‘May God’s son, Jesus Christ, who sits at the right hand of God and gives gifts to humanity, sanctify us in the truth, lead to the truth those who err; silence the mouths of those who lay false accusations against sound teaching, and equip faithful ministers of God’s Word with a spirit of wisdom and discretion, that all they say may be to the glory of God and the building up of their hearers. Amen.’
At the end of the service, Helen waited as the small congregation filed out in a silent purge, wrapping their coats against the cold autumn evening, all lost in contemplation of their utter insignificance in the universe. When the church was empty, Helen approached Margaret, who was collecting her papers together at the altar.
‘Deaconess?’
Margaret spun around. ‘Yes, tell me.’
‘Would it be OK if I took the car overnight tonight?’
Margaret’s eyes and body language betrayed a momentary flicker of disappointment – she had been hoping Helen might ask something else.
‘I thought I might go and see my mother.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, Helen? You’ve tried very hard, but it only seems to upset you every time. Has something happened?’
‘No, no, I… just think it’s important to keep showing I’m there for her, you know.’
‘Of course.’ There were those hands on Helen’s shoulders again. ‘Drive safely and come and see me tomorrow when you return, let me know how it went.’
‘I will, Margaret, thank you. And may I take some money from the kitty? I think we need petrol.’
3.
As she drove along the M60 that evening on the short journey to Manchester, Helen felt the mild euphoria of escape that she often felt when she was in the car. What an adventure this would be. However her excitement turned to nervousness as she approached Manchester and reality hit; what had she been thinking, wearing her habit to a rock concert? But then, she hadn’t worn normal clothes for seven years, so there was really nothing else she could have worn. And furthermore, what on earth was she doing: lying, going to a musical event, a musical event that advertised itself as blasphemous? She told herself that this was just research, that she might even be on to something that could help the police.
The place she was heading to was in a warehouse district on the outskirts of the city. The old Beetle had no GPS and Helen did not have a phone, so she had to stop several times and switch on the car light to consult her map. By the time she had found the right area and somewhere to park the car, her stomach was growling, perhaps with nerves, perhaps hunger, although there was no time to find anything to eat now.
She could hear the thump of music as she walked towards a warehouse flanked by a long queue, and a lump of self-consciousness was in her throat as she wished she could somehow hide her attire – how conspicuous she must be. However, she was astonished to find that her clothing was surprisingly appropriate. The people in the queue were overwhelmingly men, and most were wearing a combination of denim and leather covered in embroidered patches that appeared to be the emblems of rock bands; it was almost a uniform. But there were also many people who were dressed surprisingly like her. These goths, as she believed they might be called, wore long robes, mostly of black, although one or two had grey or white habits like her, and even veils. Unlike her however they had accessorised with heavy silver jewellery and some had even painted their faces white, with dramatic black eye makeup.
Helen bought her ticket, allowed herself to be patted down by a female security guard, and then entered to a wall of sound and bodies, blinking in the strobe lights. She realised immediately why her clothes had raised so few eyebrows in the queue. On stage was a band whose members were all dressed as demonic vicars, the lead singer wearing a bishop’s mitre. All of them had doused their faces in fake blood. She manoeuvred herself a little closer to the stage, buffeted by bodies that were strangely unhostile.
The Bishop figure stood very still most of the time, singing in a deep, affected baritone. But the musicians around him cavorted and contorted themselves furiously, faces grimacing, heads and necks thrusting. Their hands moved frantically across their instruments, although it was very difficult to decipher any individual sounds. The volume was almost unbearable; Helen noticed that many people were somewhat absurdly wearing earplugs, and she longed for some herself.
The audience moved as one many-tentacled creature; a thousand-headed hydra that nodded and shook its heads in unison, at times jumping in unison. At one point the Bishop made a circling motion with his finger and a whirlpool of bodies broke into spontaneous rotation in the middle of the crowd; running in crazed circles, pushing each other, chaotic yet coordinated at the same time. The ripple effect caused her to be buffeted backwards and she stumbled into the person behind her, causing him to spill his drink. She whirled round and mouthed ‘I’m sorry,’ looking up at a tattooed, pierced and bearded face.
