The Rapture (17 page)

'We shall be among the saved, and we do our best to turn the hearts of all those we know and love who have not yet found His grace towards God so that they too shall be saved. Psalms chapter twenty-five, verse four:
Show me thy ways, 0 Lord, teach me thy paths
. We don't want anyone to suffer on this Earth during the End Times. Some of them are our friends, our loved ones. We take no joy in their circumstances. We want them to repent their sins and rise and be raptured alongside the righteous, and rejoice in the return of the Messiah. And he shall come for us, oh yes, make no mistake he shall come.'

Assent ripples across the hall.

After the service, I roll my way past the clusters of men and women and teenagers clad in the uniform of high-street fashion chatting energetically, flush-faced, while the younger kids run out to the mall.

'Welcome,' says Krall, pulling up a chair, getting down to my level and shaking my hand with the confident grip of a people person, a gifted speaker who can also listen. 'It's great to see new faces. Are you local? Leonard Krall.' He's still holding my hand and I begin to wonder when he will release it. 'People call me Len. Pleased to meet you.'

'I'm Penny,' I lie.

'Penny,' he repeats. Another squeeze, and I get my hand back. I came up with Penny - an insecure, religious version of my pre-accident self - on the journey here. 'I'm just passing through. I was driving past and I heard the music, so . . .'

'You couldn't resist. Those old favourites, yeah?'

'Comfort singing.'

He chuckles. 'Better than comfort eating, right?'

'What you said about the Tribulation and the Rapture struck a chord.' This earns me some intensive eye contact and a nod, but no more. It's unnerving to see Bethany's brown eyes shining out intelligently and softly from another face.

'You know something, Penny? I can feel Jesus in you.'

I don't quite know how to respond to this, except with paranoia. Has he spotted I'm a fake?

'Can I have a word with you, when you've said your goodbyes? The fact is, it wasn't just the music that brought me here,' I confess. I have tweaked his interest.

'Sure thing, Penny.' He straightens up, ready for the task. 'Give me ten minutes,' he says, winking at a man walking past. 'Clear this righteous mob out of here and we can chat in private.'

I wait as he presses more flesh, jokes with more men, listens to more women, mock-punches little kids. There's a barbecue atmosphere.

Fifteen minutes later we are alone. 'So, Penny. Talk to me.'

'The Tribulation. Does it have phases?'

He shakes his head. 'Well, you're right in there with the big questions, aren't you? Phases, yes. In fact some Christians believe it's started already. Look around you. Plagues, extreme weather, disasters, globalisation, stock markets collapsing, terrorism, atheism. You could call them symptoms.'

'So do you believe it's started?'

'On bad days I do. But a close reading of the scriptures indicates that true believers will be saved before it begins.'

'In the Rapture. They'll be caught up in the air.'

'So the Bible tells us.'

'You mentioned the Antichrist. So I take it you believe in evil?'

He laughs. 'Too right I do. If you take God seriously, you have to take the bad guy the same way. But above all, I believe in good. I believe in the power of God's will and God's plan first and foremost. Even though terrible things happen. And God seems to let them happen. That confuses people, but it shouldn't. We're always asking ourselves what I call
the why question
. Lord, why hast thou forsaken me? But God knows what he's doing. He has a plan. It's just, we're like ants, Penny. We're too small to see his plan. Our vision doesn't reach that far. Our problem is arrogance. We need to do away with arrogance. It takes humility to accept that God has it all mapped out, but that we can't always know it. Things that don't make sense to us make sense to Him. Like I said earlier, we see through a glass darkly.' A shadow crosses his face, but disappears immediately. He grins. 'Sorry, Penny. Me, banging on.' 'But can evil be innate? I mean, this idea of innocence, and corruption . . . Can a child be naturally evil?'

'She can be visited by the Devil.'

'She,' I say. There is a tiny silence. Leonard Krall stiffens imperceptibly and his gaze withdraws inward.

'The Devil is powerful,' he murmurs finally, almost to himself, and for the first time there is a hint of sorrow in his features, the sorrow of a man who has lost his wife and child. 'The Devil is cunning. The Devil is malevolent and he finds ways of bringing the righteous off the path of good.' He looks at me intensely, as though searching for the Jesus that he sensed earlier. 'What do you think of that, Penny?'

