on Facebook and giggled in the cinema over a tub of popcorn and believed what she read in the Bible. ‘Now, what do you think Matthew had in mind there, Reverend?’
They are escorting us out of the car park. It seems we’re heading towards the East footbridge that leads to the stadium. Bethany is a few metres ahead, flanked by two minders. Frazer Melville and I follow, with a bulky, resolutely silent usher assigned to each of us. Frazer Melville’s is almost as tall as him, while mine is female, squat and healthily plain, with the hefty rump of an ox. The sun has disappeared behind roils of grey-black vapour which hover on the horizon, stacked like geological strata. I breathe in deep and exhale. Despite the ominous security presence, it’s a relief to be outdoors again after the claustrophobia of the car, and to have the steel rims of my wheels in my grip. I even feel a small nudge of affection for my chair. I have met others who do not see their wheelchair as a hated symbol, but as a natural extension of their body, an object of love. I never saw myself becoming one of them. But in this moment, I no longer consider them deluded.
As we forge on, it becomes evident that the crowd’s mood has curdled into an uneasy brew of ecstasy, desperation and despair. As the fall of the rig and the phrase ‘high tsunami risk’ is processed in a thousand brains, some sections of the crowd seem coshed by the news of Buried Hope Alpha’s spectacular fall, standing with the dazed expression of abruptly woken sleepwalkers, while others are openly rejoicing, their children laughing and clamouring as they flood across the wide footbridge. Some young police officers are attempting to calm the drivers who want to leave, but are hampered by the incoming flow. It’s a hopeless task: the police are outnumbered and overwhelmed. Beyond the growing pedestrian bottleneck on the bridge, people are fanning out on the concourse in front of the stadium and congregating near the huge pebble-shaped retail booths, exchanging hugs and kisses. Some, bearing the panicked, haunted look of refugees, seem intent on gleaning information. A group of Iraq-veteran types has gathered near a fountain, where they argue and gesticulate vigorously. In the meantime whole families are scaling the giant concession pods and settling on their curved roofs, hauling their belongings with them. Picking up on the simmer of human stress hormones, dogs that have been cooped too long in vehicles bark frenziedly. And through it all, an electronic bell tolls, summoning the faithful. Ahead, at the foot of the stadium’s outer wall, people are filtering through the hanging strips of plastic sheeting which separate the inside of the structure from the outer concourse. The litter bins are overflowing and there’s a smell of fish and chips. All around, families are ingesting food with a concentrated urgency, as though determined to fill their stomachs before whatever journey they envisage embarking on. Next to a rowan tree dotted with clusters of berries, an elderly woman with a blank, soulful face stands hugging herself and swaying rhythmically in a weird, solitary dance. A dark patch of urine stains her skirt. Nearby two square-shaped men are fighting, bashing at each other with monolithic industriousness. On the outer edges of the concourse, next to the waterways, groups of adults and children stand rigid watching the news on the giant screens.
I lose sight of Bethany for a while, but when I see her again I realise she must have tried to make an escape because her two ushers are now on either side of her, gripping her elbows. A blonde teenage girl spits as they bundle her past, darkening the back of her T-shirt with a splat of bubbled saliva. Fury roars through me. Unaware, Bethany keeps going, her gait uneven and puppet-like, as though she is concentrating on keeping her spine straight. When we catch up with the blonde girl, I abandon all pretence of professionalism and grab her arm.
‘How dare you behave like that,’ I hiss. ‘Bethany’s sixteen. She’s a kid. A damaged kid.’
‘But she killed her own mum, right?’ counters the girl. The crucifix around her neck flashes at me. ‘And she made this whole thing happen.’
‘No. That’s wrong. She’s here for good reasons.’
‘No she isn’t,’ says the girl, looking down at me with the kind of scorn that only teenagers have the confidence for.
‘How do you know?’ I snap. My nerves are so frayed I could scream.
‘Because I’m sixteen too. I saw the look on her face. She’s taking the piss.’
‘Come on,’ says Frazer Melville urgently. ‘Let’s not lose her.’
