“I’m surprised at you, Matt. I was sure that you were going to quote the Bible at us.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re a pastor, and that’s what pastors do, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes. On other occasions they simply run out of ideas.”

James grinned.

“So,” he said, “you’re only human too?”

I nodded.

“I have to admit,” I said, “that I’m probably more human than most.”

His eyes twinkled.

“Do we take that to mean that you’re willing to join the Whispies?”

I shook my head.

“No, because there’s a flaw somewhere in your argument – though I haven’t seen what it is yet.”

James drew himself up to his full height of nearly seven feet.

“I think you’ll find,” he said, “however hard that you look, that there is no flaw in our argument.
We’ve put a lot of thought into this and we’ve just about got it all right.”

Zoe touched him on the arm.

“Leave him now,” she said. “It’s time to think about lunch. Which do you prefer – pasta or rice?”

James’s eyes grew misty.

“Spaghetti Bolognese would be very nice.”

Zoe clicked her tongue and tutted.

“I’ll see what’s in the cupboards,” she muttered.

As she turned to go to the kitchen, a verse popped into my head.

“Zoe!” I called. “Let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”

She halted in the doorway and turned back.

“And what,” she demanded, “is that supposed to mean?”

I nodded towards James.
“Tell her,” I said.

For a moment, he was too astonished to speak. Then, gradually, a broad smile spread across his suntanned face.

“It isn’t too difficult to understand, Zoe, it’s simply old English. I think it means: ‘Don’t get tired of doing good, because there’s a reward, if you don’t give up.’” He turned to me. “Have I got that right, Matt?”

I nodded.

“Yes, James. If Zoe makes you spaghetti Bolognese, or some other nice meal, she will be rewarded for it – not necessarily in this life, but definitely in the next -”

“- unless she gives up,” he interjected.

“True. But she won’t, will she?”

“I might …” murmured the girl.

“No! Don’t do that!” James turned to me. “Stop her, Matt!”

I shrugged.

“No-one’s going to make Zoe do anything she doesn’t want to, James, because that wouldn’t be right. The only point St Paul – because he’s the guy who said this – wants to make is that everything worthwhile we do will be remembered.”

James gave a slow smile.

“I like the sound of that,” he said.

“Going somewhere?” snarled James.

I sighed.

“No, not any more.”

Keeping a tight grip on my coat, he propelled me back into Zoe’s room.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, “we have things to discuss.”

Nervously, I returned to my place on the bed.

“What sort of things did you have on your mind?” 

James nodded at Zoe.

“Tell him!” he snapped.

“Matt,” she said, “I’m afraid we’re very disappointed with you.”

I was utterly amazed.

“Why?” 

Zoe took a seat beside me and patted my hand.

“You came to see us of your own volition – we didn’t force you – and that, to us, was a good sign. We assumed that you had some sympathy with what we’re trying to do. And now you tell us that you don’t believe a word of it …”

I cleared my throat,

“Zoe,” I said, “I only came here because your mother asked me to. She’s worried about you and so, frankly, am I now that I’ve seen you.”

James picked me up and shook me like a rat.

“How dare you can’t speak to Zoe like that!” he roared.

Zoe tapped him on the shoulder.

“Put him down, James. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

He dropped me on the and turned to her.

“Are you quite sure of that?”

She nodded.

“Find out what it is he disagrees with,” she said.

“What is it that you disagree with?” James demanded, towering over me menacingly.

“That everything’s a complete waste of time.”

“But it is,” he said, “isn’t it?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Are you mad?” James clearly had great difficulty in accepting that anyone could possibly disagree with him. “Didn’t you hear me tell you what Keynes said?”

“Yes. And he’s right – in the long run, we are all dead. But that doesn’t mean we have to give up and just wait for it to happen; it’s a call to do what we can while we can, before it’s all too late.”

“But it is all too late!” cried James. “Look! Suppose you save someone from drowning today, tomorrow they might be run over by a bus, so what exactly do you think you’ve achieved?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, as my mind suddenly turned into mush.

“Tell him!” he hissed.

“James has chosen you,” she said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Worried now, I looked around for an escape route, but the bulky James was blocking the doorway.

“Chosen me for what?” I noticed that a distinct hoarseness had crept into my voice.

James treated me to an indulgent smile.

“I think that you’re the right person to pass on the message of the Whispies.”

“Pass it on, James? Who to?”

“Anyone that will listen.”

I shook my head violently.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not the right person. As I told you, I’ve just proved that the very people who I thought listened to me don’t.”

