Liz Jensen - The Rapture

‘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.’

A silence. Thinking time for us both. He’s looking at me expectantly. The ticking clock on the wall says it’s eighteen minutes past ten. As I watch the seconds pass, my mind goes into overdrive. Money — or the lack of it — suddenly looms large. According to my lawyer, my compensation from the accident is a long way off. Has my one misjudgment rendered me unemployable? At nineteen minutes past ten, still aware of his eyes on me, I say, ‘I’ll pack up my office and get out of your hair.’

Sheldon-Gray looks alarmed rather than relieved. ‘According to your contract, you have another month. Just be grateful I’m not taking immediate disciplinary proceedings.’

‘These are very serious claims,’ I say, sensing an advantage. ‘Therapists who behave unprofessionally are a liability to any establishment. Surely you’d want to expose me officially?’ He does the thing with his cuffs. I press on. ‘Unless perhaps you have a staff shortage due to Dr Ehmet having gone? And recruitment at Oxsmith being — I gather — a regular problem…’

‘You have four weeks,’ he says brusquely. The cuffs now in order, some papers on his desk seem inexplicably to call for his immediate attention. ‘And please don’t ask me for a reference. Because I assure you, there will be no pity factor this time.’ I am dismissed. I swivel to leave. ‘But in the meantime,’ he tells my retreating back, ‘your contact with Bethany Krall is at an end.’

With an Indian takeway steaming on the passenger seat of my car, I drive over to Frazer Melville’s home, where I have rarely been due to its lack of wheelchair-friendliness. It’s a rented terraced house not far from the port. Inside, the walls are decorated with huge tattered maps, black-and-white botanical photographs which he has taken himself, and images of nature at its most dramatic: sunsets, rivers of molten lava, thunderous waterfalls. Like his office, it’s an erudite, well-educated sprawl: the chaos of a creative and avidly curious individual who has omitted to organise any home help. He’s pale-faced and monosyllabic. We pick at the food, straight from the cartons, almost in silence. I do not dare ask the question because I can read the answer on his face.

‘I’ve printed out the replies I got,’ he says eventually. ‘Such as they are.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the side-table.

I roll over and take a look. He has printed out seven separate emails.

Dear Frazer, begins the first. I read your e-mail with great amusement, and have passed it on to Judy, because she’s always assuring me we scientists are a humourless bunch. Nice one!! Anyway I look forward to hearing more from your mysterious Oracle with interest, and will mark up my calendar.

Best wishes, Cees.

PS Since you ask, I would estimate the chances of a cyclone hitting Mumbai on the date you mention to be 5,380 to 1 .

The second:

Dear Dr Melville, please accept my deepest condolences on your mother’s death last month, which I heard about when I contacted your office this morning. All of us at the centre would like to send you our sympathies at this difficult time, and hope that you recover your spirits very soon. On a personal note I recall when my father died I was very shaken, and wasn’t really myself for some months afterwards…

The third:

My dear dear Frazer, Hello from the Arctic! If you are serious about these ‘predictions’ being bona fide science (and from the tone of your mail I fear yes, you are) then this is a big professional mistake, whether your ‘source’ is right or not. As your friend as well as your ex-wife, I will now do what I hope you would do for me. I advise you, dear Frazer, to not take this further. You have a wonderful reputation in the field. I know how hard you worked for the name you have, so perhaps you already have second thoughts. In any case I promise you with hand on my heart I will not pass this on. I’m sure you have been under strain with your mother’s death…

‘The worst are the ones who didn’t reply,’ says Frazer Melville flatly. ‘Because I know what they’re thinking, and what they’re saying to one another. They’re dancing the fucking schadenfreude polka.’

‘You’re regretting it.’

‘No. Yes. Not if Bethany’s right. But if she’s wrong — well, of course. I’ll just have to plead insanity. At least I’ll have a shrink to back me up.’

‘An art therapist.’

He smiles forlornly. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

But a few days later, he rings in triumph. ‘She predicted heavy flooding in Bangladesh on the fifth and it happened. And now a cyclone’s heading for Mumbai, due to hit tomorrow. Just like she wrote in the notebook. September the thirteenth. She predicted it over a month ago. Maybe more. No weather forecaster can do that.’

‘Do you feel vindicated?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No,’ I decide. I think of Bethany, chewing her green gum and punching the air like she’d won a prize. ‘Just sick. And somehow… responsible.’