(Note- The alternative wager mentioned in the RE lesson is sometimes attributed to Marcus Aurelius, but as far as I can tell, that’s not accurate.  So I just left it anonymous.)

Mum couldn’t actually stop them from going to Dad’s without triggering another round of drawn-out court proceedings, so the following weekend, they were back.  Rosalyn and Oliver sat in Dad and Sally’s dining room, unenthusiastically poking their casserole with their forks, listening to Sally worry about a woman from her church who’d phoned earlier.

“I just wonder if she’s making the right choice,” said Sally, for the sixth or seventh time.

Dad swallowed what he was eating.  “Well, you said yourself, he was gambling away her kids’ university funds.  She’s just trying to protect them.”

“I know, I know.”  Sally fidgeted with her fork.  “I just wonder if… if we give up too easily these days. He’s hardly likely to get better now that she’s left him on his own, is he?”

“It didn’t sound as though he was getting any better with her and the kids around, either.”

“But there was always hope.  That’s what she doesn’t understand.  If you keep trying…”  Sally broke off and sighed, and Rosalyn was filled with a sudden certainty that she’d be saying more-or-less the same things if her friend’s husband had been beating her and her children black and blue every night.  There’s always hope.  If you keep trying…  Yeah, and Sally would never be satisfied that they’d tried enough until the psycho finally killed one of them.  And even then she’d probably criticise the survivors for not visiting him in jail.  “She goes to the same church I do.  She knows that God still loves Frank.  So why can’t she?”

“It wasn’t God’s money he was gambling with,” said Dad, fork halfway to his mouth.

Sally sighed again.  “I just can’t shake the feeling that it’s not really Frank she’s fighting with.  It’s God.  I can’t shake the feeling that if she forgave Frank, God would forgive her.”

Oliver looked up.  “Forgive her for what?”

Original Sin or something, thought Rosalyn wearily, but that wasn’t what Sally said.  Instead, she tapped her knife and fork lightly against her plate, as if calling everyone to attention, and said, with some irritation, “Look, at the end of the day, they swore to love each other for better and for worse.”  She underlined it with one of her gay marriage shrugs.  Her that-settles-it shrugs.

Oliver nodded.  “So, by that logic, should Dad still be married to Mum instead of you?”

And if looks could kill, Oliver would have been going home in a body bag.

*

That Wednesday in RE, Mrs Nightingale brought up Pascal’s Wager again.  “There’s actually an alternative wager,” she explained, “It’s similar to Pascal’s but…  Well, let’s just say that it comes at it from a different angle.”

This wager said that you should always try your best to be a good person.  If God was just, he’d be pleased with you for doing it.  If God was unjust, you were probably never going to make him happy anyway.  And if there wasn’t a God, then at least you’d have done some good while you were here.

Needless to say, Sally would not have approved.  She’d have said that humans didn’t get to decide whether God was just or unjust; he’d created the universe, so he got to define what justice was.  She’d have said that it was unbelievably arrogant to assume that you’d have a better idea of how to live a good life than God did.

Rosalyn didn’t know about God, but she was pretty sure she had a better idea than Sally did, at least.

*

That Friday, Oliver put on Radio One in Dad’s car, and Sally was still going on about it half an hour later.

“I think I’m allowed to set standards in my own house,” she snarled at Dad, her arms crossed.

“Technically speaking, the car’s not…” said Oliver.

“Don’t be cheeky,” said Dad, “And yes, Sally, if you don’t want to listen to something, you’re allowed to say so.  And Oliver should respect your wishes.”  He gave Oliver a dirty look.

“But I don’t see why he has to listen to that kind of music at all!” Sally spluttered, “If it’s wrong here, then it’s just as wrong at his mother’s house!”  She glanced up at Oliver, made a disgusted sound, and turned back to Dad.  “He’s sixteen now- he should be working out the correct way to live his life!  And we should be helping him!”

Oliver scratched his nose.  “So, the correct way to live my life specifically involves no Franz Ferdinand whatsoever?  Is that what you’re telling me?”

Rosalyn, who’d sat in the corner pretending to do homework so she could stay out of this argument, felt her heart sink.  She used to smile a bit when Oliver made fun of Sally, but now it just didn’t seem worth the effort.  Sally would have a reply, and that reply would keep Rosalyn up all night.  That was how it always went.

Sally took a few steps towards Oliver so that she could loom over him properly.  “It’s no laughing matter.  You should hear what my friend Faye told me about that kind of music.  Then you’d see what it really is.”

Oliver shrugged, and Rosalyn put her hands over her ears and tried to think about something else.  It never worked, but she always tried it anyway.

“Faye’s husband Peter did some missionary work in Africa before they were married, and he took along his Elvis Presley records.  Well, one day one of the local tribal elders came by and heard him playing them.  He looked really scared, and he said it was because of the drumbeats in the music.  He said that before they’d been Saved, his tribe used those exact drumbeats to summon demons.  So you see, it’s not as harmless as…”

“That’s not true,” said Rosalyn.  She’d felt the words building up inside her the whole time Sally had been speaking.

