Kieren arrives at The Legion at exactly five minutes to five. They do not open for another hour, but they have had a delivery and are short staffed, so it is Kieren's task to mark it all off against the dispatch list.
As usual, while he is working, he notices Pearl reading one of her gossip mags instead of doing next week's rota. He overhears her muttering to herself under her breath occasionally. Things like, "little tramp" or, "I wouldn't put up with that, love, no matter how long he can go for."
Kieren cringes inwardly as to what she is reading about.
WAT'S THE GOSS magazine is full of nonsense stories, and the last time they discussed it, Pearl had told him in minute detail about a woman whose undead husband beds her every night… in his own coffin!
She had even added afterward, in her usual subtle manner, "I hope yer don't get up to that sort of thing, Kieren Walker. Yer never know what folk get up to behind closed doors."
Because, that is clearly normal behaviour for anyone who is partially deceased.
By eight o'clock, the night is already dragging. There is not much to do in Roarton of an evening, so usually The Legion is packed come a Friday night. It is, however, unusually quiet this Friday. Footie on the telly, perhaps? No, it is not football season - not that Kieren has any interest in football anyway - and the World Cup is not for a few months yet. More likely, it is just too long since last payday.
There are a couple of the local kids, who Kieren is not sure are even eighteen yet, playing on the fruit machine and a small group of PDS Sufferers sitting around the table in the far corner, bottles of bright green fluorescent liquid in front of them. They are all wearing their cover-up and contact lenses and doing their best to be as inconspicuous as possible amongst the living customers.
Dean Holton has been in too, but left again after unsuccessfully trying to cadge a drink off a couple of the other locals, when his money ran out. Obviously the Roarton Protection Service, or RPS as it is better know, has not been paying very well recently. Patrols were infrequent and like the HVF, it has now practically been disbanded.
Other than that, there are a few other locals and the new vicar who Kieren was introduced to a couple of weeks ago, and that is pretty much it.
As things are quiet, Kieren busies himself by sorting through birthday decorations for Jem's birthday do the following night. His mum had asked him to pick up the box on the way to work, while Jem was still out with mates, as they had a family lunch the next day and it would be too suspicious to nip out for an hour or two then in order to do it. Pearl had agreed as a favour to Sue, for him to put the decorations up the night before instead, and so Keiren was pinning up 'Happy 20th Birthday' banners around the bar in preparation.
"Pint of bitter, when you're ready, Pearl love," asks a voice Kieren dreads to hear every night.
He is in fact the one that is currently tending the bar, allowing for Pearl to make a halfhearted attempt to restock the fridge beneath the optics with tonic water and tomato juice bottles at the far end, but for some of The Legion's customers, he might as well not even be there.
"Kieren, I'm right in the middle of this, can yer serve Gary, please?" Pearl calls over to Kieren without looking up.
Up until that point he has been doing his best to ignore Gary as he usually did and is concentrating very hard on wiping the spilled lager off the counter as a distraction, focusing intently on the sticky bits with a damp bar towel.
"Nah, you're alright. I'll wait thanks," Gary shruggs. "Prefer my drinks unsullied by Grotters. Might catch anything."
That got Kieren's attention, "Yer what?"
"Grotters," Gary repeated smugly, digging deep into his pocket to find some money. "I'll have a packet of pork scratching's as well, Pearl. Bloody starving. The chippy's closed as their deep fat fryer's knackered again or something."
"Grotters?" Kieren repeats. Never heard that one before.
"For fock's sake, work it out, Grotter!" Gary spat back at him, "Yer and that queer dry rot boyfriend of yours. Gay rotten bastards."
Kieren wrinkles his nose in disgust, "And Grotters was the best yer could come up with?"
He has no idea why he lets Gary get to him so much. He is clearly an idiot, God only knows what Jem saw in him.
Gary just sneers and throws some change on the counter. He slowly walks over to where Kieren is standing behind the bar and leans over, unhooking a packet of pork scratchings that are hanging up beside him. Kieren stays very still and does not blink.
"I'll be over there Pearl, when yer get round to that pint," he says, not taking his eyes off Kieren.
Kieren remains silent, finally moving away to stack the dirty glasses in the dishwasher. He actually thinks he prefers his time working the Give Back Scheme to this. Gary always tries to intimidate him, well, when Simon is not around anyway. He is sure he is shit scared of Simon, even if he would not admit to the fact, being an ex HVF member and all.
