The Book of Rapture (17 page)

Now you get it.

And you have learned that a life unchanged is a life unlived. You hate what you were once. If only you could wash it all away like mud under a shower, and start again clean, afresh. You can finally admit that there have been mistakes in your past, catastrophic errors of judgement, and they have affected not only you but others, so many others around you, and you never thought enough about that. Blinded by zeal, rampantly ambitious, swept away by inflaming sentiment; narrow, judgemental, righteous, tough. You know now that ageing is about embracing fallibility, in yourself and in others. You think of those elderly people you have sometimes come across — men, mostly, from various walks of life — who glow with an accumulation
of good living. Full of juice. Free of judgement. Joyous, chuckly, chuffed; surrendering to the chaos of it all, and the wonder. A completeness to them, a richness, from all they have learned in life.

Catastrophic errors of judgement. And now you, and others, must pay for them.

So. This. The boy from the other side gone. In fury. Your children tremulously quiet. Everything careful, fragile, stopped. Talk blown out of them with what on earth’s coming next. It’s been so long since you’ve heard Mouse’s whistling, Soli’s singing, Tidge’s laugh and you ache for them,
ache
for them, and breathing is now tight in your chest, as if a giant hand is twisting your heart and squeezing it, as if you are rising on a great dark wing and it is blackening out the sun and there is no good air left. You wait. All of you. Will he come back? Will he tell his father? What is next? This room is nobody’s friend, not even a clock’s tick breaks its mausoleum quiet; the dark is curtain-thick, no light any more, from any source.

The very purpose of religion is to control yourself, not to criticise others. Rather, we must criticise ourselves. How much am I doing about my anger? About my attachment, about my hatred, about my pride, my jealousy?

118

The door. A key. B. It must be. Relief and fury that he’s left them so long.

It is Motl. Bursting through the door like he’s been blasted in by some explosive force.

You stagger. Your lovely man, before you.

Back, given back.

How vividly he’s been distilled in his vanishing, in such a short time, to a few precious snippets now riveted into your heart: a photo of him, nonchalant on a country railway track; his smell, hair oil; the burst of his laugh; the luxurious sweep of his handwriting; the way he says ‘yeah’ at you, sceptically; a silly winter hat. The feel of his fingers slipping into your pants after you’ve been loosened by a night out with girlfriends and your insides peel away at his touch — you will always have the sensation of it — your groin softly contracting, then bucking, opening out into his palm, offering wetness. God, that he can still have that effect on you, after fifteen years of marriage, this man, this gift. In the thick of an argument you’ve flung all manner of stupid taunts, ‘I hate you’ and ‘I want a divorce’ and ‘Get me out’ but he knows you never mean it although his eyes are always hurt. So much gratitude unexpressed. That you’ve been so blessed. He is a good man, he has given you so much, and you’ve never properly told him that.

And now, and now.

Returned. To the children. Alive. In one piece. You shut your
eyes, all you want to do is hold him, just hold him, breathing him in, then later spoon, silently, in your nightly ritual that has concluded every night of your married life; with your belly pressed into his back and then he whispers ‘seatbelt’ and you obediently turn and offer him the expanse of your own back and his arm slots over yours and he nestles in and exhales a long contented breath as if he has waited all day for this moment of rest. Days. Weeks. And here he is. The marvel of it. The love that is an accumulation of years of conversations and fights and making-ups, a first tremulous flick and matching, extremely cheap wedding rings and Friday night takeaways and weekends in unaffordable hotels but what the heck and concerts where the highly anticipated performer is drunk and grainy ultrasound pictures and labour wards and car trips with ‘Are we there yet?’ endlessly from the back and watching in awe the three children created together, peacefully asleep, and laughter, so much laughter, yes that. The key, you think: that he still makes you laugh. Both of you came to the same conclusion not too far back, that the secret to life is to wring as much happiness as you can out of your time on this earth. And often that happiness is found in the simplest moments.

The four of them. It’s all you need, want.

I thirst.

119

Motl smiles as he opens out his arms to his squealy children.

‘Daaaaaaaad?

