The raptures, p.18
The Raptures, page 18
The End of All Time
THE WHOLE WORLD is watching the children now. Most decent folk wouldn’t express it in such crude terms. In public they still talk of cures and miraculous interventions. In private they’re all just waiting to see who goes next. There’s only the four weans left: Hannah, Caroline, Matty and Ben. All look to be grand. But you never know, the poison could already be working on them. The smart money’s on the wee foreign lad, Alan Gardiner’s son. There’s nothing to him. He’s just skin and bones and big, sad eyes.
William Fowler’s gone. And William was a great, strapping lad. He passed away early on Wednesday morning. That’s three children in as many days. Mrs Nugent phones to break the bad news personally. She asks after Hannah. And what about that wee lassie of yours? How’s she bearing up herself? Her voice puts Mum in mind of a mean old crow digging around for a juicy worm. She loses her temper. ‘I’ve had enough, Meta. Don’t be calling here again. You’re nothing more than a vile auld gossip. You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Afterwards she feels bad for snapping. Not bad enough to phone back and apologize.
William is the seventh Ballylack child to die. Seven dead weans is enough to instigate a press stampede. There are swathes of journalists camped out all over the village now. They’re in Henderson’s, demanding pub grub at all hours of the day. They’re double-parked everywhere. They’re complaining about the provincial accents, which don’t come across well on TV. They joke about sticking the subtitles on. They’re torturing the poor girls in Thompson’s shop, wanting takeaway cappuccinos and herbal teas, when all they have’s an electric kettle and a catering-sized jar of Nescafé.
The locals don’t know what to make of these cosmopolitan strangers. They’ve clogged up Main Street with their special vans and big cameras. Their fuzzy mics, like skewered caterpillars, hang perpetually overhead. The behind-the-camera ones are normal enough, but the anchors don’t look like real people. Up close you can see where their faces are painted on. The best are reasonably professional. They know not to block the locals’ drives or stand in their flowerbeds for a better shot. The worst are vultures. They won’t leave the bereaved families alone. They phone at all hours, wanting quotes and interviews, photographs of the children (nice clear ones, that haven’t been used yet). They’re not above going door-to-door. Seán Donnelly’s repeatedly told them they need to wise up. He’s threatened them with the press-standards people and, if that doesn’t fear them, the RUC. They continue to knock on the families’ doors, hunkering down to yell through letterboxes that they only want a quick word; that really, they’re just here to help.
Hannah’s mum and dad won’t have anything to do with the press. They’ve drawn the curtains in every room, even upstairs. ‘You never know,’ Dad says, ‘they could get ladders. I wouldn’t put it past them.’ Every time Hannah peeks through the curtains, she can see eight or ten fellas lolling against their front wall. The idea of strangers watching her makes her skin feel like it’s on too tight. She hasn’t left the house since Millar’s Gap.
Dad still insists on going to work. He could probably take some annual leave. His boss would definitely understand. But Dad keeps turning up each morning at nine o’clock. He is proving something to his colleagues. I’m not panicking. I’m trusting the Lord. He’s doing his level best to convince himself he is OK. I am not for going under this. I am stronger than everyone else. And he is OK, though no one in work can possibly know this. There’s nothing wrong with his wee girl. Dad should feel grand, but he doesn’t. Every day he feels closer to falling apart.
Mum and Hannah stay inside. With the curtains drawn and the lights on, it’s stifling. They don’t dare open any windows in case the journalists hear them talking and put it on the evening news. It’s the strangest feeling, being trapped inside your own house, hearing the click and stutter of camera flashes every time somebody arrives or leaves. The folks from church have been very faithful. There’s always two or three in the living room, praying. They’ve drawn up a rota, so they can cover Hannah in prayer. Pastor Bill never leaves. Dad joins them as soon as he’s home from work. Mum’s always in the kitchen, making tea and setting out wee plates of buns. It’s not unlike a wake. The curtains drawn. The constant tea. The house full of solemn, low-voiced visitors. It is exactly like a wake. In fairness, how could it be anything else? There’s been seven deaths already. The smell of death is in the air.