‘Alright miss,’ he smiled and helped her back to her feet before resuming his concentrated nodding.
When the song ended, the hydra erupted into cheers and uniformly lifted hands with two fingers – the index and the little finger – pointed in a cultish salute. They looked like horns, she thought, perhaps devil horns? She looked surreptitiously behind her at the tattooed man, and he was doing it as well. Arm outstretched, index and little finger pointed towards the stage. ‘Fuck yes!’ he shouted at nothing. Helen noticed that like him, many people seemed to be there on their own. The band, who she had by now ascertained was called Bishop of Satan, had now finished and there was a period of relative and merciful quiet as huge men in baggy shorts began to carry equipment on and off stage. The audience dispersed towards the bar, toilets and exits, checking phones, bringing out cigarettes and lighters. She didn’t really know what to do with herself, and so in a moment of rebellion she went to the bar to order a drink. The Sisters of Grace occasionally allowed themselves a glass of wine, but Helen decided to try and blend in with the concert-goers, so she ordered herself a beer, and was given a huge plastic cup full. She grimaced at the taste; she had only tasted beer once, and that had been a long time ago, in another life.
Soon the floor was filling up again, a palpable sense of expectation in the air as people jostled towards the front. The stage had filled with fake smoke which smelt not unpleasant but was acrid and stung her eyes. As it dissipated she saw that a huge banner, or rather four pieces of sheeting sewed together to make a banner, had been hung to fill the back of the stage. Wavering slightly on the flimsy material was the image of the inverted double-headed axe, and in the same jagged lettering she had seen on the website, the words “Total Depravity.” She couldn’t help but smile, because it didn’t even feel like blasphemy; it was already clear to her that the members of this audience were not part of some evil satanic cult, but simply had questionable taste in music. The meaning of those words was possibly lost on most of them, although she knew having read the lyrics that it was not lost on the band.
Total Depravity came on to the stage to deafening roars and more of those hand signals, and then the music started. Explosions of drum beats and distorted guitar noise shook her whole body. She focused on the lead singer Mikko Kristensen, who sometimes concentrated on the furious finger movements on his guitar, sometimes stared at the audience with a demonic expression, sometimes pointed a finger, sometimes stuck out his tongue in a bizarre and, she supposed, sexually suggestive gesture. When he finally put his mouth to the microphone she almost gasped in shocked laughter, because the sound that emerged was unearthly, inhuman. It was completely without pitch, perhaps a shriek, or a growl, as if he had razor blades in his throat. This was not singing of any type she had ever encountered, and it was impossible to discern any of the lyrics she had read in the noises he was making.
Despite the straggling beard and tattoos, there was something androgynous, even feminine about him. He was much smaller than his hulking bandmates, and his arms were fragile and elfin. He seemed painfully thin, so that his long blonde hair
framed sunken cheek bones, and heavily-charcoaled eyes. The guitar he played, which instead of being guitar-shaped was a caricature of jagged edges, seemed too big for him, and he grimaced as he wielded it between thin painted arms.
In between songs he addressed the audience, a series of foul-mouthed expletives hurled in English with a Scandinavian accent. How strange to use so many swear words in a language foreign to you, she thought, and how strange to insult your audience – yet they behaved with adoration. He made that same circle movement with his finger that the Bishop had made, instigating another of those human circles of play-fighting. The circles, the hand signals; so many rituals, this was like a religion in itself. She looked around her and marvelled; everything about this was so ridiculous, and she should have been appalled, yet there was something wonderful about it. There was a keyboardist whose cinematic sound softened the guitars, and she was even starting to get used to those. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to listen to music of any sort, and it made her tearful. She closed her eyes and bathed in the sonic depths that enveloped her. The distortion from the amplifiers saturated the air with sound, and the drum beats, sometimes syncopated, sometimes relentless and almost indistinguishable from each other, pounded her whole body like an assault. It was cathartic. Yes, that’s what this is, she thought. It’s a catharsis, like prayer.
