The Dark Light (14 page)

There are four polytunnels, each with different crops; in one tomatoes, in another cucumbers, aubergines and chillies, in a third sweet potatoes and tender squashes, and the fourth is used for sowing and growing on. This is where Gideon lives most of the time, tending to his trays of seedlings. He has an old armchair in which he sits, pulled up to a potting bench which is covered in soil. His fingers are swollen and gnarled and he struggles to take tiny pinches of soil and seeds and get them into the pots without spilling them all over himself. He mostly speaks the old language. In years gone by his family owned this island, and he can remember coming here as a boy with his father and grandfather.

He grunts at us when we come in. His face is crazed with deep lines. He’s something of a law unto himself, but no one minds him much as long as he goes to church. Mr Bevins is often blessing him, holding him up as an example of the old faithful. But I have heard him talking to Father about him differently; if he could, he would send him back to the mainland, but there’s nowhere for him to go, except into a home and ‘it’s not clear who would pay for that’. So he stays here.

‘We’ve come to help you this morning,’ Margaret says, loudly and slowly.

Gideon nods. ‘Oh yes,’ he says.

‘Is there anything that needs doing right away?’

He nods again. ‘Oh yes,’ he says again, but does not elaborate.

‘What would that be then?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

Ruth sucks her teeth. ‘You two go and pinch out the tomatoes and do some weeding.’ She waves at me and Alex. ‘Margaret and I will –’ she looks at the mess – ‘tidy up in here.’

The air is hot and humid and almost immediately I’m sweating. The tomato plants have grown into a tangle, pressing against the plastic as if urgently trying to escape. We have to squeeze ourselves between the plants to get down the row. It doesn’t look like anyone has done any work in here for ages, and heavy bunches of tomatoes are ripening and splitting on the vines. They weren’t even red before we went on Mission Week.

‘It stinks in here,’ Alex says. The air is fuzzy with the smell of tomatoes.

I give her a bucket and tell her to pick the ripest tomatoes.

‘But they’re rotten.’

‘Not all of them.’ I point at some that seem whole, only to see that they are split up the back. ‘Well, never mind, pick them anyway. Mary will know what to do with them.’

But she doesn’t do as I say; instead she gets her phone out of her pocket again and switches it on.

‘Put that away! If anyone sees it, you’ll be in trouble.’

‘It’s dead now anyway.’ She shows me the black screen. She bites her lip and shoves it back in the pocket of her hoodie.

‘Why do you always want to look at it anyway?’

She laughs bitterly. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Why not? I can understand a lot of things.’

‘Yeah, but you’re like . . .’ She turns up her nose.

‘What?’

‘Them.’ She nods her head outside the polytunnel.

‘No, I’m not!’

‘Of course you are! You were born here, right? You don’t know anything about the world!’

This stings. I don’t want her to think I’m so ignorant. ‘They said the Rapture would come before I got older so there didn’t seem any point in learning,’ I say. Until I met Alex, nothing else had ever occurred to me as a possibility.

‘That’s sad.’ She was snarly, but now she looks as if she pities me.

The idea that there are other places to be, where there are new people I could meet, sets fire to something in my head. I could leave here. One day I could actually, literally,
leave
. The idea bursts into flame like paper thrown on embers. I don’t know why I never realised it before.

‘It’s what people do, right? Leave home. Everyone on this island left home once.
They
chose to be here; you didn’t.’

‘No, no, no . . . but . . .’ I don’t know what to say to this. ‘But I
can’t
. I don’t know how.’

‘Get me that satellite phone, and I’ll show you how we can leave.’

We?
‘You mean I can come with you?’ The possibility of the world is suddenly close. Life, away from here. My heart bursts.

‘Rebekah, if the authorities knew what was really going on here, they would make
everyone
leave. What happened to the twins is not OK; that’s child abuse.’

‘No, it’s not!’ But my voice comes out too high, unconvincing even to me. ‘Mary was just trying to keep them safe!’

‘What, by giving them drugs and leaving them alone all day? They didn’t even have any water!’ She touches my arm. ‘Are you OK? You’ve gone all white.’

‘But what if I leave and the Rapture comes while I’m gone?’ The idea of being left behind on earth while they are in heaven paralyses me.

