The Rapture (37 page)

'Look,' I say, pointing. Joy McConey is sitting in a row of what look like VIP seats, a hundred metres away from us. She is clad in a robe of flowing white. Her eyes are closed, as though she is deep in meditation or prayer. She's holding a candle. Her pale red hair, decorated with a single lily flower, glimmers in its light. A frail, fading creature wrapped in a death-shroud. My heart goes out to her. I wonder where her children are. I see no sign of them, or her husband.

On an invisible signal, the five warm-up preachers turn to the choir and start to clap in rhythm. Taking their lead, the audience joins in as the music swells and spills across us like lapping water. Then, humming at first, the choir begins a wordless song, the men's voices buzzing low, the women's clear and warm. It's as soothing and graceful as morphine. On the giant screens, you can see into their eyes and their moving mouths. It's only when the lyrics start that I recognise the hymn.

Would you be free from the burden of sin?

There's power in the blood, power in the blood.

Would you over evil a victory win?

There's wonderful power in the blood . . .

Bethany sang it in the car. The elderly woman next to us starts up a high, quavering vibrato and the service at Feniton Acres comes back to me: the sense of belonging, of shared aspiration, of the fellowship of good people: the seduction of belief. The music pours and slides and swills, a pure, organic embrace. People rock and clap and sway about me. I would like to be whisked from the brink too. Or failing that, I would like to believe I will. I look at my watch. Where is Bethany? Where is the helicopter? Believe, I think.

Next to me the old lady stops singing and turns to me abruptly, her eyes brimming with joy. 'Yes, my darling. Believe! Believe in Him and you shall enter the Kingdom!'

Would you do service for Jesus your King?

There's power in the blood, power in the blood.

Would you live daily His praises to sing?

There's wonderful power in the blood.

As the music builds to a crescendo and dies off, swallowed in clapping and whoops, I'm aware of a new, more urgent tone entering the clamour. Heads are turning. I almost don't recognise Leonard Krall when he comes bounding along the aisle nearby and up to the raised stage. Like his fellow-preachers, he's dressed entirely in white and sporting a discreet microphone headset. There are high-fives and catcalls as he lifts his arms skyward in greeting. His good-looking, honest face is reproduced on the huge screens all around. Ten giant Leonard Kralls, radiating identical energy and faith. If there is power in anyone's blood today, it's running in this man's veins.

'People, welcome to the Temple of Praise, and welcome to the greatest day of our lives!' His voice reverberates through the huge space and up into the darkening air. The worshippers cheer and wave their arms in delight. There's a hectic buzz, a whirr of joyful laughter. I feel the envy again.
If only.

'The Rapture is upon us, the Lord be praised!' Showmanship is a talent. He has it. The commanding bulk, the confident body language, the electric energy, the unassailable conviction. There is clapping and whistling from the hard core. But I begin to sense a more muted and anxious reaction elsewhere. 'This day is a day like no other!' declares Krall. 'This day is a day of joy, the day all true Christians have been waiting for and praying for. Remember what Jesus promised us:
since you have kept my command to endure patiently, I will also keep you from the hour of trial that is going to come upon the whole world to test those who live on the Earth. Revelation. After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in Heaven.' People are joining in, mouthing the words with him. 'And the first voice which I heard was as of a trumpet talking with me, which said, Come up hither!'
There's wild applause. Next to Frazer Melville, a large black woman in a red dress is rocking to and fro. Her companion, a young boy with Down's syndrome, closes his eyes and hums dreamily. 'Yes, folks. We shall be caught up and enter into the Kingdom of Heaven! We shall enter that door! I am one of many who'll be repeating that good news in this temple today.' Krall pauses and his face shifts. 'But today is not all about us and our joy. First of all, we grieve for our loved ones, those who have not found God and will be left behind to endure the Tribulation. Yes, we grieve for them. And we ask for strength. Let me tell you something else.' He looks up, and turns slowly. His expression, caught on the giant screens, is now one of intense thoughtfulness. 'Today, God has handed us the privilege of an extra task before the time of deliverance unto Him. Yes. Today, God sent a challenge to us.' He draws in a deep breath, then exhales slowly. 'And I will confess it to you now, folks. A particular challenge to me.'

There's a ripple of interest. Catching its wave, Krall stands expectantly, then with a half-smile points to the opposite side of the stadium. Frazer Melville takes my hand and grips it in his.

