The Revelations

by Alex Preston

  Her dad, Lazlo Elek, was a composer, the child of Hungarian dissidents who had died in jail in Budapest. He was sent to live with relatives in Suffolk at the age of nine when his parents were implicated in the 1956 uprisings. He found early fame with a cello concerto dedicated to his parents, began to be spoken of as the next Bartók. He married a girl from Ipswich and wrote prodigiously, although he never quite lived up to the promise of that early concerto. As he aged, his work became more abstract, more mathematical; he became prone to fits of depression and repeatedly burned near-finished scores. When Lee played the piano, she imagined her dad’s fingers placed over hers, guiding not only the correct note and tone, but also the feeling of the music, the touch that took a piece from a work of human creation to something divine. Only when she was playing with him did she truly live the music. She sometimes wished she had never come to London.

  ‘We are all looking for meaning,’ David continued. ‘Life can feel very empty sometimes. With all the rush and bustle, we can get lost, become rudderless. It’s why you’ll find yourself asking certain fundamental questions as you lie awake at four in the morning. Why am I here? Wasn’t I meant to do something more than just get up, go to work, get drunk, go to sleep, and then repeat it until death? I feel, many of us here feel, that there’s something wrong with the modern world. That our age is one of greed and grasping and selfishness. We need a new way of living, a new way of negotiating life. The Course will give you a road map, it’ll show you guys a clear and fulfilling way to make sense of life in this mad, bad world.’

  *

  Mouse was moving his leg frantically, bouncing on the heel of his brown loafer. He looked eagerly up and down the rows around him, noting with appreciation the delicate girls with blonde hair. A good crop of new members. He imagined what it would be like to press his tongue against the damp parts of their bodies: the nooks and declivities, the creased skin at the joints of their long limbs. Whilst his love for Lee existed as a dull but constant ache, he made sure that there were always other girls. Girls of a certain type – blonde, tall, distant. Always unavailable, they’d already have boyfriends or husbands and would treat Mouse with a kind of little-brotherly fondness that he both played up to and loathed. He’d spend long night hours on the boat fantasising about these girls, knitting their faces into surprised masks of pleasure or pain, knowing that they’d always be out of his league.

  Mouse watched Lee, taking advantage of the fact that her eyes were tightly closed. Her chest rose and fell very slowly, quivering as her lungs emptied. He looked at the threads that snaked down her thighs from her frayed skirt. When she was drunk and let him stay over in her tiny flat with its air of girlish chastity, he would creep into her room in the darkness of 3 a.m. She always slept with the duvet tucked between her legs, and Mouse would stand in the pale orange light of the London night and look at whichever leg was visible. He would strain his eyes against the dimness, trying to see into the shadows where her thighs disappeared inside the frilled shorts she wore to sleep. He kicked her chair with one particularly forceful jerk of his leg. She very deliberately laid her hand on his thigh and squeezed. He smiled a broad and hopeful smile.

  *

  ‘I always worry about doing this so early on the first evening . . .’ Abby watched the priest with wide eyes as he spoke. ‘I’d like to ask everyone to be quiet for a moment. Just think about what you have heard so far. If you’d like to pray, then I encourage you to do so. But if not, just enjoy the silence here. Enjoy a bit of time away from that constant noise outside.’

  Abby thought back to when she first attended the Course. She didn’t go just because Lee was a member, although she saw the change it worked on her friend: a greater seriousness, a sense of commitment. Nor did she go because she felt any profound spiritual need. It was because she had been standing in the rain on Battersea Bridge after an argument with Marcus. The rain was falling so hard it was as if the river was trying to reach up to the clouds. It was a terrible argument: they had screamed at each other until she ran from the flat, out of the front door and down to the river. She stood on Battersea Bridge and thought about jumping. Not in the way that someone seriously considering doing so would think about it, but in a way that tried to shape her mind into that of someone who might. To Abby, this was as good as doing it. She stood there, imagining the rush of the air, the downward plunge, the shock of the water. At that moment a bus had rumbled past, throwing up the contents of a large puddle, soaking her. Part of her thought that she must have jumped, she must have lost her mind and jumped. But she looked up, saw the bus, and on its back was an advert for the Course. The cool, smiling eyes of David Nightingale. Shouldn’t there be more to life than this? in bright red letters. She signed up the next day.

