by Carys Bray
“Is there someone you’d like to …?” She can’t finish the sentence. Why does he think it doesn’t matter if he breaks the commandments?
“Why are you here? Is it to do with Issy?”
“No.”
“Don’t do anything stupid while you’re upset.”
Zippy bites the insides of her cheeks and digs her nails into the palm of one hand.
“People reckon when bad stuff happens you get some kind of spiritual experience,” he continues. “Like a sort of consolation prize or something, you know—‘after the trial cometh the blessings.’ ”
“It’s not like that. You just feel really upset all the time. It’s actually pretty hard.” Her voice wobbles and ducks under her windpipe and it takes her a moment to catch and reclaim it.
Adam sighs. He puts his arm around her shoulder, pulls her close, and she leans against him awkwardly, holding her face away from his body.
“Oh, come on.” He slides his hand up to her head and angles her jaw with his fingertips until her cheek meets his chest. She holds her breath for a moment, afraid to swallow in case it sounds like a gulp. She can hear his heart through his T-shirt; she would like to turn her head, press her mouth to his chest, and eat every beat.
“I’m trying to be good,” she continues. “It’s not easy, is it?”
“No.”
“Sometimes I think about things I shouldn’t.”
Adam’s chest dips and she can tell he is amused.
“Everyone does,” he says.
“But I’m trying.”
“I know. You’re a good person. You believe.” He leans his head down to meet hers and strokes her crown with the slope of his jaw.
“ ‘We believe all things, we hope all things …’ ” she cites, warming the fabric of his T-shirt with the puff of her breath.
“Don’t quote the Articles of Faith at me.”
“Sorry.”
“You should go home.”
“OK.”
But she doesn’t move. She wants to memorize this moment so she can retrieve it—hang it up in her imagination and take it out every so often to rewear the imprint of his chest against her cheek, resmell his skin, and relisten to the low thud of his heart. Dad says teenagers don’t feel proper love; he says it’s just infatuation. But he’s wrong. She knows what she feels is love, she can tell because it’s not just a shivery, upside-down, flip-flopping feeling, it’s also fierce and determined, and it won’t change, even after all the silly stuff he’s just said.
“Come on, then.” He lifts his arm away and stands. “Up you get.” He extends his hand and Zippy clasps it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. “I’ll find Lauren for you, if you like,” he says.
She nods. He’s still holding her hand and she doesn’t want to say anything in case it makes him let go.
His thumb strokes her ring finger. “Is that a CTR ring?”
“Yes.” She unfastens her hand and hides it behind her back.
“As if you need reminding to Choose The Right.”
He reaches out to touch the flower clip behind her ear. She inches forward and so does he and then he is somehow hugging her. His arms lock behind her and his hands press her to him and she can feel each of his fingers stamping their warmth through the fabric of her borrowed cardigan and dress. She wedges her cheek against the bump of his pectoral muscle and clamps her arms around his waist. His belt buckle digs into her stomach and she clings to him until she feels soft everywhere, until her knees are melting and she wants to spread herself all over him like honey on toast. If she could, she would climb right inside his skin and wrap herself up in him. She closes her eyes and forgets all about finding Lauren and going home.
ZIPPY LIES ON the roll-out bed, staring at the ceiling as Lauren describes kissing Jordan Banks.
“He was so good at it I was practically having snogasms.” Zippy isn’t exactly sure what Lauren means, but she makes agreeable noises in the right places. She doesn’t say anything about Adam—what happened between them is private.
She’s glad when Lauren stops talking and falls asleep because it means she can cry in peace. The covers are scratchy, they don’t smell like home, and she isn’t sure why she is crying, whether it’s because Issy is dead and Mum is hiding upstairs like Mrs. Rochester, or because of what happened when Adam stopped hugging her in the garden.