‘Oh, come on! You know that’s not true!’

‘Do I? I don’t know.’ It’s as if a door in my head has been opened only to be slammed shut again almost straight away. It’s so confusing. ‘We should get on with it.’ I pick up my bowl and start pulling tomatoes off the vines.
Thinking is sinking
.

We work silently for a while, hot and sweaty in the muggy heat. We fill five bowls with tomatoes; they are mushy but still useable, and I can see I’m going to spend all day tomorrow in the kitchen with Mary, making chutneys. Alex has given up and is sitting on the floor with her head resting on her knees.

Then something from the corner of my eye: the fuzzy silhouette of a figure glimpsed through the translucent plastic, then suddenly he’s there inside the polytunnel.

‘There’s been a miracle!’ Mr Bevins announces, his eyes flashing. He stands very still and watches us, his head raised just slightly, chin jutting as if he is alert to something in the air. He takes a deep breath. ‘Something smells bad in here.’

I cringe. There is a high tone to his voice. I don’t like him to be so close to us.

‘What?’ Alex asks.

He looks at the bowls of tomatoes. ‘I don’t know, but when the devil is near I can
smell
him.’

He kicks over one of the bowls and tomatoes spill out on to the ground.

‘Look at these.’ He shudders. ‘Don’t you sense it? There’s something unholy in here.’

Alex snorts, then seeing his expression turns it into a cough.

‘We are in a constant battle. All around us devils and angels.’ He stamps on the tomatoes. ‘Give me the other bowls.’ He tips them all out and then stamps on them too. Seeds and pulp explode everywhere, all our hard work, the whole season’s crop destroyed. Mary will go mad – she’s been saving jars especially for the chutney.

‘We must pray. Come here, Rebekah, come here.’ He beckons me towards him and grabs hold of Alex by the wrist.

His face is deadly serious. He holds my arm so tight it hurts and starts to mutter a prayer for protection. I look at the tomatoes at his feet all mushed up into a slimy, seedy mess. Can tomatoes be possessed? He’s sweating as he prays, his eyes squeezed tight. I glance at Alex, who is smirking as if she wants to laugh. I daren’t catch her eye in case she makes me laugh too, and then he will get angry and I don’t want him to send me to the Solitary.

‘Amen!’

Eventually he lets us go and raises his eyes to the sky and sighs. ‘We must be so vigilant. In these last days he will do anything –
anything
– to tempt us away from the truth.’ Bevins crosses himself and then puts his arms around us both in a hug, pulling us close to his bony chest.

Alex struggles to get free. ‘Get off.’

He turns away from me. ‘Alex, Alex, it’s new and frightening to be confronted with the truth, I know. I
know
. But you will see that I am only here for
your
good.’ He smiles at her, and holds her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. ‘God loves you so
much
. He has chosen
you
.’ I can see he has tears in his eyes. He smiles and she sort of smiles back awkwardly, as if she is sorry for him. ‘Come with me, both of you. There’s something important I need to show you. To show all of you.’ He gestures to the sky. ‘Come on.’

We follow him outside and out of the kitchen garden until we are standing by the church, where the whole community is waiting. Everyone is gathered, screwing up their eyes against the sun. Thomas stands so close he is almost touching him. Only Father is not there, which is strange. Bevins jumps up on top of one of the crates that lie by the gate to make himself taller.

‘Brethren!’ he says. ‘Pray with me now.’

In order to see him up there I have to squint. He is a dark shadow in the sky against the dazzle of the sun. I close my eyes against the glare.

He says if we are to witness a miracle then we must be prepared to see it, to receive the word of God.

‘This is no time for work! Soon there will be no need for this kind of earthly toil, no need for clothes, or food, heat or light. We will walk among the angels, like one of them. Imagine that! Imagine!’

I squeeze my eyes tight shut and try to imagine, but all I can see is the mush of squashed tomatoes and the scuffed brown leather of Mr Bevins’s boots. He talks of all the heavenly creatures and eternity, which means for ever and ever after we are dead, and the burning flames that wait for the sinful, the idea of which makes my stomach sink to my feet. Then he stops abruptly and I look up. I can see Father walking across from the barn towards us.

