Because they were on the Mexican border, some in the British contingent had bought themselves cowboy boots. This was pitched as a knowing joke, but every one of them was quietly delighted with the way they looked, especially once some dust had patterned the toes. The benefits of a high heel were a cause of gratitude in many cases. Don had also gotten himself a pair, after some deliberation, and with the proviso that they be merely ankle-high – though they came with a buckle arrangement over the top that he thought set him apart fittingly.
Though he was overseeing the training, rather than ‘hauling ass’ himself, as the Americans put it, he only wore them in the evenings, when the bulk of the training was over for the day. That night, as he had begun to do, he wondered off from the camp a little way, into the desert. He had to endure some joshing over this – they said all that time spent with Jesus was having an effect on him – but he carried on with his strolls anyway. The desert had a menace to it at night, and it wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought it would be, but it was also strangely calming, he found, the sense of deep space in all directions. He was from a tight little city back in Britain, and he liked what these new dimensions did to his thinking. Besides, he usually had a joint out there, and there was no way that was Jesus’ influence.
Only a third of that night’s joint had been smoked, and he was staring seriously at the loops of his boot buckles in the dim moonlight, when he heard footsteps behind him, from the direction of the barracks. They were designed to be heard, the feet planted heavily, scuffing up dust, and it that made it difficult to tell which gender they belonged to. It was unlikely to be Jesus, since he wouldn’t have bothered making this kind of display, but Don still obscured the joint in a cupped hand as he turned.
It was a tall blonde woman, the British one, who’d been struggling to make it as an actress in London before such things became redundant. Milly, Marie, Mel – something beginning with M, anyway. Throughout training, her hair was tied back and her walk necessarily sturdy; now, her hair was loose to her shoulders, and once she’d been seen, she swayed a little more. Her face was perhaps slightly too wide and stern, still very pretty, but the kind of pretty that – she’d probably been told at a vulnerable moment in her early teens – worked better under stage lights or through a camera lens. Not that she’d ever made it that far, from what Don understood.
Still, she was one of the more impressive trainees, more resilient than her thin frame would suggest, and as quick a learner as they had when it came to mastering the new weapons. He recalled that on the first of the night manoeuvres, she had taken over her team after the appointed leader suffered a small breakdown, and led them in good time to the rendezvous point. Don hadn’t had a huge amount of contact with her, mainly because it didn’t seem to be needed. So this was probably something worrying.
She smiled crookedly, rolling her eyes, a look Don was familiar with from the more problematic soldiers – it was asking him to out himself in a long-suffering frame of mind. At least he wasn’t compelled to hide his joint any longer.
‘Evening …’ she said, eyebrows apologetic.
‘Evening,’ Don said, his tone brisk and efficient.
‘Have you got time for a quick word?’
‘No problem,’ he said. He considered waiting to hear what she had to say before offering her the joint, but thought he would play the approachable leader. She refused it anyway. ‘It’s Mandy …?’
‘Megan,’ she nodded.
‘Megan, that’s it. Yeah, Megan, go ahead.’
She drew in a long cool breath, hands clasped together and arms stretched rigid. Don hadn’t been in the company of off-duty actresses very often, so had no idea how much of their downtime life was a performance, but he believed she was attempting to present this as a mischievous slip, nothing more harmful than that. ‘I’ve done something a bit silly,’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ Don said. ‘Not silly.’
She laughed lightly. ‘Sorry and everything, but …’
‘Silly,’ Don repeated, shaking his head. ‘Well if it’s silly, you better say it straight out.’
‘I know, sorry …’ She looked out into the desert, as if wondering where the horizon would be. Don knew you could kid yourself at these times that only that vastness could match what you felt inside; only a handful of people felt reduced by the sight, and they were the right ones. ‘It’s just, I’ve – I’ve fallen in love.’ Her voice flattened and soured over these last few words, as if to make this a difficult but manageable problem: a modern view of love in youthful London, maybe, something to be fixed like a faulty laptop. It wasn’t convincing, not least because Don knew where it was heading.
‘Is that silly, falling in love?’ Don asked.
‘It depends who with, doesn’t it?’
