As Jehovah Is My Witness

“My God”, gasped Rhodes like a man who had just rolled a stone away from the mouth of a tomb, only to discover that its occupant had already ascended. “This is purgatory!” He hurriedly wiped the perspiration from his furrowed brow and glanced sideways at his companion, a small, squat individual with a pronounced limp in his left leg which, upon walking, caused him to lurch slightly to the right like a human Tower Of Pizza. The day was hotter than a burning bush and both men had removed their jackets and loosened their ties. This was contrary to Rule 234(d) of the Operatives Code of Practice, but this place was so out of the way that they may as well have been at the top of Mount Sinai.

“You’re not wrong there!” grizzled Bridges, fanning himself with a large dock leaf, rather like an Egyptian slave in the court of Cleopatra. “It’s hotter than Hell out here! If you ask me, whichever little angel back at Head Office condemned us to this God-forsaken place wants a good stoning. Talk about going into The Wilderness!” He gazed up at his associate, a tall, thin individual with sandy hair plastered to his forehead and a nervous twitch in his right eye, which gave the impression he was winking suggestively at anyone who gazed in his direction. “We’ve got about as much chance of signing up true believers around here as finding the Holy Grail!”

His partner, dressed identically in a white shirt, black suit, with matching tie and shoes, opened his faux leather briefcase and rifled through the pile of crisp white application forms, stark confirmation of their distinct lack of success. “Look at the last two they sent out here. What were their names again?” He directed the forefinger of his left hand to the centre of his forehead as if in deep contemplation. “Twigg and Hedges?” He nodded in agreement at his own suggestion. “Top salesmen they were. Highest Customer Retention figures for three months on the trot. Those boys certainly knew how to close a deal!”

“Yeah, I remember”, rasped his colleague asthmatically. ”Whatever happened to them?”

“Heaven knows. Perhaps they got transferred to another Unit. All I know is at this rate we’re never going to get that Salesmen Of The Month award.”

Bridges looked like a man who could barely contain his disappointment. They had walked the length and breadth of the village, knocking on every door, offering salvation and security on affordable terms, but the crop had been barren. “So near yet so far. You’d think in these times of economic uncertainty, people would be queuing up for easy answers.” He placed his hands on his hips and looked around at the picturesque landscape. This was truly God’s little acre. But it was also the end of the village. There were no more houses in sight. His annoyance was clearly evident. “All we need is one more lousy signature.”

They say that God moves in mysterious ways and in this case, he most certainly did, for seemingly out of nowhere, there appeared in the distance a figure moving towards them at a slow but steady speed. If thoughts were words then the following would be a reasonably accurate account of what happened next.

Rhodes looked at Bridges. Bridges looked back. They both looked towards the figure on the bicycle. She appeared to be wearing a dead fox around her neck and what resembled a large buzzard on her head, both as dark as coal and almost as ancient. Elastic stockings crept down her legs like dry rot on an outhouse wall, and the bike she was on bore an uncanny resemblance to something a character from a Dickens’ novel would have ridden. Indeed, it appeared as if she had slipped through the very fabric of time, emerging from a late Victorian setting, slap bang into the twenty-first century. As she wobbled between them, Rhodes looked at Bridges and Bridges looked at Rhodes once again. If this were a Tom & Jerry cartoon, then our characters’ eyes would be spinning like barrels on a slot machine, coming to rest on ‘£££’ before spitting out the jackpot. But it wasn’t. Rhodes looked at Bridges and Bridges looked at Rhodes and they both looked at the old lady as she disappeared through a gap in the hedgerow.

Hurriedly, they reassembled their attire, taking turns to straighten out each other’s ties and brush the grass from their jackets. A hastily conducted spit-wash and finger-comb of the hair, and they were ready to roll. Like a pair of Red Indian braves, they tracked the course of their prey to a gate marked ‘Garden Cottage’, which opened on to a narrow cobbled path that meandered like a babbling brook across a leafy lawn down to a small house with what the Home Improvement people called a ‘bespoke style’ thatched roof. Rhodes rapped firmly on the old oak door while his partner, seasoned professional that he was, opened the briefcase and removed a set of promotional materials. Both men were now in what was commonly known in the trade as ‘Customer Interface Mode’.