“You’re nice,” he said, and then he bent down and kissed her. Perhaps he had intended only one small peck at the verge of her lips, but she didn’t want one of those Brother Campbell-approved kisses, so she turned her head until their mouths bumped and Adam made a noise like a sigh and kissed her properly. His lips were warm and soft and cautious at first. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth he tasted like bread and himself—remembering it makes her stomach scrunch and reminds her of something Dad always says to illustrate that obedience is freedom: “Kites have to be tethered before they can fly.” While Adam was kissing her she felt grounded for the first time in weeks, as if her gravity had been switched on again and her feet were suddenly heavier than her grief; she felt back within herself, completely alive, grateful for the drum of her heart, the thud of her blood, and, somewhere inside, she was flying.
When he pulled his lips away she tried to think of a way to make him carry on. She remembered the blond girl in the kitchen standing with her mouth on his collarbone; her own lips wouldn’t reach that high—she’d get a mouthful of T-shirt if she tried to kiss him there—but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t stopping, he was just bending down to kiss her neck, and she couldn’t stand there doing nothing, so she grabbed one of his hands, lifted it to her mouth and kissed the pads of his thumb and fingers, right on the spots where they touch the piano keys. And when she’d kissed every one, she started again, and again, and carried on until he slid the tip of his index finger into her mouth. She explored it with the end of her tongue and he pushed it farther, demonstrating that he didn’t mind the germs in her mouth, and she began to suspect he hadn’t been thinking properly when he said the horrible stuff about girls. She licked his finger and then she sucked it, which he seemed to like because the harder she sucked, the more fiercely he kissed her neck, which was lovely: a combination of cheek and lips, of rough and soft, grazing her neck, her collarbone, and then, as he slid her cardigan and the strap of Lauren’s dress to one side, her shoulder. She wasn’t sure whether he should be doing that, whether it was breaking the Law of Chastity, but when he nibbled her skin her stomach skipped and she responded by testing his finger with the blades of her teeth.
“Whoa, Zippy.”
He took a step back; he was breathing heavily and she realized she was too. He definitely liked her. He couldn’t kiss her like that and not like her. Maybe he even loved her—she felt as if she might burst into song, the way they do in musicals and Disney movies. It was suddenly easy to imagine what it might be like to take all her clothes off in front of a man and let him touch her everywhere, not minding at all about being modest. It was easy to envisage how she might one day walk the tightrope between sin and love without falling off, how it could be wonderful and not wicked.
She wanted to say “I love you,” the words were right there, all warm and ready in her throat, when it occurred to her that the only thing better than being kissed by Adam would be for Issy to be alive, and remembering Issy made her sad, so she made a little joke.
“You’ve got to marry me now, you dirty sandwich licker.”
Adam’s eyebrows shot up and he pulled a horrible face, as if marrying her was the worst thing he could possibly imagine. Then he hurried over to Jordan Banks’s back door and held it open.
“It was a joke,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t respond. He pushed past the dining-room crowd and went straight upstairs. She followed him as far as the hall but stopped beside the bottom stair. A few moments later, Lauren came down.
“Adam said you want to go. Are you OK?”
She nodded and dawdled
as they approached the front door, glancing over her shoulder, hoping he would reappear on the stairs.
The roll-out bed isn’t even a little bit comfy but it doesn’t matter, there’s more important stuff to worry about. Maybe the blond girl was waiting upstairs for Adam, perhaps he wrapped his arms around her, told her she was nice and broke all sorts of commandments. What if he dies unexpectedly, before he has repented? He won’t go to the Celestial Kingdom, he’ll have to wait in the Spirit Prison until he is judged and then he’ll have to spend Eternity in one of the lower Kingdoms, without a wife or any family, forever. She scrubs at her cheeks with her pajama sleeves, she’s got to stop thinking about miserable stuff—Adam’s not likely to die for a long time.
She rolls onto her side and hugs a big dollop of duvet. She has ruined everything with her scary, desperate joke—all agony, no hope. He’ll never love her now.
– 14 –
Stupid Twat
Cabbage and fish—the smell gusts out like a big fart when Brother Rimmer opens the front door.
“Well, you’ve got a face like a line of wet washing, Alma Bradley.”
