by Sam Bourne
The Chapel: Entering the Messianic age. Speaker to be confirmed. CLOSED SESSION.
Will looked at his watch; it had already begun. But where in this vast complex of suites, corridors and stairwells was the Chapel? He rifled through his press pack until he saw an internal map. Third floor.
There were so many doors; but finally he saw one with a sign, a diagram of a stick-man kneeling, at prayer. Will pressed his ear close to the door: ‘… how many centuries have we waited? More than twenty. And sometimes our patience has worn thin. Our faith has faltered.’
Will heard the ding of an elevator. Out came three men, around Will’s age, dressed in neat dark suits — just like the one he was still wearing from his late-night trip to Crown Heights. Each held a bible and they were heading, purposefully, towards him.
As they got nearer, Will saw that at least one was out of breath. They were late. This was his chance.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Will as they reached him. ‘I think we can still sneak in at the back.’
Sure enough, one opened the door, allowing the whole group to enter — the embarrassment divided by being shared.
Will was simply one of the group; he even carried his own bible.
Jammed in at the back, Will tried to survey the room. To his surprise, it was large; the size of a banqueting hall. There must have been more than two thousand people inside. It was hard to tell who they were; all heads were dipped in prayer. Will did not dare raise his eyes.
Finally an amplified voice broke the silence.
‘We repent, O Lord, for our moments of doubt. We repent for the pain and hurt we have inflicted on each other, on the planet your Father entrusted to us and on your name. We repent, O Lord, for the centuries of sin that have kept you from us.’
In unison, the congregation replied, ‘On this Day of Atonement, we repent.’
Will looked up, trying to work out who was speaking. A man was standing at the front, but he had his back to the room. It was impossible to see if he was young or old: most of his head was covered with a white skullcap.
‘But now, O Lord, the Day of Reckoning is upon us. At long last Man will be held accountable. The great Book of Life is about to be slammed shut. Finally, we are to be judged.’
In unison: ‘Amen.’
The man turned around: about Will’s age, studious looking.
Will was surprised. He seemed too young to be a leader and that voice too strong to have come from him.
‘Your first people, Israel, strayed from your teaching, O Lord.’ The voice was continuing, even though the man Will had identified as the leader was not speaking. Only now did Will take in the huge screen at the front of the room. It bore just two words, black on white: The Apostle. At last Will realized the voice filling this room did not belong to anyone inside it. Perhaps it was on a tape; maybe it was relayed live from the outside. It had an odd, metallic quality. Either way, the Apostle was nowhere to be seen.
‘The first Israel were frightened of your word. It fell to others to honour your covenant. As it is written, “And if you are Christ’s, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise.’“
The congregation responded: ‘We are Christ’s and so we are Abraham’s. We are heirs according to the promise.’
Will felt himself shudder. So this was the Church of the Reborn Jesus, updated for the twenty-first century. And this was the doctrine that had once captivated his father, Townsend McDougal and who knew how many others. The men in this room — and, Will realized now, they were all men — believed it too. They were the inheritors of the Jews’ place in the divine scheme. They had taken the teachings of the Jews as their own.
‘But now, Lord, we need your help. We pray for your guidance.
We are so close, yet the final knowledge eludes us.’
Number thirty-six, thought Will.
‘Please bring us to completion, so that we may finally let God’s judgment rain upon this benighted earth.’
Will was surveying the room, when a man in the front row swivelled around to do the same. He saw Will, did a small double-take, then looked across the room, made eye contact with someone else and gestured with his head in Will’s direction.
Will did not see the hand that reached out and grabbed his neck. Nor did he spot the leg that kicked him below the knee and made him buckle. But as he fell to the ground, he caught a glimpse of the man standing over him. His eyes were so blue, they almost shone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Monday, 5.46pm, Manhattan
He had woken up, he knew that, but it was still dark. He tried to touch his eyes — sending a sharp, searing pain to his shoulder. His hands were tied. His arms, his legs, his stomach, they all seemed to have had a layer of tissue removed: he pictured them as raw, red flesh.
He twitched his eyelids; he could feel something that was not skin. His eyes were covered by a blindfold. He tried to speak but his mouth was gagged; he began to cough.
‘Take it off.’ The voice was firm; in authority. Will started to retch; the sense-memory of the gag was still choking him.
Finally he spat out a few words.
‘Where am I?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Where the hell am I?’
‘Don’t you dare shout at us, Mr Monroe. I said, you’ll see.’
Will could hear two, maybe three others close by. ‘Take him now.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘You’re going to get what you came here to get. All that lying seems to have paid off, Mr Tom Mitchell of the Guardian: you’re going to get your big interview after all.’
In the darkness, he felt a thick, flat hand at his back: he was being shoved forward. He walked a few paces, then two more hands grabbed his shoulders and pivoted him to the right. Will could feel carpet under his feet. Was he still in the convention centre? How long had the beating lasted? How long had he been unconscious? What if it was night-time? It would be too late! Yom Kippur would be over. In the black of his blindfold, Will imagined the gates of heaven, slamming shut.
