesus would have casual hours with good money working for his Dad. Jesus would shop at Superdry and have hair with natural highlights. The sort of boy that was born already knowing the intricate details of a rugby match and who had an Uncle with a steady supply of tickets to events where girls with impossibly straight hair would fawn all over him.

There wasn't much of an argument not to head East. It was as good a place to look as any. The oddest thing about the trip so far was the complete lack of seeing anything, Hamish hadn't seen evidence of a single other person since they had left Norton Fitzwarren. For the first few miles he'd been incredibly glad of it, he felt he might strangle in cold blood if he were to hear the word vol au vent again. If his navigating was right, they should be nearing a town he had briefly lived in when looking for a house to move into with Sarah, it should be just on the other side of the hill they were currently crossing. There were no signs of life yet, no lights in the distance. Hamish assured himself it was either just the smothering density of the rain, or the apocalypse induced blackout, that meant he couldn't see it. A whole town couldn't just have been wiped off the map could it? They’d only passed a few buildings so far and all three had been abandoned. Empty shells were better than corpses, though, and Hamish was choosing to believe they’d left their homes voluntarily to find company. It was hard enough knowing what to do when you were part of a village; let alone if you lived this isolated. The world was different without human lights and human sounds. Hamish hoped it wouldn’t be disorientating enough to stop him finding his way back.

“I’m getting tired.” Sarah called back to him.

"What? Sarah? I didn’t hear you?"

"I’m getting tired; I’d like to stop for a bit" Sarah's voice came back through the river of air between them.

"Of course, of course… we’ll stop now." Sarah looked very small in the chaos of the weather. He scanned around them for somewhere a little more sheltered. There was an old oak bowing to the might of the storm a hundred yards or so away, looking as though it regretted not backing Thor back when it had the chance. “Over there - we’ll go for that tree.”

“Aren’t you meant to avoid trees in a storm?” shouted Sarah.

“I can’t remember.” He yelled, “It’s either there or… well, anywhere.” He waved vaguely across the bare meadow.

“Ok, tree it is then… I haven’t seen any lightning anyway.”

They trudged through the soggy earth towards the lonely oak.

“What is that under it?” She was pointing ahead of them, signalling for him to look too.

"What's that?" He followed the direction of her arm to a dim lump ahead of them on the ground. He took a few steps closer to her.

"Looks like a rock." He struggled over the noise of the wind.

"Yeah. A rock. Is it a rock?" Sarah sounded nervous.

"Yeah, I guess so." he said lamely, wondering why, after all the Brad Pitt films he had watched over the years, he couldn't seem to conjure an ounce of testosterone when the moment asked for it. "What else could it be?"

“Shall we keep going?” She wanted to stop walking towards the rock if she could engineer it but didn’t quite know how to tell Hamish she was frightened of a rock.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Hamish channelled Brad and put his head down toward the rock.

Personally, Sarah thought there were a lot of reasons why they wouldn't. But she didn't want to sound stupid and the only question she wanted to ask was whether they were absolutely certain there were no bears in England. If the Apocalypse ever ended she was going to make sure she never took the instant information age for granted again. What she wouldn't give for iPhone access to Wikipedia's list of British flora and fauna right now.

Hamish took Sarah's hand, grateful to be able to appear manly whilst also finding the solace of her skin that he so rarely forgot to marvel at. She had perfect skin. They hadn't been naked together since the apocalypse. He missed it, missed the way she hooked one leg across him and he could feel the warmth of her on him. He forced himself to stop thinking about it, there was no way he could fight anything well enough to protect them without an erection, let alone with one. Perhaps if the rock turned out to be a marauding bear or wolf it would be frightened enough at the sight of a protective, erect male human to just think it wasn't worth the fight? Did bears carry rape alarms?

"There are no bears in England." he muttered to himself and felt Sarah squeeze his hand.

