The Book of Rapture

by Nikki Gemmell

  ‘No,’ he replied, flat. ‘I don’t. I think you’re dangerous.’

  You shawled your arms around your shoulders, swiftly cold, wanting out. How well did you know him? How well did you know anyone? Everyone has a secret life.

  And now. The only one left. You hold the key. You, alone, can activate it. You have to get your kids out, you have to get your husband back. You, alone, can activate it. You hold the key. You know what they want. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and once, long ago, you craved the glory so much.

  The Lord is a man of war.

  104

  Now in their room a new dance begins.

  Your children’s aim is to ensnare this child from the other side, so he’ll never betray them, never give them up. Ensnare him with friendship and trust.

  The doctor’s boy loves the television. They let him perform a series of operations. He manages, miraculously, a scratch of jittery lines and as he hums away, absorbed, you can sense him revelling in this secret new life. Does he have his own TV? ‘Dad doesn’t allow it.’ Of course. Devout. Walled up. A life rigidly censored, controlled. The path mapped out: a religious school until he was placed under quarantine, an impressionable young mind corralled by holy books. Dependent thought, oh yes.

  Yet here he is now, diving deep. As if he’s heard about these people but has never seen one up close. Examining the tattoos drawn in pen on arms, your daughter’s earrings, the feral hair, clothes, examining the TV like an eighteenth-century surgeon learning from a corpse.

  Smart, and you hate that. Always want your kids to be the best. He wears glasses. Talks fast. Uses complicated words, must be often among adults. Can’t quite get his head around Soli’s vibrant, unknowing ripeness; reddens, often, at her glance.

  ‘This place doesn’t let in the sky,’ he declares, annoyed, patting the walls of their room like a horse’s flank. Perhaps he craves, just like your lot, out; all of them trapped by the adults in their lives. Some people are a force of nature but he’s the opposite, he looks like he’s spent his entire life in a van with the windows blacked out. All gangly legs and arms, pale, bereft of muscle and tone, watchful, hungry for experience, vividly alone. Just like your childhood once.

  You pray as you watch this taut, careful ballet unfolding that his edges have been softened, somewhere, that he’s been mellowed by sorrow at some point. Because that will give him compassion. And will give your kids a chance. It’s too early to call. You worry about your elder son the most, his enormous, open-hearted trust. Because with that comes loose talk.

  What went ye out into the wilderness to see?

  105

  ‘What’s that?’ Pin stares in wonder at the memory book.

  ‘Our holy book,’ Mouse says fast, coming between it.

  Pin nods. Doesn’t mention it again. Has no curiosity, doesn’t give it another look.

  Your holy book, yes. Soaked in love and landscape. And for you that is enough.

  I so bound in the spirit.

  106

  As Project Indigo came close to fruition Motl chewed his nails down to the bleeding quick. One night, in alarm, you wrapped each fingertip in the cave of your mouth and when you finally drew breath, and sat back, he said, ‘Please can we keep our scientific endeavours at a more humble level, Mrs. You’re getting above yourselves here. I do not like it.’

  ‘Sssh,’ you whispered, kissing a fingertip and pressing it to his lips. ‘It’s exhilarating. To get this far, as a species, to evolve so much. To unravel the mysteries of creation—’

  ‘I’m not so sure it’s called "evolving". And no one can ever explain the biggest question of the lot, Mum: how life was first created on this planet. How this incredibly complex, beautiful world began. I can tell you right now you’ll never even get close.’

  ‘Well, I damned well want to try,’ you teased. ‘I am loving this journey, you know that.’

  He pulled away. ‘Oh, for a simple life.’

  ‘So you’ve turned all Goddy on me, have you? And which religion is it, my love? The cow, the crescent, the cross?’

  ‘I don’t need any of them.’ Angry now. ‘It’s impossible to explain to someone like you. But it’s like I’m becoming myself, what I was always meant to be. And I don’t need a church for it.’ He jabbed his finger in fury ‘People who completely deny spirituality are missing what it is to be fully human — with all its fallibility and mess and stupidity, yes, but all its glory —’ his voice breaks ‘and beauty’

  ‘Religious people are either terrorists or paedophiles.’