Back. Just as he promised. Your heart hurts with love. The sight of that little huddle; it, too, is riveted within you; it will never be lost.

Pre-Salt Cottage, when he’d stay out late with mates, you used to panic as the hours ticked on past midnight; perhaps he’s dead, been mugged, you’d think. Then you’d weigh up your world without him and a part of you would breathe out in relief: ‘Ah, free again.’ To be the woman you once were; to run your life as you want. Decorate the house your way entirely, eat like a single woman, give the kids cereal for dinner, discipline them with no one to counter it. But the sweetness of that moment when you heard the key in the lock! Back, safe. The person who understands you more than any other in your life. As eccentric as you despite being complete opposites, and if you didn’t have him you wouldn’t have anyone else.

And now, and now. You hover a touching, it hurts. He’s changed, you frown. A beard and he’s never had that. It alters him completely. ‘I know’ — he throws up his hands in disgust — ‘I’m a prisoner in my face.’ He tries to scrabble it off as the children climb all over him. But he looks wrong. It isn’t just the whiskers — he looks like a child someone has dressed too fast. The coat is buttoned into holes that don’t match, the socks are different colours, the hair is unbrushed. He’s lost weight.
He’s filthy But most wrong of all is the light: it’s gone from his eyes. Like he’s been snuffed. He’s never been this.

‘Are you okay … Dad?’ Mouse asks.

Motl grins. ‘It’s been a mighty long journey to get to you lot. But hey, I’m here. And soon we’ll be out of this place. I just need a quick kip, and then we’re off!’

Mouse hugs him tight. Hugs into him all his relief and joy and hope. Feel this, says his fierce press. Our whole future is in it. You drop to your knees; prayer is gratitude, oh yes. He’s a wonderful father, always has been. They’ll be all right, they’ll be all right.

Twenty of you who stand firm shall vanquish two hundred.

120

How soon they settle into the old ways, how quickly normality is back. Explanations and jokes and an apology to pass on, from B, for not being here; he’s been madly busy getting another family safe and things haven’t gone according to plan, there were complications. And then Motl holds up his hands to all the questions; yes, yes, Mum is alive, she’s okay, don’t worry, B’s assured him you’re all right, you’re just sorting out a few things and as he speaks he looks straight at you, suddenly, straight into you, as if he knows, and you shake your head and in a blink he’s back at them; you must have imagined it; hang on, he’s laughing, aren’t there three starving mouths to be fed in this place? B has helped, snuck him in, has even let him deliver this trolley; it’s highly dangerous but what the heck, Motl had to get to them, had to. ‘I promised, didn’t I?’ and then he sweeps his hand across three silver domes and it is everything the children could want.

He salutes, clicks his heels. ‘For my big, brave soldiers — only the best.’

The children dive in. In the thick of it Soli puts down her milkshake and takes her father’s hand and encases it in both of hers like it is a fragile, injured animal; like she is the grownup in all this. She leads him to the bed and pats a space beside her. His face looks old, now, for the first time in his life; suddenly it is allowed to be that. All his impishness is blown out. His eyes are reddened like they’ve been scrubbed with steel wool,
his hands tremble as if still in shock. How can such a large-spirited man be so reduced? What happened out there? He pulls away as if he can see inside her thinking and doesn’t like it. Flops onto his back. His face irons out.

‘Eat, my lovelies,’ he says wearily now, bereft of any spark, ‘come on, you need to build up your strength. We’ve got a big journey ahead of us.’

Soli places her cardigan gently over his shoulders and he draws it around him like it’s the finest mink then closes his eyes with a contented sigh, as if it’s the first time he’s closed them in a week.

Who, being loved, is poor?

121

B has assured him you’re all right, you’re just sorting out a few things.

And what does that man know of you being here? You always suspected he knew of Project Indigo; you’ve never been entirely sure who he works for, where his allegiances lie. You asked Motl once what his religion was. ‘He was one of them, years ago,’ he replied. ‘Now I don’t know. I’m not sure he works for anyone any more. He’s a humanitarian, I guess. He works for humanity’s sake.’