"Thank you." She said, smiling at him quizzically. He was about to ask what for but then realised she was pleased with him and he had no desire to change that. He felt like she was on his side, and he hadn't truly felt like that since before the clocks stopped ticking.

They edged closer to the lump on the ground, it wasn't moving but the closer they got the less certain Hamish felt that it could possibly be a rock. It just didn't look solid enough, it looked like it was rippling slightly in the wind. Some kind of blanket?

They were just over two metres away when the lump on the ground stirred and a man appeared from under a blanket. He sat up and looked straight at them.

Sarah and Hamish froze solid.

"Hamish and Sarah?" said the stranger. His face seemed very distinctive to look at, but you also felt like you wanted to always be looking in case you forgot what it looked like after you turned away.

"Yes." Sarah found her voice first. "Jesus?"

The word hung in the air, Hamish knew instantly that she was right. Sarah was always right. The three figures stood in the storm and looked at one another. Despite the wind and the rain and the thunder it felt like the silence might break Hamish's ear drums. Millennia passed between them as they stood in their tiny triangle. Finally, Jesus spoke.

"Well thank home you found me I was worried sick! I'm not really cut out for mountaineering. This weather is worse than crucifixion - yes, I'm allowed to make that joke. What is this weather? No wonder we never started with England last time, this is lousy. I don't know how you get anything done."

Hamish's jaw dropped. Any tiny part of his mind that might have been forming a plan, immediately ceased. He had not expected this.

Jesus looked from Sarah to Hamish and back again. He had an awful feeling he’d just failed spectacularly to make a good first impression.

“Sorry, let me start again...” He smiled broadly, “Hi, I’m Jesus, Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ” Said Hamish.

“Got it in one!” Said Jesus, chirpily. “Shall we head off?”

As We Know It - Chapters 9 and 10

Chapter 9

Hamish looked in the mirror yet again, he wasn’t sure whether he was checking the tilt of his stetson, the creases in his chequered shirt, or for the presence of his sanity. He saw his own face looking back at him, he knew it was his face because it was asking him the same question he’d been thinking for the past 3 hours...

“Am I really dressed as a cowboy to go to the village Line Dance night which is doubling as a leaving party for myself and my would-be fiancee who are leaving in the morning to go and look for Jesus because it’s been two weeks since the apocalypse and we are worried that either Jesus has got a bit lost on his way to us, or that we are missing a clue someone has placed handily on the outskirts of the county?”

He must have said it out loud because he felt light headed from lack of breath and Sarah poked her head around the bedroom door.

“Did you say something?”

“No. Well, yes I did. But it doesn’t matter.” He tried smiling at her but she frowned quizzically back.

“What did you say?” Like a dog with a bone, if by bone you meant leg covered in meat attached to my ass, he thought.

“Do you think I should shave?” It wasn’t very convincing, he had to admit, but neither of them particularly wanted to get into another argument so close to having to go out and meet the general public. It was the most comforting part of their relationship: the ability to form a united front against any invader. No matter what the conflict behind the front door had been, once they hit the rest of the world they were a team. If the cracks ever began to form in their ability to tow the party line then he knew it’d be time to just walk away.

“No, like you with a bit of stubble.” she tried a smile for him. He ignored it, studying his reflection carefully to cover his avoidance of her flirtation.

“I was just wondering, if we’re going to be away for long... am I going to want a big old beard?”

“I’ve never seen you with a beard.”

“Maybe I won’t shave then. It’ll be protection against the elements.”

“Alright Bear Grylls...” she giggled.

“I wonder what he’s doing now?”

“Who?”

“Bear Grylls. You’d have thought he’d be President by now. President Grylls of the Apocalypse. I thought all of that crowd would be Kings if the end of the world came. Of course, I sort of thought there’d be a lot more flooding so I assumed Cracknell might be getting on well. And that swimmer - the American one.”

“Maybe he is and we just don’t know about it yet. He might be giving Jesus a piggy back here as we speak.”

