The Exodus Quest

II

'That'll have to do,' grunted Griffin, as they stamped down the mix of sand, rock and earth with which they'd filled up the shaft. Even with everyone helping, it had been a long night's work, and he felt drained. The two or three hours of sleep they could still get wasn't much, but it was better than none.

'What about the reverend?' asked Mickey doubtfully. 'Shouldn't we wait for him?'

'He's scarcely going to turn up now, is he?' snapped Griffin irritably. Peterson never had to explain himself. He just barked out orders and these damned munchkins ran to obey. 'We'll come back later.'

'I still think we ought to-'

'Just do as I say, all right?' He wiped his hands on his backside, turned and strode over to the truck with as much authority as he could manage, hoping rather than expecting that his students would follow. But when he turned to look, they were kneeling in a circle, arms around each other's shoulders, giving thanks to the Lord.

A familiar sweet stab of envy in Griffin's groin, disturbingly like lust. How fine to release oneself into the group like that, to surrender one's cynicism and doubt. But his own cast of mind had been set decades ago, and it didn't do submission, it didn't do faith. 'Come on,' he said, hating the wheedle in his voice. 'We need to get moving.'

But they didn't pay him any heed. They took their own good time. His impatience turned to something akin to fear, a sense of impending doom. How the hell had it come to this? Nathan hadn't said what had happened to Tawfiq and Knox, but from the state of shock he'd been in, it clearly wasn't good. He'd sent him away before the others could see him, but now Griffin was worried he might have bumped into Claire at the hotel. Claire wasn't like these others. She made her own judgements on things. If she found out that something really bad had happened… Christ! This whole house of cards could easily come crashing down.

Finally, they were done. They walked across, still exuberant with prayer, climbed onto the pick-up's flatbed, not one of them joining him in the cab. There were times he hated them, how low he'd sunk in the world. A moment of weakness. That's all it had been. The girl had sat front row during his lectures, staring unblinkingly at him with her guileless blue eyes. He'd been unused to the frank admiration of an attractive young woman. It had set his heart pounding. Lecture after lecture, he'd kept glancing her way. She'd still been staring raptly. Then she'd come to his office one lunchtime, pulled a chair up beside him. When their knees had brushed beneath his desk, his hand had moved almost convulsively, with a life of its own, to the warm top of her inner thigh, fingertips pressing down between her legs.

Her shocked shriek haunted him still, made his cheeks burn whenever he thought of it.

No one had taken his side, of course. His boss had seized the opportunity to cut him loose. She'd never liked him. And she must have put the word out too, the vindictive bitch, because no one had even bothered to answer his application letters. No one except Peterson. What did they expect him to do? he thought defiantly. Did they expect him to starve?

A strange noise reached him over the rumble of the engine. He took his foot off the gas, glanced over his shoulder. They were singing in the back, moonlit faces shiny with devotion, hands raised in ecstasy, worshipping together. His low spirits sank even further. Maybe there was something in religion after all. Maybe if he believed like that, attractive young women wouldn't shriek in horror just because he put his hand on their leg.

Maybe.