The Book of Rapture (15 page)

Who’ll control the remembering? This hidden place. It’s a start. A heartbeat. A heartbeat to battle all the lying and rewriting and forgetting because people have to. They have to move on. It’s too hard. They don’t want to know. Dad told me. He says it’s evolution. It’s how the world carries on. And now I get why he asked me to write everything down. He said, ‘Tell our story, tell the truth’, because no one else will. And then Mum. ‘Mr, if you want to be a writer then you have to make the words leap off the page. Make them like a needle under the skin. Make them get up and shout! Mum. Yeah. Always so full-on
.

    He’s now ripping every single sheet from his notebook and sticking them onto the cupboard wall with dots of toothpaste, pages and pages, a vast, pale quilt.

    
THESE THINGS ARE HAPPENING
.

    The shout of the final sheet.

    
Too many of us are being disappeared or written out or lost and please, please don’t wreck this. Please don’t rip this down and throw it out. PLEASE DON’T FORGET US
.

    All his words in their hidden little harbour and you shut your eyes and turn your back on them, cannot bear it, what you have put him through; for it’s as if this cupboard is the only place in the world his precious pages can now, ever, be safe. And he knows it.

‘Sensible men are all of the same religion.’ ‘And pray what is that?’ … ‘Sensible men never tell.’

101

Tidge is asleep, the key from Soli locked within the cage of his fingers. Mouse hovers. Tries to lift it away but his brother holds it tighter, still asleep. His sister looks across; he smiles, embarrassed. Asks her what else their father left because the memory box is soaked in their mother and he’s sure,
sure
, their dad would have left something more of himself.

‘I don’t know. There’s the doll. What else do you want?’

‘Maybe there’s something in it. Let’s rip it open!’

‘It’s just a toy. Dad had it as a kid.’

‘But why …
this?’

‘Because—’ She stops. ‘It’s complicated.’ Sighs. ‘Dad said he wanted us to have … the solace of imagination.’ Her eyes screw up with the effort of trying to get it right.

‘But what’s some manky old doll got to do with it?’

‘He wants us to believe that it can help.’ She closes her eyes, attempting to slip into her father’s words. ‘He said that people who have faith have this … serenity about them, this strength, that people who believe in nothing just don’t. That those kinds of people can be all sour and unhappy and restless and empty, and how horrible is that? He says that people who’ve reached the pinnacle of their faith, whatever it might be, are at peace. Filled with love and light. And maybe that’s a good place to be. Especially now. He says at the heart of any religion is compassion, and it’s all we have to get good at. And the doll might remind us. Or something.’ She frowns, can’t quite remember,
looks at her brother; he stares back blank. ‘Dad said that at the height of any faith you can feel filled with love and strength and if we got anywhere near that, then, well, it might just help. That’s it. I think.’

Mouse rolls his eyes.

‘He said people with faith can do amazing things.’

‘Amazingly horrible things.’

‘Not always, Mr. Sometimes quite the opposite in fact.’

Integrity creates a body so vast a thousand winged ones will plead, ‘May I lay my cheek against you?’

102

A knock. Mid-morning. G never knocks.

‘Hello? Let me in.’

Your kids look at each other. It is Pin.

‘If you don’t let me in I’m getting my da-ad.’ A taunt in a voice you do not like.

‘You can’t.’ Mouse, fast, signalling to his siblings to be quiet. ‘Come back later. This afternoon. At one.’ Well done. Because it’s B’s busy time in the kitchen. Because he never visits them then.

‘Why not now?’ The voice is stubborn. Argumentative. With the sense of entitlement of an only child. He’d annoy you if he was in their class.

‘Because … we do things at this time. Every day. It’s our religion.’

Mouse looks at his siblings.

‘Okay,’ the voice says mildly.

