The Dark Light (23 page)

The women talk on about the best patterns and designs. Soon the kitchen is full with squares of damp white material hanging from every space, on the backs of chairs, on a line that Mary has strung out across the kitchen.

It’s decided that if we cut a hole in the centre of each for the head to go through the rest can be worn as a kind of shawl. And with a few snips and pleats they can be hemmed and turned into serviceable garments, perhaps even tied at the waist with lengths of cord, which Hannah thinks will represent the way in which we are tied to the service of the Lord. She has some plan that she will sew brocade on each one, so that they will be like the raiments of angels.

‘And where will you get your brocade?’ Mary asks.

She’s strangely silent and then she says in a voice that is quite tight, ‘I brought some with me. It was the only thing I didn’t give away. It was to be on my wedding gown.’ There’s a silence in the kitchen. No one knows what to say. ‘Imagine if I had got married! I would never have come here and I would not be so blessed. The Lord really does work in mysterious ways, and to Him we should be grateful.’

‘Amen!’ say Margaret and Ruth.

‘My first and final marriage to Jesus,’ she says. ‘It will be as my wedding was intended but so much better.’

She goes to her cabin and comes back with two heavy duffel bags full of material. ‘It’s in here somewhere. Might as well go through it all and see what might be useful.’

She tips the bags out on the table. And I see Alex’s clothes tumbling out with all the piles of scraps and rags. Before anyone else can touch them, I grab her jeans and check the pockets. There’s the crinkle of paper and I pull out the letter and hide it up my sleeve. No one has noticed because they are too busy looking at Alex’s phone, which has fallen out on the table in front of us with a clatter.

Margaret and Ruth jump back.

‘It’s a sign of the beast!’ Hannah pokes at it with a pair of scissors as if it’s alive and might bite her.

Mrs Bragg picks it up and looks at it. She presses the buttons. ‘I don’t think it’s got any power.’

‘But how can you say that? It’s the work of the Antichrist! We need to get rid of it!’ Hannah hits it with her scissors, knocking it on to the stone floor. The glass screen splinters.

‘Well, it’s certainly broken now,’ Mary says, picking it up and putting it in the pocket of her apron. ‘I’ll give it to Bevins when I see him.’

As the evening wears on I wonder when I will get to escape. I follow Mary when she takes the twins upstairs to bed.

‘Don’t go out tonight,’ she says. ‘Bevins suspects witchcraft. They have locked her door with padlocks and chains. He is going over there later to cast out demons – you will be seen. And he is already watching you. You know it.’

‘But . . .’ I can’t bear the thought of her alone with him. Of what might happen.

She takes the broken phone out of her pocket. ‘Do you know how this works? Can we get a message out on it?’

I shake my head. ‘She said the battery was dead.’

She sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Rebekah, that it’s come to this. I . . . I have only ever tried to do the right thing.’ She looks as if she’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it. ‘Promise me you won’t go out.’

I look at her. ‘I promise.’ But I don’t mean it, and Mary knows this because she sends Ruth upstairs to sit outside on the landing in case the twins don’t settle but really I know, it’s to keep watch over me.

Very slowly and quietly I pull the crumpled envelope out of my sleeve. The handwriting looks familiar. It’s addressed to me, care of the Church of New Canaan. The date on the postmark is last year. I can see the shape of Ruth’s skirt through the gap in the door. I slide the paper out of the envelope slowly, trying not to make any noise. The envelope is already open so someone – Bevins – has already read this. It’s written on two pieces of thin notepaper.

Dear Rebekah,

I hope this message reaches you. I don’t know if your father is passing my letters on. I just want you to know that I think of you every day and pray that you are safe and well. I want you to know too how sorry I am for what happened. I never meant for things to end up like this. I am going to church in Falmouth. Everyone has been so sweet and forgiving, but I know I must bear the burden of what I’ve done, both to you and your father and to the community. I should have had more faith! Please know I only did this with your best intentions in my heart. The doctors said if I did not take the pills I would die. Bevins said if I took the pills he would cast me out
.
What could I do?

