The Ice Migration by Jacqueline Crooks

Author:Jacqueline Crooks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peepal Tree Press

In the Spirit

Southall, 1979

They’re always dressed in white, writhing like ghosts. Acting out, like that woman on the stage, head thrown back: words flying out her mouth. It gives Pastor the chance to wipe away the sweat on his temples. Then he’s keying up the congregation to his pitch, shouting about the slackness and sinning of young people.

Why is he looking at her? Tutus thinks. This is the last time, the last raaated time she comes. She can do better than this, even on a Sunday evening in a slum town. She tells herself that she only comes to be close to her grandmother, Muma-Miller, who is standing next to her, beating time with her tambourine, singing like her life depends on it.

But these people say they’ve got the key to the afterlife, and Tutus is open to anything that will provide a little stability.

Lloyd looks like he’s just stepped outta the afterlife. He’s at the end of her pew, standing like ancient boy-man, brown-skinned, inlaid black eyes.

She turns and smiles at him. His pink water-mouth doesn’t smile back but there’s a small movement in his eyes. Or maybe it’s just the flickr-flickr-flickr from the strip fluorescent light high above him.

‘There is no time to lose,’ Pastor calls out. ‘Come lay your head at the feet of God before judgement day; I will save you from the devil.’

The Sistren on stage jump and stomp, their crimpelene-upholstered bosoms bouncing; their arms open wide for Tutus.

Tutus’ face is hot with the heat coming from the electric fires that are in all the corners, hot as hell and probably a fire hazard in the clapped-out clapboard church.

Hellfire, she thinks, that’s the place everyone thinks Lloyd is destined for. She’s heard what the congregation say: ‘The devil inside that bwoy.’ ‘Why him don’t speak or smile or look people in the eye?’ ‘Him head not good.’

All Lloyd has to do to buy his place in the afterlife, is walk to the pulpit, kneel on the red cushions, at the feet of Pastor Grossman.

Tutus doesn’t know why Lloyd comes, week after week. Arriving a little after the evening service, leaving just before the fire and brimstone sermon ends, and mostly managing to avoid having his face pulled to the stale bodies of the Sistren, who have been jumping, singing and praising all day, leaving white halos around their mouths.

Tutus knows that the morning service has opened her up; she can feel the buzzing in her eyes, the light fizzing in her ears. And now the evening service, and everyone is high on the strange Sunday darkness, the quiet that mingles with the singing and praying. Tutus listens as Pastor’s voice recedes and she hears the banging of his fist on the pulpit, louder, louder – a steady beating drum. The electricity in her ears buzzes, becomes a cool breeze, becomes a whisper: He is not to be trusted.

A chair scrapes against the wooden floor and Tutus turns around.

Lloyd has stepped into the aisle, facing the altar head-on.

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