Hannah tries to keep out of the believers’ way. She stays in her room. Every couple of hours she’s summoned downstairs so they can pray for her in person. She stands in the centre of the circle, flushed and swaying slightly, while they all lay hands on her. The weight of their words bears down on her head. She almost always starts to wilt. The guilt feels sharpest with their eyes on her. What if God reveals where she’s been? It’s not unheard of for believers to pick up on guilty thoughts and Hannah can’t get the Raggedy Tree out of her head. Mum would be mortified if she knew. Dad would be absolutely furious and she knows fine rightly what Pastor Bill would say. Dear oh dear, you’ve gone and given the Devil a foothold, young Hannah. The Lord Jesus is so disappointed in you.
Hannah half wishes Granda hadn’t mentioned the Raggedy Tree. It doesn’t seem to have made any difference. Despite her efforts, Amy still died. Now William’s gone, and she’s pretty sure God is mad at her. He doesn’t look kindly on those who dabble with wicked things. If God’s cross, he probably won’t stop Hannah from getting sick. He might even bring the sickness on her, as a kind of punishment. And if it’s God’s will for her to get sick, it won’t matter how many believers pray, she’s definitely heading to the other Ballylack. It’s pre-ordained, as Dad would say. Hannah’s head gets dizzy if she spends too long thinking about predestination. It starts to feel like she’s stuck in a loop. If God’s already decided what’s going to happen, then what’s the point of doing anything? She asked Dad to explain it once. He said predestination was both very complicated and very simple and not something she needed to worry about. Not at her age. Which only served to make Hannah feel helpless. Everything was beyond her control, and she couldn’t even question it. It felt a lot like careering down a hill in a car with brakes that didn’t work.
If God’s decided she’s going to die, there’s nothing anybody can do about it. He’s got His plan and His purpose; He’ll stick to it. Still, Hannah doesn’t want to appear rude. It’s kind of the believers to keep appearing in the living room, bringing casseroles and traybakes, offering to pray for her. She wishes they weren’t wasting their time. They’re yet another thing to feel guilty about. Hannah accepts their prayers and leaves as soon as they say Amen, bolting back up to the safety of her bedroom. She sits in the dark with the curtains drawn, eating Fifteens and caramel squares, waiting for the sickness to start.
William appears about three o’clock. Hannah’s expected him a good bit sooner. It’s six whole hours since she heard he’d died. She returns to her room after a particularly vigorous session with the senior elders and finds him sitting on the windowsill, peeking through a gap in the curtains.
‘Wow,’ he says, ‘I thought it was bad outside the hospital. But there’s millions of journalists out there. Leeches, my da calls them. He said he’d take his shotgun to them if it wouldn’t just give them more crap to write about.’
‘There’s only the four of us left,’ says Hannah. ‘They want to make sure they don’t miss anything.’
‘Bloody leeches.’
William lets the curtain drop. The room falls back into darkness. Hannah automatically reaches for the light switch.
‘No,’ says William, ‘leave it off. I like it better in the dark, so you can’t see how much I’ve changed. I’m not used to it yet myself.’
Hannah takes a seat on the end of her bed facing William. Once her eyes are accustomed to the half-light, she’s shocked to see how different he is. The new William looks like he’s been taken by the wrists and stretched. There’s not enough flesh to fill all of his tallness out. Hannah’s reminded of the pumpkin-head scarecrow which stands at the top of McAuley’s field. Only his face remains familiar, still topped with a shock of bright red curls. His head looks out of proportion now, overly large and unbalanced, bobbling about on the end of his neck.
‘You look really different, William. I don’t know if I’d recognize you in the street. Your hair’s the same, though,’ she adds, as a kind of consolation.
William runs his fingers through his fringe. ‘Once a ginger, always a ginger,’ he says, and smiles broadly. His eyes smile too. His nose crinkles up across the bridge.
There you are, thinks Hannah, your smile’s not changed one bit. Of all the boys in the class, she’s always liked William best. He’s not particularly funny or good-looking. He is kind, though. Powerful kind. Hannah’s always appreciated this.
‘You smile the same,’ she says.
