The Dark Threads by Jean Davison

without attracting further attention to myself, I left the church and hurried away into the darkness. I roamed the streets aimlessly, thinking about how things at church hadn’t changed since I used to enjoy going with Jackie. The church, the preaching and the people were the same. It hadn’t made any difference how much I’d wept and struggled and tasted something of a world of despair I barely knew existed before. How could everything else be the same when the sun and moon had fallen out of the sky, plunging my world into darkness? How could everything else be the same when I had changed so much?
    Sometimes I wondered if Dad thought about the faith we’d once shared. He’d always said he was leaning on me, but now I didn’t feel strong enough to keep myself out of the gutter, never mind lift anyone else out of it. Dad was spending a lot of time with his mate Joe, driving around the red-light areas. He showed me a photo of a teenage prostitute called Nicola lying naked on a bed in a provocative position.
    â€˜She tells me she only does it ’cos she needs the money,’ he said.
    I stared at this photo and wondered if Nicola was happy with her way of life, if she ever had thoughts and feelings and conflicts like mine. Well, why not? We were both products – or victims? – of the same society.
    â€˜Dad, do you remember …’ I said, as I handed back the photo. A tear rolled silently down my face. ‘Do you remember when we used to pray together?’ I caught the tear on my tongue and tasted salt.
    â€˜Yes, I remember,’ he said, slipping his warm hand into mine and squeezing it tightly. He sighed. ‘Something’s gone awfully wrong, hasn’t it? But yes, Jean, I do still remember.’ And there were tears in his eyes, too.
    One afternoon when my parents and brother were out on their bus-conducting shifts, Pastor West turned up unexpectedly. I was lying on my bed, zonked out on Melleril. Recognising his car through my bedroom window, I sleepily made my way downstairs to unlock the door. I was wearing grubby pyjamas and my old blue dressing-gown. My hair, in need of washing and combing, hung down in greasy bacon strings. Aware I looked a mess, I could hardly meet his gaze and I was further embarrassed and ashamed by the state of the house, which I had made no effort to clean or tidy.
    â€˜Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make some.’
    I seemed to be moving, talking and thinking all in slow motion, so I made my coffee extra strong in the hope that it would quickly revive me.
    â€˜I’m glad you’re out of hospital. How are you feeling?’ Pastor West asked as he sat opposite me on a chair from which I’d just hastily removed a pile of old News of the World papers.
    â€˜Oh, I’m OK. Fine,’ I said, not very convincingly. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
    There was an awkward silence during which I felt he kept staring at me. For the sake of something to say I went across to the mantelpiece and fetched the ceramic tiled ashtray I’d made at OT.
    â€˜Look, I made this at the hospital,’ I said childishly, pushing it into his hand, like a little girl showing Mummy what she’d made at school.
    A mixture of sadness and anger clouded his face as he held the ashtray. ‘But this is the kind of thing children make in kindergarten,’ he said.
    Brian arrived home. He burst into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. When Pastor West had called before, Brian had been either out or upstairs. Today, Pastor West tried to converse with him, just sociable chit chat. When Brian left the room, Pastor West remarked in surprise that he couldn’t manage to get anything resembling sensible conversation out of him.
    â€˜I know. He’s always like that,’ I said, fiddling with my hair.
    When Pastor West was leaving he stopped at the door. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it