Angels and Men (21 page)

‘No!' burst out May.

‘What happened?' asked Rupert.

‘She drowned.'

Behind her she felt the polecat gathering her hair in his hands, pulling it gently from her grip. May began to sob. Mara watched them all. Maddy was crying too. If it were on stage, it would be bad acting, but it was real. Real tears from under those ridiculous lashes.

‘She drowned in Galilee.' Even her lines were ridiculous. She felt the polecat's hands sliding gently through her hair, over and over again.

Only Rupert seemed able to speak. ‘What . . . Was she on holiday? I mean –'

‘She lived there. On a community.'

‘A kibbutz?'

‘A Christian community. The Church of the Revelation.'

‘Oh, God.' This was Johnny. She looked, but he had turned away.

‘Not . . .' Rupert began. ‘It's been in the papers. Is it the same group? There's some scandal.' She saw he was struggling. ‘The leader's on trial.'

He's on trial. One day, when this is long past, I shall dance.

‘I hope he burns,' she said.

‘Oh no, Mara.' Rupert's face was white. ‘Then she was one of them.'

‘She can't be dead,' sobbed May. ‘When did she die?'

‘Last June.' I was sitting Finals.

‘It was . . . Was it an accident?' asked Rupert.

‘An open verdict.' No note. Nobody saw. Nothing. The polecat's hands were still moving through her hair.

‘I can't bear it!' said Maddy. ‘Why didn't you tell us?'

Great streaks of eyeliner had run down her face. What was there to tell? She was dead. Mara shrugged.

‘Haven't you talked to anyone about it?' asked Rupert.

‘I'm fine.' Why couldn't they see that? ‘I'll be all right.'

‘But you'll have to –'

‘Don't, Rupert,' broke in Johnny.

There was a pause. A moment of calm. Of beauty, almost. Then the lights started. Her hands went to her head as her vision filled with jagged flickering.

‘I've got a migraine,' she said. ‘I'm going back to my room.'

She walked through the corridors, stumbling as her eyesight failed. The polecat took her arm, leading her up the stairs, opening her door for her. She knew what lay ahead. Pain and darkness. Her head was bursting with light, brighter than any refiner's fire. The angel of judgement. The end of the world.

CHAPTER 14

She was out running in the woods. Each step was harder than the last. What's wrong with me? Rain was falling. Her feet slid on the path. I'll never get up the hill. She forced herself on. I will do it. I will. Halfway. Her feet slipped and she fell. She struggled up from the mud. A man appeared at the top of the slope. He had white hair and a white face. She saw his hands move to his flies and she turned and slithered down the slope again. Run, run. Why would her legs not work? Her heart would burst. The trees twisted and bulged. There would be more men there, behind the bushes, round the corners, rearing up, undoing themselves. Sweat was stinging in her eyes. She was on the road again, feet pounding. Over the bridge. Up the cobbled street. College steps. Too soon. I shouldn't have gone out so soon after a migraine. Oh, God. She bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. I'm covered in mud. At last she straightened and went in through the door. Her legs shook under her as she climbed. Sleep. I'll shower and sleep till lunch. Last flight. One step at a time. She found her keys, fumbled with the lock and entered her room. She closed her eyes and leant against the wall in relief. After a long moment she opened them. Joanna was sitting on the bed, waiting for her.

‘Get out!'

The cleaners – they'd let her in. The girl sat with her stupid secret smile on her face. Behold the handmaid of the Lord. She's been looking through my things.

‘The Lord's wanting me to give you a message.'

‘Tell him to fuck off.'

The girl twitched and opened and shut her mouth. ‘You can't say that.'

‘Get out.'

‘You're rebelling against God. You've got a spirit of rebellion.' Her scalp crawled. A million snakes writhing. ‘How often do you pray, Mara?'

‘How often do you masturbate?' Red spots like slap-marks appeared on the girl's face.

‘You've really got to get down and pray and repent, Mara. I'm not the one that's telling you that. It's the Lord. I'm saying what I'm told to say.' Go! Get out! Just get out! ‘He's saying that he's been patient with you, but that his patience won't last for ever.' Oh, Christ, this stench of rotting piety. The Lord, the Lord, the Lord says! This is what drove me out. I lost him, I lost it all. It was smeared over, Christ smeared over with the cloying ointment of whores, with their tears, rubbed by sanctimonious whores; human filth and blood.

‘I know you hate me,' said the girl, kindly, gently, ‘but it's not me you're hating – it's Jesus. I understand, though. It's hard for you, Mara. I know it is. The Lord's shown me it's because you're jealous. You know that he's set aside a special man to work with me. God's doing a new thing. There have been prophecies and words of knowledge about it. He's shown me I need to be under the headship of the man he's chosen. I asked him for a sign, and he's given me one.'

‘Just get out!'

‘You see – you can't bear to hear it, Mara, because it's true. You know it's the truth. I'm going to pray that you'll be released.'

