Savannah, Georgia

Ben spent the afternoon in Augusta Vale’s luxurious guest quarters, sitting on the four-poster bed and poring over Cleaver’s book.

The book was two things. First it was an account of how the humble preacher from Alabama had become the mouthpiece of John the Apostle after the saint had appeared to him years before in a miracle vision. Much of the text was devoted to persuading the reader of the truth of this, which the author did in fine style. Ben noticed that the last page of the book was a detachable slip for readers to mail their donations to the Cleaver Foundation, part of whose function was to raise funds for the author’s political ambitions.

Secondly, the book was a scalding doomsday forecast based squarely on the Book of Revelation, the apocalyptic text of the New Testament and the key biblical reference for millions of evangelical Christians, predominantly Americans, who believed in the coming End Times.

Cleaver certainly knew his Bible. His style was pounding, insistent, articulate and utterly sincere. His book went into enormous detail about what was coming, any time now, all closely referenced from the Book of Revelation: global meltdown, the destruction of social order and the rise of the Antichrist, soon followed by the battle of Armageddon, when the returning Christ would vanquish his enemies forever and lead the faithful into eternal glory.

Ben noticed that, like most evangelical Christians, Cleaver assumed without question that all the ‘John’ books of the Bible were the work of one man, John the Apostle – Christ’s loyal follower, ‘the disciple Jesus loved’, present at the Crucifixion and the first to believe that Christ had truly risen. The traditional account, reflected in Cleaver’s book, was that after the crucifixion John had travelled widely preaching the Gospel. Then, seized by the Romans and thrown in boiling oil, he had miraculously escaped without so much as a blister. After the embarrassing miracle the Roman authorities had banished him to the remote Greek island of Patmos, off the Turkish coast. There he had penned his strangest and darkest work, the doom-laden Book of Revelation in which he set out his vision of the future. A book so dramatic and thunderous in its terrible imagery that, millennia later, it remained more imprinted on the public consciousness than ever.

The rest was Cleaver’s unique twist on the tale, explaining how St John had personally appeared to him and confirmed in no uncertain terms that the End Times were truly coming, and that the faithful must rally. Things were about to get nasty.

But Ben wondered how deeply Cleaver had looked into the theological studies surrounding Revelation. Many modern scholars didn’t agree that the author of the Gospel of St John and the Book of Revelation were the same man. They distinguished between at least three different biblical Johns: John the Evangelist, John the Presbyter and John of Patmos. John of Patmos, most agreed, was the author of the apocalyptic book. But was he the same John who had been numbered among Christ’s twelve apostles? The blood and violence of Revelation, contrasted with the milder and more philosophic Gospel of St John, seemed like the work of two different writers.

Theories abounded. Some scholars were more moderate, suggesting that St John might have been the author of Revelation but written it under the influence of hallucinogens. Others were more hard line, pointing out that this John of Patmos could be just about anybody; in which case Revelation might have no legitimate claim to be included in the New Testament at all and should possibly be scrapped. But the frustrating lack of proof either way prevented the issue from being settled once and for all.

Meanwhile, as Ben could see from Cleaver’s book, core evangelical belief remained untouched by the raging debates within academic theology circles. As far as the Georgia preacher was concerned, his direct line to St John was all the proof anyone needed that this generation was living in the Last Days.

And somehow, this all had something to do with what had happened to Zoë Bradbury. Whatever hold it was she had over Clayton Cleaver, it involved Bible prophecy.

But how?

Ben thought about it for hours. He was still thinking about it as seven o’clock approached and it was time for dinner with Miss Vale and the man himself.

Ben left the carriage house and wandered over to the main residence. Mae greeted him with a smile, and chatted warmly as she led him into the grand hallway. He could hear Miss Vale’s voice, and a man’s, coming from the drawing room. He was shown inside. Miss Vale’s visitor stood up and strode over to meet him.

He was a man in his mid-fifties wearing a well-tailored light grey suit that looked Italian. He obviously played squash or tennis and was in good shape, with only a little spare padding around the middle and under his chin. He was about Ben’s height, just a little under six feet. His hair was thick and dark, swept back from his brow, maybe tinted to hide the grey. He approached Ben with a broad smile and an outstretched hand.

‘Clayton, this is the young man I was telling you about,’ Miss Vale said. She gestured towards Cleaver with a glow in her eyes. ‘Benedict, it’s my great pleasure to introduce you to my dear friend Clayton Cleaver. Or should I say Governor Cleaver?’

Cleaver flashed a white grin at her. ‘God willing, Augusta. God willing. But we’re not there yet.’

‘With ninety per cent of Georgia behind you,’ she said, ‘you soon will be.’

Cleaver seized and shook Ben’s hand in a dry and powerful fist, greeting him like a long-lost brother. ‘It is a true pleasure to meet you, Benedict,’ he said with absolute sincerity. ‘May I call you Benedict?’

‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too, Mr Cleaver.’

‘Please. Call me Clayton. Augusta tells me you’re a believer. That’s just wonderful. Just wonderful.’

The maid came in with a tray of canapés and martini cocktails. They made small talk for a while, chatting about the difference between English and Georgia weather; the things Ben really had to see while he was staying in Savannah; what it was like to study theology at Oxford.

‘Final year, I guess you would have branched out a little,’ Cleaver said. ‘Do you have a specialised interest, Benedict?’

‘Actually I do.’ Ben sipped his drink. ‘My special subject for my final year dissertation is Bible prophecy.’

Miss Vale and Cleaver exchanged knowing, approving glances. ‘I just knew this was meant to happen,’ the old lady said. ‘You couldn’t be in better company, Benedict. Did you get a chance -’

‘To read Clayton’s book?’ Ben filled in. ‘I’ve been reading it this afternoon. I couldn’t put it down.’

‘Why, thank you, son. I can sign that copy for you, if you’d like.’

‘That would be an honour.’

The butler came solemnly into the room and announced that dinner was served. Ben followed Miss Vale and Clayton into a spectacular dining room. The table was more than fifteen feet long and glittering with silverware beneath a crystal chandelier. Miss Vale sat at the head of the table. Ben was shown to a seat on her right, as guest of honour, and Cleaver sat opposite him. The maid lifted the lid of a silver dish in the centre of the table.

‘The smoked salmon is from Miss Vale’s own fishery,’ Cleaver said. ‘It’s the best in all of the South.’

They ate and drank champagne. Cleaver looked completely at home.

‘So, Benedict. We were talking about Bible prophecy…’

‘Ask him anything you like,’ Miss Vale urged Ben. ‘Nobody knows the Bible like Clayton.’

‘For a young Bible student, you couldn’t be living at a more exciting moment of our history,’ Cleaver said. ‘The time isn’t nigh. It’s now.’