Zoe thrust her face into mine.

“Then it’s up to you to make them listen, Matt!”

I held up a finger, knowing what I wanted to say, but finding it hard to choose the right words. In a

“That’s all very well,” I said, eventually, “but the problem is that I don’t actually agree with you.”

“What?” With an expression of shocked unbelief, James staggered back and crashed into the wall.

Seeing my opportunity, I leapt from the bed, pushed through the door and ran. Shouts, screams and general pandemonium came from behind me, but I ignored them and raced on. Reaching the front door, I grabbed the handle, turned it and pulled. It didn’t move!

“I am very pleased to report that there are now groups of Whispies in every major university. We are trying to put right everything that is wrong.”

“How?” I asked.

He regarded me coldly.

“I’m coming to that.” He flourished his hand once again. “This house, here in the centre of Southampton, is only the tip of the iceberg. There are similar houses – linked, yet independent – in Portsmouth, Reading, Guildford and several places I can’t quite remember.”

“What do they do?” I asked.

Zoe jerked my sleeve sharply.

“Don’t interrupt him,” she hissed. “It spoils his flow and if you hold him up, we’ll be here for hours.”

James waited for her to finish, then continued as if nothing had happened.

“We are philanthropists, pointing out to a foolhardy world the sheer futility of everything.” He fixed me with his eye. “What was it that John Maynard Keynes said?”

I blanched and tried to think of what I had heard.

“Something about money, I expect.”

“No,” he intoned. “He said: in the long run, we’re all dead. And, oh, how true he was. What peace there would be if we all realised that.”

I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t resist.

“In that case,” I said, “what’s the point of doing anything at all?”

For a moment, James’ stern face creased into a smile.

“Exactly!” He turned to Zoe. “Your friend’s not quite as stupid as he looks.”

“His name is David Taylor,” she said, “and he isn’t my friend, he’s my pastor – I mean, he was my pastor when I lived in Wembley.”

James fixed me with his eye again.

“You could be very useful to us as people, for some reason, listen to you.”

I shrugged.

“I used to think that too, James, until I did some research and found that it’s not true.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” I said.

“Then why is Zoe crying?” demanded James.

She wiped the tears from her eyes with a sleeve.

“Because I’m miserable, that’s why.”

James stepped forward threateningly.

“If it’s something he’s said …,” he growled, with his fists clenched.

“No,” said Zoe, “it’s nothing like that. I’m just being stupid.”

“Oh.” James sat down on the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong, Zoe. I don’t like to see you cry. It makes your mascara run all over the place.”

She sniffed.

“I was thinking about my parents, James.”

“Oh, parents,” he snorted. “They’re a millstone round our necks.”

“But mine are wonderful,” said Zoe, with a tremor in her voice which suggested that she might soon burst into tears again. “They’re almost too good to be true.”

James gave a scornful shake of the head.

“Well, aren’t lucky you, Zoe?”

“No,” she said, “I’m not lucky at all. I can’t live up to their standard – and that’s what’s I find so depressing.”

Her head hung low in sorrow.

“You don’t have to live to their standard,” I said. “Be yourself.”

“But what if I don’t like myself, David?”

“Then be what you want to be,” said James, butting in before I could speak. “The choice is yours, darling.”

She raised her eyes to the coal-black ceiling.

“You’re right,” she said, “except that I’d only be acting – like I am now.”

James stared hard at her.

“You’re only acting? I thought that you were a thoroughly convinced Whispy.”

She gave a sad smile.

“I am – when I want to be.”

“What,” I asked, “is a Whispy?”

James considered me with some scorn.

“Don’t you know?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”

“Zoe,” I said, “James must have met the wrong sort of people. Of course there are Christians – and I’m probably one of them – who aren’t doing all that they might to help other people. But look at William Wilberforce, who freed the slaves; look at Elizabeth Fry, who cared for the prisoners; look at Dr Bernardo, who took in the orphans. It was the Christians in this country who founded its hospitals and built its schools. And, most importantly, I would point you to Jesus Christ, who healed the sick, fed the hungry, and died for our sins.”

Zoe was quiet for a while.

“David,” she said, eventually, “you may have a point, but that doesn’t outweigh all the bad things they’ve done.”

“What bad things?”

She looked up at her black ceiling for inspiration.

“The wars that they’ve started and the peoples they’ve oppressed.”

“If any Christians – and I mean real Christians, not just people taking advantage of the name – have started any wars, or have oppressed anyone at all, I apologize for them unreservedly. But your parents are Christians, Zoe, and they do nothing but good. Your mother helps with Meals on Wheels and your father is a school governor. They both do all that they can and neither of them is a hypocrite.”