‘You too.’
‘I am the same.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot. I’m the dead kid with the different body. I’m the one haunting you.’
They both laugh. Spoken aloud, it sounds totally daft.
‘You’re in good form for a dead kid.’
William shrugs. ‘What’s the point in freaking out? I’d rather be dead than sick like that again.’
‘Was it awful?’
‘Not at the start. At the start it was just like having the flu. Then there were lumps everywhere. Then all my organs started switching off. I’ll be honest, that bit was pretty shite. At the end I just fell asleep.’ He pauses, then, noticing Hannah’s face, adds, ‘I mean, that was my experience. It’s different for everyone.’
‘Right,’ says Hannah. She’s keen to move the chat away from dying. The less she knows, the less there is to panic about. ‘And what’s it like being dead?’
‘Uch, it’s not that bad. It’s basically the same as before only minus the adults. I have to say, I’m not really missing the old way that much. All I did when I wasn’t at school was help my da around the farm. It’s nice in a way, not having Big William breathing down my neck. Then again, it’s not perfect either. It’s tense at the minute, so it is. Everybody’s angry. Have you heard the DK are taking sides?’
‘Aye,’ nods Hannah, ‘Dead Kids versus the Twins.’
‘It drives me mad. They’re ruining something that could be good. I think they’ve forgotten we’re all in the same boat. One side’s dead. So’s the other. You’d think they’d be able to get on.’
‘It makes me sad, hearing about it.’
‘Try being around them. It’s not much craic. I don’t really fit into either camp. I’m not interested in fighting. I try to keep myself to myself. I’m definitely not DK material. All the partying they do; it feels put on. All big talk, if you know what I mean. Underneath it, I think they’re hurting. We probably all are in different ways. Doesn’t mean you get to take out your frustrations on everybody else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Kathleen and Lief – sorry, Lee – took over the flat above Thompson’s. They’ve trashed the place. They’ve drunk everything they can lay their hands on and now they’ve started picking fights. Like, actual fights.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘I think it started as a bit of a laugh. When you have a gang, you need another gang to be up against. Like, there’s always two sides to every war. Not that I’m saying it’s a war or anything. But they’re all taking it so seriously. Especially the DK. They’ve got really mean. They’ve been writing stuff about Lizzy all over the village.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Uch, you know, silly crap – Lizzy Ross is a bitch, the Twins are Freaks – daft stuff like that. You can tell Kathleen’s behind it. It’s not exactly imaginative.’
Hannah lets herself smile. ‘They’re not actually fighting, though, are they?’
‘Not yet,’ says William. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them, though. Kathleen keeps threatening to trash the house where the Twins are living. Lizzy’s not helping matters much. If you ask me, she’s doing her best to stir things up. Her and Mim go round tidying up after all the DK’s parties, making a holy show of themselves. Lecturing the others. Saying they’re really immature. Lizzy’s, like, all the worst bits of your mum rolled into one. If she doesn’t stop winding Kathleen up, it could get nasty. Kathleen said she’ll burn them out.’
‘Do you think she’s serious?’
‘Naw. Yeah. Well, maybe. They done the Orange Hall a wee while back. I wasn’t dead then, but they told me that was Amy Leung’s doing. Amy Leung? What the flip? I can’t get my head round that one. You can never tell what somebody’s capable of when they’re pissed off and they’ve had a few drinks.’
Hannah has nothing to say to this. She’s never seen anyone drunk in real life. Now he’s admitted he’s a smoker, she’s pretty sure Granda Pete drinks as well. She’s smelt a funny smell off him – like vinegar and sour apples – when he comes in from the bowling club. But Granda Pete’s a very nice man. He’d never get drunk and fight like people on EastEnders. He might go to the pub, but he probably just wants to see his friends. And he’d only have one beer while he’s there. A wee small beer, in a wee small glass. Strictly speaking, drinking’s not a sin in itself. It’s only getting drunk the Bible’s against.
