Chosen Page 7

  ‘Let’s find you some slippers.’ Rebecca chooses her a pair of espadrilles. ‘These fit?’

  Dodie sticks her feet in them. Now she feels properly ready for bed.

  Hannah escorts them on yet another trek through featureless corridors. ‘Enter silently and with respect,’ she says. ‘Follow Rebecca’s lead.’ The door opens into a larger room filled with a throbbing hum; it’s like walking into a hive, but instead of bees, lilac people humming, the most powerfully undoing sound.

  ‘Just copy me,’ Rebecca whispers. She blinks and grasps her thumb, bows her head to a man inside the door, who’s wearing a long white robe and a mask. Dodie snorts and glances at Rebecca, and receives a sharp, green look. She presses her lips together and follows Rebecca to a stool in the back row. John and Daniel are both there. Daniel looks up, smiles his pretty smile, lowers his eyelids. The electric light illuminates the strange ridges of John’s scalp and makes him look a ghastly colour, like parchment. He smiles as he hums – no, it’s not humming this time, but a kind of intense murmuring. In front of her a row of necks: black, brown, white; stubble from the cropped hair in every shade. The backs of ears have such a ridiculous and vulnerable look, such silly flaps.

  Rebecca has started up the mumble now, but Dodie can’t distinguish the words. So sleepy. No window in here, so you can’t tell the time of day. Not enough lunch – and so late. Will they have a tea break; a slice of that nice cake? White ceiling, flat white light fitting. The chanting is actually quite soothing. Twenty minutes then, the time it takes to walk a mile, imagine walking from the park to the roundabout, that’s about a mile. She closes her eyes. Does the bookie come before the dry-cleaner’s? A car driving through a puddle sends up a sheet of water to soak her legs. Stop it. She breathes and watches and counts her breaths. Go with the flow, go with the flow; she watches the shapes behind her eyelids: clouds, and blurry light and a figure, shadowy, a broken puppet dangling in a hallway. No. Her eyes jolt open.

  She studies the necks again, thick necks and thin necks. She closes her eyes. Don’t. Seth. A prickle of frustration. No. Jake with his bright round eyes. No. She tries to be soothed and buoyed by the voices washing all around her, closing her eyes again. Breathe and breathe.

  The sound is like water bubbling, all the individual voices merging into a continuous babble. She’s on a bridge, water flowing underneath her, breathe in and out and in and out, water running over stones and rising and in the water Stella’s face – no! She snaps her eyes open to all the lilac and hair and white and the distinct black dots of stubble on the back of someone’s neck and nothing else to see so shut your eyes again, go with it, with the flow, and breathe and breathe.

  The time goes slowly. The twenty minutes feel like hours. The sounds are petering out. She opens her eyes, blinks, feels like she’s been asleep and dreaming something that has evaporated. Her mouth is dry. One foot is numb, she fidgets it and the blood returns just as a high, thin bell tingles in the air. Everyone raises their arms above their heads and stretches forward, foreheads to the ground, a groaning and cracking sound as their bodies move again. Dodie does the same, feeling a delicious popping in the muscles between her ribs.

  They stand and do the movements: a stretch, a bend, a twist, like a speedy yoga class and she tries to keep up, copy the row in front of her and it’s so nice to move after all the sitting still. She’d never learn it though, never learn to move in unison, and who wants to move in unison anyway?

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Rebecca whispers as they leave.

  ‘God, yes,’ Dodie whispers back. ‘I’d kill for a cup. And then I really must phone. Rod’ll be going spare.’

  ‘Rod your husband?’

  ‘Boyfriend. I think,’ she says, tantalizingly, but Rebecca doesn’t take the bait.

  9

  You’d keep fit here, all the hurrying through the corridors after the tiny lunch. John lets them into a poky room with two sofas and a low table. Daniel looks up at them over the rim of his mug. On the table there’s a teapot, but no sign of any cake or even biscuits.

  ‘What’s with the masks?’ Dodie says.

  ‘The Masks have completed initial Process,’ Daniel says. ‘One day we get to wear them too.’

  ‘But why? Why the hell would you want to wear a mask?’

  John puts his finger to his lips. ‘Sister, you are too loud,’ he says.

  Loud? Dodie opens her mouth again but nothing comes out.

  ‘You’ll understand in time,’ Daniel says.