Next time Kieren looks at the clock on the wall, it says ten forty-five and he is counting down the minutes until his shift ends in another forty-five minutes.
He is dead on his feet, having decorated the bar with banners and streamers and a few embarrassing photos of Jem that his mum has had printed on the newsagent's photocopier earlier in the day. He has changed a couple of barrels, cleaned everything in sight, stacked and emptied the dishwasher, restocked the bar after Pearl had got distracted by some gossip about the new Dog and Duck landlady down the road, and cleaned up the cellar. A few more people have come and gone, but apart from Gary it has been an uneventful evening.
"Kieren," Pearl asks the moment he has finally settled behind the bar again, "Don't just stand there looking gormless. Do something useful and take those crates of empties out the back for tomorrow's collection."
"Yes, commandant," Kieren says under his breath, while giving her a salute and clicking his heels together, as soon as her back is turned. He goes to get the crates to take out the back anyway.
It is pitch black outside and the back door creaks as he pushes it open. Hauling the crates and dumping them by the black wheelie bins, the empty bottles clang when he sets them down, breaking the silence in the stillness.
He has a strange feeling that he is not alone.
Craning his neck around the side of the building, he peers into the darkness to see who is there. The perimeter fence erected by the members of the Give Back Scheme, including himself, is meant to keep out any remaining Rabids from wandering in to the village, but it is worth always being on your guard - although that is mostly from the Roarton living, rather than undead. Gary is still in the pub and eager to earn another eighty pounds for a capture, but his methods are brutal and Kieren is sure he is still packing, despite the village ban on weapons.
He turns to go back in to the pub and then jumps out of his skin.
"Christ!"
There's a dark figure behind him, leaning against the wall and he can just make out the faint red glow of a lit cigarette.
"Yer nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare ye," a familiar voice says in the shadows.
Kieren releases the breath he was unknowingly holding, and exclaims, "Simon! What yer doing here?"
"Thought I'd come and see how my favourite bartender was getting on."
"Bored out of my mind. I swear being dead's more fulfilling than this."
He rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers, as if he is developing a migraine. One of the few perks of being partially deceased is no headaches, no stomach aches or feeling sick, catching colds or chest infections. Basically, turning rabid is the one and only health concern on the cards these days.
There is a glint in Simon's eyes and the whisper of a smile on his lips. Unlike Kieren, Simon has learned to take his partially deceased life by the collar and kick it in to touch, to make it work for him. This time around, he thinks, life is going to be very different. He will not squander the second chance he has been given; especially not now he has found a reason to (partially) live for.
He focuses his stare on that reason and the white of his irises float in the darkness like twin moons.
"I was just contemplating actually, how being dead is proving to be quite fulfilling these days."
"Partially deceased," Kieren responds automatically.
Simon raises a single eyebrow at the correction, "Sorry, partially deceased."
He is not keen on the term. It has always struck him as a negative rather than positive way to describe their condition. It is the difference between whether a glass is half empty or half full. Are the redeemed not partially living in equal measure to partially deceased?
A train rumbles past and they hear the chime of the bar bell coming from inside the pub.
"That'll be last orders. Yer coming in?" Kieren nods towards the door, "We've had some bottles delivered of that HiGlow, finally, if you fancy trying it?"
Pushing himself off the wall, Simon slowly approaches him.
"Well, I fancy something."
"Behave you," Kieren objects, in mock horror. Honestly, the man is insatiable! He is chuffed to the core with Simon's constant attentions, but pushes him back away for a second time that evening regardless. He is, after all, still at work.
"So, yer gonna try it then? The HiGlow, I mean."
Simon takes one last drag of his roll up cigarette and then drops it on the pavement, crushing it underfoot to extinguish it.
"Nah, me and intoxicants have never been the greatest of bed fellows. Probably best I give it a miss."
"You're smoking," Kieren points out, kicking the cigarette butt off the concrete and on to the grass, with his boot. Pearl will have him sweeping up outside otherwise.
"It's not exactly the same thing."
"Yeah, when did yer start that anyway? I don't remember yer smoking before."
"When I was eleven. Started by nicking a few fags off me dad. He always had a packet of Mayfair on the go. Gave up for a bit after The Rising, but once a smoker, always a smoker," Simon sniffs, a little disgruntled by his lack of self-control.
"I suppose it's not like those things will kill yer anymore."
They both laugh at the irony, but neither really find it funny.
