Saving a Child From God, page 3
Professor Jeggert dropped his briefcase and dashed toward the shaven-headed man, who had to be in his late sixties.
“What’re you doing, you idiot?” he shouted, grabbing the plastic lapels of his fluorescent jacket. Up close he was curiously baby-faced with bulging eyes. “It’s a bloody fire engine!”
“What the...” The man struggled to break free. “Get your hands off me!”
“For God’s sake, get out of the way!”
The man’s stick clattered onto the road. “How dare – ”
“Bloody well move, you stupid – ”
The professor’s mouth was struck by a flailing hand as he tried to drag him back toward the pavement, causing him to let go. They stood a few feet apart on the road, staring and panting. Now the guy looked like a startled overgrown baby.
A truck door was thrown open.
“I’m a lollipop...” He glanced behind as a burly fireman jumped out and began bearing down on him. “I have... right of way. This is my job and – ”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” The professor pointed at the truck. “They’ve got a fire to get to. Someone could be dying.”
Then he shoved him, causing his arms to windmill and his heel to catch against the kerb as he stumbled onto the pavement. Obviously shaken, the lollipop man made no attempt to reclaim his territory, instead preferring to shoot wounded, accusatory glances at the pair of them.
The furious-looking fireman grunted and slapped the professor’s shoulder before turning and jogging back to the truck. The driver blared his horn and waved a fist as he drove past, making no effort to avoid the stick lying in the road.
The professor touched his face and burped up hot curry sauce as he walked over to the lollipop man.
“Why didn’t you get out of the way?”
No answer.
Instead the lollipop man shakily walked back to his stick, ran a hand along its face and returned to jab it at the professor.
“Look at it! Look what you’ve done! It’s all dirty and bent.” His voice went quieter and his frog eyes seemed shiny and wet. “Completely bent.” He began mumbling and caressing the stick, as if it had been a living thing.
The professor slowly exhaled. “I don’t believe this. I really don’t.” He glanced skyward. “Please save me from irrational people.”
He looked around. Some of the school kids were pressed up against the railings pointing and laughing. One of the women was holding up his briefcase and jiggling it. He took a couple of steps toward her before the lollipop man sparked into life again and ran around to cut him off.
“That’s council property, that is,” he said, pointing at the stick, “and you’re responsible!” He pulled out a small notepad from a top pocket. “Right, what’s your name?”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m going to report you. You stopped me doing my job, assaulted me and you’re drunk. I can smell it on your breath. And you bent my stick.”
“Assaulted you...? What? I’m a...” He threw up his hands and hissed through clenched teeth. “Rational person. You understand? I simply don’t do things like that.”
“Just tell me your name,” he said, stubby pencil poised over the pad.
The professor dodged past and walked over to the woman holding his briefcase. She was about forty with big, melancholy eyes, a hesitant smile and a shoulder-length brown bob. Quite pretty, really. Despite everything, he couldn’t help thinking that this was the start of something. It was all so mad and memorable. Such stuff went on in the movies all the time. He’d seen it on his big screen at home.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Can you believe that guy?”
“I know,” she said. “I think he’s crazy.” She smiled again and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You were ever so brave.”
“Thanks,” he replied, straightening his tie. He brushed himself down, aware his eye was watering from the slap he’d received. She went to hand him the briefcase, forced to pause when he adopted a flying Superman pose leaning forward on one foot with his fist in front of him.
“All in a day’s work for – ”
“I haven’t finished with you,” the lollipop man said, grabbing his upper arm and knocking him off balance.
The professor spun, shaking his fist. “Oh, for the love of God, be rational, man,” he bellowed as the guy backed off. “BE RATIONAL!” It was lucky the woman hadn’t returned his briefcase because he was pretty sure he would have clouted the idiot round the head with it. He turned back to her as she proffered the bag again, realising her face was vaguely familiar. A local, perhaps?
“It’s a lovely briefcase,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, racking his brains in a bid to say something funny. Women loved humour. “It’s real leather.”
Then she gave another hesitant smile and stepped toward him. Hope warmly surged through his chest as he looked at her expectantly.
“You’ve, er...” She pointed at the lower half of his face. “There’s some sauce or something on your...” She glanced down.
“Oh, I see,” he said, hastily pulling out a handkerchief. “It’s from a...” He stopped, determined not to say Pot Noodle. He rubbed his goatee, his eyes flicking over to her silent, older friend and back again.
Say something. For Christ’s sake, man, say something.
“Well...” she said, holding up her bag of shopping as if it represented some kind of pressing need. “Bye...”
Then she was turning away and so was he, just like all those other times. He didn’t even know her name. He started trudging toward the uni again, unable to resist a final look over his shoulder. She was chatting to her friend while waiting for a break in the traffic. Maybe she was talking about him. Yes, of course she was. Something along the lines of getting tongue-tied and maybe life was made up of tiny scenes that could blossom if seized, but the chance had vanished and wasn’t it a damned shame?
He watched her shift her shopping from one hand to the other as the lollipop man strode up to them, shrilly insisting they were witnesses to a crime. She shook her head and the professor was about to turn when he thought she glanced his way. He squinted while cursing his failing eyes.
