The raptures, p.14
The Raptures, page 14
The Dead Kids (this being the name they’ve chosen for their gang and – Lief stresses – it is an actual, proper gang) have been talking about Hannah a lot. They don’t understand why she’s their contact person. No harm, Hannah, but you’re not exactly the obvious choice. They’re not ungrateful. Lief wants her to know he’s glad to see her. It’s like going home for a holiday. He just doesn’t understand why she’s ended up their contact point.
Hannah has nothing meaningful to contribute here. She doesn’t know why it’s her they’re lumbered with. Talking about it makes her feel awkward so she does her best to change the subject. She asks Lief what his new life’s like.
‘It’s totally amazing. I mean, it isn’t really. It’s just Ballylack with less people. But we’re making the most of it. Like I was saying, we have this gang. Me and Kathleen are the leaders. She’s my girlfriend now.’
He pulls the neck of his shirt aside to reveal a pink, blistery circle on his neck. It looks a lot like eczema.
‘Love bite,’ he says, and lets his shirt collar settle back into place. ‘Kat – she goes by Kat, now – gave me that. We’re always facing round the back of the community centre. Tongues and all. I’m getting really good at it. I’m going to touch her boobs later on. It’s OK. I think she wants me to. She keeps wearing these T-shirts that are really tight.’
Lief notices Hannah’s blushing. In the excitement of telling her about Kathleen, he’s forgotten how much younger she still is.
‘So, yeah, Kat’s in the gang, and maybe Ross. It’s hard to tell with Ross. He does whatever you tell him to do but he never says anything himself. Kat says he’s probably not all there.’ Lief slaps his forehead with the back of his hand, rolls his eyes and lets his tongue flop out. ‘Rossy Boy’s a total head-the-ball, if you know what I mean.’
‘The Twins. What about the Twins?’ snaps Hannah. She doesn’t like Lief making fun of Ross. It makes her wonder what they say about her, behind her back.
Lief shrugs. ‘Lizzy’s not into the DK. So – you know – Mim’s not into it either. That one’s not capable of thinking herself. And Lizzy’s no craic down here. She’s only interested in making rules and trying to work out how to escape. She says it’s immature to be partying all the time. We should be trying to make things better. Like, if we can’t get out, we should make Ballylack a nice place to live. Plant some flowers and decorate the place and stuff. I don’t see the point myself.’
‘Why not?’ asks Hannah.
‘I think we all know Ballylack’s a bit of a shithole. No amount of hanging baskets’ll change that. And it looks like we’re stuck here, maybe for ever. We might as well have a bit of fun. The DK’s all about having fun. Did I tell you we drink all the time now? We get totally pissed, and I’ve started smoking. There’s tons of good stuff in Thompson’s store. You can just go in and help yourself. It’ll take us ages to get through it all. When we have, we’ll just start emptying people’s kitchens; keep the party going for as long as we can. We have these mad dance parties down the community centre. We’ve no music to dance to, but we sort of sing and thump the wheelie bins for a beat. It’s deadly, like. The three of us, off our heads in the dark, going absolutely buck mad.’
Lief raises both hands in the air, points his fingers to the night sky and starts punching in time with the rhythm in his head. No, no, no, no, no, no, he yells in a stilted, robot voice. Hannah assumes this must be a pop song, but she doesn’t know who it’s by. Dad doesn’t allow her to listen to secular music, unless it’s classical. There’s no danger in classical music on account of the lack of words. Hannah quite likes music. She has a few cassettes of her own. They’re all Christian songs: Kids’ Praise One, Kids’ Praise Two and a tape of carols for playing at Christmas. She doesn’t recognize this No, no song. It sounds very defiant. Dad wouldn’t approve.
‘And I’ve changed my name,’ Lief continues. ‘I’m Lee now. I’m totally different from before. New name. New haircut. New threads. Nicked from Ross’s big brother’s wardrobe. Ross was too fat to fit into them.’
Lief executes a clumsy pirouette, spinning full circle in the street. He’s right. He looks like a completely different kid. There’s a swagger off him Hannah’s never noticed before. He’s talking the way she’s heard big kids talking at the bus stop, swearing and acting like he’s older than he actually is. She thinks he’s putting on an American accent. She wonders where he’s picked it up from if he didn’t have TV in his house.