Hannah changes the subject back to William. She doesn’t want to hear about the DK or the problems in the other Ballylack. At the rate they’re wrecking, half the village will be in rubble by the time she arrives.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
‘Uch, I’m trying not to get drawn into it, Hannah. I really don’t want to start taking sides. If there’s a chance to sit down and talk sense to either of them, I’ll do my best. I don’t see any point in the way they’re getting on.’
William’s different from the others who’ve come before. He doesn’t sound like a kid trying to be an adult. He actually sounds like a man. Or, if not a man, then a much older fella. There’s sense to what he says. And how he says it. It’s easy to believe in him. For the first time since Millar’s Gap, Hannah feels a little easier in herself. She doesn’t want William to rush away.
‘I could help,’ she says, ‘when I arrive. I could help you try to talk to them. Nobody wanted to talk to me before. It’s different now. They might actually listen to me.’
William pats her gently on the knee. It’s not the sort of touch you’d give a girlfriend or even a girl you fancied a bit. He touches her lightly on the knee of her pyjamas in the way you’d touch a child. His voice, when he speaks, is even older. Hannah knows he’s talking down to her.
‘That’s so kind, Hannah. I appreciate it. But you do know you’re not coming to join us? Has nobody told you you’re going to be fine?’
‘What?’ says Hannah. It comes out like a squeak, so she takes a deep breath and repeats herself. ‘What?’
‘You’re not for dying. At least not for a good while anyway.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She starts to cry. Just a bit. It’s possible William’s not noticed in the dark. She wipes her eyes and nose on the cuff of her pyjama top.
‘Smile, Hannah. It’s good news. Anybody else would be over the moon.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she repeats. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Did you not wonder why everybody was coming to see you? Did you not think, why me and not somebody else? You’re not like the rest of us.’
‘Set apart,’ mumbles Hannah. When Dad says, as Christians, they’re set apart, he makes it sound like a brilliant thing. Now set apart’s lost all its positive associations. Hannah’s odd. She’s weird. She’s not the same as everyone else. She thinks about the time Granny’s cat Mo had all the kittens and nobody wanted the runty one with the misshaped leg. In the end they kept it, though Granny never had any love for it. Hannah doesn’t want to be set apart.
‘Am I going to be left behind by myself?’ Hannah’s properly bawling now. Snail trails of snot leak out of her nose.
‘Sorry. Yes. It’s looking that way. But seriously, it’s good news. Do you really want to die if it means being stuck for ever in Ballylack? You’ve your whole life ahead of you. Years and years. Think of all the things you’re going to do.’
‘I know that. And I am glad, William. But I don’t want to be the only one left. I’m always the one who misses out.’
‘Thank your lucky stars you are. If your dad wasn’t so uptight, you’d be in the same boat as the rest of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve worked out where this whole thing started. It took a wee while to compare notes but in the end it was pretty obvious. The only thing we all did together was that school trip to see the Raggedy Tree. You know, over in Millar’s Gap. Lizzy says there was a funny smell coming off the pond; a sort of chemically smell. I remember noticing the grass had died all around the edge. We’re ninety-nine per cent sure we caught whatever this is in Millar’s Gap. Has your man Seán Donnelly not worked it out yet?’
Hannah shakes her head. No. Words aren’t coming easily. She’s still processing his first revelation. Now, William’s turned her world upside down again.
‘So, like I said, Hannah, you’re going to be grand. Your super-strict dad has saved you this time. You’re not for dying. You won’t get sick because you never set foot in Millar’s Gap.’
Later, she’ll wish she’d managed to control herself for long enough to explain everything. She feels sure William would’ve known how to comfort her. In the moment, she is a child. A tiny, terrified, overwrought child. She turns her back on him, buries her face in her pink gingham pillow and cries until her eyes dry up and her throat is raw.
William doesn’t rush away. He stays for half an hour or so. It’s kind of him. Hannah’s grateful for it. She can feel his hand, unmoving, on the small of her back; the cold, damp press of it through her pyjamas. Dad used to sit like this on the edge of her bed when she’d had a bad dream and couldn’t get back to sleep. He never spoke. He didn’t need to. The weight of his hand was an anchor, reminding her that he was there, and he had her. Safe and sound. The dark was never just as dark when Dad was sharing it with her.
