Liz Jensen - The Rapture

‘You got a problem?’ he shouts over its dying reverb.

‘My wheelchair’s in the boot! I can’t walk! I need your help!’ Coming closer, he peers at my legs with clear scepticism. ‘I’m paralysed,’ I insist. ‘I can’t use them. If I could, I wouldn’t be asking you for help!’ He’s wearing a crucifix round his neck. His eyes are pale and mistrustful. ‘Our daughter just went crazy on us. She’s a drug addict. We’re taking her back to rehab. We thought she was clean for the trip, but she’s taken something and now she’s suicidal.’ The man looks wary. ‘She’s on drugs, do you understand what I’m saying? We nearly had an accident!’ The rain smashes at my face, my arms, my lap.

‘This is a quiet neighbourhood,’ he says. I recognise the accent as Russian. ‘You call the police. They deal with it.’

His shirt is soaked through, showing big, hefty muscles, not the body-building, gym-born variety but the kind farmers and workmen have. Muscles I desperately need to borrow. A flare of sheet lightning turns his face into a flash photograph. Then more thunder, like the slow ripping of canvas.

‘There’s no time! Please, just get in the car and drive. We have to stop her. She’s violent.’ The Russian clamps his mouth closed, locking it with a resolute shift of his jaw. I realise just how tired and hungry I am. And then how furious. ‘Listen to me!’ I’m shouting now, right in his stupid stubborn face.

‘Hey, calm down, lady!’

‘My daughter is about to climb up that pylon over there and electrocute herself! And you’re just standing there! We have to stop her. Come on! Get in the car. The keys are in the ignition. So for Christ’s sake, just drive!’

We reach the base of the pylon just as Bethany has thrown herself at it. The Russian stops the car, and throws himself out, leaving the engine running and the windscreen wipers on. I peer through the misting glass. Bethany grips a section of the huge scaffold leg, then tips her head back to assess the pylon’s height, and starts to scale it, agile as an insect. Frazer Melville is calling at her through the rain, approaching at a run.

‘Help him! Do it!’ I yell to the Russian, who is speeding after him. But my voice is lost.

Nimble and determined, Bethany is now balanced on the lowest rung, four metres up, and is stretching to get a grip on the next. But it’s too far for her to reach. The wind is whirling in all directions, and her feet are slipping on the wet metal.

I curse my useless legs.

Shouting as he goes, Frazer Melville heads for the thick base strut and throws himself at it, grabbing a rung with one hand. He hangs for a moment, dazed. Then, hauling his weight up, he shuffles precariously across to where Bethany is now hunched, a tiny bundle of wet black clothes. Through the rain, I can hear her screaming at him to fuck off. He signals to the Russian to get directly underneath: he must be hoping to dislodge her. The Russian obeys, but when Frazer Melville reaches Bethany to prise her away, she lashes out at his face with her nails, and he yells in pain. Seizing her upper arm he tugs at her, but she has wound her lower limbs around the metal strut and locked them fast.

‘You have to go up there!’ I yell at the Russian. He can’t hear me. I watch as he hesitates. Then, deciding on the other strut, he starts to climb. After slipping a few times he gets the hang of it and approaches Bethany from behind. She doesn’t see him closing in. Frazer Melville, on the other side of her, still has her by the arm but his balance looks precarious. With a forward lunge, the Russian manages to seize hold of Bethany’s right leg. She screams and kicks out at him, knocking the side of his face, but he keeps dogged claim, prising her foot away from the strut. Both men have a grip on her now, one at either end, but I know she’s resisting with all her force. I can hear her banshee screams, and the two men shouting back in fury. It’s Frazer Melville who loses his balance first. But he doesn’t let go of Bethany. And nor does the Russian.

The moment has a horrible, slow-motion inevitability. Clinging to one another in a writhing tangle, still fighting, the three of them tilt and fall, crashing to the ground four metres below.

Bethany has been hyperventilating, but her breathing has finally calmed. There’s an ugly graze on her forehead. Her hands, still bandaged, are a bloody mess. Frazer Melville’s cheek sports a huge scratch, running with dark red blood and smeared with rust. The Russian landed badly. He is limping. They are all wet through and the rain is still hammering down. Both of the back doors are gaping open: The Russian holds Bethany down on the rear seat while Frazer Melville secures her wrists behind her with a scarf from my handbag.

It belonged to my mother, and came from Liberty’s. Somehow, remembering this incongruous fact makes me feel immensely sad, as though she is watching over me with appalled concern.

‘The sea’s going to catch fire,’ Bethany gasps, directing her kohl-smudged eyes on the Russian. But she can’t seem to focus. She’s breathing oddly. ‘Do you get what I’m saying? Everyone’s going to drown. In a giant wave. You too. You’re going to die.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ says Frazer Melville, pressing a wad of cash into the man’s hand.

Nodding in acknowledgment, the Russian inspects the money, then stuffs it in his back pocket. ‘No trouble, man.’ His elbow is bleeding profusely.

‘He’s not my father, you know,’ slurs Bethany, wiping her forehead and inspecting the blood. ‘And she’s not my mum. But they fuck their brains out. True story.’

Repelled by what he has saved, the Russian slams Bethany’s door shut and turns to leave.

‘Listen,’ I say urgently. ‘It’s true about the tsunami. They haven’t announced it yet. But it would be a good idea to leave before the roads get completely jammed. You won’t regret it.’

‘You’ve got a head start,’ confirms Frazer Melville, turning the key in the ignition. ‘Take your family and drive inland. Go for the highest ground you can find. Or if you know anyone with a boat…’

A thousand questions are forming on the Russian’s face but we don’t have time to answer them. Frazer Melville shoves the car into gear, spins the steering wheel round, and propels us on to the road with an abrupt jolt.

Bethany remains defiant about her escapade. She needed some volts, she said. It would take more than a pylon to kill her. She got a buzz just from the air. A yellowish bruise is developing around the graze on her forehead. There’s a first-aid kit in the glove compartment. After attending to the deep scratch down Frazer Melville’s cheek, I persuade Bethany to lean her head forward and, twisting awkwardly in my seat, I get rid of her remaining make-up, wash her wound with more violence than is called for, and smear on some antiseptic. Her wrists are still tied with my mother’s Liberty scarf and no one is about to free her in a hurry.

The storm has receded to a smatter of rain as we approach London. A pale light, brittle as tinfoil, glints off warehouses and office blocks. Now, as though invigorated by the sun, Bethany upgrades her tuneless humming to a full-throated rendition of a repetitive hymn about ‘the love of the lamb’. Aware of my blood pressure, I try to breathe calmly, but the tension is almost choking me. The lamb is becoming a creature I’d happily throttle with my bare hands. Frazer Melville, still fuming after the pylon episode, pleads with her to stop, but as I could have warned him, she is as unreachable as a far-flung galaxy. She laughs and switches to a new hymn. This one’s about ‘power in the blood’.

‘Remind me why we let her come,’ I murmur. We are still at least forty kilometres from the stadium.