I’m dreaming about a one-armed man when the call comes through. I suffer with night terrors now and then, so in my panicked and dreamlike state I lash out, punching my pillow with force. It’s a good job I sleep alone. The ringing, direct in my eardrum, finally coaxes me out of my REM cycle and wakes me from my much-needed sleep. I hate it when they override my ear implant like that. It’s only for emergencies they say but what exactly constitutes an emergency? The fine print in my employment contract doesn’t say. Being awake is jarring and takes me a while to adjust to the state of forced consciousness. Not for the first time, I regret having the biotech upgrades in my body.

I tap my inner ear and answer the call uttering a groaned “Sir?” by way of greeting, my voice still husky from slumber.

“Mike. We need you in. Now.”

“What’s happened?”

“Internal Affairs.”

It’s a struggle to leave the warm cocoon of my bed but I emerge victorious, aching and yawning, and get changed. My whole body screams go back to bed, not only because my sleep was rudely interrupted but also my recent case has been so physically taxing. I need a break, a nice long vacation to somewhere warm with beaches and alcohol. I’m 32 and I’m honestly getting too old for this.

But, thankfully I don’t have to commute; work meetings are usually conducted virtually from a secure server set up at home, so on sleep-deprived auto-pilot I log in to my work terminal , open up my work database and enter a video conference with my boss within 10 minutes, wielding a strong cup of coffee at my side like a firearm. It’s 4am and the sun is just starting to rise over the hilly landscape of Northern California, casting an eerie amber tinge to my apartment. The ominous golden glow sets the tone for the virtual meeting, where there are two other government officials waiting. Internal Affairs, I assume although I’ve never seen these guys before. They both don dull grey suits and serious authoritative expressions. The mood is sombre and I know my usual wisecracks about dragging me out of bed wouldn’t be well received right now.

“Morning Mr Knokes,” One of the government officials begins by introducing himself in a monotone voice and immediately takes charge of proceedings. My boss is nowhere to be seen; his camera is turned off, so it appears I’m left fending for myself. “We are the Internal Affairs Committee of Behaviours and Affairs to the Precrime Department. My name is Officer Carlo.”

It’s a mouthful of a job title which I didn’t really listen to, but I know it indicates that they mean business. Officer Carlo, is dark-haired, possibly of Italian descent but in our video meeting his features appear even darker, the screen emits a strange grey-coloured miasma and his shadowy eyes peer into the screen like inky pits. Intimidation tactics still working well in a virtual setting, I note.

“How can I help you Officer Carlo?” I offer. In my nervous state ,my tone is smug and slightly unctuous, so I take a deep breath and silently tell myself to act normal.

“We are opening an investigation into your current time-centric assignment in California.” Officer Carlo replies, reading from a script verbatim. “And it would be in your best interests to answer a few questions pertinent to our investigation. In accord with your departmental policies you can request a union representative to sit in with you during this discussion.”

He has the cold, rigid, emotionally detached manner of an interrogator down to a tee. The condescending, somewhat nasal tone of voice; the passive-aggressive nuances where he says one thing but means another, the pen poised to write notes just to unnerve me. It’s all part of the dance. I know full well I have the right for my union rep, but we both know he’d be making a black mark in my file somewhere if I use one.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” I say confidently which is a lie. I’m not fine and I’m not okay. This case has been the bane of my life for the last few months; an operational nightmare and sooner or later it was going to come back and bite me. Well today’s the day.

“Let the record reflect, union representation was declined. Can you confirm your name and job title, for the record?”

“My name is Mike Knokes ,Time Protection Officer of the 24th Precrime Division based in California.”

“And could you briefly summarize the nature of your work as Time Protection Officer?.”

“Of course.” I speak clearly and concisely.

“ As a Time Protection Officer , we use Precrime databases to look for and detect possible serious and major crimes . Using newly-developed Time Travel technologies we can eliminate these threats before they occur, by eliminating the potential suspect. Our division currently operate on a 99% efficiency rating.”

I know, through video capture tools I’m also being analyzed in real time for facial tics, speech patterns, anything that could give away liars and cheaters of the system. I am neither but is still disarming to be under the microscope like this; especially first thing in the morning and without breakfast.

Officer Carlo pauses to take notes. “Thank you. Now moving on to your current case. The Precrime suspect is a potential serial killer, is that correct?”

“That’s correct. Our Precrime database spotted a potential serial killer in serious 1 category, who could potentially go on to kill over 50 innocent people.”

“According to the file your first suspect for this serial killer was one: Michael Renard?”

“Yes. Our data analysis led us to this suspect with a 97% match.”

“And you jumped to his timeline -to the date July 4 2010 to perform the first assassination of the case, as authorized by your superior Jerry West correct?”

“Yes . We wanted to eliminate the suspect before he committed his first crime: a house robbery, from which his crimes would escalate.”

“And he was killed in a drive-by shooting?”

“Those were my parameters. We pinpointed a date and time he would be alone. I used a BTT dated weapon, a 9mm, to ensure the authorities in that timeline would conclude the crime was OTT.”

“For the record. BTT means Before Time Travel and OTT means Of That Timeline.” Officer Carlo turns slightly to the side at this point, speaking to someone off-camera . It’s apparent that other members of the committee are listening in on this call. I’m being interrogated, analyzed and broadcast in one fell swoop as if they’ve already got their guy and I wonder if it’s too late for my union rep, or perhaps even a lawyer. “And if I can ask you Mr Knokes to refrain from using acronyms here on out and be as clear as possible with your terminology.”

“No problem.” I reply taking a sip of coffee that turns into a gulp. I’m starting to perspire and I come to the sobering realization that my job and future career is on the line at this moment. Where the hell was my boss Jerry? Did he just feed me to the proverbial wolves and run?

