Chapter 13:a

In which Addison meets with the children

In the light of two small lamps, the circle of faces beaming at Addison refreshes his spirits like a mango and nectarine cocktail. 

That the faces represent the under-12s from amongst the Followers is something that fills him with hope for the future of Holy Wind. While kids want something from God and someone knows how to guide them towards it, they will have little interest in mugging grannies or messing with the opposite sex when the opportunities arrive in earnest. Oh yes, you have to catch them young, he tells himself – not for the first time. That’s why he takes this monthly Thursday meeting himself: keeps an eye on how they’re doing.

Their voices subside in expectation of another good session with the Preacher. (He knows they think this, their parents have expressed pleasure at his way with them.) It’s just a pity, he reflects, that these are Followers’ kids and not urchins off the street or self-satisfied kids from well-to-do homes with a paucity of spiritual understanding. There is so much need out there, and he will address it one day for certain, but for now he will continue humbly here.

Addison likes the closed-in secrecy of ‘here’: a room off the main church arena, smallish and square with no window, having formerly been the storeroom of the barn. It reminds him of the Lord’s injunction to retire to your closet to pray in secret.

The day has been cloudy and warm, leaving a snug feeling in the air but less light than on a normal August evening. What light there is creeps in sheepishly through the connecting door to the church and is augmented by two smallish lamps.

‘Had a good supper?’ he asks jovially of no one in particular, but including them all in his ranging gaze. ‘Stuffed to here?’ He indicates his chin with a slicing movement of his long fingers. The six-year-olds respond well to the treat of staying up late for the Preacher’s meeting and he feels honoured and never lets them down. The older children like clubs if there is no peer pressure to ‘grow up’.

So no one actually answers him but the grins broaden. They never hassle him like they do their poor parents and he could never explain to anybody what this means to him. He feels it deeply as a healing of his past, which defies words; and to be thought more interesting than their computers and televisions – well, if there’s a miracle then it is here in front of him. He rather likes clubs too.

‘Please, sir, Preacher,’ calls one boy suddenly, but with respect and manners. ‘What are we going to do tonight? Is it about Jesus?’

‘I’m going to give you a present,’ Addison responds promptly. ‘No – actually, God is going to give you a present.’ He never feels silly or awkward talking to anyone about God as a real person, much less to children. They have only to try the Lord out to find that he exists. The general murmur of excitement and increased concentration confirms that this is the right approach tonight. Although it varies according to what sort of day they’ve had.

‘First you need to have a box each,’ he starts, reaching behind him for a large supermarket packing box from which he makes a show of removing several smaller, lidded shoe boxes. Making a rapid count of heads, he stacks that many boxes just in front of him. No need to assuage their curiosity yet. Better to keep it on hold while he tells them about the gift.

Talie’s older youngster (Philip, isn’t it?) pipes up: ‘We could sit in a circle on the floor in the dark instead of on these chairs. That’s what we do when we play Pass The Parcel.’

This suggestion causes an interested response so Addison pretends to give in, though he had much the same idea yesterday when he was planning. Darkness, secrets and children go well together. It is cosy and more fun if you are in close but unseen contact.

‘Okay, fine, great. Let’s do it. Make sure you’re touching the person next to you so that you can simply hand the parcel to them without dropping it.’

‘What’s in them?’

‘Are they heavy?’

Addison checks everyone is where he wants them, and puts his hand on the pile of smaller boxes protectively. ‘Now before we turn the lights out you’ve got to understand something,’ he begins, smiling at each one personally. ‘Can you see the wind?’

‘Course not,’ an older lad says.

‘You can too,’ retorts a younger girl, bossy despite her lack of seniority. ‘You can see the twigs move, so the wind must be there.’

‘Then it’s already gone past, silly,’ says the first boy. ‘So you missed seeing it. Get your facts right.’

‘That’s okay,’ Addison interrupts quickly. They all turn to him again. ‘You see, you can know where it’s been but you can’t see the wind itself, so you’re both right. Well, this present from God is like the wind. You won’t see it, and not just ‘cos it’s dark when we turn the lights out,’ he says, pre-empting a boy whose mouth is just opening. ‘You won’t see it on account of what it’s like. But you’ll know you’ve got it immediately.’