Was she smiling at him? Or at least trying to get his attention?
Glasses, glasses.
He fumbled in his briefcase, dropped it, cursed again and finally managed to retrieve the spectacles.
Just wave, woman. Just give me a little wave, some sort of – “Oi! Briefcase!”
He turned to see the spiky-haired Asian teenager hanging over the railings with his cronies gathered nearby. He inwardly groaned. Piss off, you loudmouth cretin or I’ll – “Well done, mate!” the kid shouted, giving a thumbs up as his mates burst into enthusiastic applause. “You really showed that old tit.”
The professor nodded and smiled, unable to prevent himself from giving a little bow.
****
Chapter Three
Professor Jeggert resumed his journey toward the uni, passing the Chinese restaurant, the town hall and the tail end of the common before turning onto Chesterton Road. Up on his right was Tiverby’s small mosque, a building that had been put up despite his nuanced and very fair speech at a crowded town hall meeting. The Tiverby Recorder had even quoted him: When we couldn’t explain things, we needed God. Now that we have scientific answers backed up with a wealth of evidence, there’s really no need to worship a sky magician or take up valuable public space by erecting monuments to him. Despite somehow losing, the planning committee had obviously been impressed with his comments as the mosque’s overall size and minaret height had both been reduced.
He ducked into the corner shop, bought a packet of extra-strong mints and sat on a low wall outside facing the mosque. He glanced around, looking for something to amuse. Hopefully the friendly tabby cat with the red collar that frequented the shop would turn up. It had beautiful green eyes and he liked rubbing its chin. They were becoming quite good friends and he ought to bring it a treat.
Maybe he should get a cat. Might be nice to slap on a classic 70s movie with a well-fed animal purring on his warm lap. Someone to tell the day’s events to and all that.
Across the way a handful of Muslims arrived at the mosque, greeting each other with a handshake before slipping their shoes off.
“Baby needs its bottle,” he muttered as a middle-aged black man came out of the shop. His light green thobe was struggling to contain his paunch and there was a discoloured callus on his forehead. He stood nearby and nodded hello while unwrapping some cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and proffered the open pack.
“No, thanks, I don’t smoke,” the professor said, wanting to add but thanks for giving me the opportunity to poison myself. Smokers had to be among the most irrational people on the face of the planet. Their revolting habit was well-known to be catastrophic to health and yet still they persisted. He’d always wondered about the look on a smoker’s face after being diagnosed with cancer. Did he just continue to sit there with a slightly bemused expression, thinking Hmm... guess I could’ve avoided that.
The overweight man lit his cigarette and stepped nearer. Up close he had a straggly, unconvincing beard that looked like clumps of pubes had been haphazardly glued to his face.
“Nice day,” he said.
The professor grunted, glancing again at the man’s callus. Apparently a good Muslim’s forehead touched the floor more than thirty times a day during prayers. How many times would that be over a lifetime? He did a few quick calculations, deciding it was in the region of a million. No wonder prayer bumps weren’t exactly uncommon. In Salman Rushdie’s Shame it was called the bruise of devotion. Apparently some were convinced that on the Day of Judgement a piercing light would emanate from their hardened skin patch, marking them out as the most devout.
A young boy in a skull cap ran out of the shop and found the man’s hand while rubbing his jaw.
“Hello, little man,” the professor said. “Something wrong with your mouth?”
The kid turned his face into his father’s thobe, causing him to smile and put a big hand on the back of his head.
“Don’t mind him, he’s very shy with strangers. He has a toothache and I’m taking him to the dentist after prayers.” The man blew out smoke and offered a hand. “My name is Ibrahim.”
They shook. “Professor James Jeggert.”
“And this is my son, Abdullah.”
“Abdullah... What a nice name,” he said, managing to make eye contact. The kid did nothing, except open his mouth to reveal he’d lost two lower front teeth. “Hello, Abdullah.”
No answer.
“You say you’re a professor?” Ibrahim said.
“That’s right, at the university. Just on my way to work now.”
“Impressive. It’s always an honour to meet a man of learning and intellect.”
The professor couldn’t help nodding. “Thank you.”
“You know, I think I’ve seen you... You were sat there a few times before.”
Sitting there, he wanted to say. “Yeah, I often break up the walk with a little rest.” He patted a leg. “Not as young as I used to be.”
The man smiled. “You always seem... How can I put it?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “As if you’re... I don’t know... Interested in our mosque.”
“Me? Interested in that...” He just about managed to stop himself saying hive of irrationality. “No, I don’t think so. Just a convenient place to sit, that’s all.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Well, if you ever want to go in, be shown around, I’d be happy to – ”
“No, no,” he laughed, holding up both hands. “But thanks, anyway. It’s a kind offer. You run along and do your thing. I’ll just stay out here enjoying the sunshine while continuing to be quietly rational.”
Ibrahim frowned, dropped his cigarette and crushed it under foot. “Well, it was nice to meet you and I hope we can talk again. Say goodbye, Abdullah.”
“Goodbye,” the kid murmured in his treble voice.
