Liz Jensen - The Rapture

She told her father what he wanted to hear.

And in his narcissism, he believed.

No wonder her face has now broken into a grin. Bethany has sensed the size of the audience, and the scope of her power, and it has given her a charge. I can see it. Joy McConey has too, because I hear her scream, ‘No!’

Finally, as though her cry has released them from a spell, the preachers mobilise. Three rush up to Krall and there is a swift, urgent exchange of words as they gesture at the smiling Bethany. On Krall’s shocked nod, two security guards come and grab her by the armpits, hefting her tiny frame with ease. Krall motions to keep her there. But with a sharp movement — so sudden that a woman behind me lets out a cry — Bethany has started to squirm. She escapes the men’s grip and breaks into a run. Then, with no warning, a violent muscle spasm halts her as crudely as the slam of a bullet, throwing her to the ground. She is fitting again. She is on the floor, her body jerking epileptically. As her flailing limbs relax, Krall grabs a microphone, energised.

‘The Devil is still in her!’ he shouts. ‘We must get him out! Pray for her, people, pray for my daughter!’

Instinctively, I reach for my thunder egg. But Frazer Melville grabs my arm. He’s indicating something with an upward jerk of his head. I crane my neck at the sky. I can’t see anything, but I can hear it in the distance, growing louder. The pulsing whirr of a helicopter.

Krall continues to speak, his voice building in volume and control, while Bethany lies spread-eagled on the stage like a tribal sacrifice. The convulsions have stopped but she is still twitching. ‘Do not fear, people! Remember, fear is the Devil’s weapon!’ Krall scans the audience, gauging its new mood. If the expressions of those around me are anything to go by, it is one of confusion, mutiny even. The mistrust and fear have metastasised. He’ll have to work hard. ‘This moment in history which we have the privilege to live through now is God’s judgment on man!’ His tone is doggedly optimistic and upbeat. ‘We here in this stadium today and in churches around the country are blessed that the Lord recognises our devotion and our love and we shall be spared!’ He punches the air. ‘ Therefore bath the curse devoured the Earth, and they that dwell therein are desolate: therefore the inhabitants of the Earth are burned, and few men left. ’ Bethany lies motionless.

My heart skips a beat. In the furore, the ushers seem to have abandoned us. If we’re going to make it to the helicopter, we have to move now.

‘You go and get her,’ I tell Frazer Melville. ‘It’ll land at the far end of the stadium. I’ll catch up with you.’

He nods. ‘I love you, Gabrielle.’

‘I know. And I—’ But he has disappeared into the crowd.

‘Yes, Earth will be a terrible place for those who remain!’ Krall is insisting. ‘Let us pray for them, as we pray for lily Bethany. Let us rejoice in the eternal Kingdom that we shall so soon be entering!’ Hands aloft, palms outstretched, he raises a scattered cheer. But there are hoots of anger too, and cries of ‘shame!’ ‘We await your rapture, 0 King of Kings, oh mighty one, oh loving God! In the name of Jesus!’ Sensing the shift, he quickly nods to the choir: seconds later comes an ear-splitting blast of music. More preachers pour on to the central platform, followed by a second wave of white-clad choristers, who swell out the harmonies. People get to their feet, dancing and swaying and singing at full pitch, while others barge past them in a human maelstrom, rushing towards the outer edges of the stadium and disappearing through its porous sides like water through a colander.

Grabbing my wheels, I shove my way forward.

Bethany is still sprawled on the floor of the stage near the flower arrangement which shelters her like a huge white parasol. As I come closer, I call at her to get up but it’s pointless. She hasn’t the strength to move and my voice is lost in a cacophony of music, shouting and engine noise. I am at the far side of the stage now. still heading towards the empty end of the stadium where the helicopter is circling to land, its propellers a blurred grey radius. I keep going doggedly towards it, my wheels fighting the turf. Stopping to catch my breath, I glance back to see that Frazer Melville has finally reached Bethany. He’s cradling her in his arms beneath the lilies, scanning the crowd to look for me. I gesture at him: Take her. Go. Now. Has he seen me? I have no idea. He hesitates. ‘Go!’ I yell across. He heaves Bethany up and stabilises himself. Two security guards are racing over. For a second he stands rigid, as though unable to muster movement. Then, with a violent outward kick, he rams his foot into the base of the floral decoration. It sways tantalisingly, then rights itself like a skittle, but he is ready with another kick, higher up, which topples the whole structure. In an instant it has crashed to the stage, smashing colossally apart, spilling blooms and petals in a gushing river of water and debris. The security guards swerve and one of them stumbles; the choir screams and scatters in disarray. Taking advantage of the confusion, Frazer Melville hoicks Bethany higher in his arms and breaks into a heavy, awkward run.

I’m knocking past people as I pick up speed but I don’t care. I scream at them to get the hell out of my way, can’t they see I need some space? With a fierce engine roar and a rush of hot diesel wind, the open-sided helicopter is settling on the turf like a huge, unwieldy dragonfly. To my left, far ahead of me, Frazer Melville is stumbling towards it, weighed down by the comatose Bethany, battling his way through the oncoming rush of air. Lit up like a beacon, the aircraft is the size of a house, its open side revealing a chaos of people and equipment and crates within. Five or six men, two brandishing guns, jump out. I recognise Ned. I scream at him to come and get me. Behind him is Kristin, her face pale and tight. Ned hasn’t seen me in the gathering gloom, but I keep him firmly in view as he seizes Bethany from Frazer Melville’s outstretched arms, then lifts her up to one of the men inside, aided by Kristin. She’s yelling something at him and pointing towards me. I shove at my wheels with all my force but I’m losing the fight. Behind me I can hear the thump of feet as the crowd surges in.

‘Over here!’ My voice is drowned by the engine noise and the sound of shouts and music and screams, but Frazer Melville has seen me and is running towards me, gasping. Propelling myself with all the strength left in my arms, I struggle across the bumpy grass. When he reaches me we collide. There’s no need to speak: we both know what to do. He turns and sinks to his knees, his back facing me, so I can fling my arms around his neck. I grab on tight and he hoists me up and I am hanging on his back with his hands under my rump. Ducking the fierce cyclone that whips our heads, we stumble towards the helicopter.

I’m hauled up bodily by three of the men inside who land me like a sack. I thud to the floor and realise vaguely that I have wet myself.

‘My chair! I need my chair!’ No one seems to hear me. Frazer Melville is lying on the floor of the helicopter, collapsed and panting. He shakes his head. He can’t. ‘Someone, please! I need it!’

I let out a wail of grief because I cannot live without it.

Too late, I know love and need can be the same thing.

The helicopter shudders and through its gaping open side everything comes at me at an angle. From the floodlit end of the stadium people are streaming towards us, waving their arms imploringly. The bottle-blonde woman in the pink robe is there, carrying her baby. Her grime-streaked husband. Flagellated by the propeller-wind, people are shouldering each other aside to climb in. Then I see my wheelchair and I scream for it.