“Now after that first authorized assassination- that should have been the end to your assignment, isn’t that right?”

“Yes once a potential suspect is eliminated, it’s usually case closed and we then focus on watching potential victims as a precaution.”

“But in this case, could you please explain to the committee what occurred next?”

My throat is dry and my hands are damp. I take another sip of coffee, clear my throat and try to keep my response clear and concise. “Approximately 30 days later we discovered an anomaly with the data sets. Another suspect for the same future crimes was named , a Mr Brian Hart, again with a 90% match. It’s never happened before I believe, so my team and I convened an emergency meeting and formulated a risk assessment.”

“What did that risk assessment show?”

“That if we performed a second assassination we would still be in the positive for the danger -to -life ratio and would still be performing a service to the public. In other words, the collateral damage of the mistaken identity was deemed acceptable against the protection of lives metric. A second assassination would be within our parameters.”

“So the second assassination was authorized. How was this performed Mr Knokes?”

“The assassination occurred on 27 September 2010. My team and I decided we didn’t want any link to the first assassination to be made, so we altered our weapon of choice and used a knife OTT: Of That Timeline.”

“Okay moving on.” Officer Carlo continues taking copious notes. It’s all part of the choreography, the intentionally slow turning of the page, the wielding of the pen- God only knows what he’s writing: the whole conversation is being monitored and recorded and an automatic transcript would be available and printed out on thick-reamed paper two seconds after this call. “ It is also our understanding another anomaly occurred soon after which prompted you to log these issues with the investigative complaints team of Department of Precrime Technology.”

“Yes that’s correct. Another suspect was named, a Mr Peter Steadman, again with a high match percentage of 97%. These anomalies were very unusual and we had to raise the question with the complaints team.”

“ So what did you and your team decide?”

“We performed another risk assessment. As this serial killer was predicted to be highly dangerous and according to psychological profiles and precrime projections, would go on to kill over 50 innocent people, the assassination of another suspect still fell within our positive parameters as the benefits outweighed the risks.”

“Did you store and save these risk assessments?”

“Yes Officer Carlo. I can give you access if required.”

“What happened next?”

“We didn’t have much planning behind this one as it was again time-critical, so we performed another assassination. It wasn’t our best work I admit, but my team and I were under considerable stress at this point and we were showing symptoms of TCS: Time Crossing Syndrome. ”

“What sort of symptoms?”

“Memory loss, disorientation. It caused some mistakes to be made at the scene; someone else got hurt. But my guys are good, they are the best at what they do.” I say this adamantly cos I’d be damned if any of this blowback goes back on them. It’s a typical field officer reaction, where all our geese are swans but this isn’t my first rodeo, I’ve seen how Internal Affairs operate; I’ve seen their investigations turn savage, or devolve into government-sanctioned witch hunts , where regardless of the mistake someone is to blame and lessons will be learned. Yes, there are moral ambiguities to our work, we work in the ethical grey but that’s why we have processes and calculated assessments- we act on the data and I won’t have them scapegoated for doing their job. Not today.

“And did you make any attempt to jump back and fix these mistakes?” Officer Carlo asks gravely. “or undo the assassinations?”

“The data didn’t allow for that sir. According to the analysis, they were all a match. If we undid the assassinations we’d run the risk of saving the real serial killer- people would have died. It also creates complex ripples in the timelines, I understand.”

There is a pause in proceedings now as Officer Carlo confers with his colleagues. I hear whispers and a low rumble of voices. My eyes narrow and my ears prick up, I raise my head, alert to my surroundings. This meeting is strange but something in the minutiae of their communication signals something more serious is going on; it’s the furrowing of brows, the deepening of tones, even through a screen, seeing nothing but disembodied heads, I can read the room and sense the urgency and stress behind their chatter. It makes me nervous and my eyes flitter subconsciously to my uniform and holster on the other side of the room.

Abruptly and unceremoniously, they leave the meeting. The chat room is empty and I’m left, baffled, facing a blank monitor.

Out of nowhere, my boss Jerry flashes onto screen. His camera is now on and he’s visibly stressed; he’s eyes are shadowed with dark crescents and there’s uncharacteristic stubble smattered on his chin.

“What the hell Jerry!” I bark.

“Don’t worry too much Mike. We played it by the book.” He says in an unconvincing attempt to reassure me. His eyes are darting everywhere and he’s fidgeting with his hair, tell-tale signs of a liar. A bad one at that.

“Cut the bull Jerry, what’s going on?” I ask. “Is there a problem with the tech?”

“Can of worms. No one is admitting anything.” More fidgeting, no eye contact. “But the problem is the assassinations.”

“What do you mean? We followed the risk-assessments- they were authorized.”

Jerry pauses, he takes a deep breath and lowers his head -looking directly into his camera- and adopts a conspiratorial tone. “These IA guys are not from our time line Mike.”

I begin to speak but no words come out.

“I can’t say anymore.” Jerry whispers, he looked stressed before but now he looks fearful. His eyes won’t meet mine and his frown deepens from conflict. He shakes his head.

“Jerry come on, you owe me.” I plead.

“I can’t say on this open line.” He snaps and his camera switches off again.

I stare in disbelief once more at an empty meeting room. I’m trying to work it out, I’m doing the math but I just can’t solve the sums. Internal Affairs from a different time line? In all my years working in Precrime, after jumping to 16 different timelines, working at the apex of modern technology - yet this has never happened before.

I reach for my coffee, but wish for something stronger and not for the first time, my eyes gravitate over to my uniform and firearm.