It went on and on, and eventually she had finished her beer and a powerful headache was encroaching upon her. Surely they would be finished soon, and it would be time to attempt what she had come here to do. Towards the back of the room, where the crowd thinned, was a hugely fat man with a long grey beard perched on a stool at the end of the bar. He appeared to be responsible for a table selling merchandise – t-shirts CDs and posters – but he had no customers during the performance and so was focused on his phone. She wondered if perhaps he was the band’s manager – bands had managers and things like that, didn’t they? She approached him, tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention and leaned in to shout in his ear: ‘How do I get to talk to that man?’ She pointed towards Kristensen. ‘That man there?’
The man chuckled cynically, but not unkindly. ‘Join the queue of ladies at the stage door,’ he shouted back into her ear. On seeing her disappointment and offence, he softened, and looked her up and down. This woman was dressed like a proper nun, with no make-up or jewellery or anything.
‘If you’re a crazed Bishop fan trying to get backstage you’re not doing a very good job of hiding it.’
‘That Bishop man was dreadful. No, I need to talk to Mr Kristensen, I need to ask him about his songs.’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘This has got to be a wind-up. But you seem like a nice lady. Here, I’ve got one of these left, there was a journalist who didn’t turn up.’ He reached in his jacket pocket and handed her a lanyard which read ‘Total Depravity: VIP’.
‘This will get you through that door.’ He pointed to a door at the side of the stage. ‘And you can try and speak to… Mr. Kristensen, as you so politely call him, after their set. Can’t promise anything though.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do back there.’ He winked and laughed to himself as she backed away gratefully, fingering the lanyard and looking towards the stage door which was shielded by a burly security guard. Now that things were in motion, she was nervous again. Standing in the audience of a concert alone and unnoticed was one thing; going to a party full of strange men speaking a foreign language was another, and she decided to treat herself to another drink first. Perhaps she would have some wine after all.
***
The city of Liverpool is in the geographical north of England, but it is not the true north. Liverpool constructs itself as something else, something other than the rest of the north. The scouse spirit, indefinable but incorporating friendliness, family, football and fun, sets itself apart in amicable defiance of the rest of the North, and in slightly less amicable defiance of its rival north-western city, Manchester. These conurbations of the northwest recede into the Pennines, where the North proper begins with Lancashire and Yorkshire, where desolate purple hills form the backbone of England. The bruised moorland becomes a caricature of bleakness. A nothing place, hinting at the idea of north, but still not the true north.
And here is a house, an old grey stone house once a farm, the only building for miles around. It would have been a paradise were it not for the invasion of the M6. The house can be seen from the motorway as cars race by, although drivers themselves will miss it. Passengers may dwell on it romantically for a moment; adults will imagine a country bolthole, another life for themselves, and then dismiss this one as too close to the motorway. Children in the back seats may invent a story and ponder it for few moments longer, before the signs for the Lake District and the grander fells of Cumbria awake them from their reverie.
And what is inside this house? Dated but immaculate rooms await; a slight but undeniable damp smell, too many armchairs crowding the living room, mismatched upholstery and wooden feet. Furniture cobbled together from disparate sources. There is a Bible, more than one. Upstairs, one of the bedrooms contains baby paraphernalia: a brand new crib, still with its price tag; a baby mattress still wrapped in plastic; a pile of Mothercare bags with nappies, clothes, tubs of formula milk powder. Down in the basement the bare bulb casts a poor light, and so free-standing lamps are placed around the room, which has exposed brick walls and smells of disinfectant. Here there are brushed steel units, a humming refrigerator, an assortment of laboratory equipment. And there, on the other side of the room, is a hospital bed, with shackles attached. In between the shackles, two large hands and one foot squirm intermittently, hopelessly.
Outside, in the crepuscule, this grey stone house is almost camouflaged against the moorland behind. In the dawn light, unkindnesses of ravens will congregate on its roof and chimney. Their cawing will be drowned out by the roar of traffic, as will the screams from within. Above the front door of this cottage is affixed a small wooden crucifix.
***
Helen became aware of daylight, movement, the rumbling of an engine, her forehead against glass, her cheek against the rough material of a coach seat. There was a smell of stale smoke and alcohol. She opened her eyes and saw bodies, limbs and torsos sprawled across seats. And then she became aware of the horrendous throbbing in her head. Two people were sitting up and chatting, a few seats forward, one of them absent-mindedly strumming a guitar.
