The Alphabet Project, part 2a: "Believe"

I actually got very bogged down with this one and almost ditched it about half way through as I felt - and still feel - that it lost its way a bit. I soldiered on though and eventually finished it off. It is far from perfect and could do with a fair bit of work, but the rules of the "Alphabet Project" prevent me from revisiting the work. As a rough first draft it isn't too bad I suppose.

Anyway, this is the surprise second "B" story I thought of very soon after finishing "Bondage", and it is a very silly story indeed. I found the first half great fun to write, and the second was fairly tough. I'm not exactly happy with it, but hey ho.

So, without further ado, here is "Believe"...

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It was Tuesday when they believed in Bernard. He had overslept by a few minutes and the radio by his bed was already playing a song, so he had missed the news and the “Deity of the Day” slot, which normally appeared between the sport and the weather. As he opened the curtains and saw the small group of six or seven people standing by the gate, pointing in his direction, genuflecting and shouting “Hallelujah!” he realised that his had been then name to be read. A few cars turned into the road in the distance, drivers spotting the crowd on Bernard’s drive, passengers disembarking excitedly, picnic chairs and coolboxes in hand as the engines were killed behind them. They had, as one, come to adore him.

Bernard picked up the telephone and rang his friend, Gary. Gary had been believed in one Thursday two weeks before and he hoped his friend would be able to give him a few tips.

“It’s a bit weird,” Gary began, “but kind of funny too. Just go along with it and enjoy it, and you’ll be fine, so long as you can stand all the singing.”

“I have to sing?”

“No, no – they sing. To you. About you, and all your wonders, and how you’re mighty and great and stuff.”

“They won’t crucify me at the end of the day or something like that, will they?”

“Er, hello? You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry, mate. Thanks – you’ve been a help.” He didn’t sound too convincing.

Bernard had a shower, dressed, and ate a light breakfast. As he worked his way through a bowl of Frosties, he watched the television and saw an outside broadcast showing a helicopter shot of a housing estate somewhere, a seemingly endless multicoloured carpet covering the streets, every dot a person. He cast his eyes towards the kitchen window and saw the outline of the helicopter through the trees. On the TV screen a slightly wobbly zoom shot from the helicopter focused on his kitchen window, his left knee just visible as he ate at the table. He carefully crept towards the window and lowered the blind. On the screen he saw the view change to a shot of the street, looking for all the world like a scaled-down festival crowd. Some held flags and banners, one played bongos, another had their face painted with peace symbol and “BERNARD IS LOVE” on her forehead. Bernard just shook his head in despair: I’ll never get the car out through that lot.

He phoned the office and asked the switchboard to connect him to Jo, his manager. She was only thirty eight years old, two years older than he was himself, but every time he spoke with her by telephone he felt naughty, and at least twenty years younger.

“Hi, Jo – it’s Bernard.”

“Oh Lord, our saviour and master!” she replied. She sounded serious, slightly out of breath through shock.

“Er, hi. Look – I’m going to be a bit late, I’m sorry. It’s just I’m being worshipped and stuff. My road looks like Glastonbury and it’s going to take me ages to get the car out. Is that okay?”

“Whatever thou shalt decree, my Lord,” Jo gasped. “Amen.”

This was going to be a very strange day.



“Could you all please move back a little!” he shouted from the porch. “I need to reverse my car off the drive!”

There was a little shuffling, and in some sections the singing of “Bernard, good above all other” briefly stopped. He walked to the gate and saw a reasonable pile of presents had been left for him, and a few feet up the road a man filmed him on his mobile phone from the top of a lamp post he had somehow managed to climb.

“Thanks for the presents,” Bernard shouted, lifting the parcels momentarily higher and smiling. “I’ll open them later if that’s alright.” He took them inside, put them on the kitchen table, and then went back outside, stepping into his car and starting the engine. He carefully started to reverse down the path. There was a loud bag from the engine. He looked to the front.

“Glory to Bernard in the highest!” cried the woman as she lat prostrate across the bonnet. She had thrown herself there, unharmed, slowly disappearing under the layer of petals which was being tossed onto the car as he moved.

The crowd began to part, and as he drove the masses slapped the body of his Fiesta, some still tossing petals, at least a dozen candles burning in different places on the roof, and as he reached the last house the woman placed a kiss upon the windscreen and rolled herself off the bonnet before dashing back into the crowd.

His journey to work took him past three churches, each of which had a poster of him displayed on its notice board by the gate. Whenever he stopped at traffic lights he saw people in neighbouring cars staring in his direction, crossing themselves, allowing him to move away first when the lights changed to green. When he arrived at the office he found the managing director’s space was empty, his car elsewhere, and a sign indicated that Bernard should use the bay: “SAVIOUR”, it read.

