Read by Claire Louise Amias
He is coming.
The poster had appeared during the night. It had been pasted onto the front door of the town hall, not quite straight, as though it had been done in a hurry. It didn’t say anything else. There was no extraneous information, no address to contact for further details, no indication of who ‘He’ was.
Most people who saw the poster assumed it was referring to Jesus, and that this was Reverend Sweeny’s doing, the latest attempt to fill the dusty pews in the village church on Sunday morning when most people were still snoring in their beds. So most people ignored it.
It was only Miss Hazelwick who thought it might be something else. She thought it might be something else because she’d seen a sign. Just over a week before the poster appeared, Miss Hazelwick had been walking to the post office on her lunch break, to send a parcel to her sister, when she’d seen a fox running backwards.
Not running exactly, more trotting or maybe shuffling, but definitely going backwards. The fox had disappeared through the hedge by the side of the lane before she’d had the chance to get a good look, but the fox had definitely been going backwards, and that was not what foxes did. So Miss Hazelwick had been expecting something like this to happen.
When the second and third posters appeared, with the same three words printed in black letters on a quiet purple background, they were nailed to the door of the Red Lion and on the old oak tree by the pond. This time people started to take more notice. Someone asked Reverend Sweeny what he was playing at but Reverend Sweeny flat-out denied that he had anything to do with the posters. He also pointed out that although he firmly believed He was coming, he didn’t think it was likely to be any time soon.
Once Reverend Sweeny was out of the frame people began to speculate more widely on where the posters had come from and crucially, who they might be referring to, if not to the Almighty. Tom Thwaites who ran The Red Lion said he thought it was kids messing about, and that if he caught them putting anything else on his door he’d give them a thick ear. The Swirling twins, who both worked in the City, were sure it was part of an advertising campaign and confidently predicted that the next poster to go up would also include some guff about a new brand of washing powder or maybe a fancy new packet soup. Miss Hazelwick said it was most likely to be more of a metaphorical ‘He’ and probably meant that a time of general “wretchedness and tumult” was on the way. Which, she said, was a thing she had quietly been expecting for some time.
Four days later when the fourth poster went up, once again in the dead of night and unseen by one and all, it was accompanied by the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth posters. This time though they were a little different. The colour scheme had changed, from black letters on a purple background, to black letters on a green background, and a single word had been added. The posters now informed the village that whoever he was, He is coming soon.
There was now little talk of anything else throughout the whole village. All manner of wild theories began to circulate, and a schism was beginning to emerge between those who were rather excited at the prospect that something might be about to shake things up around the old place, and those who were adamant that no good would come of it and they were all in for some dark times. The Mayor was in the process of contemplating whether he should call a town meeting, when his ruminations were interrupted by Esther, his secretary, with news of an important development. There were now reports of dozens and dozens of posters, all having appeared just like the others, with no witnesses but with some new and rather significant information. The posters now proclaimed – He is coming on Thursday. At 7pm.
By Tuesday the level of excitement or dread, depending on which side of the vatic divide people fell, had risen to fever pitch.
The Mayor was secretly quite pleased with the development as it meant he could defer making any kind of decision and let things play out fully before having to take whatever steps might be necessary at some future point.
Miss Hazelwick had spent the past few days upsetting all the local children by telling them that it was now far too late to mend their wicked ways, that the die was cast and their fates were well and truly sealed.
Tom Thwaites had ordered a few extra kegs of beer, hoping that whatever happened after the big event might be discussed by all and sundry in his pub. The Swirling twins, still convinced they were about to witness the launch of a new product, had freed up some capital ready to invest, having been seriously impressed by a viral marketing campaign that was doing such a bang-up job of luring in all the suckers.
Reverend Sweeny had kept his thoughts very much to himself but had been praying extra hard, just in case.