Don nodded, and took a long pull. He breathed it out and up and watched it fade. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose it does.’
She turned halfway round on her heel, then quickly back to him, a girlish gesture as if her excitement and passion were twirling her body. ‘I can’t help it. I can’t see why everyone else isn’t in love with him. Have you had this problem with other people?’ She was glaring at him.
‘No,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with them,’ she said, but she almost sagged with relief. ‘He’s so …’ She stopped herself, her hands making prim gestures.
‘No, go on,’ Don urged. He wasn’t sure this was wise, but curiosity won out.
There were a few seconds of processing before she could speak, as if he’d asked her to name all the capitals of Europe in alphabetical order. ‘Well, apart from him being the most charismatic hero in the history of the world …’
‘Put all that to one side,’ Don said.
‘There’s so many things,’ she said. ‘When I was a little girl, I went through to my dad one day, in floods of tears. I was scared of dying, of what happens to you when you die. He was quite religious. Didn’t go to Church or anything, but still a bit … He had this little card, a creased up thing, a bit smaller than a playing card – you know the sort of thing I mean?’
Don nodded. None of that had been part of his growing up, but he knew plenty of people nowadays who carried such cards.
‘He must’ve had it from when he was a boy. It was a picture of him, you know, how they used to paint pictures of him, the robes and the heart and so on? There would’ve been a verse on it as well, though I can’t remember what it was now. Anyway, I put it under my pillow, and it worked. I never worried about death again. I lost it eventually, but I still remember the picture. And now, when I see him, he’s just … he’s good and strong. He’s a warm protection. When he speaks to us all, you just have to … melt. Feel safe. And then there’s the blonde hair and the blue eyes, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Don said. He didn’t know how seriously to take this. It struck him as something he should’ve thought about, prepared for, but hadn’t.
‘I wondered, really, if you could have a word with him? Maybe I could get to speak to him?’ She left tiny silences between each sentence, but they spilled and deepened.
‘I think you should understand,’ Don said quietly, ‘he probably wouldn’t be all that attentive at the minute.’
‘That would be all right,’ Megan said. ‘I expected that. I just want to be around him.’
He decided to try to lighten things, see how that worked. ‘Well, you say that now, but I know what you lot are like. You’d try and change him, wouldn’t you? Drag him away from his prayers, take a walk round the barracks, hand in hand and all that. Telling him what he’s been doing wrong all his life.’
She laughed, but she had to force herself. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise this. I just think I could be good to be around him. He must be lonely. That’s the other thing. He must feel on his own all the time. Is he?’
Don puffed out his cheeks then said, ‘I think all that’s different for him.’ He finished the joint and flicked it into the night for the scorpions.
‘He can still be lonely though.’
Don shrugged.
‘Could you, anyway … could you let him know? Someone would like to keep him company. Help him out with things. Please.’
‘You’re not going to start crying are you?’
‘Not quite yet,’ she said. ‘Will you? Please?’
‘Even if he agreed to you being around the headquarters and so on, that’s as much as it could ever be,’ Don said. He found himself blushing in the gloom.
‘I know that,’ Megan said quickly.
‘That’s one thing you couldn’t change.’
‘You don’t have to say that. It’s not like that. Could you speak to him? You see him most nights, don’t you?’
‘I do see him, yes.’ He sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll mention it.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, clutching his arm. ‘Thank you, thanks. It’s all a bit agonising, obviously, so … I’ll be waiting up, can you come and see me straight away?’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Oh, great, this is, thanks – it’s been on my mind so long, just getting more and more unbearable – ’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Stop now.’
She told him which barracks she was in, and Don said he’d see her outside of it in an hour or so. By that time, she could hardly speak, so clutched his arm again and walked back to the barracks.
Don enjoyed the desert for a few more minutes, then headed back. He still didn’t know how much this mattered. Most of the other squad leaders, Don expected, would have kept quiet about it in front of Jesus, then met Megan at her barracks with a business-like shake of the head, a clipped apology, and a few buck-yourself-up words about the future. Don considered doing this, but not for long – not out of respect for Megan so much as curiosity to see how Jesus would respond. Don liked to think that his relationship with Jesus was closer and warmer than most, and that such matters could only be broached by Don (and he did often think of himself in the 3rd person while pondering these matters).