Bernard used the space.



He didn’t get a lot of work done. His telephone rang a lot, and he had never received so many e-mails, at one time over thirteen thousand lying unread in his inbox, some talking of sickness and helplessness, others asking for forgiveness or material possessions. He tried to answer them all, but there were just too many. Besides, it was lunch time and he was hungry.

Of course, when he left the office the streets were packed, and his walk to the sandwich shop was chaotic, but he eventually made it. The girls behind the counter insisted that he jump the queue and asked him for his order, or more specifically “whatever our Lord doth command.”

“Chicken and ham baguette with mayo and pepper, please. And a flapjack.” There was one flapjack left on display.

“He eats flapjacks!” shouted a man somewhere outside. Bernard took his lunch and darted out of the door.

“We must all eat flapjacks!” came the response from the crowd. Suddenly everybody in the shop was clamouring for a flapjack, the staff behind the counter forced to make a sign for the door: SORRY – NO FLAPJACKS.

Bernard saw a child crying on the street outside the shop, and he walked over to her.

“What’s the matter? Are you alright?”

“I want to eat flapjacks like you!” she wailed.

She must be nine, maybe ten years old, he thought, and took pity. He handed her the smaller bag. “Here – take mine.” He smiled, then turned and headed back to work.

The girl immediately brightened, smiling broadly, tears stopping as she waved the white paper bag over her head.

“HE HAS GIVEN ME HIS FLAPJACK!” she screamed. “PRAISE BE TO BERNARD!”

The crowd swarmed around the girl, a thorn field of hands reaching out for the grease-speckled bag which she held high over her head, remaining out of their reach by standing on a wooden bench.

“Feed us!” pleaded a woman in the crowd. “Feed us with his holy flapjack!”

This started the chant. Feed us! Feed us!

The girl took the flapjack and with some reluctance broke a small chunk from a corner, handing it to the closest person, who ate the morsel, crossed himself, and fainted, tears rolling down his face.

She fed the rest of the crowd over the next few minutes until the multitudes had finally been satisfied, and there was one piece left. She ate this herself, whispered a quiet “Hallelujah”, and wondered how many people had been fed from that single, small flapjack.

Hundreds? Definitely. Thousands? Maybe five.



Bernard logged back onto his PC as soon as he got back into the office and saw another nine thousand e-mails waiting for him. Please could you bring peace to the Middle East; please look after my Gertie in heaven; please could I have an Xbox 360 – some misguided individual who was clearly confused by the whole God thing and instead thought Bernard was Santa (if only, he thought: toys, mince pies, and a beard – cool).

He connected to the internet and signed into Facebook to see what his friends were up to. Somehow his status had been changed at the top of the screen: Bernard Collier is God (today only). He noticed a few hundred more e-mails awaited his attention here, and the usual barrage of inane notifications and friend requests. He saw an unwelcome face from his school days who wanted to regain contact, and for a moment his finger hovered over the mouse button as he cursor pointed to the reject button; might be an idea to leave that for today, he thought – as much as they made life a misery for me at school I’d hate it if this resulted in eternal damnation for them.

On the desk his mobile beeped. Paul. His best friend, had sent him a text message. He took the handset and read:

B! Can I still call U B? God feels weird. Pub quiz 2 nite – U comin? Shud B gud, U B-in Yz n all No-in! L8r. P.

He replied:

Course – it’s my name, m8. No re quiz – mite B summat in Bible against it. G-zus in temple wiv £ lendaz or summat. I dunno. I’m not dat Yz m8. B.

He looked at the message he had typed and shook his head. I hate text speech, he thought – I wish people didn’t do it, and instead their texts had proper spelling, sentences, punctuation that didn’t form smiles, and even paragraphs would be nice. Before his eyes the message reformatted itself according to his wishes, and was sent.

His will be done.



That afternoon Bernard busied himself with his burgeoning inbox. After sending a few replies to some needy folk he stood and headed to the lavatory. On his way he passed Becky, the managers personal assistant, who looked perplexed as she stared at the photocopier, opening flaps and drawers and drawers seemingly randomly, becoming more and more frustrated.

“Hi, Becky,” he said. “You need any help?” She turned away quickly. “What are you doing?”

“Averting my eyes,” she replied.

“Oh, stop it.” She slowly turned her head, her cheeks reddened. “All this God business is just a bit daft. I’m just Bernard.” He pointed towards the machine. “Is it playing up?”