‘Bevins!’ His voice is tight, angry. ‘I thought we weren’t gathering until this evening?’

‘But there is further proof! Another sign!’ He looks at Father then and pauses. ‘The mainland makes you weak, I know.’ He sounds concerned. ‘It’s so hard to be in the darkness without being tainted.’ He shakes his head. ‘But the time is
now
.’

‘Bevins, the crops . . . the winter . . .’ Father looks up at the sky ‘We must make hay while the sun shines. Surely this weather is a sign?’ he says, speaking slowly and clearly.

Bevins takes a breath and shakes his head. ‘Is that saying even biblical?’

‘No!’ Thomas shouts.

‘While what you say might be perfectly rational and logical to
you
, what it sounds like to
me
is the words of the
devil
.’ He stares at Father, hard. ‘Do you want to follow Brother Bragg to the Solitary?’

Father shakes his head. ‘But, Bevins . . .’

Mr Bevins waves his hand to dismiss him. ‘Something has happened,’ he says. ‘An amazing thing. Another sign. And I want you all to see it. Come.’

THIRTEEN

REBEKAH

We follow him. In single file down the path that leads to the farmhouse, then out across the fields along the sheep track that leads towards the north shore. Men first, women behind. Mary has the twins, who can walk for a while but soon need to be carried. Ruth takes Peter and Mary carries Paul, but it makes us slow, and before too long the main group are much further ahead of us and we are dawdling behind.

Alex walks beside me, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her hoodie.

‘Why do we have to walk behind the men? It’s like something out of the Dark Ages. That Mr Bevins is a total Nazi,’ she mutters.

‘He’s come with his own struggles, Alex.’ Hannah is hovering around us. I feel like we’re being watched. ‘We respect him because he’s been chosen by the Lord. He is gifted. He has the ear of God. To have someone like him help us prepare for the end is a blessing! We live for the Victory!’

‘Whatever.’

Hannah sighs. ‘I pray for you. We all do.’ Then she falls back and starts chattering to Mrs Webber instead about what this new sign might mean.

Alex pulls the hood of her jacket over her head. ‘You don’t really think it’s coming, do you?’ she asks me.

‘What?’ My mind has slid off somewhere else. I look at the wraps of leather and beads around her wrists and wonder if I could get away with wearing one, if I could hide it under the sleeves of my dress. I could make one from garden twine or scraps of leather from the sewing bags.

‘The end of the world? The Rapture.’

‘Oh. Well, it won’t be the end of the world for us,’ I say. ‘Not for everyone. Just the beginning for some people. All the true believers will disappear, leaving the rest of the world to the Tribulations.’

I tell her Bevins’s vision, how everyone that is not a true believer will be left behind to deal with the seven years of war and Tribulations that will come with the reign of the Antichrist. It will still be possible to get to heaven; it will just be harder than before, and the Christians will have to live like outlaws, hand to mouth, from the land like we do now. ‘This is just like a preparation. We need to live outside the boundaries of temptation if we are going to get called, but we’re also learning how to survive, in case we don’t.’

‘But how can Bevins know?’

I look ahead at Bevins, who is deep in conversation with Father and Micah Protheroe. He has his arms around their shoulders, almost as if he is pushing them forward.

‘He’s a prophet. Ever since he was a child he knew he was chosen to do the special work of God.’

‘But anyone could say that.’

‘Yes, but not everyone
does
.’ I don’t get her argument. ‘He’s gifted.’

Mr Bevins often bears witness about his journey to the Lord. He tells the story of the blind beggar who was really Jesus in disguise, and how he was brought up in a small one-bedroom house with only his mother, who was sick in the head. He said he was often beaten and left for days with no food, but that the Lord looked after him and saved him and that when he was older he realized that it was for the specific purpose of leading God’s people to glory, to help us to get ready, to prepare. I tell Alex this story, but she has her arms folded and she looks sceptical.

‘I know, he told me that story. But
seriously
, so what?’ she snorts. ‘He’s not any more special than you are.’

‘But . . .’ She’s gone and done it again. All the answers that I’d give people on Mission Week about Bevins being a special prophet of God sound wrong when I try to say them to her.

‘What’s over there?’ She points to a stone that stands in the field beyond the sheep troughs. ‘Is that the graveyard?’