Jesus was in the headquarters on his own, sitting at his desk and frowning over some modern poetry. He had changed into faded blue jeans, but still wore his old green air force jacket. His hair had been wetted and combed back. Although Don had downplayed the idea of loneliness, it was clear to Don that no one was more alone than Jesus, and that he felt it more than enough; but maybe this meant also that no-one human could do anything very much to ease that loneliness.
The poetry was put to one side when Don knocked and entered. Jesus gave him a slight smile. It was less beatific now that they were close to the end of training, but it was still one to cherish, and Don couldn’t help wondering about such a gesture’s impact on Megan; he also had to sweep from his mind an image of their long blonde hair mingling on the same pillow. All these things were telling him to avoid the subject, and that preyed on his mind throughout their talk of the training and the regions they’d most likely be deployed to – so much so that Jesus eventually said to him, ‘Okay, Don. What is it?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Light, er, light relief, I hope.’
‘Good. There’s time for that.’
Now he definitely tried to establish it as something amusing. ‘Well … I just had a brief talk with one of the, one of the women. She tells me she’s … developed a liking for you. A crush, as we say.’
‘A crush,’ Jesus repeated. Certain modern phrases pleased him, but he wasn’t allowing much of that to seep through with this one.
‘She’s fallen pretty heavily, I think. Occupational hazard, isn’t it?’
Jesus appeared to be thinking this over, so Don felt he could push it further.
‘She’s quite cute. She’s more or less wondering how you’re fixed,’ he said.
‘What did you tell her?’ The tone was neutral – which meant, not warm. Don stepped back accordingly.
‘Nothing. Just that I’d mention it. Since it’s the first time it’s happened, as far as I know, I thought I better.’
‘Well, you should’ve told her it was an outright impossibility, shouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I should have,’ Don said, standing a little straighter.
‘Rather than waste my time with it.’
‘I understand. Sorry, sir.’
Jesus shook his head. ‘No need for ‘sir’. I take it she’s waiting for a response?’
‘She is, yes.’
‘Tell her my love has to go elsewhere. That’s all.’ He reached out for his poetry.
‘No problem,’ Don said, turning to leave.
‘And Don – I’d prefer to hear nothing more of these kind of matters.’
‘You won’t,’ Don said.
He felt heavier than he liked, the way he supposed the elderly felt, making for Megan’s barracks – none of them liked, as the Americans said, to put a wrinkle in his day, and the thought of causing him even a moment’s dislocated thought was vertiginously gruesome to Don. Megan’s feelings in this were barely to be considered. This was serious – serious as a heart attack.
She was outside the barracks, pacing, scanning for him with her soldier’s eyes. His face, he tried to ensure, did most of the work for him. There was a horrible moment when it was obvious she thought he was only putting on a frown, ready to suddenly drop it with a laugh, maybe even a hug, as he grabbed her hand and took her at a trot over to the headquarters. That moment passed slowly for both of them.
‘It’s as I thought,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ she nodded awkwardly, swallowing.
‘He’s extremely busy. Punishingly busy, as I’m sure you can understand.’
Her face was open, unposed. ‘I know, but if he met – ’
Don shook his head, harshly. ‘His love is committed elsewhere. To bigger things. That’s the way it has to be.’
She nodded, her eyes flickering downwards however much she worked to keep them on him.
‘He was unhappy with me for mentioning it,’ Don said, sounding whinier than he intended.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. Just … damp all that down.’ A new thought came to him. ‘And don’t mention it to anyone else. It’s the kind of thing that might spread through the women like a … like a whatever. Some of the men, as well, probably, knowing this lot.’
She nodded shortly. ‘Sorry again,’ she said, and went inside.
Don returned to the desert. He needed another smoke, though it didn’t do him any good.
* * *
There were other and bigger things to occupy his mind with, of course, but Don couldn’t prevent himself looking out for Megan over the next few days. Because she was better looking than most of the other women in the camp, he hoped this would be a short-lived infatuation: the attractive, as far as he knew, were able to give and receive more attention than most, so surely their rafts went faster through the white water. He had to admit this one could be different, though.