After what appeared an eternity, the heavy door opened to reveal the same old lady, minus the dead animals and now resplendent in red pinafore and a green chefs hat. Although she did not appear at all surprised to see them, Bridges immediately went into the standard sales spiel, as laid down in the Operatives Code of Practice, page 23, paragraph 6(b).

“Good afternoon madam”, he gushed, dispensing charm by the shovel load. “Are you ready to let Jesus into your life?”

The old girl looked slightly puzzled, but Rhodes, trooper that he was, took this as an encouraging sign, although what came next was somewhat unexpected.

“Jesus?” she replied, wiping her hands on a grubby tea towel emblazoned with the words ‘Souvenir From Lourdes’. “Why do I need to let him into my life when he’s already out back pruning the roses?”

Rhodes looked at Bridges. Bridges looked at Rhodes. The old biddy was definitely one banana short of a bunch. That Salesmen Of The Month award was so close they could almost taste it.

“My, how wonderful”, purred Bridges, sensing the opportunity to dislodge his foot from the door and get it over the threshold. “Would it be possible to meet him?”

“Oooh, I don’t know about that”, she said, standing aside to afford the two men access to the kitchen, where the pleasant aroma of baking bread greeted them like an old friend. “He’s promised to give Jacob a back rub later”.

Once again knowing glances were exchanged. There were obviously others. Not only would targets be met – they would exceed all expectations. Like all good stories, this one was writing itself.

Page 31, paragraph 9(k) of the Operatives Code of Practice advised prompt action in the case of wavering customer interest, and Bridges was never one to ignore company policy, especially in a situation such as this where multiple sales were almost a cast iron certainty. He glanced down at an envelope lying on the kitchen table beside five fish, which had the appearance of being recently hauled from a nearby stream. The name on the correspondence read ‘Mrs Mary Eden’. At this point, he decided that familiarity was the best option.

“Madam… or can I call you Mary?” The question was somewhat superfluous as he declined to wait for an answer. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to sit at the right-hand of God? Well look no further because with our all inclusive afterlife coverage, you’re virtually assured a place on the top table. St. Peter will have your name on the guest list, and you’ll be in the VIP lounge before you can say ‘onward Christian soldiers’. Our normal rate for an offer of this magnitude would be a whopping £30 per month but, for a lady of your obvious maturity, we can give you the very same policy for the knockdown price of £10, representing a massive 66.6% discount, which is a devilishly good deal in anyone’s book”.

While Bridges had been rambling on (after all, he was in the countryside), Mrs E had been busying herself removing two loaves from an ancient wood-burning oven, placing them beside the fish on the kitchen table. Rhodes couldn’t help noticing the irony of the situation.

“Five fish and two loaves? You’ll be telling me next there’s five thousand people camped out in the back garden!” He guffawed loudly at his own joke.

“Oh it’s nothing”, the old lady replied. “Just some recipe that was popular a while ago. It’s not much but I find it always goes a long way”.

Bridges threw his partner a withering glare that suggested trains needed to get back on tracks. Extracting one of the crisp white A4 pages from the briefcase, he once again offered Mrs E the deal of a lifetime.

“If you’d just like to sign along the dotted line”. He took a pen in his hand and tapped out a series of invisible digits in the air to the left of Mrs E’s right eye. “Don’t you worry yourself about the rest of the form – we can fill that in for you later”. His manner radiated integrity and professionalism.

“Oooh, I’m afraid I can’t do that, love. You’ll have to speak to my husband Joe – he deals with that kind of stuff. He’s out in the garden doing a bit of DIY, but I’m sure he won’t mind you interrupting him.” With that, she opened the backdoor and led them out on to the garden, which consisted of a large rectangular lawn where people dressed in what could only be described as early first century Middle-Eastern, were milling around making polite small talk. This was either an elaborate fancy dress party or the local loony bin was having an outreach session. Rhodes looked at Bridges and Bridges looked at Rhodes. Both of them couldn’t help thinking that it resembled an OPEC convention. Either that, or the local bed linen outlet was having a ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ promotion. There had to be at least twenty-five people out there. If they could only sign up half of them they’d be the toast of the office for months to come. As if sensing their confusion, Mrs E took the opportunity to elaborate.

“Don’t mind them – they’re just a few friends we’ve invited round for a bite to eat. You see, we’re off on a bit of a voyage of self discovery tomorrow – we’ll be gone for forty days and nights – so this will be our last supper. Here – let me introduce you to my husband. Joe! These two gentlemen would like you to sign a bit of paper – something about Eternal Life insurance”.

