Btb Chapel

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Copyright Oggbashan February 2016

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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A few years ago a new chapel opened in what had been an old automobile service station. When built the service station had been isolated about half a mile from the next business. It had been on the major road through our town. When a new road was built the old road became a dead end. There was no reason for anyone to go down there.

The industrial building had been renovated externally and a large chimney added at the end furthest from the highway. According to the planning application the chimney was for a furnace burning straw bales to heat the premises. A ramp at the front allowed large rolls of straw to be delivered to the furnace. For some reason that ramp was concealed behind an extension to the main building.

When the signs went up it was called "Be The Best (BTB) Chapel". There were two services each Sunday, segregated by sex. The men's service was at 11 am, the women's at 3pm. What went on at the services was even more secret than our local Mason's chapel. No one who went would reveal anything about the services.

On alternate evenings from Monday to Saturday there were men and women's club meets. Those clubs were licensed for alcohol sales on the premises and generated considerable custom for the local taxi operators who collected intoxicated chapel goers. Apparently it was a club rule that no one could drive to or from the chapel on club nights.

Gradually the name was shortened to just "BTB Chapel".

All that was known was that the two congregations seemed to be men and women who were in poor or abusive relationships. They seemed to draw comfort from the BTB Chapel. The chimney emitted more smoke than normal once a month. Apparently that happened at special evening services which were on alternate months for men and women.

The BTB Chapel was a mystery. That is where Paul and I, Sandra, started. We are both trainee reporters on the local newspaper. When we were recruited after graduating we were told that only one of us could be given a permanent position, whichever one of us did best in our trial year. Although we started as friends we were rivals, trying hard to outdo each other, and frequently fighting over potential stories. Our rivalry was well-known around the town and a source of some amusement.

Our Editor asked us to do a series of articles on the various places of worship in the town. We both had to do the research, and whichever article was 'best' in his opinion would be published. The Editor changed his mind with our first draft pieces. He published both of them side by side because our approaches were different and more interesting together than one would have been.

After four months of work the Editor told us that our trial was over. We were sitting in his office after this week's edition had been sent to the printers.

"Paul, Sandra," he said, "I'm ending your trial period now."

I looked at Paul. He looked at me. One of us was going to lose our employment. The editor saw those looks and laughed at us.

"Sorry," he said, "I couldn't resist teasing you. Janet has handed in her notice. Her husband has been transferred up North and she's going with him to work on a regional paper there. So I can, and will, appoint BOTH of you. From Monday you are both staff reporters."

Paul jumped out of his chair, pulled me out of mine, and hugged me.

"Thank you," he said. "We both want to work for this paper, but I want to work with my friend Sandra too. Now we can."

For that I kissed him. He kissed me back.

"Break it up, you two. I have an assignment for both of you and..."

We stood side by side holding hands.

"You'll have to stop looking like boyfriend and girlfriend."

Why? What was the assignment?

"I want you to join the BTB Chapel separately and find out what goes on there. I haven't even had a hint except that the congregation are unhappy people in failing relationships. You'll have to pretend to be very angry with each other if you are going to be accepted."

The BTB Chapel? We hadn't had a whisper of what went on inside. That was very unusual. We had covered the Masonic Temple. They had been very helpful and not as secretive as we had expected. They had been almost boringly mundane.

"My suggestion is that you don't tell anyone you have been appointed as staff reporters. You pretend to be still competing for a single position, to be boyfriend and girlfriend but constantly arguing with each other. You have to work here, together, and hate it because you are rivals. Understood?"

"We can try," I replied. "Both of us have pretended before to get a story."

"But we might have to keep this pretence up for longer," Paul added. "All we do know is that the BTB Chapel is difficult to join."

"But you are reporters," the Editor replied. "The difficult should just take longer, not be impossible. Meanwhile you'll have your normal work to do."