"No, s'pose not. Not that that ever bothered me before. Especially when I found better stuff to occupy my time with."
Despite the dim light, Kieren automatically glances at Simon's track marked forearms. There are deep angry purple veins raised inside his elbows, scarred by needles from when he was alive. He cannot see them, as despite the mild evening, the partially deceased do not feel the heat or the cold and he still has his coat on, but Kieren knows they are there.
"Still, ye gotta allow a bloke one vice, living or undead."
Kieren opens the back door and then remembering something, stops to turn back to Simon.
"Oh, if you're coming in, be warned, Gary the Tosser's in tonight."
Simon holds the door open for Kieren to pass, "Lucky us. He been giving ye grief?"
"Always," Kieren sighs. He thinks back to their conversation over Gary's newfound word, "I won't even bore yer with the latest."
"No, go on, I could do with a laugh. Let's see if we can't brighten up his evening then, shall we?"
Kieren knows he will not get any more trouble from Gary that night, not now Simon is there with him, and enters the pub smiling.
Simon does not make conversation with any of the other punters while he waits for Kieren's shift to end. The PDS Sufferers who are still huddled around the corner table, having already made a dent in The Legion's HiGlow stock, are not part of the Roarton Risers who think him a traitor, but he still does not go over to say hello. His 'cult leader' status, as Kieren calls it, is over now.
Many of the living still give him a wide birth and Gary, as Kieren predicted, stays well clear. They have only had a couple of run-ins in the past, but on both occasions, Gary came off far worse and clearly does not want to make it into a hat-trick for Simon.
A copy of a local newspaper, the Roarton Gazette, has been left on the bar, so Simon sits at one end, flicking through it to occupy himself as Kieren serves the last orders of the night.
The new vicar approaches the bar and asks for a scotch "for the road." He is not local or even from Lancashire and his accent stands out as much as Simon's does. He is in his late thirties, tall, with long narrow features and short cropped hair that has begun to recede. He smiles frequently, and Kieren cannot help but think it is a grin that would put sharks to shame.
Still, he seems nice enough and even tries to make conversation with Kieren, as he presses a fresh glass to the whisky bottle optic.
"That fella waiting for you?" he asks in a Liverpudlian accent, nodding is Simon's direction
"Yes he is," Kieren confirms, not wishing to go in to any detail, and instead just places the drink on the bar. "That's £2.70 please?"
The vicar hands over three pound coins, "Keep the change."
"Thanks," Kieren mumbles, putting the cash in the till and the remaining change in the tips jar, which is otherwise empty.
"He doesn't drink? They have that new Hi-something drink don't they, for PDS Sufferers I mean?"
They both look over at Simon, who is engrossed in one of the articles in the paper, but Kieren has not missed the inflection on the "they."
"Yes we PDS Sufferers do. Haven't tried it yet, but it seems to be popular," he gestures towards the far corner.
"Ah, sorry, you're PDS too, are you? Didn't realise with all that make-up." Then something occurs to him, "It must be trying living in a place like this, hard on your family too, I bet? Haven't been here long, but prejudice is an ugly thing, ugly! Not to mention a sin."
Kieren can see he is trying and cannot help but warm to him in return.
"Some people are more difficult than others around here, but we get by. Things are getting better. Was thinking of leaving Roarton a few months ago, but Simon kinda talked me out of it."
"Simon? That's your friend over there?"
Kieren nods, "I'll introduce you." They both make their way over to the end of the bar where Simon is sitting, "This is Simon."
The vicar offers Simon his hand, "Ah, yes Simon Monroe, very nice to meet you."
Simon shakes his hand in his usual calm and confident manner, which Kieren has seen a dozen times before, but there is something different about this introduction. He cannot help but notice that Simon appears to be instantly on his guard and his eye's narrow is suspicion, "Do I know ye?"
"This is Father Sinclair," Kieren says, "Vicar Oddie's replacement."
"Dr. David Sinclair," he clarifies.
"A priest and a doctor?" Simon raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Must be difficult to be a servant to both faith and science?"
"Please, call me David. No dog collar tonight," he pulls unconsciously at his open neck shirt. "I'm off duty at the moment."
There is a beat when no one says anything and Kieren starts to fidget uncomfortably. Simon notices and feels obliged to break the tension between them.
"So what are ye doing in a village like Roarton, Father?" he asks, forcing himself to be a little friendlier.
"Roarton seems to have had more than its fair share of troubles of late, so I thought what better place to do God's work in."