Her husband, who was a good deal older, was struggling somewhat unsuccessfully to nail two planks of wood together in what appeared to be a slightly uneven plus sign. He beckoned the two men over.

“Just the ticket! I’m getting a bit old for this carpentry game. Perhaps you two young lads could give me a hand shifting this down there”. He pointed in the direction of a small shed, situated to the rear of the garden, which looked as if it had been decorated to resemble the Milky Way. Either that, or some local fancied themselves as the new Jackson Pollock. Rhodes and Bridges, always eager to assist a potential customer, dutifully picked up either end of the horizontal section, while the old boy struggled manfully at the rear. It was obvious that there was a shortcoming at the front end of the structure.

“Hang on a mo dad, I’ll give you a hand!”

With that, the man who Mrs E had called Jesus grabbed the front end and helped to drag the heavy wooden planks towards the shed where, upon arrival, it was positioned against the side of the building.

‘That’ll do lads. Thanks for your help. Now then, what was that about signing a bit of paper?”

But signing papers was the last thing on the two salesmen’s minds. Instead, their eyes were transfixed on a shard of golden light that was pointing, laser like, through a small crack in the bottom of the shed door.

“What’s that?” enquired Rhodes, lines of puzzlement etched across his furrowed brow.

“Oh, you don’t want to go in there”, said Old Joe, with a glint in his eye that suggested otherwise, although he could have saved his breath as Bridges had already unlatched the shed and was in the process of opening the door. Immediately the garden was flooded with the light of a thousand suns. Bridges pointed in the direction of a small chalice-like object, which was positioned in the centre of an antique style table.

“My God!” he cried, awestruck and amazed. “What on earth is that?” As if by magic, Mrs E appeared, carrying a large plate of fish sandwiches.

“I won’t bother laying a place for these two”, she said, glancing in the direction of the cold callers, who by this point both looked decidedly hot under the collar. “They won’t be staying for tea”. Both men wore looks of abject amazement.

“Is that what I think it is?” said Bridges, pound signs re-appearing in his eyes.

“Oh, that old thing”, Joe responded, almost apologetically. “It’s been in the family for generations…a present from my Uncle Arthur and Auntie Gwynne. Loaded, are those two. Got shares in that lottery business”. He paused momentarily, a look of puzzlement etched across his heavily lined features. “ What’s it called again, Eve?”

His wife threw him one of those ‘you’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on’ looks. “Camelot”, she replied, for what appeared to be the thousandth time.

Her husband, as is the want of men married for more years than they cared to remember, completely forgot the question he’d asked, and continued as if nothing had happened. “Wouldn’t part with it for love nor money”.

“But don’t you see”, spluttered Rhodes. “It’s the Holy Grail! Let us flog it for you and we’re talking Euro Millions money. We could all retire on this!” As if on cue, a hushed silence descended amongst the guests who, unnoticed by the now decidedly less than Dynamic Duo, had formed an orderly semi-circle around the doorway.

“Oh, I’m afraid we couldn’t do that”, mumbled Mrs E as the daggers appeared from beneath the robes.

“What are you doing!” screamed Bridges, as the cold steel pierced his soft warm skin.

Old Joe, a gleaming chisel held menacingly in his gnarled right hand, approached the men with a look normally associated with serial killers and religious fanatics. Beside him stood his wife, who now magically appeared to be some fifty years younger. She clasped her hands tightly together, as if in prayer. Her voice was quietly angelic.

“You should know by now boys…if you want to get to Heaven then you’ve got to make sacrifices”.

And that, dearly beloved, is how Rhodes and Bridges, like Twigg and Hedges before them, became yet another addition to The Church Of Everlasting Darkness’s ever increasing collection of sacrificial lambs, and a couple of Eternal Life salesmen were despatched poste-haste towards that big meeting room in the sky.
And the moral of this story? Well it would appear that you can take any line you choose from the ‘Good’ book and use it to justify any action you so desire. All you need is a name for your church and a few like-minded souls willing to follow you. It would appear that Joseph and Mary Eden were blessed in both of those departments. As for your humble correspondents take on all this. How about don’t bear witness to false idols?

Better still, don’t bear witness at all.