From behind me I overhear the words ‘murdered’, ‘kidnapped’, ‘Devil’ and ‘pre-Trib’.
Like me, Frazer Melville is scanning the stadium for Bethany. But there’s still no sign of her. I squeeze his hand. When our eyes connect, something deep and private is swiftly exchanged. A feeling that cannot be doubted. A knowledge which in other circumstances would cramp my heart with bliss, not pain.
But we’re circling the drain.
When Kristin Jons dottir and Harish Modak talked me through the various stages of rapid climate catastrophe back in the farmhouse, it seemed too theoretical to be terrifying. But now the knowledge is visceral. Out at sea, the jolt that shook Buried Hope Alpha giving way to further violent spasms. Ships sucked down, sub-sea cables destroyed. The sea floor erupting, caving in on itself, tonnes of sediment avalanching in a second earth-shock. The first giant wave triggered, and then building, and then sweeping in. Then the domino effect. One sub-sea landslide leading to another, each releasing millions of tonnes of trapped hydrates. A vicious chain of tsunamis barrelling through the linked oceans. Everywhere, methane that lay buried for millions of years suddenly freed, roaring to the surface and combusting on contact with the oxygen. The ocean on fire, pulsing gas high into the atmosphere. As the days and weeks pass, the air and water growing ever hotter. The heat dislodging more hydrate fields. Until continent after continent and sea after sea has joined the paroxysm. The vicious cycle creating within only months and years a world where the sun’s glare roasts the planet. Climate warming gone psychotic. Glaciers melting, the warmer oceans expanding to drown coasts and cities and forests, crushed by the pressure of salt water and mineral froth, sunk under a deep blue whose surface bears the poignant relics of human endeavour: hair-curlers, oil drums, condoms, empty Evian bottles, plastic Barbie dolls in sexy outfits.
As if to quell my mounting panic, some gentle music has crept into the hubbub, alluring and narcotic. From all directions, the stage is filling with choir-members in long white robes. Frazer Melville’s big hand rests on my shoulder, and I lay my cheek on it for comfort. On either side of us, huge screens flicker to new life. An image of the stadium seen from above, one end plunged in darkness, the other throbbing with light like a crescent moon. Close- ups of the audience. Wide-shots of the choir from different angles. The beaming faces of the white-clad preachers. Then, as the members of the choir assume their places on the raised blocks, I catch sight of a face I know.
‘Look,’ I say, pointing. Joy McConey is sitting in a row of what look like VIP seats, a hundred metres away from us. She is clad in a robe of flowing white. Her eyes are closed, as though she is deep in meditation or prayer. She’s holding a candle. Her pale red hair, decorated with a single lily flower, glimmers in its light. A frail, fading creature wrapped in a death-shroud. My heart goes out to her. I wonder where her children are. I see no sign of them, or her husband.
On an invisible signal, the five warm-up preachers turn to the choir and start to clap in rhythm. Taking their lead, the audience joins in as the music swells and spills across us like lapping water. Then, humming at first, the choir begins a wordless song, the men’s voices buzzing low, the women’s clear and warm. It’s as soothing and graceful as morphine. On the giant screens, you can see into their eyes and their moving mouths. It’s only when the lyrics start that I recognise the hymn.
Bethany sang it in the car. The elderly woman next to us starts up a high, quavering vibrato and the service at Feniton Acres comes back to me: the sense of belonging, of shared aspiration, of the fellowship of good people: the seduction of belief. The music pours and slides and swills, a pure, organic embrace. People rock and clap and sway about me. I would like to be whisked from the brink too. Or failing that, I would like to believe I will. I look at my watch. Where is Bethany? Where is the helicopter? Believe, I think.
Next to me the old lady stops singing and turns to me abruptly, her eyes brimming with joy. ‘Yes, my darling. Believe! Believe in Him and you shall enter the Kingdom!’
As the music builds to a crescendo and dies off, swallowed in clapping and whoops, I’m aware of a new, more urgent tone entering the clamour. Heads are turning. I almost don’t recognise Leonard Krall when he comes bounding along the aisle nearby and up to the raised stage. Like his fellow-preachers, he’s dressed entirely in white and sporting a discreet microphone headset. There are high-fives and catcalls as he lifts his arms skyward in greeting. His good-looking, honest face is reproduced on the huge screens all around. Ten giant Leonard Kralls, radiating identical energy and faith. If there is power in anyone’s blood today, it’s running in this man’s veins.
‘People, welcome to the Temple of Praise, and welcome to the greatest day of our lives!’ His voice reverberates through the huge space and up into the darkening air. The worshippers cheer and wave their arms in delight. There’s a hectic buzz, a whirr of joyful laughter. I feel the envy again.
‘The Rapture is upon us, the Lord be praised!’ Showmanship is a talent. He has it. The commanding bulk, the confident body language, the electric energy, the unassailable conviction. There is clapping and whistling from the hard core. But I begin to sense a more muted and anxious reaction elsewhere. ‘This day is a day like no other!’ declares Krall. ‘This day is a day of joy, the day all true Christians have been waiting for and praying for. Remember what Jesus promised us:
There’s a ripple of interest. Catching its wave, Krall stands expectantly, then with a half-smile points to the opposite side of the stadium. Frazer Melville takes my hand and grips it in his.
‘Praise be to the Lord!’ Krall shouts, his smile transforming. It’s the transcendent, replete expression of a man in love.
‘Hallelujah,’ breathes my neighbour.
‘Oh no,’ says Frazer Melville, nodding at the giant screen.
Bethany.
She’s climbing the steps to the platform. I glance about, but can’t place her in the flesh, so I return to the projected image. Her gait is still jerky and stiff, as though she isn’t fully in charge of her body. Her two guards are
