In which Addison and Helen appear to be compromised

Talie and Carla are conscious of nothing but the hilarity of trying jointly to lift the pram up the step, Carla backing in first, quipping as the baby threatens to tip out. The striped sun-shade is nearly sacrificed. It’s not a job for two.

Talie’s sudden intake of breath startles Carla into silence and the voice which follows is full of scorn: ‘How disgusting and underhand can you get.’ It is a statement not a question, and the venom belies the sharp attractiveness of the girl’s tanned face as she straightens up and faces the sofa accusingly.

Carla feels a stiffening of presentiment spreading through every limb. Her eyes want to look anywhere but at the sofa behind her, with the result that she contains them as long as possible, training them on the pram as it swivels round the brightly covered table; then reluctantly allowing them enough freedom to escape to the mantelpiece ornaments, after which they flee unbidden to the piano keys, ivory darkened to grey in the late afternoon light. Finally, she must call them to order and direct them mercilessly to the figures on the sofa.

Seeing only Helen’s tear-stained face lifted towards her, eyelids swollen and nose reddened, she senses relief. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Of course there’s something wrong,’ Talie interrupts. ‘Look with your eyes not with your love.’

Carla moves a step from the door, as if to bring the scene into focus.

Now she can see Addison. Long and lean, stripped to the waist, shorts askew as if from a struggle. His arms encompass Helen as she leans against him. He seems to be protecting Helen from a danger Carla has yet to perceive.

Carla’s mind begins a discourse. Surely, she reasons obstinately, he would guiltily move away if there were something to distance himself from?

Still no one speaks. Even Talie is silenced in the face of Addison’s continued stance. It is as if neither he nor the woman can leave wherever it is they have been. As if there is unfinished business holding them against their will – for surely otherwise, they would proclaim their distaste at what appearances are suggesting.

Addison’s waistcoat is missing. But the weather is sticky. She too would be stripped if society approved. It cannot mean anything other than that he is hot.

‘Addison,’ she hears herself say with infinitely trusting reasonableness. ‘What is going on – with you and… Helen. She’s crying.’

‘So am I.’ His voice is choked.

Carla stares at his face. He’s not lying; in the shadows, his eyes are as moist as Helen’s. This is not the remorse of a sinful man. She must know quickly what has happened. But Talie is like an intruder at the moment.

‘I think you’d better go now,’ she tells her. ‘I can sort it out. It’s not what it seems.’

Please God, it must not be. The last four weeks can’t have led to this. Helen wouldn’t. Addison wouldn’t. They aren’t like that. They are friends.

Talie snorts and leaves, with a threat to remove every breath from Addison’s body if he has betrayed them.

With her departure, a tangible tension disappears from the room. There is none at all emanating from the other two, as if it is all long spent. She goes over and sits on the carpet in front of them.

‘Addison?’

In which Helen finally relives the past

It is easier than she imagined to pour out the memories she has experienced so recently: the younger Helen calling to herself a warning about going downstairs, the uncle babysitting, the bouncy silver ball, the tablecloth and the – she cannot mention the sticky mess on her hand yet. All of it seems somehow trivial and childish. Yet she is impelled by their connection to the living room of her grandparents’ house. And the prophecy. If there is a moment when Helen has believed in the priestly function it is now. She is totally immersed in talking and describing and only vaguely aware of the Preacher’s presence as a man – yet without his attention the thoughts would have remained vague threats or ideas, while with it they have materialised into something substantial.

Addison clearly believes this too. He turns fully to her, removes her drink to the floor, and puts a hand gently on each of her arms, looking deeply into her face.

‘You are ready, Helen,’ he says. ‘This is when you have to face it. I am here to help and together we can walk in that dark recess and flush out whatever’s there. An’ remember, it’s not me, I’m just being God to you for the moment.’

‘What do I do?’ Helen asks helplessly, running a hand back through her hair despite his hold on her arm. She is used to his physicality by now and is grateful for the touch of his reassurance. Once she had feared it instinctively, now she wants it. He is stronger than she is.

