David crossed the room to stand behind her. He saw a slight shiver acknowledge his presence. She didn’t turn around. He began to stroke her hair, which was long again, and fell down upon her shoulders in waves. He ran his nails across her scalp and then pulled his fingers through her blonde tresses, allowing the hair to tumble through his hands. It was so fine that it was like moving his fingers through sand. Lee shivered again. He stroked her hair in time with the music. The motion of his fingers, and the swaying of Lee’s body, and the wheeling notes of the piano, building towards the great tragic finale: all combined to create an aura of exquisite sadness that pricked tears in David’s eyes. He leaned down and pressed his hard cheek against her soft one, inhaling, twining his fingers deeply into her hair. A heavy scent of straw filled his nostrils.
David continued to run his hands through her hair. The music changed subtly. Minor chords that had previously resolved into tender major arpeggios now dissolved into fluffed notes, discord. The song, which had always made David think of Parisian couples flirting in the Tuileries Gardens, now seemed full of bitterness. Lee’s hair began to come out in his hands.
At first it was the occasional strand. He stopped stroking for an instant and unwrapped a long fine hair from around one finger. It shimmered in the light from the standard lamp. He ran his hands through her hair again. This time more came out. Thick clumps of her lustrous hair fell through his fingers and writhed like eels at his feet. He could see chunks of her scalp attached to the roots. Desperately, he stroked faster, as if trying to wash his hands. Lee’s head was now dappled like coral, tufts of hair rose like anemones from her scalp. He drew his fingers across the bald crown of her head.
Initially a fine dust rose in the tracks of his fingers, then waxy slabs of skin came away with each motion of his hands. Lee was now pressing down keys at random, banging out hideous combinations that mirrored the scream that was rising in the back of David’s throat. He knew that if he was able to scream it would wake him from the nightmare, but the sound was caught in a choked gasp, a gargle of skin and saliva. It felt as if his throat was full of swabs and bandages. Lee’s face was peeling back from her mouth. The top layer of epidermis had come away entirely, and David could see deltas of veins running across her scalp. He knew that she would turn around to look at him, and he would see her skull, her dead eyes pleading. He tried to back away from her. The music stopped. Lee turned.
David’s eyelids snapped open. His sheets were damp and wrinkled. He got out of bed, shuddering for a moment as he thought he caught the echo of the piano. He made his way down to the kitchen and fixed himself a mug of coffee. It was five o’clock. He looked out over the graveyard to the shadow of the church. The first planes lumbered through the sky. He watched their lights disappear for an instant behind the dark peak of the church’s spire. When they reappeared, they seemed somehow changed, blessed by their intersection with the high tapering point of Portland stone. Slowly it grew lighter, and the houses in the square surrounding the church began to show their serene white cheeks.
David woke Sally at seven. She lifted her head from the pillow with narrow eyes blinking at the bedside light. David placed a cup of coffee beside her and opened the cupboard at the end of the bed. He drew out a navy suit with a fine pinstripe.
‘This one?’
Sally, who had shifted into a half-seated position, squinted at him. Her hair was stacked on her head in an untidy pile. For the first time, David remembered his nightmare in its entirety, and realised that it was not the first time he had dreamt it. The images had all seemed horribly familiar. He shuddered.
‘Of course that suit,’ Sally said. ‘It’s your lucky one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, this is the one. I had the most awful nightmare.’
‘Mmm. . Did you?’
Sally stretched and David could see the ugly crêpey skin under her arms, blued by stubble.
‘Just terrifying. I’ve been up for a couple of hours.’
Sally smiled at him.
‘It’s a big day for you. You should expect that. To feel nervous.’
They had breakfast together in the kitchen. David insisted on eating standing up. He was gulping coffee, his fourth cup already. He could barely swallow. The muesli tasted dry and seemed to expand in his mouth. The feeling of having a throatful of bandages returned, bringing with it the white horror of the nightmare. Sally came and stood behind him. He knew that she was worried about him, and he tried to relax his tense body against her. David watched his wife pluck her eyebrows in the bathroom mirror while he showered. He bounced his foot impatiently while she straightened his tie. They were ready to leave.
David drove badly when he was nervous. Sally twined her fingers around the armrest and closed her eyes as they made their way through red lights and clipping traffic cones, the wrong way down one-way streets. There was a jam on Park Lane, but they still reached the church far too early. David got out of the car and strode up and down with his mobile clenched in his hand, trying to work out how to use the automated parking line. Sally stood on the steps of the ancient Marylebone church while David went to buy another coffee from an Italian delicatessen up towards the Euston Road. He stood reading his notes as he waited for his coffee. He pulled out a pen and scribbled furiously, held the paper out in front of him, as if judging the effect of his editing, then scratched out the words he had written. His shoulders slumped.
The Earl arrived at ten. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit. He looked hard at David.
‘Are you ready? You look like shit.’
‘I’m ready. It will be fine.’
‘It has to be. We won’t get a second bite at this.’ He looked up. ‘It’s going to rain. Let’s go inside.’
They made their way into the cool interior of the church. Someone was practising the organ. David watched the Earl turn his head and listen for a moment, nodding in appreciation. Chairs had been laid out alongside the pews. They were expecting a large audience. David felt a brief tremor of nerves. He breathed in through his nose, savouring the familiar fusty air that reminded him of being a young priest, of the endless hopefulness of those days.
‘We need the help of the American churches, David.’ The Earl guided him into a corner and placed a thick hand on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘With the support of these organisations, the Course will be taken seriously in the States. And not just in New York and LA. We’ll be rolled out across the country. Every white clapboard chapel in every hick town in every flyover state will have your picture in it. Billboards along the highways, ads on the radio blasting your voice across America. I’ve already had talks with three cable channels. One of them will be here this morning. They want you to have your own show. You’ll be watched by millions. It will finance everything we’ve dreamed of doing. You deserve this, David. We all do.’
Time seemed to accelerate suddenly. One moment, David was sitting sipping coffee in the chaplain’s office, then the Earl was pumping his hand and Sally was hugging him and he was walking out onto the stage, blinking into the bright white spotlight that followed him to the lectern. The chorus of a song by The Revelations blasted out of the speakers either side of him.