John went to his study and phoned, in turn, each of the five local farming families around them whom he had met. Three of them answered and confirmed they’d not had any visitor fitting that description. They each promised to call him if the American did turn up. At the other two numbers, he got the voice mail, and left messages.
John then tried to turn his attention to his book and make use of this sudden extra time away from work. But it was hopeless, he couldn’t concentrate; he was too worried about this American with his crucifix.
Naomi called him back down for his lunch. After he had eaten he put on his Barbour, a rain hat and wellington boots, and went out for a walk across the fields, circumnavigating the house, keeping close enough to be able to beat any car coming up the drive back to it.
A thought was going round and round in his mind:
What if they had been in when the American had come?
Later in the afternoon, there was a reply from his email to Kalle. It was an automated response, telling him that Kalle was away from the office for the next ten days. A short while later the two remaining farmers returned his calls. Neither of them had had any visitors today.
92
At half past five in the afternoon, John’s mother-in-law set off for her drive back home to Bath. It was already pitch dark outside, and the rain was still tipping down. John put on his Barbour and wellingtons and, carrying a golfing umbrella, escorted her out to her car. He kissed her goodbye, then stood in the porch with Naomi until the tail lights had disappeared down the drive.
Although he got on fine with her, he normally felt a sense of relief when she had departed. It was good to have the house back to themselves.
Normally.
But this afternoon he felt a deep sense of anxiety, and wished she could have stayed longer. With a torch, he made a circuit of the house, checking that the sensors for all the outside lights were working properly, comforted a little by the sudden flood of brilliant light as each one came on.
In the living room, Naomi flopped down on a sofa, grateful for the chance of a few minutes to look at the paper. She had a headache that was getting worse by the minute. Luke and Phoebe were lounging back on the other sofa, engrossed in watching an old pop video of the group The Corrs on MTV.
‘ Thunder only happens when it’s raining,’ they were singing.
Suddenly Phoebe grabbed the remote and turned the volume down.
‘That’s not true!’ Phoebe said. ‘Thunder does not only happen when it’s raining. Why are they saying that? Mummy? Why are they saying that?’
Naomi lowered the paper, pleasantly surprised that Phoebe was addressing her. ‘Saying what, darling?’
‘That thunder only happens when it’s raining. Everybody knows that a thunderstorm is a storm with visible lightning and audible thunder. The arrangement of storms within any spectrum is determined by the updraught strength, relative frequency of the updraught strength, depending on category, and relative threats of the updraught categories. I mean, are they talking about single-cell storms, multicell storm lines or supercells? They’re the kinds that produce severe weather elements, right? But that’s only talking about a fraction of the bigger picture. There are forty thousand thunderstorms a day in the world, which is like a quarter of a million flashes every minute. So what the fuck do they know?’
‘Phoebe!’ She was staggered by the knowledge that came from her daughter’s mouth. And horrified by the swearing. ‘Don’t say that word, it’s horrible.’
Phoebe shrugged like an antsy teenager.
‘Would one of you do something for me, please?’ Naomi asked. ‘I have a really bad headache. Would you run upstairs and bring me some paracetamol – there’s a box in my bathroom cabinet – the one with the mirror on it?’
Luke turned to her. ‘What kind of a headache do you have, Mummy?’
‘A bad one, that’s what kind.’
‘Is it from trauma or from mental stress?’ Phoebe asked.
‘Or from intracranial disorder?’ Luke added.
‘Or migraine?’ said Phoebe. ‘That’s really quite important to know.’
Naomi looked at her children for some moments, barely able to believe her ears. She gave them an answer she hoped Sheila Michaelides would have approved of. ‘It’s a two-paracetamol
kind of a headache, OK?’
There was a moment of silence, then Luke said, ‘Then I don’t understand.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Phoebe. ‘Not exactly.’
‘You don’t understand what?’ Naomi responded.
Luke puckered his mouth, clearly deep in thought. ‘Well, it’s like this, I suppose. You want one of us to go upstairs to get you two paracetamol because you have a headache, if we are understanding you correctly?’
‘You are understanding me correctly, Luke, yes.’
Again his whole mouth puckered in thought. Then he turned again to his sister and whispered to her. Phoebe shot a glance at Naomi, frowned, then whispered back.
Luke again addressed his mother. ‘We’re really quite confused about this, Mummy.’
Naomi swallowed her exasperation. ‘What are you confused about, darling? Exactly? It’s quite simple.’ She screwed up her eyes as the pain worsened, lowered her head and pressed her fingers into her temples. ‘Mummy has a really bad headache. She would really be grateful if one of you would run upstairs and get two paracetamols for her. That’s all.’
‘Let me explain what we don’t understand,’ Luke said. ‘You have a headache. Headaches don’t affect your legs, Mummy. So you are quite capable of going up to the bathroom yourself.’
She saw a cheeky, teasing grin on his face for a fleeting instant, so fleeting she almost thought she had imagined it. Then he got up, shrugged, went upstairs and came down with two capsules.
*
Some while later, Naomi woke, with a start, on the sofa. A rock band she did not recognize was playing on the television, but the sound was muted. She could smell a tantalizing aroma of cooking meat. Was John cooking dinner?
She hauled herself off the sofa and walked through into the kitchen. And stopped in her tracks, in amazement.
Phoebe was perched on a stool, minding a large frying pan on the hob. Luke, on another stool, was dicing peeled potatoes, a cookbook open beside him.
As if sensing her coming into the room, Phoebe turned, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth smile. ‘Hi, Mummy!’ she said cheerily.
‘What – what’s going on?’ Naomi said, smiling back.
‘Daddy’s busy working. Because you’re not feeling well, Luke and I decided to cook dinner for us tonight. We’re making Swedish meatballs and Janssen’s Temptation – potatoes with cream and anchovies, which you have every Christmas Eve, and we know you love!’
For some moments, Naomi was speechless.
93
Lara was cold. Cold and wide awake in her bed in the dormitory building at the foot of the cliff, directly beneath the monastery. A storm was blowing. The Aegean Sea, crashing on the rocks less than a hundred metres away, sounded like it was about to swallow the building, maybe even the entire atoll. Massive explosions of water sounding like thunder.
God loves me, and Jesus loves me, and the Virgin Mary loves me.
And my Disciple loves me.
And I belong.
Those were the things that mattered to Lara. As a child, she had always felt herself belonging on a higher plane than others around her. She felt an outsider, disconnected from her family, unable to fit in at school and to relate to the others there. She was a loner, yet she hated being a loner. All she had wanted was to belong. To be a part of something, to be wanted, needed.
She loved these people she was with now, and the vision they shared. She agreed with every view they held. She loved the fact that they understood you couldn’t just lock yourself away from the world, but sometimes you had to go out into it, tread along its sewers, carry out the Lord’s fight against Satan for Him.