A faint buzz in my head breaks the hiatus. I tap my inner ear to accept the call coming through my implant and Jerry’s gravelly voice hisses straight into my cochlear. “Mike. Can you hear me? They are Internal Affairs from ten years ahead. Your name has come up on their database as a suspect.”

The sound crackles a little as the interference corrects itself, but Jerry’s voice still transmits in an undertone.

“The people you eliminated were innocent and now they want to clean up the whole thing. This investigative meeting is your risk assessment Mike. Do you hear me? They’re checking the parameters and comparing metrics as we speak.”

The line crackles again and I tap my inner ear furiously trying to keep the fading voice online.

“Mike?”

“Jerry?” I’m talking to the air, as the connection cuts off and all of a sudden the silence of my apartment is deafening.

Until I hear a knock at my door and the unmistakable click of a weapon- Of This Timeline.

As I blend in with the group of girls, a gaggle of stunning young ladies from around the world, I know for a fact that to the casual observers I have practically morphed into a state of invisibility. No one will know who I am.

A snap judgement will be made the minute they lay eyes on me and no one will perceive a threat. They will see the mass of dyed hair; the fake tan, the jewellery dripping off me like baubles, the mini skirt, the long legs and they will see me as just one of the girls, as if we are a symbiotic part of a collective mass operating with a hive mind, distinguishable only by varying shades of lipstick.

It's what's known in my business as a legend.

It goes beyond a disguise, it's who I am for this mission.

For this mission I am just one of girls: one of Jeffrey's girls, whom he somehow managed to summon to his private jet, for God knows what, with the full knowledge and blessing of corrupt members of law enforcement. Who else would be on his way to incarceration in a private jet, drinking champagne with a bevy of women and Harvard-educated attorneys at his side?

The mood is all rather festive as I climb aboard and the plane takes off, literally flying above the law in brazen luxury , metaphorically raising a middle finger to all the principled people below and all their self-righteous moral judgments.

Unfortunately for Jeffrey, I work for one of those principled people: a very rich and powerful woman, who knowing the corruption that plagues this country, sometimes takes the law into her own hands.

And I help her do it.

Jeffrey oozes charisma as he regales his coterie of friends and advisors with inflight tales of recent court appearances and interviews with police, as one would relate anecdotes for a stand-up comedy skit. No mention of his victims, not an inkling of remorse, no acknowledgement of his crimes- I know this job won't weigh on my conscience like some of the others.

"How about a drink my dear?" He calls to me as I'm standing nearest to the bar area. (Yes this plane has a bar). I smile at the irony, as unbeknownst to him, he just requested his own death.

I flick my fake hair , flash my pearly white veneers as if competing with all the cats of Cheshire and pour him a glass of bourbon. Thanks to some deft slight-of-hand skills, no one notices when I add a prepared vial of synthetic poison; a bespoke blend of lab- concocted toxins, which apparently tastes like limes and take the glass of death on the rocks over to him.

My hand doesn't even waiver as I pass him the lethal liquid.

"You have beautiful eyes." He says, taking the bourbon and drinking it .

"Thank you." I reply with a fake southern accent but with genuine sincerity, as I've always been a little insecure about my eyes ... I also feel it's a polite courtesy to acknowledge someone's final words.

I watch as he sips.

His eyes linger on me and my eyes linger on his lips.

Suddenly his face contorts. He grabs his chest in agony, eyes wide, struggling to breathe .In just a few seconds, he suffers a massive heart attack, keels over and dies.

My work here is complete, so I scream and without a complete understanding of events, the rest of Jeffrey's girls scream too.

An emergency landing later , with much ado, much panic, more screaming and even more crying we all disembark and I slip off into the night, throwing off my high heels and fake hair as I run.

When the FBI start their investigation ,they don't have much to go on. A false name. An abandoned wig. No distinguishing details....

Just a general description of a girl.

Jojo is fiddling with his bowtie again. He’s only six and it is the first time he’s worn one; I bought it especially for this occasion. I help straighten it and also neaten a few curls from his unruly mop that were threatening to rise up and block the view for whomever sitting behind. He does look smart though. Bless him. He looks up at me with big brown innocent eyes and smiles. It’s moments like this ,after spending a hectic hour stressing and fussing to get them ready, that makes motherhood all worthwhile.

Next to Jojo sits his big brother Theo; the eldest of my three children. I notice him take a sneaky peak at his cell phone stuffed in his pocket. I had told him firmly that thing must be switched off or silent and kept away for the duration of the meeting. It was a special occasion and I didn’t want him texting or messaging his friends during it. He was at the awkward, rebellious age of 15 and that message didn’t go down well. His new habit of rolling his eyes nearly set me off when we were getting ready to come here but somehow I managed to keep my anger at bay. If he pulls that thing out again though he definitely won’t like what I’ll do next.

I look further down our row. My husband sits next to Theo, looking smart and dashing as always; his new blue suit really brings out his eyes and the pink and blue tie I bought him to match, sets the outfit off nicely. We’ve been married for 20 years and he still looks as handsome as the day we wed, albeit with a few more grey hairs and wrinkles, a bit more padding round the middle but he still has the same kind eyes and youthful appeal that first attracted me. He catches my eye and smiles at me.

He’s excited as I am to be here. We are all in our Sunday best and sitting on the front row at our Church ready for this special day.

Sitting next to him at the end of the row is Jessica, she’s 9 but likes sitting next to her daddy. She’s looks so young and sweet sitting with ribbons in her dark curly hair and a pretty pink dress I had bought her for today. Granted she hated the outfit; she much prefers rolling around in T-shirts and tracksuits but after some arguing and bribing she finally got dressed and ready just before it was time to walk out the front door. I make a mental note to buy her a new tennis racket tomorrow and fulfil my part of our bargain.

