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  Skilton went forward to touch the Angel, and, in an instant, burned the flesh from his hand.

  Bannerman did not hear the doctor scream or smell the cooking of his meat. The clergyman was on his knees in worship, in wonderment. This was the moment he had been awaiting in ignorance all his twenty-seven years. His mind stretched like a balloon, expanding with the revelation that had been granted to him.

  To him! Not St John the Divine, but Timothy Charles Bannerman of the parish of Alder in the county of Somerset!

  As one entranced, he saw it then. He knew without doubt that the Day of the End was at hand, its very date burned into him by the glance of the Angel. He felt it raise in fire on his forehead, then sink into his brain. The 8th of November. Had he lived, it would have been his father’s sixtieth birthday.

  Day of Judgement. Day of Atonement. Day of Armageddon. Day of Apocalypse.

  When the Angel was gone, his image danced before Bannerman’s eyes, burned into his sight as if his retinae were photographic plates.

  Bannerman knew his Bible and his history well enough to gather that being the Chosen People could be uncomfortable, and he acted accordingly. Knowledge of the privileges due to his parish was to be kept within its bounds. He preached no sermons on the Angel’s announcement, and did not alert his bishop to the divine manifestation. He believed the revelation to be for the benefit of his parish only. Or else, why grant a foretaste of it to Jas Starkey who had nothing, apart from his theoretical membership of the Alder congregation, to recommend him?

  Bannerman abandoned the scheduled services. He did not need to spread the word. Within days, everybody in the village knew. Others saw the Angel in the clearing, others received the news. He had no trouble convincing his flock when the burning Raphael could be seen every other night in the shimmering flesh. Only Skilton, his useless right hand baked through, disbelieved the divinity of the apparition, and he retreated to London in search of a doctor who might give him back his fingers. The doctor was not disposed to spread the news.

  In Bridgwater and Taunton, there were distorted tales of an Alder ghost and a parson gone mad, but when they reached Bath and Bristol they seemed to blend in with other, similar stories. There was no need for another Spirit presence or another crazed cleric in a half-century already overstocked with both commodities. Bannerman’s bishop wondered if he should do anything about whatever was going on in Alder, but decided to wait until after Christmas on the assumption that it would blow over long before that. A few—very few—people vanished from their homes and went to stay indefinitely with relatives in Alder. Others with kin in the village were either not offered, or refused, the chance of salvation.

  The flock were at first bewildered, then frightened, then delighted, then bewildered again by the knowledge that the End of the World was due directly, and that they alone of humanity had been vouchsafed a definite absolution for any and all sins and selected to sit at the right hand of God. But they respected their young vicar, who had never before misled them, and most followed him. Some who had not hitherto been overly dedicated became sudden converts. The more devout put aside their daily toils and spent their time in and around the church, singing, praying, contemplating.

  Louisa gave up whatever functions she performed on her parents’ farm and transformed into Bannerman’s unofficial maid-of-all-work. Wherever he was, she could be found a respectful fifteen yards behind, hunchbacked by the huge family Bible she carried everywhere in a shawl slung around her shoulders. As she prepared the parson’s occasional meals or desperately sought to see some pattern in the letters that made up the words of the Book, several young and not so young men of the village felt cause to regret her current distraction. Bannerman was amused and moved by the girl who thought she had been given a free pass to Heaven, and was trying to scrape together in good works enough coin to pay her way above board.

  The idea of the bonfire came from nowhere. Perhaps it had started as the usual Guy Fawkes’ celebration but been taken over by the more significant event. In any case. Bannerman approved, and what Bannerman approved was as close as spit to the will of the Angel Raphael.

  So it was that the Righteous gathered on the hillside, sure of a good view of the devastation of the rest of the world. They could see at least as far as Glastonbury Tor from the clearing, and the spectacle was bound to be magnificent. Word had spread of the desolations to be visited upon the unrighteous, and opinion was divided as to whether the sinners of blighted Bridgwater—whose lights could be seen on the horizon—would be burned up by a rain of fire and brimstone or swallowed down by the opening of the earth. Either calamity would be no more than the harlots, swindlers, gin dogs and municipal thieves of that notorious town deserved.

  So it was that the End was near.