'Praise be to the Lord!' Krall shouts, his smile transforming. It's the transcendent, replete expression of a man in love.

'Hallelujah,' breathes my neighbour.

'Oh no,' says Frazer Melville, nodding at the giant screen.

Bethany.

She's climbing the steps to the platform. I glance about, but can't place her in the flesh, so I return to the projected image. Her gait is still jerky and stiff, as though she isn't fully in charge of her body. Her two guards are hanging back, fingers pressing their earpieces, awaiting further instructions. She is tiny, dwarfed by the colossal amphitheatre. Then the shot tightens. Blown up on the screen, her eyes are deep and dark, their pupils dilated wide.

'It's Bethany Krall!' shrieks a woman from somewhere behind me. 'It's his daughter! She killed her own mother! She has the Devil in her!' From elsewhere come similar cries of alarm.

'At least we know where she is,' I murmur to Frazer Melville.

'No!' yells a voice over to our left. Joy McConey is on her feet, stabbing her fist in the air. 'Don't, Len! Don't! I know her! I know her!'

But Krall appears not to have heard. Or he does not want to listen.

The flower falls from Joy's wig and she sits down in sudden defeat. She drops her candle and her face crumples.

The choir raises its arms and hums the chords of the hymn we have just sung.
There is power, power, power, wonder-working power
. . . The worshippers are pointing Bethany out to one another with a mixture of curiosity, horror and high, coiled panic. From behind me come incoherent shouts, urgent disputes and cries of alarm which mirror Joy's outburst. Two women in front of me have got to their feet. Swaying in unison, they emit a bubbling cascade of noise - neither language nor song - and raise their arms in the air, as if to ward off evil. Anxiety swarms across the hall. But Leonard Krall stands tall. With an outstretched hand, still smiling, he gestures at the audience to hush.

'Have no fear, people. Welcome, my darling Bethany. My beloved daughter. My blessed child.'

Bethany smiles back at him, and her smile is so beautiful and unexpected and pure it stalls us all. I didn't know her to be capable of it. It's that of a loving daughter. Her voice chokes as she utters simply, 'Dad.'

There is a brief pause, then a collective exhalation of breath. Then a rush of voices all talking at once.

Krall raises his voice. 'Yes. This is my daughter, people. My daughter.' He is beaming.

'My darling Bethany. We were separated by the evil. But now, to my great joy, she has cast out the Devil and expressed the wish to return to God!' He lifts his voice to a shout. 'Praise be!'

Agitated murmurs swill around the amphitheatre like whisky in a glass, releasing new flavours. There are triumphant exclamations but more hostile undercurrents too. Not everyone, it seems, is ready to celebrate the news. But Bethany's smile widens as she lifts her face upward, as if to Heaven. On the huge screen, she looks unexpectedly and insanely pretty. Her eyes gleam.

'Tell them, Dad,' she says. 'Tell them why I'm here.'

Hushing the crowd with his hand, Krall breathes in deep before he speaks. 'Folks. Many of you have heard about Bethany's fight with evil, and with her own demons. Many of you here know what she has done in the past.' He pauses. 'And I know it all too well. To my sorrow.' Heads are nodding. 'I know some of you will be sceptical. But we all have loved ones who we hope will be saved today, and who we pray may be part of the Rapture.' At this, there is a heartfelt swell of assent. 'And today, a father's wish has come true.' His smile is genuine. 'My Bethany has chosen to ask for God's forgiveness! And our Lord is a Lord who listens!' Bethany's hands clasp together in supplication and she falls to her knees, head bowed. On the screens, all that's visible in the close-up shot is the stubbled top of Bethany's skull, but then she looks up. Her eyes are glittering with tears. She raises her hands high above her head. Excitement and unease flash through the crowd. 'I hear disbelief from some of you,' continues Krall. 'But let me remind you that the Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even if we rebel against him! My daughter is proof that it's never too late to banish the Devil.
Repent ye therefore and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord!
Bethany, do you repent your sins, truly, before God and before us who witness you here today?' They must have met and talked before they came on stage. But how did she convince him? Was that strange, angelic smile enough to lure him into this bizarre, public folie a deux? 'There are those here who want to hear it from your mouth. Has the Devil left you? Speak!' He raises his hands in the air. 'Tell them, Bethany. And tell the Lord! Tell everyone! Let them hear it for themselves!'

