See You In September

20th February 2014

Darling Cassy,

I have no idea whether my letters have been reaching you, but I keep writing them in the hope that some of them will. In the years since you left there’s never been an hour when I haven’t thought about you. You’re as important and real and loved as ever.

The main reason for this letter is to tell you that Granny has died. She slipped quietly out the back door of life when nobody was looking. This is exactly what she prayed for, so I must be happy for her. But I would have liked to say goodbye. She had her marbles right to the end but I’m afraid her body let her down. I do wonder whether those years at Greenham Common are partly to blame.

She asked about you every time I saw her, and she always sent her love. By the end it was difficult for her to write. That’s why her letters to you got shorter and shorter.

Becca came to the funeral. She also sends love. She’s an industrial psychologist now, as you’ll know if you’ve been getting her letters. She’s just landed a marvellous promotion, and will be moving to New York! I wouldn’t have expected her to be the one who ended up high-flying.

She tells me Imogen and Jack are divorced. Imogen had an affair and it’s all been terribly acrimonious. So that’s sad. Thank goodness there are no children involved.

Dad’s still living in the horrid flat he’s renting. He comes for dinner at least once a week. I know that seems strange, since we’re separated, but I have to make sure he gets one hot meal!

Tara’s been rather a worry. We don’t see much of her now that she’s left home. So many times I’ve wished you were here to talk to her.

I’m enclosing the service sheet from Granny’s funeral. She always said she wanted it held at St Luke’s, and I have to admit there was a kind of comfort in all those old, familiar words. The vicar was really good. Also, I learned things about her. There were people who knew her when she was a real firebrand, getting herself arrested. To me it was betrayal but to them it was heroic. An icon! My mother! I’ll put in a photo of her, and some of me, Tara and Pesky (who now struggles to fit through the cat flap—the vet’s put him on a diet).

I’m sorry to be writing with sad news, but I thought you would want to know about Granny.

If you do read this, darling darling Cassy, please know that I love you. You’re in my thoughts when I wake, and when I go to sleep. And always. And forever.

Mum xxx

PS Please, PLEASE get in touch. I promise I will not say one word against your friends there. Just a phone call would make me very happy!

PPS I hope you’ve been getting my letters.

January and February were breathlessly hot that year. The grass dried and withered. Barbecues were banned. Sheep and goats huddled in patches of shade, serenaded by the thunderous hiss of cicadas. Cairo, Aden, Suva and the two little boys swam whenever they had a free moment. In the mosquito-buzzing nights, when it was too hot to sleep, they all crept down to the water and lay in the luxurious cold.

Autumn brought crisp, bright mornings. Fruit and nuts swelled in the food forest, and the Watchmen harvested enough to feed an army. On the day of the first frost, a recruiting team brought home a Japanese language student: a self-possessed, elegant girl. She was baptised Palmyra, and became Partner to Washington.

Paradise in the valley. Chaos Outside. The storm clouds were growing darker. Week after week the Companions brought news of atrocity or disaster: one horror after another, on and on. The Watchmen began to write them up on a wooden blackboard in the wharenui. Soon the board was full and they had to start another. And another. And another.

Civil war had been raging in Syria for years now, creating a hell on earth. Nigeria mourned as Boko Haram slaughtered towns and kidnapped hundreds of schoolgirls. A ferry full of children capsized in South Korea. Africa was caught in the grip of the Ebola virus. Earthquakes struck in Chile, the Solomon Islands, Alaska, Mexico and Fiji. A passenger plane disappeared into thin air; another was shot down. Russia invaded Crimea and there was talk of nuclear war. Tragedy unfolded in Gaza. Most terrifying of all, a new group had reared its head with a ferocity and success that defied belief: the Islamic State or ISIS, they called themselves, and they seemed to glory in hatred and cruelty and death on an unimaginable scale. As the year wore on even Justin seemed to tire, as though the weight of the world’s evil was dragging him down.

Cairo’s third child was born on 1 November 2014. A girl, this time: a strong-willed burst of life whom Justin named Havana. Damascus and Quito were barely more than toddlers themselves, and they weren’t quite sure what to make of this strange creature called a sister. The two small boys would stand hand in hand beside the wooden crib and prod her to check she was still breathing.

‘You and Aden do make gorgeous children,’ Monika said when the new baby was six weeks old. ‘But three is enough, especially with the Last Day so close.’

She took a diaphragm out of a cupboard at the back of the surgery and explained how to use it. Cairo was happy to comply, because three children were indeed enough. In any case, it didn’t occur to her to question the decision. She’d long since given up struggling to preserve those trappings of autonomy. The perfection of life in Gethsemane came at a very small price.