  * * *

  The fire swept upwards, fifty feet or more. Embers funnelled towards Heaven like mad stars. None could endure the heat within ten feet of the blazing pile. Bannerman’s underclothes were sweated through. His face was grimed, and his heavy ulster had a fine dusting of ash. Withal, he was jubilant.

  The hour of the Angel was approaching. All the hosts of Heaven and Hell were soon to be let loose in this place.

  He stripped his cape and twirled it from his hand. It sailed on the hot wind of the fire, an albatross taking wing. In the flames, it writhed like a man afire and was gone in seconds.

  Bannerman was giddy.

  The flock followed his example, and ventured nearer the fire, pulling off winter coats and woollen shawls that would never again be needed. It was warm enough. Hands helped Bannerman with his frock coat. He was comfortable in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, able to feel again the not quite dispelled bite of November night. He wiped his face with his hands, and wiped his hands on his trousers.

  Some of the men were stripped to the waist, dark streaks of soot on white skins. The Misses Pym wore only cotton shifts and stockings. They were without sin. The whole flock was without sin.

  Someone was quoting, ‘Naked you came into this world, and naked you shall pass into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

  Bannerman clutched his throat, and twisted away his white collar. He felt freer without it, better able to breathe.

  On the other side of the flames, Louisa Gilpin danced. She was naked as a newborn child. ‘See, oh Lord, how we have put aside the things of this world,’ she shouted.

  Somehow, Bannerman was still shocked. He understood, and tried to purge himself of feelings he knew to be a part of the world well lost. He had never seen a woman naked, and Louisa was not like his imaginings. The phantoms of his night thoughts were cleaner, more like classical statues than this substantial, galumphing girl. He wondered whether he should take steps to curb the faithful lest joy give way to licentiousness.

  But there was no sin.

  ‘It don’t matter any more, do it?’ asked Jerrold. He was naked himself, his body like sourdough hung in lumps on a skeleton. ‘We’re saved?’

  Bannerman hesitated, but the Spirit of the Lord was within him and guided his words.

  ‘We’re saved, Jerrold! We of all are Chosen! We are without sin!’

  ‘Without sin,’ echoed the sexton. The cry was taken up, and became a sing-song chant. ‘Without sin! Without sin! Without sin!’

  Clothes flew to the fire and were consumed. Shirts danced in the updraught and flamed like crepe paper. The chanting went on, and there was dancing. It might have been a festival of the South Sea Isles, but Bannerman knew true Christianity when he saw it. Flesh glowed in the firelight.

  Bannerman backed away from the dancers, but the Misses Pym came to him, breasts bobbing, and tugged at his remaining clothes. He helped the Pym girls, plucking buttons, shrugging out of his waistcoat, kicking his boots away. Finally, he stood naked as Alice and Grace, close to them. Beneath the warmth of the fire, he could feel—even without touching—the warmth of their bodies.

  They had kisses for him. He touched the secret places of their bodies, and felt their flesh pres
sed close against him. First one, then the other. Alice, then Grace. Then he could no longer tell which was which. Inside his head, he heard the Angel Raphael whispering. More familiar words. ‘Let him kiss me with kisses of his mouth, for thy Love is better than wine…’

  His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, the Pym girls with him. A sister—which one?—rolled apart, and the other was beneath him. They joined with strange ease. By the red light on her face, Bannerman saw it was Grace. Prettier Grace. His head close to hers, he could hear her whispering a disjointed, distracted prayer.

  Still moving with the girl, he looked up. In a series of photographic flashes, he gathered that Grace and he were not the only ones among the flock who had taken this last opportunity to pleasure in the flesh they would soon leave behind. There would be a resurrection in the flesh, but it would be better, cleaner stuff than this.

  The Angel was smiling upon all: Granver Shepherd fumbling with the widow Combs; Tom Pym—Tom Pym!—kneeling behind Louisa Gilpin, the girl on hands and knees, her hair over her face, his hands working her hips; Jerrold and Jem Gosmore’s youngest son, conjoined in an unimagined act of love; Winthrop, still in his breeches, kissing Jem Gosmore’s wife, his hands on her breasts; Bannerman and Grace…

  Grace!