There's a huge cry of enthusiasm, mixed with yells of warning.

Slowly, Bethany gets to her feet and faces her father. Her eyes are still wet. She speaks quietly.

'Thank you for letting me speak here today, Dad. I know what I put you through.' There are noises of sympathy. A girl who killed her mother is asking her father and God for forgiveness: can that be anything but a miracle, fitting for a day such as this? A man standing near me frowns and nudges his wife: they exchange a concerned nod. But other worshippers are beginning to soften: the two women in front of me are whispering to one another gently and holding hands. Bethany spreads her skinny scarred arms wide, pivoting slowly around until she has taken in the entire floodlit crescent. She is her father's daughter: I can see it now more than ever. She has his gift.

'It's true I had something inside me,' she says. There's something new in her voice I haven't heard before. There's confidence. But there's also something you could mistake for humility. 'And it was something terrible.' She nods vigorously and hangs her head in an aspect of misery. Around us, there is a flurry of whispers. 'Something so ugly and evil that most of you wouldn't believe it.' More chatter: intrigued, doubting, supportive. Bethany begins pacing the stage, glancing about sadly as she speaks. She has their full attention. 'Mum and Dad kept trying to get rid of it. But it wouldn't leave me, no matter how much they prayed. They tried over and over again. They did everything. And they tried harder each time. Isn't that right, Dad?'

Leonard Krall's face is still luminous, but a shadow crosses it. He nods warily. 'Yes, my love. We did our best, your mother and I. God rest her beloved soul.'

'In the end they had to strip my clothes off and tie me to the stairs for three days instead of just a couple of hours.' The woman next to me catches her breath. 'Now I can see some of you are shocked, but it was for my own good, wasn't it, Dad?' Leonard Krall steps forward, clearly horrified, but she raises a hand to stop him. 'No, Dad, let me tell them what you had to do to try and save me from myself! Let me tell them what you and Mum did, in the name of the Lord!'

'Yes, let's hear it!' shouts a man's voice.

Bethany is in her stride now. Her voice is getting firmer and louder, her pacing faster, until she's skipping about the stage, almost dancing. 'You had to leave me there for three whole days, shitting and pissing on the floor. You couldn't let me eat or sleep. That's how strong your love was, and I admire you for it!' Krall is gesturing vigorously for a technician to disable her microphone. There is some crackling and then the siren of howl-around but she keeps talking through it. 'You had to get rid of the Devil in me because the Devil doesn't believe in the Earth being without form and void and darkness on the face of the deep and all that shit. But the fact is, the Devil believes what she's told at school
because it makes fucking sense, Dad
.' There's a collective gasp. A man shouts something incoherent, and the security guard next to me clenches his fists. Krall is staring at his daughter, open-mouthed.

'Bethany, you know it wasn't like that!'

'Yes it was, that's what happened, Dad, you know it is. And ' But with an ugly electronic squawk followed by a series of crackles, Bethany's microphone is cut off. She continues yelling soundlessly for a few seconds, then with a sharp, swift movement she flings herself at her father and yanks his headset off. Too stunned to react, he stands motionless while she dervishes about him, as though on hot coals, shrieking into the headset clutched in her hand.

'Yes! It was! But it didn't work, did it?' Her face is bright with rage. 'So you and Mum started shaking my head, do you remember that? That's how you get the Devil out, right? You take turns grabbing your kid's head. And you shook it so hard it felt like my brains would spill out. But you still couldn't get rid of the evil thing! It's still in there, Dad! You know why? Because it's not the Devil. It's me! It's Bethany! I'm Bethany all the way through. There's no Devil in there and there's no God. There's me and that's all. There's just fucking
me.'

With a loud crumpling sound the microphone is abruptly unplugged. Bethany stops in her tracks, facing her father with rigid defiance. The audience's lull gives way to welling declarations of outrage, then desperate shouts. Several men in the front rows jump to their feet, then look around questioningly, unsure of what to do because it seems that all of a sudden there is no one in charge. Least of all Leonard Krall. The woman next to me fans herself furiously with her hymn-sheet. Our usher rushes off towards a group of yellow-clad staff. I should have guessed that if faced with the temptation, Bethany would be unable to resist. That she would have done anything to secure this confrontation. But looking at Leonard Krall now as he steps back from her, his face chalky, unable to believe the scale of the betrayal, I realise it wasn't even that difficult.