Was she joking? It was hard to tell. Hamish decided to smile quietly at her and then carry on putting things on the bed ready for packing. Why he wasn’t just putting them straight into the waiting bag he didn’t know, it just seemed like correct packing protocol to pile everything somewhere you could look at it first. Just in case.

Was she joking? This is what you could never tell with Sarah. It’s what he’d still not managed to grasp even after all their time together. How could she be joking about Bear Grylls giving Jesus a piggy back whilst at the same time balling up hiking socks for their entirely serious trip out to find him?

It was his own fault and he knew it, it’d taken him a long time to fall her but he’d let himself eventually and ever since then he knew it was hopeless to pretend any different. She’d been fascinating since the start, since he’d first watched her realising nothing was as set in stone as she’d been led to believe. She’d been brought up believing in God, doom and the whole shebang by parents who’d got off the train in the 1950s and, after looking around, decided that was as far as evolution needed to go. Anything that happened after that decade was merely put there to have lips pursed at. Sundays were for church and thinking about church in gloomy rooms. Other days were for achieving all that needed achieving in order for Sunday to be kept free. Seeing Sarah blindly bumping into University and noticing that some of the thoughts she’d been smuggling about under her hair were shared by other people her own age had been a straight mixture of fascination and frustration.

He’d always admired her ability to be curious and questioning without ever treading on other people - regardless of whether they were present or just figuratively drawn in to the discussion. Hamish had always had a tendency to bluster into an argument and parade his own beliefs with a touch of humour, all too often he felt crass and offensive. Sarah seemed to manage to stay opinionated whilst at the same time learning.

So, was she joking? Was she actually going on this ridiculous quest just to pacify these people when, deep down, she had made up her mind it was only an empty gesture? Or was she actually looking for Jesus?

He wondered which would confuse him more: that the woman he loved was capable of wasting her time to such an extent just so people would think well of her, or that the woman he loved believed in an invisible and regionally specific God?

Religion had always been such a no brainer for him... he knew the righteous believed themselves lucky, but had no one ever sat down and thought, “Well thank goodness I, a law abiding Christian, was born in England with all these other Christians because it would be really awkward to have to tell my family I’m moving to Iran because I believe in Allah, actually.” In some ways he envied people who had everything decided for them because of what they believed. Sarah had helped him see that, for a lot of people, religion wasn’t a decision based on logic - it was a belief that you couldn’t change any more than your sexuality. She said asking a true Christian to see that, logically there couldn’t be a God, was like asking a homosexual to understand that they logically couldn’t fancy someone of the same gender. It just didn’t work like that.

They’d talked for hours over the differences between believing in a deity complete with that special connection, and the following of tedious scripture down to the ancient line. Sarah said that logic just couldn’t change a belief. Knowing someone was dying wouldn’t stop you loving them - even if it was the logical evolutionary reaction.

How pleasant, he’d thought, to be able to go about your life never ever wondering whether you were doing the right thing. It must be what playing chess is like when you’re a grand master and you can choose the game you’re going to play instead of shoving pawns in front of your other pieces in a desperate attempt to salvage a rook.

“I guess I will have a shave. Then, if we are gone a long time you’ll still get to see the beard, but, if we’re not, I won’t look too scruffy when we meet Jesus.”

“Sounds sensible.” Replied Sarah.

It did sound sensible. That was the worrying thing.

Chapter 10

It was finally here.

To say the music was blaring would be to employ a level of exaggeration rarely heard off the Radio 1 airwaves. The music within the Village Hall was just about loud enough to cover Rufus's whining, and had as much musical integrity as anything likely to be heard over the Radio 1 airwaves. With no electricity for a PA system, the only sort of band that could be cobbled together at such short notice was Lucy Clarke's recorder and Martin Young's untuned guitar. Martin Young seemed to be trying to work out if he was left or right handed, while Lucy Clarke was playing Greensleeves with a runny nose.

