supposed it was just conceivable. With Kudzuvine around
anything was conceivable. The bloody man had moved on to helicopters and long shots.
‘Okay, so we swing in over that church…’
‘Chapel,’ corrected the Bursar.
‘Okay, chapel and we grab the lot with wide-angle like you’ve never seen and then head
round by that tower and get the kids all dancing and the bands playing and…No, that isn’t
it. Chopper’d blow them all over the fucking place. We got to get something else. I’ll give
it some thought.’
‘I’m not sure all this…What are those people doing on the roof of the Chapel?’
Kudzuvine turned and looked. Several people with polo-necks and blue glasses had
climbed onto the lead roof of the Chapel and appeared to be measuring it. ‘I guess they’re
looking for angles. Technicians. Difficult to tell who they are at this distance.’
The Bursar gazed at him in wonder. It was impossible for him to tell who any of these
people in Hartang’s clothes were at any distance. That was part of the horror. ‘I really
don’t think they ought to be there just now,’ he said. ‘They are having Sung Eucharist in the
Chapel this morning.’ Again it was an unfortunate statement.
‘Sung what? Sung You Christ? What, right now? This I’ve got to see.’
‘No, don’t, please don’t. Please,’ the Bursar begged. But Kudzuvine was already striding
off along the Cloisters hoping, the Bursar had little doubt, to see some more fucking
monks in costume. He followed miserably, his mind functioning only vaguely and mostly
in pictures of fearful genies and bottles. Or was it Pandora’s Box? Something like that.
Kudzuvine wasn’t just one of the four horsemen of the Bursar’s Apocalypse, he was the whole
damned lot.
Inside the Chapel the full extent of the Transworld Television team’s activities was
only just beginning to be known. Only the Chaplain, deaf to the world, was unaware that
something very odd was going on. The Praelector certainly knew. And the choir, who were
singing ‘Oh God our help in ages past, Our hope in years to come’ in what had been an almost
uplifting manner, were all staring at the ceiling. It had always been the weakest part
of the Chapel and lack of finances had prevented its timbers being replaced or properly
treated. Under the weight of Kudzuvine’s angle technicians–several more had clambered
up to have a good look round–the rafters seemed to sag and bounce slightly and, while the
moccasins didn’t thump or make much noise, in the silence that followed the end of the hymn
they did sound as though a flock of extremely large birds–the Praelector thought of
ostriches except that they didn’t fly–had landed on the roof and were stalking about
seeking what they might devour.
‘Let us pray,’ said the Chaplain, ‘for all those sick and unhappy people who at this
moment–’ He stopped. A large plaster moulding had broken away and had crashed into the
aisle, but the Praelector wasn’t waiting any longer.
‘I think,’ he shouted as another beam groaned above his head, ‘I think we should all
leave the building now.’
Another large piece of fine plaster moulding, this time of a vast cherubim, detached
itself and slid down the wall, taking a marble memorial of Dr Cox (1702-40) with it, and
almost killed an undergraduate in the pew underneath. Even the Chaplain was now
conscious that something very like an earthquake was taking place. As the choir and the
small congregation headed for the door–’Now don’t panic. Move slowly,’ someone
shouted–they were stopped in their tracks by the sudden appearance of Kudzuvine. He stood
in the doorway, a menacing figure in his dark glasses and polo-neck, and held up a
hand.
‘Hold it,’ he shouted. ‘Hold it.’
For a moment the Praelector looked round for something to hold. He had spent too many
hours in the Rex and the Kinema in Mill Road
anything was conceivable. The bloody man had moved on to helicopters and long shots.
‘Okay, so we swing in over that church…’
‘Chapel,’ corrected the Bursar.
‘Okay, chapel and we grab the lot with wide-angle like you’ve never seen and then head
round by that tower and get the kids all dancing and the bands playing and…No, that isn’t
it. Chopper’d blow them all over the fucking place. We got to get something else. I’ll give
it some thought.’
‘I’m not sure all this…What are those people doing on the roof of the Chapel?’
Kudzuvine turned and looked. Several people with polo-necks and blue glasses had
climbed onto the lead roof of the Chapel and appeared to be measuring it. ‘I guess they’re
looking for angles. Technicians. Difficult to tell who they are at this distance.’
The Bursar gazed at him in wonder. It was impossible for him to tell who any of these
people in Hartang’s clothes were at any distance. That was part of the horror. ‘I really
don’t think they ought to be there just now,’ he said. ‘They are having Sung Eucharist in the
Chapel this morning.’ Again it was an unfortunate statement.
‘Sung what? Sung You Christ? What, right now? This I’ve got to see.’
‘No, don’t, please don’t. Please,’ the Bursar begged. But Kudzuvine was already striding
off along the Cloisters hoping, the Bursar had little doubt, to see some more fucking
monks in costume. He followed miserably, his mind functioning only vaguely and mostly
in pictures of fearful genies and bottles. Or was it Pandora’s Box? Something like that.
Kudzuvine wasn’t just one of the four horsemen of the Bursar’s Apocalypse, he was the whole
damned lot.
Inside the Chapel the full extent of the Transworld Television team’s activities was
only just beginning to be known. Only the Chaplain, deaf to the world, was unaware that
something very odd was going on. The Praelector certainly knew. And the choir, who were
singing ‘Oh God our help in ages past, Our hope in years to come’ in what had been an almost
uplifting manner, were all staring at the ceiling. It had always been the weakest part
of the Chapel and lack of finances had prevented its timbers being replaced or properly
treated. Under the weight of Kudzuvine’s angle technicians–several more had clambered
up to have a good look round–the rafters seemed to sag and bounce slightly and, while the
moccasins didn’t thump or make much noise, in the silence that followed the end of the hymn
they did sound as though a flock of extremely large birds–the Praelector thought of
ostriches except that they didn’t fly–had landed on the roof and were stalking about
seeking what they might devour.
‘Let us pray,’ said the Chaplain, ‘for all those sick and unhappy people who at this
moment–’ He stopped. A large plaster moulding had broken away and had crashed into the
aisle, but the Praelector wasn’t waiting any longer.
‘I think,’ he shouted as another beam groaned above his head, ‘I think we should all
leave the building now.’
Another large piece of fine plaster moulding, this time of a vast cherubim, detached
itself and slid down the wall, taking a marble memorial of Dr Cox (1702-40) with it, and
almost killed an undergraduate in the pew underneath. Even the Chaplain was now
conscious that something very like an earthquake was taking place. As the choir and the
small congregation headed for the door–’Now don’t panic. Move slowly,’ someone
shouted–they were stopped in their tracks by the sudden appearance of Kudzuvine. He stood
in the doorway, a menacing figure in his dark glasses and polo-neck, and held up a
hand.
‘Hold it,’ he shouted. ‘Hold it.’
For a moment the Praelector looked round for something to hold. He had spent too many
hours in the Rex and the Kinema in Mill Road
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