We are sitting on the front row as my husband Eric likes to set an example for the rest of the flock. The kids, despite their quirks, are generally well behaved and disciplined and we usual achieve just that. I straighten my skirt, it’s handmade, cut from a gorgeous satin material with a lovely black and white floral pattern but unfortunately punctuated with a tiny coffee stain on the front and despite a thorough dry-cleaning it still leaves a minute shadow, which serves as a reminder of my shortcomings or a penance for my sins.

We are not allowed to drink coffee. Well, a cup now and then is okay, which is what I need most weeks just get compos mentis in the morning and armed for the school run with three energetic children -but a daily habit such as mine is skirting the line and runs of the danger of getting addicted and committing what we call a “serious sin” or becoming a “slave to the flesh.”

I hoped no-one had noticed.

The lights in the hall dim and we all exchange looks- the broadcast is about to begin.

There are over a hundred of us all gathered in our Church meeting hall tonight, ready and excited to hear the special announcement that was promised to us a month before. We had all speculated what it could be about. We had whispered and gossiped ; rumours had spread like wildfire. Some reckoned it was the date and time of Christ’s return, others mused on a new headquarter building, the most popular theory was the possibility of a change of name. The name: The Church of the body of Christ was a little confusing for some outsiders and sounded a little cult-ish. If gambling wasn’t a serious sin in our Church, my money would have been on a name change.

A hush of silence sweeps the hall as a local brother steps up onto the platform. He announces the video presentation, emphasizes the importance of maintaining a respectful silence and leads the congregation in prayer. After a hearty collective “amen” the large flatscreen TV descends from its alcove above and the broadcast begins.

It is filmed, not surprisingly, at our Church headquarters or what we collectively refer to as “The Head” . The room is more like an office with solemn pictures of Christ adorning dove-grey walls, the camera pans round to a large window at the side of the room allowing beautiful forest vistas to sweep on screen and in the middle, seated around a dark mahogany conference table are the three leaders of our Church; The Brothers in Christ.

Their body language is serious but friendly. They are neatly dressed, well-groomed and all seated with their fingers tented and copies of the King James bible resting on the table, like side arms.

The first brother, Brother Henry, speaks.

“Dear fellow followers in Christ” He addresses the audience with warm eye contact and a sincere smile. “No doubt you have been eagerly awaiting this day and have prepared your heart for this special occasion. I am happy to know, despite the vicissitudes of this world, that young and old have gathered together in a beautiful display of faith and unity.”

The camera shifts abruptly to the next brother which I briefly find jarring. Brother Martins continues.

“Yes. How happy we are to gather together, united in our love for God and for Jesus. It truly is a blessing. However, as brother Henry mentioned we are also living in difficult, unprecedented times. Following the pandemic which affected nearly every country, our world has gone through significant changes. One of those changes greatly affects our worship.”

The camera zooms in, and becomes evidently clear he is wearing makeup for this appearance; I smile to myself as even women in our church aren’t allowed it- not if you are truly modest. (Thankfully I know how to apply my make-up to appear au natural.)

“You may have read in recent news that governments are coming together to form a global court, with united global laws, legislation and procedures. One of those laws is in regard to freedom of worship. Of course that’s a human right but there are other legal implications we are obliged to share with you today, hence the reason for this special announcement.”

The camera pans out and swings over to the third brother, Brother Carlo, I notice he is wearing make-up too.

“Thank you.” He begins with his well-known Italian lilt and pulls out a document. “Now, we know we are chosen ones of God and we have been drawn to the truth of his word. I believe you all have strong convictions and firm faith that this is the case. I’m sure if I were to ask you all individually “do you believe?’ you would reply with a resounding ‘yes’. However, as per recent global legal developments, new laws will come into effect next year. The first being- I will read direct from the document from the U.N Department of Justice…”

He clears his throat and dons a pair of glasses. “Please be informed from the 1st Jan 2024 new laws come into effect that will affect your religious organization. Further to section 2.4 of this document, global religions will no longer be able to call themselves fundamentalists. This means in religious meetings, and religious literature an organized religion can no longer assert that this religion alone holds objective truths, unless these assertions can be proved in a global court of law and are judged by representatives of people from united nations, to be absolute truths. The courts recognize the freeness of religion and a person’s right to worship however, in a legal context, no one religion can claim they alone are the right religion as this judgment must come from the adherents alone and is seen as a matter of personal preference and belief. If a church or an organized religion would like to prove their right to fundamentalism they must follow the legal process outlined below.”

He allows for a pause as he takes his glasses off and lays the document on the table next to his bible.

The camera pans back round to Brother Henry for concluding remarks.

“This may be a lot to process and we will be following up this broadcast with more information. However, as clearly mentioned the courts of this world have taken away our God-given right to assert we have the truth and it’s our Christian obligation to adhere to the laws of the land and abide by this decision. Therefore, we, as the Body of Christ, can no longer tell you that this is the right way to worship God or this the right path to follow, legally speaking. That is something you must all decide for yourselves and depends solely on your personal relationship with our saviour. Some of our literature and sermons will be amended to reflect this change and I’m sure you will bear this in mind when sharing your faith with others. As mentioned, further information will follow but for now, we thank you for your attention today. May God bless you all.”

The camera pans out and after some soothing instrumental melodies, the screen slowly fades to black, leaving nothing but questions, bemusement and the genesis of a hairline crack in my previously rock-solid wall of faith.

The lights come back on but there is a stunned silence in the hall. The air is charged. Not a sound. Even the babies have stopped fussing.

I glance over to my husband and he is staring at the floor, a deep frown shadowing his face.

My oldest son Theo turns to me and breaks the silence in the abrupt and insolent way that only teenagers can manage, with a voice just loud enough for all surrounding to hear and a blunt serious look in his eye.