“It says there is a paper jam.”

“Thought as much,” he said.

“Well, you are all-knowing.”

“Behave. Want me to take a look?”

Becky stepped aside, and Bernard took her place. After a few seconds of fiddling with the trays he tugged a crumpled sheet of paper from within the machine, and copies started to spew forth. Becky looked overjoyed and threw her arms into the air.”

“It’s a miracle! Bernard has healed the machine! Praise him!” She grabbed her copies and ran down the corridor, spreading the word.



Bernard decided that he had had enough, and at five thirty he headed for home. As he turned into the estate he saw the crowd had grown and now they held candles and sang “Kum Ba Yah” whilst swaying gently. He arrived on his street and the crowd parted to let him through, many genuflecting as he passed. He reached his property and saw a large white square sheet hanging from the front of his home. It took him a few moments to realise he was looking at his own bed sheet.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Your cleaner came and saw your image on the sheet,” replied a woman by the gate. “It’s a miracle! People have been coming all day to see it. There’s a flight arriving later from Lourdes.”

“From Lourdes? Don’t people normally go to Lourdes?”

“This is an unprecedented symbol of your power and divinity, oh Lord,” she said.

Bernard shook his head in dismay and tugged the sheet free from the windows which pinched its corners, holding it in place.



He could still hear the singing over the television that evening, and feeling hungry he decided to make himself a meal. He entered the kitchen and through the windows he saw a hundred or so people had gathered by candlelight in his back garden. Bernard waved, then closed the curtains.

Peering into the pool of light inside the refrigerator Bernard saw he had a fish – a trout, to be precise – wrapped in cellophane. He had bought the fish from the supermarket two days before, and suddenly he felt the urge to cook it. He took it from the fridge and unwrapped the parcel. The poor creature stared back at him with its sightless eye.

“I’m sorry,” Bernard signed, then turned to fetch some implements from the cupboard. As he reached into the cabinet he heard a soft sound from behind him. He turned, and saw the mouth of the fish was moving slowly, its tail twitching with increasing speed.

“What the...” he gasped, then jumped as the fish sprang onto the floor. Bernard quickly filled the sink with cold water, picked up the fish, and dropped it into the bowl. He stared at the creature as it explored its cramped surroundings, and wondered what might happen if he opened a tin of beans or a bag of oven chips instead.



As night fell Bernard walked to the front door and looked out at the crowd. Most sang hymns in low, quiet voices, holding candles and swaying slowly. For a moment he wondered if he should tell them about the fish. Surely a bona-fide miracle was worth mentioning? He asked himself if he wanted the attention, wondering if the madness of the last day would continue if he spoke of the amazing revival of the two day-old trout. The crowd smiled back at him, adoring expressions upon each face. Did he want to raise their hopes of finding a new God by telling them of his exploits with the flapjack and the fish? Had anybody else declared “Deity of the Day” found they had developed any strange new abilities?

“Just putting this out,” he shouted, holding an empty milk bottle aloft before placing it upon the path outside the door.

He would remain silent. It was for the best.



“...And the “Deity of the Day” for today is another chap. This time, the Holy One is Martin Spencer of number eleven, Glendale Terrace, so if you’re in search of salvation, miracles, or just fancy a bit of a sing-song, head on down there. Our outside broadcast unit is in the area, so we’ll have on the spot reports throughout the day.”

Bernard rubbed his eyes and yawned. He paused before he rose from the bed and pulled the curtains aside, momentarily expecting the crowds to be outside his home, or at least a few individuals who still believed, but the only people he saw were street cleaners sweeping the detritus from the road and pavement, torn banners with GLORY TO BERNARD now abandoned, as he had been, in favour of a new God. The world no longer believed in Bernard; overnight it had turned atheist towards him.

In a sense he didn’t mind. It would be nice to be able to go about his business in peace, and to back the car out without fear of crushing a devotee, but at the same time a small part of him knew he would miss the attention.

He entered the bathroom and filled the basin ready to have a shave. An idea crossed his mind and he was unable to resist. He looked down at the pool of water and concentrated, and smiled as a deepening furrow ran across the smooth surface.

Maybe there’s something in it after all, he thought, then sprayed a ball of foam into his palm before smearing it across his face.

He had to look his best, especially as he would be going to see Martin, the new God, today.

(Written in Urmston, Manchester, Leeds, London and Cannock between 12th and 23rd December 2008)
(C) 2008 Peter Lee / A Nasal Hair Production

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All comments gratefully received, as always.

Next up: "Chest", and then "Deep", unless anything else crops up in the interim.