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‘You should be! Lying about Papa J.’
‘I haven’t said a word about—’
‘You claimed he spirit bonded with you.’
‘No, I—’
‘And we all know you’re lying. You’re no spirit wife!’
‘I never said—’
‘And you know what?’ said Marion. ‘The Drowned Prophet will sort you out.’
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘She’s been seen, already,’ said Marion. ‘In the woods. She comes, around her Manifestation time. She comes to defend Papa J.’
Robin knew she was looking into the authentic face of fanaticism. Something rigid and alien lived beneath the skin of the human being facing her, something that couldn’t be argued with. Nevertheless, she heard herself say pleadingly ‘Marion’, without any idea of what she was going to tell the woman, but before she could find any words, Marion had spat in her face.
Robin felt the saliva hit her, just beneath her left eye, and something broke inside her, some last vestige of restraint. They’re all mad. They’re fucking mad. Robin pushed Marion roughly aside and strode away, to where Will Edensor was draping wet tracksuits and socks onto a drying rack.
‘Will,’ she said loudly, over the noise of the machines. ‘D’you want to spirit bond?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want to spirit bond?’ Robin repeated, enunciating clearly.
‘Oh,’ said Will. He looked as though she’d just offered him coffee: he showed little interest, but no embarrassment or surprise, and she wondered how many times he’d been to the Retreat Rooms in the last four years. ‘Yeah, OK.’
They walked together towards the door, Robin consumed with rage at Marion, at the church, at the hypocrisy and insanity. She couldn’t pretend any more. She was done with all of it.
‘Where—?’ said an older woman near the door, looking suspicious.
‘Spirit bonding,’ said Robin firmly.
‘Oh,’ said the woman. She looked confused and panicked, probably because she didn’t know what should take priority: Robin being kept under surveillance, or an act of submission and compliance that appeared to demonstrate true allegiance to the UHC. ‘I – all right…’
Robin and Will walked together down the path towards the courtyard in silence, Robin trying to formulate a plan of action. The warning ripples of anxiety barely registered in her rage and determination to force something useful out of Will in her final hours at the farm.
When they reached the Retreat Room, Robin pulled open the glass door and stood back to let Will walk inside first. She then jerked the curtain across the glass windows, so that the only light came from the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling.
In silence, Will sat down on the bed to remove his socks and trainers.
‘Will,’ said Robin, ‘there’s no need for that, I really just wanted to talk to you.’
He glanced up at her.
‘That’s not allowed. We spirit bond, or we leave.’
He stood up and peeled off his tracksuit top to reveal a pale, hairless torso, every rib visible in the harsh overhead light. As he turned to throw his clothes into a corner, Robin saw on his back the same strange marks she’d noted on the black girl who’d let Bo escape from the children’s dormitory, as though his spine had been rubbed raw.
‘What’s happened to you?’ she asked. ‘What are those marks on your back?’
‘I was in the box,’ muttered Will.
‘Why?’
Will ignored the question, instead pulling off his greying Y-fronts and tracksuit bottoms. Now he stood completely naked in front of her, his penis flaccid.