'The church I belong to doesn't - well. They're all in favour of good. But evil doesn't seem to exist. And I keep thinking, can you really have the one without the other?'

'Political correctness?' His smile is encouraging, complicit. 'I'm not going to start knocking other churches or beliefs,' he says. 'But I'm a Bible man. And if you're a Bible man, you believe what's in the scriptures, and you don't edit out the Devil just because you don't like the idea of evil.
Trust the text
. Evil's among us. But our faith will deliver us from it. Faith is evidence of things not seen. Hebrews eleven. I like that one.
Evidence of things not seen
.' Then he reaches in his pocket and hands me his card. It bears his name, with an e-mail address, and a mobile phone number. 'Take this, Penny,' he says. 'In case you'd like a longer chat. I move about a lot, spreading the word, but you're very welcome wherever I'm preaching.' The combination of his sincerity and my fraudulence brings on a deep blush. I take his card and thank him. With no pocket to put it in, and not wanting to stuff it down the side of my chair, I fumble in my handbag for my wallet, which I promptly drop. Gallantly, he picks it up. And then, less gallantly, and to my shock, he flips it open. My driver's licence stares at us both.

And in a split second, everything has changed. 'Gabrielle Fox,' he reads aloud. The blood drains from my face. 'It's a pity it doesn't give your profession on here, Ms Fox.' I want to be sick. 'But I would guess journalist.'

'I'm not a journalist,' I mumble. 'Please give me my wallet back.'

With a quick head-move, his smile has vanished. 'They still come sniffing around every once in a while. But none of them's sunk this low before,' he says, indicating my wheelchair. 'Penny.'

'I'm paralysed.'

'And I'm Mickey Mouse. Look, Ms Fox. Most people here know that I suffered a personal tragedy a couple of years back, and that the church and God's love have helped me get to a place where I can count my blessings. I don't bother with the why question any more. I accept that we see things only as through a glass darkly. Now I don't want to offend you. But I don't like subterfuge. So if a young woman who has clearly suffered in life comes to me seeking counsel over a genuine spiritual concern about the nature of evil, I am happy to help her. But if someone cold-bloodedly gets hold of a wheelchair and cheats her way into God's house to ask me personal questions about a private tragedy concerning my family, that's another matter. I would have to respectfully ask her to leave.'

I feel mildly unwell. I would like to teleport myself out of here. Rewind the scene to the bit where we're singing and clapping and I'm enjoying myself. Anything to get out of this - this
this.

'I have nothing to say to you.' His face is white. 'Except, who the hell are you?' I was not expecting sudden rage on this scale and it scares me. For a stomach-turning moment I think he's going to hit me. I reach for my thunder egg and I'm ready to swing it at him. But before I can, he has manoeuvred his way behind me and snatched the handles of my chair. I grab the wheels to block them but when he gives a blunt shove, my hands aren't strong enough to resist. He is wheeling me out. The automatic doors open. Dusk is gathering. Without a word he pushes my wheelchair - faster than it has ever been pushed - down the ramp.

'We Bible men are fond of miracles, Ms Fox,' he says. He's beginning to tip my chair forward. I cling on to my wheels. I want to scream but nothing comes out. I look around wildly for someone to help me, but the car park is a deserted prairie. 'And I like to think they sometimes happen.' He's still rocking me. I grab on to the arm-rests with all my force, but he doesn't stop. He's strong. He's tipped the chair so far down that I'm staring at the tarmac and losing my grip. I'll have to let go if I want to avoid serious injury. 'So let's see if we can make the lame walk, eh?'

I am too dumbstruck to speak. I need to stay in the chair but I'm losing the fight. Desperate to protect myself, I let go just in time to break my fall with my hands. I'm sprawled on the ground. I may have knocked one of my legs, and there's a searing pain in my left palm. I glance at it and see blood and gravel and chopped-up skin. Pain versus pride: I'm struggling not to sob. And losing.

He laughs. 'Nice acting.' Then he flings my wallet down and its contents spill on the gravel. My driver's licence stares up at me.

'I'm your daughter's therapist,' I blurt, my eyes stinging from the pain. 'She's been foreseeing natural disasters. She predicted Istanbul.' His body stiffens. He doesn't speak, but I can feel him registering what I've said. 'Can you explain that, Mr Krall?'