He leaves a significant pause while they digest that. They are hanging on his words. The Lord won’t let him down. He knew in his innermost being last night that this was what the children needed in order to keep them safe from the world. God told him so. The children will be excited and love it. And they will turn into the sort of human beings it makes you giddy with happiness to know.

Believing this, he continues, his voice rising just a little as it always does when the crunch comes; but he’s learnt to modulate his exuberance with the kids because they listen better when they have to deliberately strain to hear.

‘God is going to give you the gift of tongues tonight,’ he says with controlled drama. ‘You are all going to talk another language you haven’t learnt.’

There is a collective gasp of mingled awe and disbelief – not disbelief that it can happen, more disbelief that they can be so lucky. Like getting a new bike for Christmas. It’s not an unexpected reaction. Even the adults feel that way when they first join Holy Wind.

‘So we won’t see it, we’ll hear it,’ says one girl as understanding dawns.

‘Is it in the box?’ a smaller kid asks. He is obviously serious.

Before he can answer him, Philip says sharply, ‘That’s just so we know we’ve got it.’

The little boy looks crestfallen. But Addison believes he will receive the gift like the others. They only have to be willing and believe. The boy will be okay then.

‘Right, are we ready to go on?’ he asks the circle of children. ‘Good. I’m going to go over and turn off the lamps now. It won’t be totally dark because there’s still some faint light from the church. Look,’ and he indicates the door which is ajar. He doesn’t want tears from the youngest.

With this reassurance he moves softly and nimbly to effect the darkening. Atmosphere is everything with kids. They must feel and experience before they begin to think and rationalise like adults. That way it comes easier.

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Chapter 12:e

In which Addison hitches a lift

Two agents later, Addison is forced to accept defeat. He can make no headway. No one will offer him houses – not even prices – in Holt Foot. The excuse is the Park End Road house, its low value and unlikelihood of selling any time soon. Addison feels the residents of Holt Foot have ganged up on him and told agents to keep newcomers out. Even telling them how faith provides for his needs seems not to spark trust in his requests. He doesn’t need to be able to sell one house before buying another.

‘They should queueing up for my business,’ he mutters, kicking the railing at the side of the wide pavement with every second step. This provides an outlet for his mounting anger. A head pops up from the stairwell below pavement level: some bistro place about to open for the day. ‘Something wrong, mister?’ the owner asks.

Addison hurries on, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. And the government reckons it has solved racism. But no need to make a fool of himself. Whatever they may think, God did not call white people first. Abraham would have had the same bother in England.

But the fault is his, he reflects, suddenly smitten with guilt. This is what comes from trying to do the Lord’s business for him. People don’t understand faith –  and he hasn’t demonstrated it too well in thinking of moving without the good Lord’s marching orders. His love for Carla is pulling him out of line, making his decisions wishy-washy. Still, he’s proved that moving is not the way forward – and he has the satisfaction of showing that he heard Carla’s pleading. The morning has not been entirely wasted.

At the edge of town he starts hitching. It will be much quicker, and possibly less hot, to travel out to Holy Wind in a private car. Preferably some rich white person’s air-conditioned Jag. He laughs at his own resentfulness and leaps high in the air to slap the Red Route signpost. He’ll be making them break the law if they stop.

The first few vehicles whizz past. The third is a green Fiat. The driver slows, winds his window further down, and dips his head to peer at Addison across the vacant passenger seat, hair flopping forward. ‘Going far, sir?’

The politeness is disarming to Addison’s simmering anger. He bends to answer, sees the fag, decides not to bother after all, and is going to withdraw his request with a suitable apology when the driver says, ‘Look, hop in. I’ll chuck the cigarette. I can see it’s a problem.’

The deal is done and Addison sinks gratefully nto the seat beside the young man. It’s hardly comfortable, though, granted the growing heat. His knees are pushed up to the glove compartment and his head touches the roof from time to time. Definitely not Jag stuff, he thinks ruefully. But timely. The Lord knew his need: to belong and be accepted. That’s just how he is.

The young man is sociable, wants to take him all the way when he hears the destination. ‘No trouble, sir,’ he says at Addison’s protest. ‘Too little neighbourliness these days… Thought I’d seen you around up there.’

There is something rather overdone about his converation after that, but Addison has decided to see him as another lost soul.

‘You’re welcome to visit,’ he says lightly. ‘Two hundred others come. No one’ll notice you in the crowd.’

