The Revelations (30 page)

Mouse raised his glass.

‘Cheers, by the way. Anyway, after the war they found out that Hitler was planning to base the Third Reich in Britain in Senate House. I mean, it has the right feel about it, doesn’t it? The size of the place, the sense that it’ll be here in a
thousand
years when all the City skyscrapers have been burned to the ground. If Oswald Mosley had won power, he intended to move parliament here.’

Marcus finished his drink and placed the cup on the trestle table.

‘I really have to go now.’ It was almost seven o’clock.

‘Just . . . I need to speak to you.’ Mouse didn’t turn around, but drained his plastic cup and sent it spinning out into the snow. Marcus stood in the middle of the room, hands hanging at his sides, looking at his friend’s squat frame silhouetted against the white world outside.

‘I want to go to the police,’ Mouse said. ‘I want to hand myself in. Tell everyone exactly what happened. I just can’t stop thinking about Lee’s dad. I’m responsible for his hope, and it isn’t fair. Every time the telephone rings, every time there’s a knock on the door, part of him – maybe an increasingly small part of him as time passes, but part of him nonetheless – will think it’s her. He’s an amazing man. I always loved speaking to him whenever I went up there. He deserves better than this. We shouldn’t be covering this up.’

Marcus’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it, stood lost in thought for a moment. Mouse continued.

‘I’ve been thinking very hard about this. I almost called D.I. Farley last night. I don’t know what’ll happen to me, but it really doesn’t matter. I’d be fine in jail. I’d cosy up to some big gangster type, offer to soap him in the shower. I’d be grand.’

‘Here, give me one of those.’ Mouse passed him a cigarette. Marcus took a long drag and sighed as he let the smoke out through his nose. He pulled the chair out from under the trestle table and sat down.

‘But it’s more than that . . .’

‘Go on,’ said Marcus.

‘The Course used to be about making us better people. I used to believe that, despite the showiness and the money sloshing around, it was a genuinely good thing. But it has changed, you know? The Course has become a corporation. It’s bigger than Lee’s death, and that just can’t be right. Because that’s what David’s saying, isn’t it? That it isn’t worth jeopardising the American expansion for the sake of telling the truth about Lee. The Earl has turned David’s head. Because David is a good man. He would have done the right thing if this had happened a year ago. He wouldn’t have let us cover up Lee’s death.’

Marcus’s phone buzzed again. He answered it.

‘I’m sorry, Abby.’ He knew he sounded drunk. He made an effort not to slur his words. ‘I’m with Mouse. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Eat without me.’ He hung up.

‘Will you come with me to the police station? Will you help me through this? I’m pretty scared. I want to do the right thing, but it isn’t going to be easy.’

Mouse paused, walked over to find the vodka, and took a swig from the bottle. He passed it to Marcus. Marcus gulped, wiped his arm across his mouth and rocked back on the chair.

‘I’ve obviously been thinking about it, too,’ he said. ‘It’s weird, but I’ve changed so much over the past few weeks. I used to think I was in control of things. I always used to feel like I was the centre of the room, at the heart of things, but these days . . . everything seems so different. As if life is just rushing by. Like I’m on a train travelling very quickly and I lose sight of things flashing past, have to really concentrate to catch sight of the world. Things are just happening to me.’

Mouse turned to Marcus and looked at him. Marcus found it difficult to meet his friend’s eyes.

‘I agree with you about the Course and about David,’ said Marcus. ‘This whole American dream has given him visions of global domination. He thinks he’s going to be some flashy
televangelist
preaching to thousands in aircraft-hangar churches, beamed out on prime time to the homes of a million fawning fans.’

Marcus stood, took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it out into the snow.

‘But the Course is a force for good. In this fucked-up world you have to think that getting people to believe in a mild, forgiving God is a good thing. We forget how much the Course has done for us. Imagine who you’d be without it. I’d be a monster, I’m sure. You have to realise that David is right. Letting people know about Lee will destroy the Course. To have a story like this break would wreck it.