  She gasped under him and collapsed, crying his name as he spent. They lay cooling together for a minute, and then she rolled away. He lay on his back, grass and earth beneath him, stung all over from the spark-spitting fire. He sucked in great gulps of cold air, and tried to shake fevers from his brain, but a Pym girl—Alice, this time?—came to him, hot hands stroking, and he was lost...

  * * *

  Bannerman woke up warm between bodies. A blanket or something had been thrown over them.

  A horror came upon him.

  He sat up, elbowing one of the Misses Pym in the process. She groaned, and pulled the blanket. Bannerman was cold now.

  ‘Have I…?’

  ‘Missed it?’ came a voice. ‘No, vicar.’

  He looked around. The voice had been Jerrold’s. The verger was cross-legged by the fire. Jem Gosmore’s boy slept with his head in the old man’s lap. Bannerman got his eyes to focus. Few of the faithful were standing, most were dozing. The fire had collapsed and spread, but still burned fiercely. Louisa Gilpin squatted, her unbound hair tented about her. She held out a cloth-wrapped arm.

  ‘I burned myself, Mr Bannerman.’

  ‘You must have it seen to, child.’

  ‘No point to it. I won’t have no use for this poor carcass when the Lord comes. He’s a greater healer than you’ll find in Yeovil. Or in London either.’

  The clouds had gone, and the moon illumined the hillside. The firelight was dimmed by comparison. The night was half over. He had no way of knowing the exact time. His watch was in his waistcoat, and his waistcoat was gone to the fire.

  Someone was sobbing. It was Tom Pym, wrapped in someone else’s coat.

  ‘What happened to us, Mr Bannerman? To be so close, and yet to throw it all away…’

  Others looked at him. Other unhappy faces. Bannerman stood up, confused for a moment. What had happened?

  Then he remembered.

  ‘This is only flesh, Tom, and of no consequence. You know that. You all know that. We have been taught well. There will be no shame, for there can be no sin among us. We are the Chosen of God. The old ways are hard to put aside, but we must.’

  Bannerman was not sure the words were right, but the Spirit was still strong in him. He cloaked himself in the blanket. The Misses Pym, awake now, shook in the cold, and huddled together. He saw the dirt on their bodies, in their hair; and the blood…

  He opened the blanket, and invited them to the warmth of his body. Grace slipped in quietly and was enveloped, but Alice drew back. She was pouting, not playfully. She did not make a dimple.

  She touched herself, and her fingers came away bloody, ‘I’m hurt.’

  ‘No, Alice —’

  ‘Yesssss!’ It was a cat’s hiss, venomed with loathing. Alice darted lithe as a naked Indian into the bushes. He heard her fighting branches and thorns. Then she was gone.

  The fire crackled and burned lower. It would have been perfect for baking potatoes. For a long while, no one said anything.

  ‘Daughter,’ said Tom, ‘let us go home.’

  Grace, snug next to Bannerman, pretended not to hear. She pressed herself to him, kittenish and coy. Tom looked death at his vicar, then turned and left. He found a path from the clearing and trudged after Alice.

  It was as if Bannerman had been slapped, hard. He knew this was the Last Night, yet the faithful were divided among themselves. They had been Chosen, but they imperilled the privilege, spurning the Lord’s favour. It would be a tragedy to suffer eternal perdition because of a lapse of belief scant minutes away from the sure and certain hope of.

  Alice and Tom had not been the first to leave. Others had crept away while he slept. Winthrop was gone, taking Jem Gosmore’s wife—whose name was Katy or Kitty, one or the other—with him. There were more than a few faces missing, and those that remained were shadowed with despair. Shame, even.

  The faithful were sadly depleted. He began to preach to them, to recite rather, taking the Revelation as his text. He had most of it by heart, and his voice was good. The words came easily. He had read them so many times at Lampeter, and they had been given new fire by the Angel. He sounded strong. But his flock still drifted away in ones and twos.

  Hastily, shamefully, defiantly, in disgust, in anger they left. Many cursed him out loud. Others were too exhausted to say anything. Still, he preached. Until there were only three beside him, and his voice faltered. Old Jerrold, pity in his eyes; Grace, asleep on her feet; and Louisa, face shining with madness, he realized, not divine light.

  The fire was a circle of ashes. The sky was light in the east. The moon was low. It was nearly dawn. A dawn that should not be, but was.

