Bible John

‘Why do they call you Bible John?’ I ask.

‘They’re just takin the cunt,’ he says. Then apologises a few seconds later for his language.

I was given the opportunity to work with him that crucial first few days. I’m a seasoned campaigner for the Lord. The senior elders prayed with me. He’s been send to work with me for a reason. Some of the flock of elderly women—and some of the men—although they didn’t express it, weren’t that keen.

John is a stockish man, well built. His shirt and trousers are too tight and his jacket a different colour, more a grey then blue. For some reason he calls it his funeral suit. I wear a blouse and a linen suit, long skirt down to my ankles. I don’t want people to get the wrong impression. He has a scar beneath his right eye. I didn’t ask. He seems to know everyone in Clydebank. And seems vaguely familiar from those dreadful programmes you watch on TV. We start at the first close in Trafalgar Street. An algae from the canal does something to my hay fever. Makes my eyes water. And sneeze. I pray for deliverance. It works. I thank the Lord. We can’t go into a street in Dalmuir without someone coming up to talk to him. That surprises me. Because that type usually avoid us missionaries. And he really doesn’t have much to say. He never mentions Jesus, or God, or being saved. And he never hands out a bible tract. He lets me do all that. People smile at him. Their faces open up. When I do the Lord’s work their faces close like a drawer.

He’s not like some of the others I worked with. They seemed to resent doors getting shut in your face. He half smiles, apologises for bothering those not yet saved and promises never to come back if they take a tract. It’s an unorthodox approach that seems mildly successful. It’s a quarter-to eleven. We have covered one half of the street and start on the other.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door we chap, number 32, hesitate and stop. A woman opens it, a prickly bush of ginger hair appears, owl faced with too much make-up and gazes blankly at him and then me. She stinks of drink and cigarettes. An unmoved silence. She trembles as she tries to speak.  Her whole face works under her muscles and then collapses as she howls with tears. I take a step back. It’s not a good idea to get involved with drunk people, or people with mental health issues. It’s not fair. We don’t want to be accused of taking advantage of their fragile state.

He stops her from falling. Holds her close. Pats her unwashed hair and makes cooing noise. ‘It’ll be alright,’ he keeps saying.

It’s not alright. She weeps for about ten minutes. Her firm body sinking against his throat and young girlish thighs pressing against him. There’s a patch of damp and mascara on his shirt. He waits until there’s a dry stiffness in her eyes and lights a cigarette for her. I didn’t know he smoked.

‘We’ve got work to do,’ I remind him.

‘You dae it,’ he says. ‘I’m stayin with this poor lassie.’

You can imagine. I couldn’t leave him like that. Not with a single woman. We had protocol. Procedures that had to be followed. We had to work in pairs, for our own safety. God would protect us, but we had to be sensible.  

She begins to heave with dry sobs. But she gives me a sly look, over his shoulder, and waits to see if he’s going to follow her into the hallway. He does.

I fall into step behind him. I’m not one to judge, but the house is in need of renovation and refurbishment. Bottles and glasses and ashtrays could fill one skip. A worn settee and burst cushions on the remaining chair in the living room another. I search for a cat, because the place stinks of pee. Then it dawns on me the spot where I’ve squeezed on the couch, in between red tassel cushions embroidered with a dragon, is seeping into my skirt. I stand up quickly. I’ve got my handbag and leaflets in my hand. ‘I really need to go to the toilet,’ I say.

She shrug. Waves a hand towards the hall. ‘It’s through there.’ Let’s me find it for myself.

I lock the door. Her toilet pan is unflushed. Bare wooden boards on the floor. And it lacks the basics of common decency: soap, toilet roll and towel. The bath has a peeling skin and the bathroom sink is jaundiced.  I run the cold water tap. Turn my back and bum sideways to the mirror so I can see the stain. I use a hanky from my bag and clean myself up as best I can. Before I return to the fray I edge open the bathroom window and gulp in some fresh air.

The little madame’s crying again, scrunched up beside him on the couch. His hand over her shoulder, patting her on the back.

‘He’s left me with three wains, fuck all money, and I’m pregnant again, whit am I goin to do?’ she asks, sinking into him. ‘I’ll kill him.’

I take control of the situation. ‘We should pray,’ I say.

His jaw clenches and the scar under his eye seems more pronounced. He shakes his head at me.

‘Don’t do anything daft,’ he says, in a coaxing voice. He shifts his seat sideways, uses the arm of the couch to lever himself away from her and stands up slowly. His hands search through his jacket pockets, and side pockets of his trousers, pulling out notes and coins. He crams it together. Shoves it up onto the table, up against an overflowing ashtray. ‘Dunno,’ he says, ‘about eighteen quid there. Should tide you over, until we can think of something.’

She doesn’t know what to say. Neither do I.

‘You got any money on you?’ he asks me.  

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