The Rapture

by Claire McGlasson

  I didn’t say I crave it too.

  *

  Octavia stands in front of the altar. ‘And so the hour has come,’ She says, in a tone that is statesmanlike yet serene. ‘We must remember what the Prime Minister said in his address this evening: “Keep steady, keep steady. Remember that peace on Earth comes to men of good will.” Alas, he failed to mention that the same goes for women too.’ With a sweep of Her eyes She gathers up everyone in the room. ‘But let’s not waste our prayers on Mr Baldwin. He should have crushed this rebellion weeks ago. No, my heart goes out to the King and Queen. God has promised me they will come to no harm. But I only wish that they were here, protected, in His Garden. We should be pleased to have them as our guests!’

  There’s a noise outside. It is just a dog barking but we’re all on edge, braced for something to happen. The entire congregation jumps as the chapel bell above us strikes the first of twelve chimes, all except Octavia who stays perfectly still, eyes closed and head down, as if She is preparing to receive a vision. God has told Her this is a sign. Tonight marks the beginning of the end for the rule of man. Once the country goes to war with itself, chaos and terror will reign, just as the Bible has foretold. Then the bishops will come begging to open the box, and the way will be clear for Jesus to return to Earth.

  ‘We have God’s protection,’ She says, without lifting Her head. ‘Tonight we may hear the cries of the baying crowds in the streets outside, and from our windows see our town in flames. Out there may be a vision of Hell itself, but we are safe in the Garden. Panaceans, we shall come to no harm, for the Lord has given me His word.’

  We shall come to no harm.

  There is nothing to fear.

  But I am frightened. At any moment the world outside could come spilling over the wall, the anger of the working man thrown as a brick through a window, or a burning rag posted through a letterbox. And we all know that we could be a target. Women of independent means. Surely they’d relish the excuse to show us how vulnerable we really are.

  With a nod from Octavia, the ladies at the back start to file out of the chapel. It is late and they want to get home and lock their doors; this of all nights is not one to be wandering in the dark. They take their place in the queue, pairs of feet in a centipede’s hundred, shuffling along towards the door. I should leave with them but I want to stay. Octavia is still sitting motionless, attended by Her inner circle; Kate, Peter, Edgar and Emily are gathering, and I feel the same mixture of fascination and repulsion I had when I spied them through the keyhole of the Upper Room.

  Slipping behind the curtain into the room at the back of the chapel, which is used for storage, I turn off my lamp and wait in the dark. I said I would go straight to Ellen’s house, I should be there by now, but I want to watch. I want to know if I was wrong before.

  If they find me they will know I am spying. There is no purpose I can pretend to have, nothing I would have come to find. Only spare chairs, old copies of The Panacea and a dried flower arrangement encased in a thick layer of dust. A ladder leads up to the clock tower, identical to the one Peter built to access his attic room. I could climb it but the trapdoor at the top would be too heavy to lift without making a noise.

  Emily is lighting church candles in a circle around them on the floor, the flames sending pulses of light across the walls. ‘You stand before me as the Chosen, the four creatures around the throne of God in the Book of Revelation,’ Octavia says, gently. ‘Tonight, man’s rebellion fulfils His word and hastens His return to Earth. But, while the Lord’s prophecy is realised outside these walls, we must look to our own actions inside His Chosen Land.’

  There is a hint of anger in Her voice, then silence. She used to do this when we were children. When we were very small it was ‘take a moment to think about what you have done’, but by the time we were six or seven years old, Her silence was enough to wake the guilt in our stomachs, the first stirrings of the moths that would gnaw away inside. Sometimes a few would fly out of our mouths: confessions blurted, our bodies expelling the feelings of disgust and shame. ‘I didn’t say my prayers before bed.’ ‘I broke Ivan’s toy soldier, then hid it under his bed.’ Honesty is supposed to make you feel better but it never did. The look of disappointment on Mother’s face just made the crime more palpable.

  The Chosen want to know which of them has disappointed Her. Because one of them has. Or perhaps all of them. They stand with their heads bowed. Waiting.