‘Sir, he’s here.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen. Let us remove those bonds.’ Even in regular speech, this man seemed to be quoting scripture.
‘Let’s take a good look at you.’
Will felt hands working at his wrists until they were free.
Then, at last, the blindfold came off — flooding him with light.
He stole a glance at his watch. There was still time. Thank God, thought Will.
‘Gentlemen, leave us please.’
In front of Will, at a plain, hotel-room desk, sat the man he had seen earlier in the chapel. His complexion had the earnest shine of an inner-city vicar, the kind of well-meaning do-gooder Will remembered running the Christian Union at Oxford.
‘Are you the Apostle?’ Will winced. The effort of speaking sent a tremor of pain shooting down his spine.
‘I had hoped your suffering would be easing. We took great care to bind your wounds.’
Will suddenly became aware of bandages and plasters covering his arms and legs, even his chest.
‘Please accept my apologies for the somewhat heavy handed treatment you had meted out to you. “But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction.” The Book of Job.’
‘You didn’t answer my question. Are you the Apostle?’
A modest smile. ‘No, I am not the Apostle. I only serve him.’
‘I want to speak to him.’
‘And why should I let you do that?’
‘Because I know what he, what all of you, are up to. And I will go to the police.’
‘I’m afraid that is not going to be possible. The Apostle does not meet anybody.’
‘Well, in that case, I’m sure the police will be very interested to hear what I know.’
‘And what exactly do you know, Mr Monroe?’
The thin-lipped calm of this man infuriated Will. He strode forward, his legs aching wi
th each movement. I’ll tell you what I know. I know that the Jews believe there are always thirty-six righteous men in the world. And that so long as those people are alive, then the world is OK. I also know that in the last few days these men have started dying very mysterious deaths. Murdered, to be precise. One in Montana, maybe two in New York. One in London and God knows where else. And I strongly suspect that this group are the ones behind it. That’s what I know.’
‘I don’t think “strongly suspect” will cut much ice, Mr Monroe. Not coming from a man who was in a prison cell himself just a few hours ago.’
How the hell did he know that? Will suddenly thought back to the desk clerk at the seventh precinct and the crucifix around her neck. Maybe this cult had people everywhere.
Worse, the vicar was right. Will had nothing firm, just wild speculation. He had no leverage over this guy or the so-called Apostle he served. He felt his shoulders slump.
‘But let’s say this theory of yours is right. Purely hypothetically, of course.’ The man was twirling a pencil between his fingers, letting it fall from one hand to the other. Will wondered if he was nervous. ‘Let us say there was such an effort to identify the thirty-six and to … bring them to their final rest. And let us say that a holy group were involved in this. I strongly suspect, to use your own phrase, that you would have a divine obligation to get out of their way, wouldn’t you? I think you would understand the wounds to your flesh as some kind of sign. A warning if you like.’
‘Are you threatening to kill me?’
‘No, of course not. Nothing so crude. I am threatening you with something much worse.’
Will felt an ice in this man that terrified him. ‘Worse?’
‘I am threatening you with the reality of the holiest teachings ever given to mankind. The hour of redemption is upon us, Mr Monroe. Salvation will come to those who have brought the hour closer. But those who sought to delay it, to thwart the divine promise, those souls will be tormented for all eternity. A thousand years will be like the passing of just one day, and there will be a thousand more and a thousand more after that. So think carefully, Mr Monroe. Do not stand in the path of the Lord. Do not stand in the way of our Father. Do not aid those who seek to frustrate Him. Try instead to light the way.’
Will was attempting to absorb all this man was telling him when he realized the meeting was over. From behind, he felt hands once again grabbing his arms and replacing his blindfold.
He was led out of the room and into what sounded like a service elevator. It shook when it had plumbed what Will calculated was five floors. The doors moved apart and he was shoved out. By the time he had removed the blindfold, to see he was in an underground car park, he was alone.
Upstairs, the man who had spoken to Will a few minutes earlier checked to make sure it had all come through loud and clear on the speaker-phone. ‘I think we have given him enough,’ he said to the older man at the end of the line.
‘Yes, you have done well. Now all we can do is wait.’ If Will had heard the voice he would have recognized it. For it was the voice of the Apostle.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Monday, 7.12pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn
It had been black; tonight it was white. The synagogue seemed to glow with whiteness, moonlight reflected on snow. There were as many men in here as Will had seen on Friday night, except now they were dressed not in black suits but clothed almost entirely in white.
They wore what seemed to be thin white bathrobes over their dark suits, covering them from their ankles to their shoulders. Instead of the regulation black leather shoes, their feet were now in white trainers. Many of the prayer shawls were all white, as were the skullcaps of those not wearing hats. And they were packed together, a swaying mass of white, a swaying mass of prayer.
This, TC had told him in the briefest of calls from the hospital, was ne’eilah, the concluding segment of what would have been a marathon, day-long service. Tradition demanded that the congregation — denied food or water for the previous twenty-four hours — stand for the duration, in recognition of the gravity of the moment. For this was the final hour of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the day of reckoning.