She was always in the corner of his eye during training, snatching at the rope net, swinging knees bent over some cold iron water, or falling to her haunches at the end of a run, almost but not quite spitting as she breathed. She looked as though she knew she was under this kind of scrutiny, and so was proving she was working hard, despite the agonies of unrequited love babifying her appetite and scalping hours from both ends of her night’s sleep. It was obvious to him now, and it was meant to be, that this was all for the love of Jesus, not the world. It was less obvious how much of a problem that was.
After training, he saw her staring into space, into the sky above the desert, her unimaginable daydreams of peaceful times in the future home. In the nights, he was surprised her thin frame wasn’t levitating off her bunk. He wondered if she was thinking sexual thoughts, and if that wasn’t close to blasphemy, even if they came to her helplessly in the early hours (he also wondered if it wasn’t blasphemous for him to even consider it on her behalf). He was used to thinking of Jesus as grand cosmological power compacted into an average-sized body, but now he saw that everyone held the potential to be a collapsing star. It was depressing.
Jesus didn’t ask him about any developments in this direction. While he never forgot things, he had the capacity to put them in a mental file marked ‘Pointless Concerns’ and never take them out again. Don wondered how he would react if he knew Megan was torturing herself; presumably he wouldn’t have anything to say other than what Don had already relayed. There had to be a hierarchy of attention: that was one of the bonuses of leadership.
Especially that week. They were to be the first group to go into action, naturally, with Jesus leading them. They’d thought North America would be the first battleground, given the president’s recent behaviour, but Europe was now looking more likely. Some cities there were now wholly taken over by the enemy. Not the capitals, but they were on course for them.
However, their battalions weren’t close to their fighting pitch – that someone as distracted as Megan could still shine only highlighted their problems. People remained physically unfit, often blank-faced when it came to strategies, and some were even clumsy when it came to handling the new weapons. Worst of all, their attitude was too excitable. People were giddy that this had happened in their lifetime – and for too many of them, this had alleviated the fear of death. One of the pep talks Jesus had to give, while the situation with Megan continued, was on the right kind of love – the love of fighting over the long haul. Don certainly saw Megan’s face during that one: impressively impassive.
One evening a couple of days later, Don was called to a minor uproar. Megan was at the centre of it, inevitably. She had taken against Greg, one of the few naysayers in the camp, and a lop-sided argument was being heard: Greg was feigning boredom with the whole thing while still lobbing in laconic comments on the misjudgements that saw them training in America rather than the Scottish highlands, stopping just short of naming some big names. Not that this stopping short saved him in Megan’s view: she was ragged-voiced and red-eyed, her hair twisting free of its band, her forehead hot to the touch. She couldn’t stand still, moving away from Greg to view him with her full contempt, then moving forward so she could lean into his face. Don didn’t step in immediately, and his presence did nothing to soothe them; he wanted to see how far it would go.
When Greg said he was looking forward to their deployment in Barcelona, where they’d be run through the streets with more than bulls behind them, Megan put words to one side and flew at him. Don thought it right to allow her to rake Greg’s face a little before he took one of her arms and yanked her away. He ordered Greg to confine himself to barracks till morning – no hardship to Greg.
Megan was taken to a quiet spot and let go; she shuddered with fury for a short while, made as if to dart back to Greg, and then came the tear-splashed breakdown. Don wasn’t sure about holding her, as any kind of comfort could be construed as approval, and she seemed to understand this, maybe composing herself more quickly because of it. She made all the apologies expected of her, and none of the protestations, though Don knew better than to take that as an advance. The rest of that night was quiet.
She came to see him the next evening, while he was out in the desert again. Don relished his time there, but when he saw her approaching, in tears, he wondered where else he could go, what else he could do. Cross the border maybe. Cut up rough in some of the bars. The atmosphere in those places, these days, was something phenomenal. He could even where his cowboy boots. He dropped his almost finished joint, plunged his hands into his coat pockets, and stared at her without welcome.
There was nothing from her in the way of a preamble. ‘Is it right,’ she said, ‘I heard – he can die, just like anyone else. That can’t be right, can it?’
