The Rapture

questions about a private tragedy concerning my family, that’s another matter. I would have to respectfully ask her to leave.’

I feel mildly unwell. I would like to teleport myself out of here. Rewind the scene to the bit where we’re singing and clapping and I’m enjoying myself. Anything to get out of this — this this.

‘I have nothing to say to you.’ His face is white. ‘Except, who the hell are you?’ I was not expecting sudden rage on this scale and it scares me. For a stomach-turning moment I think he’s going to hit me. I reach for my thunder egg and I’m ready to swing it at him. But before I can, he has manoeuvred his way behind me and snatched the handles of my chair. I grab the wheels to block them but when he gives a blunt shove, my hands aren’t strong enough to resist. He is wheeling me out. The automatic doors open. Dusk is gathering. Without a word he pushes my wheelchair — faster than it has ever been pushed — down the ramp.

‘We Bible men are fond of miracles, Ms Fox,’ he says. He’s beginning to tip my chair forward. I cling on to my wheels. I want to scream but nothing comes out. I look around wildly for someone to help me, but the car park is a deserted prairie. ‘And I like to think they sometimes happen.’ He’s still rocking me. I grab on to the arm-rests with all my force, but he doesn’t stop. He’s strong. He’s tipped the chair so far down that I’m staring at the tarmac and losing my grip. I’ll have to let go if I want to avoid serious injury. ‘So let’s see if we can make the lame walk, eh?’

I am too dumbstruck to speak. I need to stay in the chair but I’m losing the fight. Desperate to protect myself, I let go just in time to break my fall with my hands. I’m sprawled on the ground. I may have knocked one of my legs, and there’s a searing pain in my left palm. I glance at it and see blood and gravel and chopped-up skin. Pain versus pride: I’m struggling not to sob. And losing.

He laughs. ‘Nice acting.’ Then he flings my wallet down and its contents spill on the gravel. My driver’s licence stares up at me.

‘I’m your daughter’s therapist,’ I blurt, my eyes stinging from the pain. ‘She’s been foreseeing natural disasters. She predicted Istanbul.’ His body stiffens. He doesn’t speak, but I can feel him registering what I’ve said. ‘Can you explain that, Mr Krall?’

‘Oh, I can explain it all right,’ he says. A shudder runs across his features. Fear, or contempt, or both? ‘Or rather the Devil can. It’s him you should be talking to. He’s the one in charge of Bethany.’

‘She’s your daughter.’

‘Not any more. I pray for her soul every day of my waking life. You’re being manipulated, Ms Fox. And you can’t even see it.’

By the time I’ve recovered enough to move, he’s gone. As I drag myself back up into my wheelchair, he has returned to his church and closed the door and I am alone.

Swallowing my tears and trying to think of ways I can make the incident sound amusing rather than grotesque, I call Frazer Melville from the car, but get no answer. I turn on the radio. In Turkey, there are stories of last-ditch rescues, poignant reunions, tragic miscalculations, the spread of disease, the bungling of aid. I drive, trying not to think.

Frazer Melville is waiting for me at home, with a bottle of champagne and a thin unhappy smile. ‘To celebrate the end of my career as a credible scientist,’ he announces. We clink glasses and he sets about cleaning up my scraped hand. In our different ways, we are in despair.

‘You sent the e-mails?’

‘I’ve concentrated on the next four incidents, since the first three have already happened and we can’t make sense of the last entry. I presented them as speculations made by someone who has accurately predicted natural disasters in the past. I kept it neutral, and asked for statistical likelihoods of the events happening on the date given, and I sent some of Bethany’s Moonscape with Machinery drawings to Melina. She has an ex-colleague with connections to Harish Modak.’

I tell him I am proud of him. But I can see that the pressing of the ‘send’ button has renewed his turmoil. ‘And you’re sure that all these people are open to… ideas that you can’t prove?’

‘Can’t be sure in all cases. Melina’s not that way inclined, but I’m guessing she’ll pay me the compliment of replying seriously, and not use it against me. Harish Modak — if Melina’s contact passes it on — is someone who just might take a chance. Out of pure curiosity. He’s maverick enough.’