Course he has—last Saturday he had to clean the chapel and today he’s stuck being an odd-job man. Al shouldn’t be here at all, he should be playing football with Matty and the rest of the team.
Brother Rimmer tuts and shuffles back carefully—he could do with one of those reversing alarms: beep, beep, beep. He is the widest person Al knows: normal at the top, with a droopy neck and sloped shoulders, but his waist, oh, it’s tremendous, as if all of his fat has slipped down to his middle, where it hangs like a massive ring doughnut.
The hall is decorated with jagged-edged pictures of the prophets torn out of the Ensign and Blu-tacked to the wallpaper. Mum says Brother Rimmer is a character. On Fast and Testimony Sundays he likes to wobble up to the pulpit and say weird shit. Once he said if everyone prayed at the same time they’d generate enough energy to power a lightbulb.
“Come in, come in.”
Al follows Brother Rimmer into the living room.
“Sit down there, lad.”
He perches on the edge of a grubby pink velvet sofa with tassels along the bottom. Brother Rimmer lifts his colossal cardigan out of the way and sits on a swivel chair next to his computer.
“I bought this after Sister Rimmer died,” he says, “with the compensation money.” He pats the computer as if it’s alive.
Sister Rimmer had a hip replacement and then she died. Brother Rimmer sued. Everyone knows because he often mentions it in Testimony Meeting, although he never says how much money he got.
Next to the computer is a special keyboard with wide white keys that looks like it was designed for partially sighted people, but Brother Rimmer probably needs it for his fat fingers.
“This computer has given me a whole new lease on life,” he says as he switches it on, like he’s in an ad or something. “Did you know that the Interwebs were created so people can trace their ancestors and do their Temple work?”
Al knows he should let this pass, but he’s fed up. “They told us at school that a bloke called Tim Berners-Lee invented the Internet.”
Brother Rimmer chuckles. “I expect the Holy Ghost prompted him to do it—Tim whatsit and God.” He taps his nose with his finger as if he has just revealed a Top-Secret Fact. “Do you want to see my family history?” He opens a Word document. “Look here,” he says. “Look what I’ve found out. I’m related to the royal family and they’re related to Jesus through the kings of Scotland, see? And the kings of Ireland and the Viking kings, are you following me? And here we’ve got the kings of Israel. If you go back further, I’m related to Noah and then Adam. There you are, lad. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I like to surf the Interwebs and find things out. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to use my noodle.”
Al sniggers.
“So, shall we get to work, then?” Brother Rimmer heaves himself to his feet and motions to Al to follow him. He heads into a poky kitchen with funny, old-fashioned, boxy units in a horrible shade of green, then he opens the back door to reveal a large garden, covered in knee-high grass, dandelions, and other flowers Al can’t name. It’s going to take hours and hours to mow.
On the left side of the garden there’s a garage with a rusty-looking up-and-over door and a window and door in its side.
“Is that where you keep your lawnmower?”
“Oh, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not too bothered about the grass. ‘And God said let the earth bring forth grass’—who am I to argue? There’s more important things to be getting on with.” Brother Rimmer waddles out into the garden.
“Come on,” he says. “Keep up!”
When he reaches the garage he pulls a set of keys out of his cardigan pocket. He fumbles for a moment before slipping the right one into the lock. The door opens and there is a warm waft of wood and something sharp and tangy that reminds Al of the stuff people paint on their fences. Brother Rimmer turns on the light and steps inside.
Al follows. He scans the space: ancient lawnmower, a couple of toolboxes, a high-backed armchair, and several shelves loaded with canned food—mushy peas, corned beef, and peach slices. In the middle of the garage something is covered by a massive sheet.
“Put the wood in the hole, lad.”
“What?”
“Close the door!”
“Oh, OK.”
Once Al has shut the door, Brother Rimmer swoops the sheet away, as if he’s doing a magic trick, and Al is disappointed. Underneath there’s just a wooden thing. A sort of big box on wheels.