There were tables and chairs set at regular intervals towards the back end of the hall, leaving plenty of space for a dance floor. Hamish couldn't help but wonder why no one had thought of also installing crash mats to ensure that any octogenarian dancing that might go awry would only lead to minor injuries. He wasn't sure that the NHS could have dealt with a village full of fractures before the apocalypse, let alone now.

Mrs White was so far the only person to have made it to the dance floor without her bottle being drained by the stares of her fellow AGM members. She was merrily raving away with all guns blazing. If by guns, you meant loose arm skin and bangles made of genuine melamine. Her regular cries of "Come on dear, you only live once!" were falling on deaf ears (some genuinely). Hamish could barely stop himself asking aloud whether surviving the Apocalypse counted as a second life. He was just as sorely tempted to go and join her on the dance floor, to go and dance like the idiot he felt. It was unlikely to actually happen; Hamish hadn't danced in public without the aid of a kilt and a skinful since he was four years old. (It should be noted at this point that Hamish 

did not begin drinking at five years old, he merely paused any attempts at dancing between the age of four and the beginning of his drinking years at thirteen.) Maybe doing something as unexpected and ridiculous as a tango with Mrs White would restore the balance of the world and Jesus would turn up just to see a modern miracle before his very own eyes. That would save them a lot of bother with both the planned trip and preparing the buffet for the welcome party.

"Everything alright dear?"

Iris Shoe filled the empty seat beside Sarah and passed her a Vol au Vent in a conspiratorial manner. Sarah looked up and smiled, she liked Iris.

"Fine, thanks. Well, a little nervous. Fine."

"Having a bad time with Hamish?"

Perceptive old bat, Sarah thought, not for the first time in this narrative.

"Well, no, not really. Well, I mean, things are a little strained."

"Yes dear, it's to be expected. Only the toughest relationships make it through the other side of an apocalypse."

"Yes, I think I read that in Elizabeth Taylor's autobiography."

"It's that sense of humour of yours that keeps him around. Make sure he's always laughing and always full of food and you'll not go far wrong." Said Iris, nodding to herself like a friendly dash board dog.

"Well, I'm pretty sure he's laughing at me," said Sarah, glumly "Just not for the right reasons."

"Laughing at you?"

"Well..."

"I find it's best if you don't start 99% of your sentences with 'well', dear."

"Yes Mrs Shoe, it's just I'm a little preoccupied."

"Of course you are dear, we all are. And you and Hamish are shouldered with a big responsibility tomorrow. We're all counting on you. Jesus included."

"That's a funny thought."

"What?"

"That Jesus is counting on me."

"Jesus is always counting on you dear, to do the right thing and be an upstanding Christian."

"Well..."

"Sarah..."

"I mean, of course he's counting on me... in theory. But, it's a strange thought that "actual" Jesus, not just concept Jesus could be counting on me. Like, usually if I let him down it's just my own fate that matters. But this time if I let him down, he might starve to death stuck on Exmoor or something. It's altogether a rather more intense sort of way to let someone down in my opinion."

Iris Shoe cocked her head to one side and scanned Sarah's face several times before she replied.

"You think about your faith a lot, don't you?"

"Yes," said Sarah, almost glumly "Yes, I do."

"Then you'll be fine. I'll go and get you another vol au vent." And with that, Iris was up and out of her seat, heading towards a rapidly drying out buffet. Sarah watched her go, wondering if it was old age or a lifelong adherence to a benevolent God that gave you such certainty about life.

The party was in full swing around her. Rufus and Mr Baxter were dancing together, close enough to Mrs White that none of the other eligible bachelors could weigh in, but far enough away that they couldn't be accused of publicly flaunting their passion. Nigel and Beryl were stacking Panda Pop bottles on one end of a trestle table. Nigel was singing along with the version of Rihanna's Umbrella that Martin Young was playing on his A string, while Beryl was singing Bitter Green to Lucy Clarke's performance of London's Burning. The Vicar stood by himself, surveying his flock and smiling a little. In spite of the situation, the entire village really had pulled together and seemed like any other village on the surface. Except, of course, Staplegrove. No one should have to compare themselves to Staplegrove.