‘I’ve read one of his articles. I was impressed. Though I wanted to shoot the messenger.’

‘He’s Lovelock’s spiritual successor in some ways. In others not. He doesn’t really give a toss what the rest of science thinks of him. But he has huge influence.’

‘So what now?’

‘We consume more alcohol and you tell me about Leonard Krall.’

The next morning my boss gets straight to the point. He has received a phone call from Bethany’s father. A phone call of ‘justified complaint’. There’s nothing to say, so I don’t. ‘Can you deny it?’

‘He tipped me out of my wheelchair.’ It’s as weak as it sounds.

‘Yes. So he told me. He apologises for that. Nonetheless. It doesn’t exactly cancel out what you did, now does it?’

‘Did he ask after Bethany?’

‘No. She murdered his wife, he has a right to keep his distance. Anyway this isn’t about Bethany, it’s about you. You!’ He stands up and bangs his fist on the desk. Instinctively, I flinch. But he doesn’t care. ‘Jesus, Gabrielle. What the hell were you thinking of?’ Then he sits down abruptly and slaps his hand on the desk again.

I smooth my skirt. ‘I was curious,’ I tell him quietly. That’s the closest I can get to the truth. A fuller answer — that I was hoping to find a clue to the daughter’s visions in the father’s religious beliefs — will damn me further. Not because I wanted answers to my questions, but because of the way I went about getting them. ‘Is curiosity about one’s patients a crime?’

‘You were curious,’ he repeats, quietly. ‘Curious.’ He exhales an infuriated sigh. ‘Well, I too am curious, Gabrielle. And being curious — about you, in this case — I naturally made a call to London, and spoke to your previous employers in Hammersmith. And learned that Dr Omar Sulieman, who gave you such a glowing reference when you applied for this posting, has sadly died. So we were unable to have the conversation I would have liked. But I spoke to his successor, Dr Wyndham. Who hadn’t known you, but looked you up in the file, at my request.’ I take in a breath, but don’t speak. There’s no point. A seagull settles on the windowsill, tilts its head to observe us for a second, then takes off in a white whirr. ‘ It seems from the records that all the other members of the Assessment Committee opposed your reinstatement at the Unit, on the grounds that you weren’t ready to go back to work in the wake of your accident and bereavement. Psychologically, they claim, you were unready to meet the challenges of resuming such a demanding career, and recommended that you take another six months’ sick leave. Dr Sulieman, however, overrode that decision when he supported your application for the temporary post here at Oxsmith.’

A silence. Thinking time for us both. He’s looking at me expectantly. The ticking clock on the wall says it’s eighteen minutes past ten. As I watch the seconds pass, my mind goes into overdrive. Money — or the lack of it — suddenly looms large. According to my lawyer, my compensation from the accident is a long way off. Has my one misjudgment rendered me unemployable? At nineteen minutes past ten, still aware of his eyes on me, I say, ‘I’ll pack up my office and get out of your hair.’

Sheldon-Gray looks alarmed rather than relieved. ‘According to your contract, you have another month. Just be grateful I’m not taking immediate disciplinary proceedings.’

‘These are very serious claims,’ I say, sensing an advantage. ‘Therapists who behave unprofessionally are a liability to any establishment. Surely you’d want to expose me officially?’ He does the thing with his cuffs. I press on. ‘Unless perhaps you have a staff shortage due to Dr Ehmet having gone? And recruitment at Oxsmith being — I gather — a regular problem…’

‘You have four weeks,’ he says brusquely. The cuffs now in order, some papers on his desk seem inexplicably to call for his immediate attention. ‘And please don’t ask me for a reference. Because I assure you, there will be no pity factor this time.’ I am dismissed. I swivel to leave. ‘But in the meantime,’ he tells my retreating back, ‘your contact with Bethany Krall is at an end.’

With an Indian takeway steaming on the passenger seat of my car, I drive over to Frazer Melville’s home,