  Abby prayed that the evening would pass well. She prayed for Marcus. She prayed that she might be pregnant. That the butterflies in her stomach might signal that something was being created. And she prayed that if she was, she might keep it this time. That in nine months she’d lie listening to a baby’s moth-flutter breath. She would make David godfather. She opened her eyes for a moment, saw him with his head bowed and closed her eyes again.

  She remembered the night she had lost the first baby. Very early on. Not even a baby. A clot, a smudge of cells. She had been working late with Sally Nightingale on a proposal for exporting the Course to other Christian denominations. It had felt just like the return of her period, a pain which built from nothing into a sharp twisting of her gut. Sally had taken her into the rectory and waited outside the door of the bathroom, asking in a reedy voice what she could do. When she saw the blood Abby had known immediately. She was businesslike and brave about the whole thing, biting her lip and wincing to stop herself crying out. She found painkillers in the bathroom cabinet, bundled up tissues to stanch the flow and mopped up the bluish drops that were falling onto the tiled floor.

  When she came out of the bathroom it was the priest and not his wife who was standing there. The light from the bathroom falling into the darkened hallway cut a bar across him, illuminating the whiteness of his teeth and his hair. She realised that he already knew everything and slumped into his outstretched arms. It was such a relief that nothing more needed to be said. They had descended the stairs, David’s arms still around her, and he drove her to the hospital. They sat in silence in the white light of the waiting room until the doctor had called her into the curtained cubicle, checked her over with brusque, efficient hands, and sent her home.

  The priest’s tenderness had reminded her of the first time she went on the Retreat. It had been held that year at a down-at-heel hotel in the West Country whose burly proprietor was a Course member. There were chickens in the courtyard outside the rooms. Abby had heard the fox in her sleep, had dreamed the terrified shrieks of the hens, the sound of jaws snapping shut. She woke early and went out to the henhouse, which was a silent mortuary, blood and feathers. David was sitting in the dust cradling a chicken. It was still just alive, its bare neck white and raw, blood darkening its breast. David spoke to the chicken in a quiet voice, stroking the bird’s broken wings, murmuring into its feathers. He was like that with her when she miscarried; after the hospital, he drove her home. He waited until Marcus had let her in, sitting in his purring car and watching them embrace in the doorway.

  *

  The lights in the church brightened suddenly, and David raised his head and opened his eyes.

  ‘Music is the closest of the art forms to God – when you lose yourself in a piece of music, it’s a truly spiritual experience. The music here at St Botolph’s is justly famous. So sit back and enjoy. Let me introduce: The Revelations.’

  Spotlights swept the stage, focusing on the band’s name which was spelled out in blue letters on the skin of Mouse’s bass drum. David stooped to pick up his guitar, nodding to one of the helpers who sat at the side of the stage adjusting the settings on his amp. The four friends rose from their seats and walked together down the aisle. The air arou
nd them hummed as they climbed the steps and took up their instruments. Mouse spun his drumsticks several times before beginning a thrusting, military beat. Then Marcus came in with a bass line that roared through the church. Lee sat at the piano, her visible cheek stained with a vivid pink blush at being so observed. The priest strummed power chords and then Abby sidled up to the front of the stage, her hips moving slightly. She hunched her large shoulders forward, brought her hands up either side of the microphone and began to sing.