‘I think about Abby, too. I’ve been a shit husband. I realise that. And I need to try to make things up to her. I’m going to do everything I can for this baby, for her, for the Course. I’m not trying to change your mind. Or rather, I’m just trying to make you see that if you tell the police it’s going to have huge repercussions.’

‘But isn’t it the right thing to do?’

‘I don’t think anything is as simple as that. I don’t think there’s such a thing as right and wrong any more.’

‘Do you think Abby would be terribly hurt?’

‘Of course. I worry . . . I worry about the baby. What the shock would do to her, to the baby.’

‘Oh, Jesus, you can’t use that. You can’t use that against me.’

‘It’s something that I think about, of course it is.’

‘What will you do if I do tell them?’

‘I can’t stop you.’

‘But you won’t come with me.’

‘I don’t know that I can.’

‘Please?’

Mouse’s breath misted in the air blown in from the window. Marcus was staring out at the snow.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Marcus said. ‘I was totally lost. This move, it gives me a second chance. I know I should help you, Mouse, but I can’t. I’m putting everything in God’s hands. I think, perhaps, it’s God who has been directing things, that’s why I feel like I’ve lost control. I’ve decided to embrace that, to let Him lead me from here on.’

‘That’s really dumb. You can’t mean it?’

‘I just don’t know what else to say. I’m so sorry.’

Marcus put his arms around Mouse and they stood there for a few minutes. Marcus reached over and gently pulled the window closed. There was a line of white snow across the diagonal Vs of the wooden floor.

‘I have to go.’

Mouse’s mouth hung open. His eyes, which had been wide and questioning, suddenly narrowed.

‘OK. I understand. Let me show you out.’

They walked down the long flight of stairs together in silence. Mouse went first, breathing heavily, slowing as they descended. Finally, they stood by the turnstiles in the yellowish glow of the library lights. Mouse’s eyes were red.

‘Goodbye, sport,’ he said. ‘Give my love to Abby.’

Marcus reached out to hug his friend again, but Mouse pulled away.

‘Tell her I hope the birth . . . that everything goes well for her.’

Marcus felt in his pocket.

‘I have something for you.’

He dropped the pair of earrings, one turquoise, one blue, into his friend’s hand. Mouse’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice breaking.

Marcus stepped into the lift.

‘I’m sorry.’

Mouse shook his head, tears streaming from his bright, buoyant eyes.

‘Bye, Mouse.’

Mouse stood at the lift doors until they closed, then Marcus rode downwards in the wheezing, clanging contraption. Outside, the snow had begun to drift in Russell Square. Marcus hailed a taxi and made his way back to the flat.

When he got inside, Abby was sitting cross-legged on the bed reading a book about child-rearing, one of a large pile that sat on the dresser in their room. Marcus brushed his teeth and lay alongside her. She closed the book and took his head in her lap, bending down to kiss him.

‘You found Mouse,’ she said.

‘Mmm. He was at the library.’ Marcus stared up at her.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s OK. He’ll be fine.’

‘D’you think he’ll come back to the Course?’

‘I don’t know. I think maybe he will. But I’m so tired. Can we go to sleep?’

‘Of course. We can talk tomorrow.’

She reached over, turned out the light and stretched out with her back to him. Soon she was snoring. Marcus lay in the darkness and heard, echoing through his mind, the wail of a baby, the howling of the wind in the library and the sound of Lee picking out the ‘Promenade’ from
Pictures at an Exhibition
on her piano. Above all the other sounds, and yet somehow containing them, he heard the high wailing beauty of the tongues.

Abby walked down the main street of the quiet university town. Students were streaming out of classrooms and heading back to their dorms. Some made their way through the gates and across the main road to the shops. It was a balmy March day. The winter had been a cruel one, much colder than she was used to at home, but the past few weeks had been mild. She was growing to like these North-Eastern university towns: Princeton, New Haven, Cambridge, Ithaca. They were manageable, even to a foreigner. She smiled as a man stood aside to let her pass along the narrow pavement. She wondered if he could tell she was pregnant. She was at the annoying stage where she might be mistaken for merely fat.