He hadn’t been expecting that, and he hoped the tears were blurring her vision. In case they weren’t, he turned away, as if in contemplation. He eventually managed to say, ‘I think that’s the whole point. It was the last time round, wasn’t it?’
She moaned before she spoke, a low sound, managing to combine a child-like dread and a more adult warning. ‘But this is … this is more important than that,’ she said. Her voice was clasped in a fist. ‘How can they not do things differently this time?’
‘It’s not for us to question. That’s the way things have to be.’ This was already shaping up to be the least pleasant conversation of Don’s short life.
She wiped away tears, as if the need for them was now over, and said, ‘Well he can’t lead us into Europe now. He just can’t.’ She almost planted her feet.
‘He has to. Plus I think he wants to.’
‘He can’t.’
‘He’s a warrior this time,’ Don pointed out. ‘Don’t forget that.’ He took little consolation from this himself.
‘If he goes, we’ll have to be in front of him,’ she said. ‘We’ll take any bullet meant for him. You and me. Is that a deal?’
‘I don’t think he’ll allow that.’
‘He’ll have to. Let’s go and tell him.’ She didn’t move. Instead she sat on the ground, scratching her scalp through her disordered hair. Don stayed poised over her. Soon she emitted a bleak, barking laugh. ‘I’ve never known misery like this,’ she said. ‘It’s kicking all the doors in.’
Don had nothing helpful to say. It wasn’t long before she stood and dragged her bones away for another torturous night. Don’s wasn’t much better.
* * *
The next night saw one of those meetings with Jesus where Jesus required Don to stay behind for a little while afterwards. Jesus on occasion stared sightlessly at a wall and said things which weren’t as carefully considered as usual, while Don felt itching embarrassment. This time it was different, and worse.
‘I don’t think we’re going to go in first,’ he told Don. ‘Don’t think we can risk it.’
Don thought fast but uselessly. ‘A decision doesn’t have to be made yet.’
‘We have to weigh up whether a defeat would be more damaging than a … a no-show, isn’t that what you call it? I think it would, anyway. So we can’t risk it.’ He sat back, and looked both young and tired.
‘Well, that’s the way it has to be,’ Don said, glad that Jesus used these moments to speak rather than to listen.
‘They’ll be laughing at us down there, though. Laughing. You’ve never heard them laugh, have you?’
‘No.’
‘A glorious sound. Stiff with malice and … wrong.’
Don shook his head, lips firmly pressed together. Mention of the enemy always brought from him some kind of denial, a minimalisation of their potency. ‘We’re keeping our powder dry. Holding ourselves back. So they’ve got something to dread in the future.’
Jesus’ lips crept up on a distant smile, as if he was mildly charmed by a slow child counting to twenty with only a handful of mishaps. It soon faded. ‘We’ve got off to a bad start,’ he said. ‘The whole world’ll know it soon. Some of them’ll laugh too. Some of them – there might well be suicides over this, Don.’ He breathed out, and there was a tremor in it.
‘The ones who have faith in us will be fine. And everyone should know, it’s not how things start, it’s how they end.’ He wasn’t sure if this was a hollow cliché or not, but it had little effect one way or the other on Jesus.
‘They’ll be laughing down there,’ he said again. ‘I don’t know what they’ll be doing up there.’ Jesus fell to thinking after that, and soon Don was dismissed, happy to be gone before Jesus reached any conclusions about that.
He washed, concentrating on putting cold water to his face, then changed his clothes and went off to find Megan. It was a warmer night than usual, and he passed more people relaxing outside their barracks, more good-natured than they had been recently. Things always worked that way, Don thought. It was something else depressing.
Megan was outside her barracks, in and out of a group of other women. He could tell from a distance she was only partaking of the company where it touched; they were unlikely to implant many thoughts that could hold sway in her mind now, and the conversations stopped anyway as he reached them.
They looked up at him, smiling, but moments like these usually made him misplace his manners, and he as good as ignored them. ‘Can I have a quick word?’ he asked Megan.