  The music was not spectacular in itself: choruses cribbed from stadium rock anthems, verses that strained against the weight of the meaning they attempted to impart. But there, in the warm light of the church, with some of the older members joining in at the back for the choruses, arms held out, eyes closed, it was hard not to be moved. The four young people were earnest and beautiful, still retaining enough of their youth to touch the audience. The priest played a brief and nimble guitar solo, one leg raised on his amplifier, his eyes staring up into the shadows that clustered in the roof of the church. Abby looked extraordinary on the stage. As if she was made to be seen among such expansive scenery. She didn’t seem awkward or heavy or masculine there. Marcus watched the young men in the audience stare up at his wife as she sang and tried to see her reflection in their eyes.

  The second song was much softer than the first. The lights on stage were dimmed so that only Abby was clearly visible, with Marcus and David shadowy figures either side of her. Mouse and Lee were both lost in the darkness. Lee started to play a series of arpeggios, the music rising out of the silence. Mouse tapped out a gentle rhythm, the drumstick struck against the rim of the snare. Then Marcus and David came in, and Abby began to sing.

  ‘You are a deep sea,

  You are an abyss.

  The more I lose, the more I find,

  So I’ll lose myself in your kiss.

  You are a fire that burns

  Without being consumed

  That takes away the cold

  And guides me safely home.’

  Abby rocked sensuously on her hips as she sang, one arm twirling up towards the roof. Marcus wondered if Abby was thinking about him as she sang, or about David, or Jesus. It was a strangely ambiguous song, just a love song which, because of the setting, was interpreted by the audience as something holy, a hymn. He imagined Abby as the central pillar of a cross, with David and himself as the arms.

  After the music, they ate. Sally Nightingale stood at the back of the room with other Course volunteers doling out food. Marcus was always struck by how attractive the volunteers were. The young men wore aprons over their smart-casual work clothes, smiling with large teeth that were extraordinarily white. The girls were thin and pretty and blonde, dressed in immaculate suits from the office or the expensive bohemian smocks of the stay-at-home mothers. It wasn’t only that the Course attracted its members from the wealthy roads that surrounded the church; some travelled from the other side of London to attend. The Course had links with the top universities, with major public schools, with law firms and investment banks. It was marketed to these institutions as a philosophical way into religion, as a path that encouraged the aggressive questioning of faith. So the people who attended were bright, successful, inquisitive.

  A group of politicians stood at the back of the church talking to their banker friends. They would eat later, after the Course, piling into restaurants on Beauchamp Place or Walton Street. Having recently won power by a thin margin, the politicians wore about them an air of restrained celebration. They were all very young, Eton-educated, near-identical in sober suits and blue ties. They slapped the wide backs of the financiers who were laughing over-loudly at their jokes. Their haughty, exhausted wives, brandishing babies in their arms, chatted to one another in the shadows of the side aisles, discussing schools and nanny troubles. The politicians had been members of the Course since its early days and would now be instrumental in helping David and the Earl to further embed it in the nation’s consciousness.

  Next to the bankers and politicians, hoping to pick up some tradable news, Marcus recognised a number of hedge-fund managers whom he had worked with over the past few years. They always looked slightly ashamed to see him: he was a reminder of the potential for failure in lives that usually never contemplated it. He sat on the Course investment committee with some of them and they shouted over one another to convince him of the brilliance of their ideas. The Earl, who chaired these investment meetings, came and stood beside Marcus as he queued for dinner.

  ‘See the markets today, Marcus?’

  ‘Yes, although I wasn’t around for the close. I had to be here. I’m a Course leader this year.’

  ‘So you are. David told me about it the other night in New York.’

  The Earl leaned heavily on the table, looking at Marcus through narrow eyes under a low brow. He was a big man, ex-army, who wore his sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing large forearms covered in wiry black hair. His crew cut was shot through with silver, a giant watch sat on his wrist, and a pair of large Oxfords were shined to mirrors on his feet. He edged his hands down the table towards the steaming pans of pasta. Marcus took the food he knew he was too nervous to eat, and went back to the circle of seats. The Earl walked with him.

