Free The Dark Light by Julia Bell Page B

someone who was like the engine of this place, and when he was there in the room it was unsettling, it was like the whole place belonged to him, and all the people too, and I was suddenly nervous. He was short and wiry, his black hair long and windswept and salted with grey, and his beard grown thick and straggly. He wore a dark wool suit and a white shirt like someone from another century. He looked fiercer and more angry than the man in the photographs. I don’t know why, but I stood up.
    Rebekah ran over to him, as if to embrace him, but he just stood still and stared at her, so she stopped and blushed and looked at her shoes.
    ‘Why are you not in the kitchen with the women?’ he said, coldly.
    She looked confused and mumbled an apology and walked towards the door. I moved to follow her, but he made a gesture with his hands meaning I should sit down.
    ‘Eat with us,’ he said; his accent was a weird mix of English and American.
    There was a murmur from some of the men, like they disapproved. But he sat down next to me and smiled and looked right at me, as if he could see straight through and into me. It made me feel shy and I couldn’t help it, but a blush rose up my neck and spread across my face. His eye sockets were set so deep in his face they were like tunnels, at the end of which his blue eyes shone, irises rimmed with black like someone had drawn around them with a marker pen. He spoke quietly so I had to lean towards him to hear.
    ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be one of us.’ He pointed at the others around the table. Most of them seemed old, well, lots older than me, anyway, apart from one who was young, barely any fluff on his chin, who was staring at me like I was some kind of an alien.
    I didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged.
    ‘To be one of the men ?’ He said this more loudly. The young one snorted. I wriggled in my seat, and blushed even harder.
    Hannah came in with the porridge. She ladled some into my bowl with a heavy splat. I looked at the grey splodge of congealed oats and suddenly didn’t feel hungry.
    Before he let anyone eat he went round the table and asked everyone to confess their bad thoughts. ‘We need to confess any sinful thoughts that will distract us from our purpose.’
    The men looked at their hands and mumbled confessions about being lazy or tired or slothful. Jonathan said he had been doubting and having dreams about taking drugs again. ‘I have been thinking of leaving, like.’
    Mr Bevins nodded and listened patiently to each one like a good teacher. Then when they were finished and the porridge was definitely cold, he said, ‘Let us pray.’ He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up his arms – he did this a lot, I noticed. Like a kind of tic. ‘Oh Lord, forgive all our sinners. And bless this meal, and bless –’ here he paused and grabbed my hand – ‘our new arrival. The precious flower You brought to us. Help us to lead her to Your light. Help us to live for the Victory.’ I stared at his clasped fingers, they were clean and neat, unlike the others whose hands were roughed and calloused and stained with dirt. Everyone had their eyes closed, apart from the young man sat opposite who was still staring at me. I stuck my tongue out at him, and his glare intensified. He pointed his fingers at his eyes and then at me, to show that he was watching me.
    When Mr Bevins had finished, he took a long time to let go of my hand, running his finger across the shape of the moon tattoo on my thumb. Every nerve in my body tingled.
    ‘You know it is written that if your hand or foot offend you, better to cut it off than be cast into everlasting fire!’ He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards him so I could smell damp clothes and sweat and something else, a strange muddy, chemical odour. ‘She’s come here to learn from us. But also to lead us home! Isn’t that right?’
    ‘Hmm.’
    ‘I have been praying all week for your soul. I have seen your