In this hour, the gates of heaven were closing. Repentance was urgent. As TC described it, Will imagined it: the last minute penitent slipping through the crack in the door, just as it thundered shut. Those who had not atoned, or left it too late, were left outside.
All day, this vast hangar of a space had echoed with ancient incantations, as several thousand voices sang together:
B’Rosh Hashana yichatayvun …
On the first day of the year it is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed. How many shall die and how many shall be born; who shall live and who shall die, who at the measure of man’s days and who before it…
The heaviness of the hour descended on Will as soon as he walked in. Faces were funeral-serious; acknowledging each other, but unsmiling. Most men had eyes only for the prayer books they held as they bobbed back and forth in supplication.
Sha’arei shamayim petach …
Open the gates of heaven … Save us, oh God
‘Excuse me,’ said Will, trying to squeeze his way through this football crowd of a throng. It was too packed, his progress was too slow. He needed to get to Rabbi Freilich as quickly as possible if he was going to have any chance of striking a bargain. He would reveal the real pursuers of the righteous men and, in return, they would release Beth. He looked at his watch. He had perhaps thirty minutes to act. Will had calculated that he had to move now, while the threat remained at its highest. If he waited till after Yom Kippur, and if the thirty-sixth man remained safely hidden, the Hassidim might conclude that the danger had receded. Will’s leverage would vanish.
He began to ask. ‘Excuse me, do you know where Rabbi Freilich is? Ratbbi Freilich?’ Most ignored him. Occasionally, a hand would wave him left or right — while the eyes stayed fixed on the page ahead or, just as often, firmly shut.
It was like wading through water. All these unfamiliar faces. He looked at his watch: twenty-three minutes.
Then a hand on his shoulder, sending a bolt of pain through his back. He turned around, his hand balled into a fist in readiness.
‘Will?’
‘Sandy! You frightened me. Jesus. Sorry.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘No time to explain. Listen, I need to speak to Rabbi Freilich.
Now.’
Sandy did not reply, but grasped Will’s wrist and dragged him first right, then back and finally around the tables where Will had seen the men studying so hard three days earlier.
There, rocking backwards and forwards, his eyes closed and facing towards the heavens, was Rabbi Freilich.
‘Rabbi? It’s Will Monroe.’
The rabbi lowered his head and then opened his eyes, as if from sleep. His face betrayed great weariness. Then, seeing the bruises on Will’s face, it registered shock.
‘Rabbi, I know who’s killing the righteous men. And I know why they’re doing it.’
The rabbi’s eyes widened.
‘I will tell you and I will tell you right away, while you still have time to stop them. But first you have to do something for me. You must take me to my wife. This instant.’
Freilich’s brow tensed. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at his watch: twenty minutes to go. Will could see he was weighing up the right course of action.
‘All right,’ the rabbi said finally, though he still looked anguished. ‘Come with me.’
It was easier to walk out of the shul than it had been to walk through it; the crowd parted in deference to Rabbi Freilich, even if a few curious glances were directed at the rabbi’s battered companion.
They emerged into the dusk, the sound of the prayer within filling the air. The rabbi walked fast, turning left at the first corner. Will looked at his watch: fourteen minutes left. Each step hurt his calves and thighs, but he was
almost running.
Suddenly Rabbi Freilich stopped, turned and faced a small brownstone house.
‘Are we here?’
‘We are here.’
Will could hardly believe it. It was just around the block from the synagogue; he must have passed this house several times. He had been so close to Beth without even knowing it.
His heart began to pound. So much had happened, it felt as if so much time had passed, since he had seen his wife.
The need to hold her tight was so intense, he could barely contain it.
The rabbi knocked on the door. A woman’s voice called out, in a language Will did not understand. The rabbi replied with what Will guessed was a password, in Yiddish.
Finally, the door opened to reveal a woman in her mid thirties, wearing one of those twin-sets his mother might have worn twenty years ago. Her hair was styled the way all the women of Crown Heights had their hair — which meant it was not hers at all, but a wig. Will let out a sigh; he realized he had expected to see Beth straight away.
‘Dos is ihr man. Bring zie ahehr, biteh.’ This is her husband. Bring her here, please.
The woman disappeared upstairs. Will could hear doors opening, then footsteps, then the sound of two people coming down.
He looked around, to see a long dark skirt descending the stairs. More disappointment. But as the woman walked lower, he recognized her hips and her posture. And then he saw her face.
He had no control over his eyes. They filled the instant he saw her. Only at that moment did he realize just how deeply he had missed her, how his whole body had ached for her. He jumped the two remaining stairs and clasped her right there, on the staircase. His vision was too blurred to see her face clearly, but as he held her tight he could feel her shake and he knew she was trembling with tears. Neither could say anything. He was squeezing her so hard, but it was not tight enough. He wanted there to be no space between them.
At last he peeled himself away, to look at her properly for the first time. Her eyes met his, with a kind of bashfulness he had not seen before. It was not modesty but something else: it was awe, awe for the enormity of the love they felt for each other.