  ‘I’m concerned that some of the funds aren’t positioning themselves correctly for a further slowdown. Seems like they think we’re through the worst of it. I’m not so sure. And with the expenditure required for our US expansion, I’m feeling very nervous, Marcus. David seems so focused on driving new membership that he forgets how much all this costs.’

  Marcus sat down beside the Earl.

  ‘I could have a word with a few of the members if you think it’d help. Perhaps we should raise a bit of cash now while people are feeling bullish.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask until we have an idea of how well America goes. I think people might start to resent the ten per cent. I don’t want to ask them for more if we can help it.’

  ‘The people who pay their ten per cent already earn enough not to worry about it. And it helps them feel better about their jobs. About the moral compromises they have to make at work. Knowing that some of the cash will go to helping the Course.’

  ‘That’s always been the plan. I have meetings in the City all day tomorrow. I might see whether I can’t persuade a few of the bigger donors to reach into their pockets again. If we’re targeting America then we have to do it properly, and that takes obscene amounts of money. The pay-off, though, if we do get it right, will be immense. It’ll take the Course to a whole new level.’

  *

  When they had finished dinner, the new members were led downstairs into the crypt where the discussions would take place. David and his wife moved between the two groups, entering silently and perching like owls as the conversations developed. The first evening was spent on introductions, an overview of the six weeks ahead, the planting of seeds. The crypt was still very cool, and some of the girls wrapped scarves around long necks, the young men pulled on blazers and jumpers. In the church upstairs the chatter of the old Course members slowly faded as they filed out into the night.

  In Marcus and Abby’s group there were five girls: pretty but not strikingly so, just down from university, young and nervous. Four young men sat talking in whispered voices to the girls, staring down at their loafers, ties loosened. Banker boyfriends, Marcus guessed. One of the girls suddenly looked up at Marcus, drawing back her blonde hair with one hand, passing the back of her arm across thin, pale lips. Her eyes were wide and bright and Marcus could see that she was already falling, that she was one of the ones who arrived convinced, and only needed the merest nudge to accept the Course wholeheartedly. An older man in a grey suit sat slightly withdrawn from the rest of the group; Marcus couldn’t tell whether he had moved his chair back, or chosen it because it was set apart from the others. Abby introduced herself, and the discussion began.

  *

  In the other room, Lee was feeling detached. H
er head ached and she missed Darwin. The sense of unease that had fallen upon her in Holland Park the day before hadn’t faded. It was insane that these young, bright people should turn to her for advice, should seek her help with their existential issues. Mouse leapt to his feet, nodded to the room and smiled broadly.

  ‘Hi! I wanted firstly to thank you for coming. My name is Mouse and this is Lee, a very dear friend of mine. We’ll be your guides over the next six weeks. It’s going to be a brilliant time for you. And I just want to encourage you to open yourselves up. Leave all your cynicism and scepticism at the door and give this a chance. We’re doing this for the first time, too, and while that may mean we don’t know the answers to all of your questions, it does mean that we are very keen to learn, and we’ll do everything we can to make this as transformational an experience for you as it was for us. Isn’t that right, Lee?’

  Lee felt as if the room was turning, as if her chair had been moved into the centre of the circle. The faces rotated around her, their grins and frowns distorting grotesquely with the beating of her heart.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Mouse and I will do our best to make this somewhere you feel terribly safe. Make this a place of refuge.’ She gulped air and tried to smile.

  She looked at their group. Twins, girls with white-blonde hair and pointed features, their wide eyes over-made-up and blinking too quickly at the strangeness of it all. Next to them was a tall, pale boy with long hair falling down over dark eyes, lips that were very large and red, a black leather jacket buttoned to the neck. Two rather lost girls, mousy, hesitant, stared at their shoes and flicked through The Way of the Pilgrim. Then, next to Mouse, a Japanese girl who had bob-cut hair and wore a dark grey dress leading down to tiny trainered feet.