'Oh, I can explain it all right,' he says. A shudder runs across his features. Fear, or contempt, or both? 'Or rather the Devil can. It's him you should be talking to. He's the one in charge of Bethany.'

'She's your daughter.'

'Not any more. I pray for her soul every day of my waking life. You're being manipulated, Ms Fox. And you can't even see it.'

By the time I've recovered enough to move, he's gone. As I drag myself back up into my wheelchair, he has returned to his church and closed the door and I am alone.

Swallowing my tears and trying to think of ways I can make the incident sound amusing rather than grotesque, I call Frazer Melville from the car, but get no answer. I turn on the radio. In Turkey, there are stories of last-ditch rescues, poignant reunions, tragic miscalculations, the spread of disease, the bungling of aid. I drive, trying not to think.

Frazer Melville is waiting for me at home, with a bottle of champagne and a thin unhappy smile. 'To celebrate the end of my career as a credible scientist,' he announces. We clink glasses and he sets about cleaning up my scraped hand. In our different ways, we are in despair.

'You sent the e-mails?'

'I've concentrated on the next four incidents, since the first three have already happened and we can't make sense of the last entry. I presented them as speculations made by someone who has accurately predicted natural disasters in the past. I kept it neutral, and asked for statistical likelihoods of the events happening on the date given, and I sent some of Bethany's Moonscape with Machinery drawings to Melina. She has an ex-colleague with connections to Harish Modak.'

I tell him I am proud of him. But I can see that the pressing of the 'send' button has renewed his turmoil. 'And you're sure that all these people are open to . . . ideas that you can't prove?'

'Can't be sure in all cases. Melina's not that way inclined, but I'm guessing she'll pay me the compliment of replying seriously, and not use it against me. Harish Modak - if Melina's contact passes it on - is someone who just might take a chance. Out of pure curiosity. He's maverick enough.'

'I've read one of his articles. I was impressed. Though I wanted to shoot the messenger.'

'He's Lovelock's spiritual successor in some ways. In others not. He doesn't really give a toss what the rest of science thinks of him. But he has huge influence.'

'So what now?'

'We consume more alcohol and you tell me about Leonard Krall.'

The next morning my boss gets straight to the point. He has received a phone call from Bethany's father. A phone call of 'justified complaint'. There's nothing to say, so I don't. 'Can you deny it?'

'He tipped me out of my wheelchair.' It's as weak as it sounds.

'Yes. So he told me. He apologises for that. Nonetheless. It doesn't exactly cancel out what you did, now does it?'

'Did he ask after Bethany?'

'No. She murdered his wife, he has a right to keep his distance. Anyway this isn't about Bethany, it's about you. You!' He stands up and bangs his fist on the desk. Instinctively, I flinch. But he doesn't care. 'Jesus, Gabrielle. What the hell were you thinking of?' Then he sits down abruptly and slaps his hand on the desk again.

I smooth my skirt. 'I was curious,' I tell him quietly. That's the closest I can get to the truth. A fuller answer - that I was hoping to find a clue to the daughter's visions in the father's religious beliefs - will damn me further. Not because I wanted answers to my questions, but because of the way I went about getting them. 'Is curiosity about one's patients a crime?'

'You were curious,' he repeats, quietly. '
Curious
.' He exhales an infuriated sigh. 'Well, I too am curious, Gabrielle. And being
curious
- about you, in this case - I naturally made a call to London, and spoke to your previous employers in Hammersmith. And learned that Dr Omar Sulieman, who gave you such a glowing reference when you applied for this posting, has sadly died. So we were unable to have the conversation I would have liked. But I spoke to his successor, Dr Wyndham. Who hadn't known you, but looked you up in the file, at my request.' I take in a breath, but don't speak. There's no point. A seagull settles on the windowsill, tilts its head to observe us for a second, then takes off in a white whirr. ' It seems from the records that all the other members of the Assessment Committee opposed your reinstatement at the Unit, on the grounds that you weren't ready to go back to work in the wake of your accident and bereavement. Psychologically, they claim, you were unready to meet the challenges of resuming such a demanding career, and recommended that you take another six months' sick leave. Dr Sulieman, however, overrode that decision when he supported your application for the temporary post here at Oxsmith.'