There is a short silence. Addison has his eyes fixed on his bare knees, below the line of his shorts. His face is inches from hers. She can hear the ticking of the clock and is aware of the sun having moved from the back window leaving the room cooler and shadier. The sound of Addison’s breathing whistles slightly through the hairs in his nose. It is hypnotic. There is a sense of suspended time despite all evidence to the contrary. She watches his mobile features as they decide on a course of action. She is entirely in his hands and without fear.

‘I will be Jesus and hold your hand,’ he says, positioning himself once more beside her, close enough that she can feel his leg against hers. ‘We’ll shut our eyes and walk together down those old stairs and into that room, an’ don’t stop even if you hear yourself calling out again,’ he warns. ‘Just keep going in your imagination. And remember, you didn’t shut your ear when we were in need at the hospital, and God won’t let you down now.’

Helen nods, dumbly.

‘And then, we go in that room and you sit on your uncle’s knees and ask to play with that silver ball. And then tell me what happens. I’ll be holding your hand and that’s Jesus. So you’ll be like a little lamb he’s looking after and you needn’t stop telling me what’s going on.’

There is a long delay after Helen shuts her eyes. She waits until the feel of Addison’s hand loses the personal, here-and-now touch and becomes just a hand holding hers. Then she waits because she doesn’t know whether to remember her recent memories or try to conjure them up afresh. Will it make a difference anyway?

Eventually a strange chill closes over her and the room is no longer there. She is surrounded by the stairwell, the draughts and the sound of the gramophone, and she makes the dash to the living room door because her feet are cold and she is small and scared in the dark hall. She pulls her companion with her, aware that his hand holds hers tenaciously. With her other she pushes open the door and creeps in. And Uncle John, her favourite baby-sitter welcomes her with open arms. She turns to her companion and tells him, ‘Uncle John lets me stay up late with him when he’s here. You can sit in the other chair, over there.’ She indicates the chair next to the table with the checked cloth.

The firelight dances on the ceiling, making magic of the crowded room. Only a small lamp lights the far end. The paraphernalia that she is so accustomed to flickers in shadows and suggestions between the two lights, and she snuggles into Uncle John’s arms, enjoying the comfort and protection.

Then Uncle starts to play with the ball and bounce it up and down beside them against the firelit backdrop. She laughs and giggles trying to catch it with two upturned hands, small hands chasing a silver foil bauble that slips and jumps and escapes her at every bounce.

‘My turn. My turn,’ she clamours.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ the low voice suggests, the twinkle in Uncle’s eyes inviting her to agree. She hesitates, a tiny prick of fear in her mind. She glances over at her companion, reaches out a hand towards the other chair, feels the grasp in response – and turns back to uncle.

‘Yes.’ Her voice is a mere thread, wavier now than the becalmed elastic on the silver ball.

Uncle allows her the ball. Laughs as she tries clumsily to imitate his bounce. Cuddles her when it fails. ‘Now me,’ he says.

He takes her hand and lowers it, makes her touch him, stroke him. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it,’ he whispers. ‘You like that.’ Her mind splits away, gazing fixedly at the check cloth, examining the subtle colour changes, desperately shutting out the silky skin that tickles against her own hand.

She starts to cry. Then sob.

‘He’s making me do it,’ she screams at her companion, pulling her hand away. ‘I hate, I hate…’ She recoils in horror.

And then she is back in the room and Addison is pulling her to him tightly and protectively, stroking her hair and soothingly murmuring in her ear.

She snatches her body away, enraged. ‘That’s just what he did,’ she chokes out. ‘Murmured and stroked and told me how happy I’d made him.’

She stares at him aghast. ‘He was a dirty old man, and I let him.’

‘You didn’t, Helen,’ Addison tells her gently. There are tears running freely down his cheeks. ‘He made you. It wasn’t your fault… We’ll talk about it… But now you need to let me be Jesus to you. He can help by giving you the love your uncle should have. The Lord doesn’t harm anyone, only restores things like they should’a been before.’

Helen feels wild, hurt and confused. And very small again. She wants to be held. Addison moves toward her tentatively, as if she is a new-born fawn he does not want to frighten away, and offers what she is needing.

This time she sinks into his arms and allows him to be her strength and comfort and saviour.