She stepped into a bar on the main street. It was across the road from the town’s famous record exchange, a white brick building that managed to attract a constant stream of pale, acne-scarred students despite the increasing obsolescence of its wares. The bar was almost empty. She bought herself a glass of wine and then sat at the table in the window, overlooking the university’s main quadrangle. A huge Henry Moore sculpture stood, bright with verdigris, in the centre. The bartender looked over at her. She put her handbag in her lap to hide her bump. She knew what Americans thought about drinking during pregnancy. But she deserved a little celebration. The past few weeks had been marvellous.

She had called her mother the night before and told her that she would be staying for the rest of the year, would be
having
the baby in New York. Her mother, unusually emotional, had started to cry. Abby’s middle sister Susie had moved back home, after finally divorcing the maths teacher. Abby could hear her shouting at the children in the background.

‘And you really think this is what you went to that wonderful university for,’ her mother was saying. ‘To run a cult thousands of miles away from your family?’

Abby had made vague, soothing sounds and hung up. She rarely spoke to her mother any more. Sally and David were her new parents. And she knew that they were very proud of her. She took a gulp of wine.

A group of students came in. She realised that they had been at the meeting earlier. The girls were exquisite-looking: shimmering with health, their hair bounced as they walked. The young men were tall and wore pastel-coloured shirts tucked into their chinos. They sat at a table at the other end of the bar and Abby had to strain her ears to make out what they were saying.

‘It’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Almost all my life, it feels like.’

‘The whole thing was so chic. Because that’s what I always hated about going to church with my family. All the unattractive people there.’

‘And the music is so great. I’ve already downloaded some of the podcasts. A bit of talking, some music. I listen to it on the way to class. Oh, hey, look, there’s Abby. Come and join us, Abby.’

Abby left her half-drunk glass of wine on the table and walked over to the group. She smiled down at them.

‘Can I get you guys a drink?’

‘No. Let us get you one. It’s Ben’s turn to buy. What would you like?’

‘Um . . . Could I have a Diet Coke?’

They sat and talked for an hour. A huge bowl of nachos appeared in the centre of the table. Abby pulled out long strings of cheese, negotiating them carefully into her mouth. She enjoyed spending time with these young, burnished Americans. They had none of the scepticism of their English peers.

‘I’m going out to California next week,’ Abby told them. ‘I’ve never been before. I’m terribly excited.’

‘Oh, you’ll love it. Where are you going?’

‘San Francisco and LA. We’re doing a thing in LA with a bunch of Hollywood actors. The founder of the Course was out there last month and there seemed to be such excitement about it. I suppose a drive to make religion stylish was bound to go down well out there.’

‘I’ve got some friends at Berkeley who’d love to come along. Should I let them know about it?’

‘Sure. Please do tell as many people as you can about the Course. This is just the beginning. It’s really marvellous to be there at the beginning of something. David Nightingale, the founder of the Course, is making a huge speech in London today. Some terribly powerful church leaders from over here have flown out to watch him. With their support, the Course is going to simply explode in the US.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I must go and catch my train. I have to be in New York tonight. But here’s my card. Send me an email if you’d like to become campus representatives for the Course. We need as many people to spread the word as possible.’

She strolled downhill towards the train station. The university buildings were the colour of toast. Ivy grew up the wall beside her. On the other side of the road was a vast chapel built by a private-equity billionaire. It was here that she had spoken to the students earlier. Each time she came to one of these events she expected to be greeted by an empty hall, by spiky atheists intent on disrupting the meeting. But the rooms were always full. To see so many hopeful, upturned young faces, it gave her hope herself.

On the train back to New York she slipped her shoes off and tucked her legs beneath her on the seat. She was reading
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. Mouse had sent it to her. It was the edition they had given to him for his nineteenth birthday. He had crossed out their message and written underneath it. The new inscription read:
For Mummy and Baby Glass
. She smiled. The sun was going down as the train moved out of the leafy New Jersey countryside and into the vast urban sprawl that surrounded New York. She liked to listen to the strange place names as they edged towards the city: Rahway, South Amboy, Secaucus. There was something terribly exotic about it all, even though the towns themselves were ugly smears of industrialised wasteland.