‘Good thing. I’m always agoraphobic when God’s walking around.’ The jest sounds forced, but not malicious. They laugh together.

‘Seriously, though,’ the man says, ‘I’ve always been curious about these places – no offence meant. You may see me turn up one day. See what this God thing is all about. Round here, is it?’ He’s already turning the corner.

Addison suspects he knows exactly where he’s going. But he confirms the action and says, ‘You should come over. You might find it’s what you want in your life.’

‘No problem. I always get what I want.’ The man flicks his head momentarily to the left and Addison feels the full glance of his eyes upon him, is aware of a change in the air, as if he were meant to understand something that has not been said.

After a pause, the man asks, ‘You married?’

The question is out of the blue, like choosing a tomato when you’d meant to take a raddish, but Addison is proud of Carla and assents with only an instant’s hesitation.

‘Children?’

Addison now feels threatened more than interrogated. The man is somehow not interested in the possible answer. Perhaps he knows this, too, has seen them around. Is merely pretending to make polite conversation. Addison doesn’t appreciate falseness in any guise.

Luckily, at this moment they arrive at the corner where the noticeboard proudly announces his territory, and Addison alights without answering. ‘You’re very kind,’ he says. ‘Drop in if you feel like it. There’s someone here most evenings. We don’t like to lock people out.’

‘Oh, I’ll come. Be sure of that. I’ll look out for you and your wife.’ He speeds off in a roar of low gear.

Addison thinks he’s been very lucky today: not only has he been spared by the Lord from making a wrong house move, but has cosen the exact moment to hitch a lift when a lost soul was ripe for picking. He will be particular in sticking to his calling in future.

The mention of children rings in his ear as he hurries to do what he came for. Lunch will be waiting and he has a children’s meeting to prepare for tomorrow. He knows now what he must do for it.

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Chapter 12:d

In which Addison faces opposition

Addison is resolute. He is experiencing a refreshing change of attitude that came on him when he woke, and his blue and orange waistcoat confirms it to him as he strides through town towards the business quarter. If Carla can’t manage at the moment – though he is still reeling from the realisation of her physical weakness – then his will be the hands that hold her up. Not to displace the good Lord, no, but to be protector and provider, as is his calling in marriage. Other folks don’t see it like that these days but the divorce statistics answer for him.

Town is crowded for a Wednesday. He squeezes past a bunch of strange-speaking girls – tourists, of course.

‘Bonjour,’ he says to them with exaggerated accent, and then realises they are sporting Milan tees. Oh well, not far out. His city has grown to acquire international status in recent years – anyone might be on the streets.

He glances at his watch. He’s gonna have to push it a bit if he’s to speak to the estate agents and pop into Holy Wind and be back before lunch. Might have to do a spot of hitching, he thinks with relish. Now that would upset the old lady!

‘How can I help?’ the young man asks, looking at Addison with fresh morning brightness.

‘I’m helping you,’ Addison corrects, mostly to establish his own confidence. This is not like him to be asking someone something – he gets his instructions from God usually and knows the answer before the other person. ‘I’m bringing you business. I want a house near Holt Foot.’

The man looks down at his pen and carefully replaces the top before returning to view his customer. Addison frets at the deliberate pause, unnerved.

‘Well, sit down then, and we’ll see.’

It takes only moments to establish that this is not going according to plan. The man is being awkward. He isn’t hearing what Addison says. ‘Maybe we should look at what you are selling before deciding which area you can afford,’ he advises.

‘You don’t understand,’ Addison persists. ‘I can afford what I choose. I live by faith, you see.’

‘Well, I live by results. so there’s no point in showing you houses unless you have one to sell, which I presume you do, if you’re going for one at that price.’

Addison opens his mouth to protest, but the man goes on in a more placatory tone. ‘I expect you need equity and top-up mortgage like the rest of us.’

Something about the man riles him. As a customer, he is due more respect than he’s getting. He could be selling his own property through some other agent, and this man is being deliberately obstructive. Too young – he knew it when he saw him. But he also knows Park End Road is the worst kind of area to sell in. He reins in his sharp retort.

‘I’ll sell the Park End Road house when I have a purchase in mind.’ Slipping the road name in like that will test the waters.

The man purses his lips, blanks his screen on the desk and folds his hands.