And she weeps.

She has no idea how much time has passed in this childlike state when Carla’s voice penetrates her consciousness.

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In which Helen struggles to start her story

He sits down beside her, neither too close for comfort nor deliberately separate, but at a specific angle which makes Helen want to giggle. It reminds her of her father when she had come home from a term at boarding school and he wanted to hear an account of her studying. She knows the need to giggle stems from nerves. She must launch in if she is to start at all.

She says quietly, ‘Hold onto me in the dark recess, and my light will show the way to freedom.’

Lifting her glance to him, she is surprised by Addison’s astonished gaze.

‘I…’ she stumbles.

‘It’s okay. I know the words. It was the prophecy from Sunday.’

‘Prophecy?’

Addison reaches out a hand to her arm. ‘When someone speaks the mind of God, that’s prophecy. I don’t mean stupid fortune-telling. It’s something very special and you did right to remember the words of the Lord. Some people don’t bother, which is an insult to him.’

Helen shifts uneasily in the settee. After another long sip, during which neither of them speaks, she ventures the important bit she has been wanting to say.

‘It… it seemed as if God was speaking to me… I don’t even know if there is one,’ she adds defensively.

‘I think you know there is, if you heard his voice. Today, if you hear his voice, harden not your heart, the scripture says. Are you frightened to admit he’s spoken?’

‘It’s n-not that easy,’ Helen stammers, sounding more like an adolescent than a forty-year-old woman. She had expected the usual gentleness, the kindness that offered the poppy, not the challenge to believe.

Addison fails to come to her rescue. He is watching her, unblinking, an infinite depth of kindness visible in those brown eyes. The lines of humour on his face have become lines of compassion. Dante’s Inferno echoes inside her brain: I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost. If only she could jump in to the depth of those eyes, she could find the way.

Helen has the strangest thought that Addison knows what is going to happen. She may as well do it his way. There is no one to witness – and that includes God, if he doesn’t exist.

‘If it’s for me, I think I know what the dark recess is,’ she says diffidently.

‘You want to tell me?’

‘I can’t. It’s there at the back of my mind, like a closed door I’m not allowed to open. I keep remembering…’

Addison remains silent. Helen supposes his lack of response signals lack of desire to listen further. Perhaps he only prays.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have––’

‘You should’ve. I was jus’ asking the Lord to help you go in.’

‘Go in?’

‘Open the door. Go in an’ find out what’s there, or let it out an’ look it full in the face. He’ll hold your hand, you know.’ His speech comes in a torrent and Helen feels his concern which had seemed lacking a moment before.

‘I don’t think I can hold a hand that isn’t there,’ she says truthfully. ‘I think I’d better tell you a bit more.’

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In which Helen receives an apology and shocks the neighbours

‘Mind if I pop home first to turn the casserole on?’ Helen asks of Addison, turning the car towards the through route without waiting for an answer. ‘It’ll only add ten minutes to the journey.’

She feels the need to impress Addison with who she is and what she has before she talks to him on a more private level.

Moreover, there is already creeping into her heart the nervousness that prefigures an imminent risk. She has not for many years allowed herself to care about something enough to speak of it openly if it affects her own sense of wellbeing. But she has been subtly changed by recent events and is aware of an inner compulsion to find some answers. Something has made her the way she is and she must determine if she is who she has always thought herself to be. The person she thought she was would not have struck up a friendship with Carla and Addison, nor found a spiritual dimension to life and allowed feelings to emerge that could dominate her activities.

The visit to the new house has made her totally aware that she must choose between living her own life and living Malcolm’s; between staying north with these new friends and an altered existence (not least because she would have to work for a living) and going south to support Malcolm’s career climb as she always has done. Without the knowledge she needs, her reasoning will be flawed.

This is motive enough to take the risk of speaking with Addison but not enough to allow it to feel familiar. She is quite simply outside her habitual boundaries. Returning to home territory to start the dinner is another way of grasping safety one final time before pushing off decisively from the side and allowing the flow to carry her. She seriously hopes the river is not the Missisippi. (With Addison’s opinion about to be sought, this would not be unexpected.)

