Liz Jensen - The Rapture

As if to quell my mounting panic, some gentle music has crept into the hubbub, alluring and narcotic. From all directions, the stage is filling with choir-members in long white robes. Frazer Melville’s big hand rests on my shoulder, and I lay my cheek on it for comfort. On either side of us, huge screens flicker to new life. An image of the stadium seen from above, one end plunged in darkness, the other throbbing with light like a crescent moon. Close-ups of the audience. Wide-shots of the choir from different angles. The beaming faces of the white-clad preachers. Then, as the members of the choir assume their places on the raised blocks, I catch sight of a face I know.

‘Look,’ I say, pointing. Joy McConey is sitting in a row of what look like VIP seats, a hundred metres away from us. She is clad in a robe of flowing white. Her eyes are closed, as though she is deep in meditation or prayer. She’s holding a candle. Her pale red hair, decorated with a single lily flower, glimmers in its light. A frail, fading creature wrapped in a death-shroud. My heart goes out to her. I wonder where her children are. I see no sign of them, or her husband.

On an invisible signal, the five warm-up preachers turn to the choir and start to clap in rhythm. Taking their lead, the audience joins in as the music swells and spills across us like lapping water. Then, humming at first, the choir begins a wordless song, the men’s voices buzzing low, the women’s clear and warm. It’s as soothing and graceful as morphine. On the giant screens, you can see into their eyes and their moving mouths. It’s only when the lyrics start that I recognise the hymn.

Bethany sang it in the car. The elderly woman next to us starts up a high, quavering vibrato and the service at Feniton Acres comes back to me: the sense of belonging, of shared aspiration, of the fellowship of good people: the seduction of belief. The music pours and slides and swills, a pure, organic embrace. People rock and clap and sway about me. I would like to be whisked from the brink too. Or failing that, I would like to believe I will. I look at my watch. Where is Bethany? Where is the helicopter? Believe, I think.

Next to me the old lady stops singing and turns to me abruptly, her eyes brimming with joy. ‘Yes, my darling. Believe! Believe in Him and you shall enter the Kingdom!’

As the music builds to a crescendo and dies off, swallowed in clapping and whoops, I’m aware of a new, more urgent tone entering the clamour. Heads are turning. I almost don’t recognise Leonard Krall when he comes bounding along the aisle nearby and up to the raised stage. Like his fellow-preachers, he’s dressed entirely in white and sporting a discreet microphone headset. There are high-fives and catcalls as he lifts his arms skyward in greeting. His good-looking, honest face is reproduced on the huge screens all around. Ten giant Leonard Kralls, radiating identical energy and faith. If there is power in anyone’s blood today, it’s running in this man’s veins.

‘People, welcome to the Temple of Praise, and welcome to the greatest day of our lives!’ His voice reverberates through the huge space and up into the darkening air. The worshippers cheer and wave their arms in delight. There’s a hectic buzz, a whirr of joyful laughter. I feel the envy again. If only.

‘The Rapture is upon us, the Lord be praised!’ Showmanship is a talent. He has it. The commanding bulk, the confident body language, the electric energy, the unassailable conviction. There is clapping and whistling from the hard core. But I begin to sense a more muted and anxious reaction elsewhere. ‘This day is a day like no other!’ declares Krall. ‘This day is a day of joy, the day all true Christians have been waiting for and praying for. Remember what Jesus promised us: since you have kept my command to endure patiently, I will also keep you from the hour of trial that is going to come upon the whole world to test those who live on the Earth. Revelation. After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in Heaven.’ People are joining in, mouthing the words with him. ‘And the first voice which I heard was as of a trumpet talking with me, which said, Come up hither!’ There’s wild applause. Next to Frazer Melville, a large black woman in a red dress is rocking to and fro. Her companion, a young boy with Down’s syndrome, closes his eyes and hums dreamily. ‘Yes, folks. We shall be caught up and enter into the Kingdom of Heaven! We shall enter that door! I am one of many who’ll be repeating that good news in this temple today.’ Krall pauses and his face shifts. ‘But today is not all about us and our joy. First of all, we grieve for our loved ones, those who have not found God and will be left behind to endure the Tribulation. Yes, we grieve for them. And we ask for strength. Let me tell you something else.’ He looks up, and turns slowly. His expression, caught on the giant screens, is now one of intense thoughtfulness. ‘Today, God has handed us the privilege of an extra task before the time of deliverance unto Him. Yes. Today, God sent a challenge to us.’ He draws in a deep breath, then exhales slowly. ‘And I will confess it to you now, folks. A particular challenge to me.’

There’s a ripple of interest. Catching its wave, Krall stands expectantly, then with a half-smile points to the opposite side of the stadium. Frazer Melville takes my hand and grips it in his.

‘Praise be to the Lord!’ Krall shouts, his smile transforming. It’s the transcendent, replete expression of a man in love.

‘Hallelujah,’ breathes my neighbour.

‘Oh no,’ says Frazer Melville, nodding at the giant screen.

Bethany.

She’s climbing the steps to the platform. I glance about, but can’t place her in the flesh, so I return to the projected image. Her gait is still jerky and stiff, as though she isn’t fully in charge of her body. Her two guards are hanging back, fingers pressing their earpieces, awaiting further instructions. She is tiny, dwarfed by the colossal amphitheatre. Then the shot tightens. Blown up on the screen, her eyes are deep and dark, their pupils dilated wide.

‘It’s Bethany Krall!’ shrieks a woman from somewhere behind me. ‘It’s his daughter! She killed her own mother! She has the Devil in her!’ From elsewhere come similar cries of alarm.

‘At least we know where she is,’ I murmur to Frazer Melville.

‘No!’ yells a voice over to our left. Joy McConey is on her feet, stabbing her fist in the air. ‘Don’t, Len! Don’t! I know her! I know her!’

But Krall appears not to have heard. Or he does not want to listen.

The flower falls from Joy’s wig and she sits down in sudden defeat. She drops her candle and her face crumples.

The choir raises its arms and hums the chords of the hymn we have just sung. There is power, power, power, wonder-working power … The worshippers are pointing Bethany out to one another with a mixture of curiosity, horror and high, coiled panic. From behind me come incoherent shouts, urgent disputes and cries of alarm which mirror Joy’s outburst. Two women in front of me have got to their feet. Swaying in unison, they emit a bubbling cascade of noise — neither language nor song — and raise their arms in the air, as if to ward off evil. Anxiety swarms across the hall. But Leonard Krall stands tall. With an outstretched hand, still smiling, he gestures at the audience to hush.