The Vicar supposed that someone really ought to do something about a speech, a celebration like this one really felt like it ought to have a speech. He would make a speech... after just one more glass of sherry.

As We Know It - Chapters 6, 7 and 8

Chapter 6

“You want me to go and look for Jesus?”

“No, I don’t... the Apocalypse Committee do.”

“Right.”

He’d taken the news better than she’d expected him to. Upon returning from the latest Apocalypse Committee meeting Sarah had found Hamish sitting and reading in the living room. For some reason the sight of him reading had surprised her - she’d sort of supposed that there was just no point in reading now that the world was over. Not that that made any sense, really, there was as much point in reading now as there had ever been. Maybe she’d take a book on this expedition - if he agreed to go. She regaled him with the events of the meeting and was both amused and surprised in turn when he joked lightly and asked questions about what had gone on.

“Well, they want us both to go really.”

“We’re all going on a Christ hunt... we’re going to catch a big one...”

“Will you please take this seriously?”

He looked at her with one eyebrow arched to the heavens. The supposedly empty heavens, given that Jesus and his minions were assumed to be lurking near Frome.

“You would like me to take our mission to go and find Jesus and guide him to his surprise party more seriously? You would like me to go upstairs and pack a little bag and put my walking boots on and come with you to hold his hand all the way back to Norton Fitzwarren?”

“Don’t mock me. It wasn’t my idea - we were voted.”

“By who?”

“The Apocalypse Committee.”

Sometimes he wondered how on earth it was possible for Sarah to be all the people she was at one time. How could she be so fiercely independent, intelligent and remarkable, and yet so loyally constrained to the idiocies of those around her. It was like she’d had it drummed into her at too early an age to even consider that, just sometimes, age did not bring wisdom. Sometimes your elders are just wrong and you have to start telling them. He wasn’t sure he knew anyone else on the planet, apocalypse or not, who would come home with this kind of news and not want to laugh about it over a cup of tea.

“And you think we should go?”

“I don’t really see that we have any choice.”

“Of course we have a choice, we simply say ‘I’m sorry Mrs Shoe, I can’t go and look for Jesus this week but I am happy to put up reward posters on all the lamp posts in town in case anybody else has seen him.’ If she argues with us we can counter with the get out clause: ‘I know for a fact I am the only vaguely ethnic person in this village and so he is clearly not here yet. Were I to be the one to find him we would almost certainly be arrested immediately for looking like a terrorist cell.’”

She stood looking at him with her head on one side.

“You can be very cruel sometimes, you know.”

“Cruel? Me? How was that cruel?”

“You’ve lived in this village for four years and you still mock them every step of the way. They’re good people, they’re just a bit sheltered that’s all.”

He grunted and went back to his book. She waited a few seconds before continuing, “So, are we going to tell them we’re not going? We might not get into Heaven if we don’t act like we’re keen.”

He dropped the book. “You don’t even believe in Heaven!”

“So?”

“So how on earth can you be worried about not getting in? You don’t think it’s there! You might as well be worried about never seeing Fraggle Rock!”

“Oh I don’t know, Hamish! I’m sorry my upbringing wasn’t as beautifully liberal as yours. I suppose I’m just still slightly bogged down in, oh I don’t know, everything I was taught for the first 17 years of my life. It is not that easy to shake it all away. I love these people and just because I disagree with them doesn’t mean I want to make a mockery of everything they believe in.”