‘Uncanny old soul,’ Addison says.

Helen looks at him, startled, then ventures, ‘Rebecca?’

‘I knew she’d be trouble, coming from the outbacks and with a reputation for wise words.’

‘The outbacks being the Isle of Man?’

‘Bound to be strange when the place was supposed to be ruled by one of the sea gods who bathed it in mist if marauders came.’ Addison grins over at her. ‘She was stranger than strange. Thought you were into organising us – and I nearly fell for it. Wicked woman, really.’

Helen is completely nonplussed at this tentative apology. She decides to let it pass. The leafy suburb is helping her relax; she is nearly home.

‘I looked the island up, too,’ she tells him, ‘when I heard about Rebecca. That man was a wizard who could eat his pigs every day because they sprang to life each time he killed them. Perhaps Rebecca is the wizard in disguise!’

They laugh suddenly and loudly, with more lack of restraint than the idea alone can be responsible for. Two of Helen’s neighbours are talking on the pavement and the unusual sound from the open car windows causes them to turn their heads.

Helen immediately sobers. She notices as she pulls onto the gravel that their faces have swivelled again and their eyes must never have left the bright green top and slightly dark face of her passenger. She decides to leave Addison in the car in the drive and accomplish what she came for in the greatest of haste.

Even so, they are still the object of attention as they pull away again. A bright wave of the hand from Helen fails to shame the looks of plain inquisitiveness from her neighbours. She imagines she discerns censure under the pretence of curiosity, but she is possibly mistaken.

‘The patron saint of good housewives has just taken a reprimand,’ Addison says drily, having seen all too clearly this charade. ‘Martha, friend of the Lord, and always looking after the chores,’ he explains. Unnecessarily, in fact – for Helen already understands his reference to her consideration for Malcolm’s dinner. ‘Reversal of the usual situation, eh?’

Helen appreciates his linkage of one thing and another which assumes she knows his line of thought. It appeals to the book lover in her. It reminds her of his pile of old Bibles which she has yet to delve into. The rest of the journey back to Park End Road is satisfyingly full of comment and reference and shared ideas, so much so that by the time Helen is ensconsed on his sofa with a cool glass of juice, she has no difficulty in relaxing totally in his company. Only Carla’s absence is of concern.

‘We missed her on account of the detour,’ Addison explains. ‘She was going to clinic, with Talie to help her.’

‘Oh.’

Helen has missed Carla. There will only be Addison’s attention. This is not as she imagined. But since it has already happened, she decides that she may as well continue. Carla must surely return before too long. The clinic is only a mile away.

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In which Helen plans to make use of Addison’s kindness

‘Anything wrong?’

Addison comes up behind her as she places on the kitchen surface a bunch of Michaelmas daisies in a chipped container unearthed from the kitchen floor cabinet.

She doesn’t look up as she straightens two recalcitrant blooms, merely says quietly, ‘Have you nearly finished here?’

‘What sort of answer is that?’ he says with a gentle squeeze of her shoulders. ‘Your hunched back tells me you’re shut in again.’

Helen reluctantly acknowledges his accuracy. ‘It’s okay now. Nothing.’ She turns and smiles at him, looking over his shoulder through the open door to the hallway. She can hear the rumble of the men’s voices in the far room, apparently involved with some problem. Reassured, she goes on, ‘Have you a moment to talk?’ She keeps her voice light. She does not want such an attentive audience that she is embarrassed to discuss what she feels she must. But the opportunity must be seized now. The head librarian had a phrase for it: carpe diem, which loosely meant ‘go for it’. Helen’s efficient methods have often drawn from this foundation of diligence. She searches Addison’s face as he hesitates thoughtfully before replying.

‘I’m leaving them to get on now. They can manage fine. Pete will drop in after work… Shall we go to my house?’

Helen assents with alacrity. It is as if her soul is drawn to Carla even while her need summons Addison. To have the prospective attention of both of them seems like lavish provision. Nevertheless, she reaches out a hand to his arm. The hair is rough and the muscle strong. ‘Only if it will not be inconvenient. For Carla or you.’