  ‘Sit and have some tea.’ Rebecca fills two mugs.

  Dodie does sit on one of the sofas, kicks off the espadrilles and tucks her feet underneath her. ‘So, how long have you been here?’

  Rebecca hands Dodie her tea. ‘Personal’ – she seems to search for the word – ‘chitchat is, like, not encouraged.’

  ‘Any activity that is a distraction from Soul Work is not encouraged,’ John adds, then presses his hand to his stomach and winces. Dodie sips the tea, something herbal, greenish and a little bitter, not the Earl Grey she was hoping for.

  ‘No biscuits?’ she says.

  ‘The Process requires a clearing out of mental . . .’ John stops. ‘Helps clear . . .’ he says, ‘the Process,’ and then he stops again, droplets of sweat clouding his face. ‘Pardon me.’ He gets up, makes for the door. Daniel follows, puts himself under John’s arm as a prop.

  ‘Hope it’s not the tea.’ Dodie eyes her cup.

  ‘Come, John,’ Daniel says, supporting him while he takes two or three attempts to key in the right number – and then they are out.

  Rebecca shakes her head. ‘He’s got something, I think. Like, you know, something really bad.’

  ‘Poor John. But hey, how does he know the number to get out?’

  ‘John is a big buddy – more advanced. Been here years.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  Rebecca wraps her hands round her mug of tea and looks round nervously. ‘We’re not meant to be alone, in a twosome,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  Rebecca sips her tea. Dodie copies her. Actually it’s not bad; under the bitterness there’s a hint of something sweet, liquorice maybe. ‘Strange,’ she says.

  ‘A special balance of herbs,’ Rebecca says. ‘Helps concentrate the mind.’

  ‘Like a drug?’

  ‘Soothing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Rebecca shrugs.

  ‘I can’t just hang around,’ Dodie says. ‘Rod’ll be having kittens. Anyway, what’s up between Martha and Hannah?’

  Rebecca wrinkles her nose. ‘Yeah, something. I dunno.’

  ‘I mean, I thought it was meant to be all peace and love here.’

  Rebecca puts her head on one side. ‘Peace and love,’ she echoes, thoughtfully. She stands up, sits again. ‘Look, Dodie, I think we should like, shut up and quietly wait. Just contemplate.’

  ‘See, I’ve got too much to contemplate,’ Dodie begins, ‘it’s driving me bonkers.’ But Rebecca looks pointedly away. It would be an outrageous snub in any other circumstance, but Dodie senses sympathy. She considers leaving the tea; what if it is drugged? But she’s thirsty. And Rebecca’s on her second cup. ‘I wonder what time it is?’ she says. Nothing. ‘Is this room bugged?’ she asks. ‘Is that why you won’t talk to me?’

  Rebecca gives a delicate snort.

  ‘Why not then? How long have you been here? Eh? Eh?’ She keeps saying it until Rebecca cracks and grins. She’s not pretty but her face lights up outrageously when she smiles. She would be a laugh if you met her anywhere but here.

  ‘Days like, lose their edges,’ she explains.

  ‘How come you’re here?’ Dodie says.

  ‘OK.’ Rebecca hunches forward and speaks quickly, keeping her eyes focused on her tea. ‘Met this guy – this fisherman – at Manchester Piccadilly. He was selling flowers. I was, like, in a bad place and, somehow, he scooped me up. He saved me.’

  ‘A fisherman?’

&nb
sp; ‘We call them our fishermen – and fisherwomen – they wait in, like, airports, stations, places of transition,’ Rebecca says, ‘where people who need – people trying to, like, escape – often are.’

  ‘The Lost?’

  ‘Yup. The Lost shall become the Chosen.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Dodie frowns. She gnaws the edge of her green nail, the colour disastrous against the lilac outfit. ‘Who are the fishermen?’ she asks.

  ‘Us, the Chosen, once we’ve completed the Process. Once we’re clear. I so want to be clear.’

  ‘The Chosen,’ Dodie says. ‘I’m not chosen.’ And nor does she want to be. ‘So, what was up?’ she asks. ‘A bad place, you said.’

  Rebecca drops her gaze and shakes her head. ‘It was just . . .’ She seems about to veer away from the question but then it snags her. ‘This fisherman’ – she looks nervously at the door – ‘comes up and just, like, hands me this flower, a white carnation, just, like, an ordinary old bog-standard carnation but somehow it seems to glow. He tells me I’m chosen. Chosen. Ten minutes before, I’d been about to throw myself under a train. Chosen, he says and just like that –’

  ‘What was up?’