Again Zoe was silent for a long time. Then, suddenly, she spoke.

“I hate my parents! I do! I really hate them!”

I jumped back in amazement.

“But why?”

“Because they’re just too good to be true and I can’t live up to that standard!” She buried her head in her hands and burst into tears.

I patted her back as she sobbed.

“Please, Zoe, you mustn’t worry about living up to anyone’s standard. All you need be is yourself.”

“But I’m horrible!” she wailed. “Just look at me!”

“You’re a lovely, intelligent girl,” I said, still patting her, “and anyone would be proud to know you.”

The door was wrenched open and James burst into the room.

“Hey, you!” he yelled. “What are you doing to my girlfriend?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t recognize you, Zoe. The last time that I saw you, which wasn’t that long ago, your hair was a beautiful blonde.”

“I know.” She drew me into her room – all black walls and furnishings – and sat me down on her bed. “But James, the guy who let you in, didn’t approve of the colour.”

I was amazed.

“What did he think was wrong with it?”

She stroked her jet-black locks.

“He told me it was too frivolous.”

I considered her hair carefully.

“Well, he can’t say that now, can he?”

She shook her head and gave a wan smile.

“No, David, he can’t.”

I gazed around her room.

“Nice place you’ve got here, if perhaps a little dark.”

“I like it,” she said.

“Your mother still thinks you live at number forty-eight.”

Zoe looked sideways at me.

“Was it she who asked you to visit?”

I nodded.

“She just wanted to know how you are.”

“Tell her I’m fine,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please.”

Zoe picked up a jug, poured a dark liquid into two glasses and handed one of them to me. I sniffed it cautiously, but was none the wiser.

“What is it?” I asked.
“Blackcurrant. It’s good for you.”

We both drank. An awkward silence followed.

“So, how’s your course going, Zoe?”

“It’s alright.”

“And what do you think of Southampton?”

“It’s very nice – in parts.”

“Have you found a place of worship that suits you?”

She shook her head.

“No, David. To be perfectly honest, I’ve stopped attending altogether. James says that everyone who goes to church is a hypocrite.”

I wasn’t surprised by her words, but it was still a shock to hear them from her own lips.

“Why does he say that, Zoe?”

“Because Christians are always talking about making the world a much better place, but they never do anything to help.”

“Do you know where Zoe’s gone?”

He smiled.

“To the Whispies, mate.”

“The Whispies?” I wasn’t sure whether I’d heard him correctly.

“Yes, mate.”

“Where are the Whispies?”

The smile turned into a grin. “I think that you’ll find them at number thirty-seven.”

Before I could ask: “In which street?”, the head had disappeared, the window had slammed shut, and the loud music had grown still louder.

Maybe, I thought, he means in this street. I waited for the traffic to pass, quickly dodged across the road, and walked back towards the shops.

Number thirty-seven looked identical to the house I’d just come from. They were even playing the same music. At least, I though it was the same, but when I listened closer, there was something – I couldn’t say what – distinctly different about it.

I went up to the black-painted door and rang the bell. Nothing happened. Now keener than ever to see Zoe Millett, I rang again and this time kept my finger on the button. The door swung open and a tall man dressed in black frowned down upon me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, politely.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to see Zoe Millett, please.”

“Come in.”

I entered a house which was painted black inside. As I looked around, my guided ran up steep stairs to the next floor and knocked at a door. I hurried after him.

“Who’s there?” called a woman’s voice.

“James,” said my guide. “There’s somebody here to see you.”

“Wait a minute,” said the voice.

I heard footsteps and furniture moving, then the door opened and a girl with long, black hair appeared.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for Zoe. Is she in?”

The girl stared at me, then recognition entered her eyes.

“Hello, David. Come inside, please. I’m Zoe.”

The journey, judging from the map, was fairly straightforward. I estimated it at eighty miles, and most of the route was motorway. The hardest part would be finding the address Jenny had given me. I took the crumpled sheet of paper out of my pocket and spread it flat on the table. It said:

ZOE MILLETT
FLAT 3
48 ORDNANCE ROAD
SOUTHAMPTON

All I could remember from my visit to the city was that was considerably bigger than I’d expected. Hopefully, though, I would find a friendly native to guide me. I spent five minutes in prayer, finished the lunch with a cold cup of coffee, pushed a couple of biscuits into my pocket for later, and left.