Addison opens his mouth and then shuts it again as if he has thought better of verbalising his denial of this possibility. The look he offers is unreadable: Helen assumes she has proposed a silly idea, but after the recent outburst it is wiser to be reticent.

As they leave, Helen takes the two chairs anyway, loads them onto her back seat and looks over at the men who are now lounging idly on the front step – the early afternoon sun is shimmering on the sweaty bodies and no one has set himself up as foreman, each preferring to work or rest at will. Her glance betrays nothing but inside she is defiant. If she does not weaken under their macho stance she will be able to make her presence here indispensable, much as she has intended at Carla’s. People who are useful are always welcome. They become part of things despite any other drawbacks. Not that Helen considers herself to be anything but an asset: two renovated chairs will sit very comfortably in the living room when it is decorated – even, Helen judges, a masculine one likely to resemble the tap room of a pub before too long.

This thought causes her to flush at the criticism she has unwittingly allowed space for. But she obstinately maintains the opinion as she straightens up and closes the rear doors.

‘Earl Shaftesbury is watching how long a break you take,’ she says, passing off this snide comment as if it is her natural medium, and gesturing to the long-defunct peer as she takes the driving seat.

‘Shaftesbury, now?’ Addison is intrigued, and Helen regales him with the information she learnt as they steer carefully out of the estate to avoid throwing the chairs around and damaging them further. Or the car, the voice in her head remarks. It’s Malcolm’s, remember?

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In which Helen sees how the other half lives

Helen finds it suddenly almost easy to be there, despite the strangeness of the surroundings and activities. Almost as if the recent focus on a higher being has made them all equal and acceptable. To cover this unexpected discovery, she offers, over the chatting and unwrapping of sandwiches, to go and fetch the wallpaper from the car. One of the men volunteers to assist.

Glancing covertly at him, she wishes she too had put on fraying, cut-off jeans and a tattered vest – although she has no such garments at her disposal. She can visualise this man having absolutely none of the qualms she experienced an hour earlier when she felt such a longing to bare herself completely to the sun on the patio. Despite there being no neighbourly window overlooking their privacy, she would have felt exposed to the world rather than the sun. This man looks as if he is more used to being naked than clothed, so brown are his arms, upper chest and thighs.

‘How will you organise the rooms?’ she asks him as they unload the rolls from the boot. The mangy hyena strains towards them, clearly pointing out who his master is. Helen shudders inwardly.

‘We drew lots. For the bedrooms, for the jobs each day.’ He sounds prosaic, almost disinterested.

‘Ingenious,’ Helen says, and then stops. She must sound like a real prig. She quickly goes on. ‘I like DIY. Anything you want me to tackle while I’m here?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘We’re just clearing out everything we don’t want today. Not really ladies’ work.’ He marches into the house with half the rolls and a cursory pat of the hyena.

Helen flushes and follows, bringing the remainder of the consignment.

During a lull in the snatched lunch break, she tries again. ‘There’s a couple of bamboo chairs gone into the skip. I could strip them and do them up for you if you wanted.’

She immediately regrets this as the same man looks up and dourly repeats to the others, ‘She wants to strip for us.’ Hoots of laughter are followed by an embarrassed silence.

‘Addison wouldn’t like that.’ It is the West Indian who has spoken.

‘Nor do I,’ says Helen coolly. ‘It doesn’t quite tally with the praying earlier.’ She pointedly turns her back and ignores them for the next ten minutes while their lunch break passes.

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In which Helen goes visiting

Helen finds the arrangement for Wednesday absolutely perfect.

Her aim broadens from the mundane to the ideal as she brushes her hair and applies a careful touch of make-up. (She has noticed that many who attend Holy Wind are naked about the face and not so unattractive as she would have imagined.)

The somewhat lame excuse of acquainting Addison with the identity of his plaster figurehead and the rather premature delivery of the wallpaper have been Helen’s perceived alibi for the visit to Newton Grove. But her intermittent waking thoughts through the hours of night – not darkness, for the sky never really achieved that black intended for sleep – have been fuelled by an edge of excitement. She has remembered the acute feelings engendered by the offering of the red poppy. Feelings that she was known, seen for who she was and what she was worth. Feelings that were first brought into the light by an eccentric preacher. Feelings that will not lie down in peace ever again.