Abby sat back in her seat with her hands resting across her tummy. She knew she wouldn’t feel a kick for another month, knew that there was still a long way to go. But the baby was blessed. After everything that had happened, after all the heartache and the loss, the baby had to survive. It was only fair. It kept the world in balance.

She spoke to the baby sometimes. Only just moving her lips, a half-whisper. She told it about its father. She told it about Lee. She spoke about David. She shivered with excitement as they pulled into Penn Station. She said a little prayer as the train clunked and hissed to a stop.
God, please look after the baby. After that, I really don’t care what else happens, just please let the baby survive. Amen.

Marcus was drunk. He had stopped at Bergdorf Goodman on the way home from the Course office on 52nd Street. He wanted to buy Abby a dress. They had a fundraising dinner at Trinity Church on Wall Street that evening. Abby was on the train home from one of her university sessions. He had walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mazelike department store until he came to a large room full of beautiful dresses. There was some sort of event being held. A group of women in their sixties stood around drinking champagne. Their hair was immaculately coiffed, their nails dripped red varnish, diamonds hung from earlobes and wattled necks and wide lapels.

Marcus began to wander around the room looking at the dresses. He held one up to the light, trying to make out whether it was black or navy blue. One of the older women came up behind him.

‘You buying something for the girlfriend, sweetie?’

‘It’s for my wife, actually.’

‘Oh, don’t you have the cutest little English accent? So it’s for your wife. It’s for his wife, Carmella.’ She took the dress from him and held it up against her, looking critically in the mirror. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll like this. Now what does she look like? About my build?’ She was tiny, her wasp waist held in with a large black belt. Marcus smiled.

‘Oh, no. She’s very tall. And she’s pregnant.’

‘Wonderful! How far along is she?’

‘Coming up for four months.’

‘Well, we must have a drink to celebrate. Come on, take a glass of champagne. Carmella, Nicole, get the girl to bring this young man a glass of champagne.’

Marcus took the glass, feeling rather dazed.

‘Now she’ll want something slimming. Is she showing properly yet? Does she have a bump?’

‘No, not a proper bump yet.’

Marcus drank almost an entire bottle of champagne with the ladies, who he discovered were members of an exclusive Bergdorf Goodman loyalty club. He left carrying a beautiful gold dress, another bottle of champagne slipped into the black-and-white carrier bag.

He walked along the concrete and steel canyon of Fifth Avenue until he reached the great green breath of the park. The sky above was a deep blue. The sun touched the uppermost branches of the trees. He browsed the bookstalls that had colonised the railings along the south-east corner of the park. The first leaves were appearing on the trees above him. He bought a copy of Fitzgerald’s short stories and walked across the busy street. He made his way into the Frick Gallery, flashing his membership pass at the guard on the door, who recognised him and smiled.

He had taken out membership of the Frick on his first day in New York. He walked through the quiet atrium where a fountain babbled soothingly. The gallery would close in an hour and the tourists had already left, heading back for cocktail hour at their hotels. Marcus strode through the rooms that held the major collections, barely looking at the Italian and Dutch masters, which he knew by heart now. He made his way up the narrow winding stairway at the end of the gallery to the second floor where the collection grew more haphazard, less easily negotiated by the portly tourists, less amenable to holiday snapshots. The rooms here were high and dusty, full of Louis XIV furniture and Limoges porcelain.

Marcus wandered through the silent, airless rooms until he came to a gallery overlooking the lily pond with its sparkling fountain. The dusk had a quality to it that he could taste at the back of his throat, something nostalgic and poignant. He knew it was partly that he was drunk. He sat down in a green wing-back chair. The trick was to manoeuvre the chair so that the security guards wouldn’t be able to see him when they did their rounds. Not that they seemed too concerned when they did. He and Abby were increasingly treating these upper rooms as their own.