It was only when I was turning off the busy M25 onto the even busier M3 that it occurred to me that I should have looked up Zoe’s address on the office computer before leaving Wembley. Now, of course, it was far too late, so I drove on, mentally kicking myself.

The road, being straight, was exceptionally boring and my mind began to wander. What, I wondered, did I know of this girl? Very little. She was quiet, unobtrusive, and must be intelligent or she wouldn’t be studying pharmacology (whatever that was) at Southampton University. I recalled her being short, but compensating for any lack of height by having beautiful long, blonde hair.

Junction four, the turning to Farnham, passed in a flash. The clouds increased, the sky ahead darkened and rain began to fall. It was gentle at first, but steadily grew heavier. I turned on the windscreen wipers, reduced speed, but kept going.

A little after three o’clock, I left the motorway and entered the outskirts of Southampton. The rain had reduced to a drizzle, but the roads were still slippery and wet. Following the signs to the city centre, I came to a row of shops. This, I thought, was a good time to stop and ask for directions.

I parked the Renault in a lay-by, got out stiffly, and stumbled through the doorway of an estate agency. Estate agents, of course, know every street in their town. A man rushed up to greet me.

“Hello, sir,” he said. “What sort of property are you looking for? Do you want to rent or buy? How much is your budget?”

I took out the pink sheet of paper.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m trying to find Ordnance Road.”

“A very good choice, sir. It’s in well-established community; quiet, without being too quiet; and in a desirable catchment area. I’ve got a number of properties to show you ….”

“Where is it?” I asked.

The man looked surprised.

“Turn right outside of the door, go straight ahead at the roundabout, and it’s the second street on your left.”

“Thanks,” I said, and left before he had time to sell me anything.

I found Ordnance Road just as he’d told me. Raucous music blared from most of the houses, including number forty-eight. I parked outside it and knocked on the door loudly. Then, as nobody answered, I gave the door a thorough hammering. A window opened above me and a man in his early twenties put his head out.

“What’s all the noise?” he demanded. “We’re trying to study in here!”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for Zoe Millett. Is she in?”

The man laughed.

“Zoe doesn’t live here any more, mate. She’s gone away.”

Adrian Lester had already arrived. The photocopier open and he was fiddling around inside its works with a suspiciously bent screwdriver.

“Hi, Dave,” he said, raising his head. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“What’s that?” I asked, taking a seat at my desk and inspecting its in-tray.

It was distressingly full.

“Jenny Millett’s been in touch. She’s very worried about Zoe.”

I knew both Jenny and Zoe. Jenny, one of our members, was a recently-bereaved widow who lived in Tokyngton. Her only daughter, Zoe, was now in her second year at Southampton University, studying pharmacology.

“What’s the matter?”

Adrian frowned and laid down his screwdriver.

“She wouldn’t tell me, Dave; she said she’d only speak to you. Give her a visit, when you’ve got a spare minute, and find out what it is that she wants.”

I saw an opportunity to escape from my in-tray.

“I’ll go straight away, Adrian. Do you know her address?”

He grinned and handed me a small scrap of paper.

“I thought you’d say that, so I looked it out ready for you.” He gave a broad wink. “I’ll be praying for you, Dave.”

“Thanks,” I said and left him.

It was a relief to find that Jenny, who had a part-time job at the local bakery, was at home.

“Oh, thank goodness you’ve come, Mr Taylor,” she said, dragging me in through the doorway. “I’ve bee so worried ….”

She slammed the door behind me and led the way into her lounge.

“What’s wrong?! I asked.

She blushed.

“I hardly like to say.”
I sat down in an armchair and waited.

“Please try, Jenny.”

She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“It’s Zoe,” she said. “I think she’s got mixed up with the wrong sort of people.”

“Why? What kind of people are they?”

She sniffed back her tears.

“I don’t know – I’ve never met them – but, this term, Zoe’s been so different. I couldn’t bear to lose her, Mr Taylor. Please, would you talk to her for me? I don’t know what to say.” She gazed at me with desperation in her face. “Oh, dear. Am I making a fuss about nothing?”

I patted her hand.

“I sincerely hope so. But let’s go down to Southampton and find out for ourselves, shall we?”

She looked shocked.

“You want me to come with you?”

“That’s best, Jenny, isn’t it?”

She looked dubious.

“I’m not sure that I can get the necessary time off work. You’ll have to go by yourself. Give her my love, please.” She thrust a pink sheet of paper into my hand. “That’s her address, Mr Taylor. I’ll be thinking of you. Goodbye!”