“Well, what do you think of that?”
Al can see he’s supposed to be impressed, but he isn’t.
“It’s a handcart, Alma Bradley, a genuine, handmade handcart. I built it myself and you and I are going to restore it.” Brother Rimmer sinks into the armchair. “You aren’t the most miserable person I’ve ever seen, but you look like him. Come on, lad! Open up the big toolbox. Unclip it just there. You want the sandpaper sheets. The thickest one, that’s right. Now rub along the wood in the same direction as the grain. Look for the grain—it’s like a tide—see which way it’s going, and rub.”
Al brushes the paper along one of the cart’s long arms. The scratchy noise makes his hair stand on end.
“That’s right! Take your jacket off and put some muscle into it. Here, give it to me, I’ll look after it for you. Know why I made the handcart?”
“No.” Al’s arm is already beginning to ache.
“It’d certainly come in handy if the prophet said it was time to return to Zion, wouldn’t it, eh? We used to talk about it a lot, when Sister Rimmer and I first joined the Church—the gathering of the saints.”
“But they had planes when you joined the Church, didn’t they? So you wouldn’t need a handcart.”
“Course they did, I’m not that old! But all sorts’ll happen in the Last Days. What if you needed to flee and there weren’t any planes left? I’ll tell you what you’d do; you’d pack your belongings and your Food Storage in this old girl. Then you’d pull her to Liverpool, where you’d hop on a boat to New York and trek to Utah, just like the pioneers.
“Keep rubbing, that’s right. Once you’ve done that arm, come round here and do this one. Not long ’til the Second Coming now. Have you been watching for the signs of the times?”
“No.”
“ ‘No man knoweth the hour,’ but the righteous will recognize the signs. Do you know what it says in my Patriarchal Blessing? It says I’ll live to see it. I’ll see the Second Coming! How about that, then?”
Al shrugs. People have been waiting for the Second Coming for two thousand years. It probably won’t happen. It’s just something to talk about, like England winning the World Cup.
“Every nation will gather in Jerusalem to see Jesus appear on the Mount of Olives and destroy the wicked people who don’t believe. He’ll roast them like
crackling and then he’ll bring peace to Earth. And I’m going to see it all. Have you had your Patriarchal Blessing?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno.”
“So you don’t even know which of the ten tribes you’re from? You should get it, lad. It’ll set your whole life out on paper and let you know what’s to come. Once you know what’s coming, there’s no need to be scared. ‘If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear.’ ”
“The stuff about people being roasted sounds pretty scary to me.”
“Course it isn’t, it won’t be happening to you. Do you know your Articles of Faith?”
Al had to memorize all thirteen Articles of Faith when he graduated from Primary to Youth. Mum bought him a packet of football cards for every article he memorized, but he can’t remember any of them now.
“Give us number ten.”
He clears his throat. “ ‘We believe …’ ”
“Good guess! They mostly start with ‘We believe,’ so you were pretty safe there. ‘We believe in the literal gathering of Israel and in the restoration of the Ten Tribes; that Zion will be built upon the American continent; that Christ will reign personally upon the earth; and that the earth will be renewed and receive its paradisiacal glory.’ ”
“Oh, yeah.”
“ ‘Come to Zion, Come to Zion! For your coming Lord is nigh!’ ” Brother Rimmer sings the words of the hymn in a thin, reedy voice. “Do you know where the ten tribes are?”
“No, um—are they lost?”
“I’ve been researching it on my computer and guess what? They’re inside the Earth.”
Al stops sanding. “What? Alive? And inside the Earth?”
“That’s why no one’s found them. Airplanes aren’t allowed to fly over the North and South Poles. You know why? It’s where the openings are. And it’s why you can’t see the Poles properly on Google Earth.”
“Maybe you can’t see properly ’cause everything’s, you know, dead white?”
“There’s an expedition planned for next year, to the North Pole, just above the Arctic Circle, where the sea isn’t level anymore. They’re going to search for the opening. I’ve made a donation.”