by Frank Tallis
‘Why on earth did you come to this godforsaken place?’ Rachel asked, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke across the kitchen table.
‘We wanted to get away from the city,’ I replied.
‘But nothing happens here,’ she said.
‘That’s what’s so appealing.’
She shook her head and scooped up her son. ‘It drives me mad…’
‘Don’t you find it beautiful?’
‘No.’
‘When I lived in London, I used to look out of my kitchen window and see a brick wall—just a few feet away. It felt claustrophobic. Now when I look out of the window I can see that.’ I pointed at the giant, hunched shoulder of the fell that overlooked the village. The summit was capped with fingers of ice that extended down the slope and touched a winding river of scree.
Rachel peered out of the window and took another drag of her cigarette. ‘It’s grim.’ Blue-grey smoke coiled out of her mouth.
‘Well… today maybe.’ Rachel lifted her mug and took a sip of tea. I felt obliged to continue. ‘I’ve always wanted to live somewhere where it’s possible to see the seasons changing—to get in touch with something… real.’
‘Wasn’t London real?’
‘Not in the same way.’ I paused before making a final, positive assertion. ‘I like this place.’
‘Give it a year…’
A few days later I had a similar conversation while walking to the dairy to buy some milk with Sonia. The air smelled of manure and wood-burning stoves. It was raining hard and the road was like a quagmire. A farmer—who spoke in an incomprehensible dialect—herded his cows through the village every day and the tarmac was always covered in clods of earth. My boots squelched with each step.
‘Look at all this shit,’ said Sonia. ‘You can’t think this is good—surely.’
‘I suppose the weather could be better.’
‘Don’t you miss civilisation?’
I found myself pointing at the fell again. ‘Look…’
Sonia threw me a sideways glance, checking that she’d understood me correctly. Then she gazed up at the rounded mass that loomed above us. She blinked and wiped the rain out of her eyes. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s been there for millions of years.’
‘Of course it has. Where else would it be?’
‘It gives me… I don’t know—perspective. Don’t you feel anything—when you look at it?’
‘No,’ she said, taking a certain amount of pleasure in her obstinacy. ‘It’s a fell.’
At night, the silence was absolute, and without light pollution it was possible to see meteors. Standing on the hill behind my cottage, I would watch streaks of luminescence dissolving in the sky. A full moon would transform the land into a dreamscape. Across the valley, a distant Victorian viaduct became an exquisite ornament crafted from silver and glass. Constellations burned with fierce clarity. It was curious. I had left London to find something ‘real’ but life was feeling more and more unreal. Perhaps my wife felt the same way too. If so, she didn’t say. We would sit together for hours, looking into the flickering flames of the coal fire, without uttering a single word. Neither of us had the courage to ask the obvious question: where is this going?
The season changed. Lambs appeared and filled the air with timorous complaints. ‘Look!’ I hollered, lifting my son from his buggy and pointing. He studied their antics with sceptical indifference.
I had immersed myself in books about folklore and had become fascinated by the local myths and legends. Many were stories of doomed love, but the majority concerned supernatural occurrences: screaming skulls, witches turned to stone, visitations. I wrote a short talk for radio on this topic, sent it to the BBC and a few weeks later an envelope landed on my doormat with a cheque for twenty pounds inside. This was the first time anyone had paid me for writing anything and I was deliriously happy.
One day, Sonia unexpectedly announced: ‘Rachel’s met a bloke.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Luke. He’s from America.’
It seemed implausible under the circumstances.
‘An American? Here? Where did she meet him?’
‘Outside the Kings Arms.’
The Kings Arms was a hotel in a small market town situated about 12 miles west of the village. Rachel had been shopping on the high street when a man had approached her. He had started a conversation and they had talked for about thirty minutes. At the end of their conversation Rachel had invited him to dinner.
We didn’t see Rachel for a while, but we received regular bulletins from Sonia.
‘He’s some sort of preacher.’ Sonia’s nephew—Sean—was sitting on her lap. He was dribbling and she used her handkerchief to wipe his mouth and chin. ‘He’s come over here with some other people—members of the same group—to organise meetings and stuff like that. Mum and Dad were interested, of course, and they’ve all started praying together.’
‘I didn’t think Rachel was very religious.’
Sonia raised her eyebrows. ‘She isn’t very religious. Well, not that religious.’
‘What does Warren think?’
‘He doesn’t care. He just disappears with his mates.’
‘What do you think?’
Sonia’s eyes expressed her misgivings without need of speech: Isn’t it obvious? She sighed and wiped her nephew’s mouth again.
Over the next week or so I would often look out of the window and see Rachel walking through the village—on her way to her parents’ house—arm in arm with a tall man. Sometimes, they would be accompanied by a small, casually dressed group, a slim woman with long sandy hair and two men. They seemed to be keeping a respectful distance, following Luke and Rachel, smiling benignly.
Henry arrived in his convertible and took Sonia away for a few days. She had had enough of having to do extra childcare and wanted a break.
My wife finally got her bar job. I drove her into the market town before opening time and thereafter spent most evenings staring into the fire on my own.
