The Billy Fidget Letters

by Eric Delve, Nick Battle

Genres: General Fiction; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Billy Fidget is a feckless, foul-mouthed, forty-something, father of three who spends his life selling fast cars and seducing even faster women. When he is caught in the back of an Aston Martin DB7 with the wife of a gangster, he finds himself in very hot water indeed.With his life disappearing down the plughole faster than a bullet from a Glock 9mm, he remembers that once, long ago, he sang in his local church choir. In dire straits and out of sheer desperation, hard man Billy Fidget finds himself writing a letter - to God.In this fast moving, funny and yet wittily poignant book we see the harsh reality of what happens when the stuff hits the fan. On the surface Billy is successful - on the inside he harbours dark, dirty secrets. Will he succeed in conquering his demons or will he be consumed by his venal appetite for destruction?God only knows ... or does he?

Release date: March 17, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 256

Sample

Dear Billy (well, you did ask whether I remembered you!),

 

Good to hear from you. I always like it when my old acquaintances get in touch.

But I hope you will not mind my saying that I prefer it when people are more direct. You reminded me of your interest in the choirmistress. You are quite right: as sins go, it wasn’t enormous but your commitment to that particular kind of sin has been truly wholehearted, and seems to have got you into trouble throughout your life.

Here you can help me best: I know you are in lots of trouble, but when you mention being ‘in a bit of a pickle’, it would be more helpful if you could be direct about which part of the pickle you are referring to. ‘Drowning in brown stuff’ describes your situation pretty well. But which particular stream of effluent are you actually drowning in at the moment?

Yes, I know you’re going to say: ‘But you are God, surely you know?’ In this kind of conversation, though, what I know is nowhere near as much help as what you are willing to face up to. I can do nothing with lies, evasions or half-truths. But I can always come close to someone who is honest. No matter how bad the truth is, telling me the truth is always the first step on the road to freedom.

To answer your subsequent question: yes, of course I am here. But I don’t necessarily answer the first time someone calls. I wait for the right moment to speak. When I am silent it is to help them recognise how much they need an answer. Then it stops being a game – and becomes deadly serious.

(By the way, I don’t get, as you said, ‘busy’. I am full of creativity and life, but also always full of energy.)

Remember, I am here – accessible to those who are truly honest. Finally, you might like to know that almost always when people accuse me of not speaking to them, the problem is that they are not listening. In fact, usually they’re shouting so loudly that they cannot hear my whisper. The part of my book that says, ‘Be still and know that I am God’ has always been one of my favourite bits!

Looking forward to your next.

From your fond Father in deepest heaven,

 

GOD

Dear . . . Oh, God, it really is you!

 

OK, look, I’m really really sorry but, yes, as we both know, the choirmistress was not the end of my venality. I spent most of my early teens and twenties bedding anything that moved, with no thought for the consequences. ‘Sowing my wild oats’, as my dad would say – when he was around, which wasn’t often, as you know. I do feel bad about that lovely born-again Canadian girl. She was blonde and lithe and supple and had such a ‘need to know’. For a while back there I did think I loved her . . . but what did I know then about love?

And, yes, there was the unfortunate incident in Bayswater with the Arab princess and the carving knife but, honest to God – oops, sorry, so sorry – but I was worried she’d cut off my dangly bits when she got moody and started waving that thing at me. So I legged it.

But my real problem now is this . . .

I got married to a lovely girl called Helen and had my own business selling second-hand cars. Not dodgy stuff, you understand – classic cars like Aston Martin DB3s, a Bentley S3 and a couple of Rollers, the odd sports car. Well, after seven years’ marriage I didn’t so much have an itch as an infestation and pretty soon I was up to my old habits again. To cut a long story short, I took this woman for a test drive in this gorgeous Aston Martin and we ended up on the hard shoulder with her laughing gear . . . well, let’s just say I fell for her, big time.

I mean, it’s been ages since Helen and I . . . you know. I think she forgot how to . . .

Anyway, it’s like I’m entranced by this Lola (nice name, eh?), so I started having an affair with her, only to find out she’s married to Eddie ‘Cutter’ Fast, one of the biggest villains around. He buys and sells commodities, if you know what I mean. Sugar, coffee, and did I mention cocaine? He has an office in Stratton Street, in Mayfair, and it all looks proper but is just a massive front. And I won’t tell you how he got his nickname. But I guess you already know.

So – Lola was coming round to the gaff above my business twice a week for some loving and then last week she drops the bombshell and tells me she thinks Eddie knows about us.

He knows where I live, he knows where my wife and kids live, and I’m just terrified he’s going to come for us and hack us to pieces. On top of that, Lola’s ardour seems to have cooled a little . . . what can I do? Help me, God. PLEASE.

 

Billy

Billy, my dear boy,

 

Your last letter truly saddened me. It was a typical example of confession of the ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink, you know what I mean, squire?’ variety.

In almost everything you said you evaded the truth, presenting me with a fictionalised version of what really happened. You skip so lightly across those moments where you devastated people by winning them with your easy charm, using them, and then abandoning them.

What really saddens me in all this is that you fail to see that the person you have most devalued is yourself. Two things have marked you ever since your choirboy days. You always evaded real commitment, most of all commitment to me. You came near enough to be able to scrape acquaintance, but never to enter true relationship. And hand in hand with ducking commitment has gone the avoidance of truth-telling.

You speak with smirking innuendo of the shabby way you broke your marriage vows. When you describe your ini. . .