The paper trembles in my hand. I don’t understand. This is from my mother? My mother is alive? But all this time we’ve been acting like she was dead.
Father
has been acting like she was dead. All this time I’ve been thinking she was dead. All this time I’ve been lied to. Does Father know about this?

Life in New Canaan might be hard, but I know it’s for the best for you to be there with the people who can keep you to the path. I think of you all the time and wonder how you have grown. If you do get to see this letter, ask your father to send word, even if it’s only a short message, just to let me know you are OK. There are some in the Church here who think I should be going to the courts. I’m not going to do that yet, but if I hear nothing by the end of the year I will look again at my options. It’s not fair to keep me from you like this!

Your ever-loving,

Mum xxxxxxxxx

I screw the letter up in my hand and try to stop myself from crying, but I can’t help it. I make such a noise that Ruth knocks on the door.

‘Are you OK?’

I turn my face away from her. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ I sniff loudly. ‘Just tired.’

‘Would you like me to pray with you? Is there’s anything you’d like to confess?’

‘I’m
fne
,’ I say, through gritted teeth.

She stands there for a while as if she doesn’t believe me but doesn’t know what to say. I squeeze my eyes closed, hard, so hard that the dark behind my eyes turns red.

TWENTY-THREE

REBEKAH

Father and Bevins are waiting at the church with the whole community gathered, even Naomi. They have brought her from the Solitary, which means that someone must have seen Alex. I look at Mary, but she just raises her eyebrows and nods at me, whatever that is supposed to mean. Because she is a prophet, Naomi sits at the front with the elders in her frayed dress with a headscarf that is too big for her head, and she seems much older than she appears in the Solitary. Her eyes are big as blue saucers in her shrunken face, and she stares at me as I take my seat.

Bevins says that today he will be going round asking each of us in turn to commit any final sins to the Lord, to ask His forgiveness. That we might be pure in heart when the end comes and that we might take great gratitude in the suffering of the cross, which is what allows Jesus to return in all His glory to the earth and forgive us miserable sinners. I sense my determination beginning to seep out of me. A chill creeps through me, which becomes a nervous tremor. I have the letter in my hand; when my turn comes I’m going to read it out, and we’ll see how many of them want to stay with Bevins then. All this time they’ve been treating me with such sympathy, the motherless child. As if I don’t have a mother who is alive and well and living in a place called Falmouth. If I could I would be like Samson in the temple, I would bring the whole church crashing down about their heads.

‘He did this that we might live! Our petty privations are as nothing in comparison to such suffering. Imagine! One man took all those punishments on your behalf. To cleanse
you
from sin . . .’

And so he goes on. Listing in detail all the sufferings of the cross, each wound vividly remembered, from the nails that were hammered through his hands, to the crown of thorns, to the spear that pierced His side. He describes it as if he was there and saw it himself, moment by moment.

An old fear strikes me that if He comes back tomorrow, He will see the darkness in my heart, how I have turned away from Him and that I have not witnessed to Alex, rather I have let her turn me away from the path. It makes me squirm and there is a clamour in my head like a ringing bell that makes it hard to think. But then I remember that my mother is not going to be in heaven waiting for me, but that she is in a place on the mainland called Falmouth, in a house. And everything Bevins says has the hollow echo of a lie.

He walks among us, asking for confessions. Father follows him, carrying the communion cup. He expects everyone to list all the bad things they’ve thought and done, that we might be forgiven and become, according to Father ‘white as the snow and blameless when we enter heaven’. And, after we’ve confessed, we have to take a sip of wine from the communion cup.

Jonathan is on his knees, clutching his hands together so tight his knuckles shine. He says that he has been having immodest thoughts. ‘This is why I can’t be with the women, like,’ he says.

Micah confesses that he has taken up violence against his wife and is sorry that it was so. There is a murmur from the women.

‘But this is not a sin, Micah,’ Bevins says. ‘Between a man and a wife.’ He presses his hands on Micah’s head and says a prayer asking the Lord to help Micah to forgive Mary for her rebelliousness.