Your three children high-five each other in astounded silence. Because it worked. Your family hasn’t done God for generations, three at least, but he bought it. When Mouse asked you why, once, you were so wary of religion, you told him that you hated all the rules and boring lectures, you thought it was a weakness, a lack of intelligence, you’re not into all that dependent thought. ‘It’s this beautiful, singing lie, my lovely, and eventually all the faiths around us will exist nowhere but the history books.’

Pin doesn’t need to know any of that. His religion’s burned into his people, by birth they’re the warriors of their god. They’re fighting your godlessness and greed. They want to stamp it all out with a rage that’s soldered into their hearts.

But now I only hear its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar.

103

So.

Project Indigo.

You can hardly bear to sew these words into your quilt; you must.

A WMD that specifically targets a certain race. Its formula attacking a peculiarity of their genetic make-up. Preventing them from reproducing. Causing them, mysteriously, to die out. A generation or two is all it will take and then your people will be rid of them, they’ll be no more threat. The project so secretive that they’d never know what’s stopping their women from falling pregnant, they’ll just … vanish. A natural process. Humane. Clearing them peacefully from your earth. Breeding the stain out. They’ll wonder if it’s something they’re eating, their sexual practices, contaminated water, soil, pesticides, plastics; they’ll never know. But it’ll stop them multiplying like rabbits and eventually those left will abandon their cursed place; they’re superstitious, they’ll clear out. And your people will have their country back. So. Peace at last.

The audacity of it, the stun. You can hardly bear to write what you were once. Your hand is trembling.

And you’re the only one left with the key to activate it.

‘Thwart them all,’ Motl joked, long after he’d left the project. ‘Lodge your papers in the British Library so they’ll all have it, and no one will dare use it. Anyone could convert it for their own use. Imagine that. It’ll keep everyone in check.’

‘I wouldn’t trust a single one of them.’ You laughed. ‘They’ll all grab it. The world will stop.’

‘And what gives
you
the right to play God?’ His voice, suddenly bereft of any light. Your laughter stopped.

‘You don’t trust me, do you.’ A statement not a question.

‘No,’ he replied, flat. ‘I don’t. I think you’re dangerous.’

You shawled your arms around your shoulders, swiftly cold, wanting out. How well did you know him? How well did you know anyone? Everyone has a secret life.

And now. The only one left. You hold the key. You, alone, can activate it. You have to get your kids out, you have to get your husband back. You, alone, can activate it. You hold the key. You know what they want. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and once, long ago, you craved the glory so much.

The Lord is a man of war.

104

Now in their room a new dance begins.

Your children’s aim is to ensnare this child from the other side, so he’ll never betray them, never give them up. Ensnare him with friendship and trust.

The doctor’s boy loves the television. They let him perform a series of operations. He manages, miraculously, a scratch of jittery lines and as he hums away, absorbed, you can sense him revelling in this secret new life. Does he have his own TV? ‘Dad doesn’t allow it.’ Of course. Devout. Walled up. A life rigidly censored, controlled. The path mapped out: a religious school until he was placed under quarantine, an impressionable young mind corralled by holy books. Dependent thought, oh yes.

Yet here he is now, diving deep. As if he’s heard about these people but has never seen one up close. Examining the tattoos drawn in pen on arms, your daughter’s earrings, the feral hair, clothes, examining the TV like an eighteenth-century surgeon learning from a corpse.

Smart, and you hate that. Always want your kids to be the best. He wears glasses. Talks fast. Uses complicated words, must be often among adults. Can’t quite get his head around Soli’s vibrant, unknowing ripeness; reddens, often, at her glance.

‘This place doesn’t let in the sky,’ he declares, annoyed, patting the walls of their room like a horse’s flank. Perhaps he craves, just like your lot, out; all of them trapped by the adults in their lives. Some people are a force of nature but he’s the opposite,
he looks like he’s spent his entire life in a van with the windows blacked out. All gangly legs and arms, pale, bereft of muscle and tone, watchful, hungry for experience, vividly alone. Just like your childhood once.

