When Brother Cox's face twisted with rage and disbelief Tergal thought the problem was some fault of his until he saw movement beyond the choirmaster. A man had darted out of the audience. With a shout of 'Grant us peace' he seized two power cables that lay near the broadcasting console and lieaved at them. The next moment he tried to fling them ;iway while, it seemed to Fergal, he set about executing a grotesque ritual dance. Then the computer toppled over and smashed on the stone floor, and every light in the church was extinguished.
The orchestra trailed into silence before the choir did. Fergal was continuing to sing, desperate to gain the final note, when a cello or a double bass fell over with a resonant thud. He was singing not to fend off the darkness that filled the church but the sight it had isolated opposite him. That was no longer an image in stained glass. The window had become a lens exhibiting the figure that was approaching while yet staying utterly still, its three faces grim as the infinity it had lived and had yet to live, its eyes indifferent as outer space, the locks of its multiple scalp twisted like black ice on the brink of a lake so deep no light could touch it. The figure hadn't moved in any sense he could grasp when it entered the church.
In the instant before the last glimmer of light through the windows went out, Fergal saw the three faces turn to one another, sharing an expression he almost understood. It was more than triumph. Then he was alone in the blind dark with the presence, and he struggled to hold every inch of himself immobile so as not to be noticed. But the presence was already far more than aware of him. For a moment that was like dying and being reborn he experienced how he was composed of the stuff of stars and the void that had produced them, and of something else that was the opposite of both -experienced how he might be capable of partaking of their vastness. He hadn't begun to comprehend that when his mind shrank and renewed its attempt to hide, because the presence had unfinished business in the church. Even if it had taken the man's dance of death as a tribute, that wasn't enough. Fergal felt it draw a breath much larger than the building so as to use every mouth within the walls to give itself a voice.
'I want to praise the choir for their self-control and their presence of mind at the concert on Easter Saturday. As the rest of you boys may be aware, a gentleman under the mistaken impression that the music was sacrilegious interrupted the performance but was unfortunately electrocuted. Some of the orchestra and some members of the public were injured in the panic, but our school can be proud that its choir kept their seats and their heads. It is regrettable that the building was apparently damaged by the effects of the technology used at the concert. I believe that is all that requires to be said on the matter, and I shall deal harshly with anyone who is caught circulating the superstitious rumours that have been invented by some of the gutter press. Let your minds remain unpolluted by such rubbish as we start the summer term.'
As the headmaster's complexion began to fade from purple to its customary red, Fergal glanced at the choirboys seated near him. None of them seemed inclined to disagree with the headmaster's pronouncements. Perhaps they were cowed, or perhaps they preferred to forget the events at the church; perhaps, like all the members of the audience Fergal had seen interviewed on television, they actually believed that nothing more had taken place than the headmaster had said. For the moment Fergal was content to pretend he agreed. As the row of boys including him filed out of the school hall under the frowns of the staff, his fingertips traced like a secret sign the oudine of the folded page hidden in the pocket against his heart.
It was from the newspaper the headmaster had condemned. Fergal didn't care what it said, only what it showed: the lopsided church in the process of twisting itself into a shape that seemed designed to squirm into the earth; the distorted stained-glass figure of Christ, an expression hiding in its eyes, a broken oval gaping above each shoulder. Fergal shuffled after the rest of the procession into the classroom and cramped himself onto the seat behind his desk, and put on his face that looked eager to learn. Of course he was, but not at school. The weeks to the next holiday seemed less than a breath he'd already expelled, because then he would return to the church to discover what was waiting, not just there but within himself. If Simon Clay had been unable to cope with it, he must have been too old - but Fergal had been through the fear, and he vowed to devote the rest of his life to finding out what lay beyond it. As the first teacher of the day stalked into the room, Fergal was on his feet a moment before the rest of the class. Pretending only promised a future reward. 'Good morning, sir,' he said, and sensed his other voices holding their tongues until he was alone with them in the dark.
Ra*e (1998)
You’re joking, Laura. You’re just doing your best to madden your mother and me. You’re not going out like that either.”
“Dad, I’ve already changed once.”
“And not for the better, but it was better than this. Toddle off to your room again and don’t come back down until you’ve finished trying to provoke us.”
“I’ll be late. I am already. There isn’t another bus for an hour unless I go across the golf course.”
“You know that’s not an option, so don’t give your mother more to worry about than she already has. You shouldn’t have wasted all that time arguing.”
“Wilf—”
“See how your mother is now. Perhaps she can be permitted a chance to speak before you have your next say. What is it, Claire?”
“I think she can probably go like that rather than be waiting in the dark. I know you’d give her a lift if you weren’t on patrol. I only wish I could.”
“Well, Laura, you’ve succeeded in getting round your mother and made her feel guilty for not being able to drive into the bargain. I’m sorry, Claire, that’s how it seems to me, but then I’m just the man round here. Since my feelings aren’t to be allowed for, I’ll have to try and keep them to myself.”
“Thanks, mum,” Laura said swiftly, and presented her with a quick hug and kiss. Claire had a momentary closeup of her small pale face garnished with freckles above the pert snub nose, of large dark eyes with extravagant lashes which always reminded her how Laura used to gaze up at her from the pram. Then the fourteen-year-old darted out of the room, her sleek straight hair as red as Claire’s five years ago swaying across the nape of her slim neck as her abbreviated skirt whirled around the inches of bare thigh above her black stockings. “Thanks, dad,” she called, and was out of the front door, admitting a snatch of the whir of a lawnmower and a whiff of the scented May evening.
Wilf had turned his back as she’d swung away from her mother. He sat down heavily in the armchair beside the Welsh dresser on which ranks of photographs of Laura as a baby and a toddler and a little girl were drawn up. He tugged at the knees of his jogging pants as he subsided, and dragged a hand across his bristling eyebrows before using it to smooth his graying hair. “Better now?” said Claire in the hope of dislodging his mood.
He raised his lined wide face until his Adam’s apple was almost as prominent as the two knuckles of his chin. “I was serious.”
“Oh, now, Wilf, I really don’t think you can say your feelings are swept under the carpet all that much. But do remember you aren’t the only -”