She no longer dwells on that initial embarrassment of intimacy; Addison has something she needs. He understands things she is ignorant of, has an insight she lacks. She must pursue that today.

A repeat of the intentional neglect of Carla will eventually play into her hand, though her heart aches at the thought of another period without seeing her. She misses her light-hearted company, aware that they are exact opposites by nature. It is hard to accept that Carla was happily visiting Talie last night instead of ringing Helen’s house to find out what she had been doing all day. On the other hand, perhaps that visit was merely to fill a gap she herself had left. Perhaps Carla had worried about Helen. Gone out to avoid the absence.

Helen is responsible, then, for causing her own discomfort. There is a palpable tension between the need to arouse Carla’s desire for her company to a level where she can be sure of it enduring, and the diametrically opposed need to be with her constantly. This thought occupies her on the drive through town and she is biting pensively on her lip by the time she swings the BMW rather too abruptly into the narrow street.

Curiously, there is an apparent absence of activity around number 56 when she alights. She has had a very lazy morning herself and feels chastened that she assumed everyone else was working. Maurice has retouched her hair into a semblance of youthfulness (she has no objection to grey – distinguée is Maurice’s description – but finds very light brown or fair hair overstreaked with grey quite unsightly). Afterwards, while feeling rather more groomed and distinguée than grey, she watched a video of the gardening programme transmitted before they returned from Wolverhampton. Then, finally, she had a leisurely lunch on the patio behind the somewhat pretentiously named kitchen garden which is approaching its second birthday. The warmth in the air as she surveyed her domain made her almost too drowsy to change into respectability and drive over as promised.

But she had expected to find people working here. The pavement in front of the house has all the requirements of a building site, and also a dog tethered to the railing and resembling much more (to Helen’s mind) a mangy hyena. There is a rubbish skip in the road, precariously balanced on and off the kerb, its sizeable capacity already reduced by a mish-mash of frames, refuse and old furniture. Planks of utility boarding lie stashed up against the house wall and a mixer sits nearby in readiness: obviously Addison has contacts too. He is resourceful, Helen admits to herself approvingly. Many of their clients sit and wait for someone else to offer help.

The house boasts two metres of front yard, with weeds sprouting from the cracked concrete, and a broken ground-level window to the basement; and another similar area at the back, this entered via a passageway between it and the adjacent house – a very odd arrangement, which Helen finds claustrophobic. The back road is, she remembers from her quick tour with Addison, still cobbled.

The front door is wide open and Helen enters without protocol, nodding familiarly to the plaster Shaftesbury in passing. Immediately she hears voices from the back room and walks unthinkingly in on the group.

Addison and the four men are knelt in a circle on the threadbare rug in the centre of the room, backs tall, arms aloft, heads bowed.

Helen feels as if she has walked into a Muslim city in the middle of one of their many daily prayer times facing Mecca. It is not what she had imagined Holy Wind to be about. Addison barely acknowledges her presence, merely says tersely, ‘Lunch break,’ and continues with frequent ‘Amens’ to the petition being offered.

She wonders briefly whether to stay, but since she can think of nothing to do in the rest of the house decides to remain, perching herself on the worn arm of an old fifties chair in the corner. This one too would have to go, she reflects, with only half an ear to the proceedings.

She sits, absently watching the dust particles dance in the band of sunlight flowing through the small sash window, tapping her fingers to the staccato prayer offered by the West Indian in the group. The rhythm changes and the vocal becomes almost musical. She glances curiously up in time to see the lad take an instrument from behind him – not a guitar, perhaps a mandolin. He continues seamlessly rapping out his words, the phrases carefully matched and balanced, chords now punctuating the comments.

Fascinated, Helen hears the prayer turn into a message – one that demonstrates a keen sense of what is going on in the world, but delivered nonetheless to God rather than the audience.

As the chords subside, she is even more surprised to hear herself offer a gentle ‘Amen’. The sincere spirit of the request has completely captured her assent and the prayer has become hers with no effort and no conscious preparation. Somewhat awkwardly, she too rises as the others straighten up from their knees.