They chose times when there were few visitors: just after opening time on weekday mornings, or in the evenings when the tourists had gone home. They settled themselves into the high, comfortable chairs and pretended that it was their home. It was an elaborate fantasy, and a thrilling one. Abby would speak about the children downstairs with the nanny, Marcus would bring a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
with him in order to make worldly-sounding comments about the day’s financial news. They would spend hours moving around the gallery’s labyrinth of still rooms, constructing slight variations in their imaginary lives: in some, Marcus was an oil baron; in others, he had made his fortune in pork bellies. Sometimes Abby was the great heiress and Marcus a devious adventurer.

That evening, he drew out the bottle of champagne from the Bergdorf Goodman bag and removed the cork very slowly to muffle the pop. He sat back and opened the book of short stories, his feet drawn up beneath him. He sipped at the champagne as he read, the small bubbles exploding upon his tongue. The yeasty aftertaste always made him think of money. He was reading ‘Babylon Revisited’, and when he came to the passage where the hero’s wife dies, he was overcome by a sudden heart-clutching sadness. He put the book down on his lap and concentrated on drinking, staring out with cool, dry eyes into the atrium. When the bottle was almost finished, he put it back in the carrier bag and made his way downstairs. He nodded at the security guard as he left the building and walked slowly up 70th Street to the apartment, smoking one of the cigarettes that he kept hidden in the inside pocket of his coat.

When he got inside, he hung the dress in a cupboard, made himself a gin-and-tonic and took a bath, listening for Abby as he lay back in a nest of foam. He could hear his heartbeat in the whisper of bursting bubbles. He missed being able to smoke in the bath. He knew he was drinking too much, and let some of the gin-and-tonic dribble from his mouth and into the water. Stretching one arm along the cold porcelain and resting his head on it, he fell asleep, his half-snores sending little puffs of foam into the air with each out-breath. When he awoke, the water was tepid, the bubbles gone. He heard the clanking of the lift shaft and then, a few moments later, the clink of Abby’s keys in the lock. She dropped her bag in the hallway and sighed. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
God, look after Abby and the baby. And when it comes, let it bring light into our lives. I pray for Mouse, Lord. I pray . . .
But then Abby appeared in the doorway and stood staring down at him. Marcus, shivering in the lukewarm water, felt very vulnerable. He drained the last of the watery gin-and-tonic,
folded
his hands over his shrivelled cock and closed his eyes.

David Nightingale was dreaming about Lee. In his dream, he awoke from a deep sleep and slipped out of bed. He heard the sound of a piano playing downstairs, but couldn’t be sure that this was what had woken him. Sally slept on. In his dream he knew that his wife was taking sleeping pills, perhaps also antidepressants. Something was not right with her, although he wouldn’t allow his conscious mind to acknowledge this. He made his way downstairs in pale blue pyjamas and padded into the drawing room. The standard lamp was on in the corner, casting shadows across the room. Lee was sitting at the piano, playing the ‘Promenade’ from
Pictures at an Exhibition
. She swayed with the music, her willowy figure stretching upwards and quivering as the song reached its conclusion. When she finished, she paused for a moment, and there was total silence. Then, with a deep intake of breath, she began again.

David crossed the room to stand behind her. He saw a slight shiver acknowledge his presence. She didn’t turn around. He began to stroke her hair, which was long again, and fell down upon her shoulders in waves. He ran his nails across her scalp and then pulled his fingers through her blonde tresses, allowing the hair to tumble through his hands. It was so fine that it was like moving his fingers through sand. Lee shivered again. He stroked her hair in time with the music. The motion of his fingers, and the swaying of Lee’s body, and the wheeling notes of the piano, building towards the great tragic finale: all combined to create an aura of exquisite sadness that pricked tears in David’s eyes. He leaned down and pressed his hard cheek against her soft one, inhaling, twining his fingers deeply into her hair. A heavy scent of straw filled his nostrils.