You pray as you watch this taut, careful ballet unfolding that his edges have been softened, somewhere, that he’s been mellowed by sorrow at some point. Because that will give him compassion. And will give your kids a chance. It’s too early to call. You worry about your elder son the most, his enormous, open-hearted trust. Because with that comes loose talk.

What went ye out into the wilderness to see?

105

‘What’s that?’ Pin stares in wonder at the memory book.

‘Our holy book,’ Mouse says fast, coming between it.

Pin nods. Doesn’t mention it again. Has no curiosity, doesn’t give it another look.

Your holy book, yes. Soaked in love and landscape. And for you that is enough.

I so bound in the spirit.

106

As Project Indigo came close to fruition Motl chewed his nails down to the bleeding quick. One night, in alarm, you wrapped each fingertip in the cave of your mouth and when you finally drew breath, and sat back, he said,
‘Please
can we keep our scientific endeavours at a more humble level, Mrs. You’re getting above yourselves here. I
do not like it.’

‘Sssh,’ you whispered, kissing a fingertip and pressing it to his lips. ‘It’s exhilarating. To get this far, as a species, to evolve so much. To unravel the mysteries of creation—’

‘I’m not so sure it’s called "evolving". And no one can ever explain the biggest question of the lot, Mum: how life was first created on this planet. How this incredibly complex, beautiful world began. I can tell you right now you’ll never even get close.’

‘Well, I damned well want to try,’ you teased. ‘I am
loving
this journey, you know that.’

He pulled away. ‘Oh, for a simple life.’

‘So you’ve turned all Goddy on me, have you? And which religion is it, my love? The cow, the crescent, the cross?’

‘I don’t need any of them.’ Angry now. ‘It’s impossible to explain to someone like you. But it’s like I’m becoming myself, what I was always meant to be. And I don’t need a church for it.’ He jabbed his finger in fury ‘People who completely deny spirituality are missing what it is to be fully human — with all its fallibility and mess and stupidity, yes, but all its glory —’ his voice breaks ‘and beauty’

‘Religious people are either terrorists or paedophiles.’

He sighed. ‘There are good people among them. Deeply intelligent, thinking people. They’re usually older. They’re sometimes near the end of their lives. They have this grace of certainty, and they shine with it. I admire it. I wish I could have it myself. You can extract just the meat from all their books, you know; use them like self-help manuals. Forget the religious nutters — the best people, well, they’re discerning. Thinking.’ He tapped his temples with both hands. ‘They’ve learned how to glean the sweetest juice from the texts and just toss away the rest. The Bible, the Koran, they’re like human life itself: inconsistent. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, it’s all there. Nothing’s black and white, my love, nothing.’

It was your turn to sigh. ‘Can we agree to disagree on this one?’

‘As long as you respect my choice.’

Different creeds are but different paths to reach the Almighty.

107

The doctor’s boy turns the scratching from the television into news briefly once; a finger has been grown onto a pig’s back. Tidge whoops. ‘Hey, dude, can we have
The Simpsons
next?’ His arm drapes around the boy’s concentrating shoulders and you shiver as you watch. Because he’s growing scarily fond of this person in their midst. Who visits every day, who never lets them rest. And who is entirely focused on getting the television to work; who has a discipline that’s beyond your rowdy lot.

He has a satellite tracker and an alarm within a complicated watch on his wrist. The four of them huddle under the duvet as he explains it, the dial glowing a luminous green like the bridge of a ship.

‘Wow, can I have it?’ Tidge teases. ‘It’d sure come in handy.’ His finger circles it playfully ‘You’re coming with us, aren’t you?’

‘I can?’

A frozen quiet.

Everything suddenly fragile. No one knowing what to say next. Because either this unexploded grenade of a child in their midst hasn’t a friend in the world, or he’s a very good actor. And none of you can work out which.

Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding.

108

Are your kids his secret project and he’ll eventually haul them off to his father as his triumphant catch? Does he think they’re a way to the feral kids outside, to getting them rounded up, the city cleansed of its rats? Does he just want company? Is it as simple as that?