"Like I said, things are settling down now, it's not the same as it was," Kieren points out.
"I'm very glad to hear it," The new Vicar smiles casually, "Kieren here tells me you persuaded him to stay? You're obviously living up to your name, Simon. It's a good, strong name you've got there."
Simon remains quiet. Too quiet.
Sometimes Kieren thinks he is like a coiled snake, still and silent, beautiful but deadly, and always ready for the attack. Vicar Sinclair does not seem to notice, however, and carries on with his sermon.
"Did you know that Simon was the name of one of the twelve disciples? Jesus used to refer to him as his rock."
Simon and Kieren exchange uneasy glances, but he continues on before receiving an answer.
"Blessed are you, Simon, as upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father."
Simon knows this passage all too well. "Matthew, Chapter 16."
"You know your New Testament?" The Vicar smiles in surprise.
"I was brought up in Dublin as a Catholic."
"Of course. Well, I hope in that case, I'll see the both of you this Sunday? Catholics and Protestants may have had equal troubles in the past to the living and undead of late, but we all pray to the same God."
The undead at church? There is an idea.
"Vicar Oddie didn't allow PDS at his services," Kieren tells him. "Some people around here…"
"Well, I'm not Vicar Oddie," he interrupts, "And everyone is most welcome in my church. That goes for the living, partially deceased and already redeemed, alike. All are equal in the eyes of the Lord."
Simon nods in understanding as Kieren moves away quietly, leaving them to it and rings the small brass bell, closing the bar.
They both walk briskly home after closing, eager to be back in the seclusion of the bungalow and their new home together. Kieren's eyes are uncomfortable, no longer used to wearing the contact lenses he once wore all the time. He cannot wait to take them out and clean the cover-up off his face. The stuff got everywhere, and he seemed to constantly be washing the flesh tone smears off his clothes.
It feels like an iron mask on his face now and part of him loathed himself for giving in and wearing it to work. He also felt ashamed, like he was letting Simon down, but he knew he understood and respected his decision. People wear uniforms for work all the time, a way to unify themselves, and Kieren rationally told himself this was not any different. He knew it was a lie though, and every time the thought crossed his mind there was a little stab of guilt prodding at him between his ribs, deep in his chest.
The village is quiet.
They have not passed a single person on their journey. There is no moon out tonight and a heavy cover of cloud conceals the night sky, but it is pleasant and Kieren feels the evenings stress gradually abate as they talk together, mostly about nothing in particular, while walking the mile home on the deserted streets.
They speak in hushed tones, despite there being no one to overhear them.
"Are yer serious?" Kieren asks.
He would call it surprised, but flabbergasted would be closer. The very idea that Simon would want to take up Vicar Sinclair's suggestion of attending church, was quite frankly shocking to Kieren.
Simon's tone is even and gives nothing away, "Why not?"
"Nothing. Just thought you'd had enough of all that cult stuff?"
"The ULA is not a cult and neither is Catholicism," he says, shaking his head in disappointment. "He just reminds me of someone."
Kieren wants to ask who, but stops himself just in time. He realises almost too late that the person Simon referred to was probably his mother.
Raising her son a Catholic, Simon's mother no doubt would have imparted religious instruction to him on a regular basis, and for that reason perhaps church could bring a small measure of comfort to Simon and ease the pain of his guilt just a little.
"I'll come along too, if yer want?" Kieren backpedals. "Can't hurt to find out what he's all about, I guess."
Simon smiles back absently, half his mind obviously on other matters.
"Ye don't have to."
"No I want to!" Now this was serious backpedalling, "You do stuff for me and I do stuff for you. That's how it's supposed to work."
"Okay, Sunday then," Simon agrees.
"Fine. It's not like we're going to be nursing hangovers from the night before, unlike Jem."
Kieren grins, as only an older brother can, at the prospect of his baby sister's forthcoming self-inflicted pain.
There was something else that had been playing on Kieren's mind all evening, and it had nothing to do with religion or village politics. Ever since he left the bungalow, it had kept drifting back to the forefront of his mind and he finds himself asking Simon a question before he even thought through what he was really asking.
"Yer know what you were saying to Phil earlier?"
Simon turns to glance at him, "What was I saying to Phil?"
"About Amy and coming back?" Well, he has brought it up now, "Using her name in the present tense. Yer don't think it's cruel, giving him hope like that?"