“So does that mean we can leave if we want?” He asks.

I am shocked. I am dismayed. I am confused because the answer to that question, it now appears is “yes.”

--

My husband and I are gathered at the front of the hall with our good friends Nancy and Carl. They have children at similar ages to ours- so as the whole congregation linger after the announcement, mixing together, sharing our views, our children are off milling together somewhere too.

Nancy joined our church about four years ago after converting from Catholicism but she still has that strong stoic Catholic way about her, willing to suffer for integrity. She has been through some tough times after the suicide of her first husband many years ago and spending a few months living on the streets but God has blessed her. After getting back on her feet, she found her husband. She then re-discovered God and joined our church, Carl joined her in her faith. They both now do very well and their three children are a delight. Carl is tall with Scandinavian features, blond hair and blue eyes and a permanent deep tan. Nancy is the exact opposite: petite with dark hair and pale features- they make for a striking couple.

“What do you think Eric?” Carl asks my husband deferring to him like he always does. Carl is quite new to our church and from my own estimations isn’t what we would call very ‘zealous’ . “I didn’t hear anything about this new global religious legislation in the news did you?”

“I just checked on the UN website,” Eric replies gesturing to his phone. “It checks out. Not that I doubted the brothers it’s just happened so suddenly.”

“But that’s not to say we aren’t the right religion,” Nancy interjects nervously “it’s just our organization has to be mindful of what it calls itself right?”.

She seems anxious for some reason and I can’t think why.

“That’s exactly the point. Nothing has changed in our belief.” I say firmly giving Nancy a reassuring squeeze of her hand, but she responds with a nervous look over to her husband.

“But some might think , if you can’t say you’re definitely the right religion then what’s the point in following it, right?” Carl continues and again he directs the question to Eric.

“I suppose,” Eric responds thoughtfully ,that incongruous frown darkening his usually happy features once again.

“But it’s a question of faith,” I submit. “If you have strong faith then it doesn’t matter. You will know in your heart that it’s right. The bible is our foundation and that doesn’t change.”

Carl isn’t placated easily and now I start to understand why Nancy seems so concerned- her husband has big doubts by the looks of things.

“But say you wanted to prove it in court- we would have our side and our interpretation of the scriptures. What would the other side contest it with? Other interpretations right? Other belief systems right? How would we know which is right?”

“But that’s the same as it’s always been Carl, hadn’t you discussed these questions before with the brothers?” I am a one-man defence team for our church, as it seems my husband, my “brother in arms” has mentally gone awol, remaining silent and leaving me in the lurch.

Even Carl has given up on getting a response out of my husband so he faces me now, his blue eyes alight and concern etched into his brow.

“When I raised this question with the Brothers Ava,” (That’s me.) “Do you know what they told me?” He looks around at our group and Eric’s brow furrows even deeper. “They said the courts don’t matter when it comes to questions of faith and that our church leaders have studied other religions, it’s in our literature, and they can tell us with certainty it’s the true religion- we just have to have faith in that, as they are the brothers of Christ.”

There’s an awkward silence because we don’t have a rebuttal.

“Did you ever ask the question?” Carl is asking Eric.

Eric pauses. He looks at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before and like Nancy it makes me feel slightly anxious- he is having doubts too.

“No.” He replies honestly and stares into the middle distance.

For a second time this evening, I’m shellshocked. Eric and I have been in the church over 10 years, it’s a long time, we are seen as the experienced ones, the spiritually mature ones, the example that others look up to. Eric should have some words of wisdom to offer, some insightful faith-strengthening comments but he looks as confused and dismayed as Carl. As I glance at Nancy, I see the same expression and if I had pulled out a mirror I’m sure I would see the same expression reflecting back at me.

--

We drive home in silence. My eldest son Theo is texting furiously on his phone. I have no presence of mind to reprimand him. Jojo is snivelling because he lost his bowtie , even though one of the brothers would have picked it up and we’ll get it back at our next meeting and my daughter Jessica is asleep, her pretty pink dress filthy from running outside in the gardens and tripping in the dark.

Eric is driving on autopilot, lost in thought, the frown has now turned into something graver and something more permanent , his usual jovial nature replaced with a solemn seriousness I have only ever witnessed at funerals.

As for me, although I’m feeling anxious and unnerved I am also calm. Calm in the knowledge that even though the announcement raised some questions, ultimately it doesn’t matter; we will still go to the Church regardless, our family will still be together, we will all be at our next meeting and I will still plan our Church cake sale next week.

Nothing will change.

If I had bothered to examine my own feelings a little deeper that night I would have realised that I was in denial. Resolutely clinging on to normality like a clinging on to a rock face with fingernails. But in actual fact that was the moment when everything changed. That announcement was the catalyst, the pull of a single thread causing the whole ball to unravel. The first crack in a concrete wall. The collapse and fall was inevitable.

---

Theo was the first casualty- or escapee- depending on your perspective. He didn’t last long; it was just after we arrived home from the announcement in fact.

He was still texting, wouldn’t engage with anyone and I found it annoying. So once we arrived home ,I snapped and told him I would be confiscating his phone. He obviously didn’t take that very well and responded by shouting he no longer wants to go to “the stupid church” because we can’t even prove it’s right.

When I responded that it was a question of faith and not law- his argument was actually quite persuasive and logical for someone his age, full of hormones and angst in the heat of an argument.

“Well how are you meant to build faith when you can’t prove anything!”

Jessica followed promptly afterwards and took sides with Theo , crying that she didn’t want to go to the Church any longer because she gets bullied by Nancy and Carl’s daughter Amelia and hates wearing fancy dresses.