‘Yeah,’ she says after a second, ‘you are really different, now you’re dead.’
Lief takes this as a compliment. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Adger. I appreciate that. Being here’ll suit you too. You can finally shake off that stuffy Christian vibe.’
He runs ahead of her, punching the air, yelling, No, no limits, we’ll reach for the sky. Hannah dashes after him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s cold and clammy. The deadness is leaking through his shirt. She spins him round to face her.
‘Am I definitely going to die?’ she pants. The shock and the running have knocked the wind out of her.
‘We all die, Hannah. Do they not teach you that in your happy-clappy church?’
‘You know what I mean, Lief …’
‘… Lee.’
‘You know what I mean. Am I going to die soon, like, with the rest of you?’
‘It’s looking very much like it. Five gone. Six left. You don’t have to be a genius to work out them odds aren’t great.’
They’ve reached Granda Pete’s. Hannah feels as if she might fall over. She lowers herself on to the front wall. Lief sits beside her. He can tell he’s been too blunt.
‘Listen,’ he says, draping a cool arm around her shoulders. ‘I was only trying to tell you how great it is here since we got the DK up and running. You’ll love it, Hannah. You won’t have your folks bossing you around. You can actually have a bit of fun. You know, be a bit more normal for a change. No, no limits,’ he hums softly into her ear. ‘Focus on that. There’s no fecking limits in this place. It’s just one never-ending, crazeee party. Does that not sound awesome to you?’
Lief squeezes her shoulders a final time and slides off the wall. ‘Is this your granda’s place?’
Hannah nods.
‘Do you mind if I hang about for a while? I’ll be dead quiet. I’ll just sit in the flowerbed and watch his telly through the window. I used to do that sometimes before I died. I’d sneak out at night and stand outside people’s living rooms, watching whatever they had on.’
Hannah nods. She doesn’t know how to refuse Lief. He’s so grown-up now, so self-assured. Listening to him, she could almost believe there are some positives to being dead. She’s jealous of his confidence, the way he’s moved from the edge of their circle to the centre of everything. She’s not too sure about the partying, though. It’s wrong to drink. And wrong to swear. And definitely a sin to smoke. The S.E.X. stuff terrifies her.
Hannah tries to imagine what it’d be like to live without rules. The thought of this makes her so anxious her head feels light. She has to grip the edge of the wall until the wobbliness passes. Do they even have God down there? The Bible says there’s no place in the universe where God can’t go, except maybe Hell. But did the people who wrote the Bible know about this other place? Hannah wonders if the rules are different in new Ballylack.
She turns to ask Lief if God exists in the other place. Lief has already slipped away, taking up position in Granny’s azalea bed. He’s hoping for an episode of The Simpsons, but even Dad’s Army would do in a pinch. He’ll watch just about anything.
Hannah lets herself in with the key which is stashed beneath the milk-bottle stand. She can hear the hum of the TV drifting up the hall. She heels her outdoor shoes off and pads down to the living room. She’s still thinking about whether God is actually everywhere. How could you be sure? It’s not as if you can actually see him. Sometimes Hannah hears the Jesus talking in her head. That does feels like a kind of proof. But he’s been quiet for ages now and when she presses into this silence, trying to make her prayers stick, it’s as if there’s nothing for them to catch on. It’s like shouting into an empty room.
It’s only half a dozen paces from the front door to the living room but, by the time Hannah arrives at the side of Granda’s reclining chair, she’s worked herself up into a state. She comes into the room sobbing and crawls up on his knee.
‘Uch, Hannah Banana, where did you come from? What on earth’s wrong?’
She burrows her face into Granda’s neck and cries harder than she’s cried in years. She’s too scared to lift her head. She doesn’t want to see Lief’s white face peering through the double-glazing. She finally manages to tell Granda Pete that he’s dead. It comes out in a big, mumbly rush. He doesn’t ask how she knows this. Two streets over on Main Street, Rob Anderson is only this second breaking the news.
‘Uch, pet, that’s awful. You must be in bits. Do you want to talk about it?’