We were sitting at the kitchen table when there was a knock on the door. It was Rachel—and she’d brought Luke with her.
‘Come in,’ I said.
As Luke entered he had to lower his head to miss the lintel. He was in his early thirties and dressed in a blue check shirt, jeans and trainers. He was clean shaven but had hair that was beginning to cover his ears and creep over his collar.
Rachel and Luke sat down on our sofa and we offered them tea. They accepted and we made small talk for a while. Luke was from Georgia but he didn’t speak with a slow southern drawl. In fact, his delivery was animated—excessively so—and accompanied by expansive gestures. Rachel didn’t say very much and seemed quite content to let Luke dominate the conversation. There was something about her uncharacteristic reticence that reminded me of an awkward teenager. She giggled, stroked Luke’s thigh and intermittently rested her head on his shoulder—emitting audible, amorous sighs. I noticed Luke’s hands—his large knuckles—and the way he clenched his fists to emphasise particular points.
‘So what brings you to this part of the world?’ I asked.
‘The Lord’s work,’ he replied.
‘Yes, but why here?’
Luke leaned forward and spoke with manifest certainty: ‘I opened my heart to Jesus and by the grace of His loving kindness, He gave me direction. He always does.’
What was Luke saying? That he had received instruction directly from God? And that God had told him to start a mission in a shabby, nondescript English market town?
Rachel detected my discomfort. She sat up, smiled and said, ‘Listen, we’ve got some really exciting news.’
‘Oh?’
Luke and Rachel looked into each other’s eyes and then laughed. The intensity of the previous moment dissipated. ‘We’re going to get married. As soon as my divorce comes through—we’re going to get married.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said, struggling to conceal
my surprise.
Rachel took Luke’s hand and squeezed it. Their manic grins were expanding.
‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,’ said my wife. She was equally unconvinced. I could hear the strain in her voice.
‘And when Luke’s finished his mission here,’ Rachel continued, ‘we’re going to live in America. Luke’s parents have a ranch. Can you imagine how great that’ll be for the kids?’
‘I feel blessed,’ said Luke, ‘truly blessed.’ His fingers came together and I could see that his instinct was to lead us in a communal prayer of thanksgiving. But he checked himself and said, very simply, ‘I’m a lucky man.’
Sonia returned the next day, and came to see me the following evening.
As soon as I’d opened the door she said: ‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘It’s mad, isn’t it?’
‘Have you spoken to your parents?’
‘They’re a bit worried. But they’re believers… and the Lord works in mysterious ways—doesn’t He? Christ—and I thought I was bored.’ She considered her sister’s sudden conversion to evangelism dubious.
‘Rachel must feel something for him…’
‘She says it was love at first sight. She says she feels like a new woman. But she’s done this before. She persuades herself that she’s in love and off she goes.’ Sonia traced the ascent of a plane in the space between us. ‘It’s all very convenient.’
‘Have you told her what you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did she respond?’
‘She said: What about you and Henry?’ Sonia forced an acid smile. ‘I met Henry three years ago. Rachel met Luke five weeks ago. If I am making an idiot of myself—and I accept that’s a possibility—then at least I’m making an idiot of myself over a man I know.’ She tapped her cigarette against the ash tray and took another drag. The tip glowed orange before she blew a thin stream of smoke through an angry pout.
‘Have you spent much time with Luke?’ I asked.
‘Not a lot. When he comes over I make myself scarce. I take the kids out or go upstairs and smoke.’
‘He’s very…’
Her eyebrows climbed a fraction. ‘Odd?’
I didn’t want to judge him. ‘He’s entitled to his beliefs.’
‘But why would God want him to start a mission here? Why not somewhere sensible like Africa?’
‘Because God works in mysterious ways, I suppose.’
After expressing more concerns about her sister’s prospective marriage, Sonia reflected on the weekend she’d just spent with Henry. He’d taken her to a hotel—a former stately home—with grounds and a spa. She’d had a good time, but being dumped back in the village had made her feel exploited and desolate. I tore a tissue from a kitchen roll and handed it to her before the first tears appeared.
‘Thanks.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘You should have been a therapist.’
As Sonia was leaving, she delayed on the doorstep and asked me how my wife was.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Is the job working out?’
‘She likes it—I think.’
Sonia glanced down at her wristwatch. ‘What time does she get back?’
‘Late.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks for listening.’ She surveyed the cottages with their black, lightless windows—sighed—and then marched off briskly into the night.
Summer arrived. From the village, it was possible to walk along a track that followed a hidden valley. I used to walk for miles without seeing anyone—past a Neolithic hill fort, over slopes littered with flint and bones—all the way to a bridge made from black and red stone that was so ancient, most of it had fallen into the river.
The sense of disconnection that I’d had since leaving London was intensifying and was now accompanied by fleeting intimations of unease. I wondered how long it was possible to go on living like this. Surely something would happen—surely reality would catch up with me and demand that I participate in the world?