She was on her feet with a brittle, breath-held eagerness, and they moved away without a backward glance. She messed with her hair and adjusted her posture into evening suitability, seemingly without realising she was doing it; no doubt she wished for, and feared, a full-length mirror. All of that was dropped, however, in the few seconds it took Don to say, ‘I just wondered if you’d like to go for a walk with me?’
Her manners were more resilient than his, but there was still a whole-body sigh as she said, ‘Okay … yeah, all right, that’ll be all right.’
It might’ve been an idea to take her into Mexico, for a few drinks, but it only occurred to him at that moment. They went the usual few steps into the desert instead, making small talk about that day’s training, and her comparative mastery of the new weapons. They both avoided mentioning Jesus. Don had worn his cowboy boots, but he cringed whenever his head was tugged down to look at them.
‘So …’ she said after the silences were creeping in.
He nodded. ‘Sorry. It’s just … I’ve got things I want to say to you,’ he said. ‘And it’s hard to work out what order to put them in.
Megan laughed, though there was no disguising that it was a tired kind of laugh.
‘You’ve … lodged yourself in my mind,’ he said. He had time to wonder where ‘lodged’ had come from; it certainly hadn’t been planned, or it would’ve been edited. ‘Since all this has been going on.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been trouble.’ Once he knew she would’ve taken pride in that, but not any more.
‘Don’t be sorry – I’m not complaining.’
‘Oh.’
‘So I just wondered … what you thought of that?’
She nodded slowly, though her eyes were nowhere to be seen. ‘Well it’s … it’s nice, isn’t it? It’s always flattering when …’ She shrugged.
‘Can we … I’d like to spend time with you.’
‘I thought you would’ve seen enough of me by now.’
‘Not that way.’
‘I don’t know if it’s a good idea,’ she said.
‘It’s not supposed to be a good idea. It’s just something that could happen.’
There was another sigh, shorter and, he supposed, ruder. ‘Is this supposed to be a test of my devotion to him or something?’
‘No. Not at all, no.’
‘Because it’s a pretty feeble attempt, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not any kind of attempt, Megan. I’m just letting you know – ’
‘All right, all right. Well, my answer is no.’
‘You should take some time to think -.’
‘There’s not many who could compete with him, Don. Certainly not you.’
He opened his mouth as though to argue, but all he said was, ‘No, I suppose I can’t.’
She looked at him squarely for the first time since they’d reached the sands. ‘Or was this just some fucking strategy of yours?’
‘That’s it, yeah,’ he said. ‘Just some fucking strategy.’
‘Trying to distract me.’
‘You’re spot on there, distraction, that’s all it is.’
‘It’d take more than you, Don.’
‘All right – I understand what you’re saying.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m sorry I … I’m sorry I …’
‘I’m going back,’ she said. ‘It’s fucking freezing out here.’
‘Sorry.’
Don didn’t watch her go; he turned away and stared out into the desert.
* * *
Before the end of the week – which seemed to take three months to arrive – Jesus gathered them all together one afternoon and made an announcement that surprised few of them but still dismayed everyone.
His appearance alone was enough to do that: it looked like he hadn’t been sleeping, or to be frank, washing – that blonde hair was darkening and tangling itself, and the beard was a little wild at the edges. His clothes seemed to hang on him. The eyes stayed blue, perhaps shining a little brighter even, above pale cheeks that never seemed to catch the sun, however long he spent prowling the training grounds. People were worried. Jesus had taken a wander through the desert one night, but had found himself followed none-too-discreetly by people concerned for his wellbeing.
Don almost corroded with acidic tension waiting for him to speak – their end-of-day meetings had lately been long silences and then torrents of words, none of them adding anything new to the scenario. He kept his comments sharp that afternoon, in a voice that was strong, but with too much force going into it.
He told them they were no longer going to be the first into battle: a squad training closer to Europe would be there before them – they were in fact leaving tomorrow, while he estimated it would be another fortnight before they themselves were ready to leave. No one said anything, no mutterings, or even fretful looks at one another; in that moment, they were scared how he would react, and not scared of violence. Jesus then led them in a prayer for the first squad’s triumph and safety.
