Blinded by the Light

by Sherry Ashworth

  “No. Let’s go to another island. There are lots of small islands. We need to stop for the Morning Service. I want to pray.”

  “Later on,” I said, trying to stall him.

  “I want to pray,” he said.

  “Look, you can pray here. In the boat. While I row.”

  Fletcher fell to his knees and while he mumbled to himself I took the opportunity to row as fast as I could. My arms were aching with the effort. The current was strong and it took every ounce of my strength to prevent us going too far out to sea. A breeze set in again, and thankfully it pushed us towards the shore. The first habitation I come to, I thought, I’ll jump and run for it.

  Fletcher got up and the boat rocked. He stood and clumsily made his way towards me. He remained upright, barely maintaining his balance.

  “Let me take the oars now, Joe,” he said.

  “No. It’s OK. I’m fine.”

  “I am the Servant. To me is the labour.”

  He advanced. There was going to be no way I could prevent him from taking the oars from me. He was bigger and stronger, and if we struggled we’d capsize the boat. I looked out to the shore. I reckoned I could swim the distance. If Fletcher took the oars, I’d be entirely in his power.

  “All I want to do is serve you,” he said.

  I jumped. The shock of the icy water took my breath away. For a second I dipped under the surface of the water, but then I was out again and began to swim. I hadn’t taken off my parka and the white robes I still had on clung to me and impeded my movement. The water was paralysingly cold. I thought, I’ve made the wrong decision, I’ll drown. But that voice in my head said, swim, swim!

  I tried an overarm crawl. Then I heard a splash and next thing I knew, Fletcher was swimming with me, catching up. I could hear his heavy breathing and knew he was gaining on me. I couldn’t swim any faster. The shore was still some way off.

  “Joe,” he panted, put an arm over me and I lost the rhythm of my stroke. I struggled in the water, spluttering and splashing.

  “Get away from me!” I tried to scream. I’m not sure he heard me.

  “Joe,” Fletcher said, panting. “I’m going to prove it to you. You’re a Perfect. An Immortal. When you know this, you’ll see your place is with me.”

  He pressed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down below the surface of the water. I thought, he wants me to drown, so I held my breath and then pushed upwards, although I was numb with cold. When I burst through into the air again, I swam as fast as I could, redoubling my efforts to get to the shore. I could feel seaweed tangling itself around my legs. Then Fletcher got hold of me once more.

  “You cannot die,” he said, and pushed me again below the water, his hands pressing down on my head. I couldn’t hold my breath and gulped in seawater. But my feet came into contact with the seabed. I was nearer to the shore than I thought. I righted myself and pushed upwards, escaping Fletcher and I was breathing in lungfuls of cold air. Dawn was breaking and I registered that the sky was streaked with pink. I managed a few more strokes before Fletcher got me in a bear hug this time. He pushed me over and was on top of me. There was no way I could escape. He was saying something. I could no longer hear, or see. And then his mouth made contact deliberately with mine, and the loathing and fear I felt gave me the strength I needed. I kicked and pushed him off me and struggled free.

  I came up for air, then tried to run through the sea to the shore. Fletcher got me by the legs, and I lost my balance. I breathed, but instead of air I took in water. Fletcher let go of me and I was free again, floating free and I found I didn’t have the strength to move another inch, so I thought, I’ll float for a bit, just above the seabed, and regain my strength.

  It wasn’t cold any more down there. It was a relief to float, to let the water enfold me. I wondered how long it would take to rise to the surface again. One, two, three, four, six, seven, eighteen, nineteen, eleven, eleven…

  The pain and struggle ceased. I was travelling without effort, moving towards the Light. Where there had been terror, there was now beauty and peace beyond all understanding. An angel swathed in brightness…

  28.

  Bea’s Story

  Joe’s mum and dad were still asleep. Quietly, so as not to disturb them, I got out of the car and realised I was fully awake, every sense was alert. There was a blush of pink in the sky. I put on Joe’s mum’s coat and crept around the side of Carbister, close to the wall, down towards the shore. The wall went right down to the rocks. There was no way I could get in.

  I tried to quell my rising panic. Joe was in trouble and I couldn’t reach him. A path went away from Carbister just above the shore and I thought I would walk along there, to calm myself and to decide what to do. Maybe I was creating my own fear. Maybe the tension I’d been through was playing tricks with my mind.

  As the sky lightened, I looked out to sea. It should have been beautiful, the rising sun revealing the horizon, but then it spelt menace. I saw a boat. It was quite near. But it was empty. Strange.

  And then I saw the struggle. Two men in the sea, flailing about. Quick as a flash I was running down the slope to the water, tripping, falling, sliding down. I got to the shore – they were closer, but now I could only see one of them. Just one. Someone had drowned.

  I waded into the water. I had never been a good swimmer but I thought, if I believed I could swim, maybe I could. Then the figure I saw disappeared from view. Now, Bea! I told myself. I swam a bit and saw the figure, just below the surface of the water. So I lifted him up, I lifted Joe up and wailed my grief.