  ‘The Lord demands obedience,’ She says, ‘not vanity.’ Edgar moves slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘There is no brake upon the vehicle of the soul when it goeth down its own path. The powers of a soul uncontrolled by true religion are the powers of darkness.’

  This is leading somewhere. Octavia has prepared this speech for a reason.

  Stand there and think about what you have done.

  ‘Powers to tell lies and not to flinch,’ She says. ‘Powers to appear more self-reliant and composed than others, powers to convince, to scheme, to fly in the face of all the simple Earth-conventions.’

  She pauses again and looks up towards the back of the chapel.

  ‘Powers to enjoy, to be merry, to be happy in the midst of sin.’

  Nobody moves or makes a sound. Then just like that, She turns to them and smiles, drawing them close with warm inflection: ‘And that’s why I turn to you, my faithful. God Himself has told me that Christ will not return until you are obedient to Him and to His Daughter. But there are those in the society who struggle, who question. Their doubt is the barrier to God’s plan. And it is up to us to help them see their error.’

  Emily is the only one brave enough to speak: she is the only one who would get away with it. ‘We must have order,’ she says.

  ‘Indeed, Emily. For the alternative is chaos. And that is the Devil’s realm.’

  Octavia brings Her hands together, in prayer, then stretches out Her arms in a pose of crucifixion. ‘Let His spirit move us. In Ezekiel’s vision the wheels move as if one living being. Let us become one. Devoted to His cause. Obedient to His will.’

  Without a word they stand in formation, four corners of a square, dropping their heads and closing their eyes. Then without prompting they start to dance, holding hands and moving in a circle. Emily and Peter step forward and press their palms together, then their heads. As they step back, Kate and Edgar fill the void they have left and do the same. I wonder what silent music they can hear, and whether it is the same tune for each. They all move to the same beat. To my mind it looks like the country dancing we do in the summer on the lawn: Octavia the silent caller.

  It is not the first time this ritual has been performed, I have heard their feet moving across the floor in the room next to mine, but it is the first time I have witnessed it. Peter’s accounts speak of heavenly music filling their ears and I could never understand why I couldn’t hear it through the wall. But now it’s obvious: it is inside their heads.

  *

  I don’t know how long it goes on, perhaps half an hour. All this time Octavia’s arms remain outstretched and completely still, no shaking to suggest She is tiring. Then suddenly She jumps and brings Her hands together in applause. She is laughing and twirling, giddy with joy.

  ‘Together we praise the Lord!’ She says. ‘How blessed we are to serve Him!’

  In perfect unison, the Chosen stop dancing and stand around Her. ‘How blessed we are!’ they say, clapping their hands too. They haven’t noticed that Emily has started to sway and stumble. She leans towards Peter and lets out a loud moan as he breaks her fall, slowing her descent just long enough for Edgar to step in and save her from hitting the floor. Kate rushes in to help but Octavia holds up a hand to stop her.

  ‘Place her down gently,’ She says. ‘And Kate, bring the board. I think the Lord has something He wishes to say.’

  The two men link Emily’s arms and carry her across to the wall, her feet dragging on the floor. With her knees buckled they can lower her in a c
ontrolled slump; Peter struggles with the effort of supporting her. I can see her face from here, head lolling, eyes rolling. Kate brings a tray, white with a red rim, then she lifts Emily’s right hand and, uncurling her forefinger from its clenched fist, places it on the surface.

  ‘Lord, we await Your Word,’ Octavia says, and Peter, Edgar and Kate step back, leaving Emily propped up against the wall. She looks twisted, like a puppet with broken strings and glass eyes. Staring forward she begins to move her fingertip across the tray, drawing red lines without a nib or brush. Is it her blood? The others stand and watch but no one helps; no one seems alarmed. And then Emily twitches and knocks the tray, a crimson stain seeping across it.

  ‘Try again,’ Octavia says excitedly. Kate steps forward, picking up the tray and shaking it until the marks are gone. And suddenly I understand: it is flour. Emily is writing in flour, her fingertip uncovering the red tray underneath. Octavia stands over her. ‘A crown,’ She says. ‘It looks like a crown. The sovereignty of the Lord.’

