Rainy Days

val

"Before we begin," Pastor Richard says, "I'd like to give a very warm welcome to a visitor we have today." He motions back back back, past all of the regular pews and right to the farthest wall. Everyone turns around.

I do not.

Shit shit shit fuck fuckity fuck fuck shit shit shit -

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to swear in church. Or chapel. Or whatever.

I'm pretty sure that I'm going to Hell for this. But honestly, what else am I supposed to think? What the fuck is he doing here?

"We've got this young man here with us today for a one-off visit," Pastor Richard continues, "so let's all be extra nice to Oliver Goldberg."

I stop breathing, then. Oliver Goldberg? I imagine one hundred thousand question marks appearing from my head like a comic strip. Who the hell is Oliver Goldberg?

I sneak a look behind me. The boy is staring defiantly forwards. It looks a little like he's catching Pastor Richard's smiling eye but I'm fairly sure that he's not - I'm fairly sure that he's just staring past the lectern and into the stack of Bibles perched just to Pastor Richard's right.

But he is no Oliver Goldberg.

He is most definitely Rain Reynolds.

And what the fuck is Rain Reynolds doing here - at chapel?

"We're all very happy to have you here with us today, Oliver... And I'm sure Val will enjoy having some company her age." He bares his teeth at me happily.

I do not return the smile.

I am horrified. My cheeks are crimson like last night's burning sunset, like the moon on the day that the world ends. The colour of the sun when it burns into oblivion; of the blood colour of poppies. I shuffle down in my seat a little more, hoping very much that Rain Reynolds does not notice that it is me - or at least, if he does, that he does not realise that I am the one in the corridor, I am the one he told to go away.

Mum's eyes crinkle a little, amused. She places her hand on my knee. "It's okay," she mouths.

It's not.

It's really not.

Pastor Richard starts talking again then - this time for real. He starts droning on about some passage from the Bible and a man who waited up a tree to see Jesus just because he was too short to see from the ground and everyone hated him anyway so no one let him through the crowd. I'm not entirely sure what the light at the end of this tunnel is, but I mumur in agreement in all of the right places and count all of the vertical lines in the wooden pulpit instead of closing my eyes and succumbing to sleep.

He invites me to the front then to play the piano once more, whilst prayer time occurs behind me.

"Anyone who wants prayer please come forwards." His words are almost harsh, almost commanding - almost, but not quite.

At first, there's a silece - a thick kind, where everyone holds their breath waiting for the inevitable something to happen. Then:

"I do," a voice mumbles. I know that it's him - Rain or Oliver or whatever it is that he's calling himself now. I know that that's the reason he's here - because he wants to pretend that he's repenting, that he's changing.

What for, I have no idea.

Oliver Goldberg steps forwards. I can hear him walking down the short aisle as the elders (aka everyone else in the room) all gather together at the front . I hear their hands as they reach out for him, some grasping pieces of his hair, others handfuls of his shoulders.

I hear him muttering something and then I feel the change. It's almost instantaneous. The air plunges from warm and friendly straight to freezing. Straight to a sub zero which has not appeared inside this chapel for a very long time.

The silence returns but this time it's not thick - this time it's thin and just waiting to be shattered. It's bitter and sharp and it tastes really awful.

Finally, someone begins. I hear them cough, rub their face against their sleeve and then choose their words carefully.

"Lord, we lift Oliver up to You."

I press my fingers against the keys and I play.

I'm special because God has loved me

For he gave the best thing that he had to save me 

And the muttering continues. I hear my mother's soft voice as it lilts above the tune of my right hand.

"And Lord, we pray that You stay by his side during this very hard time," she utters.

His own son , Jesus, crucified to take the blame

Of all the bad things I have done

And then they take it in turns, each tone a little different - a different dynamic, a different level of severity:

"That he understands what it is that he has done, that Jesus is here and that this is the only way forwards. That everything he needs is right here in his life."

"That he is repenting and that this is the right thing to do."

"And Father, we pray that today might be a turning point for Oliver, that he might give his life to You today."

"That he might believe today."

Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord

For loving me so much

I know I don't deserve anything

"And that we are all selfish people and that we are all sinning on this Earth. Help him to understand that only You are perfect, but through Jesus we can be perfect too."

"I pray that he comes to terms with this, that he sacrifices himself for You and that you help him to understand the consequences of his actions."

"And we ask that he remembers that You are with him always, that while it may seem that everyone else has given up on him, You are still there and You love him."

"Help him to remember that he is Your son."

Help me feel your love right now

To know deep in my heart

That I'm your special friend

"Father... Father, forgive him."