The old man fumbles along the side of his recliner, finds the remote and turns the TV off. He wants to give Hannah his full attention. A single bright line flashes across the screen then it goes black. On the other side of the glass Lief sighs and draws back from the window. Though his fingers have been pressed against the glass and his breath has fogged against it, he leaves no trace of himself behind.
He wonders if this will be his last opportunity to watch TV. He feels sad for the first time since dying. He quickly shrugs the feeling off. There’s beer to be drunk and the possibility of doing dirty stuff with Kat. Lief picks his way out of the azalea bed. He stands on the edge of Granda Pete’s lawn, right beside Granny’s whirly-gig washing line. He raises both arms up in the air and, with curled fists, punches out the words. No, no limits, we’ll reach for the sky. No valley too deep. No mountain too high. Lief decides that this will be the Dead Kids’ anthem and, from this point on, it is.
The Raggedy Tree
THE VERY SECOND the news is over William’s mum is on the phone to the Adgers.
‘I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, but could I have a wee word with your wife?’
Dad drags the cord down the hall so Mum doesn’t have to get off the sofa. He hands her the phone and walks away, mouthing the words Marlene Fowler as he heads upstairs to run his bath. Mum can’t be bothered talking to Marlene. No harm to her – she’s a lovely woman – but she’s the fourth mother to call today.
Hannah’s mum’s known for being a soft touch. If you’re in need of a shoulder to cry on, or a friendly ear, or a wee handout, give Sandra Adger a shout. Sandra never turns anybody away. She’s not allowed to. She’s a Born Again. Usually, she sees this as a privilege. She tries to live her life by the principle of Whatever you do for the least of these. She’s called to help. It’s her vocation. Today she’s not feeling particularly benevolent. She’s started wondering if people see her as a doormat.
She’s already had Caroline’s mum on the phone, breaking her heart because her wee girl’s never going to grow up, or get married, or have any wee girls of her own.
And she’s prayed at some length for Liza Ross, though Liza hasn’t asked for prayer. She’s not left her bed since the Twins died. It was Cliff who rang and asked if she’d pray with his wife. ‘It’d be such a comfort,’ he said. ‘You’re better placed than a minister, what with being a mum yourself.’ He held the handset to his wife’s ear and afterwards told Hannah’s mum that she was a saint. She doesn’t feel much like a saint today. She’d not actually meant the words she’d prayed.
In the afternoon, she’d spent two whole hours listening to Ross’s mum gurn and moan and then gurn again. Part of her had felt like screaming, What about me, Lorraine? Are you not going to ask me how I’m coping? I’m a mummy. I’m hurting as much as the rest of you. The other part understood these calls as a kind of penance. Her child would be fine. She was certain of it. She was actively keeping this knowledge from the other parents. She feels sick to her stomach just thinking about this. It’s a wonder they can’t hear the guilt in her voice.
When you have a Christian witness like the Adgers have, other people assume you’re above it all. They imagine you’re taking all your worries to the Lord, leaving them there and walking away. What a load of sanctimonious tripe. Hannah’s mum’s no different from everybody else. Her faith is no great asset at the minute. It’s just another thing to worry about. She’s only going through the motions of faith these days. When she prays, God isn’t listening and the cold side of faith is a lonely place. Yet everybody calls her a rock. They keep demanding things of her. Kind words. Reassurance. Comforting prayers. There’s so little of Mum left. Yet everybody keeps asking for more.
She collects herself before answering the phone. ‘Hello, Marlene,’ she says, sliding into her pastoral voice. It’s somewhere between Avon lady and hospital nurse: concerned, yet always the evangelist. ‘How are you holding up over there? John and I have been praying for William and the rest of you.’
‘Aye, grand, Sandra. William’s not showing any symptoms yet. The rest of us are muddling through. Here, I don’t want to keep you away from Hannah. There’s just something I wanted to ask you about.’
Mum realizes, with a degree of relief, that Marlene isn’t looking for a pity party. She’s a farmer’s wife; not a big talker at the best of times. She’s called with a specific purpose in mind. No chitchat or sympathy is required.
‘I was wondering how youse told Hannah?’