  Rebecca sighs and puffs, reels off her troubles like a shopping list: ‘Preggers, dumped, failed my exams, kicked out of college.’ Her voice deepens as the memory takes hold. ‘I lived with my dad when I was a kid then he married some bitch and they had children of their own.’ Her pupils flare. ‘I had no one, then. I felt, like, nowhere. I had an abortion and then I was so, so, so, so sorry.’ A choke comes to her voice. ‘I wanted it you know, I didn’t even know I wanted it till too late.’ She begins to cry. ‘My arms were empty.’ She holds them out as if cradling a child. ‘Then I just, like, went into a downward spin.’

  Dodie goes to put her arm round Rebecca just as the door opens and Hannah walks in. She flicks a hostile look at Dodie as she goes to Rebecca.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Rebecca sniffs. ‘But John was taken ill and –’

  ‘Your Brother must learn to be strong in the face of his symptoms.’ Hannah takes a handkerchief from her pocket, puts a finger under Rebecca’s chin and wipes her eyes.

  ‘Blow,’ she says and, like a child, Rebecca blows her nose.

  ‘There.’

  Hannah takes Rebecca’s hands and pulls her to her feet. ‘Rebecca, Sister, look at me,’ she says. Rebecca raises her eyes, the pale eyelashes spiky wet, and Hannah blinks into them. ‘Let it go,’ she whispers, ‘let it go, let it go. Come on.’

  They hum together, a wavering two-tone note that grows in strength until it breaks. Rebecca’s chin rises, she blinks into Hannah’s eyes and she smiles. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘This is why we don’t encourage intimacy,’ Hannah says. ‘What’s the point of getting yourself in a state about the past? Do you believe that? What is the past?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Rebecca says.

  Satisfied, Hannah nods and lets Rebecca go. ‘I’ll get some more tea.’

  ‘Is there anything to eat?’ Dodie dares to ask.

  Hannah frowns. The lines are deep as knife cuts between her eyebrows and beside her eyes. Her lips are thin and dry and bitten. ‘Silence. I won’t be long.’ She goes out with the teapot.

  ‘God!’ Dodie says, once Hannah’s left the room, but Rebecca doesn’t react. She looks straight ahead, as if fascinated by the wall. ‘It’s not bad to feel things.’ But Rebecca won’t even look at her. ‘You have to work things through. This place is crazy. You’re crazy if you stick it.’

  Rebecca blinks and mutters something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are a test.’ Rebecca slits her eyes at Dodie. They don’t even look like her own eyes any more. ‘You’ve been sent to test me.’

  Dodie goes to the door and thumps it. She tries jabbing any old numbers into the keypad, but it won’t open.

  ‘How do I get out of here?’ she demands.

  But Rebecca only shakes her head. She shuts her eyes and does the infuriating hum until Hannah returns with another pot of tea, followed into the room by a tall, white-robed man in a mask.

  ‘This is Dodie,’ Hannah says, as if she has been the topic of conversation.

  ‘I’m off –’ Dodie makes for the door but the Mask shuts it briskly with his foot.

  ‘You can’t keep me here.’

  ‘Welcome.’ The voice that comes from behind the mask is young, humorous, American. The mask is white and smooth, like half an eggshell, with two round eyeholes and a straight slit for the mouth.

  ‘Ta,’ Dodie says. Dodie takes a step away from his extended hand.

  ‘Rebecca.’ He rests his palm on top of her head. She closes her eyes and smiles.

  ‘Now sit,’ he says.

  Dodie gives in for the moment and sits beside Rebecca as the Mask lowers himself onto the sofa opposite. Hannah stands beside the door, expression switched off.

  ‘I’m only here to see my brother,’ Dodie says.

  ‘Sure.’ It’s peculiar to watch a blank mask speak; there’s a little ring of dampness, condensation, round the mouth slit. ‘But first, do you have any questions?’ From within the eyeholes Dodie can just make out the glint of eyes. His fingers are long and tapered with blond hairs on the backs.

  ‘Obviously I have. When will I see Seth?’

  The Mask chuckles. ‘Only one person could answer you that. Another?’