On Wednesday, the day before He was due to arrive, the chatter in the village turned to where the event, whatever it was, would take place. The mayor insisted that no-one had asked to use the town hall and Reverend Sweeny confirmed that the church still had its long-standing booking of the bible fellowship group on Thursday evening, so it couldn’t be taking place there. Although he added dryly that judging by the attendance at previous meetings, there’d likely still be plenty of space for another event at the same time.
On Thursday there were two significant developments. In the morning, little Billy Lofland reported that while he’d been out fishing for tiddlers in the stream by the sheep pasture he’d seen an enormous marquee that definitely hadn’t been there the day before. Then sometime around five that afternoon people started to notice the posters had changed again. Pasted across every single poster at a jaunty angle running from top left to bottom right, was a thin strip of white paper announcing He is here, with a helpful arrow pointing the way.
By six o’clock that evening everyone had heard the news, and a queue had formed on the edge of the village stretching from the gate by the sheep pasture all the way along the lane to the post office.
They’d stopped at the gate by the sheep pasture rather than going straight up to the tent, because sitting there on a rickety stool was an old man. He wasn’t from the village. He said he was from up county. When the Swirling twins asked him what he was doing he said that some bloke had offered him fifty quid if he sat on the stool and checked tickets for half an hour. He said only an idiot would turn down that kind of easy money, so here he was. The Swirling twins were a little suspicious, but when they started to question him further, Tom Thwaites shouted from a few places back in the queue to leave the old goat alone, so they kept quiet.
At six-thirty on the dot the old man eased himself up from his stool and asked the Swirling twins if they’d like to purchase tickets. The price was ten pounds. The Swirling twins looked at each other briefly before whipping out their wallets and handing over two crisp notes. One by one the villagers trooped in, stumping up their money and trotting across the field towards the marquee. Twenty minutes later, when all five hundred of the villagers had been admitted, the old man picked up his stool and headed off in the opposite direction.
Inside the marquee there was a considerable amount of shuffling, jostling and chattering as everybody took their seats. There were no seat numbers, just bales of straw lined up in neat rows, and so there were one or two arguments as people tried to get the best view, or sit with their friends, or claim a seat near the exit in case things turned nasty. Gradually everyone settled down. The straw bales all faced an improvised stage made from wooden pallets, most of which was hidden behind a makeshift curtain. The curtain was held up at either end by wooden poles stuck into the grass beneath. At one minute to seven a hush descended over the audience. The Swirling twins grabbed each other’s hands. Miss Hazelwick snapped at a small child behind her to be quiet. Reverend Sweeny said a silent prayer.
By five minutes past seven, the whispering had begun. By quarter past seven it had turned into a distinctly impatient muttering. By twenty past, the Mayor, feeling the heavy weight of civic responsibility, got up from his straw bale, moved to the front of the crowd and cleared his throat. Silence descended once more. The Mayor cleared his throat for a second time. When he remained there looking awkward, Tom Thwaites got to his feet and shouted for him to “open the bloody curtain!”
Nervously, the Mayor took hold of one edge of the curtain. The crowd fell silent again. The Mayor closed his eyes and gave the curtain a firm tug. He felt it tumble to the ground at his feet. When he opened one eye and looked at what the curtain had been concealing, he saw what every one of the open-mouthed villagers was seeing.
On the stage was an easel, of the sort that might hold a child’s chalkboard. On the easel was a poster. Written on the poster in glistening gold letters on a jet-black background were three words.
He has gone.
(c) Callum Jacobs, 2021
Callum Jacobs is a writer, psychology teacher, sightrunning tour guide, and a fourth-level stone balancer. When not doing these things he can be found lying diagonally on his bed listening to a podcast. He lives with his wife and two children, all of whom are smarter than he is.
Claire Louise Amias received an Off-West End ‘OnComm’ Award for her play Oranges & Ink which she both wrote and starred in, about Aphra Behn and Nell Gwyn. Other roles include Mags in Handbagged, Sheila in Relatively Speaking, Liz in Present Laughter and Maggie in Hobson's Choice at Windsor Theatre Royal and Chesterfield Pomegranate.
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