He had no desire to upset her, no real energy behind his anger. Perhaps it was all this “living in Armageddon” nonsense. It was a lot less Bruce Willis and a lot more Royle Family as far as directing style went. He was tired and frustrated... what were they meant to be doing? How could the world have stopped and yet life have continued? If they didn’t simply know that the world was over, how would you even tell? Or, was that what it was, just a sense of communal depression and innately knowing the end had come? He was almost jealous of the folks with religion, at least they had something to focus on, something to be cross with. Ha, cross. At least they were busy. For Hamish, it was like an endless cycle... no real reason to get up and nothing to prepare for once he was up. Like August as a student.

Even discussing his proposal to Sarah seemed like a waste of time. Could you get married once the world was over? It seemed ludicrous to mention it. If it wasn’t small mindedness holding you back it was the complete cessation of life as we know it. Jilting would almost have been easier to swallow. What a mess.

Maybe he should go and look for Jesus? Maybe it would prove to her that he loved her enough to put up with all the difficulties of being a mixed race couple in 2012. Let’s amend that, shall we; put up with all the difficulties of being a mixed race couple in the Gilmore family. Maybe they would actually find Jesus and he could perform some kind of Jedi mind trick on her father to show him that black people have all the same vital organs and moral stances as white people? He might even be able to do some damage limitation on the Scottishness too while he was at it. Privately, Hamish was a little concerned that Jesus’ inability to change Frank Gilmore’s mind would bring about the downfall of the Christian church. Water into wine would seem like a walk in the park after that.

It wasn’t that Frank Gilmore was a bad man. He wasn’t part of the EDL, he wasn’t a Neo-Nazi. He had always been very polite to Hamish, tea had been drunk, meals had been shared and conversations had loitered firmly around goals and referees. But there had always been the underlying understanding (two words that are seriously underused in tandem) that Hamish was not a permanent fixture. He was a wonderful oddity, an excellent exotic pet to talk about in town... but he wasn’t settling.

When Sarah and Hamish first moved in together Frank had been so quiet and grim about the scenario that Sarah had still not invited them round to see the house. It had been four years. The strangest effect it had had was the guilt that Hamish frequently found himself enshrined in. Guilt for giving Sarah the black mark, if you’ll excuse the pun, for tarnishing her perfect record with her family.

For her part, he thought perhaps she was still playing the ostrich. Assuming that it wouldn’t be that much of a big deal, or that perhaps one day Frank would just realise that he was wrong. It’s hard for a little girl to think badly of her father - Hamish understood that. Perhaps he was just working up the courage to walk away and find someone who wouldn’t be a little bit frustrated with her future husband. 

In his darker moments he wondered if Sarah thought of him as different... he wondered if her little white brain thought his little black brain might be wired differently. He’d always been grateful she wasn’t the sort of girl to ask, ‘What are you thinking about?’ but nowadays he couldn’t help but consider that the reason for this was that she just assumed the answer would be “My excellent sense of rhythm”. 

“Why wouldn’t we go, anyway?” Sarah stirred from her own thoughts and her voice petered into Hamish’s.

“What do you mean?”

“We either go, or we stay here and… and do this. We don’t have anything else to do and, I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t think I can carry on in this… atmosphere. Maybe the challenge would be a good breath of air?”

Hamish thought for the briefest moment and conceded.

“We’ll go and look for Jesus.”

Some people had a baby to rescue a relationship, they were going to try and get a Jesus.

“Really?” 

He watched her eyes scanning him. She had to love him, didn’t she? If she looked at him like that? 

“Yes. I’d do anything for you.” It sounded ridiculous quite frankly, but he was going to allow himself the luxury of melodrama given the circumstances.

“Right. I’ll put a picnic together.” 

Chapter 7

Someone, somewhere raised an eyebrow and adjusted their plan accordingly.

*Author’s Note* It wasn’t ‘someone’, they weren’t technically anywhere, and ‘they’ didn’t have an eyebrow to raise. I’ll explain later.

