Mr Woodbean was out that night.  I lay in Sophi's arms, on the couch in the sitting room, her blouse wet from my tears, her long hair curled across her breast, her blue-jeaned legs entwined with mine.  Sophi has hair the colour of fresh straw.  Her eyes are blue with brown flecks, like ocean worlds with islands scattered.  She stroked my head, calmly and slowly, the way I imagined a mother would.

I had sobbed into her shoulder for a while after she had brought me into the sitting room, then she had sat me down on the couch and I had pulled myself together enough to tell her about my trip and my adventures - that alone had calmed me, and we even laughed a few times - then I'd come to the events of this evening, and I had broken down once more, throwing the story up as if it was sickness, spitting and hacking it out between great coughing sobs, until all that bile was finally out of me and I could wash it all away with tears.

'Oh, Isis,' she breathed when I was done. 'Are you sure you're all right?'

'Oh, far from it,' I said, sniffing.  She handed me another tissue from the box she'd fetched when she'd realised that my tale would involve a lot of blubbing. 'But I'm unharmed, if you mean that.'

'He didn't hurt you?'

'No.' I coughed, then cleared my throat.  I dried my eyes with the tissue. 'Except I feel like I've been… eviscerated, like everything's been pulled out of me, like there's just a huge space inside me where there used to be…' I shook my head. 'Everything.  My life, my Faith, my family; the Community.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'I don't know.  Part of me wants to go back right now and make my case before all of them; another part just wants to run away.'

'Stay here tonight, eh?' she said, raising my face to hers.  She has a broad, tanned face, graced with soft brown freckles she pretends to hate.

'Is that all right?'

''Course it is,' she said, hugging me.

I laid my head on her breast again. 'He said he wouldn't see me again unless it was to confess and apologise.  But I can't.'

'You better not,' she growled, with mock severity, squeezing me.

'I don't know what he'll say to the others, what he'll tell them.  I want to believe he'll come to his senses, realise that whatever he thought he heard was a false signal, that he will repent, and ask my forgiveness; that… Oh, Sophi; I don't know,' I said, lifting my head and staring into her eyes. 'Could he have put the vial in my bag, meaning to lead to this?  Was that his purpose all along?  I can't believe that, but what else is there?  Is there a Devil, after all, and it's in him?'

'You're the theologian,' she said. 'Don't ask me.  I think he's just a dirty old man.'

'But he's our Founder!' I protested, sitting up and taking her hands in mine. 'He's done everything for us; revealed so much truth, brought us the light.  I still believe that.  I still believe in our Faith.  I still believe in him.  I just can't believe this is really him; it is like he's possessed.'

'He's old though, Isis,' Sophi said softly. 'Maybe he's frightened of dying.'

'What?' I exclaimed. 'But he will be in Glory!  An adventure awaits him on the other side that will make all this life look a small, insipid, selfish thing.  Death holds no fear for us!'

'Even holy people have doubts,' Sophi said, squeezing my hand. 'Don't you ever wonder if you've got it wrong?'

'No!' I said. 'Well, yes, but only because we are told to think of such things by the Orthography; we must have faith, but not blind faith.  But such theoretical doubt only strengthens our belief.  How can Salvador himself really doubt what he's created?'

'Well,' Sophi said, crinkling her nose as she looked thoughtful, 'maybe that's it; you all have him to turn to but he only has God.  You know; tough at the top, and all that.  Buck stops with him, sort of thing.'

'He has all of us to turn to,' I said, though I saw what she meant.

'Anyway, holy men are still men.  Perhaps he's just got used to having any of the women in the Order he wants.'

'But it's not like that!' I protested.

'Oh, come on, Isis.  It's not far off it.'

'But there's never been any coercion.  It's just natural; ours is a faith of love, in all its forms.  We're not ashamed of that.  And he is - has been… still is, I suppose - an attractive man; charismatic.  Everybody finds him so; women have always been attracted to him.  I mean, they still are,' I said.  I ran my fingers through my hair. 'Lordy, he has no need of me.'

'Forbidden fruit, maybe?' Sophi suggested.

'Oh, I don't know!' I wailed, and fell upon her breast once more, clutching at her perfumed warmth. 'Morag avoiding me, Grandfather pursuing me; somebody traducing me…'

'Introducing you?' she said, sounding confused.

'Traducing me; defaming me.  The whole thing with the zhlonjiz.'

'Oh.'

'What's happening to my life?' I said. 'What's going on?'

Sophi shrugged, and I could feel her shaking her head.

The telephone rang then, out in the hall.  We listened to it. 'Not one of yours, then,' she said after the seventh ring.  She patted my back. 'Better get it; might be Dad wanting a lift back…'

She went out to the hall.

'Hi?' Then a pause. 'Hello?… Hello?'

She put her head round the edge of the door, looking in at me and grinning, the telephone handset to one ear.

'Don't know what…' she said, then frowned.  She shook her head, long hair making a sine wave in the air. 'I can hear music… Sounds like something sort of… something scrabbling around; clunking…' She made an odd expression, raising her eyebrows, turning down the corners of her mouth, the tendons on her neck standing out.

She held the phone out to me, and just as she did so I heard something clatter metallically from the handset and a tiny voice shout something.  Sophi's expression changed to one of bemusement.  She held the handset away from her and looked dubiously at it, then carefully brought it to her ear.

I got up from the couch.  There had been something about the tone and cadence of that voice… Sophi held the phone away from her ear a little so that I could listen in, my cheek against hers.

'… dropping the damned thing,' said a miniaturised, mechanised voice.  It sounded very odd, and both thick and slurred. 'I think this is right number… are you there?'

Sophi put her finger to her lips, looking amused.

'Ach; is the answer machine thing.  I just…' There was some more clattering. 'That is…' The voice deteriorated into mumbling. 'That is right number, isn't it?  Yes; yes, looks famil… familia… familiar… I'm sorry, very very, but bit… but bit… bit worse for wearing, you know.  I am just call to say, I have got your message.  And I am to be there tomorrow, is this all right?  Well, be there, I will.  I mean.  You know this now.  I… I am hoping… this will-' Silence, a muffled curse and another clatter.

Sophi put her hand over the mouthpiece. 'God,' she whispered, 'he sounds drunk, doesn't he?'

'Hmm,' I said.  I was sure I recognised the man's voice.

We listened in again.  There was a scuffling sort of noise; something redolent of fabric and friction.  Then: '… bounced… under the flippink… sideboard this time; most vexing.  I… I think I go now… Are you still… ?  Well, I mean… oh… well, anyway.  Tomorrow.' There was heavy breathing for a moment. 'Tomorrow.  I come for her.  Goodnight.' Then a clunk, and nothing.

Sophi and I looked into each others eyes.

'Weird, eh?' she said, laughing a little nervously.

I nodded.  She leaned out into the hall, replacing the phone. 'Wrong number, I suppose,' she said.

I bit my lip, standing with my back to the edge of the doorway, arms crossed.  Sophi put a hand on my shoulder. 'You all right?'

'I'm fine,' I said. 'But I think I know who that was.'