  He sighed. ‘There are good people among them. Deeply intelligent, thinking people. They’re usually older. They’re sometimes near the end of their lives. They have this grace of certainty, and they shine with it. I admire it. I wish I could have it myself. You can extract just the meat from all their books, you know; use them like self-help manuals. Forget the religious nutters — the best people, well, they’re discerning. Thinking.’ He tapped his temples with both hands. ‘They’ve learned how to glean the sweetest juice from the texts and just toss away the rest. The Bible, the Koran, they’re like human life itself: inconsistent. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Good and bad, beautiful and ugly, it’s all there. Nothing’s black and white, my love, nothing.’

  It was your turn to sigh. ‘Can we agree to disagree on this one?’

  ‘As long as you respect my choice.’

  Different creeds are but different paths to reach the Almighty.

  107

  The doctor’s boy turns the scratching from the television into news briefly once; a finger has been grown onto a pig’s back. Tidge whoops. ‘Hey, dude, can we have The Simpsons next?’ His arm drapes around the boy’s concentrating shoulders and you shiver as you watch. Because he’s growing scarily fond of this person in their midst. Who visits every day, who never lets them rest. And who is entirely focused on getting the television to work; who has a discipline that’s beyond your rowdy lot.

  He has a satellite tracker and an alarm within a complicated watch on his wrist. The four of them huddle under the duvet as he explains it, the dial glowing a luminous green like the bridge of a ship.

  ‘Wow, can I have it?’ Tidge teases. ‘It’d sure come in handy.’ His finger circles it playfully ‘You’re coming with us, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can?’

  A frozen quiet.

  Everything suddenly fragile. No one knowing what to say next. Because either this unexploded grenade of a child in their midst hasn’t a friend in the world, or he’s a very good actor. And none of you can work out which.

  Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding.

  108

  Are your kids his secret project and he’ll eventually haul them off to his father as his triumphant catch? Does he think they’re a way to the feral kids outside, to getting them rounded up, the city cleansed of its rats? Does he just want company? Is it as simple as that?

  Whatever it is, your children are caught. This persistent boy wants to play, he wants kids to fill up his days and they’re forced to go along with it and all you can do is watch. Can’t read him. It’s rare for a child to be so closed off. You’re unnerved by his self-possession. His adult veneer. He likes everything just so; is used to rules; gets upset when your lot bicker among themselves; tells them his ears are hurting and wearily admonishes them to be quiet in a grown-up voice. You bristle with indignation as if a fellow parent has told them off. If he was on a sleepover at your house you’d be worried about what he’d be reporting back; your kids seem so big and naughty and energetic in comparison, slippery and cheeky, uncontained, rough. He’ll tell them when they’re getting too much, scold them to share, stop the fuss.

  He comes from a tight house, you can tell; he’s spent his life being reined in, is relentlessly neat, his clothes never bear a mark. He likes discipline. Expects it in others. You can’t imagine any other parents liking him except his own; you’re so competitive ab
out other kids, really wouldn’t need to hear how fabulous he is at everything; which you can see, infuriatingly, would be the case. You wonder about his true self, the veering off-course that exists in everyone, the possibility of an explosion underneath. What he would do if he worked your lot out? He’s a tattle-tale, you’re sure of that, it’s in his voice. The constant worry harangues you night after night.

  Do not be envious of each other; and do not outbid each other; and do not hate each other.

  109

  Bullets. Outside. Not far but not too close. A conversation of rat tat tats.

  ‘Kalashnikov,’ Pin, knowingly.

  ‘Three blocks away,’ Tidge, ‘tank attack.’

  ‘Raid,’ Mouse, ‘resistance.’ The noise changes to short pops.

  ‘Pistols!’ The boys all laugh. ‘Snap!’ And the three of them fire pretend machine guns out the window.