‘Food next,’ Addison proclaims, bouncing back to life with a grin at his men. He waves an arm in her direction. ‘Helen, meet the folk who plan to live here. Guys, this is Helen from the housing people.’ His teeth gleam white in the shaded half of the room.

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In which Addison has difficulty facing reality

He can almost hear the silence as he stares, bewildered. Part of him wants to be sick. This must be Carla’s. Did she bring it with her? Keep it from the house of sin? Keep it like a trophy all the way to the refuge, and then bring it here?

No. Part of him knows this is not the truth. He looks at the carrier in his left hand. It is almost new, the shop is in town. She must have bought it recently. For whom?

He looks round wildly, scrunching the bag in his large hand, breathing rapidly. There is someone else. It’s not an affair with Helen. No. That was a red herring. There is another man and the garment is for him. She is still living the old way, still wanting money from selling herself. Even though she has no need to.

He sits down suddenly on the edge of the bed. No. That didn’t make sense either. Carla is transparent. He has seen into her and knows she would not do that. He is losing his mind. Unable to see what must be obvious to anyone else.

Slowly, he stretches his hairy arm down and over to the fallen garment, like a cat about to deal the death blow to a mouse. Instead, in a daze, he takes its slinkiness in his shaking hand and turns it over, allowing it to straighten out and become what it is: a sort of bodice with alluring holes and shapes in specific places. He brings it up to his nose briefly. He pictures Carla arrayed in this thing, standing in front of him, posed and pouty, hand held out to him – like those heathen adverts coercing puny men on the hoardings.

‘No!’

The shout echoes round the bedroom. He will not have Carla that way. He does not need that kind of thing. Theirs will be an honouring union, with God present to help and guide.

He looks down at his unclad lower half and realises he must have her some way. He is losing control. The enemy is prowling at the door like a lion.

There is a faint scratching from downstairs: Carla struggling with the yale lock again. He promised to oil it last week and forgot.

He stuffs the thing back in the now messy carrier and shoves it to the side of the shelves, extracts his blue striped cotton bottoms with a sense of release and is safely cleaning his teeth before Carla appears upstairs. He cannot face asking her about it. The words would refuse to form.

He mumbles a greeting through the toothpaste in his mouth and keeps his face down over the basin.

‘Talie’s agreed to come with me,’ Carla calls as she goes through to Dinah’s room. ‘She likes clinics.’

Climbing into bed after checking the doors and windows, Addison realises that the last ten minutes have been like a dream, losing substance with every word Carla utters.

And the reality is that he is seeing Helen tomorrow without telling Carla anything of the arrangement.

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In which Addison makes a shocking find

Addison is staring into the Last Supper, imagining himself to be the big fisherman: a Galilean, brawny and not inclined to fancies; invited to fish men, by a gentle stranger who knew how to raise people from the grave…

He wonders if he’d have taken any more notice than the real Peter did when the Lord warned that Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed.

Surely he’d have been on the lookout for the mean trick the High Priest’s servants played on him, insinuating by their rough comments that he might deserve the same fate? Surely Peter should have known they’d get him on the sly, and kept his eyes open? Addison would rather have died than suffer the humiliation of denial Peter endured.

But he must have been an amazing guy to bounce back. Addison is not sure he could have done that after such a breakdown of loyalty.

The reverie gives way to the ringing of the telephone. Addison jumps up guiltily, wondering how long he has ignored it; counts the rings as if they were the cock-crow. He straightens his long legs and reaches the bookshelf in a stride.

‘Yes?’

‘Helen here, Addison. Sorry it’s late. Just back from Wolverhampton. Is Carla in?’

‘Sorry. She’s out at Natalie’s.’

He never thinks to call her Talie like the others do. Keeping a formal distance reminds him it is his group of Followers, although he never exercises this role when he is with them.

There is a pause, as though Helen is surprised to find Carla not there.

He says, ‘Shall I take a message?’

‘No, no… It’s nothing important. Sorry to have rung.’

Addison feels remorse at his treatment of her. She is not like Rebecca imagines at all. Has he been gullible, as if he, too, were a fussy old woman? He should think things through for himself as he used to. If only he were not so tired.