I was in the market town with my wife, pushing my son along the pavement in his buggy, when we happened to meet Luke. He was with three of his fellow-evangelists. He introduced the sandy-haired woman whom I’d seen in the village as Amber, and two young men whom I also vaguely recognised. ‘Joshua and Nate,’ said Luke. They were all American. After these introductions, Amber, Joshua and Nate took a step back, and my wife and I continued exchanging polite and superficial pleasantries with Luke. It was curious how the other three had retreated, only to stand together in silence, their faces rigid with identical fixed smiles.
We made our excuses and continued walking. When we were sufficiently distant not to be overheard, my wife said, ‘Those people—they’re like disciples.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘They are.’
After laying my son in his cot I waited in the shadows for the rhythm of his breathing to change. When I was satisfied that he was asleep, I descended the stairs and sat in the lounge with my wife. She was reading. The resolute silence was broken only by the rustling of pages. I turned on the radio, motivated perhaps by some marginally acknowledged need to distract myself from discomfiting thoughts. The radio reception was poor, and the piano music—it may have been a Chopin nocturne—vied with waves of interference and ghostly foreign voices. I fiddled with the dial to get a better signal but it was hopeless.
Suddenly, there was a frantic hammering on the front door. It was so loud that my wife and I started. The hammering continued; short, irregular bursts. We never had late visitors.
My wife said: ‘Who can that be?’
I pointed at the ceiling, tutting. ‘They’ll wake him up.’
I leapt from my seat and into the narrow hallway. ‘All right,’ I called, as I turned the key. The bolt clicked and I pulled the handle.
Sonia was standing outside. Her eyes were bright with terror and she was breathless. ‘Please help,’ she said. Her make-up was smudged and her lips were trembling. ‘Please help.’ She was so frightened she could barely speak.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘It’s Luke.’ Her voice had acquired a whining quality, like a child about to cry. ‘He’s going to kill us. He wants to sacrifice us to God. Please, you’ve got to help.’
I looked at my wife. ‘Lock the door.’ She nodded and I waited for the sound of the bolt. Then I checked to make sure the door was secure. ‘Okay.’
Sonia set off, keeping her head low and glancing nervously over her shoulder. I followed a few paces behind. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. He tried to break the door down—he’s gone completely mad.’
We kept to a pathway that ran parallel to the road because it offered some concealment. I could taste fear in my mouth—iron in my saliva. I can remember thinking: This can’t be happening. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life. The world remained stubbornly solid. I kept moving, motivated not by courage but by social anxiety. If I turned back and my cowardice resulted in the death of two women, a child and a baby, then it would be (to coin a typically English phrase) frightfully embarrassing.
I was far from happy about having left my wife and son to fend for themselves. What if Luke changed his mind and decided to sacrifice them instead? It occurred to me that turning back would not be entirely indefensible; however, the likelihood of Luke returning to Rachel’s house was greater, so with considerable reluctance, I kept putting one foot in front of the other.
The windows of the cottages that lined the roadside were dark. These buildings were mostly occupied by retired couples and members of the farming community, all of whom tended to go to bed early. I still expected to see a few strips of light between drawn curtains but the village looked as if it had been abandoned.
We reached the end of the path and Sonia hesitated before advancing into the open. She peered around the edge of a wall and immediately withdrew again. ‘He’s there,’ she whispered. ‘Shit. He’s there.’ She beg
an to sob and covered her mouth to stifle her whimpering. We changed places, and when I looked I found it hard to believe what I was seeing. I had always enjoyed horror films, and now, apparently, I was in one. The scene was perfectly composed: a generic cliché. Once again, I thought: This can’t be happening. It was almost parody.
A mist was rolling off the fell and dispersing through the village. At the end of the road was a bulb suspended between two posts. It was producing a hazy light which enveloped a tall figure. Luke’s head was thrown back and he appeared to be talking to the sky. The horizontal continuity of his arms suggested identification with Christ on the cross. Slowly, he reached upwards, his fingers becoming claw-like. Then, he came forward, adopting the stilted gait of a B-movie monster.
‘We’ve got to go,’ I said to Sonia, grabbing her hand. ‘We can’t stay here.’
The road was exposed but it was also very dark. Luke didn’t seem to notice us as we made our escape and when I glanced back I saw that his lumbering progress was slow. His arms were still raised and he looked particularly ghoulish as he emerged from his glowing shroud of mist.
When we arrived at Rachel’s house, Sonia rang the bell. All of the glass panels in the door had been broken. Some shards—with red tips and edges—remained embedded in the woodwork. Scraps of skin and lumps of tissue were hanging from the sharpest points. The front step was splashed with blood and rust-coloured smears covered the door frame. I felt slightly sick.
Sonia peered into the receding gloom. The streetlight was no longer visible but it had created a faint aurora. She pressed the bell again. ‘Come on, come on.’ Then she shouted through the broken glass. ‘Rachel—it’s me—open the door.’
Rachel sprung out into the hallway and rushed towards us. She produced a key, unlocked the door, and when we were inside, secured the door behind us.
I discovered Sabina in the lounge. The child was standing very still. Her pupils were so dilated her irises had become two black, shiny circles. She didn’t respond when I greeted her. Sean was grizzling, propped up on a pile of cushions.