  Soli’s alone in a handstand against the wall. ‘So who exactly are we fighting, guys,’ she languidly enquires, ‘when we’re out of this place?’

  ‘Your lot.’ Tidge giggles at Pin. ‘You got us into this mess.’

  ‘Excuse me, your lot are the baddies.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Soli arcs gracefully up.

  ‘We’re the ones trying to fix this country.’

  Your kids stop, stunned. ‘Have you been out there?’ Your daughter angrily asks. ‘Have you seen what’s happening?’

  Pin covers his ears and chants la la la and Tidge strides into the thick of it with arms outstretched and says, ‘Stop, guys, stop’, because he hates conflict. ‘Let’s make a gang,’ he announces, ‘top secret,’ all the while looking at his sister, pleading with her. ‘Let’s say … the Getters, huh?’ because the friendship has to be maintained, because it’s the only way out.

  ‘Okay,’ Soli says finally.

  ‘Rule number one,’ Tidge announces gleefully, ‘no one gets left behind! We can never abandon a Getter comrade.’

  ‘Or betray them,’ Mouse adds drily.

  Pin jokes that it’s how his father got ahead and Soli says this isn’t the grown-up world, they’re far too screwed up for us and Pin rolls his eyes and smiles and you wonder about that adult sneer, you wonder what he’s gleaning in this place. Tidge says he’s got a secret handshake and he takes the left hand of Pin and places it palm down on his right. Squeezes. ‘Your turn,’ he says, and the boy takes his hand and does the same and Mouse takes Soli’s and smiles secrets at her and apologies and regret. She smiles, warm, back. ‘No one gets left behind,’ she whispers fierce, trying to bind all four of them, blood-tight, to strengthen around this frail quartet a net of friendship that will hold firm.

  ‘Hey, we’ve got to do that blood thing, too!’ Pin says. ‘You know, where you prick your fingers. Blood brothers. Seizing the day and all that. Come on.’

  Your children groan. But do it because they must.

  Ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.

  110

  His smile turns him into someone else. They coax it from him whenever they can. To become human to the enemy not objects of hate, you’ve drilled into them the importance of that. He’s not laughed once while he’s with them. ‘Am I that unfunny?’ Mouse finally enquires.

  ‘Yep.’

  Your boy drops to the ground, flings his arms wide, waits to be shot.

  ‘No! I mustn’t laugh. It’s my asthma. It restricts my breathing. The doctor says I shouldn’t risk it. I haven’t laughed for ages. I’m aiming for the Guinness Book of Records. You watch.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Tidge says, his eyes dancing up.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Pin protests. ‘I’ve got an inhaler and everything.’

  ‘It’s all in your head,’ Soli declares.

  And so the covert mission begins. To get him laughing, to get that shirt hanging out and the hair mussed up. Alphabet burping, gurning, flicking coins from elbows, break-dancing on their heads, all B’s tricks. Pin stares as if they’re the most peculiar children he’s ever met. They persist. Mouse flips his eyelids inside out until they hurt like a contact lens dried up. Pin’s mouth curls, a bloom spreads across his cheeks. ‘Ah ha!’ Soli points in triumph and Mouse flips his eyelids back. They’ll have him yet.

  A threefold cord is not quickly broken.

  111

  ‘You’re really lucky, you know.’

  ‘Um, why Pin?’

  ‘Because no one’s ever telling you what to do. You can stay awake until midnight if you want. And you never have to do your homework, or eat broccoli, or wear a button shirt.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s horrible not having a home to go to,’ Mouse shoots back. ‘We have this football, on our lawn, that’s waiting for us …’ He pauses, your heart races.

  ‘Don’t give up,’ Pin says in rescue.

  A shining quiet.

  ‘You’re really lucky your dad says goodnight to you every night,’ Tidge says finally, soft. ‘Ours used to do that. Blow out the light, he’d say, like it was a candle, and it’d turn off exactly when we puffed.’

  ‘You can have mine too if you want! He’ll adopt you.’

