see a delegates’ counter, staffed by bright-eyed volunteers. That would not work. Ah, a press desk.
‘Excuse me, I’m from the Guardian, a London newspaper, and I fear I’m not yet on your list. Is there any way you might be able to accommodate me?’
‘Sir, I’m afraid accreditation has to be done through our Richmond office. Did you pre-accredit?’ Pre-accredit. Just when Will thought he had heard every coinage corporate America could possibly come up with.
‘No, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get through on the phone. But my editors would be so disappointed if I couldn’t cover this wonderful celebration of family values. We have nothing like this in Britain, you see. And I know there is a real hunger back home for this kind of spiritual example. Is there any way you could let me in, just for half an hour or so, so that I could at least tell my bosses I saw it with my own eyes?’
He had pushed every button. In the years since he had arrived in America, this kind of patter had got him into NASA for a space launch, Graceland for an Elvis tribute night and a presidential candidates’ debate in Trenton, New Jersey. He hoped his eyes glowed with eagerness.
But the woman on the desk, identified by her label as Carrie-Anne, Facilitator, was not about to relent. ‘I’m going to need you to speak to Richmond.’
Damn.
‘Sure, what’s the number I need to dial?’
Will wrote it down carefully – then, using his cell phone, he dialled his home number.
‘Hello. This is Tom Mitchell from the Guardian in London. It’s about today’s convention. I just wondered if there’s any chance . . . That’s right.’ At the other end, he could hear his own voice, announcing that he and Beth were away from the phone right now. He tried to block out the sound and carry on talking. ‘So I need to look at the programme. OK—’ Will put his hand over the receiver and then mouthed to Carrie-Anne, ‘She says I need to see the press pack.’ Without hesitation, she passed one over.
‘OK, so I should go through that now, see what interests me . . . all right, that’s a very big help. Thanks so much.’
As he was talking to his own answering machine, Will’s eye ran down the list of sessions.
The Holden Suite: Putting togetherness back together. Parenting after divorce with Rev Peter Thompson.
The Macmillan Room: How would Jesus do it? Seeking the saviour’s advice.
Will could not find what he wanted. He looked up; Carrie-Anne was smiling as she handed press badges to a TV reporter and her cameraman. Silently, Will wheeled around and headed for the conference rooms – his press pack held high as a surrogate credential.
He looked back at the list. Lunch breaks, crèche facilities, workshops. Then his eye stopped.
The Chapel: Entering the Messianic age. Speaker to be confirmed. CLOSED SESSION.
Will looked at his watch; it had already begun. But where in this vast complex of suites, corridors and stairwells was the Chapel? He rifled through his press pack until he saw an internal map. Third floor.
There were so many doors; but finally he saw one with a sign, a diagram of a stick-man kneeling, at prayer. Will pressed his ear close to the door:
‘. . . how many centuries have we waited? More than twenty. And sometimes our patience has worn thin. Our faith has faltered.’
Will heard the ding of an elevator. Out came three men, around Will’s age, dressed in neat dark suits – just like the one he was still wearing from his late-night trip to Crown Heights. Each held a bible and they were heading, purposefully, towards him.
As they got nearer, Will saw that at least one was out of breath. They were late. This was his chance.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Will as they reached him. ‘I think we can still sneak in at the back.’
Sure enough, one opened the door, allowing the whole group to enter – the embarrassment divided by being shared. Will was simply one of the group; he even carried his own bible.
Jammed in at the back, Will tried to survey the room. To his surprise, it was large; the size of a banqueting hall. There must have been more than two thousand people inside. It was hard to tell who they were; all heads were dipped in prayer. Will did not dare raise his eyes.
Finally an amplified voice broke the silence.
‘We repent, O Lord, for our moments of doubt. We repent for the pain and hurt we have inflicted on each other, on the planet your Father entrusted to us and on your name. We repent, O Lord, for the centuries of sin that have kept you from us.’
In unison, the congregation replied, ‘On this Day of Atonement, we repent.’
Will looked up, trying to work out who was speaking. A man was standing at the front, but he had his back to the room. It was impossible to see if he was young or old: most of his head was covered with a white skullcap.
‘But now, O Lord, the Day of Reckoning is upon us. At long last Man will be held accountable. The great Book of Life is about to be slammed shut. Finally, we are to be judged.’
In unison: ‘Amen.’
The man turned around: about Will’s age, studious looking. Will was surprised. He seemed too young to be a leader and that voice too strong to have come from him.
‘Your first people, Israel, strayed from your teaching, O Lord.’ The voice was continuing, even though the man Will had identified as the leader was not speaking. Only now did Will take in the huge screen at the front of the room. It bore just two words, black on white: The Apostle. At last Will realized the voice filling this room did not belong to anyone inside it. Perhaps it was on a tape; maybe it was relayed live from the outside. It had an odd, metallic quality. Either way, the Apostle was nowhere to be seen.
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