Liz Jensen - The Rapture

Frazer Melville exhales in resignation.

‘It was a pit,’ murmurs Bethany, uncoiling herself but still clutching her head in her hands. Something about the dreaminess of her voice makes me feel alert to what she’s saying. ‘They threw him in and put a stone over and sealed it with wax.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Daniel. They threw him in the pit with the lions. But the next morning he was still alive.’

My heart starts thudding fast. Too fast. Something needs deciphering. I put my hand to my chest to quell it. ‘Why, Bethany? Why didn’t the lions eat him?’

Her smile is almost languid. ‘Because they weren’t hungry for meat.’

Outside, I’m aware of a man parting the crowds. He’s fifty-ish, silver-haired, dark-suited. Some kind of authority. A stadium official, or a preacher, at a guess. He’s flanked by four or five younger men, all black and Asian, in sober suits and bright ties. ‘Why weren’t they hungry for meat, Bethany?’

‘I guess they wanted something else. Something you couldn’t eat.’

I’m still watching the man. A preacher, I’m sure. After a brief exchange with Calum, who points in our direction while conveying his story in a hectic rush, he stalls for a second. Then he strides over to the guard and questions him, gesturing at the car.

I look at Bethany urgently. ‘What was it the lions wanted, then?’

She shrugs. ‘They were all trapped in a pit. Daniel was trapped but the animals were trapped too. What would you want? The lions didn’t eat him. He survived.’ She coughs and blinks.

‘So what are you saying, Bethany? We go into the den, is that it?’

She gives a tiny nod.

‘What’s happening?’ asks Frazer Melville.

‘We’re putting smiles on our faces,’ I say, opening my door. ‘And getting out.’

By the time the preacher has finished talking to the guard and is coming over to confront us, I’ve reclaimed possession of my wheelchair and transferred into it. People stare openly and without shame as I effect the manoeuvre. But I don’t care. What the lions wanted was what I want now. And will do anything for.

I roll forward and greet the man with a smile, offering him my hand. He doesn’t take it. ‘I’m Gabrielle Fox.’ But it’s not me he’s interested in. He wears his revulsion for Bethany on his sleeve, like a badge of honour. His eyes are blue, piercing and oddly triangular. ‘We’ve brought Bethany Krall.’

‘So I see,’ he says. ‘She’s a child we’ve heard a lot about in this community. A child we’ve prayed for.’ Bethany hangs her head, and Frazer Melville puts a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

‘In that case I’m sure you can guess why we’ve brought her here today.’ I keep smiling. He lifts his well-groomed face in question. ‘As you probably know, I’m her therapist. Bethany and I have done a lot of talking. She’s been doing some soul-searching, as you can imagine.’ His appraising glance flits between me, Frazer Melville and Bethany. ‘She knows what she’s done. She isn’t denying her past. But she wants to ask her father’s forgiveness. We heard that Leonard was praying for Bethany here, so we came.’ This seems to throw him. He opens his mouth to speak but thinks better of it. Taking advantage of his confusion I press it further, trying to engage him. ‘She wants to come back to God, don’t you, Bethany?’ She looks blank for a moment. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes unfocused and shuddering, as though the recent convulsions have cauterised the optic nerves. But she nods in affirmation. ‘She wants to be part of the Rapture.’ I lower my voice. ‘She was just telling me the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. That’s how she’s feeling right now. A bit nervous. Aren’t you, Bethany?’ She inclines her head and I force my smile further. ‘Understandable. But she’s a brave kid. She’s ready to face up to what she’s done. I’m proud of her.’

‘Behold, I show you a mystery,’ says Bethany mournfully. ‘We shall not all sleep, but we all shall be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. I want to see my dad.’

The preacher says nothing, but I sense inner machinery working at speed.

‘As a man of God, you can’t deny her this chance,’ I urge loudly. ‘Not today of all days.’

A murmur spreads among the ushers, and seeps back through the hanging crowd.

‘Can you confirm this?’ the preacher asks Frazer Melville. He seems determined not to address Bethany directly, as if any communication with her might infect his soul. I can sense Frazer Melville computing the situation.