‘It’s okay, Helen. God bless you.’ He tries to reach out to her, offer something more. ‘I wanted to thank you for acting fast on the lads’ house. They’re getting on jus’ fine. I’ll be down there tomorrow afternoon to keep an eye. Pete is sharing the responsibility when he’s not at work. They’re so keen, they work all day and evening!’

‘I’m glad,’ Helen replies. ‘Look, I’ll pop over tomorrow and meet you there. I’ve some wallpaper donated to us by a local firm. Might prove useful. And… I’ve something to tell you and I want to ask your advice too.’

‘Great.’

Addison puts the receiver down and feels lighter inside. So she wants to ask him something and tell him something. ‘Yeah!’ he breathes. The good Lord’s been working in this practical, efficient lady after all. Is she about to become normal? Well, he has something she needs and he will offer it freely. Ask and it shall be given you, seek and you shall find.

The words develop into the popular song they sing so often, and he hums himself upstairs to change for bed. Carla will not be long.

He pops into the spare bedroom that is now Dinah’s and checks on the baby. Probably Carla will be in and out of bed all night worrying about her and checking her breathing, but he for one is relieved at the new arrangement. He even helped clear up after Rebecca and install the cot and changing mat and nappies. A man and wife should be able to have a room to themselves. It helps them relax. After all, they’ve had the baby with them one way and another all the time so far. He grins as he remembers watching Dinah kick from the inside as the pregnancy had progressed. Such a miracle!

Searching through the tiny wardrobe for a new pair of bottoms, he comes across a carrier. He opens it without thinking and onto his arm falls a slinky black garment in lace and satin. He jumps back as if stung and it falls to the floor in a slithery heap.

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In which Helen gets angry and frustrated

They call in at a pub on a country lane before joining the motorway.

As they approach the main doors, which are flung open against the heat of the early evening, there is obviously a regular clientele ready ensconced in the busy, brightly lit lounge. It reminds Helen vividly of the kind of scene she has imagined in a nineteenth century novel: the reasonably well-off letting down their hair at the end of a tiring day, the conviviality slipping out into the night air in waves of anecdote, narrative, guffaw and chuckle. Against such a backdrop, and despite her favourite sweet Martini in hand, Helen is once more overcome with doubt and questioning.

She is used to this; it is second nature to be with the social crowd and sit at Malcolm’s side, supporting and participating in a superficial capacity. But the yearning in her very innermost being for some more tangible expression of belongingness, some indication that she herself has some worth and is not interchangeable with any other woman Malcolm might find in that role on any particular occasion – this yearning is so bright and acute inside her that she simply cannot go on not knowing where she belongs, who she is, what she wants.

Malcolm would say that she should take hold of life as it comes past, even grab it violently as it appears in case someone else grabs it first, go where it leads and not stop to think about every little segment or detail of what she is getting. But she has suddenly become dissatisfied with mindless taking; she has the deepest wish to feel a sense of finally arriving – but where to arrive is the problem. If she grabs, she may make a wrong choice, and if she doesn’t grab she may miss for ever the bit of life she wanted.

Sipping silently at her drink while Malcolm closes his eyes for a few minutes against the sting of wafting smoke, she questions even Carla’s friendship. Can you try on bras together and not be friends? Can you be friends and keep secrets? Does Addison like her and was that only a moment’s frustration he expressed? He has touched her frequently, caressed her cheek, told her to visit him. Was his kindness over the weeks simply the ploy to gain a Follower or even a lifetime’s habit of offering care and sympathy with no real feeling behind it? A flush of warmth starts in her belly and rushes upward through her breast, overwhelms her neck and suffuses her face. How can she not know the answers? She was there, it happened to her. She felt it, saw it, heard it. What sort of an idiot is she? Is she not an adult?

Anger and frustration mix in a violent reaction. Hardly aware of her actions, she stands up, places her glass heavily on the table so that the contents jump out and spill on the polished surface in a jagged line. She is aware that several eyes are on her but cares nothing for their opinion. Her voice emerges too loudly from her throat.

‘I’m going. I can’t stand this oppressive heat any longer.’

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