+++

Paul was right. We did have to pretend for two months. We sniped at each other in print with our Editor's agreement. We staged public arguments in the coffee shop near our office, exchanged abusive messages on line when we knew other people in the town could see them, and although we were often on the same assignment we didn't talk to each other. We made up for it when we were out of town. For every cross word said in public there was a kiss and a cuddle when were knew we were alone and unobserved.

Paul was the first to get a break. After I stormed out after yet another pre-scripted argument in the coffee shop a man came over to Paul's table and introduced himself as a Deacon from the BTB Chapel. He invited Paul to attend a newcomers' service at ten o'clock next Sunday, and gave Paul a printed invitation card.

"Don't lose it," he warned. "You won't get in without the card. We don't want just anybody."

Of course Paul told me as soon as we were back in the office. He told the Editor next time we were in the Editor's office. The editor asked Paul to describe the Deacon.

"That sounds like Fred Owen," the Editor said. "He's certainly unhappy with his wife. Apart from being a 24 carat bitch she has the money in that marriage and uses it to humiliate Fred. You two will have to continue your public disagreements until after Sunday. Even so, don't expect too much, Paul. You'll be checked out before you get to know anything about the Chapel. But -- good work, both of you..."

He changed the subject to other news stories building that week.

Paul and I arranged to meet for Sunday lunch at my cousin's weekend cottage fifty miles away. He would pick up a takeaway meal on the way. But before then we staged yet another argument on Friday when Deacon Owen was present. We had a whispered argument, and when Deacon Owen wasn't looking I slapped Paul's face at the same time as Paul slapped his leg under the table loudly. I stormed out again.

Sunday lunchtime Paul and I ate before he told me what had happened at the BTB Chapel. We were sitting side by side on the settee.

"I arrived clutching my card but I was the only person there except Deacon Owen who asked me to call him 'Deacon R'. He said I was the only potential member today and usually they interviewed possible members alone. We went inside the chapel. It was fairly basic with rows of chairs facing a rostrum on a raised platform six feet above the rest. The only unusual thing was a carpeted strip running down the central aisle that was far wider than I would have expected. That strip was recessed about six inches below the floor and had a join in the centre. It looked as if it could be retracted, splitting in the middle."

"Odd," I said.

"Yes. Deacon R didn't mention it. What he did say was that the name of the Chapel wasn't 'Be The Best' but 'Burn The Bitch'. Or, for the female congregation 'Burn The Bastard', but whichever, members were expected to refer to it as the 'BTB Chapel' at all times except when in it.

The Chapel was for people who were in damaging or abusive relationships. Unlike in normal life where we had to be polite, or politically correct about our partners, when in Chapel we could be as rude about them as we wanted to be. We could verbally abuse our partners, suggest stringing them up by their entrails, whatever we dreamed of doing to them. It was a place where we could express our real feelings.

The Chapel went further than that. If we wanted, members could have access to discounted legal services for divorce, or alimony negotiation, and even tricky accountants who could manage our finances to minimise awards to ex-spouses. All those services were from out-of-town businesses so that there would be no leakage to the other partner.

They could, but rarely did, provide professional counselling and advice to mend a broken relationship. It was used rarely, because most members' marriages or partnerships were completely fractured before they joined the BTB Chapel. It was a place for relief from the day to day hostility and pretence.

Deacon R was slightly concerned that my problems were temporary, not as permanent as most members' difficulties were. If one of us got the post as reporter, the other would have to seek work elsewhere, and our arguments, and relationship, would end. However, because we two are rivals forced to work together on a daily basis, he appreciated that was very difficult for us to endure. He offered me a trial membership for six months or until the newspaper offered only one of us a contract, whichever was longer.

The cost of joining the Chapel was five pounds a month and five pounds minimum donation for every service I attended. He didn't think I would need to come to the special services that would cost twenty pounds each because my situation wasn't that serious as Chapel members went.

He did surprise me at the end. He asked what I thought Sandra's views were on her relationship with me. Did I think she, that is you, felt as I did, that she would like to shout and scream about me?

I had to think. Was this a test question? I decided that I would admit that I thought that Sandra was a bitch, but she probably thought I was a bastard.