Chapter 8

No one in the village quite knew what to do about Friday. Friday had been marked in the diaries of the residents of Norton Fitzwarren ever since Staplegrove had held the most successful bake sale in a decade and the villagers had felt a strong urge to retaliate. Not one, but four meetings of the Entertainment Committee had been held before the options for a village gathering had been narrowed to two to be voted on. Once the final ideas had been confirmed, a ballot box was put by the till in Nigel and Beryl’s shop and each villager was allowed to vote once on what the occasion ought to be.

There’s a danger here that you will imagine villagers casually filling in a form as they stand idly by waiting for their change at the till. It would be doing a great injustice to the efforts of the people involved for you to scan over these words and form that impression in your mind. For a decent head start on picturing how it played out, take some time out from reading this book to watch The West Wing. Now, eyes back on the page and imagine that the Republican Party have given up on the White House and would sorely love to have a Meat Bingo. Meanwhile the Democrats have lost hope for America and decided to funnel all their funds and effort into the greatest Line Dance ever seen. They’ve both decided to hold their events in a tiny West Country village in England.

There was canvassing… members of both factions went door to door to impart passionate speeches on the villagers and explain the merits of both good quality fillet and communal exercise. The village shop was picketed while Tom Sanderson, a twelve year old with high hopes of becoming the next ‘Norton News’ editor, could be found doing exit poll interviews whenever his mother didn’t need him back at home.

The usually quiet lanes of the village were alive with banners, bunting and motivational posters commanding residents to get out there and use their vote. The local estate agent’s phone didn’t stop ringing from local homeowners calling to check that the lunacy of the dedicated few wasn’t seriously affecting house prices in the area.

The Vicar stepped in to cool things off twice. Once, when Mr Baxter’s dog Rufus was kidnapped during a particularly stressful day when the Meat Bingo campaign decided to try and blackmail their way to victory. Rufus was found safe and well wearing a knitted jumper that read, ‘I Love Meat Bingo’, and Mr Baxter claimed it was anger at the jumper that brought the tears to his eyes. The Vicar’s second intervention came the morning of the ballot count when it was the Meat Bingo factions turn to suspect foul play when they failed to recognise every other name scratched onto a ballot paper. The Vicar had the laborious job of checking them all against the electoral role and was disappointed to discover that a high percentage of the Line Dancing votes were indeed fictitious. He managed to entertain himself by guessing who had created which fake ballot. He suspected it might be Arthur Arthur who expected Henry VIII would vote with dancing, while Martin Young’s Mr Me T. Bingosucks elicited a stifled snigger from the bored Vicar.

The results were announced in The Ring of Bells pub to a packed house... Derek the landlord sold more packets of pork scratchings that night than anyone could remember. It was a close run thing, but, as the village waited with bated breath, it was revealed that Meat Bingo had narrowly missed out to Norton Fitzwarren’s first ever Line Dancing evening.

Of course, not a single member of the village knew how to Line Dance, but this didn’t matter a jot.

“It’s the taking part that counts.” Reminded The Vicar as the supporters of Meat Bingo raised their objections noisily and vigorously to the festivities.

“That’s easy for you to say,” grumbled Mrs Shoe, “You haven’t had 2 hip replacements in the last 4 years have you?”

“And you’ve not been waiting for two hip replacements for 6 years, have you?” Countered Leslie White.

Mrs Shoe drew her coat tighter around her, “Listen, it is not my fault that you’re still on that waiting list. How many times do I have to tell you, I do not run the NHS?”

“Would it have been so difficult to have politely refused your second operation and shared the wealth?”

This was a regular argument that rattled around the lanes of the village. At the merest mention of an itchy scar or a particularly icy snap, the subject of joints would be rolled out and the two aged Gladiators took their stances. Of course everyone agreed that Mrs White’s waiting time was a little inexcusable given her age, but they all concurred that it would have been rude of Mrs Shoe to turn down a willing surgeon. Besides, no one was fooled by Mrs White’s assertions that she and Mr Baxter were simply firm friends, and they all knew that her hips couldn’t be that bad if two people were making that much noise on such a semi-regular basis.