‘You won’t be able to sell a house there for peanuts even,’ he says, smiling, ‘not in summer, at least. Better in winter when everyone’s indoors, you understand.’

Addison doesn’t. But he sees the finality of the man’s body language. ‘I’ll go elsewhere,’ he says.

He is hopping mad. There are houses for sale two miles the other side of Holy Wind, and this… this infidel is telling him what he can and can’t do. Offering sub-standard service for some peculiar reason he can’t fathom right now. Or rather, he thinks, as the agency door slams behind him, one he will not let into his mind at this point.

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Chapter 12:c

In which Carla breaks down

‘Carla Jo, whatever’s up with you?’ Great Aunt Rebecca pulls Carla through the door and holds her at arm’s length, eyes raking her from tousled hair to dusty sandals.

Carla tries to avoid her eyes. The physical support helps her cover up. ‘I came over funny,’ she says. ‘Sort of shaky.’

‘And the things?’

Suddenly Carla remembers why she went out: to shop and to check the bingo hall times for Rebecca. She stares horrified at Rebecca. ‘I forgot––’

‘It’s nothing. They would have waited. It’s you who wanted an airing. And it’s proved too much, as I thought. Sit down. I’ll mash some tea.’

The floor is the nearest and most obvious choice, and Carla sinks to the carpet cross-legged, her mind afloat with debris and sewage. Experience tells her that something evil will emerge from the sewage – a monstrosity capable fo tearing apart the material of her life with Addison. Only the floor offers enough solidity to help her think of other possibilities.

She has two weeks to find a solution. Two weeks to prove to Addison that things are untenable here – without telling him exactly why. He would die without the baby he’s accepted as his. That was why he said those cruel things this morning, because he loves Dinah so much. But is the baby his?. They have not consummated the marriage, so legally she may not be his at the moment. Then you have two weeks to consummate the marriage. Get on and do it. But that is easier said than done. She grows more fretful and restless as the inner debate continues.

Sounds of tea making, and dinner preparation reach her from the galley kitchen.

The marriage will not be consummated if Addison insists on her baptism first. And how can she go along with that? She ruled it out this morning. Her conscience still rules it out. She has no belief in God, is merely humouring Addison’s – he’s been so kind. No. Baptism is a step too far, a denial of herself.

But Dinah? Would you deny Dinah the right to a legal father in his sound mind?

There’s no easy answer to this one. Should she sacrifice her own principles for a baby’s safety? She’s too weary to know. It sounds like a school exam paper – and she never liked questions that needed reasoned argument. Tears spring to her eyes and start to roll soundlessly down her cheeks.

Great Aunt Rebecca returns, tea in hand.

‘Come on, it’s a difficult time, Carla. That’s what I’m here for, to help.’

The motherly sympathy is too much and Carla gives way to the despair and foreboding inside her. It’s like an emptying of the weeks of strain and months of denial about Steve’s possible reaction to her escape.

When the crying lessens, Rebecca says, ‘You need a change. How about a birthday party? Or had you forgotten?’

Carla had forgotten. But she can’t focus on the meaning of the suggestion: the words start a fool’s dance in her head, cavorting and demanding a shared merriment. She has two weeks to save Dinah’s life and her Great Aunt is suggesting a birthday party. She starts laughing hysterically.

Both of them jump when they realise Addison has walked in. The latch was up. Anyone could have done the same.

‘You look hungry, Addison,’ Great Aunt Rebecca says. She is accomplished at encouraging new starts. It’s as if there’s been no bitter exchange this morning, no implication of carelessness, no dictating of remedies.

Indeed, holding her emotion briefly in check, Carla thinks that Addison has probably forgotten his words. He doesn’t hold grudges, his beliefs forbid it. The hysteria grows in her throat again.

‘Your tea’s just over there,’ Rebecca continues. ‘I was just suggesting to Carla she has a birthday party, perhaps at church. You could all do with a break after the strain of the last few weeks.’

Addison removes his waistcoat and slings it across the chair back, then crosses to Carla. ‘What d’you think, angel? I been wishing you could have a change of routine.’

She cannot answer him. This man, this unworldly man with his waistcoats and prayer meetings is her only defence against Steve, and he hardly knows her, has not yet made her his. A small quivering laugh escapes her, turns into a larger out-of-control giggle.