Deacon R seemed satisfied with that. He said that possibly a Deaconess might approach you, to offer you membership of the women's congregation, also on a temporary basis.

We then completed the paperwork including my email address, and I paid for three months' membership. I was issued with a badge to hang around my neck whenever I entered the Chapel proper. That badge..."

Paul stopped and scrabbled in his briefcase.

"This badge shows my membership number M215. It is printed in yellow to show my temporary status. If I become permanent, it will be in black. All members are called by their numbers except Deacons who have D for Deacon, M for Male and then a letter. Fred Owen, although he never mentioned his real name, is Deacon R labelled DMR. Women have numbers prefixed with an F, and their Deaconesses are DF followed by a letter, but I would be unlikely to encounter any member of the female congregation.

They do have a couple of Lesbian and Gay members, but so far have not had both partners joining, so Lesbians are with the women, and Gay Men with the men. The committee is considering what the procedure should be if two Lesbians in a relationship wanted to join."

Paul's badge had no indication of the organisation. It was just a simple piece of card printed M215 in a holder with a cord strung around his neck.

"Fred... Oops! Deacon R suggested that I come along to a club meeting on Monday night. He'll be there then. He showed me the Men's club room at the back of the Chapel. It has a bar, comfortable armchairs, tables and chairs and in a side room an illegal indoor smoking den with an extractor fed into the Chapel's chimney. There are NO settees because it is never used by couples. They do have card games, sometimes for small sums of money, darts, pool and table football. The drinks prices are lower than in any pub or club around. He said that the women's club is similar, a different range of drinks, but without the table football."

"How many?" I asked.

"He said most weekday nights there are about fifteen to twenty in each club but more on Friday and Saturday nights. Sunday evenings the women's club is overflowing with about sixty."

"What do you feel about what you have found out so far, Paul?"

"Honestly, Sandra?"

"Yes. Has it been worth it?"

"No." Paul said very firmly. "We have been pretending for months to be constantly arguing, that we hate each other..."

"...and we don't."

"Exactly. We don't hate each other, Sandra. I love you."

I was startled. That was the first time Paul had said that. We were friends, good friends, but he loved me? Paul had stopped speaking as he realised the enormity of what he had said. He swallowed.

"I love you, Sandra," he repeated. "I've been avoiding it as we acted as enemies, but we're not enemies. We're more than friends and colleagues, at least I hope we are..."

He was struggling to express himself. I jumped onto his lap and kissed him. Our lips told us what his words couldn't. We loved each other.

I knelt with my legs either side of him and lifted my top to show my bra-covered breasts in front of his face. He hesitated. I moved closer. His lips kissed above my bra and his tongue licked gently. I leant against him as my hands unfastened my bra, pulling it up and revealing my bare tits.

Paul's reaction was all I could have wanted. He kissed, he nibbled, he stroked and sucked as my nipples became erect. I lifted off my top and unfastened bra and threw them aside. My breasts were squashing against Paul's face, smothering and gagging him as I clasped his head tightly to me.

A long time later Paul pushed me gently away.

"We need to talk, Sandra, nice though this is. We can start again..."

"We can," I said. "We have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning when we should be at work."

Paul looked straight into my eyes. That was a change. His eyes had been fixed on my bare breasts.

"You mean?"

"Are you slow, Paul? We have this cottage today, and all night if we want."

"That would be wonderful, Sandra, but we still need to talk about the story. We've invested months into it, for what?"

I climbed off Paul, retrieved my bra and top and put them back on.

"To the kitchen. I'll make a pot of tea. We can talk and later..."

"Later, Sandra?"

"Later we can resume where we left off," I said, taking his hand and pulling him off the settee.

We perched on the kitchen stools clutching mugs of tea. We really wanted to be clutching each other.

"Where were we?" I asked. "Yes, has it been worth it, Paul?"

"No. What have I got? An illicit smoking den and I didn't see it being used. That's not news. A place where people meet to grouse about their partners? We could have gone to the singles bar and heard as much. Burn The Bitch? Many men think that, but wouldn't really raise a hand to her."