“I didn’t know Amelia bullies you honey.” I say comforting her with a hug as she cried.

“She says I’m a mongrel because I’m mixed race.”

Another shell-shocker for the evening.

“She said what?!” Both Eric and I scream in unison.

I’m mixed race myself of Caribbean descent and Eric is white from south Texas. It had been an issue in some towns with some people but had never been an issue in our Church, not with the teachings of Christ of love and impartiality. The sting is palpable. I’ve never been so hurt. Nancy and Carl were our good friends, weren’t they? If their 8-year old daughter is learning and repeating these things to bully other innocent children- what does it say about their parenting? Where is she getting this stuff from?

As I’m still reeling from poor Jessica’s revelation, our youngest son Jojo also starts to cry and says he doesn’t want to go anymore.

“Why honey? Don’t tell me they bully you too.” I ask pulling him into my hug with Jessica.

His cheeks redden as he cries, tears and snot dribbling down his chubby face but he replies in the emotionally earnest way children do: “I don’t want to go if Theo and Jess doesn’t go!”

Even though he is bawling, I smile.

--

Despite the seismic shift in our previously solid structure, I still felt it was all salvageable. Just a little re-patching here and there, maybe a little glossing over, the damage was fixable. Children do as they are told and if we firmly told them we are all going to Church then that’s what we would be doing. We could get back on track. What we needed was spousal solidarity, to work as a team, singing from the same “Church of the Body of Christ” hymn sheet.

Eric however, has stopped listening to the music altogether- metaphorically speaking.

Since that night he has retreated into himself, becoming silent and moody. He went off to work early Monday and came home late. When he did, we wasn’t present. He would daydream, brood, stare off into space. As I busied myself with the upcoming cake sale, stressed with the uphill struggle it was turning into- especially when two of my most reliable bakers decided they wanted some time off from the Church. I could usually count on my unflappable husband to jolly our way through the situation, full of positivity and good humour , he would know the right things to say to the right people and everything would carry on swimmingly.

Now, however, something weighed heavily on his mind and the weight seemed to engulf him completely.

“Come on Eric, what’s going on?” I asked bluntly one evening. The kids had gone to bed, I had three cakes in oven slowly rising , a glass of ‘sinful’ wine in my hand but my husband’s lugubrious look was bordering on alarming.

He lets out a heavy sigh and looks heavenward- was he saying a silent prayer?

There are moments in life when you foresee the pivotal nature of it, even though you have no idea where it’s heading. This was one of those moments. Just like you can sense the build-up of subterraneous pressure and the silent rumble of underground tremors and you know it’s time to run for the hills, an earthquake is coming.

“There’s no easy way to say this Ava.” He whispers gravely.

Do I know what he is about to say? Do I have a subconscious inkling a world-shattering confession is on its way? Yes probably, because as I hold my wine glass standing in the low lights of the kitchen, my hand starts to shake and I inaudibly whisper “No.”

“I can’t live this life anymore.” He breathes out as if he’d been holding it in all this time. Tears are pooling in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” I stutter, watching my husband crumble before me.

A solitary tear rolls down and he makes no effort to stop it.

“I’m in love with someone else and I have been for a long time.”

I don’t even need to hear the rest. I place my wine glass down and steady myself on the kitchen counter.

I’m thinking back to how we got together, we were both so young. I was eighteen and he was one year older. Both of our families were a mess, our childhoods depressing. My Mom was an alcoholic and my dad reared his head about once a month with presents. It soon became apparent we were a second secret family and his real family were upstate living in ignorant bliss. My brother and I even snuck out one day when I was twelve, got on a bus and travelled upstate to visit this other family. We saw them from afar, in a lovely affluent neighbourhood, a picture-card-perfect house, my dad’s other daughters blonde-haired and beautiful playing in the front lawn which was the same square footage of our entire house- we didn’t have the heart to knock on the door and introduce ourselves. We just came home, depressed and dejected and swore to never tell our mom what we saw.

Eric’s family were no better, both parents were what you would unkindly term ‘trailer trash’ and most likely drug dealers although we never got to the bottom of that family mystery, they both died a year after we got married in a house fire. The thing I remember most from those dark times were the bright spots: namely my hilarious older brother and his best friend Eric. They would lighten any room, cheer up any situation, they were my world and when my older brother enlisted in the army and got stationed abroad, I wasn’t the only one crushed and devastated.

Eric was inconsolable.

Missing my brother was the common thread that united us, it tied our broken hearts and drew us closer in an inseparable bond.

Well, I thought it did.

“Your brother wrote to me two weeks ago,” Eric continued as if reading my thoughts and expanding on the narration. “He’s back in America.”

“Aaron is back?”

Eric nods as tears stream down his face. “It’s messed up I know. But I’ve always loved him. I thought I could deny it. The Church tells us people change all the time. I believed it. I thought I had changed…on some level.”

“Oh God.”

“I prayed to God Ava. I prayed every night.I prayed for forgiveness, I prayed for a changed heart. And when I got the letter I prayed even harder for an answer; for some direction.” His face is contorted as if in physical pain and I don’t feel anger: I feel nothing but hopelessness.

How do you re-patch a gaping hole this big? There’s no way back from this.

“and then that announcement…” I groan.

“Exactly. I mean what kind of answer is that? What am I supposed to do now?”

And that indeed was the question.

What was any of us meant do now? That one announcement shattered our beautiful illusion, that one meeting derailed our life’s track and now where do we go, what do we believe? I have a sudden flashback to a builder who casually mentioned a physics term when renovating our house and knocking down an interior wall : Hooke’s law of elasticity. Even a few small holes, drilled in strategic places can compromise the load carrying capacity of a strong concrete wall and bring it down. Well, our family is an abstract example of the trueness of that law.

