Angels Versus Virgins Read online

Angels versus Virgins

  Bryan Murphy

  Copyright 2015 Bryan Murphy

  Dark Future Books

  Cover by Mao Qing

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination.

  To discover more work by Bryan Murphy, visit:

  https://www.bryanmurphy.eu

  ******

  Table of Contents

  Angels versus Virgins

  About the author

  Other e-books by Bryan Murphy

  Connect with Bryan Murphy on-line

  Angels versus Virgins

  Lee was dying to see the Angels. He was not the only one.

  When the tall, thin teenager arrived outside the club’s headquarters, the queue was already a lengthy one. From the Bishop’s Offices, it snaked along the lawn in front of the Anglo-Saxon castle that stood next to the Offices, down to the river, and along its banks to the High Street, from which the usual light traffic had been diverted. The pulsating mass of people gave the old town a human heartbeat.

  A group of Sikh football supporters wearing turbans added variety to the Kentish scene, as did a few Raelists in the kind of outfit people back in the mid-20th Century imagined people today would be wearing, though they could not have foreseen how youngsters would change the colours and patterns at will. Ahead of Lee, a woman sported a black burqa. Lee appreciated the way its soft fabric clung to her body, especially when the queue moved forward. Most folk, however, wore standard Christian garb, reflecting the identity of a club sponsored by the Church of England. They might have been modelling for a Grant Wood painting like American Gothic, which Lee’s class had studied. In the best tradition of provincial British teenagers, Lee loved that retro American look as much as fish and chips.

  In the Spring sunshine, beside the sparkling river, nobody worried that the queue advanced slowly. Good humour hung in the air, a feeling of unity pervaded this group of people edging toward a season ticket to a circus of dreams, dreams they shared. Lee drifted into conversation with an elderly man who was just ahead of him.

  “Do you reckon we’ll get tickets?”

  “Should do. We’re quite well up in the queue. As long as they haven’t got anything on their files against us.”

  “Me, I’m a regular Pioneer. Out of the stadium and straight into church. I’m clean.”

  “I know it’s hard for you youngsters. In my day, there was more to do. More that was allowed.”

  “Here, don’t talk like that. Walls have ears.”

  “And rivers, too?” the old man chuckled. “Luckily, I’m too old for them to care much about what I think.”

  With the ice broken, they indulged the usual banter about the football season that was coming to an end: nothing more on offer in the Conference than a decent mid-table finish by the Angels. The big hope for the club was the Anglo-Scottish Chalice. Against the odds, the club had reached the semi-finals, where a tough tie away to St. Mirren stood between them and an unprecedented appearance in the final itself, in Glasgow. It might not be a sell-out, but treading the turf at The Hallows would live in the memory forever.

  “They go on about refs being biased in our favour,” the old-timer snorted. “Did you ever? Does the Almighty prefer Angels to Saints? Why us rather than St. Albans?”

  “Impossible,” agreed Lee. “And that penalty they gave against us in the first round? There’s proof that we’re nobody’s pets!”

  “Great save by Gabriel. What a boy!”

  “Fantastic!”

  Neither man mentioned that Gabriel had saved a re-taken kick. The first shot had gone in, but the referee had disallowed the goal for an infringement that he alone saw.

  The religious renaissance in Britain had indeed been kind to teams with names like Tonbridge Angels. They suddenly found referees making dodgy decisions in their favour; players yearned to don their colours; companies and institutions clamoured to sponsor them. Tonbridge Angels had moved up in the soccer world from the wilderness of the provincial Bishoprics, through the Flock South to claim a place in the National Conference. Being a small-town team, they could never realistically hope to make Council I or Council II, but one more promotion would take them into the Football Congregation – their historic, unfulfilled ambition throughout the 80 years of their existence – and within sight of the glittering prize of a place in the Football Synod.