"Some do," I retorted.

"Yes, Sandra, some do, but the Chapel is a place to express their frustrations without using violence. It could stop, prevent or mitigate domestic violence. Having somewhere where you can complain and moan could be a good thing. Even if people rarely use the conciliation services, they are there. So is access to lawyers if they want to separate or divorce. But it isn't newsworthy. It certainly isn't worth the effort we have put into being acceptable as Chapel members, is it?"

"No, Paul. Pretending we hate each other's guts has been hard, particularly when we don't."

"And we might get found out. Deacon R knows that we are local reporters. He must be slightly suspicious of my motives."

"If I get invited to join too, they'll be even more suspicious. Can we keep the pretence going?"

"Not if we're seen together like this, Sandra. Out and about as reporters? No problem. Hand in hand, kissing and cuddling? Even miles away from the town someone might notice and then we're in deep shit."

"Even if they do find out, what could they do?"

"I don't know but we could find that people wouldn't talk to us anymore. That could damage our careers."

I phoned the editor on his personal mobile to ask whether we could arrive late on Monday. He was willing to let us have the morning off. Why not? We normally worked many more hours than our contracts.

I went to get a second takeaway meal for the evening and we went to bed together -- early. I had a supply of condoms in my handbag, just in case. We needed most of them that night.

Paul aroused me with his mouth on my breasts. I didn't need to arouse him just keep him interested for the third and fourth coupling. He rode me. I rode him. We went to sleep with my head on his shoulder and my hand cradling his diminished erection.

We had breakfast in a diner halfway between the cottage and our home town, resuming our pretence of being enemies but our hearts weren't in the acting. We had found that we loved each other. Abusing one another was hard.

+++

Paul's visit to the Chapel men's club was an anticlimax. The men were more interested in drinking and playing cards than in abusing their wives and girlfriends. It could have been any men's club drinking session. Deacon R did arrange to meet Paul outside the Chapel shortly before the 11 am Sunday service.

On Thursday lunchtime Paul stormed out of the cafe. I was surprised when Fred Owen's WIFE came over to present me with an invitation card to join the women's congregation. She said she was Deaconess J. Fred must have told his wife about me, but they were supposed to hate each other. She invited me to attend as a newcomer at 2 pm on Sunday.

Paul would be going to the morning service at 11 am. If my newcomer's event was like his, I wouldn't be going to the 3 pm service. It would be too obvious if we went back to the office even though we did sometimes work there on Sundays. On Saturday evening I gave Paul the key to my cousin's cottage. He would go there with some food for the Sunday evening meal, and Monday's breakfast, and we could discuss what we had learned.

We weren't convinced we were going to learn anything that would make a reasonable story. We had produced more drama from an evangelical church arguing about which hymn book to use.

+++

At five minutes to two on Sunday afternoon I was waiting outside the Chapel for Deaconess J. I hadn't heard from Paul. We had decided it might be impolitic to be in touch by mobile. Someone might overhear one end of the conversation. We would compare notes at the cottage.

My experience with Deaconess J, whom I never addressed as Mrs Owen, was remarkably similar to Paul's. I pretended that it was wholly new to me and exciting. I didn't even blink when my yellow printed temporary membership card gave my number as F897. Surely women didn't outnumber men by that much?

Deaconess J showed me the Chapel and the women's club bar. It too had a smoking room. The bar was mainly stocked with wine and bottled drinks, not the range of draught beers available on the men's side. Deaconess J even sneaked us into the men's bar to show me the difference, saying that she shouldn't, but why not?

I did ask about the recessed carpet in the chapel. Wasn't that a trip hazard?

Deaconess J said it was a demarcation line for when men and women were at the same special service. The sexes must not cross that gap, and besides, the aisle either side was wide enough anyway.

She suggested that I came to the women's club on Tuesday evening before attending a women's service. That couldn't be next Sunday because that would be their special service. Only permanent established members could attend then. She dodged any questions about what was special about Sunday's service.