Sally turned around, and looked at Rosalyn as if she was a cockroach she’d just spotted on the kitchen floor.  “It is true, Rosalyn.  Peter told me that himse…”

“Elvis Presley was inspired by black Americans who’d lived through the Jim Crow era!”  Rosalyn hadn’t expected her voice to sound that loud, or for everything to come out as fast as it did.  It was as if the words were jostling each other to get out.  “If they were such wanton demon-summoners, why didn’t they get one to wipe out the Ku Klux Klan?  Or why didn’t their ancestors get one to kill all the people trying to take them into slavery?”

Sally smiled knowingly.  “Ah, well, people always think demons can…”

“Do you have any idea how racist you’d have to be to assume that all African tribes just go round summoning demons?”  It came out as a shout.  Rosalyn hadn’t meant it to, but she wasn’t sorry it had.

Something- probably either the raised voice or the word ‘racist’- seemed to have knocked Sally off-kilter.  The smile had disappeared, anyway.  “Can I ask you a question, Rosalyn?  You laugh at the idea of demons existing, but when you look at, at what’s happening in the world today, can you honestly tell me you don’t think evil is real?”

“Oh, it’s real, alright!” snapped Rosalyn, giving Sally a pointed glare.

Sally decided not to reply to that directly.  “I just don’t understand how people can…”

“I don’t know whether demons exist or not.  But I do know you can’t summon them with a Franz Ferdinand CD!”

Sally sighed.  “But how do you kn…”

“This is how you see the world, isn’t it, Sally?”  Rosalyn could hear the blood pounding in her ears, like a drumbeat urging her to keep up the pace.  “Anyone different from you?  Going to Hell!  Anything you don’t understand?  Fucking demons!  That way you never have to think at all!”  She took a couple of deep breaths.  “You never bother to wonder whether something’s actually true or not!  It’s all just an excuse for you to look down your nose at everyone else!  You talk so much about other people not making time for God, but you’ve only ever worshipped your own fucking ego!”

Dad stood up.  “Don’t you talk to Sally like…”

“And you’re just as bad!  At least she actually believes in this stuff!  You just let her bang on about it so you can tell yourself that you’re deep!”

“Rosalyn, you’re being hysterical…”

“You were about to let her ruin something Oliver likes!”  Her voice caught.  “Something that makes him happy!  Because of some stupid stories about African tribes and demons!”

Sally looked about to burst into tears.  “Oh, ‘stupid stories.’  ‘Stupid stories,’ you say.  If they’re so stupid, why do they upset you so much?”

“Sally, I’ll handle this,” said Dad, practically in a bark.  He took a deep breath, calming himself down, and turned back to Rosalyn.  “Rosy, I think Oliver can survive not being allowed to listen to Franz Ferdinand for one weekend.”

Rosalyn raised an eyebrow.  “‘One weekend’?”

“‘One weekend’?” repeated Sally, giving Dad daggers.  His expression changed, and he seemed to shrink in front of them.

Oliver, who’d been watching the whole thing with a look of horrified fascination, took advantage of the awkward silence.  “It’s OK, Rosy.  I just tune her out, most of the time.”

Rosalyn nodded.  “Well, I can’t.”  The speed and the volume had gone out of her voice.  The drumbeat had left her ears.  All the energy from the last few minutes seemed to have disappeared.  “And I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay over this weekend.”

She turned around and left the room.  Behind her, she heard her dad’s voice.  “Oh, Rosalyn, there’s no need to…  Rosalyn!”

Her bag was by the front door, where she could pick it up and turn the doorknob in more-or-less a single movement.  Some of her other things- her toothbrush, her pyjamas and so on- were still upstairs, but she wasn’t going to go and fetch them.  She wasn’t going to stay in this house for one more minute.

She heard footsteps behind her, and Dad’s voice said, “Rosalyn, just listen, will you…”

“I’ll text you when I get home,” said Rosalyn, not turning around, “So you know I got there safely.”

“At least let me drive you, for God’s sake.”

She did glance back at him now.  There was still a little anger in his face- probably just frustration, to be fair- but there was also concern.  Just enough for Rosalyn to know that it was a genuine offer.  “No, I’ll walk,” she told him, “I need some fresh air.”

And he didn’t say anything else, so she left.

*

The streets were quiet.  Rosalyn could hear car engines off in the distance, but only two or three cars had actually passed her since she’d set off.  Here in the backstreets, the only real sounds were the birds up in the trees.

Rosalyn wandered along, setting her own pace, and felt as if her muscles had loosened up.  That tight feeling in her chest, in her throat, in her limbs, in her head… all gone. Rosalyn knew that you couldn’t burn off all that terror with just a few minutes of anger, but just for now, she felt more content than she had in months.

It would have been quicker to go by the main road, but Rosalyn had had visions of Sally deciding that her outburst was a sign that she was ripe for conversion, and badgering Dad into starting up the car and going to find her.  Besides, Rosalyn liked the peace and quiet.  It gave her a chance to think.

It was still light out.  The sky faded from blue to white and back again, the sun glowing around the edges of the clouds and turning to gold.  And maybe somewhere behind that sky, there was someone who liked humans and basically wanted them to be happy.  Give Rosalyn a month or two away from Sally, and she might really start to believe it.

Rosalyn walked on, beginning to smile.  She was going to get home and explain to Mum why she was back so early, and then she was going to make herself a big bowl of pasta and watch whatever was on TV.  After that, she planned to go to bed and sleep until morning. Maybe the fear would creep back in tomorrow, and maybe it wouldn’t, but right now, just for tonight, she felt completely calm.

The End