  She smiles at the other three, then lifts Her arms and gestures around the chapel. ‘Behold, He is here among us. The King of Kings, my Father. He is speaking to us through Emily tonight. She is blessed indeed.’

  She turns back to watch Emily reveal more. ‘A cross,’ She says. ‘Four points of equal measure.’ Emily is still staring forward. Her finger begins to rise up from the tray, forcing her arm to follow behind it. And then it stops. Octavia, Kate and Peter turn together to see where she is pointing: directly at Edgar.

  ‘What is it?’ Octavia says, excitedly. ‘What is she trying to tell us? Something about Edgar. Emily, draw for us. Tell us what you see.’ But Emily cries out and slams down her hand, sending a cloud into the air. The shock jolts her awake. She looks around the room, then down to her lap; down to the white dust that has made her black skirt chalky. Tutting, she sets to work to brush it off, but with her hand caked in flour she is only making it worse.

  She looks up for an explanation. ‘Octavia?’

  ‘You were receiving the Spirit, Emily. It was marvellous to behold. Let’s get you inside and tidied up,’ She says. ‘A good strong cup of tea. That’s what you need.’

  Emily’s eyes are rolling again.

  ‘Kate. The door?’ Octavia hands her a lamp and Kate does as she is told, holding the door open while Edgar and Peter heave Emily back up onto her feet and help her out into the Garden. Only Octavia stays behind, walking round to blow out the ring of candles, one by one. She picks up a lantern from the altar and raises it above the tray, leaning over to inspect what’s left of the marks in the flour. That look on Her face, is it worry? In the near-darkness it is difficult to tell. But something about the way She’s hunched over reminds me of who She used to be, when She was sent away.

  When She was still my mother.

  Then just as quickly Mabel is gone and Octavia is upright, shoulders back, the usual look of determination firmly reinstated on Her face. She leaves the chapel, and leaves me in my hiding place.

  *

  I wait a few minutes before I step out into the Garden. After the swell of relief that they are gone comes the familiar prickle of panic: I’m alone in the dark, alone with my thoughts, and the imagined horrors that threaten to swallow me. I have to get to Ellen’s house. I promised I’d be with her just after midnight and it must be half past by now.

  Nothing looks familiar. The jutting angles of rooflines loom like battlements, dotted with arrowslits where light escapes through the gaps between curtains. I imagine archers on every side, loading bows, taking aim. The others will be sitting up in the rooms behind those windows, too full of delighted dread to think about sleeping yet; creeping back downstairs to double-check they are safely locked inside.

  Ellen gave me a spare key. I grasp it in my pocket, the metal jutting out between my knuckles just as Grace showed me. ‘You could do a lot of damage with that,’ she said. ‘Give them a shock. Stop them long enough to run.’ Fear stalks women just as surely as our own shadows. Why do we talk about light flooding in when it is darkness that rushes to claim us? It’s the dark that can drown you in fear, cold creeping up your body like rising water. You can be plunged into it, swallowed by it. The dark can be so deep that you don’t know where it ends, or what monsters might be swimming around you. Light is like a shallow bath in comparison. It’s something you bathe in. It makes you feel warm.

  I am close to the wall that separates the Garden from Albany Road. A faint glow seeps through the trellis on the top, my thirsty eyes gulping stolen light from the streetlamps on the other side. I want to be at Ellen’s house, in front of the fire, with Grace and a cup of cocoa. Out here anything could happen to me and no one would find me until morning. My thoughts start to run and my feet follow, taking me stumbling forward. I feel the air pulse. And that’s when I hear it: a voice is calling my name. Dilys. Dilys Barltrop. It is low. A man’s voice. Urgent, like a prompter in the wings of a dark stage, coaxing me to say my lines, to come closer to the wall and whisper back.

  ‘Dilys,’ it says, ‘I can help you get out of there. Dilys. I can help you escape.’

  But from what? You can’t escape the voices in your head. You just have to learn not to listen; to let the Truth drown them out.

  ‘Dilys?’