He’s never completely trusted you just as you’ve never trusted him. When you announced you were giving up your job B retorted he didn’t believe it would last, your resolve wasn’t strong enough, you’d eventually be lured back. ‘You’re so
driven,’
and he made it sound like a dirty word. ‘You want it too much,’ the dismissive taunt.

Anger now, anger at all of this. You know what they want. You have been found and they want you to complete the project. All as cruel as each other, all animal underneath.

Tranquil sage is he who, whether young, middle-aged or old, remains firm in self-restraint, unprovokable, provoking none.

122

Soli is furiously tapping her watch. It is almost two. And who knows if Pin will be back but the risk is there: they need their father out.

Mouse nods at his sister, understands, licks his lips. ‘We have to move fast, Dad. It’s so dangerous you being here …’

‘Not yet.’ Motl is yawning, slipping into slumber almost caught. ‘I can’t move another step, Mousie, I just need … rest.’ His whole body is uncurling, shutting down. He releases an enormous groan as if all the dammed-up tension of the past weeks is finally, finally seeping out, as if this room is the only place in the world he can rest.

‘You can’t stay here!’ Soli cries. ‘We have to move you. Move all of us.
Now!

‘Yes, yes, in a minute.’ Motl yawns, your old procrastinator back, flattening both hands under one cheek. ‘Things are changing, guys,’ he’s murmuring, ‘help is coming from unexpected places, I have a good feeling …’ His eyes shut slowly, he is lost.

Two minutes to two. What to do? A petal is on his boot, a white one, just like the ones at Salt Cottage. They haven’t seen anything like it for so long and soon it will be crushed to translucency and Mouse peels it off and Motl smiles at his son’s hovering, and falls vastly asleep. Soli shakes him. He doesn’t
respond, all flop. His body is devouring recovery, rest is gripping him tight, refusing to give him up, sleep has him too much.

Why ever trouble your heart with flight when you have just arrived.

123

A knock. Two on the dot. The children look at each other. Soli revs her hand in circles, trying to think of something but can’t, can’t; the doorknob turns. Opens.
Opens
.

Pin is standing there, before them, with a sheepish grin and an apologetic box of chocolates and some chewing gum and it all comes crashing to the ground. As he sees the new man. They don’t even have time to throw a blanket over Motl smiling away in his enormous relief of sleep.

But Pin’s face. Like a cloud racing over sunlight. He steps back. ‘Who is this?’ Like a thick glass wall in a bank has suddenly shot up.

‘Wait,’ Tidge cries, but Pin holds up his hands, all changed.

‘You’re not who I think you are, are you?’ He glances to the door, wants away, wants help.

Your mouth is dry, you feel sick. Everything is unravelling. Mouse lunges. Grabs the key, locks the door, trapping Pin inside. Oh, little man, brave man, finally waking up.

‘What are you
doing?
Pin yells.

Mouse holds out his hand as to a dog about to bite, trying to calm him, to get him to sit. ‘You’re our friend,’ he says carefully.

But Pin doesn’t want to know, he’s gripping his watch with the alarm that pinpoints his location; he hasn’t pressed it yet.

‘No one gets left behind,’ your daughter pleads, ‘we’re the Getters, we’re in this together.’

‘You’re our
friend’
, Tidge yells with disbelieving shock, at being betrayed, at being so wrong, standing tall on the bed. ‘You’re my mate.’

Pin presses the alarm. ‘My father can sort this out.’

Tidge’s knees sink to the mattress. Mouse slumps against the wall. You shut your eyes on everything ahead, that Motl and you have feared so much. G’s plan was such a risk but you both had to accept it, there was no one else,
no safe house left
. And now this. Your lovely sparky vivid-hearted babies sizzly with life will be separated and your boys, all three of them, will be taken to that place where men go on the edge of the city and your daughter will never find out what happened and for the rest of her life she’ll be wondering, crazed by uncertainty, wondering about trembling pits and being broken and what on earth happened next.

In the darkness … the sound of a man Breathing, testing his faith On emptiness, nailing his questions One by one to an untenanted cross.