Strange syllables began to bubble from her lips. She came towards Mara with outstretched hands. Oh, God help me, help me. Mara retreated. Her face twitched. She was against the wall, groping for the door. Suddenly it opened. The polecat.

Joanna leapt in alarm as he came towards her. ‘I was just –'

‘Get the fuck out of here!' he spat. She scrabbled for her coat and fled from him. Mara stood rigid.

‘Jesus Christ.' The polecat took her arm. ‘What did she do? What happened?' He touched her lip. ‘You're bleeding.' She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth and saw a smear of blood.

‘I think I must have bitten –'

Darkness.

A patch of carpet. She was sitting on the bed staring at the floor between her feet. The polecat was beside her, arm across her shoulders, hand keeping her head down. I must stop calling him that. Andrew. Andrew. She straightened up slowly.

‘Better?'

She nodded. Her head throbbed.

‘Where the hell have you been?'

‘Out running.'

‘God, you're such a stupid bitch. Have you eaten anything?' She set her face stubbornly. ‘I'm calling a doctor. You're ill. I bet you're anaemic.'

‘I'm not.' She pulled away from him. ‘I don't need a doctor. Just leave me alone, will you?'

‘All right.' He stood up. ‘Listen to me: I can go out of here and call a doctor, or I can go and fetch Rupert and see if he can persuade you. Which would you prefer?'

‘You shit.'

‘Be nice to me, Princess,' he said. ‘I know too much about you. If I go and talk to the right people, you'll be sectioned and put away so fast you won't know what's hit you.' Her blood ran cold. He'd do it. They'd believe him – he's a doctor's son. No. No. Not now. Not again. ‘Right – am I going to make an appointment for you?'

‘Yes,' she whispered, resolving to cancel it.

‘Good.' He left the room.

She went to shower. Her face stared at her from the mirror; pale, wild, stained with dirt and blood. Her lip hurt where she had bitten it. No wonder the polecat was worried.
Andrew
was worried.

When he returned, she was dressed and unwinding the towel from her head.

‘Tomorrow at ten,' he said, taking the towel and beginning to dry her hair for her. ‘What did Joanna want?'

‘A message from the Lord. I'm rebelling. She says. He says.'

‘Forget it.'

‘Yes.' I need to work. To drive all this from my mind. Andrew handed her the towel.

‘You look terrible. Why don't you try to sleep?' No way.

‘OK.'

His eyes were on her. She met his gaze obdurately. He went across to her desk and began to pick up her books and notes.

‘What are you doing?' He walked towards the door. ‘You can't do that. Give them back.' She clutched his arm and sobbed. ‘Andrew. Please.'

‘Don't beg.' He was gone.

She sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. What am I going to do? She had other books, but he might hear her crossing the room to fetch them. He might even come to check what she was doing in five minutes' time, anyway. Well, I can sit here and think. He can't stop me. Women and marriage in seventeenth-century England. Marriage conduct guides:
If ever thou purpose to be a good wife, set down this with thyself: my husband is my better, my superior
. The role of women in the radical sects. George Fox:
You do not deserve to have wives, you speak so much against women
. But her mind kept stumbling back to the woods. That man. Just a sad old man. I shouldn't care. It's not as if I haven't seen it before. The man in my uncle's village. I was six that time. It shouldn't bother me, for God's sake. But to run from him and find her waiting.
As if a man did flee from a lion and a bear met him, or went into the house and leaned his hand on the wall, and a serpent bit him
. She began to shake as she sat, too afraid to sleep, too afraid to cross the room for a book. What could she do? Wait for it to pass, quarter by quarter.

An hour later there was a knock at the door. Her again! But the door opened and it was a woman Mara had never met before.

‘Mara Johns?' She came in. ‘I'm Dr Buchanan. What can I do for you?' But . . . but . . . He lied. The bastard lied. The doctor was pulling up a chair and sitting by the bed. Think. Quickly, quickly. What will he have told her?

‘I've had a migraine. And . . .' Sweat was forming on her upper lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. ‘I was wondering . . . I've been feeling a bit faint. I was wondering if I might be anaemic. Possibly.'

The doctor was running her eyes over her assessingly. ‘It's possible. We'll do a blood test.' She was like a brisk version of Dr Roe. ‘Been feeling tired?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sleeping well?'

‘Yes. OK.' A lie.

‘How much do you weigh?'

Another lie.

‘Eating well?'

‘Well, you know. College food.' Themes of equivocation. She thinks I'm anorexic.

‘What are your periods like?'

I knew it. ‘Same as ever.'

‘What does that mean?' asked the doctor a little sharply.

‘Well . . . OK. Irregular.'

‘Hmm.' There was a long pause. She doesn't believe me. ‘We don't seem to have any notes for you at the Practice.'

‘Yes. Sorry. I haven't got round to registering.'