Some villages had a terrifying old man who lived in a terrifying house at the top of a terrifying lane that parents would use to terrify small children into behaving, and teenagers would use to dare their peers into social hierarchy. Not Norton Fitzwarren. In Norton Fitzwarren you proved you had hair on your chest by seeing how long you could stand to eavesdrop on the White/Baxter sweet nothings when the pair were engaged in a particularly enlightening session. It would seem there is absolutely nothing you cannot learn or be open minded about given enough decades around the block. Not a single child in the village would refuse to eat broccoli again after listening to Mrs White go no handed.

The Vicar sighed quietly to himself and activated his most soothing tones, “Ladies, I think this option appeals to everyone. After all, music is a universal language. I would suggest that those of us not feeling quite up to dancing prepare to enjoy a fantastic evening of music and laughter, whilst the more adventurous will relish the opportunity to strut their stuff on the dance floor. I am looking forward to seeing all generations enjoying each other’s company at this spectacular event.”

Even to him ‘spectacular’ sounded a little optimistic. The line part of the evening was sure to be no problem, they all loved queueing. It was the dancing that was going to be the proverbial fly’s spanner in the metaphorical works’ ointment. For this dance to be a success, all those attending were going to somehow have to manage to move in unison, or, if not unison, at least the same direction for a brief while. The Vicar had the privilege of watching them all trying to cross themselves at the same time every Sunday and even that was a challenge. He was amazed every Sunday that more people didn’t leave with black eyes or the sneaking suspicion that perhaps dyspraxia was worth Googling.

Nevertheless, there was a mass exodus to the town to purchase chequered shirts for the frivolities and everyone seemed to be in high spirits at the thought of a good knees up.

So when the apocalypse came about and time stood still, naturally people worried that to go ahead with the Line Dance was disrespectful to the people they assumed must have died somewhere. It was a complicated matter though, as a lot of people had already bought their tickets and the Village Hall deposit was nonrefundable, apocalypse or no apocalypse. The Vicar pondered for a day and then declared bravely that the dance would still go ahead.

“It’s just like the war,” piped up Mrs White, “We’ve got to keep morale up.”

“It’s not just like the war,” chimed in Mrs Shoe, ever on the look out for a way to be contrary to anything Mrs White said, “There are no Nazis.”

“No,” said Mrs White, confidently “We’ve got the Devil instead. Which is arguably worse.”

“Worse than Nazis?”

“Of course he is, he invented Nazis.”

“No he didn’t. Hitler invented the Nazis.” Mrs Shoe was not going to be embarrassed in front of The Vicar by a woman who didn’t even have the common sense to keep the window shut when she was getting her jollies.

“Well who do you think invented Hitler? And don’t you say his mother you sour old...”

It was a novel version of the old chicken and egg row, The Vicar had to admit. However, as a man of the cloth he felt it would be irresponsible to allow a full scale cat fight to break out between two upstanding members of the community. The NHS really didn’t need the strain of Mrs Shoe needing two entirely new hips just before they had an apocalypse level of death to deal with.

“Ladies, I think you are both absolutely right...”

“How can they both be right when they’re arguing opposite points?” offered Mr Young, ever happy to stir the pot of bickering octogenarians.

“They are both right, Mr Young, because I think, deep down, they are both arguing fervently for the morale of the village to be boosted by way of a coordinated shindig.” Did young people still use the word shindig...? Did anyone still use the word shindig? Why on earth had he used the word shindig?

“Besides which,” he continued, shaking off the residue of his antiquated word choice “It will make a perfect send off for Hamish and Sarah as they leave on their very special mission to assist the village in finding out the whereabouts of Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour”

And so it was decided, the party would go ahead with a special send off theme for the valiant explorers. They were, understandably, delighted.