They Came From SW19 by Nigel Williams Page A

decorated. What was the point in dying if that was all you got at the end of it?
    I had the feeling, however, as Mrs Quigley settled herself at the table, that tonight’s rap was going to be a little more heavyduty. The team got into their chairs and pulled themselves up to the table like they were the board of some company discussing a million-pound tax-avoidance scheme. Only I remained outside the circle.
    ‘Come,’ said Mrs Quigley. ‘Come, Simon!’
    I came.
    Have you ever been to a seance? Do you imagine something vaguely exciting? With the curtains drawn and the doors closed and the night wind banging at the window? A weird, blackmagic affair, where people push glasses around on heavy tables, or levitate, to the sound of heavy breathing? With the First Spiritualist Church of South Wimbledon, it isn’t like that at all.
    For a start, there is no build-up. You draw the curtains, yes. But after you have taken the hand of the person next to you, off you go. There are no preliminaries apart from a short prayer, which Quigley was giving out as I sat down.
    ‘O Jesus,’ he was saying, ‘all of us here at 24 Stranraer Gardens are very keen to get in touch with Mr Norman Britton, of this address, who died earlier today at a hospital in the Wimbledon area.’
    That’s Quigley. He gives it to Jesus straight. Like he was talking to Directory Enquiries, or something.
    ‘You’ – I could tell from the way he tackled the first letter of the word that he meant Jesus – ‘see everything. You see wars, famines, victories, defeats and also, of course, You see . . . us!’
    I breathed out. Once Quigley gets on to the Lord it’s time to go out and get the popcorn. Those two can talk for hours. Or, rather, JC can
listen
for as long as Quiggers can dish it out.
    ‘Tell us, Lord,’ he went on, ‘about Thy new arrival. How is he? And can He . . .’
    Here he stopped, aware that he had vocalized the first letter as a capital and that he wasn’t supposed to be talking about Jesus but about my dad. He gulped and struggled on, careful to demote the late Mr Britton to the status of mere mortal.
    ‘. . . can
he –
Norman Britton, that is – talk to Thy children here at 24 Stranraer Gardens on today, Wednesday the fifth of September?’
    That’s Quigley. The date. The time. The map reference.
    Jesus said nothing. He never does. People do not expect him to.
    ‘And,’ went on Quigley, ‘Lord, if Norman has a message for any one of us here – any word of advice from Thy Kingdom on the Other Side – please may he come forward and speak, as we trust in Thy mercy to reveal him!’
    There was absolutely no response to this.
    Quigley, rather like a guy on the radio filling in time between records, prayed a bit more. ‘Thy crop has been a good one, Lord, and the economy, as far as we can tell, is moving out of recession and into Steady Growth.’
    Here he stopped, clearly aware that he was losing all grip on his capital letters. To mask any confusion he might be feeling, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and drove forward into the next sentence. ‘But Britain still lacks a spiritual dimension, Jesus, and many people live their lives in complete ignorance of Thee.’
    He lifted his head at this point, opened the Quigley peepers and looked round at the assembled company. His gaze ended on yours truly. I could have sworn he was trying to pick me up! It was only one step away from ‘Hi, let’s go back for a cup of coffee!’ You know? There was that much sincerity in the old Quigley glance.
    There was still absolutely no sign of Norman.
    Quigley ploughed on bravely. ‘Television is about to be deregulated and, as a result, there is a danger that pornography will be pumped into our homes. Old values are under threat. Motorways . . .’
    He stopped. He now had his head bowed over the table. His fingers masked his forehead. He peered over them at the assembled company. He obviously hadn’t quite got the heart for motorways. Once again