The doctor pursed her lips and Mara told her the address of her GP at home, knowing that her notes were still in Cambridge. With a bit of luck I'll have left here before they catch up with me. The doctor asked more questions, and Mara made a concerted effort, answer by answer, to build up an image of herself: highly strung, intelligent, academically ambitious, but fundamentally sensible.

‘I expect I've just been overdoing it a bit.' She hit upon a promising seam of lies. ‘I've got this paper to write before the end of term. It's sort of important. Change of status to PhD.' She watched with relief as the doctor began to categorize her: highly strung, over-ambitious, basically sensible. ‘I'll clearly have to ease off a bit.'

‘Yes. Take a break. Can you get away for a weekend?'

‘That's an idea.' Thank God she hasn't got my notes in front of her.

‘Well, let's do that blood test.' Mara offered her left arm. ‘Have you got good veins? Good God. A doctor's dream,' she said cheerfully. The needle went in. Mara kept the other arm clamped to her side, as though the doctor's eyes might penetrate the sleeve and see the scar. ‘There. Good. Press here.' The doctor closed her bag. ‘I'll let you know if you are anaemic. Now – do you need any migraine tablets?' Mara shook her head. ‘Well, try to rest. Make sure you're eating properly.' Momentary flicker of earlier impression. ‘See if you can get away for a couple of days.'

‘Thanks for coming. I feel a bit stupid.'

‘Don't.' The doctor smiled. ‘No trouble.' She left as smartly as she had come. Mara was on her feet the instant the door closed. Right. How dare you do that to me, you . . . But another wave of dizziness sent her stumbling back to the bed. As she waited for it to pass she saw Andrew's face saying, ‘Be nice to me, Princess.' Anger was swallowed up in a tide of fear.
‘You'll be sectioned so fast, you won't know what's hit you.'
Sedation. Soft-soled shoes squeaking in endless corridors. Voices asking, ‘Would you like to talk about it? How do you feel about it? You're going to have to co-operate with us at some stage, Mara. Why not now?' She curled up on the bed.

Mara woke. It was dark. There was another knock at the door. What time was it? She groped for her bedside lamp and turned it on. Six-thirty. The door opened. It was Andrew with a tray of food, which he carried across to the desk.

‘Compliments of the chef,' he said with a sardonic look on his face. ‘Who says, and I quote, “She's to eat it all, and not go losing any more weight, or she'll be too skinny. I like a good handful to grab a hold of.” ' He crossed to the bed and sat down. ‘A more compelling argument in favour of anorexia I find it hard to imagine.' This jolted her memory.

‘You called the doctor out.'

‘And I expect you lied to her comprehensively.' He was watching her face. ‘Not clever, Mara. You're the most untalented liar I've ever come across.'

I'm convincing enough when my back's to the wall. ‘I want my books back.'

‘Tomorrow. Come on. Eat. We don't want to disappoint Nigel.' He put out a hand and she let him pull her up, for a nasty thought had leapt into her mind: she needed him to back her up if the Principal asked him about Joanna. She began to eat.

‘Your friends want to know if you're receiving visitors.' Oh no. Crowding in with their compassion and questions. She forced down another mouthful. ‘Well, what shall I tell them?'

‘Tell them I'm not feeling . . . I'll see them tomorrow.' She looked up and saw pity in his eyes. Her face burned. ‘Don't patronize me.' The look vanished, and he raised a cool eyebrow.

‘You sound like Scarlett O'Hara. “Tomorrow is another day.”

She knew he was trying to help, to anger her back into her usual defiance, but it was hopeless. She continued to eat, hoping he wouldn't see the tears welling up in her eyes, hoping they wouldn't spill over.

‘I'll tell them to bugger off,' he said, leaving as casually as ever, but she knew he had seen.

She pushed the plate away and went back across to the bed and sat down. The evening stretched out ahead of her, and beyond it the night. Then the next day, and the next. Outside the wind was beginning to rouse itself. She heard the rain against the window, and the sound of the bells pealing. It was Thursday. They always practised on Thursday. The peals seemed to come in bursts on the gusts of wind.

There was a knock at the door. It was Rupert. Andrew had not told him, then. He came in and sat beside her.

‘I won't stay long. I just wanted to see if you were all right.'

‘I'm fine.' The window rattled angrily.

‘Mara, I know you don't want to talk, but don't you think –'

‘I don't mind talking. I'll talk. What do you want to know?'

He ran his hand through his hair. She saw he was choosing his words with care. ‘I'm just concerned that you – that – People need to grieve, Mara, and –'

‘So you've done a course on bereavement counselling?' He winced as though she had scratched his face. ‘I've read all that stuff. I know what they say.' She saw a burst of his old irritation.

‘Then you know all about denial.'

‘Denial?' She stared at him. ‘I'm not denying anything. I'll tell you anything you like.'

‘Yes, the facts. But what about what you feel? You never say a thing about what you feel.'