Hannah’s mum feels like she’s been slapped in the face.
‘It’s just that we’re going to tell our William in the morning, and we don’t know how to go about it. Did youse just tell her she had it and she’s probably going to die or did you soft-soap it a bit? Himself’s all for sticking to the cold, hard facts. I keep thinking the lad’s only eleven. It’s an awful lot to take on board.’
Mum doesn’t know what to say. Nobody’s asked about Hannah’s diagnosis. They’ve just assumed she’s in the same boat as the others. The Adgers are sitting on an awful secret. They know it’s best to keep it to themselves. They’ve told Granny and Granda. Only because Granny kept asking, every half-hour, till she wore Dad down. They’ve kept to their decision not to tell Hannah. Or, at least, Dad’s decided and Mum’s acquiesced. She’s still not convinced that it’s right to keep the child in fear for her life, but she understands her husband’s reasoning. Emotionally, Hannah’s all over the place. If she knew she was the only one not infected, it could tip her over the edge. They’re hoping the others will make it through and Hannah will feel like she’s on the winning team. If they don’t – and they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it – they’ll do their best to convince her she’s a very blessed wee girl.
In the meantime, if nobody asks, then they aren’t going to go out of their way to reveal their daughter is fighting fit.
‘So, what did youse tell her?’ prompts Marlene.
Hannah’s mum has to think on her feet. ‘We haven’t actually told her yet.’ This is technically not a lie, though she knows Marlene will read into it.
‘Has she not been asking? Our William’s never done asking if his tests are back. We’ve been fobbing him off for the last few days.’
‘No,’ says Mum and, in saying this, wonders why Hannah hasn’t asked. She can be a very strange child at times. She’s a worrier. A real Anxious Annie. She bites her nails and everything. Mum’s noticed that she copes better when she doesn’t know what’s up ahead. Now she never tells her in advance when she has a dentist’s appointment or if the school nurse is doing the rounds. Ten minutes before, in the car, on the way, is time enough to lean over and tell her what’s about to happen. Now don’t panic, Hannah. Remember what Granda Pete says: This, too, shall pass.
Hannah’s anxiety came to a head last summer when Pastor Bill preached eight straight weeks on the Book of Revelation, explaining how the world was now entering the end times. Between the peace talks and the advent of the world wide web, barcodes and the EEC, all the Biblical prophecies had been fulfilled. The Lord would soon be coming again. Hannah had sat there every Sunday, drinking the Apocalypse in like a wee sponge. The four horsemen. The antichrist. The mark of the Beast. She’d worried so much she near drove herself mad. It was one thing knowing the world would end some day, another thing realizing it would be on her watch.
Hannah had cried herself to sleep every night for a month. When Mum finally worked out what was frightening her, she’d felt like wringing Pastor Bill’s neck. It took her days to talk her daughter down. Hours and hours of explaining that the Lord’s return wasn’t a thing to be afraid of, but rather something to look forward to. Like a birthday. Or Christmas. Or both best days rolled into one. Imagine, Hannah, being with the Lord for ever in a perfect place with no sin. She seemed somewhat comforted by this but didn’t properly relax until Mum – making sure Dad wasn’t around – explained that Pastor Bill was talking rubbish. Only God knew when the world would end. Sure, didn’t it say in the Bible, ‘No man knoweth the hour nor the day’? After hearing this, Hannah was grand. She could put the Apocalypse to the back of her mind and get on with being ten.
Hannah’s the sort of wee girl who prefers not to know. Mum imagines this is why she hasn’t asked about her tests. If nobody confirms she’s ill, she can keep on pretending that she’s not. Mum’s thinking about this as she finishes her conversation with Marlene.
‘Every child’s different,’ she says. ‘They’re all going to react in different ways. You know your William better than anybody else. You already know what you need to say.’
Marlene agrees. She thanks Hannah’s mum for her time and, before she hangs up, adds, ‘If you ever need somebody to talk to, Sandra, just pick up the phone.’
Sometimes kindness hits harder than being ill used. Hannah’s mum is still crying when the phone goes again. It’s only Granda calling to say Hannah’s round at his and would it be OK with the pair of them if she slept over tonight.