  It was Sunday afternoon. The people in the queue could have been at worship, or gainfully employed in some other way. What had brought all these good people out here was the chance to guarantee themselves a regular place in the new stadium that was to open in August for the coming season. The old man’s eyes glistened as he recounted the story Lee knew so well and loved both to hear and to tell. How the politicians had turned a blind eye as the graceful old Angel Hotel, which had given the town’s soccer team its nickname, had been demolished. How the local authorities had forced the club out of the nearby Angel Ground so they could sell the land to a supermarket chain, and moved the club from its prime central location to a flood-prone field on the outskirts of town. How the team had come good during the Religious Renaissance. How the rise of God and the decline of Mammon had left the supermarket more than willing to make the site a gift to the Church. The Church had immediately set about demolishing all the commercial buildings, some of them in truth already abandoned, and then building a new Angel Stadium for services, revivals and soccer.

  “Hallelujah! God is great!” the old man chanted, as he finished the history lesson. When he saw they were now near the head of the queue, he fell silent. Tension entered his face and etched its lines deeper. Not everyone who applied for a season ticket got one. There could be “philosophical” problems. When his turn came for the interview, he did not speak to Lee as he shuffled into the Bishop’s Offices.

  Five minutes later, the old man burst out clutching an Angels 2031-32 season ticket, threw himself at Lee and hugged him hard, intoning “God is great!” as though he meant it.

  Lee prised himself free. “See you at the New Angel Ground,” he said. The old man’s joy failed to dispel Lee’s own tension, now that he was so close.

  “I’ll be there, God willing. Look out for O’Murchu. What’s your name, son?”

  “Lee. Lee Soylent. Angels for ever!” He pushed his way through the door into the ticket office.

  A grey-faced official in standard Christian clothing, plus dog-collar, pushed a form across the table towards him before Lee had a chance to sit down. “Name, age, address, marital status, job if any, religious affiliation, ID number, credit guarantor,” the official intoned.

  Lee sat down, took out his best antique pen, filled in the form, pushed it back across the table.

  The man glanced down it. His grey face turned ashen.

  “Religious affiliation!” he snapped. “You’ve missed out your religious affiliation!”

  Silence filled the air.

  “Heavens above! What is it?”

  Lee hesitated.

  “None.”

  The ashen face turned puce.

  “Don’t fuck with me, son! If it says religious affiliation, you write in a religious affiliation, got it? Then we give you a season ticket. Maybe.”

  He pushed the form back to Lee. Lee swallowed hard, then wrote in the blank space and slid the form back across the table. The die was cast. He felt empty. The red-faced man pored over the form. The colour first deepened, then drained from his face. There was sadness in it as he raised his head to stare at Lee.

  “Atheist is not a religious affiliation.”

  He sighed and rang an ornamental bell next to a pile of form
s on his table. Two heavy-set men dressed like friars came into the room from a side door.

  “Take this boy down to Registration. Tell them to persuade him to declare a religious affiliation.”

  Lee was on his feet before they could lay their hands on him to haul him up, or do something else to him.

  “Wherever you say.” His body might belong to God, but he wanted it in good shape for his ordeal.

  The friars only roughed Lee up a little as they took him below. The few times they forced a cry of pain out of him, they giggled. Then one of them hit Lee hard on the back of his neck, and the world went black.

  When Lee came to, he saw that he was in the presence of the Bishop’s Secretary. Like everyone else in the town, he knew that ‘secretary’ might be a euphemism, but her power was real enough. Lee was in a wooden armchair, unrestrained. The two friars stood behind his shoulders. He could feel the heat of their glowers. Football fans and bureaucrats did not mix well. The secretary paced up and down in front of Lee, her eyes fixed on his application form, which she grasped in her strong hand.

  “So, what challenge are we addressing at the present moment in time?”

  “Calls itself an atheist,” said one of the friars. His face contorted.

  “Impossible. No such thing. Category mistake. No atheists in foxholes. No foxholes like the Inquisitions. However, we must be positive. My mission, as we all know, is to realise the added value of a pre-trial