Monika was in a mood to chat. She settled herself in her armchair, dotting adoring little kisses over Havana’s scrunched-up face.

‘Look at the signs. How much longer can this go on? Everyone on the Outside must be terrified! I was afraid it wouldn’t happen in my lifetime, but now I’m sure it will.’

‘We’ll know. That’s why we keep watch. We’ll be ready, and Justin will lead us into the Kingdom of Peace. And you, darling—’ the doctor snuggled Havana against her bosom ‘—will be coming too. Imagine that, little one. You’ll be taken up in a fiery cloud of glory! Your lullaby will be sung by throngs of angels!’

Cairo looked out of the window to where Damascus and Quito—one dark head, one fair—were practising their somersaults with nonstop chatter. Two-year-old Quito’s idea of a somersault appeared to involve rolling sideways down the slope. They were a picture of security and happiness.

But fear was on the march. She kept glimpsing it out of the corner of her eye. The Last Day was coming. The end of the world. The end of her parents, of Tara, of Granny Joyce; of Becca and Imogen and Hamish, and billions of others.

In the dead hours of the night, Gethsemane was woken by the bell. It tolled faster than usual, reverberating through the unremitting dark, making the Watchmen stream from their cabins to the wharenui.

‘Is it the Last Day?’ asked Suva, pulling a jersey over her head as they hurried up the hill. She sounded excited. ‘This could be it! It’s really happening! Who was on Vigil? Maybe Justin’s been transformed.’

Justin was waiting for them, but he hadn’t turned into a glorious being. Nobody had ever seen him unshaven before, and the grizzled stubble made him seem old. There was wildness in his eyes, in the thin set of his mouth. He gave them the news himself: seven gunmen had attacked a school in Peshawar, Pakistan, systematically murdering as many children as they could. It had taken them hours to do their work.

People wept openly, sobs echoing in the open space. Tears were allowed when they were shed for the world.

‘Hatred with no bounds,’ said Justin. ‘Evil unleashed. What will She think of next? No more. No more. I beg the Infinite Power to bring an end to the world’s suffering. Let it end. Let the Kingdom of Peace begin.’

Two nights later Cairo was sitting on her porch feeding Havana, who seemed to have an insatiable appetite. It was one of those quiet hours after Night Call, when most Watchmen were deeply asleep. The moon was full, the lake as smooth and bright as a cymbal. Mother and daughter were both beginning to doze when a shout echoed across the valley.

Cairo’s first instinct was to block her ears and go quietly indoors, because in Gethsemane it was wise not to be curious. Then she heard it again—a long, ululating yell, coming from the direction of the island—and recognised Justin’s voice. Holding Havana against her shoulder, she sprinted down to the water.

A lean figure was clearly visible on the island beach, under the spotlight of the moon. He’d fallen to his knees with his arms held wide.

Cairo stood on the shore, clutching her baby, wondering whether she should get help. Not mad, hallucination voices. Real voices, of real beings. I’m perfectly sane.

‘Messenger,’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Liam scrambling down to the sand.

‘His friend, yes.’ Liam came to stand beside her. ‘But a friend with a sharp tongue. Or it might be the Devil. She plagues him. She whispers in his ear.’

Cairo felt a shiver run down her spine. In this moonlit wilderness, listening to Justin’s unearthly cries, it was all too easy to imagine the whispering of the Devil.

‘Not now. No human being can help him at a time like this. People don’t know how lonely it is for him, to be divine and marooned on earth. Later on, I’ll row across. He’ll be shattered.’ Liam stared across the water, tugging anxiously on his earlobe. There was no trace of his usual bluff jocularity. ‘I hate seeing him suffer like this. I’ve loved him ever since we were little kids, terrorising Wellington.’

‘Ran rings around me. I was the weirdo with a squint who nobody likes, and he was the clever kid everybody’s scared of. But he made me his friend. I followed him everywhere, into every kind of trouble. And I’ve never stopped.’ Liam shook his head. ‘Never stopped. Never will stop. I worshipped him then, and I worship him now.’

Justin had begun storming up and down the island, arguing with some invisible adversary.

‘No. I mean anything. I’d die for him today if he asked me. I wouldn’t want to live a single second without Justin Calvin.’

Cairo had known Liam for more than four years, but it struck her that she’d never understood him at all. She’d cast him as an affable sergeant-major figure who enjoyed his power. But he wasn’t motivated by power; he was motivated by loyalty and by love. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. He’d die for Justin, right now, today.

Another scream tore through the silence. This time it was loud enough to startle Havana.