Grabbing the handles of my chair, he gives me a sharp shove forward. Our two ushers are now fully engaged in clearing a way for us in the throng so that we can enter the stadium unimpeded. Frazer Melville’s force is propelling me on through the surge of bodies cascading through the plastic strips that form the structure’s porous wall. It’s like being filtered into the cavernous, chaotic stomach of a whale. I’m aware of the sheer, impossible quantity of flesh and molecules around me, and of my own insignificance in the moiling throng.
‘She’s up ahead,’ Frazer Melville shouts, leaning down so I can hear. ‘I can see her. Let’s just keep going and hope we can catch up.’
Despite the post-Olympic downsizing of the stadium, it seems even more immense in its present form, too large for one set of eyes to absorb. Its far end is unlit, so that the effect is that of entering a dark-throated cave whose mouth is a pool of brightness. At the near end, ringed by the running track, the stage is a white floodlit disc, its centre dominated by a gigantic fountain of blinding white lilies. Where did such a spectacular creation come from? Who organised it at such short notice? Nearby, beyond the microphones, stands a collection of giant white blocks of staggered height, clearly intended for a choir. The warm-up team is still at work, but perhaps to cope with the shift in the emotional current, the preachers have split up, with each now addressing a different section of the lit space from the outer edges of the stage. Our ushers pause for a hurried discussion and I scan the rows of seats looking for Bethany. But there’s no sign of her. On all sides, we are surrounded by people, some sitting, others milling about in the wide aisles. Even before my accident, I felt uncomfortable in crowds, aware of the inherent danger of shoaling masses. A shudder works its way through me and I feel Frazer Melville’s hand pressing on my shoulder. He squeezes. Does he need me as much as I need him? I tip my head back and he leans down and kisses me hard on the mouth. Then he is jostled by someone and pulls away sharply and I am left with just the taste of him.
‘This way,’ says the female usher, directing me towards a row of seating at the front of the stage. ‘Stay there,’ she indicates woodenly. Frazer Melville seats himself at the end of the row and I position myself next to him in the aisle, while she speaks to someone on her headset. I strain to catch what she is saying. ‘Yes, Reverend. As I understand it, sir, yes… She quoted Matthew. Forgiveness…’ Out of the blue, her blunt face is lit by a smile whose beauty surprises me. ‘Just give the signal… we certainly will, sir… God bless you and your family too, sir. We will meet again in God’s Kingdom.’ Frazer Melville’s minder seems to have disappeared during this discussion, but a moment later I see him on the other side of the stadium, directing people up stairways into the rows of seats around the structure’s nearside rim. But it’s at ground level that the biggest crowds are congregating. And it’s here, all around us, that the unease is most palpable. Some people, unashamedly panicking, are barging against the surge of those still entering, forming a hysterical counter-current. Others are on their knees, eyes tight shut, praying intensely. A bottle-blonde woman in a pink bathrobe has climbed on to the top of a huge loudspeaker and is mouthing a prayer, or perhaps an elaborate curse, incoherently and at great speed. She’s holding some kind of package up as though pleading with the grubby cauliflower clouds that are ruching the sky. Her husband is shouting at her to
‘Where’s Bethany?’ I ask the usher.
‘We’re taking care of her.’
‘She wants to see her father! That’s why we came!’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s OK. She’s on her way to him right now.’
Frazer Melville and I exchange a miserable glance. Never have I felt so helpless.
‘Welcome, people!’ A young, energetic preacher, tracked by a moving spotlight, has bounced to the edge of the stage in front of us, hands aloft, white-blond hair backlit. Behind him, beyond the rim of the stage, pure blackness.
‘Hard times — some of the severest times ever seen by man — are about to be witnessed on the shores of our nation.’ His voice is gravelly with reverb. ‘Our elders confirm, and the Bible confirms, that we are now on the threshold of the End Times.’ There are a few thrilled shrieks and some raucous cheering. One of his shoes has a white lily petal stuck to it, and for some reason this makes me want to cry. I picture the huge greenhouses in which those flowers were forced into blossom, the rows of hydroponics, the harsh artificial sunlight, so bright the workers must wear sunglasses. People with livelihoods, passions, cars, tracksuits, allergies, lovers, children, favourite brands of cereal. ‘May they feel a heart-change and come to the Lord! That’s what the Rapture’s all about! Salvation! Redemption! I believe in it. Do you believe in it?’
There’s a surge of assent: whistles, hallelujahs and catcalls. A perverse thought —