It didn’t take much and it didn’t take long for complete collapse.

Feeling much like a body without a skeleton, a building without a foundation, a cell with no nucleus; I emotionally detach for short while. I pick up my wine glass, swig the sweet contents whole, and silently muse our situation.

The fingernails have given up their courageous battle to cling on. They are no longer attached to the cliff face. I’m in freefall, left with a chaotic, collapsing, blob of a life and I had no idea what I was supposed to do now.

--

A week later I am sitting in the front row of our Church. I smile as I look to the side and see Jojo’s innocent chubby face and watch as he fiddles with his bow tie again.

The rest of the chairs in the row are empty.

Jessica wanted to play with a friend from school so went to her house for a sleepover, she has ditched her bullying church friends completely. Theo is with his new girlfriend, someone called Kate an atheist apparently, but who is actually quite a nice polite young girl, despite my prior prejudices toward those who deny God.

And my husband Eric is meeting up with Aaron- my brother. I can’t comment any more on that; it pains me too much.

But I am here.

Half of our congregation is missing and the hall feels empty, and although my family is falling apart, my marriage is over, my children are drifting and I finished two bottles of wine last night, I’m still worried that someone will see my tiny coffee stain on my beautiful handmade skirt.

The dream was so ponderous and so vivid in its nature, it rendered me speechless on awakening. A cavernous dread has taken hold of me and I feel compelled to write this down, for posterity.

In my dream I was still asleep when a gloomy shadow passes over me. The air feels heavier, an atmospheric weight descending like a heavy mist on a barren land and from the darkness of the night I hear my name being whispered in a deep baritone forcing me to wake up from my slumber.

It felt so real. I was in my bed, in my room, with my dear wife sleeping soundly by my side. The window was ajar, and I could feel the soft cool of night air on my skin. A fly had snuck through the lace curtains and I

could even hear the background hum of its buzz.

Yet the dream was also absurd, as a strange young man sat on the end of bed.

His eyes were piercingly alert, his face was framed with an oddly shaped moustache. He wore a soldier’s uniform with insignia I had never seen before but the thing that struck me most was his striking persona. He was redoubtable, self-possessed, confident to the point of arrogance with a glint in his eye that unnerved me even in my dreamlike state. His back was straight, he sat rigid, his jaw firm. His whole demeanour radiated a nefarious intent and I had a strong sense that this man was real. Instinctively, I knew he was dangerous but of what and why I couldn’t say- it was, after all, only a dream.

“Doctor Charles,” He said as I roused from slumber. His voice was faint yet distinct. Though barely a whisper I could still detect a heavy Germanic accent.

“Doctor Charles Darwin?”

“That is I.” I croaked, pulling myself upright. My dear wife Emma stirred but her sleep remained heavy. “And may I ask your name?”

I was aware these circumstances were extraordinary, otherwise I would have screamed out at the intruder in my home, as it was, I embraced the abstract nature of proceedings and allowed my curiosity to take reign over fear.

“You don’t know me,” He replied, with half a smile. “But I know you. In fact, I am a great admirer of your work. I like to think we are comrades. United in belief.”

“You are a scientist?” I asked hopeful, yet nothing about this man’s character indicated a man of science.

“No. I am a leader. I have great scientists work for me.” He was very economical and precise in his speech, enunciating each word carefully. “In fact, I told my scientists that I am a follower of your work. My yearning fantasy is to speak with you- the greatest scientist of our time Charles Darwin- and my scientists in their zeal to please me, find a way. This is how we can meet. Only through dreams.”

“I see.” I say (although I don’t see at all). It’s apparent I was speaking to a madman but as I scientist I was intrigued.

“You see I belong to a different time and in my time- I continue your work. The Natural selection of mankind.”

“You have read my book- The origin of Species?”

“Oh yes. You are a freethinker as I am. I too believe in survival of the fittest, and racial hygiene. In my time, we call it eugenics and social Darwinism- we named it after you.”

“How intruiging.”

“My country has also embraced our ideologies. We are cleansing our race as we speak.”

“Cleansing?”

“Yes. The dissidents, the feeble-minded, the degenerates , the deaf, the blind, the Jews and homosexuals- all will be wiped out from our land. Exterminated. We will breed a superior race and soon the world will evolve at a rate previously unknown.”

A deep and morbid fear overtakes me.

I am speechless. I am sickened to the core. I am horrified at the mere thought and the casual fashion in which he mentioned of such atrocities; disgusted that a human being could think this way and speak to me as if I too share these perversions. My thoughts mimic the panic-stricken fly in the room: darting around in a haphazard manner, desperate to comprehend its predicament. Is it possible that someone could conceive these ideas from my theories?

“But..but my work focuses on plant life and animals,” I eventually stutter, unable to get my words out fast enough. “Humans are more evolved. We operate with an expanded law of nature. Love. Compassion. Don’t you believe that?”

The man doesn’t answer. He tightens his jaw. His eyes narrow like dark pits and peer into my own. A flick of his eyebrows and a slight pursing of the lips tells me he is disappointed with my response.

“What is your name?” I growl, surprising myself as my voice is louder now, like rolling thunder, anger bursting through my genial surface - even in my dream I am incensed that my life’s work can be twisted and misconstrued to this extent . “Tell me your name!” I shout when he ignores the question.

He stands and links hands behind his back. He is calm but his face darkens as he nears me and I detect something akin to murderous intent.

“My people call me “Mein Fuhrer”.”

---

I wake abruptly- thankfully. But the dream has left me alarmed and distressed to say the least.