  I hear a low rasping cry behind me. There’s something in the Garden. I have to get to Ellen’s house. I have to run. When I reach the door I use my fingertips to find the keyhole. But my shaking hand won’t guide the key to its target; it skitters against the metal of the escutcheon like a frantic creature, a mouse trying to claw its way into a hole. I hear the rasping call repeated and then I feel something brush against the back of my head. I turn and see the frantic flap of a black shadow, then it is gone.

  At last the key turns and I hear the click of the lock. As soon as I am through the door I slam it behind me, leaning against it with the full force of my relief. But the world in here is even darker. No lamp burning in the hall; the clouded light of the sickly moon too weak to cross the boundary of glass in the high kitchen window.

  They must be upstairs. And so up I climb, stepping very carefully, feeling my way along the wall, counting the squares in the pattern of the wallpaper, like the blinded would read Braille. I must be halfway up now. I can see Ellen’s bedroom door, and now I’m so close I want to run to it. Run to Grace. But I have to go slowly, pushing through the thick darkness, the air heavy with my own laboured breath.

  I knock too loudly, and am admonished by the creak of a chair and footsteps. Grace opens the door and steps out onto the landing, closing the door behind her with a tenderness that tells me Ellen is asleep inside.

  ‘Grace …’ I bury my head in her shoulder and cling to her. Now I am safe I can’t hold back the tide of panic. It crashes over me and I surrender: holding onto Grace, urging her to chase the fear away. I pull her tighter but still it is not enough. Could never be enough. If I could climb inside her I would, passing into her like a ghost through a wall.

  ‘Are you all right? What’s happened?’ Our bodies are so close that I can feel my heart knocking against her chest. Hammering to get in.

  ‘I thought there was someone following me.’

  ‘My goodness, Dilys. Who? Did they hurt you?’ She tries to step back to look at me but I pull her closer, refuse to let go. ‘Dilys. Tell me, what happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing happened. It was just my imagination running wild. All this talk about the strike. And it’s so dark out there. I let myself get carried away.’ I start to laugh and I can feel the panic lurching out of my body.

  ‘Dilys, calm down. You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘It was Sir Jack!’ I say, and I realise it’s true. ‘It was only Sir Jack! On patrol in the Garden!’

  I felt him fly past my head. I saw him in the shadows. And perhaps the voice I heard was just his call.

  ‘So there was no one there?’

  ‘No,’ I laugh.

  ‘Thank G
od.’

  I won’t tell her what I heard because now I’m safe indoors, I can’t be sure there was a voice at all. As soon as you admit you are hearing things, people start to wonder, don’t they? And I’ve been wondering myself. How can I be sure that it’s the Devil who is speaking and not just the whispers of my own desires, the thoughts I dare not say out loud? It’s the not-knowing that sends you mad. I should know. I’ve seen it happen.

  ‘I thought …’ Grace says. ‘You frightened me.’ She is angry, I can tell. ‘We’ve been worried. You’re so late. Where have you been?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I got held up in chapel.’

  ‘I’m just glad you’re safe.’ The anger is gone, her whisper now a mother soothing a child. Her voice makes me sleepy, like my legs might give way, and I might give in.

  ‘You’re really shaken.’

  My heart is still running, still tripping over itself. I let my head fall onto her shoulder again and breathe her in. Now I’m not trying to flee the darkness, I’m asking it to come and take us, envelop us. So we’re invisible; so this is not really happening; so my lips aren’t really brushing the skin on her neck.

  Right now all I can hear is a voice telling me to lift my mouth to hers.

  ‘Dilys?’ she whispers. It sounds like a question.

  ‘Dilys …’ Something catches in her voice. She sounds frightened. But is it fear of me or of herself? Does she want me to do the things I am imagining?

  ‘We mustn’t,’ she murmurs to herself. She turns her face from mine, exposing her neck to my lips. ‘We shouldn’t.’ But she doesn’t move, she doesn’t walk away. Her body is rigid. I can feel her chest rising and falling, feel the tension in every breath.

  ‘Grace!’ The voice is not a whisper, it’s a shout. It is coming from behind the door. Ellen has woken up. ‘Are you there?’ she says. ‘Please! Where are you?’ We rush into her bedroom and I sit on the edge of her bed.