  In a moment Joe’s dad was in the water with me, and his mum wasn’t far behind. We got Joe back to the shore, not knowing if he was dead or alive. Next thing I knew, his dad was on his mobile calling for an ambulance. Joe’s mum cradled his head in her arms.

  “Let me,” I said. “I learned first aid once.”

  I tilted his head back and lifted his chin to open his airways and I thought, he’s not breathing. I glanced down at his chest and it wasn’t rising. I listened at his mouth – nothing. I put my cheek to his mouth. My cheek remained cold. I knew what to do. I couldn’t afford to panic or give way to my emotions. I knelt by him and pinched his nose closed. I checked his chin was still lifted which meant his airway was open. I breathed in deeply, put my mouth over Joe’s mouth, and gave him my breath. I counted to two. And I saw his chest rise. I removed my mouth and watched his chest fall. Again, I thought. So I breathed in, covered his mouth, and breathed once more into him. Please, please, I thought. Breathe by yourself. For me, Joe. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I put my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. And I could feel the beat of his blood. He was alive. Joe was alive. I breathed into him one more time, my hope rising. When I moved away I could see a faint movement in his chest. He was breathing by himself.

  “He’s OK,” I said to Joe’s parents.

  We got him into the recovery position and stayed with him until the paramedics arrived.

  29.

  We stayed together in the hospital. They let Bea sit by my side and while I was holding her hand, I felt better.

  They said I nearly drowned. And I remember that feeling I had, of being at peace, of wanting to drift away and never come back. But unlike Rendall, I was glad I came back, because I had Bea.

  When I first saw my parents I couldn’t look at them. The guilt was unbearable. What a shit I’d been, so arrogant about my beliefs, so stupid, so selfish. But Mum said it was all right and there wasn’t anything to forgive. Mum, Dad and Bea by my bedside. All of us – my real family.

  It took me a long time to begin to feel normal again. The start was when I noticed odd little things – the way all the nurses had Scottish accents. One morning I imitated them for Bea and she laughed. The next stage was the first time I felt hungry. There’s no better sensation than being hungry and eating. Just toast and tea – there’s nothing better.

  When I was ready they brought the police to me. I’d alr
eady told my parents all I remembered happening and they advised me to repeat what Fletcher had said. The officers didn’t seem surprised. Rendall’s body had been discovered – someone at Carbister had raised the alarm. Laban had been caught and was being questioned – the drugs squad had found hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of heroin. And Fletcher? The officers consulted with each other, and then one of them told me he’d drowned. He was dead. This is dreadful to admit, but I was relieved he had gone. Still, I hoped Fletcher’s death was as peaceful as my almost-death had been.

  I wanted Bea, and she lay on the bed with me, and we hugged, not saying anything. I think I slept for a bit. Then I ate again. Mum and Dad came over with the hospital telephone trolley and some coins.

  “Here you are,” they said. “Ring your sister.”

  I did.

  “Gemma?” I said. “It’s me. Joe.”

  “Joe?” There was silence. For the first time, Gemma was lost for words. But not for long. “Joe? Joe – you fucking idiot!” What could I say – I agreed with her assessment. Then she burst into tears. So did I. Pathetic, isn’t it?

  But speaking to Gem was a turning point. Reality re-asserted itself. I began to think about getting out of hospital and back home. We made plans to leave. Bea and Mum went to buy me some new clothes, some Gap jeans and a couple of sweatshirts. They were cool. It surprised me that I could feel pleasure in having them, but I did.

  The night before I left the hospital, Bea came to sit with me, and we were by ourselves for some time. We talked and talked. We raked it all over, how we could have got so taken in by the White Ones and why we had laid ourselves open to being brainwashed like that. We examined every little thing and thought we’d got it sorted, that we’d laid the ghosts to rest.

  But later that night, when Bea, Mum and Dad had gone and I pulled the shroud-like white sheet over me, I shuddered. At that moment I knew our complete recovery would take a very long time. I didn’t even know what good we’d be able to salvage out of the wreck.

  But, hey, I was alive, I had Bea, and the future beckoned.

  If you enjoyed Blinded By The Light, check out this other great Sherry Ashworth title.

  Catherine is a typical A-grade student from a middle class, high-achieving family, who suddenly, on entering the sixth form, loses her way. She stumbles from one situation to another, unable to work and turning to alcohol to take her mind off her problems. As she searches for answers through the varied and offbeat characters she meets, she learns a great many truths about life. Can she cope with the biggest truth of all – her own personality?

  Written in the first person, each chapter is addressed to someone different in Catherine’s life – her mother, a teacher, a schoolfriend etc, and reflects how Catherine is different to different people. It brilliantly reflects the pressures on young people today in a world where they haven’t got the time to grow up at their own pace. Is the face we present to the world our true self, or a carefully maintained construct?

  Buy the ebook here

  About the Author

  Sherry Ashworth was born in London. She started writing in 1989, and now has a total of eight adult novels and three young adult novels under her belt, including Disconnected, her first book for Collins. She lives in Manchester with her husband and two teenage daughters. All of her books are set partly or wholly in the North.

  By the Same Author

  Disconnected

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