Liz Jensen - The Rapture

‘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.’