Simon shakes his head. In so many ways there is a huge gulf between the way the two men think, but in a funny sort of way, that was what made it work.
"There's nothing cruel about hope, Kieren."
"It is if that hope is hopeless," Kieren reasons.
That nagging feeling that Simon knows more than he is letting on pricked at his subconscious again.
"Why do ye think that allowing yourself to be open to the possibility of Amy coming back is hopeless?"
There it was again, "Because she's dead!"
"And didn't we die?"
"Yes… No… that's not what I meant."
It was not hard to see why Simon had been chosen by the ULA as one of the twelve disciples of the Undead Prophet. Sometimes talking to him was like asking a politician for a straight answer.
"I know what ye meant, but death is not always the end. We're proof of that, you and me."
That was cryptic, infuriatingly vague and highly suspicious. Now he is sure Simon is aware of something, so Kieren tries again.
Simon gets there first.
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tunes without the words,
And never stops at all."
"Okay…" He does love Simon, but he is fucking weird sometimes.
Clearly he is not going to get more of an answer on the subject, not tonight anyway. Maybe Simon does not know anything and Kieren was just being a little bit paranoid? After all, there is no reason to keep anything like that a secret, so he decides to drop the subject and keep on walking, putting his hands in his pockets and unconsciously shivering.
Simon notices.
"Ye cold?" he asks, concerned.
Kieren is surprised, "No, don't feel a thing. Automatic reflex I expect."
"Right," Simon answers, giving him a long stare that makes Kieren feel a little uncomfortable, so he looks away quickly and carries on walking.
There is a strange group of lights in the distance, across the fields, and from the same direction the faint sound of music carries on a gentle breeze that makes the trees sway from side to side. Kieren slows his pace and squints with his eyes and his ears, trying to make out what it is.
"What's that over there?"
Simon stops to look back at Kieren who has fallen behind, "Where?"
"There," Kieren points toward the lights. "Looks like a group of… caravans or something?"
Simon shrugs, "Dunno, travellers maybe?"
"That'll please the parish council. Expect there'll be an emergency meeting on Monday morning over it. Still, keep them off of our backs for a while." Kieren feels guilty the instant the words have left his mouth. "Not that exchanging the targeting of one minority group for another is a good thing," he clarifies.
"Come on, let's get ye home," Simon says, taking Kieren's hand, "There's a double bed with our name on it waiting for us."
"Now, that's the best thing I've heard all night."
They quicken their pace. The dead coming back to life, church, and travellers, all run a distant second in the list of priorities compared to what they have planned for the rest of the night.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I've tried to stick to canon as strictly as possible with only a couple of deviations - new characters for the purpose of going forward with the story, not withstanding.
In Series 1 we learn Steve has bought a new flat screen television, while Kieren has been 'away' and it seemed unlikely he would purchase a new one only a year on. In the Flesh has some great humorous moments and so the idea of Simon helping Steve with such a domestic family situation, such as setting up a new TV in the first chapter, was too good to pass up - but then something had to have happened to the previous flat screen - so, sorry Jem, you kinda got the blame for that one!
The other divergence I made from canon was to have Simon smoke roll up cigarettes. Bill Macy was practically a chain smoker in Series 1 and Gary was smoking when they captured the two rabids by the cave, but I can't recall seeing a single character in Series 2 smoke or use mobile (cell) phones for that matter; two things that for most people are quite common place. Mobile reception would probably be pretty poor in a small village like Roarton - being in the back end of beyond, especially located in a valley and surrounded by hills - so landlines and phone boxes do make more sense. The no smoking was obviously a deliberate decision on the creator's part though, as it's usually a staple feature for working class characters in British drama.
Emmett Scanlan, an ex smoker himself, mentioned on the DVD commentary for the film 'Christian Blake' that he would quite like to play a character again who smokes, so although this version of Simon will never be acted out by him in reality, it made sense to me for his character to be a smoker, because he clearly has an addictive personality. Recreational drugs may have no effect on the partially deceased (sheep's brains not included) in addition to the fact he has no real reason anymore to take them, but smoking is as much about the habit for a lot of people as dependance on the nicotine - plus it gives him some time out when 'normal' gets a bit too much for him.
Finally, the poem Simon quotes is by the American poet, Emily Dickinson. Thought I would give Yeats a break for a while, and Simon no doubt has a whole library of poetry stored away in his head from which he can quote from. I do like my zombies to have brains as well as beauty!