Like me, Frazer Melville pitches his voice to reach as far as possible. ‘Yes. So I understand. Bethany and Gabrielle have done a lot of work. Covered quite a bit of ground.’ He has judged his tone well: man-to-man frankness. ‘Emotionally and spiritually.’ He nods, as if judging and then confirming his own words. ‘Yes. I’d definitely say they’d done a lot of spiritual work. Bethany’s genuinely after forgiveness. I mean, why else would we be here?’

We all look at the preacher. He’s hesitating.

It’s Bethany who breaks the silence. She is addressing the crowd as much as the preacher. ‘Let me ask you what you think Matthew meant in chapter six, verses fourteen and fifteen.’ A small shiver passes along my shoulder blades. Her voice is different: persuasive and assured. She is unmistakably Leonard’s daughter. ‘Can I remind you what he said? He said, If ye forgive men their trespasses, so your heavenly Father will also forgive you.’ She pauses. ‘But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses .’ Her smile is disorienting. It belongs to someone else, someone who is not the Bethany I know, but another Bethany, a sane, sweet, ordinary girl who once shopped for clothes in the high street and went on Facebook and giggled in the cinema over a tub of popcorn and believed what she read in the Bible. ‘Now, what do you think Matthew had in mind there, Reverend?’

They are escorting us out of the car park. It seems we’re heading towards the East footbridge that leads to the stadium. Bethany is a few metres ahead, flanked by two minders. Frazer Melville and I follow, with a bulky, resolutely silent usher assigned to each of us. Frazer Melville’s is almost as tall as him, while mine is female, squat and healthily plain, with the hefty rump of an ox. The sun has disappeared behind roils of grey-black vapour which hover on the horizon, stacked like geological strata. I breathe in deep and exhale. Despite the ominous security presence, it’s a relief to be outdoors again after the claustrophobia of the car, and to have the steel rims of my wheels in my grip. I even feel a small nudge of affection for my chair. I have met others who do not see their wheelchair as a hated symbol, but as a natural extension of their body, an object of love. I never saw myself becoming one of them. But in this moment, I no longer consider them deluded.

As we forge on, it becomes evident that the crowd’s mood has curdled into an uneasy brew of ecstasy, desperation and despair. As the fall of the rig and the phrase ‘high tsunami risk’ is processed in a thousand brains, some sections of the crowd seem coshed by the news of Buried Hope Alpha’s spectacular fall, standing with the dazed expression of abruptly woken sleepwalkers, while others are openly rejoicing, their children laughing and clamouring as they flood across the wide footbridge. Some young police officers are attempting to calm the drivers who want to leave, but are hampered by the incoming flow. It’s a hopeless task: the police are outnumbered and overwhelmed. Beyond the growing pedestrian bottleneck on the bridge, people are fanning out on the concourse in front of the stadium and congregating near the huge pebble-shaped retail booths, exchanging hugs and kisses. Some, bearing the panicked, haunted look of refugees, seem intent on gleaning information. A group of Iraq-veteran types has gathered near a fountain, where they argue and gesticulate vigorously. In the meantime whole families are scaling the giant concession pods and settling on their curved roofs, hauling their belongings with them. Picking up on the simmer of human stress hormones, dogs that have been cooped too long in vehicles bark frenziedly. And through it all, an electronic bell tolls, summoning the faithful. Ahead, at the foot of the stadium’s outer wall, people are filtering through the hanging strips of plastic sheeting which separate the inside of the structure from the outer concourse. The litter bins are overflowing and there’s a smell of fish and chips. All around, families are ingesting food with a concentrated urgency, as though determined to fill their stomachs before whatever journey they envisage embarking on. Next to a rowan tree dotted with clusters of berries, an elderly woman with a blank, soulful face stands hugging herself and swaying rhythmically in a weird, solitary dance. A dark patch of urine stains her skirt. Nearby two square-shaped men are fighting, bashing at each other with monolithic industriousness. On the outer edges of the concourse, next to the waterways, groups of adults and children stand rigid watching the news on the giant screens.