  The Reverend Mr Timothy Charles Bannerman wept for all he had lost. Even Jerrold was gone now, to face the things he had found within himself. Grace was curled up, an unburned dress over her like a bedspread.

  Only Louisa was there to witness the very end. The End of All Things. She knelt, adoring the Lord, adoring him, waiting with him, aching for his dreams to be the truth…

  ‘I seen him too,’ she said. ‘Raphael. Angels tell no lies.’

  He had nothing more to say. There was a half-circle of sun on the horizon. His eyes watering, he kissed the girl on the lips. Perhaps, underneath everything, she was prettier even than the prettier Miss Pym. Maybe madness made her beautiful.

  Gingerly, Bannerman stepped over the fireline and felt soft hot ash under his soles. He half knelt and scooped up a handful of cinders, rubbing them into his skin, smearing chest and limbs and face. There were a few hot coals. He ignored them, feeling burns less than itches.

  He straightened and walked towards the centre, the last of the flames nipping at his ankles, scorching the hair off his shins. He did not know where he was going.

  …but when he got there, Raphael was waiting.

  Bannerman was closer than he had ever been to the burning Angel, and in daylight. He saw the dead cores of its flaming eyes.

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, but the Angel—light dimmed by the dawn—took him in his arms and kissed him. The eternal fire bit deep into his back and spread over his body, raising great blisters as it spread in irregular patches. Hot breath crept down his throat.

  The Angel’s empty face was near, and Bannerman’s eyes popped with the heat. He felt himself being burned alive, and was not sorry...

  Louisa watched him until he fell in pieces from the Angel’s embrace. The burning figure stood over the pool of stinking, steaming oil that had once been a man, and faded in the sunlight. To a yellow ghost, then to nothing. She found rags to cover herself, and went back to her father’s farm.

  Grace Pym slept until someone came for her.

  PART

&nbs
p; I

  1

  When they first came to Alder, the big heat had already been on for over a month. In the daytime, the house, built to weather centuries of winters, was like a Casablanca gambling hell. Paul had tried working upstairs and almost come down with heat stroke. Luckily, there had been a wobbly rolltop desk on the verandah. Hazel helped him set it up surreally on the lawn, under the fairly constant shade of a survivor elm. He replaced the missing foot with a nonessential book—William LeQueux’s nigh-unreadable Great War in England in 1897—and now had a decent workspace. The extension cord of his IBM electric snaked back into the house through the kitchen window. Papers flapped under makeshift weights, which was irritating, but even the slightest breeze was better than still heat. The typewriter hummed, but he didn’t even have a sheet of paper in the roller. This was one of his ‘thinking’ sessions, which meant he was stalled, letting his mind wander until his unconscious sorted out what he should do next and passed the message upstairs.

  The converted cow sheds had big folding doors that opened to turn the studio into a cutaway diagram. Hazel was hunched over her wheel, working a lump of clay. She pushed her longish hair out of her eyes with a dry wrist, then got her wet fingers back to the emerging pot. Clay rose and fell, a mushroom cloud, a vinegar bottle. Throwing pots was hypnotic, almost erotic, to watch. Sometimes the process appealed more than the result. Paul knew nothing about ceramics but could tell Hazel relied too often on what her tutors told her. In the shop attached to the studio, her pots were distinct from the Bleaches’, wax fruit among the real. But she was improving. Certainly, she had been the more productive of them so far this summer. She applied herself with enviable concentration, a strength he hadn’t expected.

  He had been going out with her since Easter, and it was now mid-July. Paul supposed he loved her, although he was always uncomfortable with the ‘L’ word. She was named Hazel for hazel eyes, naturally. In fact, almost almond eyes. She had very slight epicanthic folds. Her father had been in the Navy. Maybe a seafaring ancestor once took a Chinese wife. Otherwise, he guessed she was just pretty. She was Paul’s first major affair since Sally the Psychotic—she had liked skunk music and torn up T-shirts for a rock-merchandising company—and they had arranged to spend the summer together before deciding whether she should move into his flat back in Brighton. He’d thought this a formality, but now the possibility of it not working out was starting to tickle the back of his mind. While the countryside was very obviously burning up, they were almost imperceptibly cooling off.