‘Don’t you have an answer, Carla?’ he asks gently.

The hysteria floods over the broken dyke and overwhelms her, removing every vestige of rational thought from her overstrained mind, discharging itself around the room in surges and eddies amid the lengthening rays of the sun, catching up all of them in its devastation and confusion. She is helpless to intervene, incapable of self-containment.

The tears follow.

Addison and Great Aunt Rebecca lead her, unresisting, upstairs to bed, and tuck her in with infinite care as they would a newborn baby.

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Chapter 12: b

He stands with his legs on either side of hers, suggestive and threatening, the proximity of their bodies bringing up vivid unwanted memories of their past relationship. They echo through her like aftershocks from a firing range.

‘The baby is mine,’ he says, his voice cloudy with emotion. Tenderness was never his thing and Carla is momentarily thrown. Does he really care?

‘It may not be,’ she counters. ‘There were others, remember?’ She speaks carefully, as to a child who she must redirect.

‘Mine,’ he repeats, fathomless eyes holding hers. She cannot look away. He is flexing his fingers inches from her face. The cracking must surely be audible throughout the park. ‘Or do I have to remind you how it happened?’ He puts his hand on her stomach, touches the waistband of her jeans. Bile rises. He was as likely to use a glass bottle as a penis. Great care is required. He may not be drunk but he could be on drugs, though the smell hanging about him is pure nicotine, no trace of cannabis or worse. She must stay in today’s reality – if she remembers the past, he may win. He had great power over her.

‘I left,’ she reminds him. ‘It’s over. We weren’t… suited. And I’m married now.’ This is her weapon. Addison is the barrier between her and anything Steve might do. Addison promised her the past was over and he must deliver.

‘To that nutter? The sad-coloured man. You married him? You’re more fool than I thought.’

‘He’s not sad. He’s worth more than you any day.’

He slaps her hard on the arm. She gasps, bites her lip.

‘Look, what do you want?’ She is desperate to prevent the nightmare re-enacting itself here in the park, in public. Antagonism will make him violent. But so will cowering – she’s tried both in the past. She feels the pincer movement of her predicament. Stand firm, she tells herself.

‘The baby is mine, too,’ she says. ‘She needs me. How could you look after her? She’s breast feeding.’ Caring for Dinah is not the issue: he will kill the baby rather than let Carla escape with what he believes is his. But she’s counting on being rational. It’s the only armour she has.

A couple stroll towards them. Steve notices. He moves closer to her and then suddenly is on her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and mauling her all over her face and neck. It is only a matter of seconds before the couple pass. Shoving herself free, she spits at him with all her might.

His hair flops as he jerks to avoid the missile. Anger flashes in his eyes. ‘You – bitch!’

Carla pulls herself up, as tall as Steve. ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

He is wiping the gob from his shoulder, and momentarily she regrets her foul action. She’s become like him. But when he looks up his eyes are shaded again, his manner subtly altered.

‘Look, Carla,’ he says. He voice is measured, unnaturally quiet now, and he’s still only steps away from her. ‘I’ll give you two more weeks with her – to finish feeding her. Then she’s mine. Don’t imagine you’ll escape. I know everything you do.’

So. She is expendable. It’s her baby he wants. And she’s in danger if she doesn’t give in.

He waits. Extracts a cigarette, lights it, blows the smoke in her face.

She looks at him helplessly, aware that the stinging in her eyes is not only due to the smoke. She has two weeks to find a safe place. Two weeks to choose between going on the run from him or staying put with Addison and never again being able to relax her vigilance.

He holds her stare, unflinching, totally devoid of compassion – or love. ‘Think about it.’ He turns his back and walks off. After a short distance, he shouts over his shoulder, ‘And don’t imagine you can hide behind that woman. She won’t be there when you need her. I’ll see to her, too.’

Carla stays rooted by the tree, eyes fixed on his back, muscles refusing to flex. A vague desire to call the police perishes as she recalls Addison’s caustic fury this morning. He would not forgive her that.

She begs her body to return to normal. She has to be home before they notice her absence.

Finally, she moves. The sun no longer warms her. It has disappeared behind a grey-blue cloud that overshadows the unsteady walk home. Oh for a downpour to wash off his touch, but it will not happen this summer, and, besides, the touch has gone deep inside.

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