  Your children smile. Because it’s a start. A ridiculous one but a start nonetheless. And this stranger in their midst seems to have a quality their father loves so much — empathy — and he’d be punching the air at that. He despises callousness because he says it’s a failure of the imagination, a failure to put yourself in someone else’s place.

  ‘No one gets left behind,’ Soli suddenly whispers, and each child puts a palm on a hand and squeezes tight.

  In the shining quiet.

  Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

  112

  But their nights. Stained by scrawny sleep. Addled by B’s vanishing. What could have happened? Was this abandonment planned? Is he hurt, discovered, gone? His apples are pitted like old people’s faces with no teeth, even the flies have left in disgust. The fruit growing its fur is the last of him left.

  ‘We’ll have to throw it out, guys,’ Soli instructs.

  ‘No,’ Mouse pleads, ‘please.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because B is a thread to Mum and Dad. The only thread we’ve got left. Without him they’re gone … and we’re all alone.’

  ‘It’s going to be all right. Dad promised he’d come, he promised.’

  But her voice betrays she no longer believes it.

  Be islands of refuse unto yourselves.

  113

  ‘Maybe we’re meant to be sorting this out for ourselves.’ Tidge is sitting under the window holding the doll. ‘Maybe Pin can help. What do you think, guys?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Soli rushes in. ‘Do not even go there.’

  ‘Why?’

  She squats in front of him. ‘Because we can’t have your little mate knowing about B for a start. No matter how friendly he might seem he’s his father’s son. Always. Never forget that. He’s not meant to know people like us, let alone be our friend. We can’t have his dad ever knowing about this room. It would be disastrous.’

  Tidge gazes out of the window. ‘There are street kids out there. I’ve seen them.’

  ‘I have too.’ She stands behind him. ‘But it doesn’t mean they’ve got a better life.’

  ‘It’d be more friends. And a step closer to home. And maybe Pin could come too, maybe he wants a different life, just like us. You don’t know him. You’re not listening to me, you’re not listening.’

  Soli makes a little kissing noise of disapproval and runs her fingers up the huff of her brother’s back.

  Experts are agreed that the man who labels things ‘bad’ is thereby making it impossible for himself to see them as they really are.

  114

  He never behaves like he’s meant to. His hackles don’t rise when he sees them. He never humiliates them; it’s as if they’re just kids, nothing else; he’s not seeing anything different; not seeing a colour or a religion or a race. You can’t get your head around it. It can’t be this
simple. ‘I feel the opposite of lonely here,’ he says with a smile one day, flopping on the bed, ‘whatever that is. Filled up.’

  He brings gifts. They start anticipating his arrival. For Tidge, any stick-like object that has the potential to be a sword. For Soli, nail polish and glitter pens. For Mouse, one time, a strange white sphere with green stains.

  ‘Um, thanks. What is it?’

  ‘A pukka. For polo. It’s the only ball I could find. Until you can get your other one back.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The one on the lawn. That’s waiting for you.’

  Heart, swell.

  ‘Gee. Thanks. But I can’t catch, you know.’

  ‘Mate, you are all talk.’

  ‘I can’t catch, Pin.’

  The boy lobs the ball and Mouse reaches up and snatches it crisp; ‘eeeeh,’ he squeals and Pin stands there smiling, all his paleness gone and colour in his cheeks, and your daughter’s staring with her hands on hips, nodding, appreciating. ‘There you go.’ He laughs. ‘What did I tell you, dude?’ grinning at little Mouse who’s responding with, ‘Thanks, mate, thanks,’ over and over, he can’t stop. Because he’s feeling quite someone else, suddenly, someone better and bigger and straighter than himself. Because he caught a ball, the cool way, overhand, and he’s never done that. His smile is one huge watermelon split. Because no boy except his brother has ever looked at him like this. Like he’s whole. And in that golden moment your awkward, self-conscious, clotted little Mouse has his entire world filled up and you love this stranger for that, you will never forget it. Something has changed in this room, loosened; you’d battened down the hatches for so long but now, softly, something is breaking out.