The professor nodded, watching them cross the road hand in hand before they removed their shoes and disappeared into the mosque.
****
Professor Jeggert walked through the university grounds, glancing at the scores of lounging students on the well-kept lawns under the shade of the trees. Most were absorbed by the tiny screens of their smart phones. A few possessed the energy to cycle around as he passed a pair of giggling girls chucking an orange Frisbee back and forth. Everything was so sedate, pleasant and respectable.
When he’d been at uni in London during the tail end of the seventies, punk was all the rage. Christ, he’d never forget getting down the front at a Stranglers gig right in among the thrashing, sweat-soaked bodies. Peaches, I Feel Like a Wog, Bring on the Nubiles... Hugh Cornwell in his pomp, spitting out venom and sharing jokes with the onstage strippers.
It had been a defining, if not inspirational moment, especially as he’d enjoyed a shag and a fight the same night before waking up in a police cell and going home with itchy nads to discover he’d picked up a dose.
Again.
Within a week, he’d formed a punk band called Bawdy Bastards. They even played with guitars shaped like cocks after the bassist’s girlfriend had made the foam rubber neck additions at her deadbeat factory job. What a gimmick! Two years of mental pub gigs followed, belting out barbed songs about not giving a shit and sticking it to The Man. Bloody hell, how easy was it to strike up a conversation with a half-pissed girl while standing at the bar with a cock-shaped guitar?
Such fantastic memories.
And so what if the record companies ignored their demo tapes? It was their loss. Anyhow, he’d had a great time, he’d fucking well lived, and that was what really mattered.
Then there was that seven-day bender otherwise known as Rag Week which had kicked off with his publication of some scathing satirical pieces in the rag mag. Egging teachers’ cars, chucking fireworks through letterboxes, and ransoming the neighbours’ pets had all followed.
What a blast.
Fast forward thirty-five years or so and tertiary education struck him as a rigid, joyless experience. Education in a straitjacket. Everyone frothing at the mouth over the slightest misdemeanour, determined to take offence even when none was intended. Safe spaces and trigger warnings for the pussy generation. Micro-analysis of language. The slow, agonising death of humour. That awful tendency to paint yourself as anti-racist, anti-sexist or anti-whatever and then hurl abuse at anyone perceived otherwise. PC Nazis on patrol bayoneting anyone with a twinkle in their eye or a tongue in cheek. Conform, conform, conform... Hey, let’s judge yesterday’s heroes by the enlightened, moral standards of today. The buzzing insects of the internet. No forgiveness. Guilty forever. Outrage bloody culture.
Only last month the student union had wet its panties and banned Germaine Greer from speaking, citing her ‘problematic’ views on lady boys or transgender people or whatever the hell they were supposed to be called these days. Now he was no great fan of the feminist academic, but the woman had paid her dues and bloody well earned the right to an audience. Instead a bunch of pimply, squeaky-clean know it alls had held sway, trampling over free speech in the process.
Truth was borne through the heat of argument, not by refusing to allow someone with a slightly different take on things into the same room. Whatever happened to I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it. Rational human beings talked thing through. They debated. Now it was just instant condemnation by the language police as backs were turned. Christ, today’s so-called intelligentsia made him want to puke.
People really needed to grow a thicker skin.
Things were so wearying he’d even stopped having a pint at the discounted student bar. Slapping up posters that warned of date rape and chlamydia didn’t exactly put him in the mood for a fun night out, but banning bawdy songs and ‘sexist’ terms such as barmaid (along with Happy Hour and jugs of beer in a drive to promote responsible drinking) was the last straw.
No, much better to sink a few on his own at home while bopping away to Rattus Norvegicus. Some might perceive him as a crusty old professor but he knew he was still a punk rocker at heart.
They would not change him and what’s more, he was here to stay. Sooner or later the pendulum had to swing back in his favour.
He stopped at the statue of Lloyd George and patted it.
“Hang in there, pal,” he muttered, glancing up at the former Prime Minister.
No doubt when the rabid PC brigade took umbrage with his womanising, they’d come for him as well.
****
Professor Jeggert walked into the half-full but noisy classroom and put his briefcase down on the table. The student chatter momentarily dipped before returning to its previous level. Why did he have to teach in such a stuffy little room with its uninspiring view of a car park? He tried not to think of Hooligan impersonating him in a lecture theatre somewhere on the main campus while trotting out his mundane observations on linguistics.
He slipped on his glasses, already fairly certain the lesson would go the same way as the others. After all, you can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear. His stomach tightened as he glanced around. The vibrantly dressed South American girls Gisette and Louisa were holding court in the middle, obviously happy to be on the receiving end of numerous sly stares from their classmates; Boris the German was once again sipping from a Starbucks coffee; Pierre had his arms folded and eyes closed, apparently keen for another smack across the head; the hatchet-faced, blonde Ukrainian girl Anna was tapping away on her mobile under the desk again; and Fawaz the Virgin Ostrich was sitting ramrod straight at the back, his undersized head motionless on the end of that overly long neck.
The professor switched on the e-podium and OHP and took his time calibrating the smart board. He turned with a plastered on smile.