I look at Mary, her head bowed, her jaw clenched.
That’s not fair!
I want to shout out, my resolve hardening again. Micah committed a sin against Mary – how is it
her
fault that
he
lost his temper and was moved to strike her? I am dreading when it comes to my turn. I need to think of what I will say.

When it comes to Mary she confesses her disobedience and they say long prayers over her that she may be humbled and accept the guidance of her husband without question, in trust and humility as the Lord would want.

Hannah breaks down sobbing and prostrates herself on the floor, her arms outstretched. It takes an age for her to stop crying long enough so we can hear what she has to say.

‘I . . . have . . . stolen a comb from Ruth . . . and kept it as my own even though I knew it was hers. And . . . and . . .’ Here she breaks off to cry some more although I am sure the good Lord in heaven gives not one small bit of anything for her stupid dilemmas and she will get into heaven by sheer persistence alone. ‘. . . I too have had lewd and lustful thoughts.’

Something in me recoils. I do not want to know this about Hannah. Dear God, if You are truly coming back to take us to Your own, can you put me in a different part of heaven to Hannah?

Thomas says he has been having resentful thoughts towards his parents; Ruth that she is jealous of Mary for having a husband; Gideon says nothing for a while, and then one word very quickly in his thick accent, that it takes me a while to decipher as ‘sloth’.

They come to me last, by which point the morning is already nearly over, the light outside the church changes to bright sun, which shines through the window at the back.

‘And what of you, Rebekah? What sins do you harbour in the dark corners of your heart?’

I stand up, my legs trembling. I know what I have to say, but I don’t know what will happen when I’ve said it. Everyone needs to know that he’s lying to us.

I hold the letter out in front of me.

‘
Dear Rebekah
. . .’ I read out the words that I have read and reread so many times since last night. There’s a sharp intake of breath from someone – Hannah or Margaret maybe. I look up and I can see Mary shaking her head at me.

About halfway through I feel my father’s hand on my shoulder; the communion cup in his hand smells strange, the same kind of smell that Alex had in the Solitary.

‘Where did you get that?!’ he growls at me.

My voice wavers but I carry on reading. I am aware that I am being shouted down by Mr Bevins.

‘Disobedience! Disobedience! Not only have you broken into my room and taken my private papers, but you, like your mother, have a rebellious heart! She says it herself! Dead or alive, she will not be getting through the gates of heaven! She may as well be dead to you!’

He snatches the letter from me and presses his hand on my other shoulder. ‘I want you to pray with me, child. Pray with me and your father and the whole of our community. Right here. Right now I am carrying you across the threshold into heaven. There is a war waging for your soul that I will win—’

‘No! You’re a liar! You’re all liars!’

But he presses my shoulder so hard that I can feel the bones in his hands. I can’t believe no one else is doing anything. They’re all just sitting there, not moving, slow and obedient.

Father brings the communion cup to my lips.

‘Drink.’

I don’t want to. I don’t like the smell. I close my lips but Mr Bevins pinches my nose so I open my mouth in surprise and father trickles some in my mouth. It tastes sweet and sickly, I keep it in my mouth, meaning to hold it there till I can spit it out, but it tastes so disgusting I have to swallow.

Almost immediately there is something odd in my body, a new lightness.

Bevins goes on and on while I kneel on the cold floor and all I can think of is her. Like a shield between me and Mr Bevins, the thought of her keeps me staring at the same spot on the floor, a little crack and a whorl in the stone that looks like the barnacles on the side of the whale. Mr Bevins’s hand presses harder into my shoulder; the lighter touch of my father on the other shoulder makes me lopsided. And then Naomi comes and kneels next to me and starts mumbling and pointing her finger at me, and then Jonathan starts speaking in tongues and there are other noises, like the barking of a dog and the shrieking of a bird, and someone sings a hymn and the whole loud cacophony of it becomes like a roaring storm in my head. And I can see suddenly a pillar of fire and the shape of a cross and people making faces of fear and torment and the world of eternity, and figures that swarm about in my head, just like Alex said, and I’m frightened and the floor is melting under my knees and I want to scream.