The Evil that Men Do by Jeanne M. Dams

you are,’ said Pam. ‘I hoped you would see this. It’s almost time. Sit down and have some sherry.’
    Most of the guests seemed to be in the lounge, as puzzled as we. Barbara McGath and Eileen O’Hanlon shared a small couch, looking as disapproving as ever. The television was on, end credits rolling for some programme I didn’t recognize. Pam found chairs for Alan and me and poured us sherry, and we sat and waited.
    When the next programme started, we all looked at each other in some dismay. Eileen O’Hanlon said ‘Preposterous,’ and she and Barbara tried to get up to leave, but the small room was too tightly packed with people and furniture to make escape easy.
    I understood the impulse, though. For once I was in agreement with the two Irish ladies. What we were about to watch was, apparently, a rock concert. For someone like me, whose taste runs from Bach to Gilbert and Sullivan, it would be a form of torture.
    â€˜Excuse us,’ said Barbara, steel in her voice. ‘Could you let us through, please  . . . excuse us  . . .’
    â€˜Sshh!’ said Pam. ‘They’re about to begin.’
    Barbara and Eileen sat down again, perforce. Barbara folded her arms and picked up a magazine from the table in front of her. It was a golfing magazine, and there was too little light to read, but she effectively demonstrated her distaste for her situation.
    â€˜And now, for the very first time on television, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present  . . . Peter James!’
    The end of the emcee’s announcement was swallowed up in cheers and screams and applause. The backup group began playing and singing immediately, though they were inaudible to us over the crowd noise, and I suspected to those in the crowd, as well.
    â€˜Can they hear anything at all?’ I murmured to Alan.
    â€˜Probably not. They’re all partially deaf, anyway, from listening to this rubbish since they were babies.’
    The boom of the bass cut through the general riot of sound, and the camera panned the group and then zoomed in on the soloist caressing the mike.
    Alan was the first to react. He slapped his knee with a sharp crack that I felt but couldn’t hear. ‘So that’s it,’ he mouthed in my ear.
    â€˜What’s what  . . . oh!’
    Heads came up throughout the room. Barbara’s mouth dropped open; Eileen clutched her arm.
    Pam, her hand on the remote, turned the volume down and beamed at us all. ‘And that is the secret Paul Jones confided to me yesterday! He is Peter James!’

ELEVEN
    S o that’s that,’ I said rather flatly as we were reading in our room before bed. ‘Shave off the beard, and he’s a famous pop star. At least I suppose he’s famous. I’m not up on that kind of music.’
    â€˜Oh, he’s famous, all right. And probably ten, twenty, forty times richer than we are.’
    â€˜And we felt sorry for him and bought him lunch.’
    Alan grunted. It struck me as funny, for some reason. I chuckled.
    â€˜Mmm?’
    â€˜You’re disgruntled. You grunted. Never mind.’
    He smiled, giving the remark more credit than it deserved. ‘I am, a bit. We’ve been wasting a good deal of sympathy on that lad, and spoiling our holiday. Let’s hire a car tomorrow and get ourselves to St Michael’s, Buckland, for church. And then we can take off in whatever direction suits our fancy.’
    â€˜What a good idea. That’s a beautiful church, and I’m getting a bit claustrophobic here. Shall we keep our room?’
    â€˜We’re booked in for a week, and tomorrow night would be the last night of that. Let’s leave our things here, and decide on Monday what’s next on the agenda.’
    â€˜Did you check on service times?’
    â€˜Service time, singular. It’s a very small village, you know, and the parish must be tiny. Holy Communion