She patted at herself. Shoulder bag still there, shoes and tights still on under her cowl. But her habit had gone and her black hair fell long and loose – she grabbed at it self-consciously, trying not to panic. She was on the back seat of a coach. Next to her thigh was a pair of boots, which were attached to a body lying across the rest of the back seats.
Usually, she would awake to a few precious moments of blank before the horror of what she had done, all those years ago, came flooding back, and that was always the worst part of the day. So it was almost a relief to have this confusion on which to focus instead; the black hole of the night before.
She sat up. ‘Where am I?’ Her voice sounded far away, hoarse, her ears blocked and ringing.
The body next to her stirred and looked at her. It was Mikko Kristensen. ‘Oh, hey.’ He propped himself up gingerly on one elbow, rubbing his face with his other hand. ‘Hey where the fuck are we?’ he shouted hazily down the aisle of the coach.
Someone shouted ‘Half way to Birmingham. Go back to sleep.’
‘What the fuck, man. Why did we leave? The fucking nun is on the bus. We’re gonna get done for kidnapping… again.’
The men began speaking to each other in a language that she supposed was Norwegian.
‘I’m sorry,’ she interrupted, ‘but I don’t really remember anything about last night. How did I get on this bus?’
‘I mean, it’s pretty fucking blurry for me too,’ he smiled. Even accounting for his having just woken up, his speech
was so laid-back that the words almost rolled into each other, and his monotone, accented drawl was oddly comforting.
‘You were pretty wasted, dude. It was pretty fucking cool to be honest with you. You were like, telling me you were a real nun, asking me loads of stuff about my lyrics. We had a good talk… it’s a shame you don’t remember. But those fucking Bishops are not to be trusted and to be honest with you I think they put something in your drink. So maybe we took you with us for your own safety. I guess.’
What unimaginable idiocy, Helen thought, and then she marvelled at her own risk-taking behaviour – it was faintly exciting.
‘Hey can we stop soon?’ he yelled down the aisle. ‘I need some fucking coffee, man.’ He turned to Helen: ‘You want breakfast?’
At the word breakfast, her mouth began to fill involuntarily with saliva, and the feeling of nausea she had been trying to ignore suddenly enveloped her. She retched, managing to catch all of it in a fold of her habit, and then sat with her head bowed in mortification.
‘The Nun Has Hurled,’ Mikko announced officially, remarkably unperturbed. ‘Dudes, pass me one of those tour t-shirts. And some of my spare jeans.’
‘So, Sister Helen Hope. My name is Mikko. We were formally introduced last night, but I guess you don’t remember.’
Half an hour later, and they were sitting on top of a picnic table on a grassy bank overlooking the M6. In one direction the morning rush hour traffic crawled along almost at a standstill, while in the other, metal colours flashed past in a Doppler stream of noise. Both of them shivered in the cold autumn air, Mikko smoking a roll-up as if his life depended on it. Helen clutched a black coffee that warmed both hands, wearing a Total Depravity t-shirt, Mikko’s spare jeans and jacket, her hair loose. She had bought a toothbrush and toothpaste at the service station, washed her face, and deposited the soiled habit in a rubbish bin, resolving to think of a good explanation for that before she returned to Formby. Looking into the mirror in the ladies’ toilets had been like looking into the face of a stranger. She still felt dizzy from the vomiting and motion of the coach, and her eyes were bloodshot and wide with a mix of shame and exhilaration. There were few mirrors at Argarmeols Hall. She pulled at her long black hair, combing her fingers through the tangles and wondering whether to push it back off her face or leave it falling around her cheekbones as a form of protection. In fact, she found it hard to stop looking at herself. Her dilated pupils, pallid skin and that black hair which nobody ever saw gave her an ethereal, wraith-like appearance which, she had to admit, a part of her liked. She felt the curious chastened clarity that comes with the worst hangovers, and the situation was so surreal that she floated above it without sentiment, as if watching it happen to someone else.
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