  ‘Are you stopping him seeing me? Are you brainwashing him?’

  Hannah gives a strange growling laugh. ‘How melodramatic! You’ve been watching too much TV.’

  ‘Questions about Soul-Life, I meant,’ the Mask says. ‘How we began, maybe? See, Our Father here on Earth founded our little community, in the UK first of all, until the Lord told him to move the operation here, to New York State. And boy, how we’ve grown since then. See, Dodie, in this big, bad, old world, wow, you only have to switch on the TV to see it’s going down the john –’

  ‘I’m not really that interested,’ she cuts in. Hannah skewers her with a look. ‘And what’s with the mask, anyway?’

  The Mask laughs. ‘Straight to the heart of it, way to go, Dodie. See the mask’ – he taps it, a thin hollow eggshell sound – ‘symbolizes the desire to renounce individual personality.’

  ‘But I don’t see how a person can possibly lose their identity. I mean, how can you?’

  ‘Correct,’ the Mask says. ‘Of course it is impossible. You got me there.’

  Rebecca giggles.

  ‘What is identity?’ he says, and before Dodie can formulate an answer he’s off again. ‘Identity is made up of personality, self-image, attitude, memory, aspiration and appearance – yes?’

  Dodie considers, nods. That seems about it.

  Hannah comes forward, sits beside Dodie and takes one of her hands. ‘Let’s look at your identity, Dodie.’ Dodie pulls her hand away. ‘I see your nails are painted green.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What does that say?’

  ‘I dunno. That I like green?’

  ‘I think it says you’re a little unconventional: arty maybe?’

  Dodie shrugs.

  ‘Now, why do you need to display this to other people?’

  ‘I don’t need –’

  ‘A little display. A little posture.’

  ‘So?’

  Hannah smiles but there’s a sharpness in her eyes, a narrowing. ‘It’s just an example of the work you – anyone out there – must put into maintaining identity, the work of it, to work so hard to keep up, to keep up the identity; the work so hard, the effort so tremendous, the years, the years, the lifetime of effort to hold yourself separate. Green polish, the edges you construct, the way you hold yourself apart, the separation.’

  Dodie forces a laugh. ‘What a fuss about a bit of nail polish!’ But her voice sounds phoney, nasal. ‘Look at you!’ she says, and feels Rebecca flinch beside her but she can’t stop herself. ‘You have your own hands and hair and mind and your voice and’ – Oh God, the jeerin
g voice pours out of her, can’t stop now – ‘you preach away to me but you’re still you. And you,’ she adds to the Mask.

  Hannah smirks at the Mask. ‘Finished?’ she says to Dodie.

  Dodie breathes and swallows, her heart hammers, her hands are wet; she looks at the green nails, how stupid they look, ten little exclamations: Look at me! I’m Me! I’m quirky! Arty!

  ‘See, I wear the mask,’ the Mask says, smoothly, soothingly, into the prickling silence, ‘just for that, just to set myself free from the tyranny of expression, facial expression, and of inflicting that expression and the messages it sends – oh so many – witting and unwitting – that taint the words I say. Of course I can’t get rid of all signs of human identity, you’re not wrong, but I can minimize. The mask minimises – do you see? – the expressions of identity. Identity is the enemy of soul; that is the founding principle of Soul-Life. So thank you, Dodie, for your question.’

  ‘I’m tired. I need to phone home. I want to see my brother and get out of here.’ Dodie’s voice has become tetchy and childish.

  ‘You want to persuade your brother to give up his new-found peace?’

  ‘No.’ Dodie stops, because, yes, of course, that is exactly what she wants. ‘Well, it all depends. I just want to hear from him that he wants to be here, and if he really does, I’ll leave him. Then I’ll go home to Rod and Jake.’

  ‘Jake, ah yes, your son.’ The Mask is bowed for a moment, hesitating. ‘And?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What else do you want from life?’

  Dodie shrugs. ‘Ordinary things. Living. Enjoying life. Watching Jake grow up. Another baby. Travel maybe.’ Dodie stops, it sounds thin, even to herself. ‘I know it sounds trivial,’ she says, ‘but it’s not when you’re in it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the Mask says, throwing out his arms triumphantly. ‘That is the nature of the trap. You can’t see it till you’re out of it. Here you have a chance – wow, Sister, think of it – you have a chance to see it from the outside in. You have a chance to escape.’