A sense of foreboding follows me by day and I am reluctant to sleep again at night. I fear for the future. I fear my theories could ignite such a diabolical fire. I must expand upon my work. I must emphasize a moral sensitivity, mutual aid and the noble nature of mankind.

A determination like lightning empowers me, I will not rest. To this end, I have started new research and will compose a new book.

I shall call it “The descent of Man.”

“The reason I work so hard honey, is to give you an easier life. That’s my wish.”

It was my father’s refrain. I remember him saying it for the first time ,when I was aged 6 and he had just bought a new swing set which he installed himself on the grounds of our estate, just near the pond. I had asked him, heartfelt and innocent, why he worked so much and why I never saw much of him.

The second time he said those exact words , I was entering my rebellious years, aged 13 or 14 . I was angry at being whisked off to boarding school in some remote part of the English countryside and in my petulance wanted to know why on earth I should listen to him, when he was never around and had no understanding of my feelings and emotions.

It was his mantra and over the years he said it many times, and I believed him.

The last time he said it, was on his deathbed when he handed me his will. He had his death all organised and arranged, a meticulously prepared will so that the handing over of his affairs along with our family fortune, assets totalling £18million and change, would be a smooth process and his lifelong wish would be realised- I would have an easy life and want for nothing.

That was his plan.

When he finally passed, peacefully at the grand old age of 86, I was distraught. Trapped in a dark fog of grief and sorrow from which it took months to emerge . Only then did I start the process of executing my father’s will.

All that was needed was one document, one certificate on one piece of paper: A grant of probate.

“It’s all online now!” My solicitor informed me, shouting down the telephone to drown out the background noise of a photocopier. “We submitted the application last night- should take about eight weeks for the Probate office to process.”

During those eight weeks I came to realize the precarious situation I was in. Apparently, although my father was very rich, he still owed a substantial amount of money to some less than scrupulous characters; a shady consultant who helped him dodge tax laws for example. Oh, the money was there to cover these debts, that wasn’t a problem, the problem was I needed the grant of probate to access and release the funds.

They didn’t like waiting.

Neither did the bank, as father didn’t own our eight-bedroomed mansion and 80 acres of land outright, he still had a mortgage on the place which needed to be paid and there was no way I could continue the payments myself on my modest wages as a school teacher.

To add to my woes, not long after my father’s death I was diagnosed with breast cancer, sapping any and all energy I had to deal with the bureaucracy. But I pressed on, I filled out all the forms my solicitor asked me to, I signed whenever they needed me to sign and I called them on a weekly basis for any progress, but over three months later the grant of probate remained elusive.

“They lost the will!” My solicitor announced, this time to the background hum of printers.

“We had to send in the original will, along with supporting documents to the probate office. But apparently it went missing in their post and scanning department.”

“They lost the will? How on earth does that happen?!”

“They’re swapping over from paper to digital, so the whole department is a bit of mess to be honest. But anyway, we have copies but you just have to complete and sign another form- and we can re-submit.”

Four months later, whilst going through chemotherapy, I still hadn’t heard anything. My energy is so low and I’m starting to lose sleep with worry. I received a letter just the previous night from that consultant, looking to start legal proceedings . I was being pressurised by the bank for steep mortgage payments and I was accumulating a stack of final demands ,as it’s impossible to keep up with the maintenance of the estate without a large income.

I called again, conscious of the fact that each phone call to these solicitors is costing me £100.

“There’s a problem with the wording of the will!” My solicitor proclaims, from what sounds like her car phone. “He appointed you as the sole executor and us, his solicitors, as substitute executors. But because he used the conjunction “and” instead of “or”, we need to fill some renunciation forms.”

“I need to fill out another form?”

“Not you no, we do. Each partner in the firm has to sign one.”

“Each partner? How many partners does your firm have?”

“Twelve. I’m driving to meet with one now.”

My despondency is turns into depression and the thick fog of grief engulfs me once again.

Six months later ,I call the solicitors again. My throat is dry and my hair is falling out and I had just received the private hospital bills. I desperately need that grant of probate.

“Oh dear, has no-one called you?” A new voice asks, there is no background noise today. “Your solicitor, Debbie, has passed away. A car crash unfortunately.”

I feel dizzy with shock. I offer my condolences and somehow manage to tactfully bring the subject round to my case.

“ Ah yes, well there has been a setback as Debbie was dealing with everything personally. But it shouldn’t be much longer, I believe our new solicitor Perry is taking over the case.”

Eight months later. I call the government Probate office directly, I need an update. I need timescales. I need that damned piece of paper!

“This case is a solicitor application,” The Probate office caseworker replies in a nasal matter-of-fact tone. “So I can only give updates to your solicitor I’m afraid: data protection.”

“But my solicitor charges each time -I can’t afford it until I get the grant of probate!”

“Sorry. Regulations. I can’t divulge any information to you.”

By now I’m not only losing my hair but also my mind. Each time I think of my father’s refrain and how hard he worked, how little I saw of him, so that he could fulfil his wish- I weep. The vultures have started circling, I even received a letter that mentioned bailiffs -which in my distressed and panicked state I threw away immediately.

Ten months later. Nearly a whole year. And the cancer is taking me.

My doctors have told me quite candidly that the stress I was under exacerbated matters. I sleep all the time; and I dream often of my father and me, on the swing set by the pond , laughing in a summer’s haze, with floating pieces of paper dancing around us in the breeze. I reach out to grab one but they’re always out of reach, slipping through my fingers like confetti.

“Hello? Miss Georgina Hargreaves?”

“Yes.” I whisper, as I lie down to take another nap.

“This is Perry your solicitor. Good news- your grant of probate has been issued , it’s in the post, you should receive it in 10 working days.”

I thank him sincerely and smile, as I finally doze off to sleep.