Chosen by Lesley Glaister Page B

She puts the tea down and goes out of the room. Dodie lies staring at the ceiling, remembering the feeling of a face close to hers, the benign smell of breath. Her eyes had opened but in the dark she couldn’t see. She’d put her hand up, and there had been nothing there. Maybe it was a dream, then? Though unlike any dream she’s had before.
    She sits up against the lavish pillows and sips her tea. Martha puts her head round the door. ‘Just take your time now,’ she says. ‘We’ve got cereal and muffins.’ There’s a soft shine in her eyes, loving, almost like a mother – not Stella but a proper mother. It slams into Dodie anew each time she wakes that she has no mother now. Stella Marianne has gone. Up in smoke. This stranger, Martha, has already been nicer to her, kinder to her, than Stella ever was.
    The tea is weak and barely warm, but at least it’s wet. Dodie drinks it quickly, showers, dresses and brushes herhair. The muffin is amazing, warm, banana-flavoured and studded with chunks of melting chocolate. You could never lose weight in a place like this. Can’t ring home yet; they’ll be asleep, Jake in his cot with the rosy light. He would love to taste a bit of muffin, cram his mouth full with his chubby fist. May as well have another; what’s one extra muffin in a lifetime?
    â€˜You set?’ Martha says.
    The day is bright and cool and Dodie drinks in the fresh, faintly pine-scented air. The trees glow crimson and yellow-gold.
    â€˜Beautiful day,’ she says. ‘Maybe Seth will take a walk with me, show me round.’
    They stand for a moment soaking up the blue, watching sunlit birds fold shadows beneath their wings. They walk round to a door where Martha punches in a number and steps aside to let Dodie in. No chintzy flounces here. It’s a bare entrance hall, wooden floor, white walls, monastic. They walk swiftly through a maze of identical corridors, plain white walls, white painted doors, no numbers or signs. Restful – but how would you ever find your way?
    â€˜It’s very quiet,’ Dodie whispers.
    â€˜The Brothers and Sisters are out at work, or in meditation.’
    â€˜People go out to work?’
    â€˜Of course!’
    Reassured, Dodie follows her through a double door and down a short flight of steps. That second muffin sits like concrete in her stomach – definitely a mistake. At last Martha stops, presses a number into another keypad, opens the door. Dodie pushes eagerly inside, expecting Seth – but instead there are three strangers, all dressed in lilac, all with cropped hair.
    â€˜This is Dodie,’ Martha says.
    â€˜Hi Dodie,’ says a tall, freckled young woman. ‘Welcome to Soul-Life. I’m Rebecca.’ Her accent is English too, her hair red and clumpy, wanting to curl if it was only long enough. ‘This is Daniel.’ She indicates an oriental-lookingguy with blue-black hair that sticks up straight from his face as if he has his finger in a socket.
    He nods his head at her and blinks. ‘Welcome to the Church of Soul-Life.’
    â€˜Hi, I’m John.’ A wiry, heavily stubbled guy with a navy cross tattooed on his neck holds out a hand and wrings hers tightly. He grins, revealing a missing front tooth. ‘We’re here to greet you, make you feel at home.’ His head is shaved to reveal the prehistoric-looking plates of his oddly shaped skull, but his accent is surprisingly soft and cultured – Southern, maybe. He’s older than the others and looks frail.
    â€˜Rebecca, John and Daniel will be your buddies for the rest of your stay. See you later.’ Martha gives Dodie a nod and blinks at the others and they all blink back before she lets herself out.
    â€˜But what about Seth?’ Dodie asks, but Martha has gone. ‘I’m here to see Seth,’ she explains to the other three. ‘My brother.’
    â€˜Perhaps Martha’s gone