And still in the middle of all this, Don sought out Megan. She was suffering right along with the Lord: she had little weight to lose, but she’d found some to discard, so that her eyes were huge and floating in her face, and that face wore a ploughed look. She’d been pushing herself in training, more than any of the others; at the end of most days Don saw her tottering, skeletal and exhausted. After the prayer was over that afternoon and they were dismissed for the day, she looked bereaved, flattened with grief.
Everything came to a stop for the rest of the day. People sought out the friends they’d made, and spoke with their eyes more than their tongues. Megan kept herself apart from any groups. Don expected she was mentally replaying the words of comfort she had for Jesus. She didn’t register Don whenever he passed by her, which he tried not to do very often. He might as well have been lost in a sandstorm or a dark cloud.
A few hours later, night beginning to settle in, lights in the sky were observed. This had happened before, when the camp was first begun. There had been panic then, and now there was consternation: they were angels. Back then, they had come with praise and blessings – back then, no one had thought they would ever appear with anything but praise and blessings.
As soon as Don saw them, he hurried over to the headquarters. He’d had a draining few days, but he still almost skipped along as he ran. He got there when the lights were still a few minutes from touching the ground. Plenty of others had had the same idea as him. Jesus was out, waiting, looking up with much the same expression as everyone else: this was likely to bring about the worst moments yet. He took no notice of all the advice and support that Don and the others gave him.
Megan came running over, her head almost wobbling above her snap-thin body. Her face was broken with a fury that would’ve had them flinching back in their seats in the theatres. The first angel, a male with a sorrowful look about him, touched the ground just as Don moved to intercept her, but she was faster than he’d expected, and she had her fingers clawed.
The angel was driven back against the headquarters doors, which opened and deposited both of them on the floor. Megan was lifted off – by Jesus – before the angel could begin to apply some serious weight to her. Jesus, who in that second probably realised who she was, virtually threw her into Don’s grasp; she was shouting, screeching really, about the pressures, the loneliness, the lovelessness. Jesus and the angels, all of whom had by now landed, vanished into the headquarters without another look her way.
Don wheeled around, still holding the yelling Megan. She tried to make her case to him, but he was full of a synthetic fury – synthetic because what he mainly felt was terror and despair, though synthetic was still enough to cut through her words. He told her she had made an unforgivable transgression, humiliating Jesus in front of them like that; he told her he was transferring her to another unit, and that she would be on a plane out by noon the next day.
The result of that was that her claws were then used against him, his eyes the target, and their medic had to be called in to sedate her. Don stood over her as she went under, and absorbed the bitter curses, the scorching fates she wanted for him; he met these with the same equanimity as the pleadings for another chance that followed them. She finally succumbed while calling for Jesus, for his forgiveness, to just see him.
Don passed a sleepless night on his bunk, trying to pray himself; he was getting better at it, but not fast enough. In the morning, Megan was found hanged in the showers.
* * *
‘I think,’ Don reported to Jesus late the next day, after the angels had departed, ‘it’s for the best. Horrible and sad, but …’
Jesus was in no mood to let him off the hook, so he waited for Don to complete the thought.
‘I think she might have been … infiltrated,’ he said. This was a last resort kind of thought that he had drummed out of himself on the way over, and it dismayed him to be using it so soon.
‘Infiltrated,’ Jesus repeated.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Infiltrated by whom, exactly?’
‘Well, by, by the enemy, sir.’
‘Of course.’
‘The red-eyed hordes. They would find a way of using obsessive love, wouldn’t they?’
Jesus looked away from him, face hard.
‘Well, that might not be the case, I can’t say for sure,’ Don allowed. ‘But that kind of hysteria can spread among – ’
Jesus lifted a hand to quieten him, then said, ‘Tell me again what you said to her.’
This time Don told the truth, and threw in his attempt at seduction. Jesus closed his eyes and waved him away before he was finished.
The deployment to Europe was delayed by a further three days.
***
Barrie Darke writes from the UK, where he has a track record as a scriptwriter, but prose is his main thing. He has recently been published in the UK by Byker Books, New Writing North, and Sentinel Literary Quarterly; and in the USA by Menda City Review, Nossa Morte, Demon Minds, Infinite Windows, Underground Voices, Big Pulp, Pseudopod, Inwood Indiana, Bastards and Whores, and Onomatopoeia.
