Bad Boy (Invertary 5)

The crowd roared. He spotted Matt laughing, and ignored him.

“I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up in the information you got along with your invite,” Flynn said. “It looks like some of you are here ready to party hard.” Another roar. “And that’s great. You can get to it, as soon as you’ve supported the cause.” There were murmurs of confusion. “Before I give the mic over to Reverend Morrison, I want to thank the boys of Royal Flush for coming out at such short notice. The church and I really appreciate the time you’re giving up for this worthy cause.

“I realise that, like me, you boys have had some bad press. Maybe made some decisions resulting in fallout you weren’t expecting. Well, that’s all behind us here. Today we’re starting again. We’re turning over a new leaf. United in helping the church of Invertary get back on its feet. Reverend Morrison is a great believer in second chances. That’s why this cause is a perfect fit. The church building needs a second chance at life too. And with your donations today, they’ll be one step closer to achieving that goal. Thank you all for coming. The church ladies will be here later on with cake and tea. In the meantime, let’s show this town how fundraising is done! Reverend, the microphone is yours.”

Flynn stood beside the lead singer of the band while the vicar grabbed the mic. Shock rippled through the crowd like a Mexican wave at a football match. The sight made Flynn want to grin, but he didn’t. He kept a look of serene conviction on his face and reminded himself the old bugger talking had conned him out of a fortune for his appearance at this fundraiser.

“The church needs a new roof,” the vicar barked. “And we need new carpet. I’m told the chairs are so old they’ve retained the bum shapes of some of the parishioners, which makes them uncomfortable when other people use them, so new chairs would be good. Our sound system is rubbish. We need a new one. I put it on the list, but the church committee took it off. Some of them like that they can’t hear my sermons. Oh, aye, and we need a new organ.” He glared around the crowd. “For you young folk who don’t turn up at church, an organ is like a piano—only louder. It isn’t a body part.”

Some people stared at the minister open-mouthed, while others chatted in confusion. No one quite knew what to do.

“Now, as the ladies move through the crowd with their buckets, make sure you give generously. And smile while you do it. The Lord loves a cheerful giver,” the vicar said with a growl and a frown. “I’d like everyone here to know that all donations to the church refurbishment fund come with a ten percent discount on any weddings held in the building.” He pointed at a couple who were locked at the lips, the guy with his hand in the back of the girl’s shorts. “You two,” he shouted. “Save it for your wedding night.”

Matt’s laughter could be heard in the ensuing stunned silence.

“Now,” the vicar continued. “I know you young folk expect more than one act at a gig.” He turned to the singer. “That’s the right word, son, isn’t it?”

The singer just stared at him. The minister rolled his eyes and muttered something about a mind ruined by drugs. He turned back to the microphone.

“We brought along an opening act to warm you up for the main event. I want you all to give a warm welcome to our very own church a cappella group. They’re going to sing a medley of popular hymns while the women collect your money. Thanks again for coming out. And thanks to Flynn for letting us use his land.”

He pointed at three women who stood behind the Knit or Die group. Flynn alm

ost choked when he spotted one of them was Morag McKay, owner of the town’s only bakery and leader of the local morality society—a group made up of Morag and her two best friends picketing anyone they disapproved of. Those friends were on the stage with her now. The women wore matching polyester coats in shades of blue. Their grey heads were permed with tight curls in the fake, no-movement look some old women thought was the height of fashion. They adjusted the microphone as the crowd fell into stunned silence. As one, they started a harmonised rendition of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

“Is this a joke?” the singer said to Flynn. “Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Are we being Punk’d?”

“Sorry, mate, this is real. I thought you knew. I thought we were on the same wavelength here.”

“No way in hell is this happening.” The guy looked like he was about to explode. His neck turned beetroot red.

Flynn faked confusion. “I thought you wanted to change your rep? Brian Flannigan insisted you needed a gig like this. He was the one who called you. There he is, over there.” Flynn pointed at the weasel again, before giving him a cheery wave.

The weasel looked ready to spit his dummy out the pram.

The women started singing something about the joy of the Lord—without cracking a smile between them. Meanwhile, the women of Knit or Die were shaking buckets under the noses of the crowd.

“I’m not playing,” the singer said.

“But you’re the main event. We need you.” Flynn hoped he sounded sincere. “You’ll be on TV.”

“We don’t want airtime if we need to share it with them. Our rep will be trashed.” He cocked a thumb at Morag and her friends. “We’re outta here.” He unhooked his guitar strap from his neck and nodded to his band. The looks of disgust were priceless. “We still get paid, right?”

“I’ll make sure Brian pays you every penny you’re owed. It’s the least he can do.”

With growls and cursing, the men started packing equipment back into the vans. In the distance, Flynn spotted cars sneaking away as the crowd thinned. By the time Morag had finished her set of classic hymns, the only people in the field were his football mates, the women from Knit or Die and the church, the vicar and Lake’s boys.

Flynn sat perched on the edge of the stage.

“I’m impressed,” Lake said as he came up to him. “Next time I need a crowd cleared, I’ll give you a call.”

“Don’t call me. Call the vicar.”

Lake actually grinned outright. Such a rare occurrence that Flynn checked the sky for an eclipse.

“Did you tell someone to watch Abby’s house?”

“Ryan.”